Ludwig kept the wounded lizardman moving with him up the mountain slope, one arm braced under the creature's shoulder, the other keeping Durandal angled low in case the fog decided to spit out another surprise.
The incline forced their steps into a slow rhythm, boot, claw, boot, dirt shifting underfoot like it couldn't decide whether to hold them or slide them back down. The air stayed dead around them, too still for a living mountain, and every time the lizardman's breath brushed Ludwig's neck, it carried that faint, wrong sweetness that clung to this place.
Ludwig helped the lizardman up the mountain slope and said, "How did you get ambushed?"
"The orc left ahead chasing after the ogres," the Lizardman said, "And once we were separated, we were ambushed by that thing, it mimicked Akkro," he said.
