Reborn as a Fantasy General (Army-Building Isekai)

[IronLung]

"We must love one another or die"

-W.H Auden


"All wars are unnecessary. Human unity has only ever been accomplished through peace."

Marcus listened, trying his best not to grind his teeth into a fine paste.

"My opponent today is under the impression that all of us in this room are too privileged, too uptight, and too 'triggered' to understand that this is a lie peddled to us by – who, I wonder? Communists? Neo-Marxists? Or maybe the age-old enemy of the young white male – Feminists!"

A series of chuckles came from the student body. Marcus was about ready to split his pen in half. He'd promised himself he'd take notes – that he'd focus on fact-based debate.

"Don't let yourself get baited!" Maria had told him when he groggily rose from bed at 2am this morning to look over his speech for the seventeenth time. "If Steven starts off with ad-hominem attacks, don't rise to it. You hear me? You can be such a bloody hothead and that's not the look you want."

Now here he sat in the lecture hall, his hands practically shaking with rage, which of course the student photographers at the debate event would take a snapshot of and label as fear in tomorrow's campus paper.

Above the door to the lecture theatre hung an 'Exit' sign in blazing neon letters that proved to be distractingly tantalizing. And below this sign, hanging limply from the door, was plastered the name of the event he'd, in his infinite wisdom, decided it would be a good idea to speak at:

'The Morality of Warfare'

Recent tensions in the Far East had prompted heated discussion on the subject on campus, and the Head of the Centre for Military History had called on him to make a case that their faculty was still a legitimate one. Marcus had risen to the challenge like a rooster with the rising sun, and only afterwards had he realized exactly who is opponent would be.

"Of course, I don't mean to assert that my opponent today is nothing but a mouthpiece of ideologically-charged talking points, but his track record speaks for itself."

Steven fucking Barenz. Straight A student of Philosophy, English Literature, and chairman of the Equality Office – as dystopian as that title sounded. He was a self-proclaimed crusader for justice, who had taken it upon himself to see that Marcus' faculty – indeed his entire subject itself – was deemed too dangerous to be taught to the bright young minds of this generation.

Looking around him at those 'bright young minds' who were currently eating up Steven's words – the same ones that had held up signs like 'WAR IS MURDER' outside - Marcus realized that he'd already risen to the bait. This whole damn 'debate' was a sham. He'd expected as much when campus security had had to escort him to his seat.

"Yes," Steven went on, hands flying around like an evangelical preacher. "Marcus Graham has been a spokesperson for Fascists, Nazis, and Conservative political pundits who want nothing more than to see a progressive academic institution like ours burned to the ground. Just yesterday he was seen endorsing the campaign of noted Fascist Youtuber ThreeStar, who is currently looking for signatures to ensure that women have no rights to their own bodily autonomy!"

An image of Marcus posing for a selfie with a blonde-haired woman then filled the lecture hall screen, and a series of gasps trickled through the crowd.

Marcus failed to see what posing for a photograph with someone who asked him for one had to do with collusion or endorsing this woman's anti-abortion campaign. Furthermore, he failed to see what it had to do with the subject at hand. But that might be his naivety talking. The subject wasn't really what was being discussed here at all, was it?

Steven droned on with four other examples of Marcus being someone who hated most human beings on this earth who weren't white men. He barely listened, picking up the usual list: transphobia, bigotry, racism, non-Christians – nevermind that Marcus had always maintained a staunch position of Agnostic Atheism throughout his life. He wasn't there to judge history or the people who participated in it. He was there to observe patterns, and to learn.

And learning, Marcus scoffed to himself, had itself become something of a battle in recent years.

Suddenly Steven came to the crux of a real argument, and Marcus entered the room once more:

"War has accomplished nothing but suffering," he was saying, hands gripping the podium like it might fall away from him. "And it brings out the worst in human nature. Witness the Rape of Nanjing by the Imperial Japanese Kwomangting, the atrocities committed in the name of God during the Crusades, and the complete failure that was Vietnam. These incidents speak for themselves. They were invasions, pure and simple, of a foreign power against a sovereign nation. The idea of 'Might makes Right' was fully on display – and legitimized all atrocities the invading forces committed. The children of Nanjing, Ho Chi Ming, and Akris were slaughtered like cattle, all for the sake of some ideological victory over a perceived 'enemy'.

Furthermore, the concept of 'good wars' and 'bad wars' that Marcus has written so much about has no basis in reality. Even in the Second World War, the allied forces cannot claim the moral high ground in the wake of the firebombing of Dresden, an event which killed approximately 25000 innocent German lives. I wonder what the Founding Fathers of Hiroshima and Nagasaki would say if they heard Mr Graham speak today on the 'necessity' of the atomic bomb that vaporized their people? Could he look them in the eye – the melting bodies of the Japanese who died in nuclear fire – and tell them they were just the necessary casualties needed to end the war?"

The crowd had grown silent. Almost reverent, and a chorus of rapturous applause echoed from every seat as Steven bowed lightly and finished up his opening statement.

Marcus, meanwhile, was just surprised that Steven had actually read something he'd written, even if he'd done nothing more than give it a cursory glance.

The Speaker then invited Marcus to the podium,. He rose steadily, his notes crumpled in his hand.

"Just breathe", he muttered under his breath. "Face your fear, and do it anyway."

Some boos and jeers greeted him instantly, and Steven's proud, smug face beamed at him from the front of the crowd.

As the spotlight above hit his eyes, Marcus was suddenly transported back to Maria fixing his tie before he stepped out of his apartment this morning.

"He'll try everything to distract you," she had said. "They crowd will be on his side. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do," he'd told her with a smile. "But I have to do this."

"Why? It's not like you have anything to prove. You're gonna be a published author soon. You don't have to answer a callout from some brash liberal trying to rile you up."

"Don't use labels like that," he said with a chuckle. "They do nothing but keep us all divided."

"It's what he'd call himself," she shrugged.

He looked at her pale face framed by locks of amber hair and inset with gleaming chestnut eyes. When he'd started seeing her, most people remarked how she looked more like a ghost than a woman.

How ironic, then, that she was the only woman he'd ever met who saw him for who he was – who had been able to see that within this bookish military history nerd there beat a heart filled to the brim with passion for everything he threw himself into.

"You don't have to do this," she said again as she pressed a wet kiss onto his pallid lips.

"I know," he whispered. "But in order to be able to think, we all need opposition every now and then. I don't want to live in a world where we all believe the same things."

"The way things are going…" she replied tentatively. "With people like him around…"

He took her hands in his and smiled through his tiredness. "Maria, that's exactly why we have to fight!"

It was her face that he saw through the bright spotlights of the lecture hall, and then, as the light dimmed and dipped beneath his eyes, he looked out onto a sea of hatred.

He muttered an apology to Maria. He wasn't about to take this sitting down.

"My opponent seems to know everything about me," he began, looking directly into the sea of anger as it slowly began to swell with his every word. "But I believe it is more useful to judge a man by the content of his speech rather than by the company he keeps."

The seething had already begun. He didn't care.

"Mr Barenz would have me answer for the sins of a generation that came before me. He would parade me before you like a witch on trial. And yet, I wonder if he has truly spared a thought to the piles of corpses he wants to stand on. Would Mr Barenz care to listen to the 6 million Jews massacred in the Holocaust, and tell them that Dresden was the worst calamity of that barbarous conflict? Would he care to listen to the thousands of Americans butchered in Japanese internment camps, or perhaps the 7.5 million Chinese civilians who, as he puts it himself, fell to the Japanese Imperial Army from as early as 1936 and who, for the record, make up the highest percentage of civilian casualties experienced across the entire wartime period? Could he look at that sea of dead and tell them the atomic bomb was a mistake?"

The crowd was starting to rise up in arms. He went on, unperturbed.

"I am not here to shock you," Marcus said, trying to check his flaring temper. "I am here to point out that if Mr Barenz' argument is that atrocity exists, then I agree with him. It happens to be a part of human nature and –"

"WHO ARE YOU TO DECIDE THAT!?"

The question was belted from a young man in the crowd that Marcus could barely even see.

"I don't decide a thing. None of us do. Human history follows identifiable trajectories," he explained. "War has been part of every developed culture on the face of this earth. To look at only atrocities committed in warfare and judge all armed disputes based on them is to deny the necessity of fighting a just conflict."

"JUST?!" someone yelled back at him. "Your justice is Fascism – nothing more!"

By this point, Marcus' teeth were practically sharpened. He despised nothing more than the moronic labelling of challenging ideas as 'Fascism'.

"What is 'just' has no ideological bearing," Marcus replied, his grip tightening on the podium's edges. "Would you tell Cochise that, even though the odds were against him, he should have simply given up and submitted to the USA's genocidal campaigns against his people? Evil is evil – plain and simple."

"Who is this kid?" one of the professors suddenly barked up at him – one holding a sign that read 'BAN THE BOMB'. Whatever bomb it was referring to, Marcus didn't know.

"But I –" Marcus stammered, seeing fists begin to flare and tempers rise. "I – I am not here to defend the concept of warfare! I am here to defend the study and analysis of military conflict as a legitimate branch of history."

"And you're doing a shitty-ass job of it!"

"History is-often-written by the victors!" Marcus shouted, fumbling with his notes, trying to be heard over the increasing might of the crowd. "But this is only partially correct – in truth, it is written by historians. Historians who have the objectivity to look at the past and learn from the mistakes we, as humans, have made. And I tell you that war is not a blanket evil. We must catalogue and emphasize the horrors of war. But we must also catalogue the simple fact that, sometimes, one person – or one people – must stand up and fight."

"You Jingoist bastard!" another voice cried.

"No!" Marcus shouted right back, his voice becoming increasingly hoarse. "I do not condone conquest, or the enslavement and domination of others through military force. Force cannot change the minds of a people. But education can-"

He stopped, feeling something heavy and sharp impact the side of his head, and his hand flew to feel the trickle of blood that had started to run down the side of his face.

The object that had been thrown at him – a rock wrapped in notebook paper – fell heavily to the ground.

And with it, all hell broke loose in the hall.

Some students had started charging the stage, barreling over their classmates while they flew a peace sign from a great banner that trailed after them. The campus guards surged forwards, bearing down on the protestors while the doors were opened from the outside and the call went out that the lecture was finished. As the students started to be funneled away by the overburdened security guards, some started crying out bloody murder, while others tried to maze the campus guards before they were shoved away, taking selfies of their brutalized faces and telling their online followers that they had just been assaulted at Mr Graham's lecture. No mention of Steven Berenz was made.

Marcus watched in stunned horror as the remaining students fighting in the hall clambered over themselves, trying to reach him, while the beleaguered Campus guards did what they could to extract him as soon as possible.

"Come on, son," one of them told Marcus, grabbing him by his limp arm and dragging him away by force. "Time to go."

Marcus looked through the haze of red that clouded his vision at the baying, hateful crowd. Like a pack of jackals yipping to see him shredded apart. They hadn't come here to listen or to learn.

And as he let the security detail lead him outside, he suddenly realized his mistake: he had taken the bait long before the lecture had even started.

…

The incessant ticking of Marcus' antique clock dominated his meagre student apartment.

Above, his ceiling fan spun with little alternative as he lay on his threadbare couch like a potato stewing in the warm California sun. Maria looked down at him, her lithe fingers stroking his thinning, disheveled hair.

"You know," she said. "Maybe if you'd at least showered before the show, they'd have listened to you."

He struggled to form a wry smile, taking her hand in his.

"I'm a fool, Mari."

She shook her pale face. "No you're not," she said. "You're just someone who actually believes in the things he says. That's never gonna make you a popular guy on a college campus."

He sighed, long and deep, as he reached for his phone.

Maria, however, was faster. She snatched it up and threw it away.

"Nope," she told his incredulous face. "You're not looking at that. You're gonna look at me instead."

She took his face in both her hands and squeezed his cheeks together, rubbing them like he was a little boy being reprimanded for bad behavior.

"Hey!" he chuckled. "I'm a sensitive man, you know."

She planted a kiss on his forehead. "Don't I know it. That's why I'm not having you look at your feed. You've lost all your 'X' and Insta privileges today."

He sighed again as his eyes traced her defined features, losing himself momentarily in the chestnut sea of her eyes. He'd made the mistake of checking his socials in the wake of the debate, seeing – well – exactly what he expected. Students had taken to saying he incited violence, and all they needed to prove this claim was some pictures of bruised faces and copies of his student transcript which, of course, someone had managed to procure. Now they were organizing a petition to have him removed from his faculty, labelling him a Stochastic Terrorist. Nevermind that he-

"Hey," Maria interrupted his thoughts. "I can see it in your eyes. You're thinking about those Twitter freaks again. What have I told you about letting them get to your head?"

He closed his eyes. He knew she was right. As a student of Communications and Psychology, she knew much more about how the modern world of propaganda and how it worked than he ever had. He'd been too stuck in the past before he met her. She'd led him into the present.

"Mari," he said. "What am I going to do?"

She blinked. "About what?"

"They'll never publish the book now."

He looked towards the manuscript on his desk – screeds and screeds of painstaking research compiled over at least 6 years of constant study as part of his Doctoral Thesis. An overview of military tactics from the medieval-early-modern-contemporary era, and an assessment of observed patterns. Effectiveness of campaigns, relative strengths of military commanders, technological developments and how these strategies from the past could still have practical application.

It was his life's work, staring him in the face every morning, begging him to finalize it and send it out into the world.

But now? Now he could barely even look at it. It was as though he – the author – had failed the work. He wasn't worthy enough to carry it through.

"You always doubt yourself," Maria said gently, her fingers playing with his tufts of frizzled hair. "But – look – it's you that's the most important thing here. You haven't taken a break in days. Look at you."

She sat up and forced him to look in a small glass mirror. The reflection that looked back at him barely resembled what he knew to be himself – his dark-rimmed glasses were steamed up and cracked at the ends, the sharp jade eyes behind them looked at him with judgement, and his beard was just as matted and unkept as his hair.

"To tell you the truth," she said. "I'm worried about you, Marc. You're not looking after yourself. You're throwing everything away on this. Life's more than just study, you know. It's more than just recognition. Who the hell cares if they don't like the book? You don't have anything to prove to them."

He shifted his eyes and looked back at the manuscript, seeing – as only an author could – all the blood, sweat, and tears he'd poured into it over the years.

"I am that book," he said.

When then he curled up to sleep, he felt Maria's hand touch his back like she was trying to dress an open wound before he escaped into the world of his dreams.

 

[IronLung]

"Who's for the game, the biggest that's played,
The red crashing game of a fight?
Who'll grip and tackle the job unafraid
And who thinks he'd rather sit tight?"

-Jessie Pope


Marcus tossed and turned in his sleep, his dreams wracked by demons and tormentors.

He saw the baying crowd crying out for his blood, jabbing him with imaginary pitchforks like he really was a witch. At their head stood Steven Barenz, the head of the horned demons, shrieking out slogan after slogan about how much of a monster Marcus was – how he'd rot in obscurity. How he was a failure.

But above all the vicious taunts, there was one the dream-Marcus simply couldn't shake off.

"Could you look at them?" the mocking voice of Barenz wailed in his ears. "Could you look at all the faces of those who suffered under the yolk of Generals and Tyrants, and tell them that the road to progress would be paved with their blood and broken bones?"

His dream-self had no answer, and just before he was thrown into the fiery depths of the abyss, and the whole college of screaming demons finally had their victory, he woke up to the sound of his alarm clock going crazy.

"Sh….Lud!"

Marcus wiped sweat from his forehead, feeling like a prized moron for having passed out on the couch. He checked the screaming clock and saw that it was around 1am. His hand fumbled in the dark for his glasses, finding that Maria had placed them on the table beside him as he slumbered.

"Mari," he murmured. "You deserve so much better than this fool you shacked up with."

He resolved that he might as well pluck himself up, pour himself some scotch, and work through the rest of the early morning. When it hit 5am he'd order something for Mari and serve her breakfast in bed. That would put her mind at rest. That would-

"..ai…alud!"

He turned his head towards his screaming alarm clock, wondering at the sound that was shrieking from its face. Was it broken? Again? Honestly, Mari had been right to suggest he get rid of it. But he couldn't. Even though it was a busted, dust-caked relic, he had always had a soft spot for old, broken things.

"Sha…ud!"

Then again, that noise was just a little too annoying.

He pushed off from the couch and groggily approached the cackling clock, feeling more and more like the sound coming from the thing was not the regular sounds of a clock at all.

"Sh…alud!"

Now that he got closer, it sounded almost like a voice.

"…hai-alu…"

No, not one voice, but many.

Maybe he'd put that drink on hold…

"Shai-Alu-!"

It sounded almost like…a chant? A song?

Or…

"SHAI-ALUD!"

A summons.

As soon as the two syllables were howled in full, Marcus felt his whole body shift.

"What..?"

No, he realized. It wasn't just his body. The room was spinning. The clock face was melting into the ground, each roman numeral on its face slowly slipping down the mantal piece like melting egg-yolks.

Around him, he saw the couch sink into the floor, his apartment table disintegrate entirely, and his floor begin to shake like an earthquake was about to tear through the whole college.

"I…I better wake Mari," he told himself, trying to still his beating heart.

But the increasing volume of the chant started to gnaw away at his ears, and soon the words sung by a guttural chorus was all he could hear:

"SHAI-ALUD! SHAI-ALUD! SHAI-ALUD!"

He gripped his ears as the sound tore through him. The door to his bedroom simply shook like a leaf in the wind and then broke apart, sending splinters flying across his walls.

But the shock of all this was nothing compared to what he saw next.

His eyes flew to where his manuscript was sitting and saw that every single page was floating in the air. He watched in disbelief as his ink-filled notes began to slip away, sliding off each tatty page like a child had spilled paint over them.

"No!" he wailed, lunging at the flying scraps as they fizzled away with the rest of his room. "NO!"

He fell to his knees.

He had just looked at his hands.

His fingers twisted before him like elongated talons, slowly melting into the maelstrom of spinning furniture that his apartment had become.

And it was in this state that Mari finally entered the room.

"M…Marc…"

Her leg had been pierced by splinters from the broken bed. Her face was covered in blood. She limped towards him, falling to the ground and reaching out towards his terrified form.

"Mari…"

"MARI!"

Marc lunged for his girl just as the floor finally gave way, and the last thing he saw before he plummeted into darkness was the sight of Mari's blood-streaked face.

…

"SHAI-ALUD!"

"SHAI-ALUD!"

"SHAI…ALUD!"

Skeever-Steelclaw of the Crimson-Eye Clan was running out of options.

The Kobolds had cornered his men in a cave off of the Black Gulch caverns, cutting off his supply lines and thinning his numbers by the second.

"Sire!" his second-in-command, Redwhiskers, screamed. "They come upon us again!"

"Be holding fast!" Skeever snapped back at the Claw-Leader. "Are you a worm or a rat?!"

"Be telling his to the others!" Redwhiskers wailed in protest. He only came up to Skeever's chest. Even for a Ratman he was short. Still, he certainly possessed a voice that would carry.

"Be silencing yourself," Skeever warned. "Or I will be gutting you before the Kobolds do!"

The Claw-Leader scurried off to muck in with what remained of Skeever's meagre force. 30 Ratguard with – at best – decent training, who's spears had at this point been abandoned in favor of their shields. They pushed together to hold the entrance of the cavern where Skeever and the head-priest conducted their desperate ritual, the arrows and bullets of their enemies flying over their heads.

Skeever looked at the beleaguered ratguard as the weathered the storm of the Kobold's hail of projectiles from the other side of the gulch. Damned cowardly little demons! Even when they outnumbered his forced ten to one they still would rather hurt them from afar rather than kill them quickly.

The stalactites of the cave began to yield as more bullets and arrows slammed into them, pushing the ratman shield wall back inch by inch.

Even the most putrid, dung-eating ratcub would know that they were dead - that this pitiful holdout was nothing more than buying them what little time they had in the service of the He-Who-Festers.

And so, with little other option, Skeever had turned to his Head-Priest.

Deekius.

The Talon-Commander looked upon the priest with the same derision one would save for an albino-rat. He hated to even look in the aging priest's direction.

But the orders of his King were paramount: every army, every squad – no matter how big or small – had to contain at least one priest so that He-Who-Festers would look upon their exploits with favor.

But looking at the ragged-clothed as he shook his staff like a child and spoke a name Skeever did not know to the uncaring walls of their cave, Skeever could not exactly be blamed for thinking that their God had abandoned them.

"How much longer will this be taking, priest," he spat. His distrust in those who claimed to speak to the Gods was no secret.

Deekius barely paid him any attention. He simply continued dancing around the bloody Golb they had sacrificed on his makeshift altar (which, for the record, had required four of Skeever's men to construct). Those same men, the priest insited, had to join him in his ridiculous chant.

"SHAI-ALUD! SHAI-ALUD! SHAI-"

"Enough with your 'Shai-Alud!'" Skeever exploded, grabbing the priest's staff with his gauntleted claw. "We have tried your silly ritual. Now, we will be doing it my way."

Deekius' beady old eyes gazed at Skeever under his hood. "Your way will see us all dead, Talon-Commander."

The red storm of Skeever's rage could be seen even through his fur. He grappled with the priest as his men looked on, feeling more hopeless with each passing second.

"When – will – you – be – understanding!" Skeever cried. "He-Who-Festers does not listen!"

"Your – lack – of -faith – is – being – your – weakness!"

"WEAKNESS!?" Skeever shrieked in response. "I – I will be showing you weakness, you water-bather! I will -!"

A stab of light bazed in the cavern, interrupting the heated conflict between priest and commander and searing into the thin retinas of every surviving Ratling. Every tail curled up in fear, and apprehension, and those forming the shield wall had to resist the urge to turn around and see what had just befallen their compatriots. Was it an attack from the rear? Had they unearthed a secret stash of dwarven explosives? Those runts did always love to leave booby-traps in these tunnels…

But Skeever and Deekius could not resist the urge to drop to their knees before the sight they now saw before them. The light struck the corpse of the Golb, exploding the bulbous body of the creature into a dozen bloodied chunks, and then began to take on form. First – a body shimmering and bright, then two arms and legs stretched out from within the otherworldly light that told the Ratlings exactly what they had just summoned.

A human.

As the piercing, blazing light finally died, the form of a man stood naked before them – hair disheveled and smelly, eyes rimmed with oddly shaped spectacles, and with eyes that spoke of his experience – eyes that bore into the soul of every Ratling so that those who met his gaze simply had to look away.

Even Skeever felt himself awed by the sight. He relinquished his grip on Deekius and dropped to his knees with the rest of the congregation, momentarily forgetting that there was still a battle raging outside.

"Praise be He-Who-Festers!" Deekius wailed to the stony sky above them all. "Our savior has come! Let his name be sung from the depths of the Underkingdom: SHAI-ALUD IS COMETH!"

Skeever gulped as he locked eyes with the human man and saw him open his mouth. What words he would say would go down in history. Right now, in this moment, Skeever was part of something so far beyond himself that he wished to commit it to his short memory.

Shai-Alud closed his mouth, blinked twice, and then opened it again:

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!?"

 

[IronLung]

"He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight"

-Sun Tzu


Marcus looked down upon the swathe of hunched, humanoid rats that surrounded him, staring at his naked body like it was the body of a God.

And once more he shouted the only words his mind could conjure:

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!"

Around him was a dark basalt cave that looked like it was on the verge of collapse – pieces of the conal stalactites above were shaking as projectiles hammered off them – arrows and makeshift bullets that Marcus had to duck to avoid.

His voice shook the creatures before him to their core, and only one of them – the filthy looking one with a staff topped by the horned skull of one of its own – dared to step towards him.

"We are being sorry, Shai-Alud, for calling upon you without warning. But our lives are being in danger, and we must be returning to Fleapit tonight to deliver vital information to King Shrykul."

"We – we were being desperate, Sire," another filthy rat chimed in as it saw Marcus' disgusted face. This one was clad in grime-soaked steel and held himself above the others. He was at least twice the size of the tiny rodent with the staff who called him 'Shai-Alud.'

"We know you must be confused," he continued. "But we cannot afford to wait here. Answers will be given after the battle is won!"

"Confused!?" Marcus railed. "That's an understatement! You're a talking rat!"

The ratlings all shared a confused look at eachother.

"We thought the human kingdoms of the surface are all having heard of us."

"You! You…" Marcus trailed off. He suddenly remembered the last sight he saw before he was transported here – that of Mari's blood-soaked face trembling in the dark.

"Let me out of here," he demanded. "Now."

The robed rat moved forward. "Shai-Alud, we cannot be-"

Marcus pushed past him, ignoring his excuses, and eventually collided with the tatling sheild wall.

"Let me pass!"

One of the rats – a skittish-looking fellow with red-tipped whiskers - turned his head and squeaked, "We cannot be doing this, Sire! The Kobolds will swarm us!"

Kobolds…

"Get out of my way!"

Marcus shoved himself into the shield wall – four rats deep, each man holding against what he now saw was a hail of arrows and bolts that hammered the shields of those at the front. He observed the ratlings shift and move back, the row behind then replacing the front row, giving the latter line time to recover.

They were like living shock absorbers, Marcus mused. But as he pushed passed another ratguard and saw who their enemy was, he realized that they had no chance of holding out.
They were positioned at the mouth of a cave that overlooked a streaming gulch, filled to the brim with oozing green water (or at least, Marcus assumed it was water). On the other side of the gulch lay a horde of yipping red demons firing arrow after arrow at the ratling's position, harrying them with impunity and crying out a flurry of taunts Marcus didn't understand.

He stepped back, slowly, and the ranks closed up behind him, before he finally bumped into the big rat-man again.

"You see, Shai-Alud," the creature said. "We are needing your help. We cannot survive like this."

Marcus's eyes were starting to adjust to the grim situation he saw around him. Slowly he came to see the dying and dead rats that lay littered across the cave floor, their bodies riddled with arrow shafts, their eyes filled with festering maggots.

"This…this is a dream," Marcus said, rubbing his eyes forcefully. "This – yeah – I'm dreaming, right? I have to be."

His train of thought was abruptly interrupted by the big rat lunging towards him.

"Shai-Alud!"

He felt something grave the top of his head before he hit the ground, the huge rat bearing down on top of him.

The arrow that had just missed the back of his skull embedded itself in the far wall of the cave.

And Marcus was forced to concede that the sting of the projectile as it flew by the tips of his split end hairs was all too real.

"The barking demons dare to attack Shai-Alud!" The robed rat howled. "They shall taste of his vengeance! Sire, be giving us your direction. Be telling us your plan!"

Marcus blinked as the massive rat hauled him to his feet. "Plan?"

"Indeed, great Shail-Alud! It is said that He-Who-Festers will summon to us a champion who's power shall be knowledge. A champion that shall be plucked from the realm of Gods and take the shape of a human man. A champion who shall be guiding us out of the long night of our suffering and usher in a new era for the Under-Kingdom! A champion with the same scent as our kind!"

Marcus bristled at that last bit. But, well, he had to admit that he did stink.

If not showering this morning was what contributed to him being summoned to another world, he was beginning to understand why most protagonists of those Isekai works he'd heard about were often children whose IQ approached that of a refrigerator's.

"You…selfish, arrogant little creatures!" Marcus yelled. "You have no idea what you've done to me! My – I had a life back there! I had a girl…I had my…my work!"

He collapsed into himself like a bundle of falling cards, covering his face in his hands.

"My book.." he murmured. "My manuscript – all my notes – gone…"

The Rat-men looked to each other, unsure of how to proceed.

"Deekius," the big one mumbled. "Are you being sure that this one is…"

The robed rat looked at his companion long and hard before returning his dark gaze to Marcus. His eyes were small, with slitted pupils that more resembled those of a snake than those of a rat's.

As more cries of torment were heard from the shield wall, Deekius eventually produced a cup from beneath his robes and filled it with water from the surrounding cave floor. He then placed his claw over it and intoned a word that was lost to Marcus' ears.

What wasn't lost, however, was the hot cloud of steam that started to rise from the cup, and he suddenly became aware that he was indeed in a world where magic could course through the veins of even a creature as lowly as this.

Deekius handed the cup to Marcus and then placed a putrid hand on his shoulder.

"Shai-Alud," he said. "If it is my life you are wishing to take for my impertinent summons, I will be giving you it once this battle is won."

Marcus looked up at the ratman's dim eyes and saw the blind belief in him that shimmered behind them.

"I was not wishing to destroy your place in your realm," he went on. "I am being but a groveling priest of He-Who-Festers. I cannot be imagining how worshipped you are among your fellow spirits."

Marcus scoffed in spite of everything, taking a timid sip of the drink that had been offered to him. If only this dung-eating rat knew what his life back home was really like…

"But we are needing you, Shai-Alud. We are not needing books. Scrawls on pages are meaning nothing to us. What we need is the knowledge of one versed in war. Shai-Alud, that person is you."

Marcus sat back, seeing the same desperate desire reflected in the large armored rat that stood at attention behind the priestly one. Meanwhile, his stomach cried out at him to never accept a drink from ratmen again.

He might have said something, but Marcus was too preoccupied with something else. Something Mari had said just before all this madness:

Look – it's you that's the most important thing here.

He sighed deeply, looking down at his shaking hands.

"Mari…"

His hand then flew to touch the lice-ridden paw of the rat.

"If I help you," he said. "Could you send me back?"

The priestly Deekius hesitated. But it was the armored brute that spoke for him.

"Deekius will do as the Shai-Alud commands," he barked. "If there is being a way to send you home – he shall work until his back is broken to find it!"

The ratman stared angrily at his companion, but Marcus wasn't satisfied.

"I want your word, rat," he said. "If promises mean anything to your kind."

"SIRE!" the commander of the shield wall screeched. "We cannot be holding much longer!"

"HOLD, REDWHISKERS!" The brute shouted with an intensity and bassoon that surprised Marcus. "Retreat, and I will be killing you myself!"

He and the priest then looked back at him.

"Your word, Deekius," Marcus stated.

"I – yes," he murmured. Then, with more feeling: "I give my word I shall give my life to find a way for you to return home if you shall be helping us keep ours!"

Marcus smirked. "I can probably help you win this battle," he said. "But your soldiers will have to listen to me."

The armored brute beat his fist against his chest, taking up his spear and shield with renewed tenacity. "We await your command, Shai-Alud! Tell us where we must strike the enemy!"

"We won't be striking anyone," Marcus replied, matter-of-fact. "Not in this position. Not when you're hemmed in with no ballistics capacity whatsoever."

The rats blinked their confusion at their prophesized savior as more arrows began to sing over their heads.

"Do you have a map?" Marcus asked. In the face of their confused faces, he elaborated, "A drawing of the area. Major paths, any roads, narrow passes, or maybe a larger body of water than what's out there?"

The ratmen looked embarrassingly at one another.

"We are not being artists, Sire."

Marcus tutted. "Well, you must at least have a camp nearby, right? You said something about getting a message to your king. Where's your destination?"

The armored one understood this time. "Fleapit is being a week's journey away," he explained. "I was leading our Clawpack to Knifegrot fortress when we were attacked by these idiot Kobolds. The fort has many supplies, much food, and many more rats, and is a day's journey away on claw."

Marcus pondered that. A day's journey? With this beleaguered force? It was unlikely they'd make it, even if they made a successful breakout.

But they were dead if they sat here. At least if they kept moving, they'd have a chance.

Staring at the slowly dissolving shield wall, a thought suddenly occurred to him.

"Is there any way to cross the gulch?" Marcus asked. "On either our right or left flank?"

Skeever replied without hesitation, "I know these tunnels like the back of my claw, Sire. There are being two bridges at either end of Black Gulch. They're being rickety and old, but they can hold troops."

Marcus considered this. But he scrounged for more info:

"Do these Kobolds have any units specialized in CQC?"*

Again, the rats merely blinked up at him.

"Do…do they have swords for stabbing," he said slowly. "Or big spears like you?"

"Hah!" the big guy scoffed. "Kobolds are cowards, Sire. They strike from afar, always picking away at us as we move. They are not strong like us!" he beat a fist against his chest again.

Marcus nodded. A homogenous force composition was their weakness, then. They relied on a single tactic, probably betraying the simplistic nature of warfare in this underground waste.

Slowly, a plan began to form in Marcus' head.

"Shai-Alud?" Deekius asked. "If we are not to attack now, then what are we to do?"

"The only smart thing we can do," Marcus told the rat-priest. "We're going to run away."

____________________________________________________________________________________________

*Close-Quarters Combat

 

[IronLung]

"You can't win a war lying down"

- George S. Patton


Marcus looked up at the faces of the two ratlings in the aftermath of his revelation.

They looked like he'd just slapped them both with a wet fish.

"Don't mistake me for ordering a withdrawal," he said. "This is more of a feigned retreat than anything else."

"Shai-Alud?" the hulking rat commander asked. "How are we to run when their arrows don't stop flying?"

"Call me Marcus," Marcus replied. "If we're going to fight together, we might as well know each other's names."

The great rat stiffened, clamping his chest again in what might be some kind of salute. "I am Skeever-Steelclaw, fourth Talon-Commander of the Crimson-Eye Clan."

Marcus nodded. He had some pride about him, for a creature that smelled of fly-covered faeces.

Then again, that might be Marcus' own scent.

"You know my name, Sire," Deekius said. "But to the question of our running, this is not how we ratlings under the watchful eyes of He-Who-Festers make war."

"You wanted the wisdom of your great summoned hero," Marcus said with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. "There it is. We're going to run."

As both creatures seemed to sink further into despair, Marcus explained further.

"But like I say, 'feigned retreat' would be a better way of putting it. We break through the enemy's hold and reposition ourselves so that we can make one decisive strike at the enemy. Right now, we're trapped, but we have something the enemy doesn't."

Both ratling's ears perked up.

"You said it yourself, Skeever," Marcus went on. "Your soldiers are tough, and they're armored. They've clearly got some discipline about them, probably owing to your bassy voice. I'd reckon you could tell them to jump into that evil looking gulch and they'd probably do it."

Skeever coughed. "He-Who-Festers would not be looking favorably on that, Sire."

"I'm sure," Marcus chuckled. "But I'm also sure your God wants his followers to live, right? So, here's what we're going to do."

Marcus sat down and began drawing in the wet, mud-caked ground of the cave, aware that the shield wall could buckle at any moment, and that lives were on the line. But he had to go through his plan. In cases like these, total understanding was needed by all military leaders, and he got the impression these two were often at eachothers throats even though they clearly served the historically synergistic roles of battlefield commander and priest. If he could get them both to understand what their troops had to do, and back him up completely, then these rats would have both martial prowess and the fanatical fervor religious zealots were often able to inspire in their troops. You didn't have to be a man of faith to see that. Such unity of purpose was one of the best force multipliers an army could maintain – it could double the worth of every man in a single unit.

"Alright," he said. "By my count we have 30 spearmen to work with. That's good enough for us to split them into two units of 15 and form each into a Testudo Formation.*"

"Testudo?" Skeever inquired.

"A tight, mobile, and defensive column," Marcus explained, drawing a crude diagram in the sand of stick-figure soldiers with their shields held high over each others' heads. "At the vanguard, the shields are kept at arm level, and every other rank within the formation keeps their shield raised over their heads to grant protection to the group from aerial attacks. Used correctly, this will minimize our casualties as each unit moves down the gulch."

Skeever rubbed his hairy chin. "By He-Who-Festers…" he said. "I am never having heard of this."

"As to our plan of attack – we're facing a force made up entirely of archers that far outnumbers ours. The best way to strike at them would be with a pincer move, after we've disrupted their visibility."

Marcus reconfigured his crude diagram, pointing out the stages of the plan that was slowly forming in his head.

"We each lead one force towards both bridges, cross them, and then attack the enemy force from their flanks."

"Such is the knowledge of the Shai-Alud," Deekius said excitedly as he followed Marcus' sketching fingers. "The teachings of Greyrax himself could not even compare. But it is remaining to be said: what is this you say about disrupting their visibility?"

Marcus looked up at the wondering priest.

"A bowman that can't see can't fire reliably. And, luckily for us, we've got a nice body of water between us and them."

Both rats blinked at the human again.

"So?" they chimed.

"So?" Marcus said with a smirk. "You've already got the answer, Deekius. You showed me it when you boiled me my drink."

Both rats watched as he raised his putrid water cup and took a hearty swill of the vile liquid again. It went down with a vile aftertaste, but then what did he expect of dung eating rats? Magic milkshakes?

Eventually, both talking vermin realized what he meant.

"By Greyrax," Skeever whispered. "It – it just might be working!"

Deekius raised his staff and bowed his head.

"Such is the knowledge of the Shai-Alud. He knows us better than we are knowing ourselves…"

The ratmen stared in wonder at their pondering God, until the cries of Redwhiskers could no longer be ignored.

"TALON-COMMANDER!" he bellowed. "WHAT IS YOUR ORDER!?"

Skeever stood to attention. "We will be executing the first part of your plan, Shai-Alud. I will lead the left flank, Deekius, you go with Marcus to lead the right."

Putting me under the protection of your priest, huh? Marcus moaned within his mind as Skeever turned and belted out a shrill order to his troops.

"ALRIGHT, YOU SOAP-SWALLOWING SWINE! Be hearing the voice of the Shai-Alud! From now on, we are following his lead. Testudo formation – now!"

When his men cast bemused looks back at him, he railed against them as though he hadn't just literally heard of this himself mere seconds ago.

"ARE YOUR EARS STUCK WITH THE RAGGED BEARDS OF DWARVES!?" he bellowed. "Front rank and back ranks, be maintaining position. Rest of you, shields up! We are MOVING!"

Deekius shoved something into Marcus' arms before the latter could even complain about it.

"Be taking these, Sire Marcus," the priest said. "Robes from my fallen apprentice and a spare shield from one of our brothers shot down. If you are to be coming with us, you will be having the protection of both our steel and our faith."

"Gee, thanks," Marcus groaned, slipping into the tight-fitting robe, still sticky with blood. The shield, meanwhile, was tiny compared to him – maneuverable, sure, but barely larger than a buckler."

Skeever split up the force and got them into formation quickly as more and more projectiles pelted their position.

"Do not be afraid, Sire," Deekius said as they rushed to join the troops. "We are being the chosen ones – the vanguard of a new era for the Under-kingdom! We have the protection of He-Who-Festers with us on this day!"

"Great," Marcus replied as he slotted himself in the Testudo on the right flank and hunkered down. "Because we're going to need it."

…

Gith loved the smell of dying ratman.

Ever since he was a child sucking on his mother's sixth teat, he had listened to stories of how his fourteenth daddy had shoved his stabbing knife in old Grayrax himself back in…uh…a big fight that went down…somewhere. He'd smiled as the black ooze of his mother's milk had run down his mouth and thought about chasing daddy's tail one day and cutting up a whole bunch of ratmen till their bellies spilled out.

He had no idea it would feel this good.

"We kill-kill!" he said for the fourteenth time since their attack had begun. "We kill-kill big rats slow-slow! We make 'em bleed! Yes! Bleeeeeeeed!"

Gith had never been respected much by his peers, or the new Big Boss that these bad rats had stolen from. So, when the Big Boss had ordered all the hunting yips to close those ratmen's bad eyes forever and bring him the head of the big one – Skeevin, or something - Gith had ventured out with excitement. But he'd never expected to find them, broken and beaten, on the edge of big dark Black Gulch, where it is said the yippers can never jump, and where the waters themselves can eat you up and turn you inside out.

No, he thought to himself. No water. No jumping. No fuss. We sit here and shoot at rats till they dead. If they surrender, we shoot them in their eyes! Yes-yes! We kill 'em all, we ki-"

"Gith-Gith!" one of the bow-yippers squeeked. "Bad rats come out-out!"

Gith's toothy smile stretched his face beyond healthy proportions.

"They go mad-mad!" he cried, performing the war-jump of battle victory. "Now they die-die! Now they-"

He looked closer at something that shone in the distance. There were two different clumps of rats now, and they sparked like a big box of shiny steel. Gith's men looked on in confusion as they aimed their arrows at where the ratmen's heads should be and saw them instead knock harmlessly off their shields.

"Gith-Gith!" one yipper cried. "What we do? The silly rat men wear shields like hats!"

"Fool!" Gith roared, his toes slamming into the ground as he performed the rebuke-jump of idiocy. "We hit them in their toes, we hit them in their arms, we aim for smelly rat-flesh! We keep hitting them!"

One of the dumb rats scurried out ahead of the two columns of shining steel tipped with spears, and he was nothing but an old bag of wrinkles and bones.

"Him!" Gith squealed. "Hit him! Hit him! Kill-Ki-!"

Gith's voice was cut off as the ugly rat pounded the ground of the opposite gulch ridge with his wooden staff, and shouted one single word that send a chill running up Gith's bones.

"ARVOK PATURZ!"

A surge of energy pulsed from the dirty rodent's staff, and Gith instinctly felt his knees begin to shake.

His men stopped their firing and looked down at their naked hides, checking for any sign of injury.

And Gith, to show them he had no fear, called out to the doomed little ratling.

"Stupid rat! Was that supposed ta hu-"

The waters of the gulch suddenly began to bubble beneath their feet, a sound like air being sucked through a million teeth pierced the ears of every kobold, and in the next second the waters belched out a cloud that covered the entire ridge.

"EEK!" the frontlines of Gith's hunting pack screamed. "Head-Yip! We can't see! We – where have the rats gone?!"

The cloud enveloped the entire hunting squad, searing into their eyes and making them well up with tears.

Rat man trickery! Gith bellowed in his tiny brain. He would have their furry heads for this!

"QUIET!" Gith yelped, jumping around like a madman and tearing one slingshot away from a shaking yipper beside him. He tried to keep himself from showing the fear that was welling up in his heart. He tried to listen for the rats if he could not see them, but his dumb yips wouldn't stop their shouting!

"SHUT UP!" he squealed to the obscured heavens. "AND KEEP FIRING!"

"…at what, Head-yi-"

"JUST FIRE!" Gith screamed, smashing his fist into the insolent yip who dared to question him. "FIRE FIRE FIRRRRRREEEE!"

And without another word, that's exactly what the steam-covered Kobolds did.

 

[IronLung]

The only good Kobold is a dead Kobold

- Greyrax Redpaw



Shit.

It was the only word that came to Marcus' mind as he crouch-ran within his Testudo-column, desperately hoping against all hopes that his flimsy shield would be enough to protect him against the storm of arrows coming their way.

The ridge had all but vanished – replaced by a hazy steam-cloud that Deekius' spell of heating had managed to produce. It provided the perfect cover, but Marcus knew there would be casualties even with its protection.

"Priest!" he called out to the shambling robed rat that was bringing up the rear of the formation. "You stay close to me."

He wasn't about to have his only ticket out of here kick the bucket so early.

"I am with you, Sire!" Deekius roared above the din of the cackling troops as they approached the bridge over the Gulch that would take them to the Kobold army's left flank.

Marcus felt the reverb of arrows and pellets bounce of his shield and forced his arms to hold steady. He'd only ever been involved in reenactments – mostly of US Civil War engagements – and aside from the occasional trip to the Renfaire when it came through town, he wasn't exactly accustomed to using a shield as a shock absorber.

Even if this one was little more than a toy by human standards.

The ratlings kept up the Testudo with a surprising level of discipline, even managing to maintain their ranks as they turned and made the crossing over the steam-caked bridge, and Marcus felt it quiver under their weight.

"Forward!" Deekius cried. "In the name of He-Who-Festers! For King Shrykul, and for the Shai-Alud!"

"THE SHAI-ALUD!" the column cried. "SHAI-ALUD!"

Marcus closed his eyes and willed his legs to continue forward as the hail of arrows grew denser by the second. He could tell they were unfocused – that the enemy had utterly lost its line of sight and probably their morale judging by the wild trajectories of their projectiles. Yet still, the logical part of his brain balked at what was happening, right now – of him running like a madman in a column of spear-wielding giant rats that were worshipping him like he was some kind of deity – a hero sent to them by their malodorous God to guide them into battle.

As Marcus through the steam cloud and saw tiny, knife-eared shadows appear in front of the column, he realized that if he wanted to make sense of any of this – if he wanted a way back home – he'd have to throw himself into the part.

Think – what would Hannibal have said at the Battle of Canne when his pincers slammed into the Roman defense? How would he have inspired his troops?

As the running became even more fervent, and the ratmen at the front more agitated than ever, Marcus threw off his shield and bellowed his command:

"Close ranks!" he called. "Front-Guard, shields up! Second row, spears down!"

The ratlings did as they were bid, even though Marcus could sense the desire to charge forward.

The first kobolds to see them screamed, their arrows flying wide or dinging pathetically off the shields of the front guard.

"Advance!" Marcus shouted. "Maintain speed!"

"This is being a moment that shall be written in history!" Deekius chuckled manically, his beady eyes and tatty tail twitching in anticipation.

By this point, the mouths of the ratlings in the column were practically salivating. They crept towards the kobolds flank, while the latter fought the overwhelming desire to scarper and flee.

Then they turned, hearing the death knells of their friends on the right flank, signaling to Marcus that Skeever had already smashed into their formation.

He looked into the tiny, wavering eyes of the kobold archers, breathed deep, and delivered his last command:

"CHARGE!"

The force with which the ratling's spears thrust out almost knocked Marcus off his feet. He heard the first Kobold's scream before his eyes caught up to the carnage. The Testudo column balked, stalled, and then the rat's heaved to, dragging their impaled victims away and shaking them off the tips of their bloodied weapons. Their tiny bodies dripped away in eviscerated chunks, leaving twitching corpses under their feet.

"Ratguard of Shrykul!" Deekius roared above the din of the Kobold archers' screams. "HEAVE!"

"HO-RAH-HAH!"

On the last syllable of their chant the column thrust in again, tearing through the Kobold army's left flank which by this point had all but collapsed. Many of the little critters simply threw their arrows and bows to the ground and started running as the column of living thorns pushed towards them.

Marcus watched the chaos unfold with awestruck eyes. He saw the Kobolds bodies buckle and crumble as the ratling's spears pierced their bloated bellies, spilling blood and ichor across the basalt ground so that Marcus had to watch his footing. A river of dark crimson now flowed beneath his feet.

"Gom-Yip save us!" came the terrified cries of the Kobolds from deeper within the beleaguered army's ranks as they tried running in the opposite direction only to be impaled on the spears of Skeever and his detachment. Slowly but surely, both rat-filled Testudos pushed forward, hemming in the enemy's dwindling forces.

Marcus saw some stragglers jump into the gulch below, taking their chances with the dark waters that still bubbled beneath their feet. A few managed to break out from their haphazard formation and sprint passed the column, and Marcus saw the bloodthirsty red of the front-line's eyes light up.

"HOLD!" he yelled. "L-let them go!"

Marcus could feel his bowels start to lurch at the sights and – and the smells.

The smells were the worst part.

"Obey the Shai-Alud!" Deekius shouted, frantically waving his staff beside Marcus. "Let the weaklings flee! Our kinsmen back home are being hungry!"

Amidst the laughter of the ratpack, they thrust their spears in again.

"HO-RAH-HAH!"

Marcus watched as Kobold after Kobold fell before the spears, which were by this point coming away from their foes chunked with intestine and torn limbs. He grimaced as his foot slipped into something slimy and he realized, with mute horror, that he'd just stepped into what remained of a Kobold's innards.
The little red creature flailed beneath him and then lay still, its razor teeth finally closing and its tiny limbs falling to the ground, all life squeezed from them.

And Marcus was forced to make the realization that he had just taken his first life.

As the shock of the moment, compounded by the scents and screams of the dying and the dead filled his entire being, his attention was drawn to one Kobold at the center of the ruined army. One who was still barking orders, knocking heads, standing back-to-back with what remained of his meagre troops as they brandished their tiny, rusted daggers at the advancing columns.

"STOP!"

The command was Marcus', and though it drew a look of agitation from the ratguard and their gore-strewn implements, they obeyed just as they encircled the last of the Kobolds who had not quit the field.

"Sire?" Deekius chittered. "Why do we halt? The battle is almost won!"

Marcus looked at the timid, trembling creatures that remained. They were a pack of ten – three of them already limping where a spear tip had wrenched through their knee-joints. They stood shuddering together, their dull knives practically shaking in their hands.

"The battle is won, Deekius," he said wearily. "You've no need dull your blades any further."

At seeing the lull in their attack, one of them – the one at their center – climbed atop the shoulders of two of them and wailed through a spittle-filled mouth:

"NASTY, EVIL RATS! YOU CHEAT! YOU CHEAT! YOU BRING HUMIE TO UNDER-FIGHT! YOU NO HONOR! NO HONOR!"

The creature jumped around like he was possessed by a spirit of madness, and Marcus found himself reeling back with disgust.

"GITH FIX! YES-YES! GITH FIX YOU ALL GOOD! YOU FIGHT GITH NOW! YIP TO MAN!"

"He is being a crazy one, Sire," Deekius whispered. "Crazier than usual for Kobold. He is being their leader."

Marcus looked from the insane little red man to the…slightly…less insane…furry man.

"He's their leader?"

Marcus swallowed his wounded pride. He had no right to feel any source of triumph over defeating the army of this child.

"GITH IS MIGHTIEST OF ALL YIPS! GITH's YIP SHALL ECHO THROUGH THE UNDER-KINGDOM! SPAWN AN ARMY OF YOUNGLINGS AND CRUSH-CRUSH ALL SMELL RAT MEN! GITH WILL KILL-KILL THEM ALL! HE WILL KILL! HE WILL KILL! HE WILL…"

Marcus caught the flashes of fear that were hidden behind the faces of this 'Gith's' remaining soldiers – if the little naked demons could even be called that.

His gut told him that putting the beasts to the knife would satisfy some tiny part of him that saw them as the horde of hate back home, in that college theatre, with the evangelical Steven Barenz whipping them up into a storm at their heads.

But these little beasts…now that the tides had turned, there was no malice in them. There was fear, and fear alone.

"GITH WILL FEAST ON YOUR EYEBALLS! HE WILL BRING YOU TO BIG BOSS AND BE REWARDED!"

"Sire," Deekius said, his tongue practically slavering. "Your orders?"

Marcus ignored his bloodlust and instead looked towards the back of the yipping demon. The fog of steam had begun to clear, and Skeevin's bloody form was visible on the other side of the encirclement, his eyes watching Gith's every move, observing every little twitch of his hoofed feet as they jumped in fury.

In his hand gleamed his spear, slowly bending down.

All it took was for their eyes to meet, and Marcus to incline his head but a fraction of an inch.

"GITH SHALL RULE THE UNDER-KINGDOM! GITH WILL TAKE TEETH OF RAT-KING AND WEAR THEM AS TROPHY! GITH WILL –"

Nobody ever found out what Gith's last claim to fame would be. Skeever's spear had found the back of the little demon's throat and pierced it right through, sending the tiny creature flying against the far wall of the gulch and impaling him there.

He gargled, twitched his tiny legs, and then lay still.

And Marcus watched as what remained of his tiny force threw their weapons to the ground and wept at the ratmen's feet, the latter of whom watched the spectacle with utter disbelief. With a mere force of 30-odd men, they had decimated a horde double their size.

He stumbled, overcome by the sudden urge to vomit. His dulled senses began to perceive all that surrounded him – the putrid stench of corpse and unwashed rat merged together, along with that of the Kobold's blood which ran in little rivers down his feet. He would have collapsed without Deekius holding him upright, taking his shaking hand in his claw and throwing it into the air.

"VICTORY!" the rat-priest cried. "PRAISE BE TO HE-WHO-FESTERS! PRAISE BE TO SHAI ALUD!"

"SHAI-ALUD!" the frantic force of rats called out, waving their bloodied spears in the air. "SHAI-ALUD! SHAI-ALUD!"

Skeever added his booming bass to their cries too, and Marcus was left stricken with confusion. He looked on every blood-smeared face and saw nothing but savages that he'd led into battle, cementing himself as this prophesized hero they had wanted so badly.

His revulsion, however, would have to wait. He couldn't afford to show weakness now, not in front of creatures like these. So, he let them have his cheers. He let them parade themselves round him. He let them call him whatever name his bloodthirsty little troops liked.

If it brought him one step closer to leaving this hell, then he'd grin and bear it like the best Generals did.

 

[IronLung]

"Worry, doubt, fear and despair are the enemies which slowly bring us down to the ground and turn us to dust before we die"

- Douglas MacArthur


Marcus stared into the crackling bonfire before him, trying to block out the sounds of celebrating rat-men pushing their Kobold prisoners around.

The ratguards had made camp at the end of the so-called Black Gulch just before they entered another tunnel that would take them to Knifegut fort – where Skeever said they could resupply and have safe passage to their capital city of Fleapit, seat of his Clan's power.

Marcus admitted that he was a little curious. An entire colony of humanoid rats lived down here, capable of military discipline and quick learning. They'd taken to the Testudo naturally, and though Deekius insisted their prowess in the battle had been due to his leadership alone, Marcus knew better. Being an effective General meant nothing if his troops weren't flexible, well-equipped, and maintained just the right amount of bloodlust.

Staring sidelong at the ratguard as they chewed on what remained of their kobold captives, Marcus realized that wouldn't be an issue for these creatures.

Skeever suddenly appeared beside him, offering him some vile-looking liquid swirling in an earthen glass.

He took it. When in Rome…

"You are being quiet, Sire Marcus," the rat said with a twitch of his still bloody whiskers. "You are not wishing to celebrate your victory?"

"It was *hic!* your victory more than mine."

Whatever the swill was Skeever had given him, it certainly had a kick to it. He decided he didn't want to ask. To quench the thirst in his gut was all he wanted.

"We would be dying without you!" Skeever railed, slapping a great claw on his back. "You are being too humble. This is not the warrior's way. When the king sees you, he shall be giving you all honors. You shall become war leader to rival Greyrax himself."

Marcus tentatively wondered if these 'honors' were what he wanted at all.

"Where's Deekius?" he asked.

Skeever grimaced. "Bah! The priest is conducting after-battle ritual to praise He-Who-Festers. He is big reason we stop here."

Marcus followed Skeever's eyes till they found the sagging form of the old, robed rat, shaking his staff above one of the captured Kobolds, cutting his own flesh and smearing his crimson blood across the crying creature's forehead.

"You were very clever to spare the last of the Kobolds, Sire," Skeever said. "Now we have captives and can be making good sacrifices to the Lord."

Marcus sighed. He had inadvertently made these beasts believe he was just as debased as they were.

His eyes flitted to them chewing on the innards of the Kobolds corpses they had dragged or carried with them out here, the bonfire throwing their savage shadows across the basalt cave walls.

"Skeever," he suddenly whispered. "I cannot stay here. I must go home."

The Talon-Commander huffed and took a shot of his viscous liquid. "I am understanding, Marcus. If you are simply one of many where you are coming from, then we have underestimated the humans of the Realm Beyond."

"Realm Beyond?" Marcus parroted.

"The place we are summoning you from. A place of spirits where it was said a hero would come."

Spirits, Marcus scoffed. From a plane of spirits. Well, it wouldn't be a stretch to call urban California a realm where spirits frolicked in the sun…

As he observed Skeever's reverent staring into the fire, he saw that maybe the rat himself didn't even buy it.

"Is your…faith important to you, Skeever?" Marcus asked suddenly, surprising himself with the question.

The rat bristled. "There are being some of us who have forsaken the Old Ways. It is said Clan Marrow has burned all their temples."

"Temples?" Marcus couldn't help but choke. "You have places of worship?"

The rat mistook this surprise for admiration.

"They are being sacred places to those who commune with He-Who-Festers," Skeever explained. "But with the war many have turned their backs. Some of my Clan's temples are being empty places lately. But that will change when they are seeing you."

He spat a globule of puss into the fire, enjoying his men chuckling to see the flames lick around it.

"You are being hope," he said. "That is the name we give you – Shai-Alud, Final-Chance, the one who will be destroying our enemies and making these tunnels ours."

Marcus finished his drink and set it down. He didn't like where this was going.

"I am not here to prosecute your war," he said. "I'm here until I can leave, and that's it."

He stood up and walked away, towards the still-praying Deekius. His sudden rage was something even he didn't understand, something that Maria had always warned him about. He dared not look back at the rat commander but knew he wasn't being followed as he cut through the jumping rodents who tried to lay their filthy claws on him, their salivating mouths screaming 'Shai-Alud!' at him as he passed.

"Deekius," he said when he approached the busy priest. "We need to talk."

The Ratling turned, revealing a spattering of kobold intestine draped across his long snout. His prisoner had long since expired, his stomach being torn open and emptied of its constituent parts. Beside him sat a long parchment, upon which the priest was scratching out signs and runic symbols utterly incomprehensible to Marcus.

He can read and write, Marcus mused. That's something.

"Sire," he said. "The rituals of He-Who-Festers are delicate. They cannot be interrupt-"

"Spare me," Marcus broke in. "You told me you'd send me back if I helped you win the last battle."

The robed rat was immediately subservient. "Sire, I am trying. I am trying to commune with He-Who-Festers. But his signs are being…distorted."

"Not good enough," Marcus replied.

"I will be continuing my efforts, Sire! I am needing time to-"

"I don't have time!"

Marcus shout was interpreted by the surrounding rats as a warcry, and they took up the chant like a horde of baying jackals.

"DON'T HAVE TIME! DON'T HAVE TIME!"

"I…Damnit!" he raged, planting himself on the hard ground and covering his face in his hands, before realizing that his hands were still slathered in the blood of the little yipping demons.

He looked up at the sad face of the priest, who prostrated himself before Marcus' feet.

"May my back be flayed, and my skin soaked in soap!" he wailed. "I offend the Shai-Alud with my obstinacy! Sire, I am imploring you, be helping us reach Fleapit and I will enlist the aid of the Prime Putrefact. He and his acolytes shall enhance my power. There we can send you home to the Realm Beyond!"

Marcus wiped a bloody hand down his face. The smell of the liquid was sickening, but he just didn't care anymore.

"I'm stuck here…" he murmured. "I'm stuck…"

You are being hope…the one who will be destroying our enemies and making these tunnels ours.

That's what they really wanted, wasn't it? A destroyer – someone to help them win their little war. Wouldn't anyone? Could he really blame them for wanting to defeat their enemies? Even if Marcus still didn't know anything about the grand conflict that was going on here at all?

As a thought suddenly began to form in his mind, Skeever shambled up and kicked Deekius in his side.

"Be rising, priest. Show Sire Marcus you are worth his respect, at least."

"I am but a lowly servant," Deekius murmured. "I am not fit to be trod upon!"

"No…" Marcus whispered, clapping his hands together as though he had just come to a pivotal decision. "No. You whipped up a steam cloud that practically ensured our victory. Without you, we'd have sustained massive casualties. If anyone's behaving like a useless idiot here, it's me."

The rats regarded him with their unblinking stares.

He looked on them with different eyes, then. They had an organized religion in the throes of secular doubt, enemies from all sides that kept them constantly fighting, and innate instincts that made them unwilling to just back down and die.

And, well, Marcus understood doubt. He knew how it felt to be hemmed in by enemies, and, as Mari was often fond of telling him, he had a particularly stubborn streak in him that refused to let him back off in the face of seemingly impossible odds.

But unlike his great, vaulted 'Realm-Beyond', here were a bunch of sentient beings who were actually willing to listen to him.

He smirked at the heresy of the idea. Was it possible that these rats were more capable of unbiased understanding than his college opponents?

"Alright," he said with a shake of his dirty locks. "You need me, and I need you. We'll push through to Fleapit, and then you'll show me to this 'Putrefact.' But if he can't help me, Deekius…"

The priest bowed graciously, practically groveling at his feet. "Sire, SIRE! You are kind, you are most kind to your humble servant!"

Marcus would've laughed if the stench of the rat didn't overwhelm him.

"But you must be punishing me, Sire," he stammered. "Any who offend a vassal of He-Who-Festers must lose a piece of themselves!"

Marcus looked to Skeever who simply shrugged, licking his bloody lips.

"I can be performing this task for you, Marcus," he said with an impish grin. "I would be considering it a pleasure."

Marcus looked down at the groveling rat-priest and sighed again. The more he learned of these beings, the less he understood.

But he could change that.

"You said you must lose a piece of yourself?" he asked the ratling. "Very well. But I won't take your body, Deekius. We need you in the fight. It's your tools I want."

Deekius' eyes flew to watch as Marcus pointed at his parchment binder and ink-quill. At least, Marcus hoped it contained ink...

"That," he said. "Give me a few of those parchments and some ink and we'll call it fair and square."

"HAH!" Skeever grunted, elbowing the priest as he rose to his knees. "The Shai-Alud is right, Deekius. You waste your time scrawling down signs which mean nothing to our war. Be giving it up, and let the chosen of He-Who-Festers do the writing!"

A few of the other members of the troop stifled their laughter, which told Marcus all he needed to know about the Ratmen's attitude towards the written word.

But, no matter, he thought as Deekius ripped off a screed of parchment and hesitantly handed him a dirty quill. Marcus didn't need them to be literary geniuses.

Fighters is what they are, and that's all they have to be.

 

[IronLung]

"He who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command."

Nicolo Machiavelli



-Grindlefecht, Boss Skegga's stronghold-


He watched the Kobolds groveling beneath his feet, slathered in the blood of their fallen comrades.

Slowly, he began to understand the words they were yammering at him. These little beasties were even dumber than tadpoles, always bumping and jumping and shouting about something.

He leaned forward, allowing the rolls of his fat, slathered in slime and mucus, to loll over the throne of crushed rats and dwarf they had built for him.

"You are telling me you let those rats beat you?"

The Kobold survivors looked at eachother, fear overcoming their tiny frames.

"Where is Gith?" he asked.

"He – he died-died, Boss," one of them barely squeaks.

He sat back and wiped his greasy, webbed fingers over his moist face.

He nodded at the guards around his throne.

"Take them to the pit of stilled-jumps," he said. "May they

"N-no Skegga! No, please, I-"

"What is our name?" he asked.

The timid Kobold who had spoken out nods frantically.

"Sk-Sk-Skeg-"

"MY FIRST NAME!" he bellows, his jowls shaking with the force of his voice.
"Boss!" the little creatures yip in unison. "B-Boss Skegga!"

"Hmpf!" he snorted. "Your commander died because he did not teach you proper respect. Let the pit be your teacher!"

"N-no!" they yelped as his honor-guard started to drag them away by force. "It was not our fault!"

"Take them from me," he said with a weary wave of his flipper.

"We have information, Boss!" a desparate Kobold pleaded as he was dragged away by both his flailing arms.

"You cannot tell us anything that we do not already know," Skegga replied, rubbing his slimy forehead. Honestly! These cretins could tire even the oldest bullfrog.

"They – they had a humie with them!"

Hold on…

"Stop," he called out to his subordinate guards. "Let this wretched one speak."

The Kobold was thrown down at the foot of his throne while his compatriots were trundled off to die. He didn't spare a look back at them.

"I – we – we saw him, Boss Skegga! He show them how to become big metal column! How to wear shields like hats! He – he reason they lives!"

Skegga rubbed his feathered chin. A human…

"Make yourself useful, wretch," he snarled. "Tell us where the rats of Skeever-Steelclaw were going."

The little demon jumped at the chance. "K-Knifegut!" he squeaked, remembering Boss Gith's speculations. "They – they must be going to Knifegut, Boss! It is small fort behind Gulch. Small, weak-weak. Will crumble if we hits it good, yes-yes!"

"Hmpf," Skegga replied, moderately amused by the little thing's audacity. "What is your name, mongrel?"

The wretch pelted it out like he was singing for the surface Gods, "Klega, my Boss! I is Klega!"

"Well, little slime," he said. "You have indeed brought us some most interesting tidbits. You will lead a detachment of our forces to Knifegut and secure this human. He is pivotal to our ascension."

"Y…yes-yes holy one!" Klega chirped like a songbird. "It will be done! Rat-rats die-die! Human die-die!"

"NO!" Skegga roared, puffing out his great larynx and shaking the very foundations of the ancient stone stronghold. "Bring this human to me – ALIVE."

"Y-yes…"

"Yes – WHAT?"

"Yes, Boss Skegga! Yes-yes most holy of holies Boss, yes –"

"Give him a detachment of three Skags and remove him from our sight. He shall ride out immediately."

The command was given to a thinly veiled figure that stood to attention beside Boss Skegga. A figure who could have blended into any shadow, even that cast by the great horned toad as he lorded over his kobold subjects.

"It will be done, Sire."

Skegga slammed a slime-coated fist down on his armrest. "How many times have we told you to refer to our glorious form as 'Boss'?"

The creature bathed in shadow bowed his hooded head, the dark crimson of his eyes gleaming in the dark.

"Apologies, Boss Skegga," he said. "Old habits are being hard to kill."

Skegga wiped spittle from his mouth and commanded his throne to rise, displaying his rolls of lumpy fat and gut to all the kobolds around him.

"What a thing it is to control," he said to his confidant as his throne levitated above them all. "How gratifying it is to be a God. Silas, do you not know what this means? The appearance of a human amongst your former brethern?"

From the darkness of his throne room, Skegga heard the twitching of whiskers and a silent acknowledgement.

"You are thinking it is the Shai-Alud, Boss Skegga?"

"WHO ELSE!?" the great toad thundered, laughter spilling out of his bulging throat. "If the time of prophecy has come, then it can only mean that our cause is a righteous one!"

"If you are saying so, Boss Skegga."

He ignored the chittering of his advisor and let his great arms fly out to encompass all of his realm – a world of ancient stone plundered from the dwarves, where their arsenal of cannons and powdered weapons would prove sufficient to finish his extermination campaign – wiping the Under-Kingdom clean of filth and ushering in the era of the Horned One – of Boss Skegga.

But first, he would make this human kneel before him. If he truly was the Shai Alud, then Skegga would have his secrets. He would hoard them like a dragon's golden lair. They would be his ticket to dominating the surface, once all this was over.

Then his 'benefactors' would know his vengeance. Those damned snake-fiends who thought they could control the world! His world!

The Great horny toad spun back to face his guards, and opened his massive maw – showing them the jaws that would swallow the entire world, in time.

"Ready our forces!" he called out from his flying throne. "The time of the Kleansing has come!"


***


Even as he trudged through a grim, dank tunnel with a squad of fetid rats, Marcus was in his element.

He wasn't a hard man to please by any means. Give him a pen and paper and he'd commit himself to it with more gumption than a moth to a naked flame. It is true what they say of humans – they can and will make the best of any situation if they put their minds to it.

Marcus was currently scribbling away his observations under the dim light of Deekius' Glow-Glob, a low-level spell he had conjured up as they passed through the tunnel sections leading from the Black Gulch to Knifegut fortress. Although, as Marcus had soon realized, the word 'spell' didn't quite sit right with the priest. He had taken offense when Marcus had applied the label to a miracle of the Ratman's God. The more appropriate term was something Deekius referred to as 'Gloomraav'. Loosely translated, the word was more akin to 'Incantation' or 'chant' than spell. It also denoted the Ratman's priest-caste – the Gloomraava - who were led by this 'Prime Putrefact' – a rat who served as a kind of Bishop for each different clan.

Marcus had scribbled down all these details as they made their way towards their destination, stopping only at a few points to feast on their captives or collect more secretions from the tunnel walls. His parchments had become his coping mechanism for the things around him which could have easily got even the bravest of stomachs churning.

Marcus was no stranger to horror. His profession demanded that he come to terms with the great slaughters and barbaric sacrifices of the past – from those committed in the golden halls of Tenochtitlan to the occult inner workings of the Ancient Rome's Haruspex – his mind was lined with examples of wanton, obscene destruction that resulted from both warfare and religious necessity. However, to see them firsthand would have given him pause if he did not have Deekius' papers – those notes had become his real shield.

The journey through the tunnels had been quiet – mostly. The chitterings of the rats might have been considered speech, but Marcus had no chance in understanding the finer nuances of their language. Come to think of it, he was surprised that he was able to understand them at all, let alone the cryings of their Kobold enemies.

"The Shai-Alud is said to speak with a voice that commands respect," Deekius had told him when he asked about it. He assumed that meant that he was simply able to parse their speech and communicate automatically – like his words were being instantly translated.

But if that were true, was he simply hearing their speech in English or, from their perspective, could they hear him speaking Rat?

He decided such a trivial detail didn't matter in the long-term, and decided instead to devote himself to questions. This was a whole new world, and he was now convinced that it was his duty to document its denizens – no point being a part of history if you're too ignorant to make sense of it.

So he prodded Deekius and Skeever with queries throughout their tunnel journey, questions about what the world of the Under-Kingdom looked like, politically, culturally, and socially. Some of these questions took some rephrasing, and some of their answers required parsing, but overall, he was surprised to find a degree of sophistication in the structures that dominated their lives.

Aside from He-Who-Festers, who's faith dominated Ratman religious worship, the Four great kings of each Clan ruled in their section of the underground – known colloquially as the 'Warrens'. Each Clan occupied a different, and often contested, territory: Clan Glumrot held the South, Clan Nightstalker had the East, Clan Marrow the West and Clan Red-Eye the North. It was the Northern tunnels that they were currently trudging through, and these same tunnels, Skeever explained, that were currently receiving the brunt of the Kobold's hostilities.

"They are being tiny," Skeever told him. "But they breed in thousands. One male to every female."
The rats shuddered at that thought.

"I…um…isn't that normal?" Marcus asked, quill in hand.

"'Normal'?" Skeever scoffed. "Perhaps it is being so where you come from, Marcus, but not for we rats."

With some trepidation, and more than a few challenging looks from Deekius that Marcus couldn't help but notice, Skeever then went on to explain the beginnings of the ratman life cycle: from the swollen bellies of their Queens a litter of at least one hundred rats would be born from every conception. Approximately 20% would be lost to disease – the so-called 'weak ones' whom He-Who-Festers had not blessed with immunity – and another 35% were killed by their brethren, so that only the strongest rats survived in a litter. Their breeding problem was exacerbated by the fact that the birth of a female was something so rare that it was barely considered a possibility: in five centuries, there had only ever been five females in the entire Ratman kingdom.

Five female Queens, servicing five Clans.

A new female meant not only the birth of a new life, but the birth of a whole new nation itself – one which would be sired by the King of each clan and him alone.

Of course, this posed an obvious question: why not expand the list of acceptable partners for each queen? The way Skeever put it, a Queen enjoyed a strictly monogamous relationship with the King of her Clan, and no others were permitted entry to her chambers. If lack of manpower in this war was an issue (and from the looks of this tiny, beleaguered force, Marcus assumed it was) then wouldn't a polyamorous compromise not make more sense to prolong the bloodline of each clan, not to mention sustain their war effort?

Just as he was about to pose such a question to Skeever, the armored Rat stopped him with a single raised fist.

The whole force immediately stood to attention, those at the rearguard quickly silencing their Kobold prisoners.

Marcus crouched low with them and saw a series of long, lithe shadows play across the tunnel intersection that lay ahead of them.

"Movement," Skeever whispered.

Marcus kicked himself as he felt his heart lurch. His questions would have to wait. He'd just been thrust back into the real world for what it was.

 

[IronLung]

"All men are afraid in battle. The coward is the one who lets his fear overcome his sense of duty"

-George S Patton


"Be silent, ratguard!" Skeever murmured in a whisper still loud enough to carry through the ranks of his men. "Movement is being ahead."

Marcus watched the rats hunker down and train their eyes on the approaching shadows that had begun to run up the sides of the tunnel. Deekius' Glow Glob dimmed behind him, and the ratman priest stuttered an apology as the light faded away, leaving Marcus practically blinded.

Then he saw them approach like dark stalkers in the night: a set of eight symmetrical eyes glowing with an evil green fire, attached to long, lithe arachnid bodies, each of their four legs ending in serrated pincers that gleamed against the inky black of the tunnel.

"Skeever," Marcus murmured. "What are they?"

"Rothkazuul," the Talon-Commander replied. "Gutmulchers. Perhaps you are being able to know why they have this name, Sire?"

"I can take a few guesses."

Marcus watched the creatures make their slow, methodical creep towards their new prey. Three of them – judging by the numbers of eyes blinking in the dark. Marcus would've ordered the rats into a defensive formation, but he doubted hoe effective it would be given the circumstances. These creatures looked like they'd crawled out of a nightmare. He had no reference point for their speed or ferocity. But from the thin threads of spittle that dripped from their maws, he could hazard a guess.

"Ratguard," Skeever said. "Hold firm."

Marcus could feel the ranks collapsing in the face of the beasts. The ability to demoralize an enemy could be the greatest force multiplier in a commander's arsenal. Under the gaze of the arachnids, it seemed it was Deekius who held the group together, uttering prayers of loathsome diseases and maggots that would infest the brave soldiers who stood against the enemies of He-Who-Festers. And, incredibly, these chants seemed to be working.

Well, working on everyone except Marcus, who was too busy trying to pick out the key features of the crawling night stalkers so he could sketch them later. If they surviv-

The leader at the head of the brood leapt.

"Brace!" Skeever called out. "Protect the Shai-Alud!"

Marcus felt it slam into the ground before them and tear a crater deep into the earth, throwing the lines instantly into disarray. Like an artillery bombardment it then let out a shrill scream that laid the rats low, forcing them to hurl their spears at its thrashing form. Marcus looked up, seeing the wreaths of spittle and blood flying from the things mouth and noticed with horror that it had snatched up two of the front guard already, crunching them within its elongated jaw.

"Strike the legs, warriors of Red-Eye!" Skeever yelled over the paralyzing screech of the monster. "Bring it down!"

His voice carried. The soldiers surged forward, breaking ranks and stabbing at the Gutmulcher's pincer-legs before it jumped with incredible height and attached itself to the tunnel ceiling, sending a hail of bloody rat limbs down on the whole force.

"Don't let it get away!" Skeever yelled. "Be aiming your spears well!"

No…Marcus thought. The thing could have killed at least three more and run back off to its lair. The reason it's sitting up there…

His suspicions were confirmed with sudden another rush of energy to his right.

…is because it's a distraction.

He caught the flashing crimson eyes of another Gutmulcher just as it pierced the earth beneath his feet, and he collapsed beneath its weight. With his bare hands he clamped down on the things gnashing mouth and felt the being's acid spittle tear at his robe as it drizzled down upon his flailing body.

All around him he could hear the disarming screeches of the beasts as the other two converged on the ratmen guard, and even Skeever's voice became lost amid the cacophony of infernal shrieks.

Marcus looked into the symmetrical eyes of the evil beast and knew his arms were giving up. The thing's teeth edged ever closer to his chest, where his unseated heart knocked with frenzied rhythm against his ribs…

SCREEE!

An impact. A feeling of force beating against the Gutmulcher's side, and the sight of its eight eyes going wide as a green puff of smoke enveloped the left of the thing's face.

It's cousins quickly followed – each one being shot with a series of small pellets that exploded on impact, creating a greenish haze that seemed to strike terror into the nightmare stalkers.

"A miracle of the Great Unclean One!" Deekius roared as the troops began to rally. "Into them!"

Marcus saw the beasts sway and stammer around like drunkards, their eyes glazed over and hazy from whatever weapon had just been employed against them. It took barely any effort at all for the ratguard's spears to slice clean through their legs and cut them apart once their bulbous torsos fell to the floor of the cave.

But Marcus wasn't interested in the sight of the plumb-purple viscera that spewed from the beasts, or their cries of pain as the ratmen impaled them. Instead, he walked over to the dying form of the Gutmulcher that had pinned him, and picked up a broken object that had smashed into the creature's side.

It was none other than a simple grey pellet, probably launched, Marcus guessed, from a slingshot belonging to the Kobolds they had dealt with earlier.

And as he made the realization, his eyes slowly turned towards the back of the ratman ranks to see their six remaining Kobold prisoners bowing in reverence, slingshots still in their impish hands.

Marcus dropped the pellet suddenly and staggered over to the creatures as the last of the arachnid menace rattled off their death throes behind him.

"You – you helped me?"

"DOWN, BEASTIE! BE GETTING DOWN!"

Before any of the Kobolds could respond, the bloody Claw-Leader known as Redwhiskers cracked one of them in his jaw with the butt of his spear. "You dare to address the Shai-Alud!? You are being no better than dirt!"

Marcus pressed forward. "Actually, I was addressing them."

The rat balked, aiming the tip of his crimson-soaked speartip at one of the shaking prisoners now groveling at his feet.

"These are being less than animals, Sire! No better than dung beneath paw! Not even being useful like dung!"

"And yet," Marcus interrupted massively. "It seems that they just saved my life."

Redwhiskers sputtered slamming his spear into the ground in fury.

"They meant to attack you, Sire! They are stealing the weapons we conf-con- confiscated from them! We should be putting them to death! We should –"

"Is that how you speak to your Shai-Alud?" Marcus asked, standing above the ratman with authority, thinking that it was about time he project some discipline into this bloodthirsty little creature.

"I – I – You do not understand, Sire! You are not being one of us. No good Kobold. None! Only meat. Only good for meat on their bones!"

By this point the argument had drawn a crowd, and the ratguard who had finished mopping up the remains of the Gutmulchers turned their attention towards Redwhiskers, who began to crumble under their gazes.

He feels his men begin to doubt him, Marcus thought. Good. That shows they don't think me an outsider. But it also shows there may be more like this one. This situation will have to be handled delicately.

Even a single weak soldier could spell disaster for even the strongest fighting force. When it came to leadership of a military cohort, no matter how small, doubt was a disease that if left unchecked could spread and corrupt the entire fighting force.

"Redwhiskers!" Skeever yelped from behind. "You dare defy Sire Marcis?"

If the little brute had seemed like he was on the brink of cracking before, the voice of his unwavering commander, coupled with the sight of him slathered in Gutmulcher blood and ichor, made him crumble.

"I – forgive me!" the insolent rat said. "It is having been long, long campaign."

"Much longer campaigns are to be coming, pustule!" Skeever raged.

Marcus, however, did not show annoyance. Instead, he stepped past the shaking Redwhiskers and stood before the bowed Kobold prisoners.

The rats around them drew their hip-blades, but the creatures made didn't move a single muscle.

"You saved my life," Marcus said to the one at their head, presumably their leader. "And took a chance in re-equipping yourself with your weapons to do so. Why?"

At a nod from their leader, the prisoners all threw down their slings and pellets.

"We is useful, Boss, yes-yes?" the head prisoner said. "Our balls have stinky poison that kill-kill the Gut-Munch."

Marcus raised his eyebrows, looking down at the pilfered pellets. So each of them really did contain a substance that was toxic to the creatures. Possibly a liquid that diffused on impact, rendering the creatures confused and utterly immobile.

"Bah!" Redwhiskers screeched. "Kobold trickery!"

"Perhaps so," Marcus replied cooly. "But trickery that has allowed them to survive in these tunnels. Trickery that has clearly allowed them to pass through your kingdom in greater numbers than it seems you can. Trickery," Marcus said with a smirk. "That has saved your furry behind."

Redwhiskers clenched his jaw, but a single look from Skeever stopped any more words from spilling out.

"This is being fascinating," Deekius said, coming to examine the pellets. "A weapon against the Gutmulchers…we have always searched for a secret like this."

Marcus rolled one ball between his thumb and forefinger.

"Tell me your name, Kobold," he said.

The leader of the prisoners jumped at his command. "Ix, Sire. I am Ix."

"Well, Ix, you have served us well today. For that, I will make you an offer as the leader of this detachment. Join us and provide ranged support with your men, and we will spare your lives."

Skeever nudged Marcus' arm. "Sire," he whispered. "I am being all for recruiting more men, but can we really trust-"

"I'll trust those that put their lives on the line for me," Marcus broke in, getting sick of these petty, impractical squabbles. "Well, Ix?"

The little guy double blinked, surprised, it seemed, to be given a choice in the matter.

He looked to his friends, and then to the torn limbs of the rest of his squad that remained in the ratmen's supply carriage behind. The answer, to him, was so obvious that he didn't understand why Marcus simply conscripted him forcefully.

"Yes-yes, Shai-Alud!" he cried, bowing low and kissing the ground beneath Marcus' feet. "We Bullet-Yips of Grindlefecht are yours. Yours-yours! Thank you! Thank -!"

"Don't thank me too much," Marcus chuckled, making sure those wary ratmen around him heard this part of his recruitment clearly. "You will have the dangerous jobs of both opening our assaults covering our retreats. Failure," he said with a touch of humor. "Is not an option."

He smiled thinly to himself as the rats murmured some impressed whispers to each other. He'd always wanted to use that line.

"You will be in charge of them," he told the disbelieving Redwhiskers, who stuttered like a lunatic but, again, said nothing. "See that they are given their fair share of our rations. Guard them as they have guarded me. Do this and you will win my favor."

Marcus tried to read the thoughts implicit in the young rat's stare, but he quickly bowed his head and started skittering away.

"It will be done, Sire."

With that, the column moved on – with Skeever barking orders to move swiftly as the stench of Gutmulcher blood attracted more of their kind. Marcus lingered only for a moment, catching the sight of barely suppressed fury in Redwhiskers' eyes before the Claw-Leader urged his men to follow their Commander.

Fury, he thought. With a touch of ambition behind it…I'll need to watch that one.

 

[IronLung]

"Success is not final, failure is not fatal: It is the courage to continue that counts"

-Winston Churchill


It took only another three hours before Marcus registered flaring lights at the end of the ratmen's tunnel path.

And when they finally emerged into Knifegut fortress, Marcus was forced to admit that he shouldn't have been surprised.

"By the Unclean…" Deekius whispered.

A general shout went up in the ranks of the rats that remained.

The fortress was a crumbling ruin.

The fort was built into the far wall of a great cavernous expanse that should have provided an ample defensive position. Marcus spied at least three other tunnels that led out of the cavern in full view of the fort, giving it a Panopticon-like command of the local area. Yet, Its stone walls were pocketed with holes the size of an elephant's foot, and its simple moat was filled with the floating bodies of ratmen and kobolds that stared up at the new arrivals with blank, soulless eyes. The once stout Martello towers that rose on either side of the gatehouse were at this point openly exposed – their insides having been decimated by what looked like siege weaponry. In their skeletal state, even a simple force of ten could enter them from the outside. The banners of the red-eye that hung loose from the tops of the walls were tattered and rotten from exposure to what Marcus assumed must have been constant assaults.

Piled up around the fortress perimeter were more bodies – perhaps one rat for every fifteen kobolds – being trundled away in wheelbarrows by downtrodden ratmen. Again, the stench of death hit Marcus first – the thing the textbooks couldn't have ever prepared him for.

They had given the kobolds a fair battering, but anyone could see that this place wouldn't hold out much longer.

"You there, kinsman!" Skeever called out to one of the dejected rats trundling his barrow of dead. "Be taking us to Talon-Commander Gatskeek!"

The rat looked up with red-rimmed eyes under his filth-ridden hood and barely squeaked in acknowledgement.

"Be following."

Through the cavern the column of Skeever-Steelclaw's forces marched, their Shai-Alud at their head. Most of the rats on corpse-collection duty barely paid them any heed, and Marcus found himself seeking solace in his notebook scribblings to keep from looking into their sad eyes.

"How do you treat your dead?" he asked Deekius.

"We are not being wasteful," the rat-priest replied. "Most are being taken back to the towns to be fed to the Queens. The remains are being given to soldiers first, then scraps thrown into street. Even defeat in battle can bring happy bellies."

Marcus nodded slowly, imagining the chaos of the ratmen's city streets. He imagined dirt-caked children scampering around with flies in their eyes, waiting for a morsel of their own kind. But he could not help but see a certain logic to the practice which might have its root in the creatures' strange anatomy. Cannibalism had died out as a practice in human history because of its dangers – disease, primarily - particularly that which is caused by improperly folded Prion proteins. This exact problem was what devastated the native tribes of New Guinea. From what Marcus gathered of the ratmen, however, it seemed that they had a far higher toleration of the effects of disease than the average human. It made sense, in this context, for their religious faith to be one that praised an almighty pox-bringer.

Marcus' contention had always been that religion served an acute social function, first and foremest – and was even formed in response to the evolutionary traits of a people. It was a point he had wanted to make in his book…a book which he'd all but forgotten about.

After all, he was writing a new book now. A book that would be far more interesting to the scholar and layman alike.

"Be opening the gate!"

The shout of the archer-rats manning the ruined Martello towers snapped Marcus back to reality, and he watched the ratmen's drawbridge open to afford him a vision of Knifegut proper. It was a basic fort with only a few communal stone huts that served the usual functions Marcus would expect: there was a troops barracks, an armory containing mounds of various rusted weaponry practically sprawling across the floor, a stout chapel built into the cavern wall adorned with two rotten, maggot-encrusted Kobold skulls and the walls of the fort themselves which stretched out from the cavern's far wall. Littering the fort's grounds were also copious crates and barrels from which foul-smelling odors wafted. Marcus suspected that they could only be the ratmen's supply crates.

By far the most impressive structure was the massive wrought-iron gate that sealed the exit to the fort. It was currently manned by a line of six bored-looking ratguard.

As Skeever's men inspected their surroundings, seeing nothing but decrepit soldiers greet them with sniffs of their great, wriggling snouts, the commander of the fortress shambled down the steps of the gatehouse to meet them.

He was an old rat. Grey of fur and short of tail, with a festering, puss-filled wound adorning his left leg. Though he limped towards them, Marcus could tell there was strength still in his old bones, and that the scimitar that was sheathed just under his black cloak was probably still sharp enough to pierce Kobold skin.

"Skeever," he said, grabbing his comrade and giving him a hearty pat. "Be welcome in Knifegut."

Skeever nodded but wasted no time on pleasantries. "The fort is being broken, Gatskeek! What is happening here?"

Old Gatskeek nodded gravely and nodded to Deekius. His eyes then lighted on Marcus for the first time.

"So this…" he began. "This is the Shai-Alud."

As he spoke the word a whisper of disbelief rippled through the ratmen assemblage. Marcus felt their stares on his back, some of them looking at him with hungry eyes.

"Are you being sure?" he asked Deekius. "He is not looking like much."

Before Marcus could utter a word in protest, the rat-priest was already up in arms to defend him: "Sire Marcus' abilities are not in question. Under his leadership he saw us slaughter a pack of fifty Kobolds to the man!"

"Almost to the man," Marcus corrected, glancing back at the Kobold prisoners who were uncomfortably shifting against the stares of the fort-rats.

"Hm," Gatskeek grunted. "A human. And one that is barely having a hair on his chest."

Marcus unconsciously tightened his robe around him.

"Skeever," he grunted again. "Is this one the reason you are bringing those things into our fort?"

His eyes darted towards the Kobold slingers, who dropped to their knees, each one pulling down the other by their elbow to show their supplication.

"We are serving Shai-Shai now, good rat-Sire, yes. We are loyal only to-"

"I didn't ask your opinion, filth," the old rat spat. "I am talking to my kinsman."

Skeever looked from Gatskeek to Marcus before he replied.

"It is being the command of the Shai-Alud," he said without further hesitation. "These ones are saving us as we journey back through the North tunnels. They are having weapons that tame the Gutmulchers."

Gatskeek spat a globule of grimy saliva at his feet. "And what if they are simply tricking you, hm? You know Kobold are good for nothing but schemes and backstabbing. Their brains are being as fiendish as their devil hands."

"Are you questioning the will of the Shai-Alud, kinsman?" Deekius interrupted, raising his staff menacingly so that even the fort rats cowered back in fear. "Know that in doing this, you are questioning He-Who-Festers himself."

The old rat stepped up to look into the dark eyes of the priest, holding his gaze and keeping one paw on his scimitar's hilt.

"You will not be frightening me, Gloomraava," he said with revulsion. "We are praying to the Unclean One for weeks, after we are burying our dead, after we are licking our wounds, after we are fighting night after night. He does not listen."

Marcus sensed the tension in the air. It seemed old Deekius' reliance on religion as a tool of fear wasn't quite up to scratch when it came to those who had suffered under the yolk of real warfare. Yet, Marcus could observe the reticence in the ratmen that surrounded them. He could see there were a few who looked upon him as their messianic figure, and a few who's minds weren't quite as made up yet. How they dealt with this old skeptic – the commander of a set of obviously demoralized troops – this would be crucial. If he was ever going to reach the capital of this forsaken underground pit and finally be in with a chance of getting home, then he would wield belief like a weapon and cleave through all these petty squabbles.

So, as much as it pained him to play along with this little game of Gods and prophets, he sucked up his Agnosticism and faced down the commander.

"You are…being…right, Talon-Commander Gatskeek," Marcus said, taking care to match the intonation of the ratmen he had managed to pick up so far. "Your fights so far are being a test from He-Who-Festers. He has sat in silence so that you might show your dedication to him even when he turns his furry ears away from you. Now, your deliverance has come."

He indicated the troops surrounding them. Well-armored, still disciplined rats who stood to attention as he swept his hand over their column.

"We," Marcus said. "Are here to show you that the Unclean One still listens. He has sent…is sending us…to help you go home."

After this little speech the grey rat said nothing for a time. He looked Marcus up and down, and then returned his gaze to Skeever with a licking of his ragged snout.

"You vouch for this man?" he asked.

Skeever nodded without any hesitation this time. "On my life, kinsman. I, too, thought that we had been forgotten. But it is not being so. We will be going down in history."

Gatskeek merely chuckled at this, then eventually threw his head back and belched out a laugh that seemed to infect the troops that were still here with him – those watching from their doomed positions on the walls and those nosing the floor of the barracks for scraps before the new bodies came in.

"Skeever-Steelclaw is finding the Shai-Alud – hah!" Gatskeek shouted. "King Shrykul always did say our clan would be favored one day."

The old rat now looked to Marcus with a glint of humor in his withered, aged eyes. Eyes that had seen, perhaps, too much horror to care anymore.

"Well, Shai-Alud," he said. "Your words are being good. But we are not going anywhere."

He nodded at Marcus, Skeever, and Deekius to follow him.

"Why is that?" Marcus asked.

"Because, Shai-Alud," the old rat replied. "We are being fucked."

 

[IronLung]

Be giving me death before giving me shame!

- Vikk Bad-Eye

The old rat led Skeever, Deekius, and Marcus towards his command post at the foot of the barracks. Skeever commanded the rest of his forces to stay behind and recuperate, taking advantage of the fort's supplies before they moved on.

"Supplies?" Gatskeek huffed. "You would be lucky to be finding a morsel of good tail flesh in this dump."

"What has happened here?" Skeever demanded, keeping his voice as low as possible so his men would not overhear his anxiety. "When last we departed, the fort was holding strong. Why now are you being so laid low?"

Marcus was too busy contemplating the rat's denial to retreat to even pay attention to his reply.

"Raids from the yipping ones are becoming constant," Gatskeek explained as the retinue passed by ranks of wounded Ratlings simply staring at the barrack walls. "Ever since they be having new Boss, they attack in large number with more and more anger. No matter how many we are killing, more come to climb over corpses and take fort. They all cry out victory for new Boss Skegga."

Marcus noticed how uneasy even the name itself made Ix and the other Kobold prisoners. He made a mental note.

"Be telling me you are completing your mission, Skeever," he asked with some faint hope.

The hulking Skeever responded in nary a whisper, perhaps so the Kobolds that now journeyed with them would not hear.

"We are," he said, producing a small, crumpled map in his hands. "Though it is costing me half of my men to do it."

Gatskeek returned his morose statement with a solemn nod. "We all are learning the cost of this war, kinsman. I am fearing that it has already spent us. There are being rumors from the capital that the North tunnels will soon fall against the might of Skegga's united army."

"We have seen him," Skeever said with revulsion. "He is no God. He is nothing but surface slime. If only the dumb demons could know this!"

"How are they breaking Knifegut?" Deekius interrupted suddenly. "This fort is being one of the strongest in the North Warrens."

"They are having advantages they never had before," Gatskeek replied. "Skogs, big guns, and numbers we have never seen. This Boss Skegga has given the yipping demons some new religion and has brought the Kobold tribes together under it. He is telling them that Great Kleansing will come, and they will wipe out all life in these tunnels until only Kobold remains."

The venerable rat looked back at the Ix and his compatriots and spat into the ground of the fort. His hatred could not be concealed.

Marcus couldn't blame him. In war – especially one in which peace talks were not on the table - it didn't behoove a commander to feel any compassion for his enemy. It would make the job of killing them that much harder.

He also understood the situation better now. These Kobolds, though individually insignificant, possessing basic intelligence, had been formed into a coherent military force through the galvanizing power of a new faith and a new God – this Boss Skegga. Whoever he was, he understood the power that faith wielded over those without minds of their own – those who desperately wanted to believe in something greater. The notion of disparate tribes being unified under such faith was not a novel one to Marcus – the Jihads under the Rashidun Caliphate of the 7th century and the Cathar Crusades of the 13th provided just two examples of how powerful an army with a common, spiritual purpose could truly be.

Eventually, Gatskeek led the detachment of leaders to what served as his war room at the end of the fortress barracks. It was a tiny chamber lit by two torch sconces on either side of a desk riddled with termites. Upon the desk lay a map of the surrounding area, with several points viciously crossed off like someone had taken a blade to the paper.

Marcus was surprised to see that it was a rather more detailed map of the stronghold than he had expected – clearly identifying the three tunnel entryways and the escape route through the great steel door, as well as diagrams of defensive positions that could be taken up on the twin Martello towers.

"We are being boxed in," Gatskeek said with another indignant spit of phlegm. "Every day Kobold raiders are hacking at us from the West and East tunnels. We try plugging them, but Gutmulcher attacks too frequent. Walls have held for past month but now," the Talon-Commander sighed. "You are seeing situation."

"Indeed," Marcus said, stepping forward to get a closer look at the fortifications and the wall foundations. "You've done well to hold out this long with what you've had to work with."

Gatskeek didn't bow in deference as the others did. Instead, he accepted the praise with a way, curt nod.

"We can be holding for another day at best," he continued. "Then Kobolds will take Knifegut. Will have clear path to assault Capital."

"Why haven't reinforcements come from Fleapit?" Skeever asked in disbelief. Marcus could tell the state of this place was having an effect on him. In the short time he'd known the creature, he could tell this hulking rat despised the idea of seeming weak in the face of his foes.

"King Shrykul is decreeing that no more help will come," Gatskeek replied. "He is needing to reinforce city walls against dwarven raiders to the South. Kobold threat is not seen as biggest problem."

"We will change that," Deekius promised. "Our mission is bringing word not only of great threat, but of way to be stopping them."

"We can be allowing you to pass through today," Gatskeek huffed. "Tell the King we are fighting and dying well."

"'Dying'?" Marcus asked. "Why are you so content to die?"

The rats all looked at him, their eyes streaked with confusion.

"There is much you have not told the Shai-Alud then," Gatskeek reprimanded his kinsmen. "When we are being ordered to make sure Knifegut has a standing army, we are standing no matter what."

"This is being our way," Skeever said. "What the King commands, we are doing."

Marcus, however, wasn't accepting that.

"This fort will fall tonight," he told Gatskeek, sensing Skeever and Deekius' hesitation. "With or without your rats here to man it. You said so yourself. I counted at least sixty good men out there who could fight another day. Can you really look them in the eye and tell them they are dead rats walking?"

"They are being loyal servants of our King, human," Gatskeek growled. "If the king commands it, then we are to follow!"

Marcus looked at his companions for any support, and found instead that they nodded with the old grey veteran. He felt fury rise in his throat but stop at his gullet. He remembered Mari's words. Then, he remembered what his purpose here was.

There could be more dangers on the way to Fleapit, and Skeever's men numbered only around approximately 24 beleaguered spearmen by this point. Extra manpower was exactly what they needed if they were going to survive the journey through another one of these decrepit tunnel systems. Marcus, having just seen the horrors of Gutmulcher jaws, was surer of that now than ever.

Gutmulchers…

He flew forward suddenly, analyzing the map.

"The orders of your King," he said. "What, exactly, were his words?"

Gatskeek's furrowed brows betrayed his confusion, but he answered without hesitation: "To be ensuring the fort is manned and protected from threats to the North."

Marcus nodded.

"What if there was another army that could protect it?" he said slowly, his eyes darting from each leader in the tiny chamber, knowing that they looked into his eyes and saw the flickering of the dim torch embers that threw themselves across the room.

"Well, Talon-Commander?" Marcus pushed. "King Shrykul didn't say that you, specifically, had to guard this place from your Kobold enemies, did he?"

The old veteran licked his scarred lips. "No," he said. "But if you are thinking that the Ratmen you bring with you will be enough to hold this place when sixty of my soldiers cannot, then you are more insane than you are looking."

"Who said anything about Ratmen?" Marcus said with an impish grin that couldn't help forming at the corners of his mouth. "We have a better ally that we can use in this fight."

Amidst the stares of the twitching rats Marcus' smile only widened. A plan was forming in his mind that he wouldn't exactly call 'sane'. But it was practical. And it was better than letting 60 able-bodied rats die here when they could be helping him reach his goal.

"Gatskeek," he said aloud. "If I told you I could save your men and keep this fort manned, would you trust me?"

The old rat scoffed. "Trust you?" he said. "No, human. I am not trusting anyone without the tail of my kinsmen. But if Skeever-Steelclaw vouches for you, then I will hear your plan. Then we shall be seeing if I will risk my men for you."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Marcus said. "If you follow my instructions, not a hair on their tails will be touched."

Skeever and Deekius exchanged looks that told Marcus even they doubted him in this moment. Yet when they turned back to him, they saw only confidence in their prophet's eyes.

"First things first," he told Skeever. "Gather your troops. We're going spider hunting."

 

[IronLung]

'Nearly all men can stand adversity. But if you want to test a man's character, give him power'

-Abraham Lincoln


Klega tried to still his ferocious heart as it knocked against his ribs.

Ratties die-die, his mind told him. Kill. Kill-kill them all for Boss Skegga!

Behind him rumbled the yips and cries of his army – 70 of the big Boss's finest Skog riders, with complete control over their hopping mounts. Klega had always mocked the Skogs of the North tunnels as a child. He had spat at their spherical bodies and played the game of Skogchase with his companions in his youth – where they would taunt the Skog captives in their pens and jump over their spiny backs and tails as the creatures charged them, their venomous tongues lolling out lamely when they missed their targets. Klega had never imagined that he would ever have such control over one of those beasts – that the harness he held in his hands kept such a stupid looking beastie under his total control. It was right what Boss Skegga said – having control over the creatures of their dark world felt like being a God.

Klega smiled at that, raising his chipped shortsword and shouting over his shoulder at the other riders. His riders.

"Towards Knifegut!" he yelped to his fellow Kobolds. "We kill all rat-rats and then – then we take their Shai-Alud and crush-crush Fleapit! For the Big Yip! For Boss Skegga!"

The sound of his men whooping and bashing their mounts with their sharp claws and clubs reverberated through the tunnel they sped down. They sung songs of triumph, songs that praised the Boss and how they would be his tools that would set the Under-Kingdom on fire.

And Klega joined them, jabbing his Skog in its stupid, dumb, empty belly and laughing as it squeaked in pain.

Perhaps one day soon, he thought, they would be singing his name instead of the Boss's.

…

Marcus stood atop the crumbling wreck that was Knifegut's walls. Beside him stood Ix, practically shaking.

They watched Skeever and his men return with their plunder – the results of about two hours worth of sustained combat with the spiderlings of the tunnels. They had hesitated at Marcus' refusal to come with them, but understood that time was of the essence and he had to inspect the walls. If this plan was to work…

He looked down at the tiny form of the Kobold prisoner beside him.

…then all its constituent parts would have to operate in unison.

"Are you scared?" he asked the creature as Skeever waved his bloody spear up at them.

"I – I…" the little creature stammered. He had the involuntary habit of hopping in place like an eager child, and Marcus had to stop himself before such comparisons went any further. These little demons were not children. What they lacked in brain power, they evidently made up for in two areas: numbers and cunning.

"Speak freely, Ix," he commanded. "And don't lie. The Shai-Alud will know."

He chuckled to himself at this little bit of theatre. If only Mari could see him now. She'd always said he was a bad actor. But then again, you didn't need acting chops to keep infants entertained.

"Ix fear-fears wrath of God," the Kobold said. "Boss Skegga is supposed to be new God-God of Underground."

"And do you believe that?"

Ix gulped out his answer. "We of the Far North tunnels do not have choice. We not ask-ask question. We loyal."

"Until your commander is defeated, it seems," Marcus challenged.

It was unclear whether Ix recognized the threat in his voice, for all he did was pull on his long ears and wiggle his toes.

"Ix is having new thoughts," he said. "Commander Gith not win-win fight. This mean he not strong enough. This means Skegga not choose good leader. So this mean Skegga cannot be God-God. God not-not make mistake."

Marcus chuckled to himself. A stout deduction! Even if it was phrased a little awkwardly. Their people clearly valued strength. He imagined, from the things he'd heard, that this Boss Skegga probably commanded through sheer determination alone. Probably, he was at least ten feet larger than his subjects. And probably, Marcus thought, he believed that large numbers and a common cause were enough to win a war."

But even as he listened to Ix's words, Marcus kept his distance. He was not stupid enough to show disdain like the rats did towards their new comrades. The petty racial squabbles between these creatures did not concern him. But equally, he was not going to go the way of Xerxes, shanked in the back by those soldiers closest to him.

"Are you prepared?" he asked.

The Kobold answered with certainty. "Yes-yes, Shai-Alud. We are ready. You have told us of our role in plan-plan. Plan will work. We will win."

"That's not what I mean," Marcus continued, measured. "Are you prepared to kill your own kind?"

Ix looked up at him again and blinked his beady little eyes as he considered the question. They held each other's gazes for a time, until finally the Kobold had plucked up enough courage to bear his rotted fangs and squeak out his answer:

"This skin," he said, pulling at his soft belly. "This mean nothing to Yip-Yip. Kobold stand where there is power. Only want strong-strong. If ratmen strong, we follow ratmen. If Boss Skegga strong, we follow Boss Skegga. Ratmen have not been strong-strong. But now Ix has seen ratmen fight with Shai-Alud. Now maybe ratmen become strong-strong. They become worth following."

You go where there is power, Marcus thought, taken aback at the little creature's candor. Irrespective of race or creed. I can respect that. Even admire it. Of course, you could be lying to me. But then, you can't be, can you? Because you've just told me something that you probably don't think you did.

"Well then," Marcus said with a slight smile as he turned away to finish up the preparations. "I suppose I better win this next fight."

A sudden streak of mischief suddenly took him. He'd heard a long time ago that a man shouldn't ask questions he doesn't want the answer to. But still, he couldn't help himself. Maybe the performance of the Shai-Alud General really had taken him over.

"If I become weak-weak, Ix," he said. "Will you kill me?"

The Kobold looked at him vacantly, and merely shrugged his tiny shoulders.

"Ix no need," he said simply. "Weak-weak not live long in Under-Kingdom."

…


When Klegga and his raiders finally reached the end of the tunnel that their prior Yips had cleared to Knifegut, he looked upon the fort as a conqueror looks upon a golden city ready to fall.

He forced his men to a halt with a single raised claw, his fingers twitching on the grip of his blade.

Quiet-Quiet, he thought, scanning the big towers that were barely still standing after their constant raids.

"Head Yip Klegga!" one of his men whispered beside him. "Why-why we stop?"

"Klegga is using brain-brain," Klegga replied. "Fort look abandoned."

"Then we take-take easy!"

Klegga shook his head. "Too easy," he said. "Could be ratman trap."

"Trap?" another of his men giggled maniacally. "Stinky rats no clever enough for trap-traps! Not like clever Boss Skegga and clever Head-Yip Klegga."

"Head-Yip Klegga!" his men roared.

They want fight-fight, Klegga thought. Klegga understands. But rat-rats have Shai-Alud, now. They have leader now. Maybe they ha-

A general shout suddenly went up from the back row of his riders.

"Head-Yip! Look!"

Klegga strained his eyes to watch the movement that was taking place atop the fort's ruined walls. Kobold eyes were sharp as eagles, and even across the field of battle, Klegga could see the ratmen waving at them with their bows.

Then he saw the defenders turn round, lift their tails, and defecate off the side of the walls, jumping around in mockery of the Kobolds' war dance.

"The devils!" the Skog-riders wailed. "They make fun-fun of us!"

"How dare they mock-mock the sacred dance of war!"

"Enough waiting! We go! We go now-now!"

"NOW-NOW!"

"W-wait!" Klegga screeched. But his voice was lost in the hail of frenzied whoops and battle cries that sailed from the throats of his warriors. He watched them urge their Skogs on with crazed kicks and saw the hatred burning in their eyes as they charged the walls with their meagre defenders who, Klegga saw, barely took aim at them.

He looked at the chaos of the ordered rows breaking up all around him and felt a deep gulch open up beneath his raging heart. Boss Skegga had chosen him to lead. Why weren't the Yips listening to him?

He looked back up at the fort and tightened his grip round his shortsword.

It does not matter, he told himself as he threw his entire being into the battle. When Knifegut fall-falls, it will be my name they remember. No one else.

 

[IronLung]

Jump-Jump! Little Yip

Catch the sun-sun in your hands

Jump-Jump! Little Yip

We will be here when you trip!

- Popular Kobold rhyme



The sounds of the Kobold raider's war cries pierced the air of Knifegut's cavern.

The defenders of the walls took aim and fired as they had been instructed. Their arrows had barely flown before the cavalry was upon them, digging their claws into the remnants of their walls and charging toward the Martello towers.

The vicious teeth of the starving Skogs gleamed in the darkness of the cavern and found the hands of the ratman archers within mere minutes. They tore through skin and muscle like carving through butter, relishing every morsel of rat-flesh they swallowed, while the defender's bodies crumbled beneath them.

For a short, two-minute duration of pure agony for the defenders, the towers held. The archers relinquished their bows and drew daggers to pierce the soft underbelly of the rampaging Skogs. A few of them found the vile beasts' hearts before the rats were forced back in the face of a wall of gnashing fangs.

"Be retreating!" came the general shout from the walls.

Klegga heard their desperate cries and pushed forward, getting in amongst his units where the fighting was thickest. By this point, the walls and towers were filled with rampaging riders struggling to edge their way into the fortress past each other. The raiding party had become nothing but a wave of living, undulating death.

The defenders were pushed back into the courtyard of the fort, with Klegga's screams becoming the manic shouts of a warlord seeing his enemy crumble beneath his might. The Yips surged forward, urging their Skogs to leap over the battlements and crush the fleeing rat defenders under their bipedal feet. Some of them let the rats die a slow death – poking at them with their rusted machetes while their Skogs licked and chewed away at their flesh, stripping them of their putrid hair and swallowing them whole.

"Skogs are hungry, yes-yes?" Klegga shouted over the chaos of his whooping warband and the squeals of pain from the rats they trampled. "Give them food-food! Let them munch, crunch, chew-chew all night!"

By now the courtyard of Knifegut had become little more than a bloody feasting ground. Like carrion birds the Kobolds descended upon the meagre force of ratmen archers and guards that remained, dispatching them with little care even for their own unit formation. It became difficult for Kelgga, in the confines of the walled-in courtyard, to even recognize his line commanders in the mass of writhing flesh and ichor. But no matter, he thought to himself. Even if his 70-odd Yips were packed in here like cattle, all he had to do was watch them munch.

Klegga took his time to inspect the remains the rats had left in the courtyard – nothing but torn boxes and empty crates that reeked of ratmen filth. They had obviously been in a hurry to leave.

The chaos of the one-sided battle spilled into the barracks where the Kobolds found nothing but deserted straw bedding and filthy piles of dung stewing in the heat of the claustrophobic cavern. The armor – a similar situation. Klegga was becoming convinced the coward rats had run, leaving only a token defense to face his onslaught. It was funny. Klegga had never known ratmen to be brave, or capable of thinking. Perhaps their Shai-Alud had convinced them to stay and die so that his forces might leave?

The Shai-Alud…

Come to think of it, Klegga had not spotted a human anywhere within these walls. In a sudden panic, he ordered his men to search the place top to bottom, but those finishing off the defenders reported nothing outside but the dingy, smelly boxes the ratmen had left behind.

"They stink-stink!" one of his Yips shouted. "Like everything rat!"

"Head-Yip Klegga, we should push on!" another raider declared, filled with the fervor of bloodlust and battle victory. "We go-go to Fleapit and crush King Shrykul!"

The raiders whooped and cheered him on, and Klegga's sword arm began to twitch of its own accord. Covered from head to toe in ratman blood, he felt fearless. Brutal. He was ready to knock some sense into that screaming Yip when he heard the distinct sound of something flying through the air just above his sharp ears.

Something had just happened…

"Quiet-quiet!" he called out to his still rampaging horde licking at their fallen prey. "Quiet!"

It was useless. His voice was lost in their vindictive celebrations.

And then he heard it again: a sudden rush of air. A flurry of swift cuts being made through the dark cavern skies.

He looked up, scanned the stalactites that glistened above. His eyes strained to pick out movement, anything that could tell him what was –

SNAP.

The sounds of a dozen impacts nearby. The sound of wood splintering into pieces. Sounds that were unheard by his men enjoying their victory.

But their effects were felt. The dozen or so boxes and barrels that lined the courtyard were suddenly split open, revealing their viscous, dark-green contents.

A cry went up from his men as the explosions wracked their minds. The contents of the crates burst out and covered them, coating the Skogs' salivating mouths and sticking to the limbs of the raiders like glue. Even Klegga had to reel back, struggling to keep his mount under control as he shook the thick, sticky mucus from his eyes.

"Filthy-filthy rat-rats!" he heard his men scream. "They think to mock us while they run-run!"

But Klega was barely listening to them, now. Instead, he was preoccupied with staring at the mucus that dripped from every pore of his skinny claw, and looking up to see it covering all of his men like a cloak of vile poison.

His eyes shot wide open when it finally dawned on him what it was.

And by that point, it was too late.

"Head-Yip?" a rider said beside him, spitting out clumps of the disgusting fluid. "Why you look so pale-pale?"

Klegga wasn't listening to his men now. Now, he was feeling the thunderous vibrations beneath his feet.

He looked around him at the puzzled-looking Kobolds and Skogs, who had now stopped their feasting.

"H-Head-Yip? Wha-"

Cracks appeared across the fortress courtyard, tearing through the boxes which still lay unopened and spilling more of their vile payload across the ground, so that the chicken-claw feet of the Skogs started slipping around uncontrollably.

The courtyard had become little more than a bloody skating rink now. A skating rink composed solely…of Gutmulcher blood.

"Y…Yip-Yips!" Klegga called out as the sounds of the vibrations reached fever pitch. "Fall back! FALL BACK-BACK NO-"

The Head-Yip's command was cut off by the storm of pincers and serrated teeth that launched themselves over the wall battlements and landed in the middle of the raiders. Before the first victims were able to scream they were torn from their Skogs and chewed clean through, leaving their mounts to flail about helplessly in the viscous fluid that kept them stuck in place. Klegga looked up to see a legion of the screeching, eight-legged horrors of the tunnels descend on them from above, tearing through the already disrupted ranks of his horde with even more ease than they had employed against the ratman defenders.

"Group-group!" Klegga called out in vain. "Pack-leaders, fall back-back!"

It was useless. His eyes saw nothing but Kobolds squealing in despair as they were lifted from their mounts and ripped to shreds, their blood raining down on their comrades who turned tail and tried fleeing, abandoning their slipping Skogs altogether. Some of them made it to the walls and scrabbled up the sides to see nothing but a sea of waiting Gutmulchers on the other side – an ocean of crimson eyes that stared back at them before enveloping them within their flesh-ripping teeth.

Klegga watched his men die not with a heavy heart, but with a mind wracked by fury.

This…he raged. "This is not how it is supposed to be-be!"

The men around him looked up at their rage-filled leader spitting such anger at the chaos that unfolded around them. It was the first time they'd looked to him as a leader since they'd set out from Grindlefecht.

He looked towards the metal gate that the ratmen had defended with their last, putrid breaths. The gate, Klegga knew, that led to Fleapit.

"Yips!" he yelped above the din of the dying and the paralyzing screeches of the infernal arachnids. "Move towards big door-door! We push to Fleapit! Spiders cannot outrun us! Let cowardly ratmen face them!"

Slowly, Klegga saw his own insane resolve build in the small contingent that could hear him – those boxed in at the edge of the fortress.

"How we get to big door, Head-yip?"

Klegga kicked at the side of his Skog and raised his short sword high.

"How we get everywhere!" he squeaked. "We fight-fight!"

The little creature surprised himself with the ferocity of his candor, leading a breakout charge of the 30 or so Yips that weren't ground to pulp and intestine in the Gutmulcher's toothy maws. With him at their head his cavalry charged forwards, slashing back at the beasts in their way, aiming for the legs and managing to wound the arachnids that broke off from their feast.

"Keep push-push!" the fervent Klega called out. "We still win-win!"

They would come back, he told himself as he slashed through the talons of a snarling Gutmulcher and then forced his Skog to barrel right past it. They would come back later and take the place properly. They would bring poisons with them. Boss Skegga would understand. Klega would bring him this vital information that the fort was now home of Gutmulchers only. The rats had tried to trick them into being spider lunch. But they had failed. They had failed because Klega was strong leader – strongest leader in all Under-Kingdom!

And with such thoughts raging in his skull, he and his dwindling force finally reached the wrought iron gate at the back of the fortress.

"Open-open!" he cried to one of the raiders beside him, who forced his cog to jump up to the ratmen's primitive winch on the wooden platform that teetered beside the gate.

The 'mulchers from behind now surged towards them, having finished supping on the rest of his men.

"We are next-next!" a shaking Yip called behind Klegga. "We – we run-run! We go –"

A slap from the Head-Yip brought him back to his senses.

"Coward Yips never make big jumps!" he roared as loud as his puny larynx would allow him. "We will make biggest jump in Kobold history! We lead Mulchies to Fleapit! We strike blow-blow against rats!"

The iron gate finally came down, and when Klega turned towards the dark expanse that opened before them, he did so with certainty in his eyes and glory in his heart.

Until he saw what was waiting for them.

 

[IronLung]

Kill with a borrowed knife"

-The Thirty-Six Strategems



As the wrought iron door to the escape tunnel opened, Marcus braced himself for what had to happen next.

The door shuddered open, revealing pained, animalistic cries of death punctuated by the cracking of bones and squelching of teeth tearing through pliable flesh.

But he focused. He raised a hand to signal to the shield wall positioned right behind the door to ready themselves for combat.

"Sounds of Kobold death," Deekius grinned beside it. "It is warming the heart, is it not, Shai-Alud?"

Marcus ignored the bloodthirsty comment of the priest with a gulp. He could already smell the ranks of torn flesh and exposed bone marrow that coated the courtyard as the fortress' insides came back into view.

Then, he saw what remained of them.

He saw the Kobolds drenched in Gutmulcher blood mixed with the ichorus remains of their own people, and their spherical, reptile-like mounts shrieking in agony as the image of the ratman shield wall came into view.

Then Marcus locked eyes with the Kobold at the head of the riders, and he saw – as someone who was no stranger to fear – that the Kobold's hope of escape had just vanished.

"Spears!" he called.

The shield wall obliged, bringing their weapons to bear with an affirmative "HAH!"

His hand rose above their heads, holding the Kobold captain's desperate, pleading eyes just before he brought his fist down and issued his command:

"FORWARD!"

And with one swift, unburdened motion, the wall of thorns struck out at the raiders.

The first spears pierced the foreheads of the snarling Skogs with ease, ripping through their scales and coming away with pieces of blackened brain-matter oozing from their tips.

Then the next rank simply stepped forward without a second thought.

The Kobolds' screams filled the black void behind the rats where Marcus stood, watching the chaos he'd orchestrated unfold. The Skogs sent their thorny tongues covered in acidic mucus at the rats, their riders desperately trying to push against the wall. But it held firm. The furry monsters shoved back, striking out with spear and shield in equal measure, knocking Kobolds from their mounts which began flailing about lamely before they too were speared through their eye sockets.

The Kobold commander threw his voice against the slow, methodical advance of the ratwall, bellowing for his men to withdraw even as he watched what remained of his force die in front of him.

Then the Gutmulchers came.

They broke through the ruins of the fortress' walls and descended like a pack of hungry vultures on the rear of the Kobold cavalry, instantly decimating any who tried falling back into their hungry maws. Those raiders that survived could do nothing but watch as their brethren were slaughtered, then consumed, their lifeless eyes watching their comrades from within the serrated maws of the arachnids.

To their front, a wall of thorny death impaling them one by one. Behind, a sea of gnashing teeth coated in the blood of their comrades. Marcus had to admit, whether he liked it or not, he had managed to manufacture a living death-machine. The slow, methodical death of the Kobolds was like watching two hydraulic presses slowly but surely flatten an object at both ends until, in a matter of seconds, it collapsed in on itself and splintered into pieces.

Such pieces filled Marcus' view wherever he looked – chunks of Kobold limb, claw, and face flying back to hit his awestruck eyes.

He barely even remembered to order that the gates be closed shut.

"Fall back!" he called out to Skeever, who nodded with a face smeared in Kobold stomach fluid. They couldn't afford to let their Gutmulcher 'allies' gain a single inch in the escape tunnel. The plan had always been to lure them to the fort, have them decimate their enemies, and then quickly cut off their ability to pursue them. With the Kobold forces stripped down to only about ten men, Marcus reckoned this was the time to withdraw.

Behind him, issuing his remaining archers the order to fire into the mess of dying and dead, Gatskeek laughed maniacally like a senile old rodent.

"I must be admitting, Marcus," he shouted as the iron gate came down again. "I was not expecting this plan to succeed!"

"That makes two of us," Marcus whispered, watching the gate slowly fall like a closing curtain on an act full of madness and depravity.

Yet, once again, he was struck by the mad eyes of the Kobold leader in the middle of his decimated horde.

His men cried out in hapless, animal agony all around him, but he did not have eyes for their suffering. It could be their pain simply did not matter to him. Or, it could be that the sight of Marcus simply meant more.

By the way he licked his mucus-coated lips and fingered his rusted blade, Marcus tentatively assumed it was the latter.

His suspicions were confirmed: before the gate finally crashed down the little critter let out a howl that chilled the bones of every creature still living. He kicked at his Skog and it sent him flying through the air, sending bloodied viscera spilling over the shield wall. The spears were not quick enough to turn and strike up as he sailed above the rats, and came straight at Marcus' head with his blade poised to strike.

Marcus reacted as quickly as he could, collapsing into a roll that barely avoided the swipe at his throat. The little one turned tail, spun again, and charged right for him, Marcus only barely managing to grab hold of his blade with his bare hands to stop it tearing through his chest.

"Shai-Alud!" Deekius called out.

The next moments played out over a matter of mere seconds – seconds of fleeting pain, confusion, and the exhilaration of combat. Marcus was forced down to the ground by the sheer power of the little creature's conviction. The thing forced his shortsword down, slicing little bloody rivers into Marcus' fingers and making him cry out in pain. More than that, however, it was the face of the Kobold that struck terror into Marcus during these agonizing moments that seemed to signal death. The eyes – like to burning coals ready to pop out and singe his flesh.

"Shai-Alud!" the creature spat as he twisted the blade and cut into the soft flesh of Marcus' hands. "You…die! Die die! Klegga…will…not be…kill-kill…like this!"

Marcus watched those mad eyes draw ever closer to him, and for a single millisecond the thought flashed through his mind that he could simply let the Kobold have his victory. Everything about the little creature – his fury, his righteous drive to kill – it was spurned on, Marcus thought, by his grief. Grief he could only articulate through anger. Grief, in the final analysis, for his fallen brothers…

Grief that ended as those dark eyes went wide, and both he and Marcus looked up to see the pellet that had shot clean through the back of his head.

Like a twisted marionette the little creature turned its twitching head behind to see its murderer and there, both Klegga and Marcus beheld the sight of a Kobold loading another sparkling pellet into his slingshot.

"Klegga weak-weak," Ix said as he lined up his next attack. "Cannot even kill fleshy humie. Klegga no deserve be Head-Yip. Klegga choose wrong side."

And before the latter had any chance to open his blood-filled mouth to argue, Ix's next projectile found Klegga's heart and sent him crumpling down next to Marcus, his eyes lolling back in his head.

For a moment no one said anything, and Marcus was forced to stare into the eyes of the Kobold as his bloody corpse spasmed in its death-throes.

"Shai-Alud!" Skeever and Deekius both called as they finally reached him. "S-Sire Marcus! Damned be that Redwhiskers! Your slow turning of the winch is maiming our lor-"

Marcus shook himself off and rose gently, ignoring the blood rivers flowing down his palms. He knew he'd be losing too much blood unless he acted soon to bandage the wound. The dark world of the escape tunnel was beginning to blur. But, still, he staggered forwards until he stood before the little Kobold and his pack of archers – those who had popped every crate out there with pure precision and then managed to retreat back here with enough time to come to his rescue.

"I believe," Marcus wheezed. "I believe I owe you my thanks, once again."

Ix shrugged. "Ix is speaking true-true. Klegga is weak. Marcus is strong."

As the screams of the outside world died down, Marcus was seized by a sudden burst of energy. He stepped forward, grabbed the Kobolds claw in his bloody hand, and raised the little creature's fist in the air, smiling to see Redwhiskers grimace amongst the soldiers.

"Witness the real hero of this battle," Marcus shouted triumphantly. "The enemy of your enemy is your friend, ratmen! Remember that, and they might just save your life."

At this the ratmen roared with cheers, their voices probably echoing all the way down to their capital city that lay further down the tunnel. Marcus let them cheer for victory. He let them call out his name, and that of the Kobold beside him. He even caught old Gatskeek chuckling with hidden glee. They had wont he day, and he was now another step closer to freedom.

"S-sire?" Deekius' voice asked beside him.

He unclenched the Kobold's claw and stumbled forward, letting the putrid rat catch him.

"I…I'm tired, Deekius…" he said.

Reality blurred. The now concerned faces of his warriors coalesced together into a colorless sea of fur.

His hands fell to the ground.

"Shai-Alud!"

"Shh," he whispered, finding, of all things, the dead face of the Kobold, Klegga, being trampled beneath the ratmen's feet. "I…I'm heading…home…"

 

[IronLung]

When Marcus came to, he realized with no small degree of despair that he was still in the underground empire of the rats.

"Sire," a voice said nearby. "You are being awake."

Marcus rose steadily, groaning with weariness beyond his years to see the twitchy Deekius sitting next to a bonfire that warmed them. They seemed to be at the edge of a huge chasm overlooking a set of small, desolate buildings that looked like towers to Marcus' untrained eyes.

He ran a hand through his hair and found, to his surprise, that his wounds had been bandaged.

"Your work, Deekius?" he asked the rat-priest, who nodded with a reverant bow.

"I am being no expert in healing magic," he explained. "But the eyes of He-Who-Festers is with us, Sire Marcus. His hands have touched yours and –"

"That's plenty," Marcus interrupted, standing to stretch out his back and take in the sight of the rest of their army. He found, again to his surprise, that both forces had splintered off into distinct groups swaddled around their own bonfires on the edge of the rocky chasm overhang. It looked like they were separated by profession – there were the spearmen of Skeever, the honor guards of Gatskeek, and lastly the small assortment of archers who, incredibly, were joined by Ix and his tiny band of quick-footed Kobolds.

Marcus couldn't help but grin. A picture of unity amidst scuttling vermin. All accomplished through war.

How's that for you, Barenz? He asked the invisible ghost of his eternal campus tormentor.

His mind then returned, as it often did, to the gravity of the situation at hand, and his eyes found at least two rats down there who did not sup on the fresh liquor of recent triumph – Redwhiskers, sitting as far from the Kobolds as possible, and Gatskeek, morosely staring into the crisping flames of his unit's bonfire.

One of those creatures he was sure he couldn't reason with. Force would be his best bet.

The other one was Gatskeek. And in casting his eyes over him, Marcus was forced back into this new reality.

"How long was I out?" he asked Deekius.

"Only five hours, Sire," the priest replied, shuffling next to him. "In that time, we are forging the path to Fleapit, where our mission shall finally end."

"Any casualties?"

Deekius shook his boil-coated head. "Few, Sire. With the aid of the Kobolds under Ix, are managing to repel the larval Gutmulchers who live in these parts of the Warrens. Most of the creatures are retreating after small bout of combat."

Marcus nodded at that, looking over the units below with no small degree of satisfaction.

Satisfaction, he scoffed internally. What do I have to be pleased about?

He must have at least voiced some of this statement out loud, for Deekius snapped his staff on the ground and answered him,

"Sire, under your command we have routed two whole armies of the Kobolds. Together, there is so much more we can do. King Shrykul will make you a legend among us."

"For what it's worth," Marcus murmured, finding the silent form of Gatskeek amidst the crowd.

"I'm heading down alone," he told Deekius. "Thanks for the assistance."

The rat-priest nodded solemnly, but watched his new Sire go with curious eyes, as though he could read the thoughts of Marcus as the latter formed them.

"Sire, we are creatures made for war. We are destined to rule these tunnels. All those we lose are simply part of He-Who-Fester's great pla-"

"Easy for you to say," Marcus shouted back over his shoulder. "You aren't the one sacrificing your life for your God's cause."

He ignored any response from the priest and instead walked towards Gatskeek's bonfire, the latter's troops all rising to beat their hands against their chests as he arrived.

All of them, except the old rat himself.

"I would be telling them to stand down," he said. "But I am thinking I no longer command them."

Marcus crouched down beside the old veteran with a slight groan of pain in his joints, much to Gatskeek's amusement.

"I see even the joints of a Shai-Alud are aching over time."

"More than you know," Marcus replied. "But I didn't come here to complain about my knees."

"Then what are you coming to do?"

The sudden tension between them was sensed by the honor guard nearby, and one of them hesitated for a brief instant – wondering if he should bring Skeever to mediate whatever discussion was about to take place.

Marcus couldn't help but be drawn to the bulging muscles of the old rodent that peeked out under his steel pauldrons. In his prime, he was probably even bigger than Skeever.

"I've come to tell you that I'm sorry."

The creature couldn't help but laugh in his face.

"This is not a word we ratmen are even knowing! You are apologizing for victory, human?"

"I'm apologizing because you had to leave the position entrusted to you by your king. I'm apologizing because, in order to strike a blow against your enemy, you had to lose seven of your men."

The old one glared at him with eyes framed by two great, furrowed brows.

"'My men'," he scoffed. "You are meaning Bentpaw, Calmsqueak, Longjaw, Snappingtoe, Glumrak, Mortsmek, and Rockscratch?"

Marcus gulped, feeling the tension only increase. "Yes."

"If this is being your concern," the old rodent said. "Then you are misplacing your sympathy. These rats knew their fate was to be dying some day, as we all do when we are birthed into the Warrens."

"It might mean nothing to you," Marcus said. "But I would have you know that this was the only way we could repel the raid that was coming. These seven gave their lives to ensure the security of your capital city. But that means nothing to a commander who has known his men for years, and then been forced to send them to die."

The rat held Marcus' gaze for an uncomfortable length of time that could have been seconds, could have been minutes. All Marcus knew was that, when the grey rat finally did look away, he breathed a small sigh of relief.

"You are not being like the Shai-Alud we have heard tales of," Gatskeek said, focusing on the flaring flames of his fire. "Shai-Alud is a war leader who must be followed without question. Who will be guiding us to new day. Making our Kingdom into an Empire."

An Empire…

A ratman Empire…

Marcus looked back at Deekius for a second before turning back to Gatskeek.

"Gatskeek," Marcus said. "Do you believe all that? You think I'm a prophesized savior destined to lead you all?"

When the old rat looked up at him and said nothing, Marcus decided he'd answer the question himself.

"Because I'm not," he said. "That legend? It's all bullshit. I'm just a guy with some rudimentary knowledge of military history snatched from my world and forced to fight with you all. I want this even less than you do."

The old rat cast him a sideways stare of disbelief, until a wide smiled showed his still vicious fangs.

"You should be showing care," he said. "Your Gloomrava may be hearing your heresy."

"And what?" Marcus smiled back. "You think he will slay his precious hero?"

Gatskeek chuckled in the odd way he did – like an old man filled with phlegm he could barely keep concealed.

"Why are you telling me these things?" he asked as both man and rat shared the meagre heat of the bonfire.

"Because I need someone to tell me the truth," Marcus replied without a hint of irony. "I need someone who doesn't blindly owe me loyalty to tell me when I make a wrong call, or when I start down a path that leads to nothing but destruction, no matter what 'gains' might be made."

The old rat considered this for a few silent minutes, licking his hungry lips in reflection. It seemed to Marcus that his message had sunk in, but by the shrugging of the old rat's shoulders, he realized that he might never be sure if his words stuck with these beings or not.

"Meh," Gatskeek finally spat. "I don't care if you are believing in the prophesy or not. But I am not being a fool. Our species do not live long if we are not being smart. Gatskeek has lived longer than most because he knows when to be making the right friends."

He fixed Marcus once again with the red-rimmed eyes.

"I will be giving you my advice if you ask for it," he said. "But know that I will tell you things you do not wish to be hearing, and that my loyalty will always be with my people."

Marcus fought the urge to chuckle. "I would have it no other way," he said.

They didn't shake on the agreement – that didn't seem like something the rats did to seal a deal – but Marcus saw the old rat aim a globule of spit at the flickering embers of his fire and decided that he would follow suit.

He had no idea if that was the right thing to do or not, but he did see Gatskeek smile again as he rose and shook himself off.

'We are to be leaving soon," he said. "Fleapit is being only a day's journey North. Then we will be seeing what King Shrykul thinks of you."

He threw something small and sharp at Marcus' feet with such intensity that the latter almost thought he was trying to kill him.

Instead, Gatskeek's dagger glimmered between Marcus' legs.

"Be using that next time enemy comes upon you," the old rat said with a smirk.

Marcus then watched him walk off to offer congratulations to his archer team nearby. He huddled closer to the fire, stretching out his bandaged hands and enjoying, even for a moment, the simple pleasure of heat on his skin.

My list of allies grows, he told himself as he picked up the old rat's gift by its handle. Mari, you would be proud of me.

 

[IronLung]

-Grindlefecht, Boss-Skegga's stronghold-


"BRING ME ANOTHER PRISONER!"

The bellow from Boss Skegga's swollen larynx sent sonic shockwaves rippling through the ancient Dwarven architecture that comprised his stronghold. He swiveled on his floating throne, the sputtering blue flames licking at the skulls of Dwarf, Ratman, and Kobold alike that had been crushed under the claws heel of his armies.

His minions rushed to grab another one of his torture victims from the Desecrated Pit behind his throne room. It was the place where the bearded freaks that owned this place had once conducted strange ceremonies in 'Praise of the Stone' or some such guff that served as their religion. While he waited for his next victim that he would see flayed alive, he spared a look at the piles of skeletal corpses lined up on the far end of his temple.

The great horned toad scratched his slimy legs and stretched out his pudgy, greased flippers, staring at the blood that coated them in the aftermath of the last prisoner he'd strangled after supping on his innards. His mind raced to keep up with the thrumming of his unseated heart. Ever since his scouts had reported that, not only had Klegga failed to capture Fort Knifegut – and lost 70 good Skogriders in the process – but that the fort was now a nest for the Warren border Gutmulchers, he had been consumed by a red mist of rage that nothing would abate.

And making matters worse was the knowledge that this 'Shai-Alud' was still out there, mocking him with every breath he drew in his realm.

"SILAS!"

His voice thundered with such animalistic intensity that the Kobold guards near him shook. But not Silas. No. Never Silas. Sneaky, tricky, traitorous Silas.

The young Rat slipped stealthily out of the shadows behind his throne and coughed to make his presence felt.

"Yes, Sire?"

"Tell me," Skegga began, his arm-flippers gripping the golden armrests of his throne as it slowly spun to show him the corpses that decorated his temple walls. "Tell me how a mere human can resist me."

Silas cleared his throat again. "You are speaking of the Shai-Alu-"

"OF COURSE I AM!"

Now some of the Kobolds actually tried to flee, being tripped and mocked by their comrades before they made it to the golden door.

"My knowledge of the prophecies are being dim, Sire," Silas replied, unfazed. "But it would seem that this human is no ordinary peasant. He seems to have knowledge of military strategy that lies beyond the ken of the Clan Red-Eye Rats. Perhaps He-Who-Festers has finally blessed my former comrades with a true champion for their-"

"HE-WHO-FESTERS IS A LIE! I AM THE ONLY GOD THAT RULES THESE TUNNELS!" Skegga roared, throwing spittle in the slim Ratman's face. He simply took a handkerchief from his shaggy coat pocket and wiped himself clean.

"Of course, Sire."

Skegga huffed as he threw his body back, closing his eyes in consternation. First Gith's unit, now Klega's…and the fact they had allowed the fort to be taken…how did that make sense?

"You must admit, Sire, that the strategy of the Shai-Alud is an unorthodox one," Silas continued, as though the impish little creature could read his thoughts. "Yet it makes perfect sense if we are thinking about things from the Red-Eye's point of view. They have retreated, yes, but in so doing are leaving a set of guards that shall never tire, and shall be proving quite formidable to remove. Knifegut is now being virtually unassailable."

Skegga grumbled, gripping his armrests with such intensity that for a moment Silas thought he might well tear them off and toss them at his head.

"We will bring our cannons to bear!" he said. "Cannons, big guns, a thousand raiders if need be! They'll see the power Skegga wields then and they'll know – oh yes! THEY'LL KNOW I AM RISEN!"

"I would urge caution, Sire," Silas replied with a short bow of grace. "Such troop movements would be leaving our headquarters unmanned and undefended. Our forward outposts would be found sorely lacking in the face of a directed Ratman counterattack. If we are keeping the majority of our forces garrisoned here, we are ensuring we have the capacity to reinforce our border forts with as much haste as necessary."

Skegga's eyes narrowed at the Ratman. Inside, he wished to tear him apart for his tenacity. But he could not doubt the frustrating logic in the little imp's words.

"You have proven good with your tongue, Silas," he said. "We admit that you have had some good ideas that have been of some assistance to us. But now you would council me in cowardice? You would have us wait here till our glorious palace is attacked by Ratman filth and their false prophet? If this is your 'plan', Ratman, then you had better give me a damn good reason why I shouldn't rend you limb from limb right here and now."

Skegga was more than used to striking fear into his subjects. Fear was an effective enough tool when dealing with animals. It had worked to whip up these Kobolds just as his benefactors on the surface said it would. It had worked to throw them like a flurry of boulders into the walls of Grindlefecht and take the dwarves by surprise. It had worked to beat down the little fat-nosed men who defended these forges and it had worked to get him the guns that would facilitate his conquest of the rest of the underworld.

But, it had not been enough to ever phase Silas. Sneaky, tricky Silas. Silas, who had been useful so far in showing Skegga the ways into his former home, but the Ratman was beginning to get on his nerves.

How can a rat carry himself with such pride in the presence of a God?

Skegga licked his mucus-caked lips.

"Well?" he asked.

Silas bowed low and indicated the two Kobolds Skegga had sent away to bring him another torture victim.

"Quite the contrary, Sire. I am not believing nothing should be done about this troublesome man. He is being far too dangerous to be left alive. However, instead of committing a sizeable force to seek out and destroy him, I suggest that we are taking a different approach."

The Kobolds threw down the Dwarven prisoner – a stout man with ragged tufts of ginger hair spilling down a morose face covered in dust and grime. Skegga was surprised to see that one of his Yips was holding the little man's weapon: a long, ornate, silver-plated arquebus.

"S-S-Silas tell us to bring this prisoner before you, Boss Skegga!" the Kobold holding the pristine weapon said. "This fat-beard have big gun-gun. Too big! Can't shoot-shoot with this!"

"Maybe you can't, ya muth-sniffin' vlech," the prisoner spat. "But I can."

The Kobolds looked up at Skegga with bloodlust in their eyes, but the gargantuan toad only roared with laughter.

"You have quite the mouth on you, little man!" he shouted. "I think I shall eat it, first."

"Sire," Silas broke in. "This man is far more useful to us alive than dead."

Skegga rounded on the tiny rat. "He looks like another fat little dwarf to me. Explain."

Silas nodded to the man as he stood up proud in his chains.

"Fingel Darragut," the Dwarf said. "Trained sniper in the service of Lord Grendle of House Darragut."

"Sniper?" Skegga asked.

"A long-range weapon expert, Sire," Silas explained.

Boss Skegga sat back and stroked his bulging throat.

"An assassin," he said.

"In a manner a' speakin'," the Dwarf said. "Point me at a target, and I'll take it doon. You got a man that needs killin'? I can dae it."

Skegga saw determination in the little man's eyes, and he leaned over to whisper in the ear of his sneaky little advisor.

"Silas, why is this man offering his services to us? Is this some kind of Dwarf trick?"

"Hardly, Sire," Silas said with a smug grin. "From what I am knowing of Dwarves and their strict adherence to honor-culture, they are incapable of lying, even to their enemies."

Remembering the masses of fat-men that had refused to surrender during their assault here, Skegga could understand that.

"Then why does this scum-sucker wish to help us?"

"For the same reason his people are doing anything," Silas said. "For his family."

At the raised slime-brows of Skegga, Silas went on: "We are having both his wife and first-born son in chains. Your divine leadership is giving us a perfect bargaining chip over this man, who just so happens to be more than capable of tracking a target through even Ratman infested tunnels – and one who is being capable of avoiding Gutmulcher eyes. He is, after all," Silas chuckled drily. "A rather short man."

Skegga's own smile shone in the grim, red lights of his temple.

"So you wish to prove yourself to us, little man?" the giant toad sneered. "As it so happens, I have just the right job for a man such as you."

Fingel stared through eyes that had long ago given up on his own life. In those eyes was nothing but the vision of death. It overcame all sense of morality he had ever maintained, all sense of loyalty he maintained to anything but his family that were being kept somewhere below, in the bowels of Skegga's lair.

Despite everything, Silas had done well this time.

The great toad smirked as the Dwarf bowed low.

A broken man kissing his feet. Eyes that were absent of hope.

He loved to see it.

###

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[IronLung]

The march of the Ratmen echoed through the chasms of the North Warrens uninterrupted.

To the onlooker, nothing about such a force would have looked strange in the tunnels at this end of the Underkingdom.

Nothing except, of course, the human scribbling away with a quill and notebook at the center of the horde.

Evidence of sophisticated architecture used as defensive measures, Marcus was writing, barely paying attention to the chittering of the rats around him – or, at least, the ones he wasn't bombarding with questions.

Skeever tells me that these intricate ruins are Dwarven in origin – they are apparently masters of craftwork. I'm inclined to agree – dotted throughout the chasms we cross now are several examples of barricades, shrines, and other ornate buildings that are irregular in their design, far more solid, defensible, and visually appealing than what I saw in fort Knifegut. Skeever tells me the Dwarven forces have a sizeable presence in the Northwest, maintaining trade routes with the human nations above. This would imply friendly relations…though the Ratmen seem to hate their Dwarven neighbors just as much as their Kobold foes.

"Scruffy, fat, bearded goats!" Skeever remarked to Marcus absent-mindedly. "It is being great honor for Rat to kill Dwarf, taking lock of hair as trophy. Gatskeek! Be showing Sire Marcus your prize!"

The old venerable Rat marching ahead of their column looked back over his shoulder with a proud smile, bearing a dirt-caked lock of braided grey hair.

"Gutting this one was costing me fifteen good ratguards," he croaked. "He was apparently champion."

"And now he is resting in dirt," Skeever spat. "As he should be."

Marcus bristled slightly, looking down at the hate-filled eyes of the Talon-Commander.

"Skeever," he said. "From what you've told me, I have more in common with these Dwarves than I have with you."

The Rat barely heeded the statement, waving Marcus' tense face away.

"No, Sire," he said. "You are looking like a human, but you are having the soul of a Rat within you."

Marcus couldn't help but chuckle. "Is that so?"

"It is what He-Who-Festers has proclaimed," Deekius cut in from behind them. "The Unclean One never lies."

Marcus caught Gatskeek rolling his eyes up ahead and decided to just laugh the comment away.

"You know, many people have accused me of having just that kind of soul in me," he said.

"Begging your pardon, Sire?"

"Nothing," Marcus told Skeever, continuing instead with his notes.

We have about six hours to go until we reach Fleapit, according to Skeever's intuition. Me? I can barely tell whether it's day or night under here, and I can feel my body groan as it tries to adjust itself to this Under-Kingdom time.

With us being so close to the Capital of the Red-Eye Clan's domain, I decided to probe into their military structure. Skeever acts as a Talon-Commander (the general name for a warband leader) and has in his tenure employed several different Lieutenants (Or Paw-Leaders) to supervise smaller units – of which the terse Redwhiskers is the last surviving member. Every fighting force in the field also must be followed by a Rat-Priest of He-Who-Festers, almost like a kind of battle-cleric. This implies at least some degree of military hierarchy of a magnitude higher than I assumed.

The thing that interests me more is the Clan system itself – which is no more complicated than that seen in similar societies in the real (cross that last, 'our') world. It puts me in mind of the old Celtic system of social organization seen in the Early-Medieval British Isles – each Clan maintains its own army, traditions, cultural aspects, and rituals which give them a level of individuality. At the same time, any one King can call for a general muster (called a 'Skittering') which compels each Clan to send a detachment of military aid to the other, in return for promises of similar aid should they find themselves in a spot of trouble. This system, though primitive, is and has been effective in ensuring the Clans remain committed to the general defense of their borders. Gatskeek, however, tells me that the exact interpretation of 'military support' is taken in a deliberately subjective way by some of the Clans if they are particularly hard-up or, in some cases, just lazy. In one interesting example, King Nailgrip of Clan Marrow was reprimanded for delivering a detachment of 'living battering rams' to King Scargut of Clan Glumrot. This turned out to be nothing more than a box of five Dwarves tied to a stake – with Nailgrip vehemently arguing that 'these fat little men are being good for nothing but bashing doors'.

The purpose of Skeever and Deekius' mission is something they're keeping close to their chests. They won't even breathe a word of it to me – they won't give me a shred of information about whatever they 'stole' from this Boss Skegga, but they have revealed that the information they have will 'finally' lead to King Shrykul calling for a Skittering in the coming weeks. I can see the excitement in their eyes as they talk about this in hushed whispers, turning to me with bloody, visceral joy. It's obvious what they want – they want me to lead the muster when it comes.

Gatskeek's been keeping quiet about the whole thing. Part of me thinks that the old rats simply wishes to see his home again. At a few points on our journey, he has only pointed out sightings of creatures native to these chasms – small, balloon like birds which move around the highest stalactites above us. He looks upon them with a level of nostalgia, informing me that they are 'Gitterplaks', or 'Gas balloons' – completely harmless beings that seem to enjoy just existing in the caverns, living on the algae that grows amidst the ceiling stalactites.

Watching them pass by like lifeless orbs overhead, I can see that they secrete a black fume that looks almost familiar. It bears a striking resemblance to CO2 emissions.

If that's the case, perhaps I finally have a concrete rationale for how addled the brains of these critters seem to be.

…


The Ratpack stopped in the shade of an old abandoned Dwarven fortress – steel walls flanked by old, disused cannons littered the floor of the chasm as the army hunkered down for the night.

The final road to Fleapit ran through this way – the fortifications were often used as a point of reference. It was said that it Ratmen could smell the shit of Dwarven ghosts nearby, then they knew their home was just around the corner. It had, after all, been built on their graves.

Marcus sat around yet another campfire watching the Rats chew into the supplies Gatskeek had scrounged up. Skeever at one point noticed him staring and tossed something small, wriggly, and moist towards him.

"I…I will pass," he said.

He didn't want to seem rude, but the churning in his stomach was something that wouldn't be abated by simply food alone.

He watched them laugh and spar with oneanother just like a General would watch his men engage in such recreational activities and had to remind himself that this was a one-way trip for him – that his duty in Fleapit was to get himself home through an audience with those closest to the great, almighty He-Who-Festers. With any luck, he could then put this whole nightmare behind him.

But I have to admit, he scribbled in his notes. It's had its moments…

Currently one of the Ratmen of Gatskeek's group – a jolly, rather plump fellow aptly named Squealer – was serenading the army with tales of Marcus' exploits. How the Rat knew anything about him was anybody's guess – though the other Ratmen cheering him on and throwing scraps of food at him certainly didn't seem to care if he lied.

They even have a bard singing my praises, he wrote as an addendum to his notes above. Mari, I wish you could see it – what I'm looking at right now. Sure, they're a little rough around the edges, but they actually believe in the strategies I outline. They listen. They learn. They adapt – and what better qualities are there in a military force than those?

He caught himself suddenly, looking down to see his leg shaking with excitement.

Excitement, he chuckled. I have to remind myself that this isn't some silly game…

"You are being preoccupied, Marcus," Skeever said as he planked his giant form next to him. "Why are you being so interested in writing?"

Marcus smiled up at him, wiping excess dirt and grime from his brow. "Someday, someone will read these," he told the incredulous rat. "People come and go on this earth, but stories – legends – they stay as long as people have eyes to read and ears to hear about them."

Skeever shrugged, returning to the revelry of the fat-Rat Squealer. "We are not having place in history," he said. "Maybe in Underkingdom, yes. Many great Rat-man warrior and war-thinker. But on surface, on world called Thea, there are no Rats that can live."

Thea…

Inadvertently, Skeever had just given him something more valuable than what he held in his hands. The name of their world.

"Skeever," he said. "Why do your people live in these tunnels? What is up there that keeps you down here?"

As the morose soldier turned to answer, something glinted out the corner of Marcus' eye. The Rat reacted before he did – seeing the flash of a muzzle reflected in the lenses of Marcus' glasses and turning with the human just in time to see Squealer's jovial head explode in a hail of bloody brain-matter.

"DOWN!" he cried so the whole chasm could hear him. "GET DOWN, NO-"

Another flash, and Marcus felt something slice through the air before him, embedding itself in Skeever's sword arm.

Then, all hell broke loose.

###

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[IronLung]

The dark world of the underground ruins shook before Marcus' sight. His ears adjusted to the ringing sound that reverberated off the walls of his brain and he felt his legs being pulled back into the safety of a building's shadowed interior.

Just before he was lifted inside, he saw the face of a Ratman that was following him disappear in a cloud of red before its body slumped to the ground, and the dull ache of the bullet's sound caught up with him.

He thrashed, kicking out and turning round to see Deekius, Skeever, and Ix surrounding him like a personal honor-guard while more Rat screams peppered the cavernous skies above.

Something bloody and swollen hung loose from Skeever's right arm's socket, and Marcus' eyes bulged as he recognized it was the remains of the hulking Rat's arm.

"Skeever," he stuttered. "You-"

"Be not minding it!" the Talon-Commander screeched so all his men nearby could hear it. "We are having bigger problem!"

Marcus looked at the sweating faces of the others and nodded briskly, steadying himself without another hesitation even as he realized, with a tight knot of dread, that the shooter had clearly aimed for his head.

"What's the situation?" he asked, coming to sit with the gathering as Skeever and Ix both chanced a look out the broken window of their ruin hideout.

"We are being scattered by shooter," Deekius replied.

"Shooty dwarf!" Ix spat. "Shooty dwarf, crazy dwarf – mad like all men of the stone-stone!"

Marcus frowned, cautiously peering over the lip of the windowsill and seeing an assortment of the scattered Ratguard. Rat corpses littered the streets – each one with a single hole that had punctured its cranium. Beyond, at least five meters away, Marcus caught sight of Gatkseek's furry, white form guiding panicky troops towards his location next to a blown-out chapel. As the Rats moved, the stragglers were being picked off one by one. Any who attempted to flee from the cover of the ruins were popped like hairy watermelons as they skittered away in fright from the flash of light that gleamed from the other side of the chasm.

A sniper, Marcus thought. One that's got us pinned here. Putting the fear of death into these Rats so that I bet they don't even hear Gatskeek's commands anymore.

He crouched low as a pinpoint shot broke the panes of rusted glass on the window beside him.

"How do you know it's a dwarf?" he asked.

The crowd looked to Ix, who shrugged grimly.

"Dwarf-dwarf only one shoot long gun-gun," he said. "When Boss Skegga take Grindlefecht, we lose many Yip-Yips to shootie-Dwarves. Some he take prisoner. But their gun-guns too big for us."

Marcus nodded as he turned back to the Rats. "Have you ever seen one of these Dwarves so near your Capital?"

Both shook their withered heads, Deekius kneeling to resume his healing incantation on Skeever's busted arm. "We are not having seen Dwarf for ages," he said. "That there is one amongst the ruins just beyond Fleapit is bad. Could be scout. Could be sent by stout men of the stone to scope out Fleapit defenses."

"Or," Marcus offered with grim realization. "He could be an assassin."

The others fixed their eyes on him as he stroked his scraggly beard which, by now, had ceased to be itchy.

"He aimed the shot that maimed Skeever at me," Marcus said. "If Skeever had not seen it, I could be dead right now."

He looked with serious eyes upon the wounded Ratman.

"Once again, I owe one of your kind in this Underkingdom my life."

"We can be giving thanks after battle is over," Skeever said. "For now, we must be defeating this Dwarf."

"Quite right," Marcus agreed, hearing Gatskeek roar as another bullet chipped away at the skull of one of his men out in the open. "Right now, we need to focus on linking up with Gatskeek."

"Should we be forming Testudo, Sire?"

Marcus shook his head. "Not good enough. Whatever weapon he has it's not only got tremendous range but tremendous firepower. If that's a simple Dwarven weapon…to be honest I want to know how your Boss Skegga managed to defeat a fort full of them."

Ix licked his serrated teeth. "A single Kobold life is meaning nothing, Sire. A thousand are meaning victory."

"This Skegga sounds like a regular Ulysses S Grant," Marcus scoffed. "But at any rate, we can't afford to make slow progress. The narrow streets of this ruin also don't suit such a wide formation. In fact, they don't suit any formation at all."

"So we run, then?" Deekius asked expectantly. "Fleapit is only being a few hours away."

"We will never be making it," Skeever said through a pained grimace as the priest ceased his healing. "The dwarf will be picking us off one by one, starting with the Shai-Alud."

Marcus nodded gravely, hearing more shouts of rats in their death-throes in what had now become an abandoned death-maze out there. Winding streets held nothing but running Ratmen who were little more than sitting ducks for the shooter above.

A maze…

Marcus looked up at the commanders and their men they had managed to save. A force sizeable enough to take on armies, and yet here they were cowering before one single foe far more technologically advanced than they were.

But technology only took an enemy so far, and Marcus knew at least one weakness that could confound even a seasoned sniper.

"Ix," he said. "Hand me one of those panes of broken glass."

The Kobold did as he was bid.

"Skeever, I need your weapon."

"Be taking it," the Ratman said as he looked with fury at his busted arm. "It is being useless to me now."

"I'll also need an adhesive," Marcus said then, remembering who he was talking to, added: "Something sticky."

The Rats looked at each other with slight, bloody grins, and each one coughed up a piece of twitching puss from a section of their addled bodies.

"Uh, thanks," Marcus said as he wrapped the sleeve of his robe round a mangy, hair-filled piece from Deekius, attaching it to the tip of Skeever's rusted blade and then affixing the glass shard to the thing.

"Bingo," Marcus murmured as he positioned himself next to the doorway entrance to their position. "Now, we've got a makeshift mirror."

"Sire?" Deekius whispered. "What is being your purpose?"

"First step in dealing with snipers," Marcus said. "Is figuring out where he is."

He gingerly set the blade-mirror out on the ground, slowly turning it so that it showed him the surrounding region – the tips of the ruined towers, the high chapel spire where Gatskeek was hunkering down, and the jagged ridges of the canyon.

The city had suddenly become devoid of Ratman screams. Those who had tried running down the decayed streets were already dead.

Marcus waited. He watched.

And Marcus knew that out there, somewhere, their foe was doing the same.

"Come on," he murmured. "Come on…"

A flash in the dark.

He blinked, and his arm shook with the reverberation of the mirror being splintered into a thousand pieces and the sword skidded away from him.

Marcus leaned his back against the wall as the rest of the pinned congregation came to see what he'd just learned.

"Our man's up in the spire at the Northwest edge of the town," he explained. "We should move quickly. If he's got any brains he'll know we're on to him and try to reposition himself. But he's greedy. He won't move if we present him with targets."

The Rat-leaders and the Kobold commander looked at the men beside them, then back at Marcus.

"I'm afraid," their Shai-Alud said through a wry smile. "I must ask too much of you all, yet again."

He explained what they'd have to do to reach Gatskeek – a plan which would take a combination of proper technique, timing, and, worst of all when it came to warfare, no small degree of luck.

When he'd finished, they Rats stood in darkness and silence, staring at him like he'd just told them they'd basically already lost.

Skeever was the first to eventually give a simple nod of acceptance.

"And once we are getting there?" he asked. "What is being the plan?"

"I'm afraid it's going to have to be the same process, just with more numbers."

The wounded ogre-rat nodded again, holding his head up high as he barked the order to his men without another question.

Skeever, Marcus thought. You might look like a filthy rat, but you've got the soul of a Spartan in you. Pretty much my polar opposite…

As Ix and the others readied themselves to execute their breakout towards Gatskeek's chapel position, Deekius knelt down beside Marcus and began his creepy, chittering whispering.

"Sire," he said. "I am not meaning to be changing your plan, but there is a way I am seeing to defeat the shooter Dwarf that will be sparing the lives of the Clansmen we have left."

Marcus' eyebrows twitched at the Rat's candor. It seemed almost like he was proud of his little idea and, when he told Marcus exactly what he had up his sleeve, even the Shai-Alud was forced to admit that it was a variable he hadn't even considered.

"You…you can do that?" he asked.

Deekius nodded with no small degree of pride. "He-Who-Festers has bestowed me with many gifts, Sire. And this is not all I can do. I am being more than just simple priest, as you know. After all, it is these hands that summoned you."

Marcus, for probably the first time since he had met the bag of filth and hair standing before him, actually smiled with the Rat.

"You know something, Deekius?" he said. "You might just see us through this yet."

###

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[IronLung]

"GO!"

Marcus' command was barely needed. At his word, Deekius raised his staff to the broken roof of their position and channeled a Glow-Glob directly at the sniper's position. The globe flew towards his tower and exploded in a dazzling display of blinding light, and then the running began.

The rats poured from their position and started zig-zagging across the streets, stepping over the corpses of their brethren. They ran in groups of five, as instructed, with Marcus having smeared his face with dirt and shavings of hair from some troops that had willingly donated their matted fur. If he didn't already have at least one virulent disease from this place, then he reckoned he'd probably get one now…

Nonetheless, the strategy worked…for a time. As the rats moved, they obeyed his orders – keep running, stop abruptly and turn, criss-cross each other and move to the next piece of ruined building or rock that afforded some cover. Snipers shoot where you're going to be, not where you are. If this one was worth his salt, as Marcus suspected, then he'd be predicting. He'd be watching and waiting for the right shot.

As the improvised flashbang died away above them, his squad began to fall. Their movements were effective for a time, allowing them to traverse the squalid streets and avoid most of the sniper's strikes. Still, whenever they saw the puff of smoke and felt the vibration of his bullets against the ground so close to their feet, they shook with panic, and Marcus had to bark at them to keep on moving.

He would have continued to do so if the ratman next to him hadn't then fallen, crumpled and twitching, as the sniper's next shot found its mark.

And that meant he had found him…

Marcus dove for cover behind a ruined wall just as the next shot rang out and brought the statue of a bearded Dwarf crumbling to pieces behind him.

He covered his ears – at this close range the ringing of the shot was so intense that it felt like an artillery barrage. Whatever bullets the Dwarf was employing, they were potent. Potent enough to slice through steel and stone.

"Sire Marcus!" Skeever shouted as he himself dove for the nearest ruined building in the next intersection. "Are you seeing the chapel?"

Marcus looked up and tentatively and scanned the corpse-laden street before him. There it was. Probably only ten meters away. Salvation.

At the church doors stood Gatskeek and his men, waiting, calling out for their comrades.

No! Marcus roared in his brain. Don't let him know where we –

As one Ratling broke free from their position and sprinted at the church, his head was promptly clipped from his shoulders.

Damn it!

The world once again fell into silence.

Deekius came up the rear, his old bones aching after all the exertion.

"I don't suppose you have another Glob in you, Deekius?"

The Rat-Priest shook his sweating head. "My power is waning, Sire. I have enough energy for one final spell, as we discussed."

Marcus nodded. It was now or never, then.

He took one look at Skeever. His eyes communicated all that he needed to.

Ix's shrill barks could be heard behind them. The little guy was still scurrying along. Probably, his puny size gave him the edge over a sniper. His small head was probably that Dwarf's worst nightmare.

Marcus stood and, bracing himself, gave his command.

"RUN!"

The Rats broke free from their positions with a collective cry of fear mixed with rage, each one still living sprinting for the chapel where old Gatskeek waited, cheering them on with a "Be coming! Be coming!"

Marcus heard the distinctive sounds of skulls being perforated. He felt his own legs begin to quake with the stress of the exertion, and yet the sight of the chapel door, coupled with the adrenaline coursing through his veins, was enough to keep him running even when he could no longer feel his legs as they hit the dark, bloody ground beneath him.

His zigzagging became more cumbersome as he neared his final destination. Deekius, Skeever, and the other rats had by this point tossed their weapons away and ran on all fours, totally abiding by their squalid animal instincts. Seeing the speed with which they passed him by, for once, Marcus wished he could be more like them.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, a flash rang out in the dark.

You've found me, haven't you…

"MARCUS!"

Deekius pushed him just out of the bullet's trajectory. It slammed into the glass windows of the building behind them and sent its shards flying across the ground, leaving both Shai-Alud and Rat-Priest to look up from their prone positions into the flashing eye that was looking down at them from the tower above. An angel of death, about to deliver divine judgement.

Deekius dragged him to his feet, but he knew that, now, it was hopeless.

The eye flashed with dazzling white…

Mari, he thought. Wherever you are, I'm coming.

…and the rusted blade of a scimitar caught the bullet mere inches from his face before embedding itself in the far wall of another decrepit building.

Marcus double blinked, unsure if he was really still standing there, in the dark city of the underworld.

Then Deekius' pulling yanked him right back to reality.

"Be going!" the rat-priest yelped. "Quick!"

Marcus let the little creature lead him the rest of the way, with Gatskeek grabbing his arm and yanking him inside the abandoned chapel with as much force as an ogre grabbing its prey.

Only then did Marcus notice that his scimitar was missing from its scabbard at his side.

He looked from the scabbard to the rat that stared at him with heavy-set eyes, seeing the impish grin that spread across his furry lips.

"Gatskeek," he said as Skeever and what remained of his forces made it through the chapel entrance. "You…"

"Be not mentioning it," the old rat huffed. "Now, we are being even. You are giving my troops their lives. I am giving you yours."

Marcus staggered, barely able to comprehend what just happened. The sheer luck of it…

"But," he stammered. "How did you..?"

"I am watching," Gatskeek said, indicating the top of the spire from where the sniper was still taking shots at the stragglers who couldn't make it to their safe haven. "Just like he is. The dwarf is taking six seconds to reload between every shot. I am aiming my scimitar in time."

Marcus could barely believe what the Ratman was telling him.

"You are putting the Shai-Alud's life in danger!" Deekius railed, stepping forward and flashing his staff threateningly in the unfazed veteran's face.

"And yet he didn't," Marcus said as he stepped between them. "Instead, he performed a miracle that He-Who-Festers would be proud of."

Deekius retched, looked down at the ground, and bowed with silent admission.

"It seems your God might smile upon you more than you think, Gatskeek," Marcus said.

"Peh," the old Rat squeaked. "It is just being luck, that is all."

The irony was not lost on Marcus. Here they were in previously held enemy territory, holed up and shivering in the ruins of what was clearly a central place of worship for the Dwarves. It was odd, however: although Marcus was assuming that the strange symbols of precious gems and metals surrounded by fire, water, lightning, or other elemental forces that dotted the walls meant this was clearly a place of religious significance, there were no examples of personalized religious iconography typical to most churches. No depictions of Gods, no images of saintly Dwarves wielding golden weapons in their hands. He had been wondering what one looked like all this time. It seemed his first encounter with one would be the sniper, and yet he also knew there was only one way that encounter would go – with one of them ending up dead.

I wonder…Marcus thought as he edged towards the nearest shattered windowpane, looking up from its sill at the tip of the sniper's post upon the ancient Dwarven spire.

"You are being even uglier than usual, kinsman," he heard Gatskeek say to Skeever as the latter dropped, panting, to his knees.

"Who would be thinking a Dwarf would lay me low," Skeever replied, in a tone that was barely audible even as the unnatural quiet of the empty streets descended on them all again.

Marcus couldn't quite place it, but there was something behind the bulky Ratman's words. Almost as though he was close to death itself…

"We will be making the fat-beard pay dearly for the insult," Gatskeek said.

Then, as he had become accustomed to, Marcus felt all the remaining rats eyes glue themselves to his back.

He turned to see what was left of them – a force of 45 men, including Ix's Kobolds, that were squashed together like a heap of living, breathing pestilence between the four walls of this drab place of worship.

Filthy creatures, yes. Savage, beyond question. But at least four of them had saved his life on numerous occasions in the past few days. For that, at least, he owed them something. He owed them the chance to strike fear in the enemy that had wounded them. He owed them vengeance.

"I assume you are having a plan?" Gatskeek asked him.

Marcus wiped dried blood from his forehead and stretched a smile across his face that would've made the most devious Ratman proud.

"Don't I always?"

###

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[IronLung]

Pieces of rubble fell from the cavern ceiling and danced along the barrel of his gun.

He barely even blinked. After his last shot, he hardly moved a single muscle. Now, he was pure focus. The only sound he heard was his own short, raspy breaths.

"Come on. Come on…"

The long, unbroken silence stretched out and lay across the city like a ghostly veil. But it did nothing to cover the litter of Ratman corpses he'd left strewn across the streets.

Vermin, he thought. Just like that bastard toad.

Whatever a human saw in them, he had no idea. When he'd first spotted the strange-looking man in the dank robe of the rat-priests, he'd hesitated for a split second before pulling the trigger. That had been his fatal weakness. In his profession, a split second was literally the difference between life and death.

He supposed it was hypocritical of him to fault the human hunkering down there with the scared little beasts. After all, he was guilty of the exact same crime – of being a traitor to his people.

"Fingel Darragut," he murmured into the stock of his rifle. "The traitor of his House. Last of his line…"

No. That wasn't how his story was going to end. He would be marked as a traitor in the Annals of Stone, yes, but it would not take long for his son to clear their family name. The boy was a natural Golemsmith. Before long, he'd revolutionize the whole industry. Then nobody would care what his talentless father did – a man who could do nothing but bring death from afar, sneering down at this war-torn world through the scope of his gun.

"Arnel," he said. "Mariah – wait jus' a bit longer," he said as his eyes picked out movement behind the chapel's broken windows. "I'm coming."

Like a sudden swarm whipped up into a frenzy, the Rats spilled out from their hiding space, zig-zagging through the narrow streets towards his position, using the burned-out houses for cover.

"Finally lost yer minds?," he said, pulling back his chamber and checking how many powder-shots he had left. "Alright. Let me send ye to yer filthy God."

He popped a few heads left and right as they dived for cover, reloading with quiet intensity, imagining the head of that bloated frog Skegga with every skull his bullets dashed against the walls of his people's former city. The recoil, by this point, barely even shook him. His shoulder was tight. His cloak was moist with sweat. His eyes were moving faster than the little beasts could. One by one, they fell before the marksman of Darragut.

"Where are you..?" he murmured through each new hit, scanning the church for the tallest one among them. Searching for the priest with the staff that had blinded him with his little magic trick.

And then, like a creature born of the stones themselves, he appeared.

He came striding out of a building a few meters south of the chapel, walking calmly as though he were an angel of the caverns come to pick up the dead and carry them down to the center of the earth to be with their fellows.

He strode right to the top of the narrow road running red with the blood of the Ratmen, and stopped.

Just…stopped.

He stared right up at Fingal, and the latter couldn't help but stare back through the scope of his gun.

"What the…" he mumbled, hearing the screams of Rats as they cried out below for their comrades.

He's a bloody nutcase, his mind told him as the black dot of his makeshift reticule danced between the eyeballs of the human's face. He's…he's lost it.

Fingel's fingers shook as he fought against the urge to pull the trigger. To cut the head from the snake. To end all this…

The world, once again, was wreathed in silence.

"You got some kinda death-wish?" he asked the form of the human staring up at him. Unblinking. Unafraid. Totally calm and collected in his filthy, flea-ridden robe.

Fingal reloaded. Checked his aim. Felt the trigger thrumb behind his forefinger.

One shot. That's all it would take.

One shot to buy him freedom.

One head to carry home.

One path to secure his family's future.

He ignored the sweat pooling upon his hairy brow and grimaced beneath his cloak.

"Stone take you," he spat. "You wanna go, boy?"

He licked his lips and steeled his resolve.

"Fine!"

He pulled the trigger.

The bullet whizzed through the air, knocking the stock against him, sending his death projectile towards his once chance in this life.

It phased right through the skull and embedded itself in the back of the chapel behind.

"…What?"

Fingel's eyes beheld the form of the human slowly turning translucent in the wake of his shot. The ghostly form of the boy wavering like a silent specter being returned to the earth. And where the Shai-Alud once stood, now, there was nothing but air.

A deco-

His training kicked in before his head even finished forming the thought. He spun around, hearing the trapdoor open behind and three shadows surge towards him.

One he popped below the chest with a single round, fired point-blank. The others collapsed, prone, as they felt the shock of the bullet shred their friend's body, and he desperately worked his fingers to reload, using all the time their momentary paralysis gave him. His chamber slammed shut. His stock came back up and then –

Pain.

He looked down to see the spear of the armless Rat embedded in his gut. He staggered, spat up blood, and looked to see the priest's grizzly maw snapping at his face.

And with the gut-rending crunch of his bones, the world of Fingal Darragut ended in a haze of crimson-coated fangs.

…

"GATSKEEK!"

Marcus heard the scream before he registered that they'd manage to kill the Dwarf. He saw the pudgy being's body fall from the tower, pieces of his face trailing in bloody chunks after him, before he hit the ground and became nothing but a pile of goo.

His weapon landed beside him, smashing upon impact.

But he had no time to lament the loss of such a technologically advanced piece of equipment.

He pushed through the cheering Ratmen and those who corralled around the Dwarf's body to spit or defecate in his mangled remains and saw Skeever and Deekius carrying the shaking form of their comrade from the doorway of the spire.

"Be moving!" Skeever shrieked at his men.

Redwhiskers (he apparently survived) understood his master's command. He corralled the other Ratlings together with a general shout and brought them back to the chapel, commanding them to take the Dwarf's remains with them.

Marcus paid them or their bloody desire no heed. He followed after the three limping commanders as they threw themselves into an adjacent building with a long bar table covered in cobwebs and threw Gatskeek on the table.

Marcus watched from the doorway. He said nothing.

"Where is your healing magic?" Skeever shouted at Deekius' snout.

"It is being spent with the apparition spell," the priest explained. "Sire Marcus needed it to ensure us victory. I have follo-"

"I DON'T CARE!" Skeever cried, gripping the priest by his robes and pulling him to the floor. "Be fixing him, now!"

Marcus slowly entered through the commotion, ignoring both Rats as they scrambled on the ground, and his eyes found Gatskeek's shuddering form.

"Gatskeek…"

A bullet had torn clean through the side of his abdomen. His ribcage, muscle, and bone, was fully exposed on his left side.

"Be fixing him!" Skeever wailed. "Fix him!"

"I cannot be doing the impossible!" Deekius spat back at his comrade. "He-Who-Festers' will has been spent."

"Then we take him to Fleapit, now!" Skeever replied, throwing spittle and phlegm across the floorboards. He rose to move the old, wounded warrior who groaned in pain and shoved him away.

"You…are being…ngh…fool, kinsman."

"Silence!" Skeever roared. "You will be fixed. The capital is being two hours away. Be hanging on!"

"Skeever," Deekius said, laying a hand on the hulking rat's heaving shoulder. "Be looking at him. He is gone."

"Don't say another word to me, priest!"

"It is the way of such things!" Deekius continued in the face of his commander's ire. "Talon-Commander Gatskeek is never being a believer in the Unclean One! His faith is not being strong enough to make it home. You know this is how things must be, Kin-"

Deekius' final remark was cut off by the claws of Skeever scratching at his eyes. Both rats fell back against the wall, their teeth and nails slashing at the other, their bodies locked in animal combat.

"Enough!" Marcus shouted.

His voice – full of authority, yet clearly shaken – was enough to bring them back. Even if it was just for a moment.

Then his tired eyes looked down at Gatskeek's pallid form. His chest, once rapidly rising, now started to slow.

"Do not…be wasting…effort…" he told his brothers. "Kinsmen…I am going…where…I…must…"

Both Rats looked away, Skeever gritting his teeth in consternation, Deekius bowing his head.

But Marcus didn't. Marcus looked straight into the red-rimmed eyes of the dying rat.

And without even thinking about it, his body started moving towards him.

"Shai…Alud…" the old Rat croaked, coughing up blood and bile as his fading body rocked with sudden laughter.

"Gatskeek, I…I didn't think…"

"No," Gatskeek replied. "You…you…are…thinker," he said through raspy breath.

Marcus wanted nothing more than to look away from the image of death he was staring at. He wanted to cross to the other room and shield himself from the reality of those pitiable eyes staring back at him unblinkingly while the blood of this warrior soaked his feet.

"Be…making…me…promise," Gatskeek wheezed.

Marcus, not knowing what else to say, simply nodded.

The old rat raised a shaking claw. Marcus caught it, and steadied it in his grip.

Even in death, the old commander of Knifegut had strength running through his arm.

"Shai-Alud…" he coughed. "M…Marcus…be winning. Be…freeing us. Be freeing…ngh…them."

The light began to die behind his pupils.

"Take…us…home…"

Marcus gripped the claw tighter as he felt Gatskeek's strength begin to wane.

But the eye wavered. It was waiting.

"I will," he said, without really knowing why he said the words. "I am promising."

Almost as soon as the last syllable left his lips, Gatskeek's soul left the world behind. His eyes glazed over, Marcus let his arm fall, and he gave one long, drawn-out gasp that settled into the dead air of the city, and then was gone.

###

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[IronLung]

In the aftermath of the sniper's gauntlet, the forces of Talon-Commander Skeever numbered approximately fifty men, including the six Kobold auxiliaries commanded by Ix.

Marcus counted them, having nothing else to say, as they resumed their slow, solemn march towards Fleapit, leaving the city of Dwarven ruins behind.

The atmosphere was more solemn than it ever had been. Even looking into the eyes of the rats, Marcus could tell that their spirits had taken more punishment than they'd ever endured beneath their black, cavernous skies. Normally, the dead would be consumed by the survivors of a battle. This time, however, Marcus issued a different command.

"Throw them in the back of the supply carts," he ordered. "Take them back to their home."

The rats had balked at this. Redwhiskers in particular had stepped forward to throw spittle in the face of the command, shouting that they would honor the dead by imbibing their warrior souls within their bellies – that this was the way of the ratmen. He was stilled, however, by the words of his kin-commander.

"Be doing as the Sha-Alud says," Skeever warned him, his red eyes flashing with barely restrained anger while he dragged Gatskeek's inert body behind him with his only remaining arm. "If I am seeing you take a single bite of the dead, I will be bloodying my spear with your insides. I am not needing two arms to kill you."

Grateful as he was for Skeever's support, Marcus could not watch him as he trundled Gatskeek's body behind his feet and threw him into the cart bound for the capital. Something about those eyes – the still-open eyes the old rat flashed at him as he died, was just far too human.

But he was doing what the old rat said. He was taking them home – all of them.

Before they left for the final stretch of their journey, Marcus spared a look at the bloody pulp that was the dwarf at the foot of the ancient city spire.

He barely heard Deekius shuffle up beside him as the other rats completed their corpse collection.

"Why," was all he said, looking down at the Dwarf's eviscerated face, unsure he even wanted a reply. "Why did he do it?"

The rat-priest sniffed the stagnant air. Then he looked nonchalantly at the corpse.

"The mind of a dwarf is being like stone," he said. "It can not be understood by us, Sire. Be not thinking of the dead. Especially not fat dwarf dead."

Deekius shuffled away again almost as soon as he had come – administering some strange crunched-up herbs to each loaded corpse in their death-cart. Marcus watched him go, wondering at his words, and then took a final look at the dead Dwarf.

Are they really so hard to understand, Deekius? You hate them, don't you? Could it not be safely assumed that they hate you, too?

He walked away as the thought entered his mind. The rat had said one true thing: he didn't have to care about the internal strife and mad desire to kill each other that plagued the residents of this underground kingdom.

So, why was he starting to?

…

At the very edge of the cavern, Skeever gave the command to make camp one final time. Here, they were as safe as they could be. Only a few Gutmulcher attacks had come their way, and the Kobolds had helped them make short work of the beasts.

A narrow bridge stretched from the edge of their position down into an abyssal expanse below, but if he strained his eyes, Marcus could make out the tips of brown spires and domes poking out from the dark below. The rats joined him in looking over the lip of the chasm and beat the rusted steel of their chests in victory.

It could only be Fleapit. Which meant one thing: their journey was finally coming to an end.

And that meant Marcus's time in this world was coming to an end.

He sat alone from the rest of the army, feeding on some putrid, half-cooked salamander Deekius told him had some nutritional value, and avoided the stares of most of the resting rats.

They seemed to be sleeping soundlessly next to their bonfires, their minds unperturbed by what had transpired. Though their noses must have been picking up the scents of the desiccated corpses they'd trundled all the way here with far more intensity than Marcus, their faces betrayed no horror or sorrow.

We have come to the lip of Fleapit, Marcus wrote in his parchment pages – pages which were slowly turning into more of a personal diary than historian's book draft. Deekius has encouraged us to stop so he might perform the proper rituals and prepare the group to re-enter the city. The rats don't seem to complain. All of them seem more secure than they've ever been with the tips of their capital city beneath them. They sleep soundly, while I can't close a single eyelid.

Gatskeek's death was my fault. The deaths of all those rats back there were my fault. This is not the admission of a wartime hero worthy of his exploits being recorded through film or the written word – this is, pure and simple, an idiot admitting where his failings are. Though the historian in me is calmly explaining that these casualties are just the reality of war, to see the corpses that littered those streets, to remember the faces of the Kobolds we've slain, and to see the broken, battered body of Gatskeek on that table – its more than simply just facing reality. It might be showing me a part of myself that I never even knew existed.

Even as I continue on, with nothing but the thought of home as my guide, you cannot blame me for being somewhat reflective – sentimental even – about those I've stood beside while they shed their blood in my name. 'Shai-Alud' they call me. Savior. Deliverance from suffering. An empire builder. Could I be those things? Maybe. I could rise to the heights of Ghengis Khan himself leading these rats in a slaughter across this sunken realm. I could stand above mountains of corpses while they worshipped me. It is what Deekius wants. It would be more than I ever could be back on earth.

The heresy of that final sentence struck Marcus with the intensity of a hot iron searing the soft flesh of his brain. Had he really just penned that thought? Had he really just expressed something so heinous, so unnatural - admitting that his exploits here might earn him a mark on this world?

To be a part of history, rather than simply its scribe…

Don't you owe that to the people you've killed?

He was about to angrily scrub that final line from his notes when Skeever plopped down beside him, his lame arm hanging limply from its socket.

"Sire Marcus," he said. "You are being deep in thought."

His tone was so low, barely a hushed whisper, so that Marcus completely abandoned his notes and met his cold eyes – eyes that looked out at the abyss that stretched beneath them. Eyes that were trained on nothing but the Ratman's home.

"I am thinking you will like Fleapit," he said. "Maybe you will be hating the smell at first, but it will be something you could get used to."

Marcus shifted awkwardly beside the battle-scarred warrior. "Well, I've certainly been learning to live with a lot of things, recently."

A moment of strained silence passed between them both, as each one understood the meaning behind the others' statement.

"You are not meaning to stay with us," Skeever said quietly.

Marcus suppressed the gulp in his throat, eyeing the scimitar in Skeever's hip. Gatskeek's weapon.

"No, Skeever," he replied. "I am not."

The rat merely sniffed by way of response, his eyes falling to his wound.

"I am understanding," he finally said. "A warrior's first thoughts are always being home."

"I am no warrior."

Skeever scoffed at this, seemingly amused by the notion. "You are thinking you do not fight with us, and so this is not making you a warrior. But you are making sure we all get here, Sire Marcus. You are helping us get home. It is only fair we are doing the same for you."

Marcus sighed into his arms. "You don't owe me anything, Skeever. If anything, I owe all your people an apo-"

"Do not be saying 'sorry'," Skeever interrupted, seizing Marcus with his sudden determination. "This word is meaning nothing to us. You are thinking you have killed Gatskeek. You are thinking you have killed my men. But you are not understanding that all of my kin are signing away their lives before we began our mission. We are knowing it is suicide. The fact any of us are remaining is miracle."

"And Gatskeek?" Marcus questioned, unsatisfied. "Did he sign away his life, too?"

Skeever wasn't to be put off. If anything, all his rage at his old kinsman's face seemed to have abated in the last few hours.

"I tell you of Gatskeek," he said, hunkering down with an uncharacteristic, almost jovial smile. "Gatskeek is taking post at Knifegut not because King Shrykul wishes it of him, but because he is volunteering. He is doing this because he reaches his twenty-fifth year. Soon, he will no longer be able to fight."

Marcus's curiosity took over. "Why?"

Skeever shrugged. "Strength is what Ratkin value. Old can not fight well. We are not living long lives, Marcus. We are hoping one of two things: to be dying in battle or from disease given by He-Who-Festers. I am preferring battle. Gatskeek is thinking the same."
Marcus was struck by the idea, as well as the candor in the Ratman's voice. He was explaining something that was so simple that Marcus had overlooked it entirely. Here was a whole society practically geared towards war. A society completely accustomed to death. It had become merely second nature to them – so much so that an old warrior like Gatskeek had died with a smile on his face, even knowing he would not see his home again.

It was this notion, and this alone, that prompted Macus to ask his next question – something that, if he thought about it, meant nothing if he was leaving this place tomorrow:

"Do your people believe in an afterlife? A place where you go after you die?"

Skeever looked at him. "The Dwarves are believing in this. They are believing in things like souls returning to stone they were born from. We are not like them. We know there is only darkness here. Our short lives are having meaning in making clan stronger. That is all."

Marcus caught himself smirking. The irony of him landing on the laps of these rats – of all people – and them having the most realistic perception of death he'd ever known, was suddenly all too evident to him.

"You're like Vikings," Marcus said. "The Norsemen of the Middle Ages. Only slightly more rational, and slightly more smelly."

Skeever shook his furry head. "I am not understanding you."

And Marcus, shifting to lay down and finally rest, chuckled back at him.

"That's alright," he said. "Most people never do. But, for what it's worth, thank you."

He looked over his shoulder after the rat said nothing more.

"Is that another phrase your people frown upon?"

The Ratman had similarly laid down to rest for the night - Marcus didn't expect him to reply anytime soon. So, when he did, Marcus admitted he still had more to learn about these rats than he thought.

"You are being welcome, Marcus."

###

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[IronLung]

The next morning, Skeever packed up the camp and led his men down the long, craggy ridge towards Fleapit, Marcus following in the rearguard beside Deekius, eyes taking in the sights of the city that slowly revealed themselves to his haggard mind.

The first thing that assailed his senses was (of course) the smell. Putrid would be a euphemism.

The second thing was the coiling spires and domed huts that lined the city streets. Marcus couldn't tell from above what comprised these strange, angular structures, but their color was a dun, greying hue, reminiscent of an infected limb ready to be amputated. From the bird's eye view he had, Marcus could see that the city was surrounded by a stout stone wall packed with dirt behind its face to act as a shock absorber in the case of bombardment – a smart move, he had to admit, especially considering the occupants.

Within the city, a series of lower-quality interior walls stretched out and walled off various districts. The section nearest the city gatehouse - the South district – caught his eye first. Streets were lined with rows upon rows of ramshackle housing and ratmen jostling together, some hawking their wares in a central market bazaar – hawking items that Marcus could scarcely imagine. Rising high at the end of the market was a grand building with three high spires – by far the tallest building in the whole city. From its position in what looked like the residential district, Marcus assumed it to be the grand church of the Ratman faith – the place where this 'Prime Putrefact' dwelled and, thus, the place where he would get his ticket out of here.

On the city's west bank, penned in by another interior wall, was a pool of tar that swelled and undulated as though alive, throwing about the ratmen swimming within, their eyes glazed over in ecstasy. Dominating the city's east block was a series of industrial buildings belching clouds of black fumes into the air, which, Marcus realized, must have been the reason it had been shrouded from their sight as they descended.

At the very center of the city was a rather stately, angular structure with jagged, black geometric shapes grafted on to its domed roof, giving it the appearance of a jagged crown. Marcus assumed this to be where their monarchs must dwell.

Skeever stopped upon the lip of the ridge and breathed deep, his chest swelling with corrupted air.

"Home," he said. "There is being nothing like it."

Marcus couldn't fathom why he said this with such deep sorrow in his voice, but he put such concerns to one side. The other men seemed to do the same, practically throwing themselves forward and wanting nothing more than to drop their weapons and run for the gates.

Marcus, meanwhile, had to admit that he'd been taken in by the sight – his first city in the world of Thea.

Solid walls, he wrote in his journal parchments. Defended on the four cardinal points by twin Martello towers, providing an overview of both the city districts and the exterior chasm. From above, each district seems to stretch inexorably towards the palace at the center like an old Italian Star Fort. Deekius informs me the palace is referred to as 'Castle Carfaxx' – so named after the first King of their Clan who built the place, apparently, from the hollowed-out corpse of a Gutmulcher queen. From the looks of it, I doubt the veracity of this story. Then again, I'm still new here.

The defense systems of the city seem remarkably sophisticated – all things considered. Aside from the tightly packed districts that give the wall-mounted archers overview over the entire city, the black fumes of their industrial base obscures the town from the ridges above. I see no other tunnels or entrances from which they could be attacked – we seem to be at the base of the cavern. Aerial assault would be possible, but unwise, considering the lack of visibility. Whether this location and these defensive measures are intentional or not I can't say, but I can say for certain that these rats display some surprising levels of intelligence matched only by their ferocity in battle. If only their reproductive capacity was higher…This species might indeed have a chance at becoming an Empire worth contending with.

Noticing the population density of the city though, I can see the issues that higher birth rates could lead to. These streets would have to be widened considerably, the walls would have to be expanded, and I've seen no evidence of arable farmland in this underground realm that could support a growing civilization. The creatures' propensity towards cannibalism makes sense, if you consider this. Again, however, this only leads to loss of vital war assets. The main issue, as I see it, seems to be that they lack a proper source of food and nutrition, along with (obviously) proper measures for childcare and child-rearing. I should probably reserve judgement on those particular issues until I meet the Queen, but based on my observations so far…I doubt she's a loving mother to her offspring.

Marcus snapped himself out of his writer's reverie as the army came to a halt before the grey walls of Fleapit and formed up into ordered columns. The ratman guards in the Martellos flanking the gate brightened with recognition, and it seemed to Marcus that Skeever did not have to announce himself at all in the bombastic fashion that he did.

"I am Talon-Commander Skeever of Clan Red-Eye!" he roared, his voice carrying long and wide so that Marcus could swear the city itself came to a complete standstill. "My Pack is returning victorious, and we are coming with information for King Shrykul!"

The rats on the towers ran for the gatehouse drawbridge and then stiffened abruptly. Five of them armed their vicious-looking crossbows and aimed them directly at Ix and his Kobold slingers.

"You are calling yourself Skeever!" one of the archers shouted down. "Yet Skeever of Red-Eye would not be making friends of Kobold soap-eaters! By whose command do these creatures follow you?"

Deekius made to step forward, but Skeever held him back, strong, and firm, even with one arm left.

"By my command!" he shouted right back. "And the words of the Shai-Alud!"

The guards stiffened, slowly lowering their crossbows as their eyes found Marcus in the midst of Skeever's forces. The human among them.

And they renewed their opening of the gate with gusto.

"Be opening!" the archer who had questioned them screamed. "Praise be He-Who-Festers! The Shai-Alud is coming!"

Before the wooden gates of the Capital was opened to them, Marcus could already hear the awestruck screams of the rats who heard the proclamation. He heard the cacophonous bells of the church spires ringing above, drowning out the battlecry of victory that the remaining rats of Skeever's squad bellowed to see the gate of their homeland part before them once more.

Then, when the doors were fully open, Marcus looked upon a sea of crimson eyes.

"Be giving glory to Skeever!"

"Glory to Clan Red-Eye!"

Deekius shuffled to the front of the army to stand beside the Talon-Commander, who, for now, hid his wounded limb.

"Brother," he asked. "Are you being ready to return home?"

Skeever nodded with a small, almost imperceptible grin.

They walked towards the crowd of cheering ratlings, and Marcus fought against the urge to shield his ears from the sound – the wailing, banshee-like, that was assailing him. Coupled with the stench of peasant rat's rotted clothes, wrapped in what looked like threads of torn bandages and cloth, it was a true assault on his senses that would probably have repelled even the hardiest army. That, Marcus thought as he looked into their puss-dripping eyes, was the Ratmen's true defense: revulsion.

And yet as he walked through the streets, Skeever urged him forward, Deekius summoning little globes of light to circle him like a halo, completing the image of the savior walking the streets of the common-rat.

"Deekius," Marcus murmured out the corner of his mouth, while he batted at a light-glob that flew into his eyeball. "Isn't this a little much?"

"Sire," the rat-priest replied. "This is being my specialty. We of the Gloomraava are knowing the people. In this time of war, the common rat is needing hope. You, Marucs, are being that hope. They are looking at you and knowing it. Look for yourself."

Marcus sighed at the rat-priest's showmanship – with every ratling he passed by he was staring them down till they bowed their heads, and when Marcus passed by after him, the furry citizens of Fleapit dropped to their knees.

"They have been expecting you," Skeever said by way of explanation while he waved to the crying crowds in the narrow streets. "They are not knowing the hour of your coming, or which Clan would be blessed with your presence. But they are knowing you would come as you are, and they are knowing this war will be won."

Marcus looked out at the undulating sea of festering rodents crowding round him, stretching out their lice-ridden claws to touch but a scrap of his robe, kneeling in supplication as his eyes passed over them. The devotion of Skeever's warriors he understood. The devotion of the priest – that made sense. He was, after all, a convenient example of the prophesy their God spoke of. But to see the ordinary people of this town – actual members of this underground civilization – appraise him as some kind of Lord and savior…it brought home a reality that he had not yet been willing to admit.

They needed him.

Their faces were haunting – gaunt and haggard. They were like the destitute members of a poor city under siege, cells of an organism in the last throes of its life, clinging to a final, desperate hope.

Such faces stuck with him until they finally arrived at the gates of the great grey palace, and the crowd stood back, each dropping to kiss the filth-ridden ground of their city.

"Ratlings of Red-Eye!" Deekius yelled at them, his arms raised and staff flailing wildly with his words. "The Shai-Alud is come! He goes to meet now with King Shrykul! He goes to meet his destiny!"

The commoners howled their glee into the corrupted air above their city – rats of every shape and size, of all colorations and discolorations, their poxes practically bursting with delight.

The Ratguards at the palace gates saluted them with pride, and the jagged gates of the palace opened up to swallow Marcus whole.

For a moment he looked back into the eyes of the ratlings, taking in the sight of their worship once again.

"It is being something, is it not?" Deekius said beside him. "Having the love of the people."

Marcus' reply was so quiet, so subdued, that he couldn't even be sure the words were his.

"It's…something," he said as the guards ushered them inside. "Something…new."

###

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[IronLung]

The grand palace of Clan Red-Eye was both more, and less, than Marcus had expected.

The domed ceiling dripped with loose spume and had caused wet puddles to lie upon the tiled flooring. Loose pieces of once pristine stonework was corrupted and ravished by fungal growths and other bulbs of pink, polyp-like bulbs that ran up every column and stairway that led to the throne room of King Shrykul of the Red-Eyes.

And yet, there was a certain charm to parts of the abode. As Marcus stepped towards the infected-looking plants that lined the walls, they opened to reveal petals brimming with fiery red life, puffing sweet-smelling scents into the air that Marcus breathed in with wonder. It smelled distinctly of…strawberries?

Looking around him at his Ratman delegation, he saw that they cringed and tried staying as far away from the plants as possible.

"I am forgetting how potent the defense mechanisms are being. Sire Marcus, please be forgiving the King his precautions!"

Marcus stifled a smile even as he came to understand the significance of Deekius' statement: the sweet scents were defenses, yes, but probably only against civil unrest. He did not get the impression that Kobolds like Ix inherently despised cleanliness as the ratmen of the Under-Kingdom did.

Thinking about them reminded him of their presence outside. Skeever commanded the army to wait in the castle courtyard – a drab square acre of salted earth where nary a plant lived anymore – and explained to Marcus that they'd eventually retire to the city barracks behind the eastern Industrial sector (The Workyard). Marcus had given strict orders to the reticent Redwhiskers that he continue his duties as overseer of Ix and his Kobolds, who had been uncharacteristically quiet as of late. This of course made sense – here they were in the capital city of their enemies. It only made sense for them to feel out of place and afraid for their safety. The eyes of the rats they passed by on the way here met their downtrodden faces with nothing but seething hatred. It would be a while before they would truly win the trust of the people to whom they now owed their service.

But as Marcus had nodded to them and made to allow them rest, Ix had tugged on his arm like an impatient child.

"Ix want come to see King. Tell him he and his Yip-Yips will be useful."

Marcus looked to Skeever and Deekius' untrusting faces. After all the blood they'd shed side-by-side, still they could not see eye-to-eye with the creature.

"It…is not being a good idea, sire Marc-"

"Ix will accompany us," Marcus said with finality, breaking through Deekius' complaints. "If your king doesn't like it, he can take it up with me."

That seemed to have settled that, for the rats immediately bowed and fell back in line.

"You wish to pledge yourself to the king of your mortal enemies, Ix?" Marcus asked while they were out of earshot of the rest of the group.

"Ix already pledged to boss Marcus," the little crimson demon squeaked. "Will be loyal only to him-him."

"Do me a favor," Marcus told him as they entered the palace together. "Keep that fact to yourself."

For this reason, Ix now walked beside them as one of the army lieutenants, and Marcus had to admit that he savored the little man's unwavering, unquestioning support. It was exactly that kind of support that he would need in a world as harsh as this.

When finally they reached a set of gilded doors crawling with woodlouse, Deekius turned to address Marcus directly.

"Behind this door is sitting King Shrykul," he said. "He is expecting us, but I fear he may be restless. The war is greatly disturbing our king. Be wary, Sire Marcus, for though you are being the Shai-Alud, the King's word is still being law in Fleapit. Be letting Skeever take the lead, and be following his example."

Marcus understood the tacit warning in Deekius' terse tone: Don't piss him off. Please, for the love of the Unclean One.

Marcus nodded and faced the doors.

"Don't worry," he told the rats. "I've been practicing my best curtsey."

With a nod to the halberd-wielding guards stationed beside the doors they were thrown open, revealing an opulent throne room decorated with a dun, chewed carpet and a tattered but regal set of Red-Eye Clan banners lining the room walls, each one displaying the Clan's distinctive sigil – a jagged black eye with a blood red pupil set against a vermillion backdrop.

And at the very end of the room sat a thin, rather ungainly rat atop a stone throne, clad in a slim red robe and wearing a jagged crown composed of corrugated iron. To Marcus's untrained eyes, it looked more like a child's shop class project than the marker of a monarch. But the glowing ruby set in its center certainly did not look basic, nor did the two jet-black, six limbed creatures that growled at the new arrivals beside their master's throne.

"Busho, Revik, be sitting at peace!"

The command was barked by the king at his two 'pets' which looked like gangly, mutated rats stretched and deformed beyond belief, each one chained to one of the throne's armrests. As Marcus and his delegation came to stand before the throne, Marcus couldn't help but recoil a little at their gnashing, rabid fangs and shorn, emaciated bodies. He could swear he could see pieces of their ribcages fully exposed through the thin film of their onyx skin.

Presently Skeever stepped forward and knelt before his King, unafraid. With a curt nod to the rest of the delegation, they all followed suit.

Then, for what felt like an eternity, nothing happened at all. Marcus heard the king groan as he rose, take a whiff of the air around Skeever, and then, without warning, plant both his gnarled hands on the Talon-Commander's shoulders.

"Skeever Steelclaw!" he roared. "My subject chosen by He-Who-Festers himself! Rise, rise and greet your King!"

Skeever was plucked from his feet without even being given the chance to rise, as the King clapped his arms around him in an almost brotherly embrace.

"It is good to be seeing you again, Highness."

"Skeever, Skeever," the regal ratman replied, his jagged crown jostling about with every movement of his angular face. "Am I not telling you before that you are a Kinsman within these walls? Come, be not bowing down before me. Rise and let me see the faces of those who are conquering the North tunnels, and giving old boss Skegga a large kicking in his fat Froggie balls!"

Skeever and Deekius, seemingly quite shocked by the King's demeanor, rose steadily and shakily, with Marcus and Ix following suit as the king turned his eyes upon them, settling upon Ix staying there.

"The – uh – yes, the Kobold," Skeever muttered. "I can be explaining this. You see, King Shrykul, he is being –"

"A fighter," Shrykul said, his mouth opening to reveal rows of sharp, tar-ridden teeth. "You think I am not knowing this? Your King is having eyes on all his domain. I have heard of how you are having fought with my people, Kobold. I am having heard that you have forsaken your Boss."

Ix stuttered his reply. "Y-yes-yes, good King!" he shrieked. "Ix is meeting Sire Marcus. He is showing us that ratmen are strong-strong, now. Ix-Ix work with ratmen. Help ratmen. Help ratmen win."

The King considered this with a nod. "I am sure your knowledge of Boss Skegga's lair will be proving useful," he said, turning back to Skeever with a satisfied nod. "We are needing all the man we can get. These Kobolds will be serving us well in the war to come. Your judgement is being good as always, Skeever."

The Talon-Commander turned away the compliment with a stout shake of his head. "It is being the idea of the Shai-Alud, Highness. Marcus is knowing tha-"

"Yes," Shrykul interrupted, slowly passing by Skeever and meandering over to the next subject of his scrutiny. "The Shai-Alud."

When he stepped close, Marcus was surprised to find that he did not smell quite so putrid as the company he was used to keeping down here. His nose twitched as it similarly appraised Marcus, taking in the scent of a human for perhaps the first time ever.

"They are telling me your name is Marcus," he said.

Marcus, almost forgetting himself entirely, eventually nodded.

"It is."

"Deekius," Shrykul barked at the rat-priest. "Is he truly the one?"

"He is, most-esteemed Highness. He is coming to us through dung and darkness, regaling us with tales of the Realm Beyond, delivering death unto our-"

"Be leaving us," Shrykul said as he turned tail and ascended his throne once again. "Be retiring to the private chambers. Rest there. Be eating well."

The Rats looked at each other with unblinking confusion.

"But, Sire," Deekius said. "Our report-"

"Your report can be waiting," the King replied curtly, never once taking his eyes off Marcus.

"B-but Sire we must be acting with ha-"

"Did you not hear your King, Gloomraava?" Skeever spat. "Look you – even the Kobold knows to obey. Do not be embarrassing us."

The rat delegation left with bows, Ix following suit as best as his tiny, hoofed legs would allow him to. Deekius was the last to leave, his suddenly nervous eyes finding Marcus and pleading with him immutably with a look that said: do all that the king asks!

When they left, the great double doors slammed shut behind them.

Leaving Marcus alone with the rat-King and his two very hungry-looking mutant pets.

"Well, Marcus," Shrykul said. "I am hearing reports of your exploits. I am understanding your leadership is why Skeever and his pack survive. Now, you are arriving before me. And now, I am asking only one question of you."

Marcus was suddenly very aware of how alone he was in this room, compounded by the distinct click! of the doors behind being locked.

"Do not be lying," he said. "My dogs are being good at knowing truth."

Of that, Marcus had no doubt. Their hungry, salivating maws told him what his destiny would be if he attempted any kind of deceit. He knew what the rat-King wanted to know before he even asked it. Even if he did seem a tad more reasonable than any Ratman he'd seen so far, the fact remained that there was one thing on his mind:

"Will you lead my armies in our war? Will you be helping us win against the Kobolds and their new God?"

Marcus gulped, felt sweat pool beneath his messy blonde fringe, and took two cursory glances at the mad eyes of the growling rat-mutants before he answered as directly and clearly as he could:

"No."

With an air of regal authority, King Shrykul of Clan Red-Eye leaned back in his high throne and breathed a heavy sigh that spoke of weariness beyond years.

"Well," he said. "Then we are having a problem."

###

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[IronLung]

"We are having a problem, Shai-Alud Marcus."

If he was being honest, Marcus heard these words with a complete lack of surprise. In the pit of his stomach, he had known escape wouldn't be so easy. Not with all those rats out there singing his name in the streets.

He summoned all the knowledge on monarchical etiquette he had, and then remembered that it was probably useless in the face of the King of spume and slime.

"I was given assurances," Marcus nevertheless replied, trying to avoid further eye-contact with the King's mutant hounds. "Assurances that, if I guided Skeever's forces back to Fleapit successfully, I would be granted an audience with the Prime Putrefact and be given a way to return to my home."

Shrykul considered this unblinkingly, his sharp claws drilling into his throne's solid armrests.

"I know what you are wishing, Shai-Alud," he said.

He leaned forward slightly, raising a single finger to command his dogs to heel. Like real pets they mewled and spun around, laying down at his feet with their spiny tails tucked between their legs.

"I am believing in honesty," Shrykul then said. "So I will tell you what you are thinking of us, and you will tell me if this is being correct: you are thinking we are filth, stupid, and uncivilized. You are thinking we are cruel and unusual compared to humankind. You are thinking we make war only because we are vicious."

Marcus straightened up and met the King's rigid stare. "Not entirely, King Shrykul. In my journey to this place, I have seen Ratmen show both bravery and cunning that befits the title of warrior. I have seen Skeever care deeply for his duty to you. I have seen Deekius demonstrate powers that go beyond anything we mortals could employ on the battlefield. But, more than all of this, I have seen a commander among you who genuinely cares for his men. It is that very fact that killed him."

"Gatskeek," Shrykul said. "He will be honored."

Marcus nodded solemnly. "But I will admit you are correct in some of your assessment. I do find your kind filthy and uncivilized. But perhaps this is because your people have not been given the chance to grow."

Shrykul stroked the long, thin piece of hair under his chin.

"You speak well, Marcus," he said. "You are reminding me of someone else. Someone who was here and is now not."

The King grew somewhat pensive. Then, after a moment, he resumed his stately air.

"Now I am telling you what I think of humans," he said with a grin. "I am thinking they are brash, pushy, and expansionist. I am thinking they look down on other races and think they alone can guide the world and think of their desires before anything else. I am thinking they are children who are told they are strong but who would fall before even the smallest of my Ratman warriors. Am I wrong to think these things?"

Marcus gulped again. "Where I come from, King Shrykul, there are many who think the same way you do about humankind."

"Is this so?" the King asked. "And what happens to such people in the place beyond?"

Marcus shrugged. "They are forgotten in the annals of time. Our species progresses without them, and they are left behind. Mostly, this is because they are skilled only in the art of complaining and not in acting."

The stately King leaned back in his throne again. "Do your Kings also execute those that are insulting them in their own palace?"

Marcus smiled. "Yes. But our Kings do not value honesty."

From the flash in Shrykul's beady eyes, Marcus thought we was ready to unleash his hounds on him right then and there.

But it was laughter that gripped the thin King then, not fury.

"You speak well," he told Marcus again. "It is a talent humans of the surface are having, too. It is what is making them so tricky in negotiation."

So, there are humans on Thea, Marcus noted.

"Very well," the King said as though something important had just been decided. "We are understanding each other. You are knowing what I want. I am knowing what you want. This is why we are having problem. Because even if I am wishing to grant you the boon you deserve, it is not being within my power to do so."

Marcus stiffened.

Deekius, if you have tricked me…

"But, surely as the King of your Clan…"

"Not all offices of state are being mine, Marcus."

"Well, who then?" Marcus asked, acutely aware that his tone approached that of a disgruntled 30-something wishing to speak to a bargain clothes store manager.

Shrykul sighed, scratched his chin again, and rose steadily from his throne.

"Be following. I will take you to her."

A bleak crest of weariness seemed to overtake the Ratman's features. Marcus began to follow him through another set of gilded doors hidden beneath a shabby curtain behind his throne. It was only now that he noticed the King walked with a slight limp on his right side.

"You are wounded, King Shrykul?"

The Rat replied without looking back. "In a manner of speaking," he said, tapping his right leg. "This is being occupational hazard."

Occupational hazard…Marcus mused. What…

The sudden change in environment in this section of the palace struck Marcus. The King led him down a narrow, damp tunnel only dimly lit by torch sconces that threw the shadows of crawling insects along the stone walls.

Here and there Marcus could see dents and cracks within the brickwork which revealed a thick, greasy, jelly-like substance oozing through the walls like a creeping infection.

He quickened his pace. The King seemed to do the same.

The further down the passage they went, the more Marcus felt his entire body quake. The guards stationed in this section of the castle seemed shaken and unnerved as they allowed the King and his Shai-Alud passage, and Marcus could probably ascertain the reason for their hesitancy:

The screams.

They came from the end of the tunnel – from a corrugated steel gate bolted with six individual sets of locks. They were not the screams of one person. No, they were much too savage to come from a single throat. Instead, Marcus heard the chorus of a hundred living, breathing agonies emanate from behind the gate.

And when the King halted and looked up at his terror-stricken face, he sighed again.

"I must be warning you," he said. "What you are about to see may be…distasteful to your human eyes."

Marcus kept a stiff upper lip. "I've seen plenty of horrors on the outskirts of your Kingdom, King Shrykul. But why are you bringing me here?"

"To meet the one who will tell you why you cannot leave," he replied, nodding to the guards stationed beside the gate to unlock its bolts.

Before the darkness beyond the gate was even visible, Marcus already knew who awaited him on the other side.

"May I be presenting my Queen, Shai-Alud Marcus," Shrykul said as the screaming suddenly abated. "Darling, you are having a visitor."

Beyond the depths of the dark chamber that stretched out before Marcus, a wild, flaring snout appeared and wormed its way into the light cast by the door.

"Hail, your Highness," Marcus said, giving his best impression of a stiff bow. "I have come to ask –"

Marcus stopped, feeling something wet squish underneath his feet. He looked down to see the shredded corpse of a Ratling child – a pink, hairless, mutilated thing – breaking apart beneath his heel.

Then he saw the rest of the ground was similarly littered with long dead bodies – bodies that had been left to rot for so long that many had simply become a grey paste of blood and bone, ground down by something…big. And angry.

He stumbled forward, lost his footing slightly, and then fumbled to rise and –

"Ask?" a deep voice boomed above him. "A hairless male is coming to ask something of us. How…heretical."

Marcus looked up to see the body of the queen emerge behind her snout, the ground literally quaking beneath her gargantuan form. He watched as the thick knots and folds of fat tissue that comprised her belly stretched up as she rose to her full height – and he made the nauseus realization that such rolls of fat comprised her entire body. She was like a bulging, writhing sandworm from the science-fiction novels he had read as a child. But unlike them, her oozing, bloody body demanded no reverence. Indeed, Marcus was doing his level best to not vomit across the chamber as she leaned down to sniff him.

"A fresh human sample," she said, her pale eyes blinking rapidly as the hairs from her snout – like a legion of twisted feelers – fell over his head and smeared their snot across his face.

Her mouth opened to reveal a brown maw dripping with bile, and a lithe tongue wriggled its way out.

"Darling," she moaned. "Such a lovely gift you are bringing me."

###

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[IronLung]

In my life, I am knowing only one thing for certain: I am loving my Queen"

- King Bekblast of Clan Marrow, five minutes before his consumption by Queen Eradeka


While the Queen sniffed Marcus like a voluptuous snake seasoning its meal, Shrykul, who measured up to about one eighth of his Queen's size, shuffled noiselessly into the room.

"This – this is being the Shai-Alud, dear," he said. "The one who is bringing us –"

"I KNOW WHO HE IS!" she screamed at him, throwing a torrent of spittle across his entire body. "I CAN SMELL THE SCENT OF THE UNCLEAN ONE UPON HIM! ARE YOU DOUBTING THE STRENGTH OF MY NOSE?"

"N-no, dear," Shrykul said with another shiver.

Marcus looked up then, much as it pained him, to see the eyes of the Queen for himself. Glazed over, pale as moonlight.

"You're blind…"

The words had left his lips before he'd even pondered if he should voice them. Behind, Shrykul stirred, but the Queen let a greasy smile smear itself across her face.

"I am not needing eyes to tell talent when it is being in front of me!" she howled. "Now, tasty-smelling human. Get on with it."

Marcus blinked up at her.

"Excuse me?"

"Must I be repeating my every thought! Are you males all deaf and dumb? Tell us how we will win this war!"

Shrykul tensed up as Marcus stood slowly, calmly, keeping his eyes on those of the heavily breathing Queen.

Once again, he sucked up his disgust.

"My…lady," he said. "I am bound for my home. Not for your war. Surely you can understand that."

The only female Ratman in Fleapit twitched for a moment, and then stretched around the form of the human like a cobra.

"Are you having children where you come from, Shai-Alud?"

Marcus did not try and escape. He got the sense that fear would kill him more than it would serve him right now.

"I do not. I have ne-"

"WELL, I DO!" she screamed in his face, returning to meet his gaze with such speed that Marcus was off-footed. "All you are seeing around you, every Rat – from smallest to biggest warrior – all of them are coming from this body!"

She indicated her stomach, as though it wasn't obvious.

"And a mother – a good mother – she loves her children. She is giving them life. She is watching them grow. She is nursing them on her own teats. Oh, oh how they bite and scratch. How they gnaw and pummel. How they test us so! Isn't that right, dear?"

"Yes, sweetheart. You are being ri-"

"How they make our kingdom run black with filth!" she continued, practically spitting in Marcus' face. "How they make this underground ours. Ours! It is all ours!"

She rose to her full height again, laughing at the ceiling.

"But – but now!" she screamed after her joy subsided. "How they DIE!"

She raked her claws against the wall, throwing torn pieces of stone and puss across the room while Marcus and Shrykul watched in silence. Marcus – because he was stunned. Shrykul – because this was just another day.

"Slimy, soapsucking toad!" She wailed to the black heavens above her. "SKEGGA! He kills our children. He tears their limbs. He sends his armies in their Kleansing. He is meaning to kill me, then my sisters. Yes! The hubris of a toad – an evil, dumb, postulating toad! He dares to be harming my children. My pretty little things…"

She finally turned back to Marcus.

"You are supposed to be the hero!" she squealed. "The leader of our armies! You are supposed to be winning war. Prophecy says so, oh – oh yes! I do not need eyes to know this. I can hear it. I am hearing whispers of you on the winds of the underworld. Now you are here – you are being ours! And you – yes – you shall be our sword."

"I – understand your position," Marcus said after quickly looking to Shrykul for some help and realizing, almost instantly, that such help was not forthcoming. "But one of your priests pledged to me that I would be brought home if I aided the forces of Skeever in coming here. I am not a human that can help you regardless, your Majesty. Even getting this far, my victories were based largely on luck. You have your enemies on the backfoot now, that should be enough to-"

"PRIESTS!" the Queen shrieked like a banshee. "Priests! Oh, how they are boring me so. How I am detesting their stories and scheming behind my husband's back. Oh, yes – he is so, so busy ruling his kingdom while it falls to pieces. The kingdom that is being sustained by nothing but my life!"

"Now, dear," Shrykul began. "Marcus does not need to know –"

"HE SHALL KNOW WHAT I PLEASE HIM TO!" the worm-wife roared back. "This place is being mine – mine! You are making your fancy speeches while I fester in here. You are wearing the crown, but I am holding the power. The power of life. LIFE! The only power you can never be having."

Shrykul shrunk back, humbled, while Marcus's temper began to flare.

"I did not come here to be privy to a marriage dispute," he said tetchily. "I must go to your Prime Putrefect. If you deliver him to me I make you assurances that I will guide the strategy of your armies before I leave."

The Queen glowered down at him with her vestigial blind eyes and laughed after she understood what he had said.

"HAH!" she wailed to no one in particular. "He is making the same demand of me that I make of him! Oh, dear, sweet-smelling, naïve little human – we are both wanting the Putrefect delivered to us!"

…What?

Movement from Shrykul behind. He was signaling to the doormen to open the gate again. It seemed, finally, that they had arrived at the point.

"My dear, sweet Putrefact," the Queen was wailing like a child, puss-filled tears streaming from her bulbous eyes. "Loving, caring Putrefact…the only one of those detestable little men of the faith that is deserving to bask in my flatulence! A pox most foul upon Skegga – bastard, fat-toad Skegga and his scum-sucking minions! He is taking my precious Putrefact from me! ME! He steals our favorite child and sends his armies after us? I will be having his head on a pike! I will be seeing his entrails coat my lair! I will be plucking out his eyes and serving them to his prisoner – my beautiful, loving Putrefact. My – my SILAS!"

By this point, Marcus was allowing Shrykul to guide him out of the chamber while the Queen thrashed about in the bodies of her dead children.

"SILAS! SILAS! SIIIILLLLLLAAAAAAAAS!"

The doors slammed shut and the bolts were quickly re-done.

And Marcus stood beside Shrykul saying nothing, simply staring at the bars of the gate while they rattled against the Queen's exhortations.

"You," Shrykul finally said. "You are understanding our problem."

Marcus's voice was barely a whisper. "It's a big one."

He turned to the rat suddenly, looking passed the jagged-iron crown to see the weary eyes of the rat beneath.

Suddenly his 'occupational hazard' had been made eminently clear to Marcus.

"Is she…always like that?"

Shrykul shook his head solemnly. "She is suffering for the good of all of us. You must understand – she sees so many of her younglings die in the wake of our copulation. She has birthed generations, and the price of those lives is being many, many deaths and stillbirths. My priests are telling me that such things are affecting the mind in…bad ways."

Marcus shivered as he recalled the image of the bulbous, worm-body that dwelled within the doors before him. Literally nothing more than a wailing, angry baby factory.

And beside Marcus stood her devoted little gigolo. The only rat that was permitted to mate with her in the entire kingdom. Probably, Marcus reflected, this was because such mating attempts posed dangers in themselves. He doubted the Queen was always a willing participant in such unions…

"You are thinking we are a disgusting people once again," Shrykul said as he began walking back up the tunnel to his throne room. "But world is being cruel. Underworld – even more so. It is not caring for sentimentality. What matters is generations and survival of kingdom."

"That," Marcus said. "I can almost understand. But had I been summoned on the other side of your Black Gulch, and I was shown what you just revealed to me, I believe your Fleapit would not stand to see another day."

Shrykul stopped and looked back, both his guards bearing their spears at the heresy spoke by the human.

Slowly, the rat-king raised his hand and coaxed them to lower their weapons.

"An honest human?" Shrykul said. "It is being a rare thing, indeed. You are of course implying that the only reason you remain with us is because we are having a way for you to return home."

Marcus nodded. "No matter how noble your intentions seem, King Shrykul, this is a truth I won't keep from you."

The King of the Red-Eyes smiled thinly in the darkness of the Queen's tunnel.

"Then you know my terms," he said. "Win this war and you will be finding our Putrefact. Only he has the power to send you back to the realm beyond."

Marcus's fists tightened behind his back.

"Be taking the night to think on this," Shrykul said as he turned his back. "Be taking the stairway outside my throne and find your room beside your comrades. Be resting. Be deciding in the morning. I am hoping, for all our sakes, that you will be making the right choice."

Marcus watched him go with barely restrained fury building up in his throat. He wanted to scream. He wanted to beat his bare fists upon the door frame of the vile creature he had just seen and issue a roar to match her own. Instead, he began following the King's path, fists still clenched, as his mind focused on the image of a single person.

Deekius…

His hand inadvertently clenched on the hilt of his dagger.

He was going to pay that rat a little visit.


###

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[IronLung]

"You knew, didn't you?"

Marcus's accusation brought a deathly silence over the Ratman he'd called to his chambers within the palace.

"Sire, I was not lying," Deekius replied slowly. "The Prime Putrefact is your only way of making it back to realm beyond."

"But you knew he was gone, and you kept that little piece of information from me, didn't you?"

Skeever, who had answered Marcus's summons knowing there would be trouble, looked from the rat-priest to his Shai-Alud.

"We are only suspecting, Marcus," he said. "The Kobolds having knowledge of our tunnels is not making sense. We are knowing they must have one of us. But we could not know –"

"He did," Marcus interrupted, standing and marching over to Deekius' silent snout. "Didn't you?"

A change had come over the rat-priest since they'd returned to the Capital. Once, Marcus had thought him a sniveling wretch with some admittedly useful tricks up his sleeve that had contributed greatly to their victories. Now, however, he seemed cool, aloof, and possessed of an uncharacteristic confidence.

Somehow, that served to piss Marcus off even more.

"I could not be knowing for certain," Deekius replied. "Our forces are being away from home for a long time. Scout reports do not come to us. We are finding Boss Skegga's defences and inspecting them only. We are not going to see prisoners he has taken. But…I am feeling the will of He-Who-Festers waning in me. I could have been guessing the Putrefact was gone."

Marcus drew the dagger Gatskeek had given him. Skeever tensed, moved forward, but Deekius held up a firm paw to hold him back.

"I could kill you now, priest," Marcus told the rat as he aimed the tip of the weapon at his furry little throat. "Your King would pardon his Shai-Alud."

Skeever didn't move an inch. Deekius, to his credit, held Marcus's death-like stare. Then, without any indication of damaged pride, he laid his staff on the floor, got on his knees, and bent his neck.

"I am giving you promise, Shai-Alud," he said. "Are you remembering? Before we are leaving Black Gulch I am saying to you that my life is yours if you wish it. I, Deekius of Clan Red-Eye, have done the job bestowed on me by He-Who-Festers. I am bringing the Shai-Alud to this world, and I am guiding him to the Capital. If you are wishing it, I would gladly now be dying by your hand."

Marcus looked unblinkingly at the supplicant rat. There was no fear he could detect in his small, robed body. Not even the flies that surrounded his snout buzzed with greater intensity than usual. His breathing was cool. Calm. Totally at peace. If anything, it was Skeever that was more fidgety right now.

Marcus groaned as he sheathed the knife.

"That's the problem with religious fanatics," he said as he turned away from the sight of the rat. "You're always so ready to die. So certain that your life has meaning."

Marcus looked out at his small balcony that lay beyond his room. A space that, coincidentally, gave him an overview of the entire residential district that lay beyond the palace.

He could hear the rats below that had not dispersed at the palace gates. A crowd cheering his name. Cheering for him.

"Be listening to them," Deekius said from his back. "They are adoring you, Sire. They are already being your loyal subjects. You are coming to our home as a human, and are already having the absolute loyalty of the people. You are being second only to the King in their eyes. You are-"

"Get out," Marcus said, abruptly cutting off the priest before he began an entire sermon. "Be thankful you still have your head."

Deekius made to say more, but at a firm grunt from his comrade, thought better of it. Both rats bowed and made to leave.

"Not you," Marcus said, speaking over his shoulder to Skeever.

He did not wait to see if his command had been obeyed. He sat down on the stone bed that had been prepared for him, rubbing his face in his hands and praying to whatever disease ridden God they worshipped down here that he would sell his soul for fresh linen.

He heard the patter of Skeever's feet as the soldier bowed at the end of his bed.

"Sire," he said. "Deekius is strongest of Red-Eye priests. He is being chosen for our mission because of his faith. You show good judgement in keeping him alive."

"Skeever," Marcus said. "I am stuck here."

He said it again, paying no heed to how this could affect Skeever's morale. Right now, he had to be a person. Not a prophet. Not a General. Not a historian. He was human, and he was tired.

"Like your squad in that Gulch tunnel," he continued, wringing his hands together like a madman.

"Sire," Skeever replied. "When we are finding Prime Putrefect, he will be able to –"

"And what if we don't!" Marcus yelled, rising and marching over to the balcony door. "All of you are putting a war on me that I know nothing about. Kobolds, Dwarves, Ratmen – what's the difference to me? We beat the Kobolds on the way here with luck – luck, and some basic environmental awareness. Now, you're asking me to dismantle and entire civilization on the chance that one prisoner they've taken might still be alive."

"He is alive," Skeever said. "Boss Skegga not stupid enough to kill clever Silas."

Marcus's rage was not to be stilled. "Your king is basically subservient to a crazy she-demon that holds the future of your entire clan on her whims. Your priest-caste seems like they're running their own show. Meanwhile, your people want an empire spanning this entire underground network that stretches on for God knows how far. When will it stop, Skeever? When will the goal posts be shifted next? First, you'll ask me to win this war for you. Next, you'll ask me to conquer your Dwarven neighbors. Then, you'll ask me to win the entire world."

Marcus smashed his fist into the side of the door frame.

"And I wish they'd shut up out there!"

He was about to throw the door open when Skeever's heavy gauntlet stopped him, pushing the door back.

"This is not being like you, Sire Marcus."

He was about to spit his fury right back at Skeever's face when the latter slammed his gauntlet on his chest.

"We of Clan-Red eye are not making promises we do not keep," he said. "I am devoting myself to guiding you to Prime Putrefact and getting you home. Are you doubting me, Sire?"

Marcus looked at him with furious eyes, but he said nothing.

"Our King could be torturing you to force you to lead," Skeever said. "Why is he not doing this? Because he believes in the Shai-Alud. The Prophecy is that you are chosen by He-Who-Festers to defend our race. Are you not seeing that we are on brink of doom? Are you not seeing the mad Queen for yourself who cries over her children?"

Marcus stepped away from the balcony and returned to sit by the bed, sighing deeply, staring at the grey stone of the floor.

"If you are commanding me," Skeever said, unsheathing Gatskeek's scimitar and planting it in the ground before him. "I can be taking you away from here. I can be taking you to the surface and you can never be looking back. If you hate us so, this is being your choice. But, if you are hearing the devotion of those outside and thinking you want to be something more, then you should be joining King Shrykul tomorrow morning in his meeting with the other Clans."

Marcus stirred. "Meeting?"

"The Skittering has been called," Skeever said. "Clans Marrow and Glumrot are answering. They are bringing envoys to discuss strategy to secure the North tunnels. Our counterattack will be coming. And it will be bloody, Sire."

The rat-warrior's head rose to meet the eyes of his Shai-Alud.

"But with you on our side, many can be saved. The clan can grow strong again, and I can be leaving this world in peace to meet my Brother Gatskeek."

"Leaving?" Marcus asked.

Skeever nodded solemnly at his lame arm. "I am maimed, Sire. I am no longer of use in field. King Shrykul will be giving me choice tomorrow of living rest of days in Capital tar-pit or of self-execution. I will choose execution."

Marcus rose abruptly. "Skeever, you'll do no such –"

"It is being my choice, Sire," the rat said. "I am seeing too many of my Brothers die already. On my watch, Gatskeek is falling. I am not fit to command."

Marcus said nothing to the downtrodden rat at first. Instead, his eyes fixed on Skeever's arm – the arm that had shot out to shield him from the sniper's fire, and in that broken mess of a limb was embedded not just the dwarf's bullet but all the burdens of Marcus's command. The rat blamed himself for Gatskeek. He clearly hadn't learned that the responsibility for death – every death on the battlefield - should be placed squarely at the feet of one person alone. And that person was not a soldier.

He rose steadily and walked over to the balcony, opening the doors and being hit with waves of adoring cheers. The rats corralled together beneath, their snouts edging as far as they could through the rusted metal of the palace gates, just so they could get a proper look at him.

On their lips was but one name: Shai-Alud. Shai-Alud. That's what they wanted him to be.

No, he thought. That's what I already am to them. Question is, is that what I want to be?

He looked down at his dirt-caked hands and thought of home – of Mari, and her blood covered face that had evaded him just before he'd slipped away. He thought of the crowds who hated him for who he was. He even thought of Steven Barenz – and the question that the fiend had posed to him the day before his world had changed forever:

Could you look at them? Could you stand atop a mountain of corpses and tell them their sacrifice had been worth it?

And he clenched his fists and steeled his soul. When he turned back to Skeever, the rat thought he was possessed by an entirely new human.

"What is it you want, Skeever?" he asked.

The ratman stared at him, dumbstruck for a moment – as though the question were entirely self-explanatory.

"What any warrior of Red-Eye wishes," he replied. "To serve."

"I thought as much," Marcus said with a chuckle, before turning back to the drab outside world.

"We will attend King Shrykul's meeting," he said. "However, I have a few conditions of my own…"

###

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[IronLung]

Note: The following chapters make extensive reference to this map of the North Warrens (Clan Red-Eye territory in the Underkingdom)

King Shrykul watched the columns of troops press through his Castle gates and squeeze themselves into his courtyard. The banners they flew bore the tattered symbols of the Clans he had called for – the bleeding fangs of Clan Marrow and the forked green tail of Clan Glumrot. Both armies numbered probably around 300 rats in total. More than he should have expected. Less than he had hoped for.

He turned back to the round table his servants had dusted off in his war-room and took his seat at its head.

"Thank you for coming today, Brothers."

Across the table from him sat three rats who couldn't have been more oppositional in nature. To his left was Talon-Commander Festicus Rekk – Clan Marrow's consummate warrior sent by King Skylock to command the meagre force he'd responded to the Skittering with. The rat glared at Shrykul with one bulging red eye and one vestigial wound where his other eye should have been. He towered over both the King and the other envoy, even larger in scale than Skeever, and his blood-dipped steel plate reflected the dim light of the torches that glimmered on the walls of the chamber. To look upon him was to look at a spirit of war itself – bold, brazen, barely contained rage – all wrapped up in a big ball of bloody fur. His Clan's Capital – Steelclaw Bay - lay in the West tunnels, where it was said the greatest density of Dwarven strongholds still held out against them. For this reason, Clan Marrow was seen as the vanguard of the ratman kingdom – even their lowliest citizen was sharpened by constant war in a hostile landscape. Their shock troops and cavalry were second to none.

"When the call goes out, Clan Marrow is answering!" Festicus yelped, punctuating his statement with a bang of his great mailed fist on the table. "We are being the first to arrive. We will be the last to leave."

"Admirable attitude you are having, Brother," the rat sitting across from him hissed. "If only you are tempering your sssssuicidal wissshes with faitttth."

Shrykul looked cautiously at the speaker – Talon-Commander and priest Verulex Moulder from Clan Glumrot. The rat was small, hunchbacked, and kept his eyes hidden from sight behind his hooded, fleabitten robe, revealing only his long, polyp-laden snout. The stench that exuded from his form spoke of pestilence beyond that which the other Clans knew of. King Sceptix's Clan was best known for its predilection for brewing toxins and its chemical warfare capabilities. Their capital – Pestelpans – was secluded in the South tunnels where the air one breathed was riddled with poisons. They were a most secretive Clan, most protective of their instruments of infection, and most closely aligned with the church of He-Who-Festers. It was said by some that the rule of King Sceptix was essentially a theocracy with him as its puppet ruler and nothing more. For this reason, Shrykul had always been hesitant to trust the priest-caste of Glumrot. But still, when the Skittering was called, they at least had answered. That was more than he could say for Clan Nightstalker.

Nightstalker…the most elusive Clan of all. Why had they not come?

"I am not needing faith to stick ugly Kobolds with pointy end of my spear!" Festicus roared.

Shrykul interrupted any reply Verulex could have made before he even started. The last thing he needed right now was a sermon – especially one delivered with that irritating lisp his Clansmen maintained.

"What news of our Brothers in the East?"

Both rats bowed their heads and said nothing.

Shrykul nodded. "I see."

He at once turned to the third rat – an albino, red-eyed fellow practically shaking in his chair – and nodded to him.

"You are being welcome here, Sire Gekul," he said, noting how the little rat jumped at King mentioning his name.

Against the paralyzing stares of both the Talon-Commanders that flanked him at the table, Gekul gulped and bowed as low as he could without banging his head.

"M-m-many thanking you, good King Shrykul," he said. "You are always being good to our village."

The tiny rat squirmed in his seat, and Shrykul had to keep from chuckling to himself. He was a mayor amongst giants, merely a representative of the frontier town of Razork on the border between Red-Eye lands in the North and those now owned by the Kobolds of Skegga. But his presence here was necessary. Shrykul had heard of the constant raids the Kobolds had been launching against the village, and the uselessness of Fort Spearclaw in repelling their attacks. Though Silas, when he was still here, had cautioned him to leave the village unmanned and commit his forces elsewhere, Shrykul was not about to leave the rats there without hope. Especially not when the village provided a key staging area for their assault into Skegga's lands.

The King nodded again and sighed deeply before beginning in earnest. He had played for enough time.

"Sssssire," Verulex hissed. "Be pardoning my interjection, but will the Shhhhhai-Alud be joining usssss?"

Shrykul fixed the priest's eager snout with his sharp eyes.

"I – am fearing he shall not be," he said.

He watched their initial reactions to this news with some interest. Interestingly, it seemed it was Verulex who was most put out. Festicus just seemed peeved he wouldn't get the chance to meet a great commander.

"I am not thinking this man a coward!" Festicus growled. "We of Marrow are hearing of his leadership prowess! That is big reason why we are coming with legion of best horned Spinerippers!"

"Indeed," Verulex concurred. "We of Glumrot are mosssst interesssted in thisss man – summoned by a priessssst of He-Who-Festersssss. Thisss isss meaning great thingggssss for ratman Clanssss."

For all the Clans? Shrykul wondered. Or just for yours?

"Be that as it may," he said, dropping his suspicions. "We are having war to fight. If Kobolds are breaking Clan Red-Eye lands then they will be moving West and South next. They will be coming for you."

Both rats inclined their heads.

"So let us be making plans," Festicus said. "What is being the current situation?"

Shrykul nodded to one of his attendants who spread a map of the North Warrens across the round table. As he spread out the folds in its edges, Shrykul began to give the briefing he had been deliberating over all night, when his wife's calls had not been haunting his brain.

"Skegga has reinforced the old Dwarven stronghold of Grindlefecht," he began. "It is being important fortress for trade with the surface. It holds nearest entrance to Jungles of Barakh and thus good position for slave-trading with Yokun."

The rats stiffened at the mention of the humanoid snake-people that lived in the jungles above the North warrens. Their ferocity in battle was matched only by their cunning.

"Grindlefecht is being well defended," Shrykul continued. "High walls packed with stone and clay, solid steel forged by Dwarven craftsmen. Our scouts are reporting that Skegga is finding Dwarven powder-cannon deposits within. Walls will be filled with dwarven death-guns.

In addition, Grindlefecht is being protected by line of three fortresses that form defensive perimeter along North side of Black Gulch – Gromelin, Tarakht, Festigraf. These forts are being of lesser quality. It is seeming that Dwarves knew of Kobolds coming and destroyed most of their more clever defenses. But their proximity to each other is still making them dangerous."

Verulex nodded as the King let the information sink in. "An attack on one will be met with reinforcementssss from the otherssss."

"Along with reserve troops from Grindlefecht," Festicus agreed.

Shrykul nodded. "Kobolds were repelled by Skeever Steelclaw's Pack recently, and a force of 70 Skogsriders were sent to pursue. They were broken at Knifegut Fortress."

"But the Fort is lost," Festicus said. "We are hearing of the tale. Fort is being manned by Gatskeek. Good rat. Solid fighter. It is great tragedy the Shai-Alud could not preserve his life, or that of his Fort."


"But the fort isssss sssstill being of usssssse," Verulex hissed. "Gutmulchersssss now make nessssst there, yessss?"

My, my, how word is traveling, Shrykul mused.

"You are being correct, Brother," he said aloud. "The Fort is still presenting best line of defense from North-East attacks. We can safely be considering Black Gulch virtually impassible. For us, and for them."

"What of Gulchnavel village?" Festicus asked, pointing at the image of the ratman town closest to the edge of the Gulch.

At this, King Shrykul simply shook his head.

"Bastard Kobolds!" Festicus stormed. "Soap-eating water-washers! How are they suddenly being so clever? Kobolds are stupid. Kobolds are warring with each other. Never being united like this. Never caring about common goal. How does this fat toad command them?"

"Crudely asssssked," Verulex smirked. "But, for oncccce, I am being in agreement with my Brother. How doessss thisssss frog give orderrrssssss that Koboldssss lissssten to?"

King Shrykul sat back and shifted his eyes towards the door of the war-room chamber, nodding once to a shadow that now moved to sit with the others.

"By the Unclean One!" Festicus shouted. "Skeever Steelclaw!"

Skeever dismissed his brother's bow with a curt wave of his good hand, and took a seat beside the king.

"Brother," Shrykul said. "Be telling us of what you learned on your mission to Grindlefecht."

All three rats sat forward to listen, all of them having heard only snippets of Skeever's great mission that almost wiped out his entire Pack. Of his surveillance of the enemy capital, flight in the face of certain death, sumoning of the Shai-Alud and, finally, triumphant return to Fleapit to see this war to its end. It had trickled through the armies of both clans who answered the Skittering like a children's whisper-game, each version of the events becoming more bizarre with every telling.

The rat who had wormed his way into legend now sat down beside them. His eyes passed over each one of them individually and then, with a face set as hard as stone, laid both his arms on the table.

"Brothers," he began. "The situation is being worse than we think. But there is one person that will be helping us win this war."

The entire assembly then shifted abruptly as the doors of the war-council chamber were flung open, and a tall, slim figure strutted into the room without King Shrykul's instruction.

If any rat present were facing the monarch of Clan Red-Eye in this moment, they would see he was just as surprised as he was.

"By He-Who-Festerssssss," Verulex whispered.

Calmly, Marcus took a seat beside Skeever and leaned against its hard stone back.

"Well," he said. "You have your General. Now, shall we get down to business?"

###

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[IronLung]

Marcus had to admit that he had never been one for theatre or pomp – those domains were Mari's specialties. But he was enjoying the charge his entrance had sent flying through the rats in the war room.

"Shai-Alud Marcus," King Shrykul began, trying his best, Marcus knew, to conceal his surprise. "Thank you for joining us."

Marcus could sense the eased tension in the ratman-monarch's voice. But there was also an element of anxiety still present, as though the surprise of his entrance had changed the entire proceeding.

Good, Marcus thought. Perhaps its best that I keep you guessing.

"It issss being honor to meet the hero of the Gulch," the most hideous rat at the table hissed like a serpent.

"Hmpf," the other, much larger one huffed. "I am thinking the Shai-Alud would be taller."

Marcus nodded to each of them and got their names. He committed them to memory. These were the Talon-Commanders he'd be shedding blood with, after all.

The time to get a good handle on them would have to come later, however, as the King nodded to Skeever to continue with his briefing.

"Commander Steelclaw was about to be informing this council of the results of his recon mission," he said.

Marcus nodded at that and then gestured for Skeever to go on. King Shrykul noticed.

"We are seeing Grindlefecht defenses firsthand," Skeever explained, pointing to the dark walls of the fortress' exterior on the table-map. "Walls are strong. Cannons are deadly – but there are not being many of them. Skegga is not having good knowledge yet of Dwarven technology."

"That is being good," the humongous Festicus grunted. "Their guns are claiming the lives of many Clan Marrow warriors."

Skeever went on, "We are capturing Kobold prisoners as we move North, Brothers. They are telling us many things – some nonsense, some truth. But more than one of them is telling us that Skegga is holding Prime Putrefact hostage."

"Sssssilas," the cloaked rat called Verulex hissed. "A beacon of He-Who-Festerssss himssselffff. How are they taking him?"

"He was on mission to give blessing to Fort Spearclaw," Skeever explained, pointing out the Westernmost fort on the edge of the map. "Kobold raiders are attacking and taking him. They are torturing him for information on tunnels and armies."

"Ssssilas would not give up information sssssso eassssily," Verulex broke in. "He is being clever rat. Knowledge of the Unclean One isssss great within him."

"Is it possible the Prime Putrefact is betraying us?" Festicus asked.

"Out of the question," Shrykul said. "Silas has always being nothing but a loyal servant of the Queen. It is being more likely he is knowing his importance in staying alive. Both as great member of our faith, and…" The King cast a sidelong glance at Marcus.

And for being my only motivation for helping you, Marcus said.

"Bah!" Festicus roared. "How are we even knowing he is still being alive?"

"Thossssse of Clan Glumrot would be ssssensssing the Putrefact's passssing," Verulex replied. "He livvvessss, Brother."

"Then our war is ending in rescue mission," Festicus said with another bestial grunt. "But if they are knowing we come for them in force, it is likely they will be slaying Silas before we reach their doorstep."

"This is not being likely, Brother," Skeever said. "We are knowing more – Skegga is toad that is totally believing in victory. Right till the end, he will believe he shall be winning, and so shall not be slaying such a valuable tool. He is believing he is new God of Underkingdom. That his Kleansing will lead to his rise to heavens."

"A toad leading a Theocracy," Marcus scoffed openly. "A marriage of form and function."

The rats chuckled with him, but in truth it was the next part of the briefing that truly interested Marcus the most.

"Heresssssy," Verulex whispered. "Thisss, I can be believvvving. But from a horned toad of the ssssurfffacccce? They are not being known for faittttthh, or leadersssship."

"This is being right," Skeever nodded. "Skegga is believing these things because someone is telling him they are true."

All the assembly leaned forward. The question 'who?' didn't even have to be asked.

Skeever cleared his throat.

"The Yokun," he said. "They are keeping Skegga as a slave, and then setting him up as God of all Kobolds. They are giving him orders to slay us, and he is obeying."

A general murmur of alarm went up from all ratman gathering. Marcus, listening intently, tried to gauge the individual reactions of each.

"Those fiendish heretics!" Festicus raged, banging his great mailed fists upon the table that was now beginning to crack on his side.

"You are knowing thisssss for cccertain?"

Skeever nodded gravely. "We are seeing it with our own eyes. At the entrance to the surface jungles, Skegga is meeting with Yokun slavers who are giving him his orders. These orders I am risking my men to gain. These orders are why Skegga is hunting us all the way to Knifegut. Without the Shai-Alud, we would not be handing them to you now."

The rats' eyes all fell upon Marcus for a moment before lighting on the small, dirty parchment Skeever produced from under the table.

Just a little piece of paper. Something so insignificant that had cost the lives of – how many already? Hundreds? Thousands?

Marcus put the thought from his mind. He couldn't afford distractions of conscience.

"For speed," Skeever said. "We shall have Shai-Alud Marcus read this for us."

Marcus nodded at once and took the document, having already seen its contents beforehand. He had insisted that Skeever give it to him and allow him to be the one to deliver to them the news of the grand plot against them all. The plot that they'd need him to break apart piece by piece.

Marcus cleared his throat before beginning.

"'Skegga. Your orders still stand: unify the Kobolds under your Kleansing and harry the ratman Clans. We shall install you in the fortress of Grindlefecht beneath the Southern jungle – use the stronghold as a staging area and as the locus for your worship. Welcome all Kobolds who travel there in holy pilgrimage as warriors that shall enter the heavens with you. Await them, and in the meantime, bolster the Dwarves' defenses. Learn from and exploit their technological prowess. Then, when your numbers swell, launch your holy campaign.

Destroy Clan Red-Eye first through sheer force of arms, then swiftly move West. You shall push back Clan Marrow alongside their Dwarven enemies and then let the little men have their pickings of what is left. In the meantime, fortify the North Warrens and prepare for a direct assault on Clan Glumrot in the East tunnels. We shall supply you with thirty Hellfire Throwers when the time comes. The toxins of the rats shall be consumed in holy fire, and their cities will crumble – for their warriors are weak. In the aftermath, continue fortifying the tunnels against possible counterattacks from Clan Nightstalker, though we doubt they will offer much resistance when the time of your Ascension comes. Like all creatures of the Underkingdom, they shall bow to you in time.

Do these things, as the Patriarchs command.

-T"

Marcus stopped reading and handed the parchment to King Shrykul, who took it with a shaking claw.

The faces of all the rats were now blanched with fear. They had just listened to how their species was to be systematically divided and destroyed over the course of a few months, each of their weaknesses being perfectly exploited to bring their civilizations crumbling down, one by one.

When Marcus had convinced Skeever to let him see the orders ahead of time even he had been impressed. These Yokun seemed well suited to wars by proxy. They had provided Skegga with troops, supplies, a base of operations and a purpose. The general strategy struck Marcus as being remarkably similar to that employed by the USSR during the Angolan Civil War. The only marked difference being that Skegga's prime directive was one of genocide, pure and simple.

But, just like that particular proxy war, this one spoke of tensions far beyond the current theatre. It spoke of a greater war yet to come.

"Why?" Festicus murmured, quietened by the harrowing news. "Why would the Yokun be seeking our extermination? For our raids against their cities?"

Verulex shook his hooded head. "They are already sssstriking back againsssst usssss," he said. "Multiple timessss. They are ssssseing ussss assss a mere nuisssscence. They are thinking we fight amongsssst ourssssselvessss before posssing threat to them on sssssurfacccce."

"But when your back is turned to your enemy, that's when you have to start caring about them," Marcus said, eyeing Shrykul.

The King sighed and leveled his gaze at the rat assembly. "You are knowing that we are being so hampered by Kobold war that we are not raiding the surface in months. Yokun are being free to pursue their true goal without worry."

"Which is?" Festicus asked.

Shrykul sat upright as he delivered his answer. "War, Brothers. War."

The King let his words sink in, eyes sweeping the table as the gravity of the situation only now began to sink into each warrior before him. Marcus could tell the King bore this heavy load well – better than he would have expected him to. He also knew that Shrykul could fill in the gaps in Marcus's knowledge. He had also assumed these snake-people were making war on the surface. But against who, he couldn't be sure.

"For the past year," Shrykul continued. "The Yokun are making war against human Empire of Marxon II. Their conflict is boiling over all of Southern Thea, and the snakes forces are stretching thin. They are thinking to keep us in check so they can be fully committing their armies to war effort. This is why they are installing Skegga to lead Kobolds against us."

"So we are being just toys," Festicus seethed. "Nothing more than distraction!"

"The sssssnakes are clever," Verulex said. "They are knowing we would ssssseize opportunity to raid sssssurfaccce and be taking advantage of war. They are sssstriking at usssss becausssse they expect worsssst of usssss."

"It's worse than that," Marcus chimed in, leaning forward now, becoming more interested by the second as he let his military mind race towards what he saw as inevitable conclusions. "The minute they know your people have been destroyed, they'll call upon Skegga to join them in their conquest on the surface."

"How can you be sure?" Festicus asked. "You must be forgiving me, Shai-Alud, but you are not being of Yokun blood. You can not be knowing what they wish."

At this, Marcus simply smiled. "It's the job of a General to think ahead – to put himself in the enemy commander's frame of mind. Besides, it's what I would do."

He looked down at the map and swept his hand across it.

"The way I see it," he said. "You are fighting a war here not only for the survival of your own species, but that of every other species in this world."

He let that sink in. Several inconvenient realities had dawned on these rats in the last hour or so, and with every new revelation their small brains swelled with the agony of knowing how close they were, right now, to total annihilation."

"If the Nightstalkerssss are knowing," Verulex hissed. "If we are sending message to King Naxus…"

"You are not knowing my Brother King well," Shrykul scoffed. "We'd be spending a week at best just trying to find his lair in those Blackfog-infested tunnels down South. No – we must be dealing with this threat here and now. There can be no idleness. There can be no turning back."

"But how are we to beat them?" Festicus hummed. "You are saying so yourself – Knifegut fort is being fallen. It was being best staging area for attacks on North."

"I am agreeing," King Shrykul said. "That is why we will be needing another plan."

And, without even returning their gazes, Marcus knew all those beady little eyes had suddenly fallen on him.

He cracked his neck and smiled thinly in the dark.

"I guess that's where I come in."

###

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[IronLung]

"Okay," Marcus began. "Skeever has run me through the basics of your Northern tunnel geography. Here's how I see things."

Marcus stood up and began pointing out various locations on the dark paper map as he mentioned them, making a few extra doodles with his quill pen as necessary to illustrate the finer points of his battle plan.

"Your main advantage is this chasm itself. Skegga would lose far more men than he would gain in a long, protracted assault on this place's reinforced position. Without any kind of aerial support, he would have a tough time taking Fleapit itself."

"So you're saying we're safe?" Feticus asked.

"Not exactly," Marcus replied. "I think Skegga's strategy lies more in bleeding you out. It would make sense – the destruction of this village here, Gulchnavel…I'm assuming it served some kind of economic purpose?"

Shrykul nodded. "It is being main source of Gulch fish for Clan."

Marcus had expected as much. "If I was him, I'd be pushing against this village here," he said, circling the small form of Razork on the West corridor of the Warrens. "Skegga has the advantage of being able to quickly reinforce his men from his defensive line of forts on the other side of the Black Gulch border. This allows him to launch quick raids that could probably hamper this village, which would lead to your eventual encirclement."

"T-that's it!" a new voice squeaked. "That's exactly what is – what is being…"

The timid albino rat sank back in his chair almost as soon as he raised his voice. The other rats had practically forgot he was there.


"Brothers," King Shrykul said. "Be allowing me to introduce Ricket. He is being Mayor of Razork village."

Marcus nodded to the timid little creature, smirking a little at his shaking body. This was evidently not a rat bred for combat.

"Speak freely, Ricket," Shrykul told the little guy.

"I – y-yes, Sire," he squeaked. "I am being in agreement with Sire Marcus. We are having suffered for weeks. Kobolds are – how does the Shai-Alud say it? Bleeding us dry."

"Which is exactly why you are being here," Shrykul said with a smile. "We will not be letting your village fall. You are having our greatest farmlands and Glitterpak wranglers."

Marcus thought about what nutritional value these rats extracted from those bloated beasts that dominated the skies above their home. If his intuition was correct, the floating gas bulbs had a very different application.

Verulex, however, urged him on.

"What isssss thisssss about enccccirclement, Ssssshai-Alud?"

"Skegga means to back you into a corner," he replied. "He is cutting off your supply chains one by one and starving you out. He doesn't need to attack Fleapit directly – and Knifegut's current state means he now won't even try."

"But then wh – why does he not simply destroy our village, Sire Marcus? He is only stealing some of our meat, and picking off some of our rats."

Marcus pointed out the village of Razork and circled it neatly. "Skegga probably knows our only recourse is to move troops through Razork. He wants to provoke us into massing our forces there so he can funnel us into this area between the forts of Gromelin and Tarakht. King Shrykul, this looks like a mountainous region."

The King nodded slowly. "Razor Ridge. It is being called throat of the fat-beards. Two stone cliffs on either side look into the ridge below. It is being only pass into Dwarf lands."

"In other words," Marcus continued. "A chokepoint. He wants us to commit our forces there – bait us into a frontal assault and then, with reinforcements from his line of fortresses, finish us while we have no room to maneuver."

"He is thinking we are fools!" Festicus screeched.

"He is being right," Shrykul said. "We should have been pushing back against the Dwarves years ago. Now, we are paying the price."

"But Ssshai Alud," Verulex asked. "Sssssssurely you are having alternative plan?"

The rats listened intently, leaning forward as much as their stiff chairs allowed them to.

"Nope," Marcus said simply. "I intend to do exactly as Boss Skegga wishes."

The Rats glared at him, and slowly the assembly's eyes turned to the King.

"I am thinking the Shai-Alud was being a hero, Sire Shrykul. Not a butcher."

Marcus ignored the quip from Festicus, and began scribbling on the map again.

"Broadly speaking," he said. "There are two conditions that, once met, signal the inevitable end to any war. One: the enemy no longer has the capacity to move. This is a condition Skegga hopes to achieve. If we give him any more time, he will achieve it."

The Ratmen waited. Marcus let them.

"And the sssssecond condition?" Verulex hissed.

Marcus smirked. "One combatant establishes aerial superiority over the other."

Amidst the sea of their blinking eyes, Marcus then began another series of doodles which were focused on the village of Razork, the ruins of Gulchnavel village and the twin forts of Taracht and Gromelin that lay on the opposite side of the Black Gulch.

He explained his plan in broad strokes, going through the rationale behind his hypothesis, and the practical application his theory held if it was correct. Then, he explained exactly how they could turn the tide of this war, ending with the stipulation that they'd have to act quickly.

When he finished crossing out both depictions of the twin forts, he put his quill down and sat back. Waiting. Observing the incredulous faces of all the ratmen assembled.

Slowly, he began to see the lights of bloodlust and conquest glaring in their eyes, spilling from their flaring nostrils.

"Thissssss isssss a mosssst devioussss plan," Verulex said. "I am not believing the Sssssshai-Alud would truly have had a Rat'sssss sssssoul within him…"

"How…" Festicus stumbled, looking from Rat to snarling Rat. "H-how do we know this is possible?"

The Rats looked towards the small form of Ricket who, now, had ceased shaking entirely. Now he sat rigid, his eyes glued to Marcus's markings on the map.

"I – I suppose…" he fumbled. "That is – we – we have never tried…we have only ever needed…"

"We would still be having the problem of Skegga's army," Shrykul said. "Any engagement at Razor Ride would be costing us much, even if we were able to be cutting off Skegga's reinforcements so…completely."

On this, Marcus decided to address everyone.

"You will all have noticed the Kobold auxiliaries outside," Marcus said, meeting their disgusted stares head on. "Their leader – Ix – has told me much of how your enemy thinks. You think them simple-minded, and utterly without the concept of loyalty. But, in truth, they are loyal to one thing and one thing alone: power. As soon as they doubt the strength of their God, they will turn tail and flee the field. The battle will become little more than a cleanup operation. And there's nothing better than death from above to call into question the Divinity of a loving God."

Festicus, for the first time since they had met, actually smiled at Marcus, showing all his jagged teeth in the process. The notion of slaughtering the Kobolds was tantalizing enough for him. Slaughtering them once they'd abandoned all hope? That really got his Clan Marrow heart racing.

Verulex, as befitted his nature, stayed quiet. The Mayor seemed totally out of it, and King Shrykul stood with his hands cupped over his nose, considering the possibility that all the things Marcus said might actually be true.

It was now or never, then. He held their entire future in his hands. He wasn't going to waste his words this time.

"King Shrykul," he said. "I request permission to travel to the village of Razork with a small detachment as soon as possible to verify my theory. If this works, you could be sitting on the greatest strategic advantage your species has ever known."

The King was sitting silently, eyes closed, head far back in his seat.

Skeever shifted beside him. He had hated the idea when Marcus had revealed his hunch to him. Good, honorable Skeever didn't believing in deception, it seemed.

But honesty and honor weren't how you won wars. The Rat would either learn that, or perish. He'd have to make the choice.

The King turned to face him, looking at the Shai-Alud of legend with his dark, weary eyes.

"But you want something in return, Sire Marcus," he said. "Don't you?"

Marcus didn't hesitate, even as the other rats had perked up their furry ears with interest.

"I have two conditions for my helping you," he said.

Shrykul narrowed his eyes but never let his smile drop once.

"This is ridiculous!" Festicus stammered. "No human can be making demands of a King of our –"

"Be holding your tongue, sssssoldier of Marrow," Verulex broke in. "Thisssss isssss being no ordinary human."

Shrykul barely seemed to hear any of their verbal sparring.

"Name them," he said.

"First, when we retrieve the Prime Putrefact, you will command him to send me home immediately, releasing me from your service and any further commitment to your cause."

Shrykul didn't move a muscle. He didn't even blink. And Marcus, feeling the eyes of the rest of the audience on him, fought against the notion that he'd just made a huge mistake.

But then the narrow beads of the Ratman king settled, and he gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

"I am supposing it cannot be helped," he said. "The Shai-Alud is valuing his past more than his present or his future. He could be a prophet among us, but does not care."

Marcus ignored the little part of his brain that agreed.

"You wished for honesty, King Shrykul," he said. "I am giving it to you."

The Ratman monarch huffed. "Before I am agreeing, in front of my council, I would hear your second condition."

At this, Marcus smiled, casting a sidelong eye at Skeever.

"Skeever-Steelclaw shall take command of the vanguard force that rides out with me," he said. "Furthermore, he shall act as my personal bodyguard."

Skeever's eyes flared with flame as he started to comprehend what Marcus had just said.

"W-what?"

Marcus watched Shrykul's lips curl into a macabre smile.

"S-sire," Skeever railed. "My King – surely you cannot be considering this?"

"You once promised to be serving me and my realm, Skeever-Steelclaw," Shrykul replied, still with his eyes glued to Marcus's. "Are you forgetting this?"

"No – n – no, Sire, of course, but –"

"Then your realm is calling, my soldier. Will you deny it?"

Skeever cast a fierce look at Marcus that said, You kept this from me.

And, Marcus, with the tiniest shrug of his shoulder, cast a look back that replied, Of course I did.

Meanwhile, the rest of the room waited on the King of Clan Red-Eye's determination. Every rat present knew Shrykul. They knew of his valor in battle as a young rat. They knew of the valiant sacrifice he made in laying with the Queen of his Clan, and they knew that, with a mere twist of his whiskers, he could flay this human's skin from his bones and see what a Shai-Alud was really made of.

But what they didn't know – or had never tried to see – was the almost childish joy that erupted from him as he laughed before he gave his answer.

"Done," he said. "Festicus – be getting this man 70 of your finest cavalry. He is riding out tonight."

###

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[IronLung]

The journey to Razork was mercifully uneventful.

Well, uneventful with the exception of Skeever staring daggers at him for just about the entire duration. But then, Marcus had bigger issues to worry about.

He nudged his Spinegrinder with his foot lightly to try and slow the creature down and was met with nothing but a snap of its long, alligator-like jaws in response. He felt like he was going to vomit for the last half-hour since they'd left Fleapit.

"Now, to ride Spinegrinder is not being so hard," Festicus had told him in the palace courtyard in the wake of the strategy meeting. "Are you ever riding horse before?"

"My girlfriend-eh-queen, she used to ride. I picked up a few pointers from her."

Festicus had looked at him with stark shock. "Your queen is riding horse where you come from?" he asked. "The horses of your fellow spirits must be strong to be carrying such heavy load."

Don't let her hear you saying that, Marcus thought. Warrior-rat or no, she'd take you on.

The creature the Clan Marrow commander presented to Marcus was one that was like a horse only in theory. The thing appeared to be a cross between a spined velociraptor from prehistory and an Austrian Allegator. It's eyes were diamond-slits of crimson framed by the wrinkled skin that hung from its armored hide. The long, thin strands that fell from the back of its angular head lurched forward and smeared across Marcus's face, the thing's fanged mouth salivating as Marcus's coughed and moved away.

"He is liking you," Festicus said with an approving grunt. "Principle of riding the Spinegrinder is similar to horse. Hold reigns, kick when it goes too slow."

"Is that really that much of a –"

Before Marcus was finished Festicus had already picked him up and placed him on the shabby saddle affixed to the creature's back.

The thing screeched with fury, its powerful legs kicking against the ground and tearing at the cobbled courtyard.

"Woah!" Festicus roared. "Be calm, beast!"

The hulking rat administered a jab at the thing's ribs. It shook its body violently in response, straightening up and eyeing the ratman with hate.

Meanwhile, Marcus clung onto its spiny neck for dear life.

"He is understanding," the great rat told him. "Now you are being true rider, and the legends will be speaking of how the Shai-Alud rode into battle on a Spineripper of Clan Marrow!"

When Marcus and the rest of his entourage had then shot off out the palace gates and thundered their way down the city streets, Marcus was forced to acknowledge two things:

The ratmen cavalry was clearly superior to the Kobold's bulbous-ball Skogs. He could only imagine how effective a direct cavalry charge from a squad of them could be.
His gag reflexes were still very much intact in this new world of Thea.

Presently, he had managed to suppress his vomit-instincts enough to survey the surrounding cavern as they passed through the ruined watchtowers of dwarven architecture and ratman outposts. The Western reaches of Clan Red-Eye's Warrens were much wider, open spaces than he had experienced in the wake of his flight from Black Gulch. Down here he could barely even see the roof of the cave system – the twinkling of the stalactites above were more like stars amidst an onyx sky.

Behind him trudged his men – seventy strong warriors of Clan Marrow plus Skeever, Deekius (of course) and Ix, the latter of which had pleaded to allow Marcus and his men the chance to join him on this expedition.

"Where Marcus goes, we go," the little red demon had told him before they left. "We are not fit to stay in ratman city."

Marcus had cocked an eyebrow at the little guy. "You don't fear being on the frontlines of this conflict?"

Ix shook his tiny skull. "We are being safer out there than we would be here."

Marcus had understood. The distrusting stares of the ratmen could be abated only with Marcus present to dissuade them to acting on their old hatred. As much as he hated to admit it, the little guy was probably right, and he hadn't shown himself to be a dishonest little critter so far. In any case, Ix assured him that he and his men were experienced in mounted combat using their slings in raids – and there was no more effective unit for harrying and baiting large columns of enemies in an open field than mounted archers. Marcus needed all the allies he could get if he was going to make a proper fighting force of these rats.

On that note…

Marcus kicked his Spineripper lightly to coerce it over to Skeever's position at the head of their cavalry column. The creature buckled, slapped its sinuous, armored tail against his leg, but ultimately obeyed the command.

Skeever barely looked at him as he approached.

"Shai-Alud," he said. "We are arriving at Rokash in 15 minutes."

"We've made good time," Marcus replied.

Silence.

More silence.

"Skeever."

No reply.

"I know you are angry with me."

The ratman's single useable arm trembled slightly on the reigns on his mount.

"You would wish me to be speaking plainly?"

"Always," Marcus replied. "If there's anyone I know I can count on, its –"

"You have debased me!"

Marcus almost fell from his Spineripper's saddle, such was the force of Skeever's outburst.

"Why," he said. "Why are you making me Talon-Commander? I am useless on battlefield, now. I am being a cripple. A dumb, idiot cripple."

Marcus balked at the statement. "I never expected such a display of self-pity from you, Skeever. Are you not still the warrior I met in the North tunnels."

The rat said nothing, but his sharp eyes met Marcus's in that moment. He was waiting for a rationale.

Alright Marcus, you sonofabitch. You weren't any good at this in life – you bowed before people who wanted nothing more than for you to shut up. Now, here's someone who wants you to talk. Don't fuck it up.

"You remember what you told me before the meeting?" he asked. "About the one thing you want in life?"

Skeever nodded slowly as the craggy rocks of the underground disappeared beneath the feet of their mounts.

"You told me you wanted to serve," Marcus said. "But who, Skeever? Your king, your God, or your people?"

"There is being no difference," he replied. "Shrykul and Red-Eye are being one and the same."

"Really?" Marcus asked. "Because it seems to me that you were certain Shrykul was going to have you stripped of your duties and you hated it. It also seems to me that you couldn't give a shit about He-Who-Festers or his priests."

"Be careful, Sire Marcus," Skeever murmured. "You are speaking heresy."

"What will you do, Skeever? Kill me?"

When no reply was forthcoming, Marcus seized his advantage.

"But there's something else I see in you, Skeever, and that's that you do genuinely care for the men under your command. I saw how you wept for Gatskeek, in your own way, and I saw how you looked at the rats of your homeland when you returned. You care about your people, Skeever, and that is what makes a great commander. Not loyalty to the state, or some ethereal deity, but loyalty to your Brothers."

Skeever sagged, rubbing his lame arm against his cheek to scratch away some fleas, and seemed to settle into his riding. Marcus couldn't tell from this angle, but he felt there was a distinct shine in the ratman's eyes – the glint of pride that had possibly never been recognized by anyone else.

So, now was the time to go for broke.

"I need someone I can trust, Skeever," Marcus said.

He let the question implicit in that statement hang for a while, filling the dead air between them with silent expectation.

"If you are putting my warriors first above all else," the ratman finally replied. "Then you can be having my trust, Sire Marcus. But if you are ever seeking to betray us, I can not be standing with you."

Marcus smirked at the little rat as the rooftops of Razork finally came into view.
"I couldn't ask for a fairer deal," he said.

…

Razork was a tiny settlement built at the very edge of the Red-Eye Warrens. A collection of stick and mud huts, small shrine covered in rotting bone-marrow, and a stout keep at the town's far edge filled Marcus's sight as he and his riders dismounted. As he focused his vision he could pick out the pock marks of arrow and claws on the walls of each house – signs of the heavy raiding activity the ratmen had been experiencing here.

The villagers emerged from their ramshackle houses and whispered in hushed tones of the Shai-Alud and his men – sharing the stories of victory they'd no doubt heard echo through the tunnels of their homeland. Yet Marcus beheld many who simply ignored him and went about their business. Mostly, this business was preparing the dead for consumption.

But what interested Marcus the most was the farmlands that spread out from the town's western perimeter. Not a traditional pasture by any means – these fields contained several bloated, spiky creatures shackled to the ground with chains, being force-fed fungal spores collected from the stalactites above to artificially increase their weight.

Glitterpaks.

The albino mayor, practically puking up his guts beside his chuckling Spineripper, was the first person to address the downtrodden people of his town.

"Residents of Razork!" he squeaked as he came to stand in front of Marcus, coming up only to the human's shinbone. "I am knowing how we suffer – your mayor Gekul is hearing your cries in the night! He is bringing the Shai-Alud here to save you and the rest of our people!"

Marcus caught Skeever's bored eyeroll from out the corner of his vision. He couldn't help but smile.

The villagers weren't exactly inspired. They barely even paid their venerable leader any mind. Their ears perked up and then simply dropped down again as they continued with the drudgery of their lives.

"I – I am apologizing, Shai-Alud," Gekul murmured as he turned sheepishly around. "We are being attacked much these last months. We are suffering. Their spirits are being low."

Marcus stood tall, hands clasped behind his back as he looked over the beleaguered hamlet and then turned back to his men behind him.

"Well then," he said. "Let's give them something to hope for. Marrow rats!" he called. "Make camp here. Deekius!"
The rat priest shambled up to him, his maggot-ridden staff glowing with restored energy.

"I need you to take a team to fort Spearclaw nearby," Marcus said. "We need an assessment of how many able-bodied rats remain up there."

The rat-priest seemed put-out in not being able to accompany the prophet of his faith, but he knew better than to quibble at this point.

"It will be done, Sire," he replied.

The Shai-Alud then turned to his Kobold auxiliary commander who could barely been seen over the head of his Spineripper.

"Ix, I need you to scout ahead and report on any incoming hostiles," he said. "As I understand it, a raid could be coming at any moment."

"Ix hears. Ix goes."

"Now," Marcus said as he turned to Gekul. "Let's see your armory, Mr Mayor."

As Skeever smirked beside him, Gekul stammered, "A-a-armory, Sire? We are but a simple village. We are having no weapons. We –"

"Relax, Gekul," Marcus said. "You have more weapons here than you think."

Marcus turned his face to the lines of Glitterpak farms that dominated the outskirts of the town. The Kobolds had barely struck them – every fence post and bloated, puffing creature was still there, at least 40 of them rolling around.

"A-are you sure about this, Sire?" Gekul asked.

"Nope," Marcus replied as he followed the mayor down to the first of the farmsteads. "But at the very least, I'll give your villagers a show they won't forget."

###

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[IronLung]

-Grindlefecht, Boss Skegga's Stronghold-

Silas sat in the dark, illuminated by only the single, dim light of a gleaming candle.

Beneath the window of his chambers in the high tower of Grindlefecht, he watched the Kobolds go about their daily routines. Snapping at each other, jumping off the walls, trying to repair the dwarf cannons and losing their feeble limbs in the process. With the help of a few prisoners he'd managed to 'persuade', they had managed to get at least four of the great cannons back in service. Still, that amounted to only 45% of the fortress' effective strength. And they would be needing those cannons, soon.

The dwarf had not returned. The Shai-Alud had made it to Fleapit. Of that, Silas was certain. And that meant he was no ordinary human. He had not only won every engagement thus far, but he had won the trust of the ratmen of Red-Eye. It would not be long before the Skittering was called.

"And he shall lead them," Silas said aloud, slipping out of his Ratman accent. "Because he is strong in the ways of the battlefield. But he does not know the politics of this world. In time, Shrykul will betray him. They will use him as a slave to push against the surface."

The old Prime Putrefact leaned back, staring at the dank ceiling of this stone dwarven room.

"Shrykul…you are not wise in the ways of this world. You do not know how best to use the talents of a human like this one. You do not know what it means to be patient."

Silas heard the door creak open behind him, and the sounds of wet slapping against the floor.

But I have learned, he thought as he turned. Patience is the best weapon our kind has. Patience…and pressure.

Two Kobolds stood before him with a wriggling, bloody human in their arms. A male – naked, his face wet with tears and snot. They threw the pathetic thing before Silas and saluted him graciously.

"We bring this one for you, good Silas!" one of the Kobolds shrieked. "Just as you said! We are finding him hiding on surface from Yokun slavers, yes-yes! He is crying like baby."

Silas looked down at the crumpled creature and cringed to see his malnourished, dirt-caked body writhe on the ground. Even for a ratman, it was a pitiable sight.

"Oh, oh please!" the human cried. "You – you must help me!"

Silas scratched his chin, reminding himself to slip back into his ratman dialect. "What is being your name, human man?"

The frail creature coughed out his answer, "S-S-Steven! Steven Barenz!"

Silas sat back, his mind racing.

"I-please! You seem to have a good grasp of the English language. Please, I – oh – I – I have suffered such indignities! It's too much. It's too – it's too much! It's not fair!"

"Life is often being so, human man," Silas said as the twin Kobolds chuckled beside him. "Tell me, where are you coming from?"

Steven tried to still his bony, shaking hands. "E-earth!" he shouted. "I – first I was at a rally, and then – then – Oh, oh God! Please –"

Silas raised a single, gnarled finger up to silence the human, and his command was punctuated by a swift scratch from the Kobold standing beside the feeble being. As he fell to the ground again, Silas pondered.

So, there are more of them, he thought. I suspected as much. The reports of the Yokun to Skegga are more revealing than those cunning serpents think, and the old toad's lack of literacy doesn't aid his understanding of anything they write. A 'special human' prisoner was certainly higher praise than they would bestow upon a vassal of Emperor Marxon. Did that then mean that the Emperor himself might have captured one of these 'Shai-Alud's' for himself?

Was that why his Empire had embarked upon its devastating war against the Yokun above?

"Be telling me, human man," Silas asked. "What was being your profession in your life?"

Steven's baby-blue, bloodshot eyes lit up.

"I – I was a man of faith," he said. "An envoy of the Church of Unification. I preached truth to all who would hear me. I – we – we worked towards an era of peace. I am a man of peace," he said with a stuttered mixture of pain and joy. "That's all! That's all I ever wanted to be. That's all I –"

The man silenced himself this time as he picked out the sly, devious smile that was emerging on the ratman's thin lips.

"A man of faith?" Silas said. "This is being quaint. I am knowing what men of faith are good for. I am knowing exactly how one of your kind shall be serving us."


***


-Razork Village, Clan Red-Eye Territory-

The fields of Razork village stretched out before Marcus – row upon row of flatland surrounded by craggy stones and populated with puffing Glitterpaks being reared for meat.

"You actually eat these things?" Marcus asked Gekul, as they stopped by the wooden fence of one such enclosure and he inspected the stone-skin of the gas-exuding creature.

"I-indeed, Sire Marcus. Muscle and tendon of Glitterpak is being good delicacy. Hide is also being used to make armor."

Marcus sniffed the air. "You aren't afraid of these noxious gasses?"

"We are not fearing gas," Skeever chimed in beside him. "Our stomachs are being strong. Stronger than any in Thea."

Of course, Marcus thought with another sniff of the black clouds that seeped out of every pore in the Glitterpaks' bodies. Their innate resistance to disease would probably lead them to believe these gases were nothing more than flavoring. But if I'm right…

Marcus's nose twitched as he took in the scent.

He knew now he was wrong. He'd assumed the black clouds to be Carbon Dioxide, but the scent…no. If his nose could still be trusted in this dark new realm, this was something else entirely.

Gekul called over one of the raggedy-clothed rats poking at the Glitterpak's skin.

"This is being Tekri, Sire Marcus," the mayor said. "He is chief Glitterpack wrangler."

The tough-looking rat spat at his feet by way of greeting.

"Are you truly being Shai-Alud?" he asked Marcus.

The latter nodded slowly. "That's what they tell me."

"Hmpf," the rat-farmer replied. "You are being welcome on farm, but I am not treating you different from others. Here, Tekri is King, and I am supposing mayor has brought you here to take young Glitterpaks away to be delivered to Fleapit early. I am telling you the same thing I told him: these are still but infants. Their meat-yield will be too low."

"When the next raid is coming through…" Gekul murmured.

"We will be fighting," Tekri replied, a few of his fellow wranglers nodding along with him. "We will be defending home and doing our jobs. Be telling King Shrykul this."

Skeever tensed up, his hand flying to the hilt of his scimitar. But Marcus stepped in front of him, passing by Gekul massively to stand before the head-wrangler.

"What if I told you that it is not meat we have come for," Marcus said. "But essential war assets."

Tekri blinked up at him, and before he could even respond Marcus continued:

"I believe all villages of Clan Red-Eye are obligated to provide military aid when a representative of the King requests it. Or am I wrong, Mayor Gekul?"

Gekul twitched his white nose and nodded sheepishly, trying to avoid Tekri's fiery stare.

"N-no, Sire Marcus. You are being ri-"

"This is being ridiculous!" Tekri said. "Our village is dying. If you are taking us, we are losing everything."

"I don't intend on taking you or the people here anywhere," Marcus said.

Tekris was taken aback. "Then…"

The eyes of both rat and man trailed towards the chained Glitterpaks.

"Shai-Alud," Tekris growled. "Maybe you are not being in our lands long, but Glitterpak is dumb, useless creature, good only to be consumed."

"I disagree," Marcus said as he jumped the fence and walked towards the first subject of his experiment that, he admitted to himself, was a little insane. "In fact, you might just have been growing the greatest weapon against Boss Skegga and his Kobolds in the entire Ratman kingdom."

Tekris balked at the statement, turning to see if his brothers were appropriately dismayed by this brash human. To his surprise, both mayor Gekul and Talon-Commander Skeever stood almost transfixed by this Shai-Alud's every word.

"Wrangler Tekris," he suddenly said. "You have done more to help your nation than you might think. In fact, when this is all over, it will be your name that I give to the Queen personally."

"M…my name?" the old farmer whispered.

"But first," Marcus said. "I'm going to have to ask your forgiveness. Because many of these beasts you have reared will have to die soon."

Tekris bristled and then spat again. "I am not caring about this!" he cried. "Glitterpaks die anyway. They are mindless, dumb beasts."

"I wouldn't be so harsh on them," Marcus said as he rubbed the stone-skin of one of the creatures. "This little guy's sacrifice might just save your entire race."

###

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