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FG: Chapter 69
🕑 Added 2024-06-05 14:30:02 +0000 UTCWhen Marcus opened his tent flap and breathed in the smog of the Underkingdom, he wasted no time in getting right back into where the fighting would be thickest.
It would be better than trying to justify all this, and it would take his mind off of Skeever’s words which, like it or not, were ruminating in the melting pot of his consciousness.
It seemed his primary commanders had assembled to meet him. There was Ix, resplendent in his newly pilfered dwarven armor and arquebus, eyes trained on the still shimmering walls of Grindlefecht in the far distance. Deekius stood beside him, mumbling of tremors he could feel in the earth, fluctuations of the Gloomraav that bode ill for what was to come.
What else is new? Marcus thought.
“What’s our status?” he barked over the din of yet another dual blast from their twelve pounders.
Skeever slowly ambled behind him to meet his fellows, seeing the looks of concern plastered across their faces.
“No-no effect on big walls, Sire,” Ix said. “Cannons cannot be break-breaking dwarven fortifications. Golden towers not tumble down so easy. Our loaders are tire-tired.”
“Of course they are,” Marcus nodded. “They’ve been at it all night. Send word that they are to cease their bombardment swiftly. If we haven’t put a dent in the walls yet, we’re not going to by conventional means. This siege will require boots on the ground. Or, to be more exact, claws.”
Ix sniggered while Deekius shuffled to his Shai-Alud’s side.
“There is being something else,” he said.
Marcus followed his shaking finger as he pointed across the stretch of decimated Kobold houses and farmlands that lay beyond their position. In the far distance, thin strips of crimson moved like bloody snakes towards the open gates of Grindlefecht. It took Marcus a few moments before he realized what he was looking at.
“Kobolds…”
“Refugees, Sire,” Deekius agreed. “They are starting to move in the last few hours. It is seeming that neighboring villages are being welcomed into Grindlefecht for a final mustering against us.”
“Idiots,” Skeever sniffed. “Even now they are not knowing that they don’t have a chance.”
In the next instance, Marcus caught the angered look Ix shot towards the ratman commander. Such a look would normally have resulted in the little Yip’s head being torn from his neck, but Skeever merely shrugged by way of apology.
“They are throwing their lot in with Skegga even till the end,” Deekius wheezed. “It will be difficult now to be taking Grindlefecht without spilling the blood of those Kobolds who are still remaining loyal.”
They watched the line of refugees disappear into the gleaming monument to excess and despair that the fat toad-servant of the Yokun had built, leaving their homes either burning or in ruins. It seemed there had been fighting among them, after all. But it was just as Deekius said, Marcus realized: at this point, the lines of loyalty had been drawn.
All that remains, he thought as he looked towards Ix. Is to see where we stand, here…
The Kobold could barely tear himself away from the sight of his people abandoning reason beyond them.
“Ix,” Marcus said. “I cannot force you, or any of your species who walk among us, to slaughter your own kind.”
As both ratmen made to protest, the Yip turned abruptly and stared up at his Shai-Alud.
“You’ve always had a choice,” he continued. “Whether to join us or to leave. I have not forced a single act upon you. When we walked the walls of Knifegut, all those months ago, we spoke of power, and of how pivotal it is to your culture. I ask you now, Head-Yip, will you follow me one final time?”
The Kobold blinked his bulbous eyes and scratched his armpits hastily, his face half-turned towards those from villages he once called brother and sister. Infant Yips that would never know the promise of the Great Leap, or learn the dances of victory and love on a night dimly lit by stuttering firelight.
Then he looked down at the silver rifle in his claws, and without even thinking about it, his hands tightened round its barrel.
“I follow-follow you and only you, now,” he said, simply. “Kobold is Kobold, ratman is ratman, but army of Shai-Alud Marcus is a family stronger than any of the dark-dark tunnels. Skegga says we must jump alone. You say we can jump together. Only together do we reach the high-high heights. Any Kobolds who can not see this are not worth-worth your mercy, Sire. Ix will show-show them how a real Yip leaps.”
“You are speaking well for one of your kind,” Deekius said affectionately.
“As are you-you, magic ratman,” Ix nodded.
Marcus couldn’t help it. To look upon the three of them was akin to looking at a series of once-furious pets that were no longer at each other’s throats.
“The same goes for the rest of the Kobolds that follow us,” Marcus told Skeever. “Gather the men, I will address them all.”
Skeever’s eyebrow raised. “All of them, Sire?”
“All of them,” Marcus confirmed. “This is the curtain call. We rush Grindlefecht, breach its walls, and take the stronghold by force.”
“Would it not be prudent to be waiting for Glitterpak reinforcements?” Skeever asked. “I am hearing from mayor Tekal that there could be a pack of at least five dozen shipped here within a tenday. We could be prolonging our siege until they -”
“No,” Marcus interrupted, not even realizing he had done so until he saw Skeever’s confused glare from out the corner of his eyes. “I…no,” he repeated. “We go in now. I’ve wasted enough of these warriors’ short lives on a march towards this den of shit. I’m not going to wait till their blood runs cold. We proceed with the plan: the walls are battered enough that the claws of our Spinerippers will give our cavalry enough of a footing to make it to the battlements and let down the gatehouse for us. We’ll swarm them. We’ll take the place by force, sparing only those who surrender to us willingly. I’ve given Skegga and those loyal to him enough chances. If they wish to make this golden monument their graves, then so be it.”
Skeever bowed low, deferent and dutiful. “Very well, Sire. I shall be gathering the men.”
Marcus was left standing beside his two faithful lieutenants, each one looking at the place that could easily become their grave, seeing the end of a path they had been walking all their lives.
“It is as it began,” Ix said. “When Boss Skegga is leading our army against the wall-walls, sending thousands of us to death-death…so many bodies we could climb-climb them over the walls in the end.”
Marcus noticed the Yip clenching his claws again. Retribution was on his mind. An emotion shared by every ratman currently assembling for their final strike.
“A more glorious finale to our struggle…I could not be asking for,” Deekius said with a warm sniff. “The histories shall be remembering this day. The day the Underkingdom is fighting as one against a common foe.”
Marcus listened to them both, his head spinning with thoughts of home. Here he was, closer than he ever had been before, staring at the last obstacle in his way before he could see natural light again. It would not be the end of his journey, but it was an ending of sorts. A final punctuation in this chapter of his life that he hoped, to any Gods that were listening, would be over soon.
He’d been pushing. He’d been driving those who walked behind him forward in the past week with more tenacity than care for their wellbeing. He’d been pushing himself, too, losing sleep to dreams of explosions and stalactites and the teeth of munching, rotten Queens…one way or another, he was leaving this place. And he wasn’t looking back.
Sorry, Skeever, but I’m just not the man to build your empire.
He looked towards the golden walls of his final hurdle before turning away to address his waiting forces.
Skegga, he couldn’t help but wonder. What are you doing in there?
…
-Grindlefecht, Good-Boss Silas’ stronghold-
To look upon them was to look upon a sea of the devout.
He remembered faces that had looked back at him with eyes like these before – back when he called himself Prime Putrefact. Back when he sang the praises of a false God like a mad prophet high on his own supply. He’d guided thousands of his kind towards a path he knew led to nowhere but darkness. After a while, he’d simply realized: it had gotten dull. It was all so…pointless.
But he’d forgotten how he missed seeing those faces. This would be his greatest sermon yet.
He stared out at the swelling sea of his Kobolds – for they were his Kobolds now. He looked into the eyes of the thousand that remained, all packed into Grindlefecht’s grisly temple interior – and raised his arms, extending every nail of his onyx claws.
Almost instantly, the crowd fell into abrupt silence.
He spared a look at the wretched form of ‘Boss’ Skegga that was strung up behind him like a patchwork doll, face strewn with blood, stomach bloated beyond recognition and oozing with purpled spume that made him even more abhorrent to observe than usual.
He smiled, making sure the unfrozen eyes of the toad-fiend were upon him before he turned back to his flock and eyed those in the crowd who bore the same swollen bellies of their once-God.
“Brothers,” he said. “Welcome to the hour of the Kleansing.”
