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FG: Chapter 56
🕑 Added 2024-05-17 14:31:01 +0000 UTC-North Warrens, Razor Ridge-
The jagged slopes of Razor Ridge shook with cries of conquest.
Within its narrow innards, the battle for the North Warrens was quickly reaching its climax. Inch by bloody inch, the Kobold army of Skegga was pushed back by the sheer mass of teeth and steel that the riders of Marrow and Red-Eye threw at them – their screams being lost as they choked on their own blood, or that of their comrades.
A wash of crimson stained the normally onyx walls of the ridges. It would be the last thing the Yips of Skegga saw before they expired – speared clean through by the coordinated advance of the rats or eviscerated by the fangs of their mounts.
“RUN-RUN!” their God bellowed in the wake of the chaos, adopting the fearful, timid screams and speech patterns of those who his webbed feet had always trod upon. “MAKE FOR THE FORT-FORTS! HIGH WALLS WILL STOP THESE VERMIN!”
Above the madness of battle, the general of the rats heard this cry all too clearly. He knew, then, that the army of the toad-man would have heard it, too. He knew they were doing nothing more than fighting for their own survival, now. Devotion was fading with every drop of Kobold blood spilled upon the blasted ground that was soon to become their graves.
“Not so Godly now,” Marcus said to the rat-priest beside him.
He had seen the abject terror flash in Skegga’s eyes when the toad saw that he, the prophesized Shai-Alud, was looking down upon him now. The architect of all the fat toad’s pain.
Marcus had looked back, frowning slightly to see the impish, childlike figure that squelched upon a floating stone-throne. Such a throne, barely holding the screaming tantrum that was its occupant, seemed more like a baby’s highchair than the seat of a respectful monarch.
“He is still believing the End is not coming for him,” Deekius said, closing his eyes to the world beyond his swirling thoughts and breathing deep the untapped power of his Lord. “He is having no idea what faith in a real God can be doing.”
Marcus did not look at the priest. He kept his eyes on the form of Skeever-Steelclaw, his First Talon, as the ratman speared through another triad of Kobolds, kicking their Skogs away as they tried to push him off. He had led the charge spectacularly. More proficiently, in fact, than Marcus had expected. He had not even given the ratman the command to launch his daring attack upon Skegga’s bloated form.
“Maybe Lady Luck is finally with me,” Marcus mumbled, before glancing at his priest and noting his changed demeanor. The rat’s veins bulged on his forehead. His fingers twitched, and his staff shook with an intensity that seemed impossible considering the rodent’s size.
But then, Marcus thought. You’ve always been able to pull off the impossible, haven’t you, Deekius?
“High-Priest,” he said aloud, becoming alarmed by the froth appearing at his companion’s furrowed lips. “Are you sure you can do this?”
The ratman shook with contained pressure, his body swaying with the unchecked energies of his Lord. He felt the power that many living upon Thea’s surface feel, learn to control, and harness to create both beauty and devastation. But he felt also the overwhelming sense of triumph emanating from the other side of the Warrens. He breathed in the scent of death that lay like a stagnant blanket upon the air of the North. His Lord was with him.
“No,” he answered his Shai-Alud. “The Will of He-Who-Festers cannot be commanded. I cannot be knowing if he shall find me worthy enough to guide His hand. But He is with me, Shai-Alud. As He is with you.”
I certainly hope not, the Shai-Alud thought.
Both of them – man from beyond and rat of the realms – looked down on the bloody battlefield below them, knowing that without their final intervention, victory would be pyrrhic at best.
And Marcus wasn’t about rest his laurels as a Fantasy General on a battle that wasn’t decisive. Not after how far he’d come. How much he’d had to do to get here…
He bristled as Deekius’ breathing grew more haggard. The ratman, though he wouldn’t admit it, was struggling against the flow of energy within his being. Right now, the gap between him and the raw power swelling in his veins was getting thinner and thinner. Marcus didn’t see Deekius in those dark eyes anymore. He saw a vessel for a thirsting God, snarling with pride to see his chosen species spill blood in his name.
“We’ve had to endure much, you and I,” he said, knowing that he had to guide his soldier. “And yet I still seem to just ask you to do more. I’ve asked you to betray your own. I’ve asked you to rally three Clans to my side. I’ve asked you to place your trust in me – one who isn’t even part of your kind. Now, I must ask one more thing of you.”
He placed a firm hand on the ratman’s shoulder, trying his best to channel all his strength into his arm so the rat couldn’t feel that he was shaking at this final, pivotal moment.
“Fulfil your destiny as your God’s chosen priest, Deekius of Clan Red-Eye,” he said. “Crush the enemy.”
Deekius’ eyes bulged then with recognition, and with pride. His pupils dilated, his shaking fingers curled round his staff and gripped the wood so tightly that cracks appeared across its surface.
And then, in one fluid motion, he walked to the edge of the ridgeline, raised his staff high, and made a proclamation to the entire Underkingdom:
“I AM DEEKIUS OF CLAN RED-EYE! BORN OF FLEAPIT, BLESSED BY THE HAND OF HE-WHO-FESTERS! I AM THE INSTRUMENT OF HIS WILL. I AM THE UNCLEAN HAND THAT SHALL LEAD YOU TO THE RIGHTEOUS PATH!”
The rats below felt the onrush of power surge through their veins, and Skeever bellowed the command for them to pull back. The time had come for the final curtain to draw upon this blood-drenched day.
Boss Skegga followed the thundering roar that sent shockwaves into the battlefield within the ridge, confusion and terror merging in his face as he watched the rat priest raise his staff high and slam it into the ridgeline.
“BY THE UNCLEAN!” Deekius roared with a voice that rang with the timbre of a thousand other voices. “LET THE GREEN LIGHT OF HIS VENEGANCE SHINE UPON YOU!”
As soon as the hilt of the rat-priest’s staff hit the ridge it cracked into pieces, shattering and spilling wood shaving across the ridgeline like a flurry of shaven stars. He dropped to his knees and let out a cry that pierced the ceiling, and beneath the Kobold’s feet, the earth began to quake.
“W-What is…” Skegga stuttered.
His Yips, meanwhile, had already figured out the problem. They were more than used to the vibrations of the earth, and they knew when those vibrations were thrown off by an exterior force. They knew when such a fact indicated that something was about to go very very wrong.
They saw the ratman cavalry fall back and had pushed with them, seeing the slow inching away as a slow retreat.
They had been wrong.
“God Skegga!” a Yip honor-guard screamed as the walls of the ridge started to stutter like a pair of wheezing, cancerous lungs. “We must run-run! Go now!”
Skegga blinked, rose to slap at the Yip who had dared to command him, and then was thrown from his throne in the very next instant. The earthquake ripping through the ground under them had become more than even his floating throne could bear. He gripped on to the sides and tried to throw his gelatinous, bloated body back onto his chair.
“YIPS!” he cried. “PROTECT YOUR GOD! SAFEGUARD ME! CARRY ME HOME TO MY PROMISED LAND! YOUR GOD COMMANDS YOU! YOUR GOD –”
The explosion that then rocketed up the walls from the spot where the rat-priest was kneeling cut off any other salient statements from the great toad or his men. The ridge folded at the top, boulders splintering off from the walls and tumbling down to crush the Kobold army below. The Kobolds, already trapped and funneled into a wall of spears, now looked up to see a rain of rock from the sky. The hail crushed the army by the hundreds, spattering brains and limbs and pancaking entire pockets of the Kobold horde until finally their ranks broke completely. The Yips began issuing their own retreats and turned tail, sprinting for the safety of their forts and dwarven stronghold. Whether or not their God followed them was not their concern – he was left to those who were closest to him. His honor guard that carried him only under the pain of his wrath. Yet even they could not help but quiver in the face of the rat-God’s power.
As the army fell line by line, their bodies baked into the very soil of the collapsed ridge, the ratmen of Skeever-Steelclaw watched a new wall of stone rise up before them – a new construction that would forever prevent any further incursions into their lands from their mortal enemies and their now-beaten God.
The Kobolds left numbered nothing more than a measly token force, and Marcus watched them carry off their screaming God with a smile.
Let him go, Marcus thought. We’ve done what we needed to today. If our forces in the West have met with similar success, we won’t even need to fight another battle.
He placed a hand on the shuddering form of Deekius as the rat man swayed, like a great weight had just been placed upon his flea-bitten shoulders.
And he looked down upon the unbelieving rat-man below as an unnatural silence settled upon the world.
A silence broken only by the voice of the one who had brought glory to the true rulers of the Underkingdom. Now was the time that might have called for a fancy speech that said as much.
But Marcus preferred a simpler approach:
“Ratmen of the chosen Clans!” he called. “This battle is over. The false God has been vanquished. WE HAVE WON!”
In the near future, when the ratman Empire would value its history in very different ways, the scribes of Fleapit would write of this moment. They would write that the Shai-Alud shone like a green beacon with his hallowed priest, symbolizing the union between man and rat. They would say that the soldiers of Skeever Steelclaw fell to their knees and wept before their Lord, that the boulders had in fact killed Skegga, and that even the Spinerippers bowed in respect to the champion of the whole Underkingdom.
But the truth was baser, and yet more significant.
Because for the first time in their history, the rats of three clans raised their fists to the air of their realm, and their lips spoke only one name into the corrupted air that was now theirs, forevermore:
“HAIL, SIRE MARCUS! HAIL, THE SHAI-ALUD!”
Comments
Iron Lung
I lit cannot wait
Namel909
Oooh how sss history makes storys so much grander with each new drunken retelling sss , 5 books later and the green glow would be joined by the posionus gasses of a strategicaly speed rooten fake god sss
