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FG: Chapter 34
🕑 Added 2024-04-23 14:03:12 +0000 UTC“Without cavalry, battles are without result”
-Napoleon Bonaparte
In the aftermath of the Glitterpak bombing, there was a lull of perhaps forty seconds where nothing happened at all. Dazzled Kobolds – the ones still living – wandered aimlessly or crawled to return to their Skogs, only to find their mounts had become crisped-up polyps stuck to the still burning ground.
The ringing in their ears deafened them to the sounds of the Slinger-line behind them screaming for them to turn and face what was coming. As their senses returned to them, however, those of the Kobold cavalry horde began to feel the distinct ringing sensation running up their feet, setting their teeth on edge and sending shivers up their spines.
And when they turned to see the cause, it was already too late.
The first Marrow-rats smashed into the left and right flanks of the enemy simultaneously, their Spinerippers leaping into the fray to rip and tear the jugulars of two Kobolds at once, while the spears of their riders found the spasming bodies of the burning Skogs. The cavalry wedges sliced through the red-mist of the once-confident horde and pushed the survivors into a defensive circle – slowly chipping away at the edges of the formation until it gave way and the riders simply threw themselves from their Skogs and tried making a break for home. None of them could make it passed the watchful eyes of the salivating Spinerippers.
Bodies began to fly through the air, shedding bloodied limbs and decapitated heads that had been crunched by the Ratman mounts and simply tossed away. The Marrow soldiers lunged and thrust through the Skogsriders with such ease that the battle fervor that had overtaken them in their initial charge changed to the grim, macabre satisfaction of butchers slaughtering defensive lambs.
“This is not being battle!” one of the Marrows was heard to say over the blood-curdling sounds of the Spinerippers feasting. “This is being sport!”
The Kobold’s squeals ripped through the dark skies as they died. One by one, two-hundred soldiers fell before the spears of seventy, their glorious victory cut short in a matter of minutes.
…
Up above, on the ridge occupied by the now-abandoned fort Spearclaw, Marcus watched the chaos unfold with cold, quiet detachment. He watched the red-mist that had once represented the enemy army to his naked eyes slowly wipe away as the tar-black armor of the Marrows overtook the field. Meeting cavalry on an open field was practically suicide in military terms, and the only thing that could effectively put up any resistance would have been a Schiltron formation (which he doubted the Kobolds had the ware withal to be aware of), a counter-cavalry charge (which was now impossible for them) or a sustained artillery barrage – and that dwarven cannon was now practically useless, thanks to the cloud of smoke that now hung over the sight of the massacre. Once again, disrupting the enemy’s line of sight had been vital, but Marcus had had to acknowledge that even he didn’t know how devastating the bombing run would have been.
Methane gas, he wrote in his notes as he observed the results. All this time…these rats had a source of power that they were using as a mere food supply. In fairness, I had my own doubts. The smells match, but methane on earth is colorless. Though I suppose that’s my mistake – believing this world of fantasy creatures behaves the exact same as my world did. Sure, there’s some similarities, but I have to account for the differences when I see them, too. This does open up some more possibilities, though – we share chemical compounds and structures. I wonder what else I can find here…could there be an equivalent to cyanide gas? Doubtful that this world has discovered the necessity for general warfare conventions or ethical guides to conflict…that, in itself, is a notion that I must remove from my brain if I want to win here…
His scribbles were interrupted by the sound of another bombardment tearing a chunk out of Spearclaw’s walls behind him and Ix, whose eyes remained transfixed on the wholesale slaughter of his once-people.
“That’s our cue, Ix,” Marcus said. “Time to move.”
The little creature nodded and followed the Shai-Alud down to the village.
…
The Slinger line watched their comrades die in silence.
Only when one of their number decided that something like victory could still be achieved did they take up their arms and begin their counterattack.
“We still have dwarf gun-gun!” many heard some Yips shout. “We can still win-win! Strike for eyes of soldier rats! Shoot them – quick-quick!”
The Slingers obeyed. They obeyed, having no recourse for their comrades that were still alive, trying desperately to flee for safety. Their clay-iron bullets bounced harmlessly off the reinforced armor of the Marrow soldiers, whose visors rose to prospect the tiny critters nipping at their hides. The Kobolds scrabbling on the blasted ground were killed in droves by spear and bullet alike. Only when the cloud of hazy smoke began to clear did the Slingers realize that their efforts had been in vain.
“Klegga save us!” they screamed. “Canon! Canon shoot-shoot!”
The Head Yips buckled as the Spinerippers finished off the cavalry in a cluster of grey and crimson. The commanders ran back to help load the canon, bellowing against all hope that the death-machine that had lit up the ratman village could strike a killing, demoralizing blow against the clustered cavalry who were now stuck wading amongst the bloated corpses of the dead Kobolds. Another charge was not forthcoming. They had sealed their own defeat.
“FIRE!” the Head-Yips screamed at the tiny troops loading the cannon with another explosive round. “FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!”
The Slingers on the frontline meanwhile made a stark realization that stopped their pointless assault – the cloud of blackened smoke had began to move. It began to creep towards them, filling their lungs only momentarily before it snaked its way towards the snout of the great cannon.
And those that understood what was happening understood it far too late.
“STOP-STOP THE CANNON!” the Sligners shouted, turning back and running towards the great hulking machine as it aimed directly at the slogging Spineripper cavalry. “STOP! STOP-STOP! STO-!”
The final exclamation of the Kobold raiders was cut short prematurely as the cannon belched its final fiery round right into the black maw of the smoke cloud that had just engulfed it.
Once more, light shone in the Underkingdom. The dwarf cannon’s shot erupted in a hailstorm of flame and broken shards of metal that instantly impaled the throats of its engineers, and the great hulking beast disappeared under the strength of its own firepower.
Back in Razork, the evacuated ratman citizens gathered on the hill atop their village, seeing the broken Spearclaw fort shattered and broken behind them, but, in truth, not caring a jot about the fate of that useless building. Instead, they watched the light show the Shai-Alud had promised them: they watched the garrison of Spearclaw emerge from the darkened shaodws of their fields left flank and mow down the Kobold Slingers who still remained. The little demons’ screams filled the tunnels, and it was said that on that day every ratman – even those secluded in the gooey-pits of Clan Glumrot – heard the wails of their enemies as they fell under the might of the Shai-Alud’s army.
Mayor Rekul stood beside the Glitterpak Wrangler Tekris, both watching the sights of victory for their kind unfold before them in utter disbelief.
Finally, it was Tekris who opened his mouth to stutter a few words:
“Poor beasts,” he said. “That there’s being a waste of good meat.”
But someone standing behind the ratmen disagreed – the rat holding a great wooden staff that had directed the black cloud towards the now wrecked dwarf cannon.
“No,” Deekius said. “That is being victory.”
The villagers watched the rest of the Kobolds be promptly mopped up like children – children falling under the men of spearclaw. These were warriors who had once sworn they would never again fight for King Shrykul. They were debased and disgraced, warriors without the wish for glory in their hearts.
And yet there they were, hacking away at the Kobold army until, in a matter of minutes, they cheered a vindictive roar for the man riding towards them – the man who commanded his Spineripper to hop atop the wreckage of the dwarven cannon and turn to meet his victorious soldiers as they rose their bloodied blades to chant his name.
“SHAI-ALUD! SHAI-ALUD!”
The man who had set the sky of the Underkingdom ablaze.
“He really is the one…” Rekul whispered. “He…he has risen.”
The villagers around him, for once, all nodded in revered agreement.
“Well?” Deekius asked them all, like a father reprimanding his children for bad behavior. “Show him the respect he is deserving.”
The villagers, with no exception, got on their knees so fast that it was said you could hear their joints snap from submission.
The rat-priest swept his hands over Marcus’s triumphant form in the burning fields below.
“It is being a new dawn,” Deekius told the rats of Razork. “He-Who-Festers is giving us His champion. Soon, the Underkingdom shall be ours. Then,” he added, smiling under his hood. “The whole world.”
Comments
Namel909
Odd that sss the rats as subterrainina species understand the concep0t of sun movment enough to have a word for dawn sss and not just some long worded descriptors as they have neither sun nore the need to discribe their sens of time by the sun in the underdark sss sure they know off the sun, but most never see it and the ones who do only do it in passing on a raid and then back out of the cause of sunburns sss
