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FG: Chapter 21
🕑 Added 2024-04-06 17:54:50 +0000 UTCThe 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.”
NEXT: FG: Chapter 22
Comments
Iron Lung
Haha oh Marcus growing a third arm...Mari would have so many questions.
Namel909
Love and addoration acceptance comes with conditions sss … not many would want to be praysed for their craftmens ship by the engeniers who desinged the concentration camps … not many would like to fit in sss with a crowd of deseas ridden rats sss … Lucky hero of this story it is not warhammer skavens, he would have maby started growing a third arm or second ass from all the warp radiation around sss. Instead he just collected some new and interesting infections in his not yet healed wounds sss and a psycological trauma that may send him to start living in a soap bathtub sss.
