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 were 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 curtsy.”

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.

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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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