“You knew, didn’t you?”

Marcus’s accusation brought a deathly silence over the Ratman he’d called to his chambers within the palace.

“Sire, I was not lying,” Deekius replied slowly. “The Prime Putrefact is your only way of making it back to realm beyond.”

“But you knew he was gone, and you kept that little piece of information from me, didn’t you?”

Skeever, who had answered Marcus’s summons knowing there would be trouble, looked from the rat-priest to his Shai-Alud.

“We are only suspecting, Marcus,” he said. “The Kobolds having knowledge of our tunnels is not making sense. We are knowing they must have one of us. But we could not know –“

“He did,” Marcus interrupted, standing and marching over to Deekius’ silent snout. “Didn’t you?”

A change had come over the rat-priest since they’d returned to the Capital. Once, Marcus had thought him a sniveling wretch with some admittedly useful tricks up his sleeve that had contributed greatly to their victories. Now, however, he seemed cool, aloof, and possessed of an uncharacteristic confidence.

Somehow, that served to piss Marcus off even more.

“I could not be knowing for certain,” Deekius replied. “Our forces are being away from home for a long time. Scout reports do not come to us. We are finding Boss Skegga’s defences and inspecting them only. We are not going to see prisoners he has taken. But…I am feeling the will of He-Who-Festers waning in me. I could have been guessing the Putrefact was gone.”

Marcus drew the dagger Gatskeek had given him. Skeever tensed, moved forward, but Deekius held up a firm paw to hold him back.

“I could kill you now, priest,” Marcus told the rat as he aimed the tip of the weapon at his furry little throat. “Your King would pardon his Shai-Alud.”

Skeever didn’t move an inch. Deekius, to his credit, held Marcus’s death-like stare. Then, without any indication of damaged pride, he laid his staff on the floor, got on his knees, and bent his neck.

“I am giving you promise, Shai-Alud,” he said. “Are you remembering? Before we are leaving Black Gulch I am saying to you that my life is yours if you wish it. I, Deekius of Clan Red-Eye, have done the job bestowed on me by He-Who-Festers. I am bringing the Shai-Alud to this world, and I am guiding him to the Capital. If you are wishing it, I would gladly now be dying by your hand.”

Marcus looked unblinkingly at the supplicant rat. There was no fear he could detect in his small, robed body. Not even the flies that surrounded his snout buzzed with greater intensity than usual. His breathing was cool. Calm. Totally at peace. If anything, it was Skeever that was more fidgety right now.

Marcus groaned as he sheathed the knife.

“That’s the problem with religious fanatics,” he said as he turned away from the sight of the rat. “You’re always so ready to die. So certain that your life has meaning.”

Marcus looked out at his small balcony that lay beyond his room. A space that, coincidentally, gave him an overview of the entire residential district that lay beyond the palace.

He could hear the rats below that had not dispersed at the palace gates. A crowd cheering his name. Cheering for him.

“Be listening to them,” Deekius said from his back. “They are adoring you, Sire. They are already being your loyal subjects. You are coming to our home as a human, and are already having the absolute loyalty of the people. You are being second only to the King in their eyes. You are-“

“Get out,” Marcus said, abruptly cutting off the priest before he began an entire sermon. “Be thankful you still have your head.”

Deekius made to say more, but at a firm grunt from his comrade, thought better of it. Both rats bowed and made to leave.

“Not you,” Marcus said, speaking over his shoulder to Skeever.

He did not wait to see if his command had been obeyed. He sat down on the stone bed that had been prepared for him, rubbing his face in his hands and praying to whatever disease ridden God they worshipped down here that he would sell his soul for fresh linen.

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He heard the patter of Skeever’s feet as the soldier bowed at the end of his bed.

“Sire,” he said. “Deekius is strongest of Red-Eye priests. He is being chosen for our mission because of his faith. You show good judgement in keeping him alive.”

“Skeever,” Marcus said. “I am stuck here.”

He said it again, paying no heed to how this could affect Skeever’s morale. Right now, he had to be a person. Not a prophet. Not a General. Not a historian. He was human, and he was tired.

“Like your squad in that Gulch tunnel,” he continued, wringing his hands together like a madman.

“Sire,” Skeever replied. “When we are finding Prime Putrefect, he will be able to –“

“And what if we don’t!” Marcus yelled, rising and marching over to the balcony door. “All of you are putting a war on me that I know nothing about. Kobolds, Dwarves, Ratmen – what’s the difference to me? We beat the Kobolds on the way here with luck – luck, and some basic environmental awareness. Now, you’re asking me to dismantle and entire civilization on the chance that one prisoner they’ve taken might still be alive.”

“He is alive,” Skeever said. “Boss Skegga not stupid enough to kill clever Silas.”

Marcus’s rage was not to be stilled. “Your king is basically subservient to a crazy she-demon that holds the future of your entire clan on her whims. Your priest-caste seems like they’re running their own show. Meanwhile, your people want an empire spanning this entire underground network that stretches on for God knows how far. When will it stop, Skeever? When will the goal posts be shifted next? First, you’ll ask me to win this war for you. Next, you’ll ask me to conquer your Dwarven neighbors. Then, you’ll ask me to win the entire world.”

Marcus smashed his fist into the side of the door frame.

“And I wish they’d shut up out there!”

He was about to throw the door open when Skeever’s heavy gauntlet stopped him, pushing the door back.

“This is not being like you, Sire Marcus.”

He was about to spit his fury right back at Skeever’s face when the latter slammed his gauntlet on his chest.

“We of Clan-Red eye are not making promises we do not keep,” he said. “I am devoting myself to guiding you to Prime Putrefact and getting you home. Are you doubting me, Sire?”

Marcus looked at him with furious eyes, but he said nothing.

“Our King could be torturing you to force you to lead,” Skeever said. “Why is he not doing this? Because he believes in the Shai-Alud. The Prophecy is that you are chosen by He-Who-Festers to defend our race. Are you not seeing that we are on brink of doom? Are you not seeing the mad Queen for yourself who cries over her children?”

Marcus stepped away from the balcony and returned to sit by the bed, sighing deeply, staring at the grey stone of the floor.

“If you are commanding me,” Skeever said, unsheathing Gatskeek’s scimitar and planting it in the ground before him. “I can be taking you away from here. I can be taking you to the surface and you can never be looking back. If you hate us so, this is being your choice. But, if you are hearing the devotion of those outside and thinking you want to be something more, then you should be joining King Shrykul tomorrow morning in his meeting with the other Clans.”

Marcus stirred. “Meeting?”

“The Skittering has been called,” Skeever said. “Clans Marrow and Glumrot are answering. They are bringing envoys to discuss strategy to secure the North tunnels. Our counterattack will be coming. And it will be bloody, Sire.”

The rat-warrior’s head rose to meet the eyes of his Shai-Alud.

“But with you on our side, many can be saved. The clan can grow strong again, and I can be leaving this world in peace to meet my Brother Gatskeek.”

“Leaving?” Marcus asked.

Skeever nodded solemnly at his lame arm. “I am maimed, Sire. I am no longer of use in field. King Shrykul will be giving me choice tomorrow of living rest of days in Capital tar-pit or of self-execution. I will choose execution.”

Marcus rose abruptly. “Skeever, you’ll do no such –“

“It is being my choice, Sire,” the rat said. “I am seeing too many of my Brothers die already. On my watch, Gatskeek is falling. I am not fit to command.”

Marcus said nothing to the downtrodden rat at first. Instead, his eyes fixed on Skeever’s arm – the arm that had shot out to shield him from the sniper’s fire, and in that broken mess of a limb was embedded not just the dwarf’s bullet but all the burdens of Marcus’s command. The rat blamed himself for Gatskeek. He clearly hadn’t learned that the responsibility for death – every death on the battlefield - should be placed squarely at the feet of one person alone. And that person was not a soldier.

He rose steadily and walked over to the balcony, opening the doors and being hit with waves of adoring cheers. The rats corralled together beneath, their snouts edging as far as they could through the rusted metal of the palace gates, just so they could get a proper look at him.

On their lips was but one name: Shai-Alud. Shai-Alud. That’s what they wanted him to be.

No, he thought. That’s what I already am to them. Question is, is that what I want to be?

He looked down at his dirt-caked hands and thought of home – of Mari, and her blood covered face that had evaded him just before he’d slipped away. He thought of the crowds who hated him for who he was. He even thought of Steven Barenz – and the question that the fiend had posed to him the day before his world had changed forever:

Could you look at them? Could you stand atop a mountain of corpses and tell them their sacrifice had been worth it?

And he clenched his fists and steeled his soul. When he turned back to Skeever, the rat thought he was possessed by an entirely new human.

“What is it you want, Skeever?” he asked.

The ratman stared at him, dumbstruck for a moment – as though the question were entirely self-explanatory.

“What any warrior of Red-Eye wishes,” he replied. “To serve.”

“I thought as much,” Marcus said with a chuckle, before turning back to the drab outside world.

“We will attend King Shrykul’s meeting,” he said. “However, I have a few conditions of my own…”

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