The journey to Razork was mercifully uneventful.

Well, uneventful with the exception of Skeever staring daggers at him for just about the entire duration. But then, Marcus had bigger issues to worry about.

He nudged his Spinegrinder with his foot lightly to try and slow the creature down and was met with nothing but a snap of its long, alligator-like jaws in response. He felt like he was going to vomit for the last half-hour since they’d left Fleapit.

“Now, to ride Spinegrinder is not being so hard,” Festicus had told him in the palace courtyard in the wake of the strategy meeting. “Are you ever riding horse before?”

“My girlfriend-eh-queen, she used to ride. I picked up a few pointers from her.”

Festicus had looked at him with stark shock. “Your queen is riding horse where you come from?” he asked. “The horses of your fellow spirits must be strong to be carrying such heavy load.”

Don’t let her hear you saying that, Marcus thought. Warrior-rat or no, she’d take you on.

The creature the Clan Marrow commander presented to Marcus was one that was like a horse only in theory. The thing appeared to be a cross between a spined velociraptor from prehistory and an Austrian Alligator. It’s eyes were diamond-slits of crimson framed by the wrinkled skin that hung from its armored hide. The long, thin strands that fell from the back of its angular head lurched forward and smeared across Marcus’s face, the thing’s fanged mouth salivating as Marcus’s coughed and moved away.

“He is liking you,” Festicus said with an approving grunt. “Principle of riding the Spinegrinder is similar to horse. Hold reigns, kick when it goes too slow.”

“Is that really that much of a –“

Before Marcus was finished Festicus had already picked him up and placed him on the shabby saddle affixed to the creature’s back.

The thing screeched with fury, its powerful legs kicking against the ground and tearing at the cobbled courtyard.

“Woah!” Festicus roared. “Be calm, beast!”

The hulking rat administered a jab at the thing’s ribs. It shook its body violently in response, straightening up and eyeing the ratman with hate.

Meanwhile, Marcus clung onto its spiny neck for dear life.

“He is understanding,” the great rat told him. “Now you are being true rider, and the legends will be speaking of how the Shai-Alud rode into battle on a Spineripper of Clan Marrow!”

When Marcus and the rest of his entourage had then shot off out the palace gates and thundered their way down the city streets, Marcus was forced to acknowledge two things:

The ratmen cavalry was clearly superior to the Kobold’s bulbous-ball Skogs. He could only imagine how effective a direct cavalry charge from a squad of them could be.

His gag reflexes were still very much intact in this new world of Thea.

Presently, he had managed to suppress his vomit-instincts enough to survey the surrounding cavern as they passed through the ruined watchtowers of dwarven architecture and ratman outposts. The Western reaches of Clan Red-Eye’s Warrens were much wider, open spaces than he had experienced in the wake of his flight from Black Gulch. Down here he could barely even see the roof of the cave system – the twinkling of the stalactites above were more like stars amidst an onyx sky.

Behind him trudged his men – seventy strong warriors of Clan Marrow plus Skeever, Deekius (of course) and Ix, the latter of which had pleaded to allow Marcus and his men the chance to join him on this expedition.

“Where Marcus goes, we go,” the little red demon had told him before they left. “We are not fit to stay in ratman city.”

Marcus had cocked an eyebrow at the little guy. “You don’t fear being on the frontlines of this conflict?”

Ix shook his tiny skull. “We are being safer out there than we would be here.”

Marcus had understood. The distrusting stares of the ratmen could be abated only with Marcus present to dissuade them to acting on their old hatred. As much as he hated to admit it, the little guy was probably right, and he hadn’t shown himself to be a dishonest little critter so far. In any case, Ix assured him that he and his men were experienced in mounted combat using their slings in raids – and there was no more effective unit for harrying and baiting large columns of enemies in an open field than mounted archers. Marcus needed all the allies he could get if he was going to make a proper fighting force of these rats.

On that note…

Marcus kicked his Spineripper lightly to coerce it over to Skeever’s position at the head of their cavalry column. The creature buckled, slapped its sinuous, armored tail against his leg, but ultimately obeyed the command.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Skeever barely looked at him as he approached.

“Shai-Alud,” he said. “We are arriving at Razork in 15 minutes.”

“We’ve made good time,” Marcus replied.

Silence.

More silence.

“Skeever.”

No reply.

“I know you are angry with me.”

The ratman’s single useable arm trembled slightly on the reigns on his mount.

“You would wish me to be speaking plainly?”

“Always,” Marcus replied. “If there’s anyone I know I can count on, its –“

“You have debased me!”

Marcus almost fell from his Spineripper’s saddle, such was the force of Skeever’s outburst.

“Why,” he said. “Why are you making me Talon-Commander? I am useless on battlefield, now. I am being a cripple. A dumb, idiot cripple.”

Marcus balked at the statement. “I never expected such a display of self-pity from you, Skeever. Are you not still the warrior I met in the North tunnels.”

The rat said nothing, but his sharp eyes met Marcus’s in that moment. He was waiting for a rationale.

Alright Marcus, you sonofabitch. You weren’t any good at this in life – you bowed before people who wanted nothing more than for you to shut up. Now, here’s someone who wants you to talk. Don’t fuck it up.

“You remember what you told me before the meeting?” he asked. “About the one thing you want in life?”

Skeever nodded slowly as the craggy rocks of the underground disappeared beneath the feet of their mounts.

“You told me you wanted to serve,” Marcus said. “But who, Skeever? Your king, your God, or your people?”

“There is being no difference,” he replied. “Shrykul and Red-Eye are being one and the same.”

“Really?” Marcus asked. “Because it seems to me that you were certain Shrykul was going to have you stripped of your duties and you hated it. It also seems to me that you couldn’t give a shit about He-Who-Festers or his priests.”

“Be careful, Sire Marcus,” Skeever murmured. “You are speaking heresy.”

“What will you do, Skeever? Kill me?”

When no reply was forthcoming, Marcus seized his advantage.

“But there’s something else I see in you, Skeever, and that’s that you do genuinely care for the men under your command. I saw how you wept for Gatskeek, in your own way, and I saw how you looked at the rats of your homeland when you returned. You care about your people, Skeever, and that is what makes a great commander. Not loyalty to the state, or some ethereal deity, but loyalty to your Brothers.”

Skeever sagged, rubbing his lame arm against his cheek to scratch away some fleas, and seemed to settle into his riding. Marcus couldn’t tell from this angle, but he felt there was a distinct shine in the ratman’s eyes – the glint of pride that had possibly never been recognized by anyone else.

So, now was the time to go for broke.

“I need someone I can trust, Skeever,” Marcus said.

He let the question implicit in that statement hang for a while, filling the dead air between them with silent expectation.

“If you are putting my warriors first above all else,” the ratman finally replied. “Then you can be having my trust, Sire Marcus. But if you are ever seeking to betray us, I can not be standing with you.”

Marcus smirked at the little rat as the rooftops of Razork finally came into view.

“I couldn’t ask for a fairer deal,” he said.

…

Razork was a tiny settlement built at the very edge of the Red-Eye Warrens. A collection of stick and mud huts, small shrine covered in rotting bone-marrow, and a stout keep at the town’s far edge filled Marcus’s sight as he and his riders dismounted. As he focused his vision he could pick out the pock marks of arrow and claws on the walls of each house – signs of the heavy raiding activity the ratmen had been experiencing here.

The villagers emerged from their ramshackle houses and whispered in hushed tones of the Shai-Alud and his men – sharing the stories of victory they’d no doubt heard echo through the tunnels of their homeland. Yet Marcus beheld many who simply ignored him and went about their business. Mostly, this business was preparing the dead for consumption.

But what interested Marcus the most was the farmlands that spread out from the town’s western perimeter. Not a traditional pasture by any means – these fields contained several bloated, spiky creatures shackled to the ground with chains, being force-fed fungal spores collected from the stalactites above to artificially increase their weight.

Glitterpaks.

The albino mayor, practically puking up his guts beside his chuckling Spineripper, was the first person to address the downtrodden people of his town.

“Residents of Razork!” he squeaked as he came to stand in front of Marcus, coming up only to the human’s shinbone. “I am knowing how we suffer – your mayor Gekul is hearing your cries in the night! He is bringing the Shai-Alud here to save you and the rest of our people!”

Marcus caught Skeever’s bored eyeroll from out the corner of his vision. He couldn’t help but smile.

The villagers weren’t exactly inspired. They barely even paid their venerable leader any mind. Their ears perked up and then simply dropped down again as they continued with the drudgery of their lives.

“I – I am apologizing, Shai-Alud,” Gekul murmured as he turned sheepishly around. “We are being attacked much these last months. We are suffering. Their spirits are being low.”

Marcus stood tall, hands clasped behind his back as he looked over the beleaguered hamlet and then turned back to his men behind him.

“Well then,” he said. “Let’s give them something to hope for. Marrow rats!” he called. “Make camp here. Deekius!”

The rat priest shambled up to him, his maggot-ridden staff glowing with restored energy.

“I need you to take a team to fort Spearclaw nearby,” Marcus said. “We need an assessment of how many able-bodied rats remain up there.”

The rat-priest seemed put-out in not being able to accompany the prophet of his faith, but he knew better than to quibble at this point.

“It will be done, Sire,” he replied.

The Shai-Alud then turned to his Kobold auxiliary commander who could barely been seen over the head of his Spineripper.

“Ix, I need you to scout ahead and report on any incoming hostiles,” he said. “As I understand it, a raid could be coming at any moment.”

“Ix hears. Ix goes.”

“Now,” Marcus said as he turned to Gekul. “Let’s see your armory, Mr Mayor.”

As Skeever smirked beside him, Gekul stammered, “A-a-armory, Sire? We are but a simple village. We are having no weapons. We –“

“Relax, Gekul,” Marcus said. “You have more weapons here than you think.”

Marcus turned his face to the lines of Glitterpak farms that dominated the outskirts of the town. The Kobolds had barely struck them – every fence post and bloated, puffing creature was still there, at least 40 of them rolling around.

“A-are you sure about this, Sire?” Gekul asked.

“Nope,” Marcus replied as he followed the mayor down to the first of the farmsteads. “But at the very least, I’ll give your villagers a show they won’t forget.”

###

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