-Grindlefecht, Boss Skegga’s Stronghold-

Silas sat in the dark, illuminated by only the single, dim light of a gleaming candle.

Beneath the window of his chambers in the high tower of Grindlefecht, he watched the Kobolds go about their daily routines. Snapping at each other, jumping off the walls, trying to repair the dwarf cannons and losing their feeble limbs in the process. With the help of a few prisoners he’d managed to ‘persuade’, they had managed to get at least four of the great cannons back in service. Still, that amounted to only 45% of the fortress’ effective strength. And they would be needing those cannons, soon.

The dwarf had not returned. The Shai-Alud had made it to Fleapit. Of that, Silas was certain. And that meant he was no ordinary human. He had not only won every engagement thus far, but he had won the trust of the ratmen of Red-Eye. It would not be long before the Skittering was called.

“And he shall lead them,” Silas said aloud, slipping out of his Ratman accent. “Because he is strong in the ways of the battlefield. But he does not know the politics of this world. In time, Shrykul will betray him. They will use him as a slave to push against the surface.”

The old Prime Putrefact leaned back, staring at the dank ceiling of this stone dwarven room.

“Shrykul…you are not wise in the ways of this world. You do not know how best to use the talents of a human like this one. You do not know what it means to be patient.”

Silas heard the door creak open behind him, and the sounds of wet slapping against the floor.

But I have learned, he thought as he turned. Patience is the best weapon our kind has. Patience…and pressure.

Two Kobolds stood before him with a wriggling, bloody human in their arms. A male – naked, his face wet with tears and snot. They threw the pathetic thing before Silas and saluted him graciously.

“We bring this one for you, good Silas!” one of the Kobolds shrieked. “Just as you said! We are finding him hiding on surface from Yokun slavers, yes-yes! He is crying like baby.”

Silas looked down at the crumpled creature and cringed to see his malnourished, dirt-caked body writhe on the ground. Even for a ratman, it was a pitiable sight.

“Oh, oh please!” the human cried. “You – you must help me!”

Silas scratched his chin, reminding himself to slip back into his ratman dialect. “What is being your name, human man?”

The frail creature coughed out his answer, “S-S-Steven! Steven Barenz!”

Silas sat back, his mind racing.

“I-please! You seem to have a good grasp of the English language. Please, I – oh – I – I have suffered such indignities! It’s too much. It’s too – it’s too much! It’s not fair!”

“Life is often being so, human man,” Silas said as the twin Kobolds chuckled beside him. “Tell me, where are you coming from?”

Steven tried to still his bony, shaking hands. “E-earth!” he shouted. “I – first I was at a rally, and then – then – Oh, oh God! Please –“

Silas raised a single, gnarled finger up to silence the human, and his command was punctuated by a swift scratch from the Kobold standing beside the feeble being. As he fell to the ground again, Silas pondered.

So, there are more of them, he thought. I suspected as much. The reports of the Yokun to Skegga are more revealing than those cunning serpents think, and the old toad’s lack of literacy doesn’t aid his understanding of anything they write. A ‘special human’ prisoner was certainly higher praise than they would bestow upon a vassal of Emperor Marxon. Did that then mean that the Emperor himself might have captured one of these ‘Shai-Alud’s’ for himself?

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Was that why his Empire had embarked upon its devastating war against the Yokun above?

“Be telling me, human man,” Silas asked. “What was being your profession in your life?”

Steven’s baby-blue, bloodshot eyes lit up.

“I – I was a man of faith,” he said. “An envoy of the Church of Unification. I preached truth to all who would hear me. I – we – we worked towards an era of peace. I am a man of peace,” he said with a stuttered mixture of pain and joy. “That’s all! That’s all I ever wanted to be. That’s all I –“

The man silenced himself this time as he picked out the sly, devious smile that was emerging on the ratman’s thin lips.

“A man of faith?” Silas said. “This is being quaint. I am knowing what men of faith are good for. I am knowing exactly how one of your kind shall be serving us.”

***

-Razork Village, Clan Red-Eye Territory-

The fields of Razork village stretched out before Marcus – row upon row of flatland surrounded by craggy stones and populated with puffing Glitterpaks being reared for meat.

“You actually eat these things?” Marcus asked Gekul, as they stopped by the wooden fence of one such enclosure and he inspected the stone-skin of the gas-exuding creature.

“I-indeed, Sire Marcus. Muscle and tendon of Glitterpak is being good delicacy. Hide is also being used to make armor.”

Marcus sniffed the air. “You aren’t afraid of these noxious gasses?”

“We are not fearing gas,” Skeever chimed in beside him. “Our stomachs are being strong. Stronger than any in Thea.”

Of course, Marcus thought with another sniff of the black clouds that seeped out of every pore in the Glitterpaks’ bodies. Their innate resistance to disease would probably lead them to believe these gases were nothing more than flavoring. But if I’m right…

Marcus’s nose twitched as he took in the scent.

He knew now he was wrong. He’d assumed the black clouds to be Carbon Dioxide, but the scent…no. If his nose could still be trusted in this dark new realm, this was something else entirely.

Gekul called over one of the raggedy-clothed rats poking at the Glitterpak’s skin.

“This is being Tekri, Sire Marcus,” the mayor said. “He is chief Glitterpack wrangler.”

The tough-looking rat spat at his feet by way of greeting.

“Are you truly being Shai-Alud?” he asked Marcus.

The latter nodded slowly. “That’s what they tell me.”

“Hmpf,” the rat-farmer replied. “You are being welcome on farm, but I am not treating you different from others. Here, Tekri is King, and I am supposing mayor has brought you here to take young Glitterpaks away to be delivered to Fleapit early. I am telling you the same thing I told him: these are still but infants. Their meat-yield will be too low.”

“When the next raid is coming through…” Gekul murmured.

“We will be fighting,” Tekri replied, a few of his fellow wranglers nodding along with him. “We will be defending home and doing our jobs. Be telling King Shrykul this.”

Skeever tensed up, his hand flying to the hilt of his scimitar. But Marcus stepped in front of him, passing by Gekul massively to stand before the head-wrangler.

“What if I told you that it is not meat we have come for,” Marcus said. “But essential war assets.”

Tekri blinked up at him, and before he could even respond Marcus continued:

“I believe all villages of Clan Red-Eye are obligated to provide military aid when a representative of the King requests it. Or am I wrong, Mayor Gekul?”

Gekul twitched his white nose and nodded sheepishly, trying to avoid Tekri’s fiery stare.

“N-no, Sire Marcus. You are being ri-“

“This is being ridiculous!” Tekri said. “Our village is dying. If you are taking us, we are losing everything.”

“I don’t intend on taking you or the people here anywhere,” Marcus said.

Tekris was taken aback. “Then…”

The eyes of both rat and man trailed towards the chained Glitterpaks.

“Shai-Alud,” Tekris growled. “Maybe you are not being in our lands long, but Glitterpak is dumb, useless creature, good only to be consumed.”

“I disagree,” Marcus said as he jumped the fence and walked towards the first subject of his experiment that, he admitted to himself, was a little insane. “In fact, you might just have been growing the greatest weapon against Boss Skegga and his Kobolds in the entire Ratman kingdom.”

Tekris balked at the statement, turning to see if his brothers were appropriately dismayed by this brash human. To his surprise, both mayor Gekul and Talon-Commander Skeever stood almost transfixed by this Shai-Alud’s every word.

“Wrangler Tekris,” he suddenly said. “You have done more to help your nation than you might think. In fact, when this is all over, it will be your name that I give to the Queen personally.”

“M…my name?” the old farmer whispered.

“But first,” Marcus said. “I’m going to have to ask your forgiveness. Because many of these beasts you have reared will have to die soon.”

Tekris bristled and then spat again. “I am not caring about this!” he cried. “Glitterpaks die anyway. They are mindless, dumb beasts.”

“I wouldn’t be so harsh on them,” Marcus said as he rubbed the stone-skin of one of the creatures. “This little guy’s sacrifice might just save your entire race.”

###

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