-Fleapit, Castle Carfaxx -

Marcus sat by the light of a single flickering candle, secluded in his private chambers.

Even within these stout stone walls, however, he could still hear the sounds of praise and worship echo throughout the city streets below. He could them calling his name – or, at least, the name they had placed upon his shoulders – over and over again until he felt it echo in his own skull.

“Shai-Alud, Shai-Alud…”

A name that is supposedly going to live in legend, he wrote in his parchment. A name that means so little to me yet everything to them. If the last month has taught me anything, it is that devotion is a powerful tool. I almost understand why those of the Unification Church back on earth used it – encouraging blind belief in something greater than yourself seems to be one of the easiest ways to move the souls of mortals.

He caught himself as he finished writing that last sentence.

“I’m even starting to sound like them,” he said. “The rats of the Church of the Unclean.”

His eyes turned to his newly embroidered trench-coat hanging beside his stone bed. The priests of Glumrot had come to him yesterday and Head-Gloomrav Verulex had personally bestowed the new threads upon him, telling him the high-collared attire was much more form fitting for a human than the dingy robe of their priestly order. Their priests, he said, had modeled the design after the Generals of Marxon II’s army, but couldn’t resist stitching an image of a ratman soldier wearing a pair of glasses on the sleeve. Marcus had stifled a laugh as he beheld the curious little emblem, but he thanked them all the same.

Afterwards, of course, they gave me their usual spiel, he wrote in his journal/makeshift history book. Asking me to at least join them in the Fleapit cathedral for the afternoon sermons. Recently, their ranks have begun to swell. Virtually all the ratmen from the outlying villages that still stood, even those far down South from places not even Skeever or Shrykul have heard of, have come to visit the church here and ask for the chosen one’s blessing. They’ve come to see me, and I’ve refused them, and even that seems to play into the hands of rats like Deekius and that slow-talking Verulex. They tell their flock that I am testing them – that I shall appear when the time is right and they are found worthy. He-Who-Festers does not simply deliver his champion into the hands of any old rat. So, join up arms, Brothers, join the war effort as we eliminate the Kobold menace and you shall stand shoulder to shoulder with the Shai-Alud on his next campaign. You shall bask in his glory. You shall see his might for yourself…

Marcus stopped writing, slamming down his quill in sudden disgust.

The echoes of the outside world had started to dim, and he suspected that the Nocturnal hours had fallen upon the rats of the city. They had the uncanny ability to know when it was time for slumber – their body clocks had simply adjusted well to their environment. As all creatures did. All creatures, that is, except him.

He took up his pen again after running a weary hand across his grimy face.

I know what they want. They want to use me as their poster boy. They want me to be some kind of Messiah figure for their people. I would be lying if the sense of power hadn’t seemed tempting but the more time I spend on the frontlines, the more death we bring to the Kobolds on the other side, the more I wonder: is leading this army of furry filth-lickers really what’s best for this world? Can I really sacrifice the safety of Thea to reclaim my place back on earth?

His thoughts suddenly turned back to home, as they often did these days. He thought of Mari – her skin still chalk-white and sparkling during their visits to Santa Monica pier. She’d never tried to use him for her own personal gain. She’d never tried to warp him to become something he wasn’t. To her, he was just a dweeb who thought too much about old men gunning each other down across time.

He had even caught himself thinking of Steven Barenz with a sense of camaraderie in the past week – as he’d heard report after report of the Kobold armies burn in the face of the Clans righteous fury. Though he and old Barenz couldn’t have been more oppositional in nature, there was a certain satisfaction in having a rival on campus. He realized now just how much he’d actually enjoyed their little verbal spars – even though at the time it had seemed to strike fury in his heart. Everyone needed opposition – everyone needed their faith to be tested every once and a while. For every thesis, an antithesis.

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And now I’m quoting Hegel, Marcus wrote. Strike me down for my insanity – I’ve become a popcorn Twitter philosopher. I can only imagine what these ratmen would do if they ever discovered something akin to social media in their realm! A way for them to transmit their propaganda instantaneously? That would get every Clan hot-and-bothered for He-Who-Festers in no time. That would prove to be an amenable solution to their species’ crisis of faith.

But if I am honest, the rats are not the only ones in crisis here. I had planned the assault on Festigraf fort with the express purpose of forcing a surrender. I had hoped – in my naivety, perhaps – that this Skegga would either be forced to consider terms of negotiation, or his Kobolds would be provoked into open rebellion by this point. They know our greatest weapon and have no counter against it. They’ve been backed into a corner and the tunnels of the North run red with the blood of their tiny raiding parties. Our border patrol posts have made short work of any trying to enter the Capital’s vicinity. We’ve even begun rebuilding Gulchnavel village so that food supplies no longer being provided by Glitterpak meat can be rejuvenated using the fish of the Gulch. Not the most delectable source of nutrition, but then again my human gut isn’t exactly cut out for this place.

Marcus spared a look at the half-chewed black fish that lay beside his desk, its eyeball casting an accusatory stare at him.

The point is: there hasn’t been a single successful Kobold incursion since the Battle of Razork Field. By now, tensions should be high in the enemy’s Capital.

So why isn’t this Boss Skegga simply giving up the goat?

I have a few ideas on that front. One: his grip on Kobold civilization is so strong by this point that they simply can’t organize an effective resistance against him. Two: the Kobolds don’t feel that we would ever accept deserters into our ranks – probably because they themselves have heard the rhetoric of the Church of the Unclean. All this talk of ‘eradication’ doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in racial unity. Third: they have Silas. They have this so-called ‘Prime Putrefact’. Perhaps Skegga simply believes that with such a sacred prisoner in his clutches, the ratmen will eventually be forced to sue for peace. He obviously doesn’t know what it’s like out there. These days, it’s my praises they’re singing.

The situation is remarkably similar to that of Imperial Japan circa March 1945, after the capture of Iwo Jima and Douglass’ MacArthur’s establishment of total air superiority over the Home Islands: how do you convince an enemy that they’re beaten? With the prospect of launching a full-scale invasion that will cost hundreds of thousands of lives, how do you make an enemy see that they have no chance at victory?

The worst part is I know the answer. It’s the same answer Truman gave Tojo the day he launched the Atom Bombs: a single, decisive strike.

But can I do it? I know what Shrykul wants. I know what Skeever would say. I know what Deekius has been saying for the past month, preaching about the prophesized ‘complete and utter annihilation’ of the enemy forces. But in truth, they’re asking me to commit to genocide of an entire species purely because they’ve been manipulated into thinking a deity walks among them. Could I look Ix in the eyes and sign the death-warrant of his people? The little guy was on their side now – and, in fact, even the Talon-Commanders on the frontlines had to admit that he and his ‘Yips’ were the best damn marksmen they’d ever seen – but how long would that last if he realized his entire race was now doomed to extinction?

This, coupled with the messiness that will result from a full-scale invasion of Grindlefecht, has been driving me insane these last few days…but maybe, just maybe, I’m going about the problem all wrong…there has to be another wa-

“SIRE!”

Marcus jolted upright at the intrusion. A ratman had practically just barged through his door, falling to his knees only as an afterthought. When Marcus realized it was Skeever, however, resplendent in his newly fashioned suit of crimson Clan Marrow plated steel (a recent gift from Marrow-King Skylock himself for the Shai-Alud’s most vaulted commander) he waved away his subordinate’s supplication and bid him rise.

“We – we are having big problem,” the ratman shrieked.

“Aren’t we always?” Marcus replied, donning his coat and wiping away the fog on his glasses. “Tell me as we walk the halls, Skeever – I need a walk.”

For now, he would have to leave his journal and his human worries behind.

Because he was about to re-enter the world of ratman politics. And in that world, he needed all his wits about him.

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