"Are you prepared, Sire?"

Marcus stood atop Fort Spearclaw's battlements, watching the last of the Spineripper squads move into their allotted places on the battlefield that was soon to be made of the village's plains once again. The Glumrot spearmen and Pox-Throwers had already signaled that they were ready and willing, and Skeever's own band of swordsmen were sequestered here in the fort. Marcus had insisted that the ratman let him be – that having him and Deekius here with him would be more than enough protection. But the ratman was not to be convinced.

"The day the Shai-Alud is falling is the day the war is being over for us," he said.

Now, Marcus looked across the evacuated village and turned his thoughts to the question Deekius had just asked of him. Was he prepared? How could anyone be for what they were about to attempt?

700 Spinerippers split up into three 'V' formations of 225 each, 500 Glumrot spearmen supported at their flanks by a detachment of 100 Pox-Throwers. Skeever's personal band of 200, reinforced by an extra 100 recruits from Razork who had chosen to fight rather than flee.

Surprisingly, one of them was Mayor Tekal – formerly Head Glitterpak Wrangler, Tekal – and the incumbent mayor, Gekul – still pale, but a little less shaky.

Marcus had heard that the change in command had benefitted everyone involved.

He looked down at them – all good, strong rats, each with a certain sense of nobility, even. But the two he focused his attention on were those standing closest to him – his now personal Archpriest, Deekius, and Supreme Talon Commander Skeever Steelclaw.

"You two have been with me since the beginning," Marcus told them. "Since the first day I drew breath in your blighted realm. You ask me if I'm ready? I ask you – how many times have you both saved me from death's door since I came to this place?"

"It was with the will of He-Who-Festers that we succeeded," Deekius said, and the men waiting behind him sent up a cheer of devotion.

"Were that your belief in yourselves were as strong as your belief in your God," Marcus quietly lamented. "I dare say you wouldn't need him any more…"

A rumbling issued in the far distance. Across the fields, thundering towards Razork in a great mass of soot and dust, came Skegga's army.

"I suppose I should be flattered," Marcus mused aloud. "The great God Skegga comes to witness my 'resurrection' personally. I have to say I'm excited to meet him. I've never talked with a God before."

Deekius sniggered, as did some of the crossbow-rats on the walls.

"Our scouts are reporting two Dwarven Great Cannon," Skeever said beside him.

"Good," Marcus replied. "That's two more for us when the battle is over. This time, we won't be letting them go."

Skeever hesitated beside him as Deekius turned to whip up the fervor of the troops. Both man and rat watched as the first volley was fired – a great torrent of flame being spit towards Razork's reconstructed buildings, instantly smashing them to pieces.

Meanwhile, the Eastern tunnels sounded with a very similar thundering.

"You doubt me, Skeever, don't you?" Marcus said suddenly, knowing that this might be the last chance they had to speak with any pretense of civility before hostilities commenced.

The ratman swallowed his fear, and possibly his pride.

"I would never be – could never be – doubting the Shai-Alud," he replied. "But I am doubting the man who wears his mask."

Marcus smiled at that. When he wanted to, the little warrior did have some flair with words.

"You remember what I told you when we first came to this village, Skeever?'

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"You are telling me to only tell you the truth."

"Correct. The fact you can still do so even through all this Messiah bullshit tells me I made the right decision in placing so much responsibility on your shoulders."

The ratman stiffened, perhaps from pride, or perhaps from fear – fear born from the fact the Shai-Alud had just disputed his own divinity. But he did not push that subject further.

"So when you tell me you doubt me," Marcus said as Skegga's cannons roared again. "I know that means we're walking a fine line between victory and total annihilation."

"Then be telling me which you are thinking it will be," Skeever asked his Sire. "Will the dwarves be taking the bait?"

Marcus's shoulders heaved the way they always did when he was forced to say things that would have been considered taboo or heinous back on earth.

That was becoming a theme, recently. And each time, Marcus noted, his trepidation over his words seemed to lessen.

"From what the rats of Marrow have told me of the Dwarves, they are a civilization totally dominated by an ancient honor-culture. To them, the notion of vengeance has no negative connotation. Entire Houses' offspring are trained from birth to eliminate a single Clan or individual due to some perceived slight made against their great-great grandfather. This is what they refer to as the 'Mandate of Stone.'"

Skeever nodded slowly, watching the cannons rip and tear at Razork, coming up just short of Spearclaw's foundations due to its elevated position.

"This makes its leaders men of honor," Marcus said. "And that's exactly what their weakness is."

Skeever – ever the consummate soldier – glanced up at his Lord in confusion.

"Sire," he asked. "How does honor make them weak?"

And Marcus, heaving a little less this time, replied,

"Because, Skeever, that's the sad reality of warfare: honorable men are often the first to die."

…

Boss Skegga was in his element.

He beat his great claws on his bulbous belly as his throne inched forward, feeling the thrum of the fully operational cannons he'd brought along with him, hearing nothing but the collective wails of 2000 Kobolds that were singing his name in victory.

He watched as the cannons belched their payloads at Razork and the town's pitiful buildings fell one by one. The ratmen were not even brave enough to sally forth from their hill fort nearby. They wouldn't face him.

"Because they can't!" Skegga yelled aloud, confusing any of the Yips who were listening to him. His honor guard's armor glistened in the dust of Razor Ridge, the gilded Dwarven craftsmenship impressive even to him. He reckoned they'd even give the Masters a run for their money.

As the army spilled out of the uncomfortable narrowness of the ridge and formed up around the great steel cannons, Skegga threw up his arms and addressed his flock.

"KOBOLDS!" he yelled, in a voice that traveled through the entire Eastern cavern, so that he was sure all of the ratmen hiding in their pathetic little tunnels could hear. "You have followed me as I slew the fat-bearded stunties in their homes, you have followed me as I told you of the Great Kleansing – and watched as I sweeped away the ratmen of the North! Now, you follow me on the final act. You follow me on the path towards my ascension! We shall raze the hovels of the disgusting rats and put their heads upon our pikes beside the head of their precious Shai-Alud!"

He held aloft his great winged spear that bore the head of the human Silas had delivered to him. Around, the Kobolds yelped with righteous fervor, every one of them bowing down to get as close as they could to their God's floating throne – even reaching out their hands to get singed by the flickering blue flames that gave it power.

"First – Razork!" Skegga roared. "Then Fleapit itself! Even now our Yips are pillaging to the West, tearing down the walls of the rats' forts and blocking off their retreat! Their feeble forces shall fall this day. All of them shall be trodden by the clawed feet of Skegga's chosen people! And once we have slain their king, and wiped our behinds with his entrails, we shall take the queen and put her to the torch!"

More cheers of affirmation. More roars of pure glee. The Kobolds were filled with battle-fervor, and Skegga, smearing a slime-covered smile across his face, decided he didn't need to follow Silas' plan.

Allow the cannons to soften up the village and make a few dents in the Spearclaw fort, he had said. Pah! What did a God have to fear of these infidels? His time had come. And he was not about to sit here and wait for the machines of the Dwarves to claim glory that belonged to him.

"HEAD YIPS!" he called, throwing spittle and mucus across his army's center. "READY YOUR SQUADS!"

The frontlines obeyed without question. The Skogs surged, even the ones with newly mounted slingers. The swordsmen beat their iron shields and called out a battlecry that shook the entire cavern. The crossbow-Yips followed and at the rear came Skegga with his hardened Kobold honor-guard, clad in the body armor of the dwarves.

And as the cannons made a final roar of power, Skegga threw up his arms and sent his only command flying into the dead air filled with the dust of his conquest.

"CHARGE, MY KOBOLDS! LET THE FINAL ACT OF THE KLEANSING BEGIN!"

###

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