Skegga’s army was a wave of bloodlust. Each kobold coalesced into a single, writhing organic mass, issuing a battle cry that echoed through the entire North Warrens.
“RUN, MY CHILDREN!” the slime-clad God sang above them, flashing his spear bearing the decapitated head of the ‘Shai-Alud.’ Surely the ratmen would simply grovel at his feet when they saw it.
Skegga looked above his thundering throng of Yips and saw Razork village disappear in clouds of black smoke – the effects of his two Dwarven cannons smashing the place to pieces. Finally, he’d show these rats exactly who the real leader of this Kingdom was.
Then, he’d come above to deal with the Masters…
“SWEEP THROUGH THEIR TUNNELS IN A SWARM OF DEATH, MY CHILDREN! COVER THESE WARRENS IN RED! PAINT THE WALLS OF THEIR HOME WITH THEIR BLOOD! BLOOD, FOR YOUR NEW GO-!”
Skegga’s voice became lost in another howl that pierced through the air, instantly cutting off his army’s collective squeal of preemptive victory. He felt a distinct ringing in his ears, plunged a slippery thumb into them and then double-blinked to try and resolve the reality that was now unfolding before him.
The first line of his Yips had just been decimated.
At least 100 good little slaves…
And in the distance, far to the East of the ratman’s pitiful little village, he saw the flash of an array of muzzles against the hard stone of the Eastern tunnels.
Then a voice reached his ears that could rival even his own Godly proclamations.
“MEN OF STONE!” the new voice bellowed. “CUT THESE BASTARDS DOWN! SEMPER-ROK! SEMPER ROOOOOK!”
Then the Kobold frontlines disappeared in a hailstorm of bullets.
…
“It’s begun,”
Marcus nodded towards the newly emerged army that had set up a veritable firing range to the Eastern edge of Razork. He counted at least 500 men – small men to be sure – but men nonetheless.
More impressive than their stature were the long-barreled rifles they’d brought to bear in a matter of minutes, emerging from the contested tunnels of Clan Marrow and identifying their enemy within a matter of seconds.
“It is…as you are saying,” Skeever said with a hoarse chuckle. “Dwarves are not taking insults lightly.”
“The men of stone are being perhaps even dumber than the Kobolds who are still trusting in Skegga,” Deekius tutted as the three commanders watched the Kobold lines falter and retreat under the sustained fire of the Dwarven gun emplacement. What helped the stunted men more was the fact that their guns were clearly lever-action weapons packed with gunpowder – which meant, of course, trails of expelled smoke with every shot that soon created a dense cloud around them. It gave the dwarven gunners a distinctly ghostlike impression – like these men were literally the specters of their dead come to seek retribution for the Kobolds grievances against them.
Macus had anticipated as much. Though, he had hoped their killing field to be slightly more effective – the Dwarven sniper who had assaulted him on the way to Fleapit had fired twice as fast as these men. But, still, the effect on the Kobold army was decisive. Already, their confidence was beginning to shake.
And that was exactly the right time to strike.
“Ok,” Marcus said. “The toad is going to pivot and commit his force to assaulting our new friends. That means…”
“I am understanding, Shai-Alud,” Skeever said, immediately turning to face the soldiers stationed behind him. “Rats of Spearclaw - we are riding! Let our names be those the legends are speaking of when they tell of the glory of the second battle of Razork!”
Amidst the rats' cry of joy, Marcus suppressed the sizable gulp that was rising in his throat.
He knew that some crucial engagements – even entire campaigns themselves – hinged upon luck. And Lady Luck had never been too fond of Marcus in his life as a student.
Especially when it came to understanding his enemies.
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Still, he had committed himself now – and the loyalty of his followers depended on victory. A victory that would finally buy him a one-way ticket out of here.
So, as he watched their hidden forces begin to assemble, stalking forth from the dark corners of the blasted Razork fields, he decided, for once, to trust in luck.
…
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” Skegga was wailing as he watched his lines of Kobolds become nothing more than puffs of crimson smoke in the wake of the stunties’ assault. “TURN! RIGHT FLANK – CHARGE! BREAK FORMATION! KILL THE STUNTIES!”
He watched his Head Yips relay his commands with frustration difficulty – difficulty that was compounded by both the roar of his cannons and the screams of confusion that was assailing his ranks.
“CANNONS!” he bellowed. “FIRE-FIRE!”
“B-Boss!” one Yip from behind him stuttered, his voice all but a whisper in the midst of the yelps issued by another line of slain Kobolds. “We…we are not having clear shot-sho-“
Skegga swung his spear to pierce the ribcage of the complaining Yip and toss him aside.
“ARM THE GUNS!” he roared with pure hatred surging in his gut. “FIRE! FIRE! JUST FIRE!”
The guns instantly groaned as they began to turn on their axles, their wheels grinding against the ground as they made their slow turn towards the smoke-ridden Eastern tunnels that the bastard stunties had emerged from.
“How?!” Skegga asked allowed. Then, remembering himself, tore the heads of two of his guardian Kobolds who looked up at him with confusion clean from their shoulders.
How did the dwarven men know…why…why do they come now? his mind raced, panic beginning to overtake his battle fervor. How did Silas not know a Dwarven army was coming? Were there no signs? Are the little stunties smarter than they look?
No, he told himself. He had taken enough of them apart to know that they weren’t as tough as they looked. Their brains were jelly and goo even if they said their souls were clad with stone and iron. They would break. He had numbers on his side. They could tear through as many Kobolds as they wanted with their silly guns. Eventually, he would break through their lines. All he had to do was throw everything he had at them.
His vile smirk, dripping with ooze and blood from blackened gums, suddenly came back as he watched his Kobolds charge blindly at the smoke crowd, the cannons finally ready to support them from behind.
He watched whole columns of his forces disappear in hazed of ichor and torn limbs, eviscerated heads and bloody, bullet-riddled organs. But it didn’t matter. None of them stopped running. None of them stopped screaming his name with all the strength in their little lungs. They loved him. They worshipped him. And that was one thing the bastard Dwarves never had.
So, he turned with them and added his voice to the renewed echoes of victory, raising his human-tipped weapon high.
“B…boss…”
“WHAT!” he whirred, staring with bloodshot eyes at one of his Yips scouts that had come to tug at the folds in his back.
“B…b…boss…”
“If you don’t spill your guts in the next second, I WILL TASTE THEM MYSELF!” he yelled in the little creature’s face. WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT?!”
“The…the West!” the little Yip cried, pointing at what was once the army’s western wing which, after their complete pivot, had now become their flank. “They…they…they are…”
Skegga’s massive claw came down to silence the Kobold as his mind caught up with the creature’s eyes.
“I…it’s not possible…”
From out of the darkness of the Western tunnels, wedged at the side of Razork’s trodden fields, a legion of ratmen charged, each one carried by a monster of teeth and claws.
“T…TURN ABOUT! TURN!”
But by the time Skegga had issued his command, it was already too late.
Two-thousand men could not hear one leader.
But they could feel the futility in fighting a cause that was now lost.
And for the Yips in the rearguard to turned to see death approaching them from their backs, such a reality was becoming all too clear.
…
“CHAAAAARGE!”
Skeever Steelclaw led the three formations of Marrow cavalry into the flank of Skegga’s legion, his good arm raised, voice carrying through the chaos of Razork field, and as his Spineripper leaped to bite off the head of the first Kobold casualty of the battle, he gave his men a command that would stay with them for the whole duration of the battle to come.
“COME ON, YOU SONS OF MARROW!” he roared. “YOU ARE WANTING THE STUNTIES TO TAKE ALL THE GLORY?!”
He smiled to himself as his rats replied with total unity of mind – their spears smashing against the shields of the Kobold rearguard and sending the little beasties flying back spoke louder than any words they could form.
The rats tore through the Yips even as they attempted to turn and meet their charge, seeing their comrades up front get cut down by the dwarves and not feeling the blood of the men behind them start to run in rivers beneath their feet. The Spinerippers jumped gleefully into the horde, weathering blows that would have killed a lesser creature. The bloated Skogs of the Kobolds stood no chance against the real, toughened cavalry of the rats – cavalry honed through centuries of pain and strife on countless battlefields. Now, finally, they were getting a proper meal for their troubles.
And Skeever looked up, coated in the ichor of their prey, as he effortlessly speared through the guts of two other Kobolds, the three legions of cavalry pushing the enemy back into the Dwarven killing zone inch by bloody inch.
All the while, the Talon-Commander kept his sharp eyes trained on the increasingly panicked form of Boss Skegga.
Be staying right there for me, filth, Skeever told himself. For Gatskeek, Verulex, Festicus…and for Sire Marcus…I will see your gut impaled by my spear alone!
###
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