"Worry, doubt, fear and despair are the enemies which slowly bring us down to the ground and turn us to dust before we die"

- Douglas MacArthur

Marcus stared into the crackling bonfire before him, trying to block out the sounds of celebrating rat-men pushing their Kobold prisoners around.

The ratguards had made camp at the end of the so-called Black Gulch just before they entered another tunnel that would take them to Knifegut fort – where Skeever said they could resupply and have safe passage to their capital city of Fleapit, seat of his Clan's power.

Marcus admitted that he was a little curious. An entire colony of humanoid rats lived down here, capable of military discipline and quick learning. They'd taken to the Testudo naturally, and though Deekius insisted their prowess in the battle had been due to his leadership alone, Marcus knew better. Being an effective General meant nothing if his troops weren't flexible, well-equipped, and maintained just the right amount of bloodlust.

Staring sidelong at the ratguard as they chewed on what remained of their kobold captives, Marcus realized that wouldn't be an issue for these creatures.

Skeever suddenly appeared beside him, offering him some vile-looking liquid swirling in an earthen glass.

He took it. When in Rome…

"You are being quiet, Sire Marcus," the rat said with a twitch of his still bloody whiskers. "You are not wishing to celebrate your victory?"

"It was *hic!* your victory more than mine."

Whatever the swill was Skeever had given him, it certainly had a kick to it. He decided he didn't want to ask. To quench the thirst in his gut was all he wanted.

"We would be dying without you!" Skeever railed, slapping a great claw on his back. "You are being too humble. This is not the warrior's way. When the king sees you, he shall be giving you all honors. You shall become war leader to rival Greyrax himself."

Marcus tentatively wondered if these 'honors' were what he wanted at all.

"Where's Deekius?" he asked.

Skeever grimaced. "Bah! The priest is conducting after-battle ritual to praise He-Who-Festers. He is big reason we stop here."

Marcus followed Skeever's eyes till they found the sagging form of the old, robed rat, shaking his staff above one of the captured Kobolds, cutting his own flesh and smearing his crimson blood across the crying creature's forehead.

"You were very clever to spare the last of the Kobolds, Sire," Skeever said. "Now we have captives and can be making good sacrifices to the Lord."

Marcus sighed. He had inadvertently made these beasts believe he was just as debased as they were.

His eyes flitted to them chewing on the innards of the Kobolds corpses they had dragged or carried with them out here, the bonfire throwing their savage shadows across the basalt cave walls.

"Skeever," he suddenly whispered. "I cannot stay here. I must go home."

The Talon-Commander huffed and took a shot of his viscous liquid. "I am understanding, Marcus. If you are simply one of many where you are coming from, then we have underestimated the humans of the Realm Beyond."

"Realm Beyond?" Marcus parroted.

"The place we are summoning you from. A place of spirits where it was said a hero would come."

Spirits, Marcus scoffed. From a plane of spirits. Well, it wouldn't be a stretch to call urban California a realm where spirits frolicked in the sun…

As he observed Skeever's reverent staring into the fire, he saw that maybe the rat himself didn't even buy it.

"Is your…faith important to you, Skeever?" Marcus asked suddenly, surprising himself with the question.

The rat bristled. "There are being some of us who have forsaken the Old Ways. It is said Clan Marrow has burned all their temples."

"Temples?" Marcus couldn't help but choke. "You have places of worship?"

The rat mistook this surprise for admiration.

"They are being sacred places to those who commune with He-Who-Festers," Skeever explained. "But with the war many have turned their backs. Some of my Clan's temples are being empty places lately. But that will change when they are seeing you."

He spat a globule of puss into the fire, enjoying his men chuckling to see the flames lick around it.

"You are being hope," he said. "That is the name we give you – Shai-Alud, Final-Chance, the one who will be destroying our enemies and making these tunnels ours."

Marcus finished his drink and set it down. He didn't like where this was going.

"I am not here to prosecute your war," he said. "I'm here until I can leave, and that's it."

He stood up and walked away, towards the still-praying Deekius. His sudden rage was something even he didn't understand, something that Maria had always warned him about. He dared not look back at the rat commander but knew he wasn't being followed as he cut through the jumping rodents who tried to lay their filthy claws on him, their salivating mouths screaming 'Shai-Alud!' at him as he passed.

"Deekius," he said when he approached the busy priest. "We need to talk."

The Ratling turned, revealing a spattering of kobold intestine draped across his long snout. His prisoner had long since expired, his stomach being torn open and emptied of its constituent parts. Beside him sat a long parchment, upon which the priest was scratching out signs and runic symbols utterly incomprehensible to Marcus.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

He can read and write, Marcus mused. That's something.

"Sire," he said. "The rituals of He-Who-Festers are delicate. They cannot be interrupt-"

"Spare me," Marcus broke in. "You told me you'd send me back if I helped you win the last battle."

The robed rat was immediately subservient. "Sire, I am trying. I am trying to commune with He-Who-Festers. But his signs are being…distorted."

"Not good enough," Marcus replied.

"I will be continuing my efforts, Sire! I am needing time to-"

"I don't have time!"

Marcus shout was interpreted by the surrounding rats as a warcry, and they took up the chant like a horde of baying jackals.

"DON'T HAVE TIME! DON'T HAVE TIME!"

"I…Damnit!" he raged, planting himself on the hard ground and covering his face in his hands, before realizing that his hands were still slathered in the blood of the little yipping demons.

He looked up at the sad face of the priest, who prostrated himself before Marcus' feet.

"May my back be flayed, and my skin soaked in soap!" he wailed. "I offend the Shai-Alud with my obstinacy! Sire, I am imploring you, be helping us reach Fleapit and I will enlist the aid of the Prime Putrefact. He and his acolytes shall enhance my power. There we can send you home to the Realm Beyond!"

Marcus wiped a bloody hand down his face. The smell of the liquid was sickening, but he just didn't care anymore.

"I'm stuck here…" he murmured. "I'm stuck…"

You are being hope…the one who will be destroying our enemies and making these tunnels ours.

That's what they really wanted, wasn't it? A destroyer – someone to help them win their little war. Wouldn't anyone? Could he really blame them for wanting to defeat their enemies? Even if Marcus still didn't know anything about the grand conflict that was going on here at all?

As a thought suddenly began to form in his mind, Skeever shambled up and kicked Deekius in his side.

"Be rising, priest. Show Sire Marcus you are worth his respect, at least."

"I am but a lowly servant," Deekius murmured. "I am not fit to be trod upon!"

"No…" Marcus whispered, clapping his hands together as though he had just come to a pivotal decision. "No. You whipped up a steam cloud that practically ensured our victory. Without you, we'd have sustained massive casualties. If anyone's behaving like a useless idiot here, it's me."

The rats regarded him with their unblinking stares.

He looked on them with different eyes, then. They had an organized religion in the throes of secular doubt, enemies from all sides that kept them constantly fighting, and innate instincts that made them unwilling to just back down and die.

And, well, Marcus understood doubt. He knew how it felt to be hemmed in by enemies, and, as Mari was often fond of telling him, he had a particularly stubborn streak in him that refused to let him back off in the face of seemingly impossible odds.

But unlike his great, vaulted 'Realm-Beyond', here were a bunch of sentient beings who were actually willing to listen to him.

He smirked at the heresy of the idea. Was it possible that these rats were more capable of unbiased understanding than his college opponents?

"Alright," he said with a shake of his dirty locks. "You need me, and I need you. We'll push through to Fleapit, and then you'll show me to this 'Putrefact.' But if he can't help me, Deekius…"

The priest bowed graciously, practically groveling at his feet. "Sire, SIRE! You are kind, you are most kind to your humble servant!"

Marcus would've laughed if the stench of the rat didn't overwhelm him.

"But you must be punishing me, Sire," he stammered. "Any who offend a vassal of He-Who-Festers must lose a piece of themselves!"

Marcus looked to Skeever who simply shrugged, licking his bloody lips.

"I can be performing this task for you, Marcus," he said with an impish grin. "I would be considering it a pleasure."

Marcus looked down at the groveling rat-priest and sighed again. The more he learned of these beings, the less he understood.

But he could change that.

"You said you must lose a piece of yourself?" he asked the ratling. "Very well. But I won't take your body, Deekius. We need you in the fight. It's your tools I want."

Deekius' eyes flew to watch as Marcus pointed at his parchment binder and ink-quill. At least, Marcus hoped it contained ink...

"That," he said. "Give me a few of those parchments and some ink and we'll call it fair and square."

"HAH!" Skeever grunted, elbowing the priest as he rose to his knees. "The Shai-Alud is right, Deekius. You waste your time scrawling down signs which mean nothing to our war. Be giving it up, and let the chosen of He-Who-Festers do the writing!"

A few of the other members of the troop stifled their laughter, which told Marcus all he needed to know about the Ratmen's attitude towards the written word.

But, no matter, he thought as Deekius ripped off a screed of parchment and hesitantly handed him a dirty quill. Marcus didn't need them to be literary geniuses.

Fighters is what they are, and that's all they have to be.