-North Warrens, Grindlefecht Perimeter-
“SIIIILLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAS!”
He was going to slaughter that conniving little rat.
His fat folds, crimson curtains flailing with his every gyration, wept blood and puss onto his Kobolds that had helped carry him home – those who had not wandered off in the aftermath of the Razor-Ridge collapse. Skegga, in manner which flew in the face of his apparent omnipotence, had not noticed their departure.
“I WILL KILL HIM!” he screamed, ichor and tooth-scraps flying from his rabid mouth. “I WILL EAT HIS GUTS WHILE HE STILL LIVES! I WILL PAINT MY THRONE WITH HIS MARROW!”
The Kobolds of the outlying villages that surrounded Gulchnavel Keep saw their broken Lord as he glided by their huts. Many young Yips had emerged, already dancing the Jump of Jubilation with their mothers or invalid fathers that had not been conscripted into their God’s crusading force.
What they saw was not the triumphant return of a war-hero and his band of merry men. Instead, they saw a gargantuan mass of wriggling flesh shouting into the dead winds that blew through the Northernmost caverns of the Warrens. They watched as their would-be deity smashed through fences and blundered through fields, still ranting about how he would kill his ratman advisor in the most sadistic ways possible.
The Yips of the North found themselves perplexed.
“Surely Boss Skegga does not mean good-good Silas?” an aging Yip asked his wife as they quit their dancing to watch their Lord pass.
“No-no,” his wife replied. “Silas has always done right-right by us. Even for ratman, he is care-caring for Yip farms and children. He is a good-good rat.”
The wife spoke true – Silas had quite the reputation among the Kobolds of the Northern villages. On the days when great Skegga had first come among them, parading Silas as a slave that deserved nothing but their scorn, the Yips had jeered and thrown their dung at him as all his heretic kind deserved. But their spirits had softened to the ratman with time, and as Boss Skegga had allowed him more free will to travel among their homes, solving disputes among farmers and giving them advice on how to till the land in this dark realm. He spoke well – with a manner unbecoming for one of this kind. He had shown the Yips how to don the armor of the Stunties, shown them how to fight properly as a unit, and helped oversee the village militias as they trained in the service of their Lord. Many Yips murmured how Silas was the one that wrote Skegga’s great speeches he delivered to them on days of the harvest – speeches with big words that often perplexed even the God’s great lolling tongue. Yes – they saw good Silas as one of them, now.
Certainly one who would never betray the trust of a God. No – something was wrong here, the Yips of the outlying villages decided. Boss Skegga could not have lost his battle because of good Silas.
Those that cheered to see their God return were promptly shut up by either Skegga’s roars or his commands to his troops to cut out their tongues. Eventually, word had spread to all those villages surrounding the great toad’s fort that the battle had not only been lost, but their God had been wounded.
And that was something not even the most devout Yip could doubt.
As the Kobold villagers of the North whispered, words that were once thought heretical began to take on new life – it was said that the magic-rats under the command of their Shai-Alud had managed to enact miracles the likes of which God Skegga had never performed. It was said that an entire army of Yips were flushed away at Gulchnavel, and now bowed down to welcome a new God into their hearts. Word also traveled of the destruction wrought at Razor-Ridge, and how their gracious deity had indeed taken a spear in his belly after attempting to retreat.
As Skegga’s fledgling army continued their laborious march home, confusion only continued to run rampant through the ranks of the civilian Yips in this manner. Normally, Silas would walk amongst them whenever there was a setback such as this. He had done so when the army of their Lord had fallen at the last battle of Razork village. He had done so whenever there was a bad harvest, or whenever their Lord was in a particularly stormy mood such as today. Such storms came and went for one of such boundless intelligence and emotional range as Boss Skegga.
But today, Silas was strangely absent.
In the twin Forts of the North that remained things were becoming more chaotic. At the sight of their God, the captain Yips of the garrisons readied their troops to move out to speed up the great toad’s advance. However, scouts riding upon half-eaten Skogs rode out from Skegga’s forces to meet with the commanders of both forts, explaining the situation in detail and telling the garrison that, yes, the army was lost.
“So, what do we do-do?” the Yip commander of Fort Charnel asked his messenger.
“Fort Commander can do-do as he likes,” the Skogsrider told him. “Me? I am going home-home. Me is having enough of war.”
Normally such sentiments would be followed by a righteous smacking from a Yip commander. But, strangely, the atmosphere of the North was beginning to change. The commander of watched the rider go, taking several of his men with him, wondering why, exactly, he was not performing his duty as a Kobold loyal to Boss Skegga.
Perhaps, he reasoned, the answer lay in the fact that the creature he was loyal to looked nothing like the wet bag of blood and broken limbs that screamed in the villages below the fort’s battlements. As he looked to his Slingers who manned those walls, he realized his misgivings were more than mutual.
“SIIIIIIILLLLLLAAAAAAS!”
Skegga’s final squeal announced his arrival at the golden gates of Gulchnavel, his Kobold carriers finally taking a much-needed rest from their duty of shepherding their God’s behind up to his home.
Unfortunately, their ears would not get to enjoy such leisure.
“DO YOU HEAR ME, VERMIN!” Skegga screamed up at the spiked walls of his stronghold. “SHOW YOURSELF!”
After a few seconds where it seemed like the God’s increasingly desperate command would go unanswered, a tiny ratman popped his furry head up from between two spokes of the stronghold’s battlements.
“Sire Skegga,” Silas shouted. “You are returning. How are we faring in the bat-“
“DO NOT DARE ASK ANYTHING OF ME!” the toad bellowed. “YOU WILL SAY NOTHING MORE, LYING, WRETCHED SCUM-SUCKING MONGREL!”
“Good Sire, I must be saying –“
“OPEN THE GATES!” Skegga demanded. “NOW!”
Several Kobolds manning the shining gatehouse of the great Dwarven stronghold appeared over the lip of the walls, seeing their wounded God yelling up at them.
“YOU!” Skegga screeched, every pulse of his throat filling him with pain. “OPEN. THE. GATES!”
Skegga was not a toad with a penchant for narcotics. When he was a slave of the Masters – the hideous humanoid snakes that ruled the jungles above – he saw them usually using various forms of chemical enhancements in their daily lives. When they beat him and shoved him around, or burned his belly with their smoking sticks, Skegga saw their pleasure through the pink haze of his pain. He had seen the power of their warriors firsthand when they murdered his brood and took him as one of their own – warriors who, it was said, fought with such ferocity in battle because of the drugs that made them fearless in the face of even a thirsting demon.
Skegga had rejected such substances even when they had freed him. He was a toad that would live and burn bright through his own will alone.
But when he looked up now at those Kobolds on the battlements of his stronghold, he thought that he must have ingested something toxic during the battle below.
Because they did not obey his command. Instead, they looked directly at Silas, who tapped his claws upon the golden walls.
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And after a few seconds during which Skegga’s scarred stomach lurched in sudden panic, the ratman gave a curt nod of his head.
The gates opened and the Kobolds ushered their fallen God inside, getting their strongest Yips within the castle keep to attend to him and his wounds.
“Be…be careful!” he spat at them. “Your God has taken the blades of your foes so that you might live!”
“Yes,” Silas said as the Kobolds lay the great toad on a large slab of stone. “You are being brave, brave fighter, Sire Skegga.”
The toad lurched, ready to grab the rat and tear him apart.
Then something happened that once again sent his mind reeling.
He could swear, in the moment that he reached out to crush the skull of the rat, that the Kobold assembly in the Keep courtyard flew to draw their swords.
Skegga did not cry out. He did not scream. This time, as he lowered his pudgy arm, he said nothing at all.
“Ah, I am understanding your anger, Sire,” the whispering voice of Silas told him as the world began to blur before his eyes. “Defeat is being a hard thing to swallow, yes? But, be resting assured. The time of your ascension comes soon.”
Skegga blinked through his pain as his wounds began to gnaw at his consciousness.
“A…ascension?”
“Indeed, Sire. For the four remaining great cannons of your palace are now being operational. When the ratmen are coming, they shall not be knowing what hit them.”
Skegga felt something crawl on his arm and would have recoiled if he had any strength left in him. But he could do nothing. He could say nothing – and so Silas’ arm gripped his with more strength than he knew the little rat had in him.
“You shall be a true God of this Underkingdom soon, Sire Skegga,” the ratman smiled, dark eyes gleaming against the fading world. “You shall be burning like the brightest star in the night.”
“Y…yes,” Skegga said, laying his massive frame down on the stone slab and feeling himself being taken away. “I shall be…a God…”
His last thoughts were swirls of anger tinged with fear, because he had only now realized that he had come home to a very different palace.
-Two Weeks Later-
Another clap of thunder sounded in the deep. The Boomtail engineers' cries of “Be bracing!” were barely audible against the bellows of the twelve-pounders belching their retort against the walls of Mudklip below.
The tiny Kobold village had been the first they had come across in their trek across the Black Gulch, forging on down its narrow bridges with care and control, each Ratman sub-commander maintaining good marching order within their regiments. To look upon them now was to look upon a fighting force worthy of being called an army: they walked in disciplined rows, the new Handgunners (which the ratmen had taken to calling ‘Sharpshoots’) in tow, shouldering their weapons and keeping pace, the twelve pounder guns rolling behind them. There was enough weight on those things to collapse the bridges, Marcus had thought, but by the will of He-Who-Festers (Deekius’ words, not his) they had endured and had been allowed to cross into Kobold lands.
That was when discipline was needed most. Marcus had addressed the army firmly when they reached the other side, noting the need to maintain formation and set up their ranks with proper adherence to the battle strategy he was employing. Seven hundred spearmen of the Clans provided the brunt of their infantry at the core of the army, with Kobold auxiliaries standing beside them. As Shrykul had commanded, these Kobolds numbered no more than five hundred, and their capacity in battle was relatively limited by their disabilities. But their mere presence would achieve the desired effect Marcus was going for: the morale of their former comrades would be shaken when they saw their brothers marching against them.
The unit of Sharpshoots – two hundred strong – were stationed in the frontlines. Their practice drills were, by this point, almost up to par with those of an average human. Their orders were to fire upon the enemy, step back, get off another volley, and then retreat behind the lines of infantry that would swarm what was left of their battered foes.
In the wings of the formation were, of course, the Spinerippers of Marrow – bloodied and battle-willing. Marcus had the most trouble instilling the idea of patience in them, but those veterans of the battles of Razork were helpful in that regard. They explained how victory was achieved through the cavalry charges that came in the middle of those battles – not by the opening bouts of the armies. Listening to such tales by the flickering bonfires outside their camp, the Spinerippers seemed just as entranced as their riders. It was odd, Marcus had to admit, seeing such pensive looks on the faces of such outwardly loathsome raptors. Odder still was the fact that these beasts seemed to act in absolute harmony with their furry (but tough) riders. To look upon them was to look upon a vision of eternal contradiction: harmonious slaughter. Organized chaos. Two disparate beasts unified by their desire to kill.
The twelve pounders were the most cumbersome element of Marcus’ invasion force – getting those lumbering machines through the tunnels of Knifegut was a challenge even with the fort now being cleansed of Gutmuncher infestation. Pockets of resisting arachnids remained – those who heard the thundering of a thousand footsteps in what they still believed were their hunting grounds. Such pockets of insectoid fury were swiftly put down, and acted as solid training for the Sharpshoots especially, whose arquebus made short work of the insidious arachnids. Still, it had cost them time. Time the enemy had to reinforce and make ready to meet their advance.
But once they had linked up with Koresh and his newly supplicant Kobolds, Marcus’s faith in their victory was reaffirmed. The conscripts were gathered, the rest were put to work by Skeever. Koresh seemed to understand the assignment – he waxed lyrical about the boons of hard labor and graft, telling his new flock that toiling in the name of He-Who-Festers would be the first step on the paths of their new filth-ridden faith. The Kobolds, such as they were, obeyed unquestionably. They had seen this mangy rat command an entire sea. What could they say against his injunctions?
Koresh would not be joining them in the battle to come as a result. His Gloomraava force had suffered considerably in the wake of the miracle of Black Gulch – what the rats who walked on the blessed ground where the Kobolds had drowned were calling the ‘Awakening of the Rot.’
“You do not wish to bear witness to the most glorious hour of your people?” Marcus had asked the priest as the army resupplied and rested in Gulchnavel fortress.
“Nay, Sire,” the hooded Gloomraava replied. “My place is not being on the battlefield. The workings of the Unclean are needed to keep these new converts in check. I shall be leading them to our tunnels, where they shall be toiling under no whip, but the eyes of the Unclean Himself. They shall be doing so out of fear, Sire.”
“You are sure you do not have another miracle in you?” Marcus asked half-jokingly.
The ratpriest smiled.
“Not in me, Sire. The miracle is being you. You, and these forces you are bringing with you. I am being a man of God, and He is already filling my plate with plenty. Who am I so base as to ask Him for more?”
Deekius seemed to understand, and so Marcus let the issue drop.
“Then it seems there truly is no substitute for good old-fashioned boots on the ground,” he said.
The ratpriests had exchanged timid glances, not wishing to offend the Shai-Alud by explaining that ‘boots’ were an aversion to the Unclean – worn by only those who wished to shield themselves from touching the rocks of His world with their bare flesh.
“Just a figure of speech, Koresh,” Marcus explained. “Farewell, and may the blessings of the Unclean go with you.”
The blessings of the Unclean…Marcus had scoffed to himself as he bid the priest and his Kobold workers goodbye. You really sound like a believer now, Marcus. When exactly did you make the decision that pretending to venerate this God was a good idea? And why, if He really was so high and mighty, is such a God allowing you to succeed?
As Marcus looked presently upon the field of chaos spreading before the Kobold village of Mudklip, he came to realize what the answer to this query might be.
The cannons had softened up the walls enough to create a breach from which the miniscule town guard had sallied forth, carrying little more than slings and pitchforks. They had charged their ratman foes with not even a battlecry on their lips – for how could they call for Boss Skegga when he had so clearly left them to die on their own blades?
As the Kobold defenders came charging up the hill, that’s when Marcus gave the signal. His Sharpshoots, cloaked in the smokescreens discharged by the now silent cannons, revealed their arequebus and leveled their barrels at the advancing horde.
“Being ready-ready!” Ix cried at their head.
The gunners smiled, thinking how pleasurable it was to see a Kobold adapting to their way of speaking. But Marcus swelled with pride to know that Ix still kept his own vernacular too. He really was a testament to the unity they were building through this campaign.
“Be FIRING!”
At his order the ratmen opened fire, their volley splitting apart a solid chunk of the charging town’s militia and practically throwing back the entire force as it scrambled up the village hill to try and get a single scratch at the attacking force.
By the time they’d met it within striking distance of the ratman army, however, they were met by a force of very different units.
“Be crushing them!” Skeever yelped in the face of his opponents, his spearmen thrusting into the barely armored Kobolds and throwing them back, pushing away the opposing force like water spilling through cracks in a flimsy dam. The Kobold battle line faltered, and by that point the Spinerippers of Clan Marrow had already flanked the tiny force, whittling away at its rearguard and throwing chunks of the Kobold ranged units into the smoke-filled air of the village perimeter.
In all, the Skirmish of Mudklip Hill would be remembered not for its strategic merits or valor of its combatants. The battle was far too short for any such embellishments. No – instead it would serve as a punctuation in the final paragraphs of Boss Skegga’s failed empire. It would serve as a reminder that, when the hordes of He-Who-Festers came, the Kobolds of the North never really stood a chance in hell.
When the smoke settled, and the militia was soundly crushed, Marcus led his forces into the village proper, seeing the terrified faces of the Kobold civilians who knew that the pale specter of death they had heard about had finally come amongst them to add their bodies to the corpse pile he had strewn across the North Warrens.
The Shai-Alud regarded them with stern eyes, ordering his soldiers to bring all those women and children before him in the village square.
And there, with Skeever and Deekius both beside him, he delivered a proclamation that would become legendary amongst the Kobolds of the Underkingdom…
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