FG: Chapter 65

-Two Weeks Later-

Another clap of thunder sounded in the deep. The ratman engineer’s 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 – as though one wished to sheild 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 pleasurably 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…