“You can’t win a war lying down”

George S. Patton

 

Marcus looked up at the faces of the two ratlings in the aftermath of his revelation.

They looked like he’d just slapped them both with a wet fish.

“Don’t mistake me for ordering a withdrawal,” he said. “This is more of a feigned retreat than anything else.”

“Shai-Alud?” the hulking rat commander asked. “How are we to run when their arrows don’t stop flying?”

“Call me Marcus,” Marcus replied. “If we’re going to fight together, we might as well know each other’s names.”

The great rat stiffened, clamping his chest again in what might be some kind of salute. “I am Skeever-Steelclaw, fourth Claw-Commander of the Crimson-Eye Clan.”

Marcus nodded. He had some pride about him, for a creature that smelled of fly-covered faeces.

Then again, that might be Marcus’ own scent.

“You know my name, Sire,” Deekius said. “But to the question of our running, this is not how we ratlings under the watchful eyes of He-Who-Festers make war.”

“You wanted the wisdom of your great summoned hero,” Marcus said with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “There it is. We’re going to run.”

As both creatures seemed to sink further into despair, Marcus explained further.

“But like I say, ‘feigned retreat’ would be a better way of putting it. We break through the enemy’s hold and reposition ourselves so that we can make one decisive strike at the enemy. Right now, we’re trapped, but we have something the enemy doesn’t.”

Both ratling’s ears perked up.

“You said it yourself, Skeever,” Marcus went on. “Your soldiers are tough, and they’re armored. They’ve clearly got some discipline about them, probably owing to your bassy voice. I’d reckon you could tell them to jump into that evil-looking gulch and they’d probably do it.”

Skeever coughed. “He-Who-Festers would not be looking favorably on that, Sire.”

“I’m sure,” Marcus chuckled. “But I’m also sure your God wants his followers to live, right? So, here’s what we’re going to do.”

Marcus sat down and began drawing in the wet, mud-caked ground of the cave, aware that the shield wall could buckle at any moment, and that lives were on the line. But he had to go through his plan. In cases like these, total understanding was needed by all military leaders, and he got the impression these two were often at eachothers throats even though they clearly served the historically synergistic roles of battlefield commander and priest. If he could get them both to understand what their troops had to do, and back him up completely, then these rats would have both martial prowess and the fanatical fervor religious zealots were often able to inspire in their troops. You didn’t have to be a man of faith to see that. Such unity of purpose was one of the best force multipliers an army could maintain – it could double the worth of every man in a single unit.

“Alright,” he said. “By my count we have 30 spearmen to work with. That’s good enough for us to split them into two units of 15 and form each into a Testudo Formation.*”

“Testudo?” Skeever inquired.

“A tight, mobile, and defensive column,” Marcus explained, drawing a crude diagram in the sand of stick-figure soldiers with their shields held high over each others’ heads. “At the vanguard and the rear, the shields are kept at arm level, every rank within the formation keeps their shield raised over their heads to grant protection to the group from aerial attacks. Used correctly, this will minimize our casualties as each unit moves down the gulch.”

Skeever rubbed his hairy chin. “By He-Who-Festers…” he said. “I am never having heard of this.”

“As to our plan of attack – we’re facing a force made up entirely of archers that far outnumbers ours. The best way to strike at them would be with a pincer move, after we’ve disrupted their visibility.”

Marcus reconfigured his crude diagram, pointing out the stages of the plan that was slowly forming in his head.

“We each lead one force towards both bridges, cross them, and then attack the enemy force from their flanks.”

“Such is the knowledge of the Shai-Alud,” Deekius said excitedly as he followed Marcus’ sketching fingers. “The teachings of Greyrax himself could not even compare. But it is remaining to be said: what is this you say about disrupting their visibility?”

Marcus looked up at the wondering priest.

“A bowman that can’t see can’t fire reliably. And, luckily for us, we’ve got a nice body of water between us and them.”

Both rats blinked at the human again.

“So?” they chimed.

“So?” Marcus said with a smirk. “You’ve already got the answer, Deekius. You showed me it when you boiled me my drink.”

Both rats watched as he raised his putrid water cup and took a hearty swill of the vile liquid again. It went down with a vile aftertaste, but then what did he expect of dung-eating rats? Magic milkshakes?

Eventually, both talking vermin realized what he meant.

“By Greyrax,” Skeever whispered. “It – it just might be working!”

Deekius raised his staff and bowed his head.

“Such is the knowledge of the Shai-Alud. He knows us better than we are knowing ourselves…”

The ratmen stared in wonder at their pondering God, until the cries of Redwhiskers could no longer be ignored.

“TALON-COMMANDER!” he bellowed. “WHAT IS YOUR ORDER!?”

Skeever stood to attention. “We will be executing the first part of your plan, Shai-Alud. I will lead the left flank, Deekius, you go with Marcus to lead the right.”

Putting me under the protection of your priest, huh? Marcus moaned within his mind as Skeever turned and belted out a shrill order to his troops.

“ALRIGHT, YOU SOAP-SWALLOWING SWINE! Be hearing the voice of the Shai-Alud! From now on, we are following his lead. Testudo formation – now!”

When his men cast bemused looks back at him, he railed against them as though he hadn’t just literally heard of this himself mere seconds ago.

“ARE YOUR EARS STUCK WITH THE RAGGED BEARDS OF DWARVES!?” he bellowed. “Front rank and back ranks, be maintaining position. Rest of you, shields up! We are MOVING!”

Deekius shoved something into Marcus’ arms before the latter could even complain about it.

“Be taking these, Sire Marcus,” the priest said. “Robes from my fallen apprentice and a spare shield from one of our brothers shot down. If you are to be coming with us, you will be having the protection of both our steel and our faith.”

“Gee, thanks,” Marcus groaned, slipping into the tight-fitting robe, still sticky with blood. The shield, meanwhile, was tiny compared to him – maneuverable, sure, but barely larger than a buckler.”

Skeever split up the force and got them into formation quickly as more and more projectiles pelted their position.

“Do not be afraid, Sire,” Deekius said as they rushed to join the troops. “We are being the chosen ones – the vanguard of a new era for the Under-kingdom! We have the protection of He-Who-Festers with us on this day!”

“Great,” Marcus replied as he slotted himself in the Testudo on the left flank and hunkered down. “Because we’re going to need it.”

…

Gith loved the smell of dying ratman.

Ever since he was a child sucking on his mother’s sixth teat, he had listened to stories of how his fourteenth daddy had shoved his stabbing knife in old Grayrax himself back in…uh…a big fight that went down…somewhere. He’d smiled as the black ooze of his mother’s milk had run down his mouth and thought about chasing daddy’s tail one day and cutting up a whole bunch of ratmen till their bellies spilled out.

He had no idea it would feel this good.

“We kill-kill!” he said for the fourteenth time since their attack had begun. “We kill-kill big rats slow-slow! We make ‘em bleed! Yes! Bleeeeeeeed!”

Gith had never been respected much by his peers, or the new Big Boss that these bad rats had stolen from. So, when the Big Boss had ordered all the hunting yips to close those ratmen’s bad eyes forever and bring him the head of the big one – Skeevin, or something - Give had ventured out with excitement. But he’d never expected to find them, broken and beaten, on the edge of big dark Black Gulch, where it is said the yippers can never jump, and where the waters themselves can eat you up and turn you inside out.

No, he thought to himself. No water. No jumping. No fuss. We sit here and shoot at rats till they dead. If they surrender, we shoot them in their eyes! Yes-yes! We kill ‘em all, we ki-“

“Gith-Gith!” one of the bow-yippers squeeked. “Bad rats come out-out!”

Gith’s toothy smile stretched his face beyond healthy proportions.

“They go mad-mad!” he cried, performing the war-jump of battle victory. “Now they die-die! Now they-“

He looked closer at something that shone in the distance. There were two different clumps of rats now, and they sparked like a big box of shiny steel. Gith’s men looked on in confusion as they aimed their arrows at where the ratmen’s heads should be and saw them instead knock harmlessly off their shields.

“Gith-Gith!” one yipper cried. “What we do? The silly rat men wear shields like hats!”

“Fool!” Gith roared, his toes slamming into the ground as he performed the rebuke-jump of idiocy. “We hit them in their toes, we hit them in their arms, we aim for smelly rat-flesh! We keep hitting them!”

One of the dumb rats scurried out ahead of the two columns of shining steel tipped with spears, and he was nothing but an old bag of wrinkles and bones.

“Him!” Gith squealed. “Hit him! Hit him! Kill-Ki-!”

Gith’s voice was cut off as the ugly rat pounded the ground of the opposite gulch ridge with his wooden staff, and shouted one single word that send a chill running up Gith’s bones.

“ARVOK PATURZ!”

A surge of energy pulsed from the dirty rodent’s staff, and Gith instinctly felt his knees begin to shake.

His men stopped their firing and looked down at their naked hides, checking for any sign of injury.

And Gith, to show them he had no fear, called out to the doomed little ratling.

“Stupid rat! Was that supposed ta hu-“

The waters of the gulch suddenly began to bubble beneath their feet, a sound like air being sucked through a million teeth came pierced the ears of every kobold, and in the next second the waters belched out a cloud that covered the entire ridge.

“EEK!” the frontlines of Gith’s hunting pack screamed. “Head-Yip! We can’t see! We – where have the rats gone?!”

The cloud enveloped the entire hunting squad, searing into their eyes and making them well up with tears.

Rat man trickery! Gith bellowed in his tiny brain. He would have their furry heads for this!

“QUIET!” Gith yelped, jumping around like a madman and tearing one slingshot away from a shaking yipper beside him. He tried to keep himself from showing the fear that was welling up in his heart. He tried to listen for the rats if he could not see them, but his dumb yips wouldn’t stop their shouting!

“SHUT UP!” he squealed to the obscured heavens. “AND KEEP FIRING!”

“…at what, Head-yi-“

“JUST FIRE!” Gith screamed, smashing his fist into the insolent yip who dared to question him. “FIRE FIRE FIRRRRRREEEE!”

And without another word, that’s exactly what the steam-covered Kobolds did.