The march of the Ratmen echoed through the chasms of the North Warrens uninterrupted.
To the onlooker, nothing about such a force would have looked strange in the tunnels at this end of the Underkingdom.
Nothing except, of course, the human scribbling away with a quill and notebook at the center of the horde.
Evidence of sophisticated architecture used as defensive measures, Marcus was writing, barely paying attention to the chittering of the rats around him – or, at least, the ones he wasn't bombarding with questions.
Skeever tells me that these intricate ruins are Dwarven in origin – they are apparently masters of craftwork. I'm inclined to agree – dotted throughout the chasms we cross now are several examples of barricades, shrines, and other ornate buildings that are irregular in their design, far more solid, defensible, and visually appealing than what I saw in fort Knifegut. Skeever tells me the Dwarven forces have a sizeable presence in the Northwest, maintaining trade routes with the human nations above. This would imply friendly relations…though the Ratmen seem to hate their Dwarven neighbors just as much as their Kobold foes.
"Scruffy, fat, bearded goats!" Skeever remarked to Marcus absent-mindedly. "It is being great honor for Rat to kill Dwarf, taking lock of hair as trophy. Gatskeek! Be showing Sire Marcus your prize!"
The old venerable Rat marching ahead of their column looked back over his shoulder with a proud smile, bearing a dirt-caked lock of braided grey hair.
"Gutting this one was costing me fifteen good ratguards," he croaked. "He was apparently champion."
"And now he is resting in dirt," Skeever spat. "As he should be."
Marcus bristled slightly, looking down at the hate-filled eyes of the Talon-Commander.
"Skeever," he said. "From what you've told me, I have more in common with these Dwarves than I have with you."
The Rat barely heeded the statement, waving Marcus' tense face away.
"No, Sire," he said. "You are looking like a human, but you are having the soul of a Rat within you."
Marcus couldn't help but chuckle. "Is that so?"
"It is what He-Who-Festers has proclaimed," Deekius cut in from behind them. "The Unclean One never lies."
Marcus caught Gatskeek rolling his eyes up ahead and decided to just laugh the comment away.
"You know, many people have accused me of having just that kind of soul in me," he said.
"Begging your pardon, Sire?"
"Nothing," Marcus told Skeever, continuing instead with his notes.
We have about six hours to go until we reach Fleapit, according to Skeever's intuition. Me? I can barely tell whether it's day or night under here, and I can feel my body groan as it tries to adjust itself to this Under-Kingdom time.
With us being so close to the Capital of the Red-Eye Clan's domain, I decided to probe into their military structure. Skeever acts as a Talon-Commander (the general name for a warband leader) and has in his tenure employed several different Lieutenants (Or Paw-Leaders) to supervise smaller units – of which the terse Redwhiskers is the last surviving member. Every fighting force in the field also must be followed by a Rat-Priest of He-Who-Festers, almost like a kind of battle-cleric. This implies at least some degree of military hierarchy of a magnitude higher than I assumed.
The thing that interests me more is the Clan system itself – which is no more complicated than that seen in similar societies in the real (cross that last, 'our') world. It puts me in mind of the old Celtic system of social organization seen in the Early-Medieval British Isles – each Clan maintains its own army, traditions, cultural aspects, and rituals which give them a level of individuality. At the same time, any one King can call for a general muster (called a 'Skittering') which compels each Clan to send a detachment of military aid to the other, in return for promises of similar aid should they find themselves in a spot of trouble. This system, though primitive, is and has been effective in ensuring the Clans remain committed to the general defense of their borders. Gatskeek, however, tells me that the exact interpretation of 'military support' is taken in a deliberately subjective way by some of the Clans if they are particularly hard-up or, in some cases, just lazy. In one interesting example, King Nailgrip of Clan Marrow was reprimanded for delivering a detachment of 'living battering rams' to King Scargut of Clan Glumrot. This turned out to be nothing more than a box of five Dwarves tied to a stake – with Nailgrip vehemently arguing that 'these fat little men are being good for nothing but bashing doors'.
The purpose of Skeever and Deekius' mission is something they're keeping close to their chests. They won't even breathe a word of it to me – they won't give me a shred of information about whatever they 'stole' from this Boss Skegga, but they have revealed that the information they have will 'finally' lead to King Shrykul calling for a Skittering in the coming weeks. I can see the excitement in their eyes as they talk about this in hushed whispers, turning to me with bloody, visceral joy. It's obvious what they want – they want me to lead the muster when it comes.
Gatskeek's been keeping quiet about the whole thing. Part of me thinks that the old rats simply wishes to see his home again. At a few points on our journey, he has only pointed out sightings of creatures native to these chasms – small, balloon like birds which move around the highest stalactites above us. He looks upon them with a level of nostalgia, informing me that they are 'Gitterplaks', or 'Gas balloons' – completely harmless beings that seem to enjoy just existing in the caverns, living on the algae that grows amidst the ceiling stalactites.
Watching them pass by like lifeless orbs overhead, I can see that they secrete a black fume that looks almost familiar. It bears a striking resemblance to CO2 emissions.
If that's the case, perhaps I finally have a concrete rationale for how addled the brains of these critters seem to be.
…
The Ratpack stopped in the shade of an old abandoned Dwarven fortress – steel walls flanked by old, disused cannons littered the floor of the chasm as the army hunkered down for the night.
The final road to Fleapit ran through this way – the fortifications were often used as a point of reference. It was said that it Ratmen could smell the shit of Dwarven ghosts nearby, then they knew their home was just around the corner. It had, after all, been built on their graves.
Marcus sat around yet another campfire watching the Rats chew into the supplies Gatskeek had scrounged up. Skeever at one point noticed him staring and tossed something small, wriggly, and moist towards him.
"I…I will pass," he said.
He didn't want to seem rude, but the churning in his stomach was something that wouldn't be abated by simply food alone.
He watched them laugh and spar with oneanother just like a General would watch his men engage in such recreational activities and had to remind himself that this was a one-way trip for him – that his duty in Fleapit was to get himself home through an audience with those closest to the great, almighty He-Who-Festers. With any luck, he could then put this whole nightmare behind him.
But I have to admit, he scribbled in his notes. It's had its moments…
Currently one of the Ratmen of Gatskeek's group – a jolly, rather plump fellow aptly named Squealer – was serenading the army with tales of Marcus' exploits. How the Rat knew anything about him was anybody's guess – though the other Ratmen cheering him on and throwing scraps of food at him certainly didn't seem to care if he lied.
They even have a bard singing my praises, he wrote as an addendum to his notes above. Mari, I wish you could see it – what I'm looking at right now. Sure, they're a little rough around the edges, but they actually believe in the strategies I outline. They listen. They learn. They adapt – and what better qualities are there in a military force than those?
He caught himself suddenly, looking down to see his leg shaking with excitement.
Excitement, he chuckled. I have to remind myself that this isn't some silly game…
"You are being preoccupied, Marcus," Skeever said as he planked his giant form next to him. "Why are you being so interested in writing?"
Marcus smiled up at him, wiping excess dirt and grime from his brow. "Someday, someone will read these," he told the incredulous rat. "People come and go on this earth, but stories – legends – they stay as long as people have eyes to read and ears to hear about them."
Skeever shrugged, returning to the revelry of the fat-Rat Squealer. "We are not having place in history," he said. "Maybe in Underkingdom, yes. Many great Rat-man warrior and war-thinker. But on surface, on world called Thea, there are no Rats that can live."
Thea…
Inadvertently, Skeever had just given him something more valuable than what he held in his hands. The name of their world.
"Skeever," he said. "Why do your people live in these tunnels? What is up there that keeps you down here?"
As the morose soldier turned to answer, something glinted out the corner of Marcus' eye. The Rat reacted before he did – seeing the flash of a muzzle reflected in the lenses of Marcus' glasses and turning with the human just in time to see Squealer's jovial head explode in a hail of bloody brain-matter.
"DOWN!" he cried so the whole chasm could hear him. "GET DOWN, NO-"
Another flash, and Marcus felt something slice through the air before him, embedding itself in Skeever's sword arm.
Then, all hell broke loose.
###
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