Chapter 37

‘No fighting in the War-room!’

-Dr Strangelove

When Marcus opened the doors to Shrykul’s war room, he found it to be a hotbed of battle already.

“Thissss can not be tolerated,” Verulex was hissing. “You are sssshowing disssssloyalty to your Brother clanssss, Fesssssticusssss.”

“Oh , be silencing your long-winded mouth, Glumrot priest, or I will be shutting it for you!”

“I am not thinking the Queen of Marrow issss breeding cowardssss,” the Arch-Priest replied. “Perhapssss my intelligenccce issss wro-“

“Be calling me coward again,” the Marrow-rat growled as he rose to his full height, practically knocking the round table away. “And those unwise words will be your last.”

“Peace!” King Shrykul yelled to them both, interposing his arms between them like a father reprimanding children. “Let us not be seen as savages when the Shai-Alud is joining us!”

Marcus waited a moment before he seated himself next to Skeever, who had taken to only sitting after Marcus selected a spot at the table, nowadays. Both the rats of the other Clans bowed low to show the proper respect for their General.

Not as low as usual, though, Marcus thought as he nodded back at them. You’ve been doing some thinking too, recently, haven’t you?

Before them all was spread the map of the Northern Warrens, with a few new sites stenciled hastily over the last few weeks. Most notable was the sketching of Gulchnavel, cementing its fully operational status as a food supply, as well as the newly rebuilt fortress of Greenwatch – named thus because Marcus felt these rats needed some new, cleaner labels for their defensive sites.

His next order of business? The full introduction of soap to their Kingdom. Though that, he wagered, would be a tougher war to fight than the one they were currently embroiled in.

“What ails the leaders of our war effort?” Marcus asked, eyeing up both the commanders as they resumed their seating positions.

Shrykul cleared his throat. “Brother Festicus is having problem,” he said. “His King requests that he return to man his old fortress in the East Warrens.”

“It is being out of my hands,” Festicus explained, casting a hateful look at Verulex. “The dwarves are growing bolder with each passing day. They are knowing we make war against the Kobolds who stole their homes. They are also knowing King Skylock is sending more men here to secure victory for his Brother, King Shrykul. Because of this, they are striking our borders with greater force than usual.”

Marcus leaned forward to consider this. It made sense, of course. When your enemy is distracted by a war on another front, it would be in your best interests to strike fast and with force. Marcus had assumed, based on the information he’d been fed by both the Church of the Unclean and the warriors of Red-Eye, that the Dwarven kingdom was in disarray, barely holding on to its fiefs in the East.

“We have been fighting this war – the great war – for ages,” Festicus continued. “It is our Clan that is calling the last Skittering to push Dwarves back.”

“But you didn’t finish them,” Marcus stated.

Festicus puffed out his chest. “The stunted fat-beards are having cannons that could rip through ten legions of Marrow Spinerippers! Not even the combined armies of ratmen could crush them fully.”

“We left them to die,” Shrykul explained. “We are leaving Marrow to pick away at them as they starved themselves in their little corner of the Underkingdom. When Kobolds are taking Grindlefecht, we are thinking the Dwarves are being finished.”

“Well, you thought wrong,” Marcus said, leaning back. “Turns out they were just waiting for the right moment to pick away at you.”

He turned to Festicus and fixed him with hard, serious eyes.

“Have you responded to your King’s order?”

The Marrow rat grunted. “Not yet, Sire Marcus. But there is no response but to be complying.”

“Or,” Marcus said. “We make a counter-offer the King of Clan Marrow cannot refuse.”

“You are not knowing my Brother well,” Shrykul sighed. “He is not one for negotiation, especially with a human. Meaning no offence, of course.”

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Marcus kept his eyes on Festicus. “It won’t be a negotiation,” he explained. “I’m offering your King an edge over his Dwarven enemies. I’m told that Grindlefecht maintains an arsenal of six fully-functioning Dwarven powder-cannons. This is what I offer him.”

Verulex and Shrykul practically almost fell out of their seats. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus could see Skeever barely suppress a chuckle.

“This…this is being too uncertain,” Festicus said, though his shifty eyes told Marcus he was intrigued by the proposal. It wasn’t hard to read the face of a warrior – even if the warrior was a filthy rat. “How can we be sure we can be taking the cannons before Skegga is dismantling them?”

“We’ll need soldiers strong enough and quick enough to get under their noses before their engineers have the chance,” Marcus replied with a smile. “I can think of no soldiers better than the brave rats of Clan Marrow.”

While the warrior began to return a sly smile, Verulex seethed at the other side of the table.

“Thisssss isssss being mosssst unorthodoxxxx,” he hissed beneath his hood. “Ssssssixxxxxx Dwarven cannonsssss to one ssssssingle Clan? It isssss favoritissssssm, issssss it not, King Ssssshrykul? Isssss thissss the policcccy of Red-Eye now? To value one Clan over the contributionssssss of another?”

“I believe Clan Glumrot has received adequate compensation for their generous contributions to the war effort thus far,” Marcus said, whirring on the little hooded priest before Shrykul could even say a word. “Skeever? How many temples to He-Who-Festers have been constructed recently in our new villages?”

“Two, Sire Marcus,” the soldier replied steadily. “One for each village.”

“And remind us to which Clan their Head-Priests belong to?”

“Clan Glumrot.”

Marcus then turned his attention to King Shrykul. “Sire Shrykul, how many Clan Glumrot priests now perform sermons in the Grand Cathedral of the Unclean One?”

“Twenty-five,” the King said, somewhat unwillingly.

“Twenty-five,” Marcus nodded. “A full five priests more than those of Clan Red-Eye. Considering the growing numbers of the flock from across the North and South Warrens recently, I should think the Archpriest of Glumrot would be more than proud to see that the King of Red-Eye himself values his priests more than his own.”

“We are forever grateful, Sire,” Verulex murmured as he shifted in his seat, his teeth chittering as he licked at the poxes and boils that lined his snout. “But there are material issssuessss to be –“

“Furthermore,” Marcus interrupted. “I believe my own personal Priest and Summoner, Deekius, has promised to give instruction to your own Gloomraava on the nature of his Incantations. Perhaps the priests of your Clan have forgotten that I have offered no similar benefit to Clan Marrow?”

“No – No, Ssssire, we –“

“They doubt our generosity, then? If that is the case, perhaps there should be a reshuffling of the robes of the Unclean,” Marcus continued. “For, as He-Who-Festers says: ‘the greatest of all poxes is a lack of faith.’”

The entire room waited for Verulex’s response. They waited for some sly, poisonous words to drip from his bile-soaked tongue.

But, to everyone’s surprised, he bit his lips, curled away into his seat, and stuttered out only a few more words with total clarity:

“…no, Sire. We are thanking you.”

Marcus straightened up, refocusing his attention on the King.

“If this is amenable to you, King Shrykul, then a messenger should be sent to King Skylock in Steelclaw Bay tonight, if possible. Let them know that we take care of our own.”

The King looked from Veulex to Skeever, and from Festicus to Marcus again, before he made any response.

“This can be arranged,” he said. “Though I am having doubts that my Brother will be so agreeable to such a generous deal stamped with my name. He may be thinking I seek to betray him.”

“Stamp it with mine, then,” Marcus said with a wave of his hand. “If he doubts the generosity of the Shai-Alud, his own Gloomraava would turn against him.”

Marcus paused after he said this, and for the first time began to take in the new tone that had settled like a gaseous cloud in the room. He caught himself, and straightened instantly, realizing that he’d probably just insulted the King of Clan Red-Eye by insinuating that his words meant more than the ratman’s.

“I am sorry, Sire Shrykul,” Marcus said with a bow. “I spoke out of turn. I merely wish to see this war ended soon, before the grip of insanity takes us all.”

King Shrykul met his eyes and then laughed away his words with good cheer. “Be not thinking upon this, Marcus. You are being first among equals here. Remember that.”

Marcus almost heaved a sigh of relief. He’d been lucky, he knew, to have been summoned on this side of this King.

“Now,” Shrykul said. “Let us be getting to our next order of business.”

The rats leaned forward as Skeever pointed to the now ruined fort of Festigraf on the opposite side of the Black Gulch

“Festigraf is being destroyed,” he said. “As per Sire Marcus’s suggestion. “However, our scouts did not report immediate signs of Kobolds being willing to surrender in the wake of the bombing run.”

“Of course not!” Festicus roared cheerfully. “They are being mindless beasts.”

Marcus held his tongue.

“Yesterday, however,” Skeever said. “Clan Glumrot scouting party of pox-throwers are meeting Kobold raiding party on border of Gulchnavel village. They are saying they come to surrender to fort Greenwatch rats.”

Marcus jerked up. “How many?”

“Two-hundred,” Skeever replied. “Two hundred ‘Yips’ who say that they swam the Gulch to fight for Shai-Alud Marcus and are rejecting God Skegga. They say his recent failures are showing he is not true God at all.”

Marcus practically exploded with excitement. “And?” he burst. “Where are they? We could use their help. We could even have Ix and his Slingers train them in the proper ways to ride Spinerippers. Hell, we could even have them pilot the new batch of Glitterpaks from Razork. Why wasn’t I told of this sooner?”

The rats in the room all shrank before Marcus’s eyes. And slowly, the excitement in his soul faded away to yet another stark realization of the reality he was living in. The reality of the side he was helping to win this war.

“Because we are slaying them,” Verulex finally said. “To the man.”

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