Chapter 81

“Quite a thing, isn’t it? To live in terror.”

Marcus looked into the dark beyond his cell, trying to make out the creature that spoke in clearer tones than anyone he’d ever heard down here.

The cracking green light from his throbbing hand afforded him just enough luminosity to bathe the face of the speaker in lambent green hues, and he saw a sniveling snout twitching across from him, with a face scarred by scratches and wrinkles of age. The ratman was possibly the smallest he’d ever laid eyes on, dressed in dingy leathers and with the shuffling gait often possessed by servants.

As he neared the bars of his own cage, the creature flashed Marcus a sickly grin.

“Did the brash commander speak true?” it said. “Are you truly Marcus Graham? The one they call ‘Shai-Alud’?”

So surprised was he by the clarity of the ratman’s speech that Marcus momentarily forgot about the pain surging up from his fingertips through his entire arm.

“In the flesh,” he replied tetchily. “You have me at a disadvantage, Sir.”

“‘In more ways than one!’” the creature cackled. “How quaint. It has been some time since this lowly thing has conversed with one well-versed in the human tongue. What I would give to talk the night away with you, such as it is…”

Marcus found himself smiling warily. He flashed the resigned smirk of the condemned awaiting their inevitable demise.

“I have three days, as you probably heard,” he said. “Is that enough time for you?”

The ratman shook his mangled mane. “Oh, no,” he said. “I don’t imagine you’ll be staying here for long, Sire.”

“I’m no ‘Sire’. Not anymore.”

“But you are, Marcus Graham, and so much more than just that. As one of the Unclean’s most favored servants, I owe you more than you might think.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes at the excitement he sensed in the ratman’s voice. He saw the elongation of his pupils – like the creature was looking upon an Avatar of his God bound and imprisoned right beside him.

And Marcus dropped his hand as a realization overcame his entire being, surging through his brain with as much intensity as the grim light flaring in his hand.

“Silas…” he said breathlessly. “You’re Silas, aren’t you? You’re the Prime Putrefact.”

The ratman took a sarcastic bow in the human manner. “In the flesh,” he said with a wink. “Though it has been some time since I have been called by that title.”

Marcus couldn’t help but just stare at him, looking upon his lowly form with new eyes now. Here, after all this time, was his goal. Sitting right beside him. A prisoner just like he was.

And yet he had sat in silence all this time.

Before Marcus could even open his mouth and question him, he replied coolly, as though he had anticipated this very query.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I have languished in this prison for some time. The days in this place bleed into one after a time. I presumed that I would have gone mad quite some time ago. Perhaps you shall be the judge of that, Shai-Alud.”

Marcus cocked his eyes at him. “You seem surprisingly lucid for a prisoner of the old toad. Tell me, why did he leave you here? Why capture you at all?”

Silas shrugged with a weary sigh. “Who can know the mind of a beast?” he replied. “Perhaps he sought to deal a morale blow to our people through my capture. Perhaps he thought having the font for the Unclean beneath his feet would afford him some form of protection. He clearly did not understand what it means to have true faith. Tell me, Marcus, is he dead?”

Marcus narrowed his eyes. The ratman saw him do it.

It was not that there was anything particularly wrong with his answer. But there was a certain fluidity to his speech that spoke of a desire to control the flow of the conversation. Recalling his frequent debate classes and observations in college, Marcus knew that such speedy responses and swift movement to new topics often signaled a lack of confidence in dealing with the topic at hand.

Lack of confidence, or outright obfuscation.

“You must have heard the rumbles above,” he finally answered. “The bloated toad is quite dead, I’m sure of it. And he brought down this fortress with him.”

“Sad tidings indeed,” Silas shook his head. “And now the forces that remain are at each others’ throats. The ambitions of my kind are unquenchable, it seems. Do you know that your errant commander even deigned it fit to keep me imprisoned here? He took one look at me and decided I was not fit enough to be returned to my King’s service. Though, from what I understand, Skeever Steelclaw has never had much respect for the servants of He-Who-Festers. Even now my Brothers cannot see that we require unity if we are to defeat those who threaten our existence.”

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“‘Unity’,” Marcus parroted, staring into the now dimming light in his hand. “It’s a beautiful dream. It’s one I once thought could have been possible for your kind. I fought – I killed – so the Kobolds could enjoy freedom just as the Ratmen do. Even as I sought out my own goals, as Skeever said, you must believe me when I say that I wanted to leave this place on good terms. I even imagined petitioning for Skeever to become the new First-Talon. Such lapse in judgment no doubt contributed to my own demise.”

“You must forgive Skeever Steelclaw his transgression,” Silas sighed. “He acts as one of his station must, always at the beck and call of the Pack Leader who holds the most power – whether political or martial. You must understand that such power now lies with King Shrykul. And that in itself,” Silas added. “Will be a grave problem for our kind.”

Marcus cocked an eyebrow as the ratman elaborated, rolling each syllable with his tongue as though he were reciting lines of poetry:

“There will be civil war,” he continued. “The other Kings will look with envious eyes on Shrykul now that he has the tactics and technological advancements you have given him. Even within this prison, I have heard tales of your prowess, Shai-Alud. I have heard how you have changed things. And a law of the Underkingdom is that change does not come without slaughter.”

Marcus bristled. “You are implying that this coming civil war you predict will present certain opportunities?”

Silas shrugged. “Don’t they always? Nature abhors power vacuums.”

Marcus looked back at the rat with more than a small degree of trepidation. But he looked, too, with a higher degree of desperation. He could already tell what this particular rat was angling for.

“You speak well for one of your kind, Silas,” he said. “You are the first ratman I have encountered who doesn’t talk with the present-tense cadence common to members of your species.”

Again, the ratman gave a curious little shrug. It was a gesture that was mechanical, Marcus thought. It was supposed to betray humility.

“I have always lamented much about my Brethren,” Silas said, looking with great interest at Marcus’s faintly glowing hand. “One of our many foibles is our inability to learn the languages of others. Our penchant for isolation. Our lack of cooperation with other species – all these things are, I think, connected. It is why I have enjoyed hearing about your exploits, Shai-Alud Marcus Graham. You have done much to elevate our species. It is a shame you will not be able to do more.”

Marcus detected a hint of something in those words. Frustration? Admiration? Or was it envy…could it be this creature had more ambition in his tiny frame than Marcus thought?

“I have had little power on my side throughout my life,” Silas continued, speaking into the dank air that was growing ever more stagnant by the second. “It is not strength, companionship, or resilience that have served me. Instead, it has been my curiosity. My patience. And my words.”

“Tools just as powerful as the sharpest sword,” Marcus murmured. “Perhaps even stronger, in the right hands.”

Silas nodded humbly again – and Marcus found himself thinking just how much of this little rat was real and how much was an act.

“Power is a curious thing, is it not?” the rat said. “It only exists where people believe it resides. I have heard that, among the races of this world we call Thea, this notion is the only thing that connects us. Ironic then, that it is also the one thing that keeps us divided.”

Marcus nodded. “It is not too dissimilar from the conflicts in my own world.”

Silas seemed unusually pleased by this admission, and not at all as shocked as Marcus expected him to be. He would have pressed the Ratman further were it not for the agonizing pain that suddenly ripped through him again, centered on his pulsing arm and the emerald-green lightning sparks coursing over his shaking hand.

“Yes,” Silas said, looking with fascinated eyes at the glowing hand. “Sometimes belief truly is all it takes.”

“What…” Marcus grunted. “What is…this?”

His hand looked as though it were about to erupt – his veins seemed almost ready to burst and spew their corrupted contents across his cell.

“It is power,” Silas whispered. “The power to make and unmake. Power that is known only to those closest to He-Who-Festers.”

“But I - ngh!” Marcus groaned as he tried to control his twitching fingers. “I’m not a Gloomraava!”

“I had heard as much,” Silas nodded sagely. “But I have also learned never to distrust what my eyes can plainly see. And I see the untapped potential of the Gloomraav within you. Mostly, such power is attained only by those born to the will of the Unclean and bound in His service. But sometimes,” he added with a smirk of satisfaction, “such power can be transferred. Though the process is…unfavorable to the Gloomraava who chooses to shed the light of the Unclean.”

Deekius… Marcus’s mind rumbled, remembering how the very light of the High Priest’s eyes had all but vanished as he healed him.

Was that it? Was that the ‘Gift’ the horned beast offered me? Was that a dream, or a commandment to his servant? If that’s true, then I owe Deekius a life debt once again. A debt I fear I can never truly repay…

Marcus’s eyes rose to meet those of the Prime Putrefact once more, and he saw the swirling light of his new power burning within those deep, black eyes.

“You still wish to go home, do you not?” Silas asked. “I also have a wish I would see fulfilled. I think we can come to a suitable arrangement.”

As Marcus struggled with his corrupted hand, he also heard the ratman’s words, unsure what filled him with more abject terror. On the one hand, he had a Gift he knew he could make use of. He had a way to finally leave this black abyss.

On the other hand, he had just met possibly the most dangerous little rat he’d ever seen down here.

Death or a deal with a devil, he mused. A Faustian bargain if ever I heard one. But at this point, what do I have to lose? Like the little rat says, I can still go home…

That’s more than most disgraced Generals get.

“Alright, Silas,” he said, seeing the eyes of the Ratman sparkle like a magpie’s. “What do you want?”

***

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