The Book of Warlock

The Book of Warlock 17. The rat who would be King.

Captain Worrel's vision was filled with armour, fur, goblin flesh, and blood, as his small pointed ears rang with the clamour of heated battle. Shouts, cries, screams even, sounded out while blades swung and shields thudded with impact. From the corners of his keen green eyes he watched as an enemy soldier leaned over the now crumbled front wall and pulled an ally from the top of a ladder.

A huge brute of a wild gnoll, golden brown fur with bulging muscle beneath, grinned widely at the chummy welcome into the fray. He immediately swung a curved scimitar into one of Worrel's own, cutting them down and giving them a kick to the floor for good measure.

The Captain's blood boiled. He pushed forward, to get to this cocky bastard of a dog and shove his sword deep in his hairy balls, but no matter how he tried, there was always another target in his path.

The gnoll loitered by the broken wall, infuriatingly out of Worrel's reach, barking and growling commands and laughing with every spray of gore that came from his blade's powerful thrusts.

Worrel was giving directions of his own, trying to keep order among a million green swarming bodies. Pretty successfully too, he might add. The threat was being contained. This was their territory, their home ground, they knew where to clump together to defend each other's backs, and which walkways led to useful dead ends. Nisgarant's men went in, and never came back out.

The big dog soldier turned to face the battlefield far below and started screeching, having to be held back by his comrades before he fell over the wall completely and plunged to his death.

Something had gone wrong.

Worrel would take every advantage he could get! This was his cue to renew his efforts to push the enemy back towards the gate, back towards the entrance to the Citadel that they had entered uninvited. His voice was almost at breaking point as he yelled for the drive.

Goblins swarmed, knives flashing, shoulder plates clanging as they shoved and barrelled into the much larger targets.

Wolves and orcs and tauren, and other creatures Worrel had never seen before, all began hissing at each other as they attempted to keep their places on the battlements. Their General had left them! Galloped off on his horse and fled! What was going on? Surely the offensive had only had begun, it couldn't be all over yet? Should they run, too? What about the rat? Was he still in charge?

More shouting carried over the din, a hue and cry to boost morale of the Warlord's troops. The sky rumbled and flashed. Worrel didn't want to know what that evil Sceptre was capable of. Even if his goblins took down every soldier here, how were they going to deal with that rat? It wasn't a problem for him to be dealing with right now, but it was a problem to be dealt with nonetheless. He gritted his pointed teeth and pushed it all to the back of his mind as he carried on swatting at the now nervous foes before him.

The cool air led them to the small dark tunnel hidden deep within the twists and turns of the cavernous inner realms of the mountain. They paused and sniffed, sheathing their weapons. It would be a tight fit, it was a goblin hole after all, but they were lithe and flexible enough to slink in on soft silent paw pads.

There had been lit torches along the slimy walls, but they had been cunningly extinguished in the hope that the invaders would be left at a disadvantage. Unfortunately, gnoll eyes are marvellous for seeing in very low light, and so they advanced, unperturbed. What was awaiting them at the end, they couldn't be sure. It smelled of dust, and food, and rot and rust. It also stank of fear. This was what they had been sent in for: the goblin leaders, whoever they may be, no doubt surrounded by the finest warriors ready to lay down their lives. It had all happened before. Sometimes they had lost members of their group, sometimes the guards surrendered almost immediately. There was no option for failure when Nisgarant's Sceptre was waiting for you. One thing though was vital and that was the Citadel's nobility were to be taken alive. They had to be slain with the cruel weapon. The rat would not be merciful if this order was not adhered to! They'd seen what the Tri-Corn Horn could do to living flesh, and they would choose any other death possible opposed to going out that way.