Deepkin Codex

by Mr. Dot

A Codex about Uncorrupted Skaven, their origins, society, how they make war and their most prominent battles

2. Chapter 2

The Battle of the Rat Stone

At the south of the world, where the sands of the Land of the Dead gives up to luscious jungles, at the center of a rocky basin, an enormous statue in the rough form of a rat crouches. Its eyes are blazing emeralds and its form is massive and grim; it keeps watch over a series of caverns and holes that lead down underground, to a Great Burrow called Deepwatch. Originally built as a military post to keep control over the southern border, it has grown over the centuries into a sprawling metropolis thanks to the harvesting of resources of the jungles above, eventually assurging to central hub of the region. Its inhabitants are of a militaristic and strong breed, having battled the Beastmen of the jungles since the inception of the Burrow. Is it they that have built the Rat Stone, carving it by a single enormous block of black rock and affixing emeralds mined into far Haven in its eye-sockets. The Rat Stone is their fortress. Tunnels dug tby magic honeycombs it, allowing for an entire army to garrison it. Massive towers and battlements jut out of its back, allowing for warmachines and archers to bombard any army on the approaching. Should they come close, slits and windows allow for arrows, stones and any kind of projectiles to be launched outside in any direction while cunningly wrought openings can be slammed open at any moment, sorties of heavily armed warriors dashing outside to break the enemy. Boulders or siege weapons that would smash any normal fortification break on the skin of the Rat Stone, without leaving a dent: the black rock is tough, having required decades for the Deepkin to dig through it, and magic has been woven into it again and again, streghtening it against any assault. The only visible entrance is a gigantic gate that opens under the chin of the rat, on his chest. This gate is called of the Noose, as in trying to breach it many armies have only managed to destroy themselves. To reach it, one must go between the two outstretched paws of the Rat Stone, each littered with arrow slits and warmachine emplacements, making himself a target to the projectiles coming from the barbican above the gate, the two towers flanking it and from both sides, from the paws. To enter into such a crossfire is a daunting task to say the least and it is for this reason that the Gate of the Noose has been breached only three times in all the centuries the fortress has stood.

Still, the fortress itself has never fallen. Along the centuries, armies of Beastmen have thrown themselves against its walls again and again with savage fury, but each time the defenders have stood firm, unleashing death upon the monsters under their walls. If not blasted to pieces in their advance, the Beastmen smashed uselessly against its walls, even their greatest monsters falling to breach them. Each time they managed to find and rip open a hidden door or to slink in the tunnels by climbing upon the rocks, they were held back by shieldwalls, sliced and stabbed to death or thrown down the battlements, ending into pieces into the ground below. So many Beastmen have tried to destroy the Rat Stone from the day it has been built that the basin all around is still covered with their bones. Only the remains of their greatest champions don't stand between that dirt; their bones still hangs by the same gates they tried to smash open and by the same towers they wished to topple.

It was at the time of the first Under-King that the Rat Stone came under its greatest assault.

A terrifying monster, a Lord of Minotaurs, a Doombull emerged in the realm of the jungles of the south, bringing numerous brayherds under its domain. This wasn't made by feats of strenght or intimidation, it wasn't needed. This Doombull, calling himself the Bloodstarved One, was a champion of the Blood God Khorne, an avatar of that God's undying hatred and thrist for slaughter.

It had massacred its way across the southern world, searching for the greatest and more powerful beasts roaming those distant lands. It believed, in fact, that only the skulls of such massive foes were worthy as offerings to the Skull Throne. All the others enemies, he shunned even as food, maintaining himself only over the flesh of his kills. Day and night the Bloodstarved One roamed the southern lands, never resting, never uttering a single word or growl, his entire being taken by his mission. He felled beasts that could flatten armies, fattened himself upon the life of titans, spilled so much blood that the land drank and drank until it could drink no more and forever left the blood spilled by the monster to fester into pools. He came to be permeated with the breath of death, and his eyes burned with a fire that, should be unleashed, it would have set the sky ablaze.

Eventually, his tally grew such that even Mighty Khorne took notice.

The Blood God blessed his champion with demonic power and the Gift of Calling, and commanded him to bring destruction upon the world of civilized people.

Following his God's orders, the Bloodstarved made his way to the jungles of the Beastmen. Climbing a hill, he inspired deeply and let his roar make the sky tremble. As one, the beastmen of the jungle fell to attention. Any hesitation and doubt was forgotten, any thought of intercine warfare was forgotten. It remained only the call.

As one, bray-herds made their way to where the Call had come. From every direction they came, until a sea of snorting beasts stood assembled under the hill, all gazes held toward the one at the top of it. As they watched, the Call changed and became tinted with Chaos. All the anger, hatred and bloodlust of the Bloodstarved One went into his roar and the savage nature of the beastmen was aroused to a mad frenzy. They started to howl and yell, bellow and bray, until a churning sea of waved horns, shrieking mouths and bared fangs, flailing appendages and stomping hooves raged around the hill.

The Doomlord pointed a direction and gave the order. Like the breaking of a dam, the beastmen charged, a single, thundering mass of stinking fur, hulking weapons and unthinking savagery.

All of them, throwing themselves against the Rat Rock.

In the fortress there never was a time when surveillance slacked. Sentinels held their posts at all times, ready to signal for attacking enemies. That time, the trembling earth was enough.

With ease born from custom, the Deepkin soldiers prepared for battle. Archers crowded the battlements, stocks of arrows at the ready. Warmachines were cranked up and winded. Cauldrons full of boiling water were pushed into position. Defenders formed up into ranks before gates and doors. Mages whispered their spells, power crackling along their fingers. The defenders of Rat Rock were tough and hardy, and wouldn't be found wanting.

And still, they too balked when the horizon was filled with braying figures.

Kinrat

The Kinrat are the rank-and-file of Deepkin armies, the meat that form the bulk of the warrior ranks of the Under-Kingdom. They are ubiquitous, so much that the term Kinrat is also a synonimous for "warrior". In a sense, all Deepkin wielding weapons are Kinrat, but in a more specific meaning this term is used for indicate the common soldiers.

The Kinrat are well-armed and well-trained, their hardy nature of uncorrupted ratmen made harder by costant battle and practice. On the battlefield, they form into vast blocks of armored infantry, meeting the enemy attacks with closed ranks and resolution. They are usually armed with spears and large shields that they interlock to form a wall, as well with a long knife that is used as a back-up weapon. Officers, champions and elites units are issued magical weapons that can cut through metal or give higher strenght and speed, enchanted armors that can deflect the blows of a Minotaur, talismans that repel dark magic or rune-inscribed parchments that, if read aloud, can unleash minor spells. Anyway, manifacture of magical artifacts in Deepkin society is still large enough that even the lowest of Kinrat will be issued at least a small charm to protect him from harm. Powerful weapons and objects can even belong to certain Lodges, that will give them to their sons and daughters to protect them into war. The government holds a tight control over magical item, though, and any of those issued are rigorously filed and registered. Heavy pay cuts and even punishments wait for those soldiers that fail to show them at inspection or return them when requested.

The same control is exercised upon gunpowder weapons. Particular types can be handed to commanders and champions, but the bulk is usually kept for units of riflemen and gunners and deployed en masse.

Other regiments types exist also, like more heavily armored Kinrat wielding more specialised weapons, like heavy hammers to smash through armor or bows, slings and crossbows to pepper the enemy from afar. Special equipment is provided by the Leagues, ranging from hand-thrown bombs to mechanical body replacements and augmentations, to strange weapons powered by steam, fire and magic. Even more specialised troop types may exist depending from the position of the Burrow from where they hail; for example, Kattleburr, a small burrow renowed for its large mushrooms farms, equips all of its soldiers with bombs made with clay pots full of spores with effects ranging from violents sneezing to gruesome deaths if inhaled.

The Kinrat are usually formed into groups of twenty called Holes (from the name given to newly founded Lodges for the small extension of its habitable quarters). Members of a Hole share sleeping quarters and elects an Elder, usually the most veteran, that act as leader of the group. Each soldier will be issued a number of equipment and tools (especially about cooking and maintenance) as well as food and water, and will be required to carry everything on his person.

Ten Holes form a Brigade, commanded by a Shieldchief. The shieldchief leads from the front and is always a veteran soldier promoted by actions on the field. Shieldchiefs are chosen based on courage, martial skills and loyalty, so they are invariably accomplished warriors. They can then nominate two Spearchiefs that act as adjutants and four Champions to which issue better equipment. A Brigade will also host a standard-bearer and a Strenght-bearer, that will go to lead a small bands of musicians whose instruments will be used to coordinate march and trasmit messages over long distance. Especially infamous among the Kinrat are the powerful whistles used by Shieldchiefs to trasmit their orders above the din of battle.

Higher level officers aren't chosen amongst the soldiers, but come from state-owned military schools. They are taught formal tactics and martial skills, before being sent to take command of wider formations. Starting from the lowest level above Shieldchief, there are Chiefs, Captain, Commanders, Warleaders and Warlords, that holds command over entire armies. These officers don't shy from leading from the front if the need arises, but ordinary Deepkin military doctrine see them stand back, as to keep a wider vision and the ability to better supervise the flow of battle. They are invariably well-armed, but, being not expected to normally wade into the fray - making exception for some particularly bloodthirsty example - the best equipment won't be given to them but to champions.

Costant training and the long terms of service make so that the common Kinrat is of good quality, both in martial skills and morale. They form the basic core of Deepkin armies, meeting enemies head-on and keeping them at bay with their heavy armor, good training and stout nature, while the rest of the army maneuver to place devastating blows. As they lack their corrupted brethren's natural aggression, Kinrat infantry shines more on defence that on the offence, but will stay and fight, grinding down the attackers through toughness, discipline, courage, good armaments and tactics. Many berserkers charge of rampaging Beastmen have been halted by disciplinated walls of armored ratmen, the Kinrat taking blows and paying them back until only they remained, the sliced corpse of their enemies littering the field before them.

There was no moment of staring between armies, no launching of signal to advance. The battle started like a thunderbolt.

The beastmen flooded the basin like the raging sea. Cascades of dirt fell down the steep ridges, and many tumbled down in their frenzy to advance.

Warlord Krizztik held supreme command over the Rat Stone. He was a grizzled Deepkin that had grown old guiding the defence of the fortress or leading retaliatory attacks against tribes that threatened the harvesting efforts. He held an inveterate hatred against the Beastmen, born and bred by a life of battle, and personally killed so many Beastmen that the sentinels darkly joke that the plain of bones before the Stone should be called the plains of Krizztik instead. His fighting days were now behind him, cause of a crippled foot, but he was strong of body and mind still, and expert into siege defence. A score of adjutants and advisors stood by his side, the most prominent of were the Shaskar Jarriz, the Grand-Mage Engineer Vulq and Thrum Stoutshield, the champion of the fortress.

At the order of the Warlord, catapults were loosed and cannons opened fire. Each artillery emplacement had their objctives pre-arranged, so that not even an inch of the land before the fortress could be traversed without being taken aim at; and their crews had trained again and again. Cannoballs and boulders smashed through the horde, mangling bodies and sending flailing limbs flying into the air. Holes were opened into the horde, but were filled back just as quickly.

Krizztik gave another order, immediately repeated by commanders and Shieldchiefs all across the battlements. Bows were loosed, and a swarm of arrows flew into the sky. The beastmen didn't even look up as the scorching light of the sun of south was marred by a flurry of shadows. The arrows fell between them as a rain of death, stabbing into stinking fur and sending many to the ground, their bodies pincushioned.

Atop the battlements, a gigantic ratman stood between the archers. Patriarch Sharpfang was one of the first of his kind to appear between the Deepkin, the member of a group of five being in the fortress in that moment. The arrow he had fired was as big as a ballista bolt, and he had accurately took aim at a Minotaur that seemed to be leading a pack of his kind. The Patriarch grunted in approvation as his quarry disappeared under the hooves of his followers, his massive head almost split in half, and scratched a mark on his bow.

But where one fell, another thousand remained. Unheeding of any loss, the wave of Beastmen swarmed against the rocks of the fortress, until a sea of fur, claws and fangs seemed to be churning around the great statue. Howling in anger, maddened by bloodlust, they smashed their weapons against the black stone; they bit and scratched at it, desperately trying to carve their way in.

In all answer, the Deepkin overturned their cauldrons, boiling alive any caught beneath. Traps hidden into the walls were sprung, sending rocks to pierce flesh and crush bones. Mages-Engineers activated their machines, splashing the mass of Beastmen with gouts of lava and sending lighting to incinerate them. On the other side, even the boulders thrown by the monstrous Cygors shattered uselessly against the battlements.

For a moment, the beastmen howled with powerless fury, scrabbling uselessly against the black rock of the fortress while the defenders rained death upon them.

The moment was broken when the Bray-Shamans came. There were dozens of them, held aloft over ramschakled chariots or hidden between the mass of their brethren, sinister figures covered with bug-infested rags and fastoneed with charms and bones. They alone had held their intellect and now they called upon their magic.

The Rat Stone shuddered, assailed by a wave of destructive power. Dust and splinters rained from the battlements as the Bray-Shamans tried to undo what kept its walls together.

The Deepkin mages, held into reserve just for that moment, moved to prevent that. Led by the Shaskar Jarriz, acolytes of the Church joined their strenght with the Mages-Engineer; they raised their voice into a hymn to the Mother, calling for rock and stone to remain steadfast in Her name.

Their prayers battled against the Bray-Shamans's curses, and phantasmal colours and figures swirled into the air, the air straining and trembling under the magical fight.

Still, the Bray-Shamans were more powerful than ever, the unleashed savagery of their brethren bloating their might. As many of their numbers held the battle against the Deepkin mages, others threw their bloodlust into the ground before the Rat Stone. Even if their magic couldn't find purchase on the black rock, great rampants of worm-riddled dirt rose groaning from the earth, forming into pathways reaching windows and slits. Ladders made of bones grew like twisted vines across the walls and upon the back of the Rat Stone, and then on the towers upon it. When their work was done, the enormous black statue was trapped into a net of jutting bones and stinking earth, like the realm of death was trying to drag it down.

The Beastmen charged across the newly-formed pathways, with many Ungors pushed down the ramps by their own brethren, such was their eagerness to come to battle.

The defenders were dismayed by that demonstration of fell power, as well by seeing their greatest defences put to shame in such easy way. Still, there was no time to have fear, the enemy bore upon them, and they still were all veterans of melee with the braying heards of Beastmen. Even close combat wouldn't find them unprepared.

Chiefs shouted orders and ranks were formed. Weapons were clanked together, teeth were bared and prayers were whispered.

Then battle was joined.

The first Beastmen to reach the windows were stabbed htrough guts and eye sockets, and then pushed down to smash into the ground underneath. Crossbows were loosed at point-black range, their arguments piercing enough to be easy to understand even for thick half-beasts skulls.

The Bray-Shamans, completed their tasks of creating pathways, moved their attention now to the points where the melee raged. They focused their hatred on the Beastmen chipping at the arrow slits too small to allow for passage, making the weapons of these warriors blaze with magical fire. Where their rusted weapons didn't manage to make even a dent upon the black stone, now every blow left growing cracks. One after the other, relentlessly, the Beastmen kept on coming, many of them barely managing a hit upon the rock before being driven off or killed, but eventually it was enough.

Under their axes, the rock of the Rat Stone gave way and multiple openings were made. The beastmen rushed inside, their momentum and ensorcelled weapons allowing them to overhelm the first defenders and kill many behind.

Situation started to become grave at these breaches, and the Deepkin commanders reacted quickly to stop the bleeding. The Warlord had acolytes detach from the magical fight still raging and assist the largest guns. Using their magical senses, they led the engineers to fire where the Bray-Shamans were. The distance was long, but bullets esploding into shrapnel were used and magic went to better the aim. The first shot missed its target by seven yards. The second blasted to pieces the Bray-Shaman together with all his retinue.

Seeing this, and that their own positions were starting to get aimed at the Bray-Shamans stopped their efforts, using their magic to disappear between the mass of their brethren.

Free from their struggle, the Shaskar led the mages to focus their magical might into a single point. The venerable priestess reached upon the highest heaven and, with a burst of exertion, called down a celestial object. The meteor fell like a thunderbolt in the middle of the Beastmen horde. The impact was terrifying, and when the dust settled enough to see again, a smoking crater had taken the place of a chunk of the sieging army.

A roar of exultation ran across the Deepkin, and they redoubled their efforts to push the Beastmen out of the fortress.

But the Beastmen's charge wasn't fazed at all. They just trampled over devastated earth and bodies and kept coming, while the Deepkin mages had to hold back their magic for the return of the Bray-Shamans.

For an entire day and night the battle for the battlements raged. The Deepkin, forming into shieldwalls, held their positions with resolution, throwing down horde after horde. Slavering Ungors and Gors were stabbed and hacked down in their scores, rampaging Minotaurs and horrible Spawns were blown up with magic and mechanical warmachines or just dragged down and hacked to pieces. The Beastmen just kept coming, a wave that seemed endless, attacking with wild abandon, any thought of preservation lost. Even the usual divisions of the bray-herds were made forgotten by the bloodgreed. Ungor, Gors and Bestigors ran mixed together with monsters of the wild, a single, braying mass that seemed unstoppable, like the darkest lands of the forest had come alive into a tide of destruction.

Chikch caught the Beastman's axe with his shield. The blow sent tremors rippling though his arm, but he held firm. The monster didn't stop, scrabbling and pushing madly against him, skeletal fingers searching for purchase beyond the shield and over flesh. His breath washed over Chikch, rot and old dirt, the stink of the grave.

Chikch gritted his teeth and shoved him back, then thrusted the spear in his guts. The Beastman gave a strangled yelp, more of anger than actual pain, made a last jerky attempt at reaching him and then went down. With practiced ease, Chikch snatched his spear back from the corpse before the dead weight could damage it and watched around.

The line was holding. His brothers and sisters of the Lodge formed a shieldwall upon which the Beastmen assault crashed uselessly.

But they never stopped.

The ground before the shieldwall was a carpet of stinking corpses, but whereved Chikch looked, he could see only more of braying monsters swarm forward. There seemed to be no end to them!

He could see the same rising despair he felt into the eyes of his comrades, even as they relentlessly chopped down the aggressors. They were fighting from so much time that the world seemed to have shrunk only to that endless combat. There would ever be an end to it? And if not, what was the point of continuing?

A bump on the shoulder called him back from his gloomy thoughts. Spearchief Thruk gave him a knowing look.

"Still alive." He said. His armor, lovingly engraved with images of the Lodge, was covered with blood, but the eyes beneath were glowing.

Chikch felt like someone had dumped a bucket of water on his fur.

He nodded. "Still alive."

The Spearchief grinned, and both turned to face new assailants.

Yes, still alive and kicking. Come and take that away if you can!

Reinforcements were pulled from the Great Burrow below and the fortress held strong, but the Beastmen numbers seemed endless.

By sheer attrition, the Beastmen managed to conquer footholds in the sides of the Rat Stone and on the battlements upon its back. Wherever they managed a breakthrough, they planted their ragged standards, toppling and dissacrating those of the Deepkin. Violent clashes soon erupted atop the towers and inside the tunnels.

The fiercest fighting was at the Gate. There, the most horrible warbeasts were concentrated. Gigantic Chaos Spawns waded through the rain of arrows and projectiles, mountains of twisting limbs and mutating flesh that knitted back as quick as it was cut. The mass of lesser Beastmen was dotted by the massive forms of Giants, Gorgons, Cygors and the unspeakable things come from the depth of the dark. These giants pounded against the Gate, trying to bring it down.

But here the Deepkin resistance was the strongest too. Krizzkit led personally the defence of the Gate and, under his command, the Deepkin fought with valor. They threw bombs and cannonballs against the largest beasts and repelled any assault coming from the ramps. The conformation of the walls played greatly to their advantage, allowing them to bombard the enemy from three sides. They even managed to destroy two of the great ramps: one was blasted to pieces by repeated hits by cannon and the other mined by the Mages-Enginneers and brought down with a deafening explosion. In the tunnels, too, the Deepkin held valiantly, their commanders leading continuous counter-attacks and unleashing their own warbeasts.

During this moment of the battle, Stoutshield distinguished himself.

The champion was fighting atop the battlements, his battle-pack at his side, when a massive beast tried to climb one of the great ramps. It was a horrible spawn, its head, vaguely resembling a goat's, almost lost between a sea of rippling flesh. It was so enormous that it had to use all its limbs to anchor itself to the ramp, using them to drag all of its bulk up.

Cannons were redirected aginst the monster, but the few that weren't caught in its mutating aura and were consumed by fire, exploded uselessly against it, blowing up chunks of flesh that started to regrow almost as fast.

Stoutshield killed a last Bestigor with a swipe of his axe, then turned to behold the monster. The thing dragged itself up slowly, its massive and distorted bulk making difficult keep its grip, moaning and groaning by a hundred mouths as it went. Should it manage to reach the battlements, it could have plucked and devoured the defenders like chicks, wreaking who knew how much damage before being put out of its misery.

Stoutshield needed only a moment to decide.

Shouting at his war-pack, he issued a series of order, then charged toward the crenellations. Those Beastmen in his way, he felled without slowing down. His comrades were right behind him, killing those that threatened his flanks. By the time they reached the crenellations, the warriors Stoutshield had sent another way returned. They bore a crate of explosives and a bunch of long ropes and chains.

Stoutshield took hold of the small explosive blocks and roped them together in thick bundles, then tied each bundle to a chain. His comrades did the same and they quickly had a bunch of makeshift bundles. Stoudtshield mused that no Mage-Engineer would ever aknowledge any of those things as less than barbaric, but, hey, they were in a bit of a pickle after all.

To reach the mouth of the ramp was made impossibile by the almost costant stream of Beastmen, so the war-pack had chosen to reach the crenellations by a side of the gigantic siege structure, close as possibile without risking of being overhelmed. Thankfully, the bulk of the Beastmen seemed hell bent only into running forward, into the spears of the massed defenders, with only a part of the monsters giving them their attention.

While his comrades held the Beastmen at bay, Stoutshield quickly took his armor off, slunged his shield from his back and trust his axe in his belt, close to his four-shot gun. He tied a rope around one of the crenellation and then around his own waist.

Holding a bundle in a hand and the rope with the other, he jumped above the crenellations. He turned as he jumped, the braying sea of Beastmen underneath flashing quickly before his eyes, and stomped his feet against the wall.

The rope tensed sharply, but held. Stoutshield sighed a thanks to the Mother, then put himself to work.

Moving with small, controlled jumps, he started to make his way toward the ramp's side. The screams and howls behind him were enough to make his blood ran cold, as well as the knowledge that he was dangling from who knew how many feet from the ground, and at the mercy of any of the boulders that kept hitting the wall.

He had barely thought that, that a rune-covered boulder smashed against the walls, barely ten meters from him. Stoutshield swore, and quickened his pace.

When he reached the side of the ramp, he pushed a hand against it. The dirt that made it up was cold and clinged to his fingers like clotted blood. Stoutshield ignored the worms wriggling against his fingertips as he pushed his paw inside the dirt. He made himself a handhold and then two small footholds by kicking at the wall of earth. Completed this operation, he left the wall and clinged to the ramp itself.

It was like jumping into a marsh. The stink of cadaverial gasses grasped at his throat and for a moment he felt himself choking and his head swirled. Still, he was strong as the foundation stone of a Lodge. He clinged to the dirtwall, reciting one of the old mantras that his father had taught him. The old verses helped him to find back his balance and, when he felt stable enough, he watched above.

The monster was close to where he was, one of his hand grasping at the ramp a little distance away. Stoutshield repressed the instict to hack at that ugly with his axe, and turned. Following his orders, a group of his comrades had followed him, using ropes as he had. Each of them held one of the bundles.

Stoutshield met their gazes and nodded, then turned his attention to the monster above.

Calculating the distance, he began to swing the chain. One swing, two swing, three swings. He let it fly.

The bundle of explosives flew across the air. Maybe the monster above didn't see soar toward it, or maybe just he didn't care, his addled brain not being able to process anything more than just going forward. The bundle smacked against the monster, its roiling flesh quickly lodging it in place. Stoutshield nodded with satisfaction. The creations of the Mages-Engineer were made to resist, even against the power of Chaos. For a bit, they would hold.

Stoutshield grasped and launched one bundle after the other, sending each to smack against a different part of the monster lumbering above. The monster lumbered ever forward. Eventually, only one bundle remained.

Stoutshield was receiving it from the closest of his comrade when one of the projectiles finally found them.

The boulder exploded against only a handful of meters away. The schockwave buffeted them like a storm wind, together with shards of rock. Stoutshield felt a piercing pain in the arm and lost his hold upon the bundle. Screaming, he flailed violently, managing to grasp the bundle only a moment before it fell out of his reach. The chain wrapped itself along his arm, holding it into place.

Stoutshield found himself dangling above the precipice, with a hand holding the rope and the other the bundle. The chain had tightly wounded itself around his arm, forcing it to remain outstretched while the rings of iron painfully pierced his skin. A jagged stump of rock protuted by the other arm, making it bleed profusely and sending blinding pain though him.

He called to his comrades for help, but received only silence as answer. With dismay, he saw that the closest dangled from his rope, body pierced by shards from head to toes. The others were dazed, holding to their ropes, each bleeding by wounds.

Stoutshield grunted, his muscles burning with the effort of holding himself and his charge. Outstrecthed like that, he couldn't gather the strenght to make himself swing to take his footholds again.

His grasp over the rope started to slip. He slided down of an inch, and screamed when the stump of rock shifted in his flesh. The beast was close to the battlements, long, stalk-like hands already out stretching to snatch Deepkin.

Stoutshield gritted his teeth and started to huff violently. He was accostumed to pain. His father had made sure of that. One huff. He started to raise his arm, ignoring the rings sinking into his flesh. Another huff. He clenched his muscles, raising himself up with brute strenght. Many rings of the chain were deformed by the pression. Another huff, but this one was broken by a wail. Stoutshield fell back down. He managed to stop himself only at the last moment. Saliva dribbled down hos chin. Turning his head, he stretched his neck and bit at the chain, searching for the most weakened links. Angry and in pain, he gnawed at the iron until the chain snapped and fell off his arm.

He remained dangling for a moment, resting his breath.

He huffed, held his breath and pushed himself against the dirt wall. At the impact, the pain in his arm was tremendous, but he stubborly held on. Grimacing, he watched up. The beast was before the crenellation now, snatching and feasting upon defenders. The Deepkin were looking about to break and run.

Stoutshield cursed between his teeth. That was not going to happen, not until he had a single breath in his body.

Screaming a mighty curse, he swung the last bundle and threw him up, with all his strenght.

The object flew up and up, and Stoutshield drew his gun. He kissed the handle, just like his father did before he inherited the weapon, and took aim. He waited for a moment, then pressed the trigger.

The bundle detonated just above the monster in a massive ball of fire. The other explosives reacted one after the all. A mighty explosion tore into the body of the Spawn, then another, then another and another and another.

The Spawn's might was immense, but it was distracted, feasting upon the defenders and the explosions took it at point-blank range. They made it stumble, lose its grip and then finally knocked it down the ramp. The monster fell with a horrifying shriek, smashing against the ground tens of meters below, entire herds of Beastmen and monsters being crashed by its bulk. Dust rose to envelope the titanic body, that didn't rose anymore.

Stoutshield dangled by his rope, admiring his own work with a surge of satisfaction amidst the pain and fatigue. Well, that was one nice piece of job, if he had ever seen one. He spat, deciding to get back to work. He pushed himself against the wall once again, starting to make his way toward his comrades and then back into the battlements.

Still, despite victories such as this, there's seemed to be no amount of resistance enough to stop the onslaught.

At the start of the second day of battle, the Rat Stone had been breached in multiple points, with the defenders forced to retreat into the tunnels inside. All the interiors of the fortress had been built with thought of war, but sheer attrition had taken its toll and, despite taking turns into the fight, the defenders were getting worn down. What was more, it's seemed thet the Beastmen's numbers were endless, and that nothing could break the unthinking bloothirst of the monsters; they just kept coming and coming, uncaring of any amount of losses. As such, morale was starting to plummet.

Only the Gate of the Noose held with strenght undimmed, the resistance there brought forward by the tireless leadership of the Warlord and the valor of the elites of the fortress.

And then the Bloodstarved One came.

Maybe he was biding his time, waiting for the Stone to be made pliable enough before making his entrance. Maybe it was the Blood God's desire to hold him back. Whatever the reason, as the dawn rose, the Bloodstarved appeared before the Rat Stone.

He came not as a maelstrom of unprecedented violence nor as an unstoppable monster of destruction. He came with the Beating.

Since the siege had began, the roar hadn't ever stopped. The braying, the screaming, the howling. It hadn't ever stopped. Some Deepkin soldiers had taken their own lives to escape it, others had just gone mad and fallen lifeless, dead without a single blade reaching them. The Chiefs had given order to make plugs with anything available, from wax to bundled cord, and had the troops use them during their turns of rest. The sheer, unrelenting sound had been considered as much as an enemy as the Beastmen's rusted blades and unthinking savagery.

And now, suddenly, all that noice just… ceased.

Silence came in its wake, smothering. On the battlements, Deepkin soldiers gasped for air as the sudden lack of sound pressed upon them like a shroud. It wasn't like the assault had stopped. The Beastmen still came, but their screams just faded into the ether, muffled like someone was drawing them away. The silence that remained was like a physical thing, bearing down upon everything like a giant's hand.

And then, the Beating.

It was a single, unrelenting pulse, the beating of a titanic drum and the beating of a monstrous heart. It towered above everything, engulfing anything else into its shadow. It didn't speak words, but there was an eternity of meaning in it, greater than the sun raising from the jungle.

Thirst for blood, thirst for skulls, anger and hatred; unmeasurable, unrelenting, unstoppable. It defied mortal tongue, any word or gesture laughly insufficient to convey the height of its feelings. Not even a thousand thousand braying herds of monsters was enough to bring across the unescapability of it, the sheer magnitudine and power of it.

There was only the Beating.

And then the Bloodstarved One came.

He came like a gigantic shadow. Fire burned into its core, a visage opened into the beating heart of Khorne himself. Where he marched, the Bestmen just withered and died, the depth of their anger bursting the pathetic mortal vessels that tried to contain it. On the battlements, some of the Deepking turned upon their own kin, throwing their weapons aside to tear at flesh with teeth and claws; others just dropped dead, their heart bursting in their chests.

Only the Shaskar saved the others.

With a mighty shout that reverberated across all the fortress, Jarriz had all the Deepkin avert their eyes from the abomination. Calling upon all of her power, she sang a hymn to the Mother, calling for her purest light to protect her struggling children.

A whisper of hope flickered into the minds of all the ratmen, pushing back the Beating's terrifying influence. The souls of the defenders were shielded, but that was the height of the Shaskar's prowess. Even her power paled before the monster's.

The Bloodstarved One didn't care. He came forward, his long shadow covering the Gates.

The Gates of the Noose was old and sturdy, bathed in the blood of the Chaotic Ones. Through his decades of battle, it had defied the blows of giants and monsters. Even now, it stood defiant against blood and fire and shadow, challenging the Bloodstarved One. But the monster's might was beyond measure.

The first blow made the Rat Stone tremble, the mighty hinges of the Gates benting and buckling. The second blow sent the Gates flying across the courtyard beyond. The mighty towers crumbled and fell to the ground in a rain of stone and debris.

The Gates of the Noose was no more.

Stoutshield and his warrior-band died in the Gate's collapse, crushed between the falling stones.

The Bloodstarved One glanced inside the ruined opening he had made. Beyond, a phalanx of Deepking waited, knees trembling and spears held into weak hands. Kriztikk stood at their fore, his sword, trembling.

The Bloodstarved One grunted with contempt. He hadn't come to take the skulls of weaklings. The Blood Good's tributes were to be grand. The monster turned from the Gate and disappeared.

The fall of the Gate of the Noose was a disaster for the defenders.

With their strongest point of defence broken, they were forced to fall back inside the fortress, but the suddeness of it had left them unprepared for an organized retreat. Many Deepkin were cut down as they tried to retreat, the Beastmen having swarmed inside as soon as the Bloodstarved had disappeared.

Eventually, at the cost of many victims, a line of defence was estabilished in the tunnels, but by now morale was crumbling. What was the point of trying to fight such a monster? No chance of victory could be seen by the defenders anymore.

Projects of retreating were made, even the idea of trying to bring the fortress down upon the beastmen was considered. But to step back would mean to leave the Great Burrow undefended, where all the defenders' families were. And to try to bring down the fortress, even with the unwitting help of the bray-shamans, would require too much time and too much effort to be effective, the mages assured.

The situation was dire.

The hall felt more cold than he remembered. The wailing of Deepkin echoed from close, and Grand Mage-Engineer Vulq shuddered as he thought back at the corridors packed full with the wounded and the dying.

The entire leadership of the fortress was there, or at least, the survivors. Chiefs and Commander, all of them bruised and battered, with their weapons covered in blood, none of them not sporting at least a wound. They were huddled around the great table and Vulq couldn't but think to a nest of rats hiding from a storm. The Warlod sat on his throne at the back of the hall, a silent, unmoving statue of iron draped with shadows.

"And… and this is our situation." Tarniak, the second in command of the fortress, lowered his head and stepped back, his report complete. He was stout, barrel-chested Deepkin, renowed for his courage. It was the first time Vulq heard him stutter.

A tense silence fell upon the table.

Everybody knew that they were on their last legs, but nobody dared to speak.

"Me and my brothers and sisters shall fight to the death." Sharpfang said. The Patriarch was a colossus, dwarfing the others so much that no chair was appropriate for his size. He kneeled on the stone floor, but if it disturbed it, he didn't show it.

Vulq repressed a shudder. The Patriarch appeared as a dark fire to his inner sight.

"We can't…" Tarniak began tentatively. He probably wanted to protest about the idea of having all of the venerable warriors throw away their lives in what was essentially a futile venture. He stoppe as soon as the Patriarch moved his smouldering eyes upon him.

"Stoutshield was my son."

Sharpfang added nothing more. He closed his eyes, meaning that the discussion was over.

Vulq bit his lip in anguish. There was really nothing they could do?

The general attention shifted almost naturally to Jarriz. Where the Patriarch was massive, she was diminutive, her little legs dangling from the chair. The layers of thick cloth covered with runes made the ancient Deepkin look like she was swaddled into a nest.

"My sight is obscured." She said, opening a milky white eye. The faitgues of the siege had taken their toils upon her, making her wrinkles even more deep, but there was no worry in her voice, only matter of fact. "I cannot say what the future holds."

A wave of discouragement pressed upon the room. If not even the Shaskar could show the way, then there was really no more hope.

"Maybe… maybe we should just try to escape…"

Vulq wasn't sure who said that. He was tired, and he didn't recognize the voice. But, as soon as those words disappeared, a clanking sound attracted everyone's attention.

Kriztikk had got up from his throne, making fall the shield that leaned against his knees.

The Warlord stomped forward, once. "Escape?" He asked. "Should we escape?" There was an indecipherable something in his voice.

He turned suddenly and gave them his back, a hand on his throne. His shoulders trembled, like he was caught by a violent emotion.

Vulq was instantly worried. The fortress and its stewardship were Kriztikk's life. To see it fall to his hated enemies, to see his faithful soldiers being slauthered would have taken its toll upon anybody. For a moment, he feared that that toll had been too heavy for the warlord's mind.

"Foolishness!" Kriztikk's shout rang loud and clear, putting everyone to silence. "Should we escape, leaving the fortress that we've been entrusted with? Never! I will be dead before that happens!"

"We could resist for some more hours" Tarniak tried. "Give the people in the Burrow a little more time to evacuate…" The Warlord shutted him off.

"Ridiculous!" Kriztikk roared. "I never ordered this fortress to be abandoned and i'll never do it! Not now! Can't you all see!" He pointed against the ceiling, trembling. "In the north, the sun… is rising!"

Vulq exchanged a worried glance with Tarniak, a motion imitated by many others in the room. Since the world was the world, the sun didn't rise in the north, and, even so, what it could change for them?

Kriztikk stomped down hard, making them all jump.

"Fools!" He roared. "How can you not see it! We've waited so much time! So much time since the sun has gone out! How can you!"

That was it. The Warlord must have gone mad. Vulq moved forward, set on putting an end to that charade. Kriztikk was his friend and he couldn't alow him to put himself to ridicule so much.

But then… he stopped.

Something new had brushed him, a smell that he was sure wasn't there before. He frowned, sniffing. It smelled like… rain?Yes, just like the jungle after the rain, a smell that spoke of life, and new beginnings. For a moment, Vulq was remainded of his childhood, passed between the dankness of the caverns, trafficking with small machines, and the jungle above, running after his brothers with his little load of fruits.

He saw that all the other presents felt i; they were sniffing and turning around, just as uncomprehending as he was.

Out of instinct, he turned to the Shaskar. The old priestess was on her feet, the heavy, falling brows rising to show her milky eyes, an amazed expression on her face. She was looking at the same direction of the Warlord, and Vulq felt himself follow her gaze.

And then… he saw it.

Beyond walls and tunnels, lands and mountains, a warmth, rising, taking flight, nesting in his bosom. It speak to him of a promise, long overdue, now finally blossoming; it spoke of kin protected and spared ratlings, of sieged life preserved and courage undimmed, of hope, and salvation.

The Sun, rising in the north.

He moved his mouth, searching for words, but none came. None could come. No word was enough for that. Some of the Deepkin present fell to their knees; other sobbed. Sharpfang stood unmoved but his slightly trembling paws.

Vulq turned to the Shaskar, a question in his eyes. The old priestess just nodded at him, his old eyes glinting.

The Warlord spread his arms wide, a triumphant laughter raising from his chest and flooding the room and its stunned audience.

"The King comes!"

Despite their desperate situation, the Deepkin defending the fortress felt an inner glow in their souls, and threw themselves into the fray with renewed bravery. Nothing of the sort had ever been said, but each of them knew for certain that help was on the say and that it would come that same day.

Until noon they resisted, waging violent clashes and running battles against the Beastmen in the tunnels.

Patriarch Sharpfang distinguished himself greatly during this battles, reaping a fearsome tolls upon the Beastmen. It was him and his brother and sisters that held the line at the Echoing Vaults against a trio of maddening Jabberslythes, eventually blocking the passage with the corpses of the monsters.

Overhelmed, the defenders eventually abandoned the tunnels and retrated to the central sanctum of the fortress, a massive hall that was used for religious purpose. There, they made their last stand.

Under a vault frescoed with the images of the Mother, bruised and battered but laughing with triumph, Warlord Kriztikk led the charge of his surviving warriors against the braying horde, the Shaskar Jarriz at his side; while High Mage-Engineer Vulq led the efforts of the last mages still alive.

The phalanx of the Deepkin smashed through the Beastmen, cutting down any monster on its path. The Kinrat opened a path in which the Patriarchs threw themselves. Sharpfang was at their fore, howling the name of his murdered child as he crushed bunches of enemies with each swing of his gigantic blade.

The Patriarch duelled against the Doomlord leading the assault, a powerful liutenant of the Bloodstarved One that had led the assault inside the fortress in place of his master. Tree times the Patriarch was downed by the blows of his monstrous adversary and three times he rose, battered and bruised, but defiant. In the end, he grasped at the haft of the massive axe of the Doombull and held it tight.

The two titanic adversaries fought for control of the weapon, the mighty shout of the Patriarch against the endless braying of the Doombull.

But Sharpfang proved himself stronger. He threw himself against the monster, showing him down. Grappling him by the horns, he lifted the maddened monster in the air and smashed him down on the floor, the black rock of the Rat Stone breaking the abomination's neck.

Without their leader, the bloodthirst that had sustained the Beastmen seemed to finally dry out. They broke and run, and no other monster came to replace them.

As they escaped, the survivors turned as one toward the north. From there, despite walls and tunnels, they could hear the blaring of a horn, a single, bright note raising against madness and unchained bloodthirst.

Outside, the mass of the Beastmen turned its attention form the fortress and turned toward the north horizon, upon which an army was appearing. The Bloodstarved One held his own gaze upon it as well, and on the shining figure that led it.

Inside the fortress, Warlord Kriztikk raised his halberd and howled. It was a howl of pain for the Rat Stone, its walls breached and halls violated; it was for the blood that had bathed the fortress, for the corpses of all the Deepkin littering its tunnels, for all the families that wouldn't see a loved one return. But it spoke also of vengeance soon to fall, of madness punished and defiance against the darkness. The howl of Kriztikk rose high, soaring in the sky above while the two armies marched to meet in battle.

The Second Battle of the Rat Stone or the Deliverance of the South has passed into history as one of the greatest of that age. Deepkin historians divided it from the First, as the defenders of the fortress itself played no part in it. It was during this titanic clash that the Under-King Pantagrel strode to battle, the full might of the newly-founded Under-Kingdom assembled behind him for the first time in history.

Like a giant the King went and the Bloodstarved One advanced to meet him. Their clash shock the earth and make the sky tremble. The monster was mighty beyond mortal measure, but the King was his equal and proved to be the master.

Pantagrel was the victor, and from his victory the Under-Kingdom was united under the line of the Under-Kings, a unity that continues even today.

The Warlord of the Ratstone was raised to be one of the first Kinlord, and the Rat Stone rose even more in prominence, becoming the center of a new Deepkin expansion into the southern jungles, to the point that it's a Depthlord that rules from the mighty fortress today.

The massacre of the Beastmen was such that centuries had to pass before the monsters could return to threaten the Deepkin.

Even today, the two Battles of the Rat Stone stand as a testament of the might of the Under-Kingdom and of the ratmen that inhabit it. It has entered into legend and it's still one of the most beloved stories between those taught to ratlings, as it shows how even in the deepest darkness and against the direst of odds the Deepkin can triumph and the sun can returns, as it was promised, long time ago, an age ago.