All about the chamber, there was a crescendo of snarls and hisses. A swarm of furred creatures, of brown and matted grey, growled and swung weapons of all sorts skyward. Then they quietened down, such that they were instead muttering in reserved excitement. A large, jet-black creature marched forth, hoisting a glaive with one hand and dragging a chain with the other. Behind it marched a handful of men, savaged and bleeding from beatings. As they came out into the open, the roaring of cruel delight broke out again.
Somewhere in the colliseum, behind a row of the creatures and masked by their ecstatic row, Little Lady crawled out of a crack in the wall. He breathed deeply and sniffed the air, as if testing to see if it were any cleaner or pleasant than what he had just endured. With a shiver of fear he found that, instead, the smell of wet fur and dung, punctuated by the smell of iron from blood, had grown more intense. He surveyed the room - if one could call it that, for it was merely a section of ground shaped by the piling up of loot and punctuated by large poles wielding bright, red triangles - and saw nothing about. There were creatures ahead of him, though; when they lifted their weapons and growled, their arms and teeth and claws sent shadows dancing across the room.
Immediately the shadows froze and then pulled away as the creatures moved. Little Lady heard what was drawing them; a high-ptiched series of squeaks like what he had heard before, but there was an odd tone there, one of control and vindication. It almost reminded him of a sigmarite Priest...
The voice came from a grey-maned rat stood in the highest vantage point of the arena. It was surveying the broken men beneath it with beady, hateful eyes and passionately saying something unrecognisable. The ratmen all around jeered and roared. It raised a hand, and another black rat came from whence the prisoners had been brought. It carried with it a hulking sack which it emptied in front of them; chestplates, greaves, swords and shields all fell out. The grey rat looked thoughtfully, gulped, and spoke with surprising elequence:
"Man-things! Take weapon-swords and armour-furs. Face-fight assassins of Eshin, I prove to them you are weak, pathetic creatures! Then they help-assist us, get much-lots warpstone!" The creature stopped as if awaiting their awe, but the prisoners did not respond. They were too glazed and distant from their torture, or too shocked. With a howl of disappointment it turned and gestured behind it. The shadows seemed to bend and reform as figures in stitched robes and hoods fell into the arena, seemingly from nowhere.
It was in this commotion that Little Lady was able to move out towards the arena, through a narrow hallway littered with molted hairs and full of the odour of the beasts. He found himself in a viewing deck, beneath the leader of the ratmen but above the jeering mass of lesser creatures which watched in expectation. Beneath him, in the arena-proper, his cohort had finished arming themselves; the two Greatswords stood uncertainly, and the Captain was trembling too. The only one who appeared unfazed was Leon of Altdorf, whose single arm held a long blade above his head in challenge.
Then one of the black-robed rats screeched coarsely, almost as if it were laughing. It raised a gloved paw and it's fellows backed away. "Leave! Need only me to kill-crush stupid man-thing." Its arm fell to it's side, clutching the handle of a firearm of sorts. It's other hand held a blade which made the air around it shimmer like a mirage. Something green dripped from it onto the floor and bubbled. It roared it's challenge.
The greatswords were the first to answer, advancing shoulder-to-shoulder with their zweihanders prepared. Rorik attacked first, his greatsword sweeping in a horizontal arc. The assassin seemed to melt into shadow as it appeared on the other side of the blade, unharmed. It jabbed forward with it's own vile sword, forcing the greatsword back. His comrade saw the opportunity, dropping back and around the rat-man and bringing his own blade forward with a swift thrust. He had doubtless done this a hundred times before; each time slicing the sword-arm off an orc, or punching through a minotaur's hide, but again the assassin was too fast. It lept into the air with surprising grace, dropping to it's knees. It's arm shot up on instinct, embedding it's blade into the Greatsword's side. The cheering crowds reached a crescendo.
He fell with a gurgle, and began throwing up blood and sick over the floor of the arena. By this time, though, Rorik had recovered his wits, and seeing what had befallen his comrade he roared in anger, enough to set a Norscan's hair on edge, and returned to the fray. They began to exchange blows, the speed and finesse of the ratman facing the brute force and discipline of the human.
In the viewing port, Little Lady felt himself sweating with horror and wrought with indecision. He had reached for his handgun, to perhaps slay the creature before it could bring more harm to his comrades, but something made him freeze. Even if he took the shot... He scanned the crowds. There were hundreds in here, and they surely wouldn't take kindly to such an afront. The men that were left were surely doomed, but he? He could escape.. he could run.
He felt a sting of guilt when he saw the Knight of the Blazing Sun scanning the field with stoicness, leaning on his sword with the suave detachment of a rich man on a cane. That man had saved his life from the Captain's wrath, had shown faith in him. If he let down one of the few to see him as more than a deadweight child, he would have nothing else...
With a nod of self-approval, he planted his handgun on the banister, aiming into the duel. Rorik was on the losing end of it - what had started as a vengeful attack became a desperate defense as the rat assassin launched blow after blow, slicing and kicking and whipping with it's tail like the beast it was. It was not long before the greatsword howled in pain, a blow from the ratman's clawed, silk-wrapped foot to the face sending him to the ground.
Then Little Lady took the shot. A wave of silence washed over the masses of onlookers as they struggled to work out what had happened. The ratman stopped suddenly, his head blown out. Bits of bone and meat flew backwards as he collapsed. The lesser beasts muttered and cried and began to try and flee, but the leader - who, up until now, had been watching from above with malevolent interest - was staring across at him. He raised a hand and pointed, and the viewing box began to groan as the wood splintered and fell apart. The entire structure was collapsing, and Little Lady scrambled to escape - to no avail. As he began to fall, praying to Sigmar for protection, he noticed the knight stood calmly as ever, facing him. He nodded and smiled.
The chamber fell in on itself, sending Little Lady tumbling to the floor, shocked but alive. There was no apparent exit - the entryway to the arena was clogged with debris from the fall - but for now he was safe. He listened intently to the noises outside - the roaring of the beasts, the desperate beating of metal-on-metal, and the periodic screams of the trio being picked apart by the Rat sorceror's vanguard.
Within a day of the expedition beginning, Little Lady was alone.