Chapter 5 - Attrition

The earth rumbled as the monster pounded down the tunnel. Forty of his soldiers ran ahead of him, screening for danger, led by General Flayer, while a hundred more gnawers followed close behind him. He didn't need any of them. He could slaughter the filthy nibblers all on his own. And he longed to test his strength against Ripred. The traitor that raised him, hoping to instill in him a love for humans. Ripred had still been too great a challenge the last time they fought. Though less than half his size, Ripred's skill and experience made him formidable. But the monster had gained two hundred pounds of muscle and bone since then, and he sparred with his best soldiers every day. Twice, he had killed his opponent, astounded by his own strength. If he fought Ripred now, he would break him.

But his advisors and generals refused to let him try. They insisted that, for all his strength, size, and fury, his greatest value was still as a King. A symbol. They would let him fight the warrior when the time came, but they would not let him fight Ripred. Nor even an army of nibblers. Apparently, the disgusting little things had managed to kill dozens of gnawers when the forward battalions had executed their pincer attack. Though small, weak, and loathsome, it seemed the mice didn't fear death, and with sufficient numbers they could kill creatures far superior to themselves. He wished they would let him plunge into the midst of the fleeing scum, rending bodies by the dozen, crushing and devouring without restraint. But his authority was not yet total.

They called him King. The prophesied Bane. But his word was not yet law. Twirltongue's guidance should be enough, but the generals, lore masters, and senior governors could still overrule him. They did not wish to risk him. For all his might, they still thought it possible that he could fall in battle. Perhaps that would change when he killed the puny warrior. The child that stole him from his people and delivered him to a traitor. The flimsy human had barely grown at all since that day. But the monster had grown a hundred fold.

"Do you smell that?" Twirltongue whispered. She rode on his back, her slight weight meaningless to one of his awesome strength. "I smell blood… much blood. We are near to the sight of the battle."

Up ahead, General Flayer and the vanguard reached a wider stretch of tunnel, lit by magma vents. They hesitated, then spread out and began searching at the general's order. When the monster reached the spot, he hesitated too.

Death. Carnage. Blood as he couldn't believe.

A dozen nibblers lay dead, though they had been composed and lain to one side. An attempt had been made to bury them in ash, but not enough of it reached these tunnels.

It wasn't the nibblers that held the monster's attention.

Blood, gore, and broken bones lay scattered about, too big to belong to mice.

"Ah… that's inconvenient," Twirltongue observed. "The nibblers fed on our fallen soldiers. I had hoped they lacked the stomach for it. This would be far easier if they stayed hungry."

They… they ate gnawers? These pathetic, disgusting, weak nibblers were so brazen as to feed on a higher species?

The monster might be full grown, but he was still objectively quite young. Barely a year had past since he entered this world, and many things were still new to him. He stared in revulsion at the remains of his soldiers, and the evidence that the escaped prisoners had sated their hunger on rats. The master race, the rightful rulers of the Underland. The hunters should not be food to lesser beings.

"Don't let their obscene behavior trouble you overmuch, oh King," Twirltongue said, her words soothing. "It is only a matter of time before they all pay for it with their lives." She gestured with her tail, drawing his attention to the nibbler corpses that hadn't been hidden well enough to escape notice. "I suggest you set things right, and keep up your strength."

"My king!" General Flayer said, trotting over and giving a slight bow. "We see signs of more heresy up ahead, but there are also half a hundred more slain nibblers."

"I shall devour the twelve here," the monster said. "Your troops may feed upon the ones you just found."

"Thank you, Lord Bane." Two of the general's bodyguards, Gutpulp and Spinegrinder, shared the good news with the other troops, while Flayer himself dashed on ahead to begin the feast.

"Our advance units are setting up another ambush," Twirltongue said, as the monster stuffed an entire nibbler corpse into his mouth. "They found a place where the fugitives are certain to pause for a time. When the ambush battalions strike, our forward units will attack from behind. I again applaud your patience, mighty Bane, and your restraint. It is still not your time to battle your foes. But your power goes beyond that of your own body. All gnawers are yours, and their strength is an extension of your own. When they slay your enemies, the credit goes to you."

Swallowing, the monster bit the next nibbler in half to get it down more easily. Her words were a comfort, keeping the rage, fear, and dark memories at bay. It made him imagine she might be what a mother was like… but that caused a wave of loss. Two nibbler bodies crushed and tore in his grip, and it took all his will not to howl.

They needed to finish off the nibblers. They needed to overwhelm and slaughter Ripred. Until gnawer supremacy was firmly established, the rest of the Underland must not learn of their actions here. Too few of the other species would accept the need for such a solution, or so Twirltongue said. But once the nibblers, humans, and fliers were wiped out, none could ever oppose them again. The Underland would at last be as it should. Their secret digger allies would be given the ruins of Regalia. The spinners would be enslaved, providing silks under pain of death. While the crawlers and cutters would be prey, hunted as they should be.

That bright, glorious future was close. They would finish up here, and then gather all their strength to extinguish the humans. He would crush the warrior's little bones, rend his weak flesh, and not even devour him. The tiny symbol of human hope would be left to rot within sight of the walls.

And once the monster killed the warrior, the others would not dare deny his right to join the slaughter.


Calc's missing eye, ear, and tail all grew more painful with every hour that ground by. Despite Howard's efforts, little more could be done than stop the bleeding. The young human had so few medical supplies, Calc knew his time was short. Three wounds of such severity, in such a horrid environment, all but guaranteed he would eventually succumb to infection.

Part of him wanted to curl up and cry, weeping for what he'd already lost, and all he would soon lose. But he had only to pass his remaining eye over the marching crowd to restore the fire of his determination. Parents, pups, elders, and the diminishing number of his peers. All deserved life. Not all would survive, but if he fought with all the strength he had left, more might live than otherwise would have. The knowledge that he likely had little time left could have paralyzed him. Instead, he would view it as freeing. He had no reason to fight cautiously or hang back. He would throw himself at the gnawers at every opportunity. Slow death by infection would be an ugly way to meet his end. It would be quicker and far more meaningful to instead fall in open battle.

At least, telling himself that made it easier to stay brave.

It also helped to look upon the remaining members of his generation. They were all committed, same as him. It was good not to be alone. They all faced the same turmoil as him, and they knew they wouldn't see the end of this war. The Prophecy of Time foretold the death of the young Underlander. The young fighters in the Firelands didn't need a prophecy to know their fate.

A tantalizing smell reached him, and he could barely believe it. Even out here, in the tunnels of the deadly Firelands, he caught the scent… of water.

Sure enough, cries of joy and relief came from the front of the column. When it reached the ears of the human Howard, the young man shouted, "Wait! Do not drink yet!" His bat, Princes Nike, bore him swiftly to the front.

The ragged refugees halted. Ripred posted sentries at the rear, than bounded through the crowd after Howard. Calc wished he had been assigned as a sentry, but he accepted that his vision and hearing were no longer dependable. And he'd lost enough blood that he'd benefit from a bit of rest.

News filtered from the front. The old, blind scent seer Joule and the medic Howard agreed: the column could drink from the small stream they'd discovered, but not in great quantity. Low levels of toxins were present in the water. If anyone drank too much of it, they might succumb to vomiting and diarrhea, losing far more fluids than they gained. It was unwelcome news, but tremendously better than if they'd learned the water was completely unsafe.

Nike flew overhead, no longer carrying Howard, explaining that the stream followed a tunnel that intersected the column's path. The refugees continued their march, but very slowly, allowing all who reached the water to drink from the uphill side before crossing on the downhill side. Howard was on foot, ensuring that no one drank too much for their bodyweight and current level of health. As part of the numerous rearguard, Calc would thus be one of the last to reach the stream. He approved of the slow and careful approach, though. Everyone was covered in ash, and many were also caked in blood. Water downstream of the crossing would be filthy, so few could drink at a time.

Roughly three quarters of the refugees had had a drink and crossed the little stream when the sentries trailing behind the column shouted a warning. Multiple rats were gathering at the limit of their echolocation. Calc staggered toward the rear, but before he got there another, identical warning was relayed from the vanguard. Ripred shouted orders, bounding toward the rear, and nibblers streamed toward the front and back, braced for possible attack.

Only then did the real attack come.

From the side.


Ripred whirled, the shrieks and wails of pups piercing his heart. Snarling, roaring gnawers struck the column, not at the front or rear, but at the defenseless center.

They poured in from the tunnel down which the stream flowed.

The rager pounded at top speed toward the screams and cries, as the magnitude of his miscalculation struck home. All of the able-bodied defenders had moved to the front and rear of the column in response to the detection of rats, and it was now clear those rats had wanted to be noticed. A stiff breeze from the main chambers of the Firelands flowed up the tunnel containing the stream, preventing even Joule from smelling the main enemy attack. That tunnel was wide enough for the rats to avoid sullying the little stream, the flowing water combined with many bends in the side tunnel stopped the pups, mothers, and elders in the middle of the column from hearing them in time.

Despite all Ripred's plans and efforts, the most vulnerable refugees now faced the Bane's soldiers without him.

Pups and others tried to flee from the sounds, while a larger number pushed to move toward the fighting. All together, the seething crowds impeded Ripred's progress. He was so much larger than nibblers, he could seriously injure them if he chose to bound up and over them all. Roaring for them to make way, Ripred desperately crashed through their midst, trying not to break bones but willing to knock many aside. The young soldiers of the rearguard tried to follow him, but this stretch of tunnel was narrow. The screams of terror and agony from so many pups, and the grief-stricken wails of parents, ripped at his heart, and he grew even more rough in his drive to crash through the terrified crowd.

Despite decades of experience as a rager, he felt his control starting to slip. A disaster so profound, a tragedy so deep, and he wasn't yet able to act. He could hear little ones dying, smell fresh blood, but the packed bodies slowed him. He needed to fight, to kill, to slaughter the rats up ahead, but they were not yet in his reach. His roars became more desperate, more feral, more animal, but his voice was still just one among many.

The fighting drew closer, the smell of blood intensified, and more young voices rose in agony before going silent.

Then, yet more screams came from far behind. The pursuing force had made their move, now that most of the rearguard were out of position. "Fighters of the rearguard, split your forces! Females and full adults: return to the rear and hold! Younger males, follow me!" With his conscious mind wavering in the throws of overflowing rage, it was the simplest way he could think of to split his forces between the two threats.

Then a broken, torn little body flew through the air, bounced off the back of a nibbler, and tumbled past Ripred's face.

The dead pup looked less than a week old.

For the first time in thirty years, Ripred was on the brink of totally losing control.

With a bellow of wordless rage, Ripred launched himself with explosive power, scattering mice from his path, likely breaking their little bones but barely aware of it. He soared over many others and landed in the stream, surrounded by the dead and dying. Mice and pieces of mice, so many of them pups, choked the stream. Mothers and elderly battled against rat soldiers, dying by the dozen. The ancient scent seer Joule thrashed out her final moments, Howard lay in the ash, dazed but hopefully alive, and ever more gnawers poured in from upstream.

And his echolocation now detected a second gnawer force coming from downstream.

Ripred's vision splintered, as did his hearing and sense of smell, and he crashed into the closest gnawers. He couldn't afford to hold still and spin, for the slaughter of the helpless was being perpetrated over an ever-widening area. He bounded and lunged, severing spines, cleaving faces, breaking necks with his tail, and sending entrails flying in a visceral rain. Everywhere, barely visible to his rager-focused senses, dead and dying pups lay, and a madness of slaughter came upon him. He bit off a rat's tail, hurled the severed appendage into the face of a small rat, and plunged his claws into the heart of a gnawer that positively reeked with nibbler blood.

Young nibbler fighters began to arrive, largely filtered out by his eyes and ears, recognized only as collision threats to be avoided. Wings passed overhead, and Luxa's sword severed a tail. A rat jumped at Aurora, but Ripred sprang to meet it midair. He tore off his victim's lower jaw, then kicked off the smaller rat with maximum force. The rat smashed into two of its fellows, killing all three, and Ripred landed on two more. The lucky one died with Ripred's teeth in its head. The other found itself paralyzed and at the mercy of many bereaved nibbler mothers.

It received none.

As more mouse fighters joined him in the bloody melee, Luxa's commanding words finally reached his conscious mind. "The other direction Ripred! I need you stopping the rats from downstream!" She gave way to a brutal fit of coughing, but her words had done their job.

At last, Ripred's experience and self-mastery reasserted themselves. The focus, power, and surging energy of the rager state stabilized. His vision and hearing still prioritized threats and enemy vulnerabilities, but not at the cost of his conscious awareness or cognitive judgment. With a spin, he gutted two rats, leaving them shrieking and thrashing to be set upon by mice, then he charged downstream. "Nibblers! Drive off the rats from upstream! I want only fifty fighters following me downstream! I'll create openings and weaken the rats! Finish them before they recover!"

The foremost of the rats pounding toward him had barely enough time to recognize him, and their eyes widened in horror. Ripred knew several of them. Long ago, he had considered them colleagues.

Almost friends.

No longer.

Ripred sprang to the left, rebounding off the wall of the tunnel to come at his enemies from above and to the side. His senses locked on, not to a small number of throats, spines, or major arteries, but to a far greater number of eyes, ears, tails, and forelegs. When fighting alone, his attacks needed to be lethal, and he had to target the enemies who were the greatest threat to his own safety. But with fifty nibblers closing in, ready to support him, his fighting style changed. He need not be a lone killer, but the forefront of a small army.

He lept, spun, kicked, and slashed, always moving, dashing through the midst of the terrified and disorderly crowd of rats. Eyes and ears tore, tails and forelimbs snapped, and gnawers tripped and tumbled as he weaved and twisted among them. He danced around attacks, letting rats overcommit and lose balance, while maiming any limb that came too close. Instead of killing five or six foes in the first few moments, he wounded, weakened, or knocked down dozens. The mice coming up from behind set upon the rats, seizing the advantage he gave them, defeating enemies many times their size. Every rat he cast down swiftly felt many nibbler teeth and claws. Soon, far more gnawers were dead than if Ripred had focused on killing them directly, and the mice behind him suffered few losses. The water churned with blood, ash, and fur. Rats cried out in dismay and growing panic. Bones snapped, bodies tumbled, jaws detached, and faces tore. None could hinder his merciless advance.

Young Gregor might surpass the skill of any human in the Underland, but Ripred outclassed him in every way. Six hundred pounds, armed with claws, teeth, and tail, a veteran of countless battles, and with total mastery of the rager state, Ripred unleashed his full potential as a ruinous champion of war.

Reaching the center of this enemy battalion, Ripred skidded to a stop, bellowed a challenge, and at last began to spin.


Howard's head pounded, the world spun, and he couldn't make sense of the raging cacophony of discordant sounds. He vaguely remembered something striking the side of his head, but he couldn't tell what it had been. Gradually, he realized that he was lying on his back in the ash, one arm in the water. Something floating downstream came to a stop against his hand, and something larger crashed to the ground next to him. He wondered if he should be afraid…

A high-pitched screech that could only come from a flier caught Howard's attention. Then wind buffeted him from above. At last, his eyes managed to focus. Nike hovered overhead, screaming at him, trying to get him moving. He rolled onto his side, hoping to overcome the dizziness…

Then he saw what had come to a stop against his hand.

It was a dead pup.

Howard's senses crystalized, he pushed through the dizziness, and he struggled to his feet.

Slaughter and mayhem raged all about him. Nibblers of all ages battled desperately against rat soldiers, and it looked like hundreds were already dead. Though weak from hunger, lost sleep, and the blow to the head, the sight sent adrenaline coursing through him. He drew his sword and charged toward the nearest gnawer. The horrid thing had a nibbler pup in its teeth, and Howard felt not the slightest shred of remorse as he plunged his sword into the murderer at a full run. A backhanded blow sent him staggering back, his sword pulling free, but he managed to keep his balance. Blood flowed from his nose, but he didn't think it was actually broken.

"Jump, Howard!"

Registering Nike's words just in time, he jumped as she came from behind. He landed awkwardly, and slashing claws narrowly missed Nike's wing, but soon they were back to fighting as a team. Howard's eyes and lungs burned from days of breathing ash and fumes, but the sight of so much death kept him moving. Nike dived, circled, and dived again, and each time Howard struck out in a vicious frenzy. As before, he didn't really strive for deadly hits, instead aiming to wound as many rats as possible. With hundreds of nibblers desperately battling far larger opponents, it mattered more to weaken the enemy, giving his little allies a fighting chance.

Nearby, Luxa and Aurora fought as well, but Howard could tell his cousin was nearing her physical limits. Even with all the weight he lost from the plague, the girl was still far lighter than him, and the hostile environment ate away at her vitality. He saw her sword gash a rat's ear, but her next two strikes completely missed her targets. Then she connected with a tail, but with so little strength the rat barely noticed.

Finally, Luxa's sword struck a rat's teeth, and the clash wrenched the weapon from her quivering hand.

"Get the Queen to safety!" the nibbler Heronian shouted to Aurora. "She must not keep fighting if–"

A rat hurled a dead nibbler into Heronian, knocking her off her feet, then it pounded toward her.

"Nike!" Howard shouted, remembering Cartesian's words from what felt like a lifetime ago. "To Heronian!"

The rat reached the mouse at the same time as Howard and Nike. Howard's sword lopped off an ear, Nike's claws raked the rat's face an instant later, and it screamed in pain and rage. But it still laid into Heronian with slashing claws. As Nike whirled around, Howard saw the old mouse desperately trying to fend off the attacks, but many got past her fragile guard. The code breaker bled from many wounds, and the rat pinned her in place, ready to bite her skull.

A blood-soaked nibbler crashed into the rat from the side, biting at its neck and ripping with the claws of his hind legs. Howard recognized the mouse, who was missing an eye and an ear and had a tourniquet around his severed tail. Calc had new injuries, with his left forelimb missing entirely and blood gushing from his side and stomach. But when the rat collapsed, dying, and two more closed in, young Calc stood between them and Heronian and screamed a challenge.

Howard's sword drove down into the larger of the two rats, and when the other crashed into the mouse, he made no attempt to defend himself. As the gnawer's teeth took Calc by the throat, the mouse ripped open its belly with his hind legs. Both combatants splashed into the stream next to Heronian, continuing to savage each other beyond any hope of survival.

At Howard's order, Nike briefly landed, dropping him off at Heronian's side. With so many pups horribly wounded, it felt wrong to prioritize an adult patient. But Cartesian was right. With war declared, and the Prophecy of Time at hand, the best nibbler code breaker simply must survive.

Aurora clung to a ledge near the tunnel ceiling, and Luxa saw Howard's desperate need. Though she had great difficulty speaking, she managed to rally a dozen nibblers to defend him as he saw to Heronian's wounds. It would likely take all of his remaining gauze pads and bandages just to stop the worst of her bleeding, and perhaps even all of his thread.

Three nibblers died defending Howard and Heronian, and it took all of his will not to give way to tears. Every life was precious. Every life should be equal. But during war, some mattered more than others.

At last, the gnawers broke, fleeing up the tunnel they arrived from. None had reached the refugees from the opposite direction, suggesting Ripred's force had successfully stopped their advance cold. A weary and wounded Turing reported that the attack from behind had been stopped, but at the cost of over a hundred defenders.

When at last Howard trusted Heronian would survive, he closed his eyes, rose to his feet, and took a deep breath. He braced his heart, preparing for yet another sight that would leave a lasting wound on his soul.

Then he slowly let out the breath… and opened his eyes.

Looking upon the aftermath of the attack on the pups and mothers, Howard felt a part of his heart tear asunder. For a moment, he could do nothing but stare, overwhelmed by the scale of the tragedy.

Ripred slowly wove through the crowd, dripping blood not his own, and he paused when he came upon Calc, locked in a death embrace with a gnawer five times his size.

Heronian, though so badly wounded, took a moment to compose the three nibblers that died defending Howard while he worked. She then hugged an orphaned black pup close, keeping it from discovering what happened to the rest of its family.

Luxa stood in the midst of the grieving crowd, her face as stone, a beacon of strength in the midst of so much pain.

At last, Howard set his jaw, and got to work with the few supplies he had left.