Anger and fear gnawed at the bottom of his stomach. Frey and his non-human-thing's female henchman were still alive. It was something that was beyond belief! How was it possible?
It was almost as if he, the great Dhalthar, was under a curse. He shuddered at that thought. Surely, the Great Rat God would not withdraw his favor from one of his chosen, would he? No, he told himself sternly. "That is not the reason that the big male is still alive. The real reason is the uselessness of my subordinates."
Dhalthar bared her fangs and allowed his anger to show. The damned ninjas had failed him. Due to his utter incompetence, they had let his large male and female escape. Dhalthar really wanted to hang Chang by the tail to be skinned alive. Only fear of possible reprisals from the Furtim Clan kept him from ordering his bodyguards to seize the master ninja.
According to rumors, Chang was the favorite disciple of a ninja Lord. If that was the case, such direct revenge was out of the question, but there was more than one way to skin a rat, and one day he would make Chang pay for his monstrous failure. At the moment, however, Dhalthar's problem was finding a safe way to vent the murderous rage that filled him without making powerful enemies in the process. He wagged his tail in frustration.
Dhalthar glared at Izak Grottle, a monstrously obese ratfolk being carried in a palanquin by rat-orcs. The Shaper Clan's Beastmaster had arrived earlier that morning, eager to participate in the triumph he was sure would take place after the great offensive. He and his entourage had run down the Underways from the secret Ratfolk base located in the Gray Mountains.
Grottle tried to meet Dhalthar's burning gaze, but could not. He lowered his eyes and ran a paw through the fur of the largest member of his rat-orc guard, a creature that made the dead and unmourned Bonebreaker look small. The creature bellowed in delight as Grottle fed it a tasty morsel of human fingers. Behind Grottle, other Beastmasters waited. Dhalthar decided that he would spare Grottle's life. He did not doubt that he could destroy the fat one, but he was not so sure that he would survive the attack of the enraged beasts if they got out of control. In any case, he couldn't blame this newcomer for last week's failed attack.
He drew his attention to the rotting form of Felbroth Crippled, lowly pontiff of the Plague Priests of Clan Morbus, who stood alone and far removed from any other ratfolk. From within the pontiff's cowl, pus-filled green eyes stared back at him unfazed. Dhalthar immediately dismissed the idea of venting his anger on this sick man. Like all ratfolk, he knew that the Plague priests were completely insane. It was useless to turn them against each other. Dhalthar let his gaze drift slowly to the side, and the pontiff blew his nose triumphantly into his melting robe. A huge bubble of repulsive green mucus blew up in his fist, then burst.
Next in line was the armored figure of Heskit One-Eyed, master warlock engineer of Clan Marchin. He was small by ratfolk standards, and dwarfed even more by his retinue of Sniper-wielding bodyguards. Dhalthar was still angry with him because of the farscreamer's explosion. He suspected some kind of assassination intent in this phenomenon, though in truth it seemed unlikely that the Marchin Clan was behind it. Intentionally blowing up one of his precious gadgets in order to kill an enemy was not his style. Dhalthar decided to spare Heskit's life, though that decision was not influenced in the least by the fact that the bodyguards' long-barreled rifles could hit the wings of a fly from that distance. No, it didn't influence him at all.
He knew that he could not punish them. They were too powerful, and their clans were too influential, and he needed them to lead the charge against the human city. Despite that, he had to kill someone, both to restore his authority and for his own pleasure. He couldn't just let them all go. It was not the ratfolk style. He had to make an example of someone.
One by one, he swept his gaze over the warchiefs of Clan Arkan. They were all present, except for Warmaster Virmek himself. They all wore the red and black robes of their clan. They also all had a scar on the left side, which ran from the ear to the cheek; it was the clan badge. They were as proud as a ratfolk could be; but despite being unchallenged leaders of a horde of evil warriors, they were quick to look away when the Black Magician's eyes landed on each one of them. They knew the reputation of his terrible humor, and not even Tzarkual, the gigantic chieftain of the elite warriors, was willing to face his anger, so he looked at his feet like a puppy before a scolding from the greatest. of the.
"Good." Dhalthar thought. "I have them chickened out." He sniffed a pinch of manastone powder and watched as they trembled. Brilliant, insane visions of horror and carnage flashed through his brain. He swelled with confidence, convinced that now he could take on one of the Alliance Council and win. As always, the drug-infused confidence waned after a brief moment, and he left the remains of raw, solid-state mana-induced power burning through his veins. Quickly, before that ardor could fade, he selected a victim. He pointed a claw at Telltongue, the weakest of the warchiefs and, not coincidentally, the one with the fewest allies both there and in the alliance.
"Is something funny to you, Giveaway Tongue?" he demanded to know Dhalthar with the most intimidating shriek of his. "You think there's something very funny, maybe?"
Telltale Tongue nervously licked its muzzle, shook its head subserviently, and raised both empty paws.
"Nope! No, great."
"Do not lie to me. If there is humor in the abject failure of the mighty ninjas, please share it with others. Your insight could prove useful. Let's go! Speech! Speech!
The ratfolks on either side of Tell-Tongue prudently backed away to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their damned companion. After a moment, Tell-Tongue found himself alone in an open space twenty feet in diameter. He looked over his shoulder for some way out, but there wasn't. Not even his personal guard wanted to stay with him when the Black Magician gave him that wrathful look. Telltale Tongue shrugged, flicked its tail, and placed a hand on the hilt of the sword. It was obvious that he had decided to take a nose at the matter.
"If the ninjas failed, it was because they were too subtle," said Tell-Tongue. "They should have made a frontal attack, a mass onslaught with bare arms. That's the ratfolk way. That is the way of Clan Arkan."
Chang glared at the ratfolk warrior. If looks could kill, Tell-Tongue would have walked out of that chamber in a coffin. Dhalthar was suddenly intrigued by the situation. Here he had the opportunity to wring the killer's tail, without there being the slightest chance of retaliation against him. The Black Magician decided that he would let Telltongue live for a few more moments.
"Are you saying that you could have handled the situation better than your brother from Clan Furtim? Are you saying that you would have succeeded where the ninjas failed?
Telltale Tongue's jaws snapped shut and he was silent for a few moments to consider the significance of that last statement, for he saw the trap the Black Magician had set for him. If he openly criticized Chang, he would make an enemy among the powerful ninjas and would no doubt plunge a knife into his belly while he was asleep. On the other hand, he also realized that the Black Magician had chosen him to take out his anger regardless of what he said. He knew the alternatives were immediate and inevitable death, or possibly future damnation. He seized the occasion like a true Ratfolk warrior.
"Maybe" he replied.
Dhalthar chuckled. The effects of the sniffed manastone still dazed him. The other ratfolks present echoed his chief's amused expression with a great roar of shrill fake laughter.