The rain hammered down in relentless sheets, creating a thunderous backdrop to the chaos unfolding below. The cheers of the Ratmen echoed across the battlefield, rising and falling like a tide of rabid madness. The fire that had once ravaged the walls was now nothing but a distant memory, extinguished by the downpour, leaving the defenders to face a renewed assault. But it wasn't just the fires that had died; the defenders' hopes were slowly fading as well.
From the heights of the wall, Jesus watched as the enemy gathered their resolve once again. Ladders, now fewer than before, were raised by the ratty hands of the enemy, each step a grim reminder of the relentless assault. The defenders had lost their advantage, their fire, and with it, the courage that had spurred them on for so long.
At the base of the wall Jesus had claimed as his own, three rat ogres—the behemoth warriors that had broken through the ranks in earlier assaults—had regained their courage. Perhaps it was the fire's sudden extinction, or the rain washing away their fear, but now they surged forward once more. With shrieks and guttural growls, they began to climb the siege tower.
The tower, already bearing the scars of battle, swayed precariously under the weight of the climbing monsters. The wooden structure groaned as it was tested, its timbers creaking in protest. Men and rats alike scrambled inside the tower, struggling to maintain their balance as it swayed dangerously in the storm. A few unlucky souls, unable to regain their footing, fell from the tower, crashing to the ground below. Their bodies were skewered and sliced by the ones below—an accidental, yet gruesome, massacre of friend and foe alike.
Yet the rat ogres, undeterred by the chaos around them, pressed on. Their heavy armor clanged with each step as they climbed, seemingly unfazed by the madness inside the tower. The first ogre to reach the top was a monstrous sight—a hulking creature clad in a metal helmet and chest piece, its eyes burning with the bloodlust of a beast unleashed. It grinned with a predatory gleam as it finally reached the top of the tower, towering over the defenders on the wall.
The sight of the ogre standing atop the tower sent a ripple of fear through the defenders. Jesus saw the terror in their eyes, the way their swords wavered in their hands, their resolve faltering under the weight of such a monstrous foe. It was then that disaster struck.
As the ogre planted its massive foot onto the middle section of the tower, the structure groaned one last time. The sound of wood splintering filled the air, and before anyone could react, the entire tower began to collapse inward with a deafening crash.
The ground shook violently as the tower disintegrated, sending a shower of debris and bodies in all directions. The weight of the ogres, combined with the crumbling structure, created a horrifying mess—a twisted pile of broken bodies, both man and rat, all crushed beneath the weight of the fallen tower. Blood splattered in all directions, coating the ground and the surrounding soldiers. The bodies, some barely recognizable, formed a grotesque heap that resembled a twisted "man-rat burger," the crushed forms oozing blood like ketchup through the cracks of the broken structure.
The ogres, too, met their brutal end. Their massive bodies crashed to the earth with such force that the ground trembled beneath them. The sheer weight of the fallen creatures crushed the rats that had been scurrying around them, creating a sickening splat as their bodies splattered against the wet earth.
The defenders on the wall, though shaken by the sight of such carnage, found a brief moment of victory in the collapse. They let out a collective cheer, their voices rising above the storm as they saw the rat ogres and their tower reduced to nothing more than rubble. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though the tide had turned in their favor.
But as the battle raged on, victory still felt distant. Though the men under Jesus's command held their ground and the enemy's progress seemed slowed, the tide of battle could shift in an instant. From his vantage point atop the gatehouse, Jesus could see the grim reality of the siege unfolding in every direction.
Three new ladders were raised against his section of the wall, the Ratmen flooding the battlefield with relentless force. Their chants, guttural and maddening, rang through the rain-soaked air as they pressed forward. The attackers were numerous, and their desire to breach the walls seemed unyielding.
Yet, despite the renewed assault, Jesus's men held firm. The Jesuits, with their disciplined skill and psychic powers, were a key force in repelling the rats on the ladders. They tore into the enemy with psychic waves, sending rats and wooden ladders crashing to the ground. The peasants, bolstered by their leadership, followed suit with cold steel and brutal efficiency. Each time the rats tried to regroup, they found themselves met with the same overwhelming resistance. The wall section held.
Still, the cost was evident everywhere Jesus looked. His eyes swept over the battlefield, and his satisfaction quickly turned to grim determination. The wall sections that had fewer defenders or lacked the cohesion of his own were crumbling under the relentless weight of the siege. Bodies of the fallen—men, rats, and everything in between—littered the parapets like discarded tools, their blood staining the stones in a horrifying testament to the fierce fighting.
Some sections of the wall had been overrun by rat ogres, those hulking monstrosities that tore through everything in their path. He saw one such ogre, its back hunched and covered in black fur and spiked armor, forcing its way through a group of defenders. The screams were deafening as men were crushed beneath its weight, the wall section falling to chaos. Where Jesus's own section had held out due to the Jesuits' psychic prowess and his own leadership, others were paying a high price in blood.
His section, despite the overwhelming odds, was still standing. But that was only because of his men's discipline and the unique abilities of the Jesuits. Unlike other sections where sheer numbers gave the defenders a chance, here, it was the skill and power of the few against the many. His 230 men, bolstered by the Jesuits' psychic powers, had turned their wall into a fortress of death for the Ratmen. The defending force fought with such precision and confidence that the rats hesitated when faced with such a deadly gauntlet.
Turning his attention left, Jesus's eyes narrowed as he spotted Duke Faro peeking over the wall, his face tense with worry. The Duke, always a figure of arrogance, was now dodging rocks thrown blindly from the enemy ranks below, trying to keep his footing amidst the chaos.
Jesus's instincts flared—he could feel the air growing tense as rocks flew in every direction. Dodging them effortlessly, Jesus approached the Duke, sensing the growing unease in the man's posture. He could sense it in the way the Duke glanced nervously at the battering ram that loomed menacingly at the gates.
"My Duke," Jesus spoke calmly, despite the mounting pressure. "The section of the wall held by the forces from Sagres is strong, but we are nearly out of men. I request additional reinforcements to shore up our defenses."
The Duke's response was dismissive, his tone frustrated. "Impossible. Your men are strong, Captain. They can hold their own. Besides, look down there—" The Duke gestured with a wave of his hand. "That is the real danger. The gate is the priority. We cannot afford to lose it."
Jesus glanced down at the Duke's gesture. His eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of the massive, rat-faced battering ram being pushed toward the gates. The heavy metal contraption, reinforced with thick armor and adorned with the grotesque visage of a rat, was an intimidating sight in the midst of the chaos.
The sight of it alone sent a chill down Jesus's spine.
As he studied the ram, the chanting of the Ratmen grew louder. "Cracker! Cracker! Cracker! Cracker!" The rhythmic chant was eerie, a signal of their fervent devotion to the assault. The rat ogres, armored and massive, pushed the battering ram forward, their raw strength almost unfathomable. Smaller Ratmen darted around them, helping to steady and push the ram toward the gates, while others continued to fire arrows and musket balls at the defenders above.
Despite their best efforts, the cannonballs that struck the battering ram seemed to have little effect. The Aragonian cannons, though formidable, could barely leave a mark on the heavy armor of the ram. The impact was muted, as if the iron hide of the beast absorbed the blows with ease. Even as one of the rat ogres fell, another quickly took its place, the relentless forward momentum never ceasing.
Jesus clenched his jaw, frustration growing. "Even our cannons can't stop that thing," he thought. The image of the battered gate, now under threat of collapse, filled his mind with dread.
But as the battering ram inched closer to the gates, Jesus's gaze shifted to the right. There, he saw the Jesuits, alongside a handful of peasants, working with incredible efficiency. With their combined strength, they effortlessly cleaved through the rats attempting to climb the ladders, pushing them off with psychic waves. The Jesuits' powers were nearly unparalleled; with a flick of their minds, they sent ladders tumbling to the ground, breaking into jagged pieces that the rats struggled to reclaim.
The rats' attempts to climb back up were pitiful. They threw broken fragments of wood against the wall, trying to build makeshift ladders, but it was all in vain. The desperation in their eyes was palpable as they struggled to find a way to counter the unrelenting resistance. Jesus couldn't help but feel a slight relief in the sight of it. Perhaps this part of the battle, at least, was under control. His section was a death trap for the rats, and for now, it seemed impenetrable.
At the gate, the massive rat battering ram was carefully positioned, its grotesque, snarling rat face painted across its front. The three ogres, each one a hulking beast clad in crude armor, took their positions behind it. With a grunt of effort, they pulled the ram backward, their enormous arms straining as they readied the next strike.
Then, with a synchronized movement, they released the ram. It swung forward, a tremendous force carried by the weight of its massive frame. With a deafening bang, it struck the gate, sending shockwaves through the entire structure. The sound echoed across the battlefield, and the defenders atop the walls felt the ground beneath their feet tremble.
The gate—just a normal medieval city gate, reinforced with wood and iron—was not built to withstand such an overwhelming blow. The metal bands groaned, the wood cracked, and splinters flew as the battering ram hit with a force that would be the death knell of any gate.
Jesus, momentarily lost in the destruction, was soon snapped out of his thoughts by the Duke's commanding voice. "Captain Jesus, take your men and reinforce the gate now! I will handle the walls. And remember—do not let the gates fall. If you do, the city and all its people will be massacred. Hold the gate for as long as possible. You have my trust—do what you must, just make sure they do not get past your line."
The weight of the Duke's command hit Jesus with a sense of pride. To be addressed as "Captain" by someone of noble blood was a rare honor. Typically, such titles were reserved for knights and the aristocracy. He had only been a temporary captain in this desperate situation, but now it seemed that this was a chance to prove himself. If he succeeded, perhaps he could elevate his family's rank. Marino would be pleased, too. Holding the gate was no small task, and Jesus knew that if he succeeded, it would mark the beginning of something much larger for him—something that could change everything.
With a respectful salute, Jesus answered firmly, "Yes, My Duke. It will be done."
With that, Jesus gathered his remaining Jesuits, and they began to descend the tower stairs to the gate. As they moved, Jesus observed that some of his men were injured. Some clutched bandaged hands, others limped, but none of them complained. They were all battle-hardened, and though wounded, they were still ready to fight. Their resolve was unwavering.
At the base of the gate, Jesus was met by the commander of the defense here—Lord Bispo. Jesus recalled the man's name from his memory. Lord Bispo was the ruler of a small territory to the north of Segres, and he commanded a force of 500 well-equipped men. The force consisted of 100 crossbowmen, 100 halberdiers, and 300 spearmen, each with large kite-shaped shields emblazoned with the symbol of an olive tree. The spearmen were armed with short swords, and though their upper bodies were protected by sturdy conquistador armor, their legs were left vulnerable, though the lack of leg armor made them more mobile in the chaos of the battle.
Jesus took a moment to appraise the well-organized force before approaching Lord Bispo. The man was a short, rotund figure, wearing the same conquistador armor. He sat atop a sturdy horse, his posture seemingly one of relaxed authority. As Jesus drew closer, Lord Bispo straightened his mustache with a deliberate motion, sizing him up with equal interest.
"Well, well, if it isn't Captain Jesus," Lord Bispo said with a knowing grin. "I see they've sent you to assist me. My merchant friend, it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person."
There was a hint of amusement in Bispo's voice, but his eyes flickered with the weight of the situation. Despite his jovial tone, Jesus could sense the seriousness in his gaze—the same uncertainty that rested in the hearts of every man defending the city.
As Lord Bispo spoke, Jesus recalled Marino mentioning the man earlier. Bispo wasn't just any noble—he was a merchant as well, a successful one at that. Marino had apparently sold many of his products to the lord, and the thought of it brought a slight smile to Jesus' lips.
With a nod, he replied, "Indeed, well met, Lord Bispo. I trust that my son's Colombo-style clothes and other products have met your family's expectations?"
At the mention of his wife and daughters, Bispo's face lit up, and he seemed to drift off momentarily, lost in thought. Jesus could almost see the man's mind wandering to memories of his wife's fondness for the small, revealing garments—he quickly snapped back to the present, shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts.
"Yes, yes," Bispo said, his voice returning to its usual warm tone. "My wife and daughters are quite fond of your clothing and your hygienic products. Your company has been a real blessing to our nation. I sincerely thank you for that."
But as if realizing he had strayed too far off-topic, Bispo coughed lightly and adjusted his posture, quickly steering the conversation back to more pressing matters. "But anyway, enough about that. What do you think of this battle? What would you suggest we do?"
Jesus took a moment to survey the scene, his eyes moving over the gate and the surrounding area. Ahead of him was a four-way intersection, with streets running along either side of the wall, and directly in front of them was the main gate, the city's lifeline. Behind him lay the road leading to the town center, where citizens and supplies flowed in and out.
The 500 men under Lord Bispo's command were positioned in a tight, defensive box formation in front of the gate, with archers stationed at the back. It was a solid defense, but Jesus knew the rats outside would be relentless.
"I think we should place all the ranged units on the rooftops overlooking the gate," Jesus suggested, his voice steady with the weight of experience. "From there, they'll have clear lines of fire. We should form a U-shaped perimeter around the gate, with shields in front and halberdiers positioned at the back, ready to strike any rats that get too close. I also recommend having the citizens help by forming barricades to slow the enemy down—anything to buy us more time. My men should be kept in reserve, though. They're wounded and exhausted from the earlier skirmishes."
Lord Bispo nodded, his expression thoughtful as he absorbed the plan. He seemed to appreciate the thoroughness of Jesus' strategy.
"Great idea," Bispo said, his approval evident in his smile. "I'll rally the citizens and have them start setting up those barricades right away. You focus on holding the line." With a brisk nod, he turned to his two bodyguards, who were mounted on horseback, and began to ride off in the pouring rain. "I leave the rest to you," he called back over his shoulder.
Jesus watched as the trio rode off, their horses kicking up mud as they went door-to-door, rallying the citizens to help with the defense. It was a stirring sight—the lord working side by side with the common folk, urging them to take up arms in defense of the city.
Jesus stood frozen for a moment, his mind racing. "Did he just take over command?" he muttered to himself, utterly stunned by Bispo's sudden assumption of authority.
There was no denying the urgency of the situation, but it was strange, nonetheless. The lord had just swept in, taken charge of organizing the citizens, and left Jesus with nothing more than the command of the soldiers. It felt almost as though Bispo had usurped his position, but Jesus couldn't afford to dwell on it.
The battle was far from over, and the city's fate hung in the balance. He turned his attention back to the task at hand, refocusing on the gate. He would do his duty—regardless of who led the defence.
As Jesus turned around, he saw all the men watching him with a mix of curiosity and concern. Some seemed unsure of what was happening, while others appeared nervous. Straightening his back, he raised his voice in a commanding tone.
"What are you looking at? Get to your posts! Crossbowmen, on the rooftops. Spears in front, Halberdiers in the back. Jesuits, you're in reserve—rest up and wait for my command."
His voice cut through the murmurs like a whip, and the men snapped to action. They quickly took their positions, the rain falling harder now, drenching them as they prepared for the worst.
The gate shook violently under the battering ram's relentless blows. Bits of wood splintered off, falling into the mud below. The strain was palpable, but the gate held—for now.
A few moments later, Bispo returned, riding in through the downpour with seven wagons piled high with random furniture and barrels. Jesus's lips curled into a slight smile as the plan came to him. This was the kind of improvisation they needed.
"Form up the wagons in a U-shape around the gate," Jesus ordered, pointing as he directed the men. "Place the furniture and barrels in front, ensure nothing can crawl under them. Spearmen on top, with crossbowmen on the rooftops watching over them. The rest of you, behind in reserve, ready to act if needed."
Bispo was already coordinating the townspeople, rallying them to quickly erect barricades along the streets. The citizens worked with a sense of urgency, understanding the dire need for every extra measure of defense.
As the final touches were placed on the defensive line, a sharp crack echoed through the air. The rat-faced battering ram had finally breached the gate. A deep, resounding bang followed as the gate splintered under the relentless force, the wooden structure groaning as it was driven back, inch by inch.
From the top of one of the middle wagons, Jesus's voice rang out, commanding and unwavering, cutting through the chaos and the rain.
"You are men of Iberia!" he shouted, his words like fire. "Whatever comes through that gate, you will stand your ground!"
Just as the last echoes of his voice faded, another thunderous boom reverberated across the battlefield. The gate was blasted open, the final remnants splintering inward. Through the smoke and debris, three massive rat-ogres lumbered into view, their heavy armor clinking with each step. Behind them surged a flood of smaller, vicious Ratmen. The sight of the monstrous ogres, their grotesque forms towering over the swarming rats, struck fear into even the most seasoned warriors.
But Jesus didn't flinch. With a sharp gesture, he turned to his crossbowmen, his voice cutting through the storm. "Fire at will! Bring those ogres down!"
A hundred crossbows sang in unison, their bolts flying with deadly precision. One of the ogres, the largest, was struck in the eyes, head, and body. Over fifty bolts pierced its poorly forged iron armor, each one finding a weak spot. The beast's colossal form faltered, and with a horrified groan, it collapsed to the ground, creating a deafening thud that shook the very earth beneath them.
For a brief, tense moment, there was silence.
The other ogres hesitated, snarling in rage as they watched their companion fall. Then, as if spurred into action, they charged. One veered to the left, while the other barreled directly toward Jesus's position, its hammer raised high, intent on crushing everything in its path.
"Move!" Jesus barked.
With a burst of speed, he dodged to the side just as the Rat-Ogre's hammer came crashing down onto the wagon. The ground shook as splinters flew, and the wagon's frame creaked under the blow. The hammer lodged deep into the wood, giving the spearmen the opening they needed. They closed in, their weapons flashing as they plunged their spears into the ogre's flesh.
Jesus wasn't done yet. With a surge of power, he tapped into the Force, enhancing his strength and agility. He leaped from the side of the wagon and landed squarely on top of the Rat-Ogre's head. His balance was flawless, and with a mighty roar, he drew his sword and thrust it straight through the creature's eye. The blade went deep, and with a sickening crack, the ogre's skull split, killing it instantly.
Without hesitation, Jesus pushed himself up and stood tall, surveying the chaos unfolding before him. From atop the dead ogre, he began cutting through the Ratmen that tried to scramble up the wagon, their clawed hands reaching for him. Each swing of his blade was swift and lethal, and the rats were no match for his fury.
Meanwhile, the second ogre continued its rampage, smashing through the ranks. One unfortunate man was crushed underfoot, but before the beast could claim more lives, the crossbowmen on the rooftops loosed another volley. The bolts flew like a deadly storm, finding their mark, and the ogre's charge faltered before it finally fell, writhing in a heap of death.
With the ogres dispatched, the true wave of the enemy descended—a relentless swarm of rats, flooding toward the U-shaped formation of wagons. Their child-sized bodies scurried in all directions, but the defenders were ready. Spears jabbed forward with precision, and swords flashed, cutting down rat after rat. The rats were having a hell of a time trying to climb the wagons, their bodies too small to grasp the edges while being skewered by the defenders.
From a rooftop, a crossbowman shouted, a wild grin plastered on his face. "This is the easiest shooting I've ever done in my life! There's no way to miss! Hahaha!"
A man beside him chuckled, keeping his focus as he reloaded. "Yeah, definitely. They just keep coming, like—well, like a swarm of rats! Hahaha! I just hope I don't run out of bolts too fast."
As the battle raged on, Jesus's men held the line. The rats were numerous, but they were still just rats—small, desperate creatures that could be slaughtered by the hundreds. The crossbowmen kept up their relentless fire, the spearmen stood firm, and the Halberdiers readied their weapons for anything that dared to break through.
Jesus's eyes never left the field. His heart pounded in his chest, but his mind was focused. They could hold this gate, and they would.
The storm seemed to rage harder as the battle dragged on. Blood mixed with rainwater, pooling in the streets, the ground a slick and treacherous morass of death. The smell of sweat, blood, piss, and shit hung thick in the air, adding to the stench of war. The sound of bodies clashing, screams, and the rattling of armor filled the streets, drowning out everything else.
Jesus stood firm, watching as his men fought like demons, hacking and slashing through the waves of Ratmen that kept surging forward. He shouted commands from the top of the fallen ogre, his voice carrying through the noise of battle.
"Shoot the ogres! Shoot them!"
The defenders, perched high on the rooftops or behind the barricades, let loose another volley of crossbow bolts. With their height advantage, the ogres, lumbering and slow, were easy targets. But the Ratmen were not far behind, and the defenders had little time to catch their breath before the next wave came crashing down.
The deadly glaive-wielding rats were a menace—tall and armored, they attacked with long, deadly strikes. The defenders had to parry with shields or risk being sliced through. Some weren't so lucky, and the grim sound of blades cutting through flesh was drowned out only by the thunderclaps of the storm.
The Granadan men fought with grim determination, but they were slowly being worn down. Bodies began to pile up in front of the gate like a mass grave, the square filling with the dead. The living kept fighting, but it was clear that the defenders were on the brink of collapse.
With each minute that passed, the situation grew direr. After five minutes, the Jesuits moved to the frontlines, replacing the wounded and fallen. Their faces grim and determined, they joined the fray with fervor. But the pile of bodies in front of the gate kept growing, until it reached the height of the wagons.
The air was thick with the stench of death and decay. The bodies of the fallen, human and Ratman alike, spilled into the pools of blood and excrement that covered the killing ground. It became almost impossible to tell one body from another in the chaotic mixture of fluids and flesh.
Despite the rain trying to wash it away, the odor was overpowering. Even the most hardened men gagged from the sickening stench, their faces pale, but they kept fighting. Some of the rats were now drowned in the rising tide of waste and blood. Others fell, slipping on the slick ground, their tiny bodies trampled underfoot by their comrades.
In a final desperate attempt, the rats unleashed their last card: the blind Mole Riders. Blind by nature, the moles relied heavily on their sense of smell, a factor that turned against them in the killing field. The foul stench of the battlefield overwhelmed their senses, and instead of charging the Granadan men, the moles began attacking anything that moved. Some moles were slaughtered outright by the armored men, but others found their mark. With their powerful claws, the moles tore into the flesh of the defenders, breaking through the barricades and causing chaos in the lines.
The Mole Riders, armed with their long spears, pierced through the defenders with brutal efficiency, stabbing men to death as they clawed their way through the pile of bodies. But like the ogres before them, they were quickly overwhelmed. Crossbow bolts flew, striking them from every angle, and spearmen pushed through the chaos, stabbing the creatures and adding their bodies to the pile of fallen.
The tide seemed endless, waves upon waves of attackers charging into the killing ground. It was as if the defenders were trying to hold back an ocean of death. The men fought tooth and nail, unwilling to give up the ground. But cracks began to form in the defense. The sheer weight of the enemy's numbers began to break their lines. Desperation filled the air as the defenders fell back, hoping for a miracle.
Then, through the storm and the rain, a thunderous cry echoed from below the walls.
"For Cordoba! For our families! Charge!"
The defenders looked down to see thousands of men, women, and children charging toward the gate, their faces set with fierce determination. With makeshift weapons in hand, they surged forward, running through the storm to plug the cracks in the defense. They were untrained, unarmed for the most part, but they came with a passion that could not be extinguished.
From the back, high on his horse, Lord Bispo rode, encouraging the peasants forward. His voice was booming and full of authority as he rallied the people, driving them to fill the gaps in the line.
With great sacrifice, the tide was halted. The bodies of the fallen, both defenders and attackers, now served a new purpose: they formed a barricade. As the peasants charged into the breach, they threw their bodies into the line, holding their ground with everything they had.
The attackers, exhausted and battered, were momentarily stunned by the sheer force of the new arrivals. The weight of their numbers began to shift in the defenders' favor.
The tide had turned—just barely—but enough to hold the line. The Granadan men fought alongside the peasants, and slowly, they pushed the Ratmen back, step by step, until the bodies of the fallen were the only thing between the living and the gate.
The Duke of Granada stood at the top of the hill, his eyes narrowing as he observed the ongoing battle. His hands were clasped behind his back, and a faint smile played at the edges of his lips. The defenders were holding firm, but he knew it was only a matter of time. He turned to the black rat beside him and asked, "Is it time now?"
The black rat's gleaming eyes gleamed with malicious glee, its teeth bared in a twisted grin. It gave a guttural laugh, like the grinding of stone on bone, before responding. "Kikikiki, yess! Now is the time. The flesh is soft, the meat tender, and so it begins. Great feast awaits." The rat's voice slithered out like poison, its breath rancid with the promise of destruction.
It turned away from the Duke and addressed a nearby Rat, standing next to the entrance of a tunnel. "Do it now!"
The rat nodded, and without hesitation, it gave the order to the giant moles waiting beneath the earth. With an almost mechanical precision, the moles began to dig, their massive claws scraping against the stone and dirt. Behind them, a group of smaller rats wielding whips urged the creatures on.
"Yes, yes, yes. Dig the tunnel! Faster! Faster!" one of the rats cried, cracking the whip against the mole's thick hide.
One of the moles, its grotesque, beady eyes focused only on the task ahead, seemed to hesitate for a moment. Another rat, its ears twitching in the silence of the tunnel, asked, "Isn't it bad, bad to be, be digging straight up, up, up?"
The first rat scoffed, irritation bubbling in its voice. "No, no. Do not, not question the master. Yes, yes." It waved the rat off dismissively and cracked its whip once more, forcing the mole to dig faster.
As the moles dug deeper, the tunnel began to shift and groan under the weight of the earth. Then, a loud noise echoed through the tunnel—a heavy, deep thudding sound followed by the sharp, terrifying crack of stone breaking. A massive stone fell from the ceiling, crushing the rats and moles beneath it with horrifying force.
The remaining rats froze, their eyes wide in terror as the ground beneath them trembled. Another boulder dropped, followed by dozens more, crushing everything in its path into a bloody paste. The tunnel collapsed violently, and the very earth seemed to shake with the weight of the destruction.
Outside, the entire gatehouse and the surrounding walls of the defenders' positions began to tremble. The ground cracked open beneath them, and with a deafening roar, the entire structure was sucked downward, as though some great force was pulling it into the earth itself. The stone and rubble of the gatehouse crumbled, falling with a thunderous crash, as hundreds of rats, men, and moles were crushed instantly. The walls buckled and collapsed, the heavy stones crushing anything unlucky enough to be caught in their path.
A massive dust cloud erupted from the center of the devastation, blinding all who were near the impact. The choking dust swept through the battlefield, obscuring vision and making it nearly impossible to see. The defenders in the front lines, already exhausted and bloodied, could only hear the sounds of crumbling stone, the sickening crack of bones breaking, and the anguished cries of the wounded as the very earth seemed to swallow them whole.
For a brief moment, the battlefield fell into an eerie silence, the only sound the distant rumble of falling stone. It was as though time itself had frozen.
Then, as the dust began to settle, the reality of the destruction became clear. The gatehouse and surrounding walls were no more. Only a massive crater remained, filled with debris and the shattered remains of what had once been a sturdy defense.
The defenders now faced an open breach—one that could not be so easily repaired. Panic began to spread among the ranks as they realized the enormity of what had just occurred.
The Duke of Granada, from his vantage point on the hill, smiled wider. The battle was far from over, but with this victory, the tide had shifted in his favor. The rats were finally making their move, and it seemed that the defenders had little hope of stopping the flood.
"The feast has begun," the black rat muttered under its breath, its red eyes gleaming with the promise of carnage.