The Climb and the Clash

“Archers, open fire!” Grashok bellowed

Arrows and bolts screamed from the ramparts.

The air filled first with the bitter twangs of bowstrings, followed by the heavier thunk of crossbows discharging in staggered rhythm. From behind makeshift cover, human militia loosed volley after volley—many untrained, but eager. Their quarrels flew wild at times, dipping and rising unpredictably. Yet even so, the Ratkin lines began to buckle, bodies jerking and twisting as bolts struck home, collapsing beneath the sudden storm of iron.

Alongside them, goblin archers stood in tight, disciplined knots. Months of training under Grashok’s command had honed them into lethal precision. They fired in steady rhythms, their shortbows singing with purpose. Unlike the militia, their arrows flew true—cleaner, keener—targeting eyes, throats, and joints with brutal efficiency.

And then came the adventurers launching their own unique arsenal.

“Multi-shot up—rain 'em, boys!”

“I specced for Piercing Volley—watch this damage spike!”

There was no order to it, but somehow, it worked. Elven longbows hummed beside repeating hand-crank crossbows. One gnome adventurer hooted while launching what looked like exploding arrows in arcing, sparkling trails. A dwarven hunter with a repeating arbalest shouted gleefully as the mechanism clanked and fired in rapid succession. A tall feline humanoid—tabaxi, perhaps—leapt along the wall with dual wrist-mounted crossbows, each bolt singing and trailing green-glow as they struck targets with terrifying speed. Each shot flung Ratkin into the air like rag dolls, limbs trailing, viscera painting the grass below, leaving only loot bags in their wake.

Beyond, Nyxie had assembled her casters—local town mages with staff staves and shaking hands, backed by adventurers whose race and class blurred the lines of sanity. Her own goblin mages clustered near her as well, their crude fetishes crackling with unstable sparks as they followed her commands with fierce focus.

A half-orc firecaller bellowed an incantation and hurled a cone of flame that swept across the left flank, sending Scuttlers into flaming ruin. A lizardfolk cryomancer painted shards of frost into the charging horde, freezing limbs mid-motion before shattering them with a second spell.

Zarukk, towering above them, chanted in a tongue too ancient for records. The bones dangling from his robe rattled with each syllable. A wave of green decay surged from his claws, washing over the enemy formation. Where it touched, fur sloughed and limbs withered.

“Destroy the ladders!” Grashok roared, pointing toward the concealed siege gear now emerging amid the press. “Take out their climb!”

Nyxie, The goblin mage’s white-stockinged legs braced wide, her brown halter top flickering with ambient arcane feedback took up the shout. “Focus Fire! Target clusters near the ladders!” she called. Her voice was high, excited, breathless.

Fire lanced from hands.

A torrent of elemental energy was unleashed from the gathered spellcasters—adventurers and locals alike. Local human hedge-mages threw gouts of flame, waves of frost, or summoned spinning arcs of stone that smashed into the Ratkin ladders. One older woman summoned spectral blades that blasted two into splinters.

But it wasn’t enough.

The front edge of the wave reached the wall. Ratkin lunged, sprinted, and flailed toward the base—some dragging shattered ladders, others hacking at the wall itself with rusted blades and claws.

Other Ratkin shoved forward through their staggered press, throwing their long, ramshackle siege ladders upward. One caught the lip of the wooden wall, teeth digging deep into the timber.

A volley of arrows shredded the Ratkin carrying another ladder, but the next group dragged theirs in behind them. The first wave surged like a black tide, slamming into the base of the wall with howls and screeches.

Wood groaned.

Ratkin clawed at the walls—many carried rusted axes or long sickles and began hacking madly. Others, more twisted, simply used tooth and talon, but the construction held. Gnawthralls, howling, were hoisted by their kin and literally thrown upward, limbs flailing as they slammed into the timber with sickening thuds.

Some began climbing—not with skill, but with animalistic drive—dragging themselves up with clawed hands and feet, their squealing filling the air. The Ratkin began ascending slowly—clambering hand‑over‑hand up the wooden face like insects. The defenders shouted down, stabbing at limbs, toppling ladders—but one by one, the first few began cresting the parapet.

One made it over the edge.

Elenara, who had stood with her hand trembling near her sword hilt, froze. A pallid Ratkin Scuttler, half its face flensed to the bone, shrieked and lunged at her.

She screamed.

Grashok didn’t hesitate. He activated...

Goading Attack.

A pulse of hostile intent snapped outward. The Ratkin jerked mid‑lunge, its head whipping toward Grashok as if yanked by an invisible hook. It abandoned Elenara instantly, screeching as it veered toward him.

Grashok met it in a single, decisive motion. Soulrend swept upward, carving the creature cleanly across the midsection. The blade hummed as it drank.

Elenara backed against the battlement, shaking, her hand still on the hilt but unable to draw.

“You’ve still got time to learn,” Grashok growled. “Remember the drills in the training hall. Use them.”

He turned back to the fight just as two Ratkin vaulted over the parapet, landing in crouched, twitching heaps. A third clambered up behind them, claws scraping the timber.

They came at him fast.

The first swung a rust‑pitted cleaver. Grashok knocked it aside with a sharp twist of Soulrend and stepped into the opening, forcing the creature back. The second was already on him, darting low with a jagged bone shard. He shifted his weight, let the stab glance past his hip, and opened its throat in a single, efficient cut.

The third lunged before the body even hit the walkway. Grashok turned the blow aside and drove it back a step—just as another pair of claws hooked over the wall, another Ratkin dragging itself up with frantic scrabbling.

His blade never stopped moving; every shift of his weight was already spoken for. He caught the next strike, turned it aside—

and that was when another shape vaulted over the parapet to his right.

The Ratkin hit the walkway in a wild, skidding crouch, shrieked, and bolted past him, rushing straight toward—

Elenara.

She cried out again—a raw, startled sound, high and desperate—but unlike last time, her body moved on instinct. Her short sword came free in a single smooth motion, her voice rising as she stepped back, pivoted, and swung. The blade carved deep into the Ratkin’s chest, opening it wide. Foul ichor sprayed as the creature shrieked and collapsed—then despawned in a flicker of smoke, leaving behind a faintly shimmering loot bag.

The last Ratkin came for Grashok.

He baited it, shifting his weight and feinting left. The creature took the lure and lunged, teeth bared. Grashok pivoted smoothly, letting the attack slip past him—then turned, unleashing Soulrend in a brutal arc that bit deep into its flank. The Ratkin stumbled, choking on its own blood.

Grashok ended it with a stomp, his boot crunching through its neck.

A brief stillness settled over the walkway.

“Good strike,” he said over his shoulder, voice rough but approving.

She nodded quickly, pale-faced and shaking, breath coming fast.

Grashok wiped a smear of ichor from Soulrend’s edge, then glanced her way. “And do me a favour,” he added, tone dry as old leather. “Try not to scream so much. It’s noisy enough up here without you giving me a headache.”

He gave her a quick, lopsided wink.

Elenara let out a thin, shaky breath—not quite a laugh, but close—and managed a feeble, embarrassed smile.

Farther along the wall, a militia man had been pulled down by two Ratkin. He struggled, blood streaking his face.

“Yo, backup, backup! An NPC’s down!” a dwarf shouted, hauling back the string of his arbalest.

“Get wrecked, mob spawn!” an elf rogue shouted leaping forward, responding to the call, twin daggers flashing. She gutted both foes in swift slashes, kicked one off the platform, and hauled the guard upright with a grin.

“Revive token spent. You good, bro?”

The militiaman nodded, clutching at his bleeding arm.

The wall was a storm now—arrows, fire, screaming, steel on flesh.

Grashok looked across the clearing in front of the wall. More Ratkin streamed from the treeline—Scuttlers, Warriors, Brutes. An unbroken tide. The field below churned with chaos: arrows hammered into the swarm, bursting bodies into smoke and dropping lootbags that littered the ground like scattered coin piles. Spellfire carved glowing scars through the press, igniting fur and rusted armour before the victims flickered out. Yet the horde never slowed—Ratkin clambered over despawning allies, trampling lootbags underfoot, forcing their way through the wreckage as if the battlefield itself were trying to swallow them.

A heavy thud shook the walkway.

Claws hooked over the lip of the wall—then a Ratkin lieutenant hauled itself up in a single, powerful motion. Dark armour gleamed with an oily sheen, halberd already rising.

A flicker of memory hit Grashok: the same armour crashing through the undergrowth, the same halberd carving wild arcs as it chased him toward the Verdant Grove.

Grashok’s eyes narrowed. “You.”

The lieutenant’s yellow gaze locked onto him. Its lips peeled back, jagged teeth bared.

“Temple cur,” it rasped.

It charged.

Two Brutes clambered up beside it, more Ratkin scrambling after. Militia and adventurers rushed to intercept—spears thrusting, blades hacking.

“Hold them back!” the elf rogue shouted.

The lieutenant hit Grashok like a battering ram.

The halberd came down hard—Grashok caught it on Soulrend, boots skidding on blood‑slick planks. The shaft twisted free, sweeping low. He jumped the hook, slashed back. Steel rang. Sparks spat.

The lieutenant pressed in, relentless—high cut, reverse sweep, thrust. Each blow drove Grashok back a step. The reach was the problem; that long haft let the Ratkin dictate the fight, keeping him just outside his own killing arc.

Then the halberd reversed. The shaft whipped around, catching Grashok across the mouth. His head snapped sideways. Blood welled from his split lip. He stumbled, but brought Soulrend back up just in time to block the next chop.

“Not so quick now,” the lieutenant rasped.

Grashok spat blood to the side. “Still talking?”

The lieutenant didn’t wait. It surged forward, halberd sweeping in a brutal arc. Grashok caught the blow on Soulrend, but the impact drove him back, boots skidding on the slick planks. The Ratkin pressed its advantage—another thrust, long and precise, the blade tip grazing Grashok’s ribs as he twisted aside. The reach was killing him; every time he tried to close, the halberd shoved him out again, forcing him to defend instead of strike.

A second clash came hard and fast. The lieutenant stepped in with surprising agility for its size, the halberd whipping overhead in a descending cut meant to split him from collarbone to hip. Grashok barely got Soulrend up in time. The force of the blow numbed his arm, drove him to one knee. He felt the fight slipping—the weapon’s length let the Ratkin control the rhythm, punishing every attempt to regain ground.

The lieutenant snarled, sensing advantage, and stabbed low. Grashok rolled aside, the blade skimming the boards where his leg had been. He came up breathless, cornered against a jutting support beam. The halberd rose again.

He had no more room to give.

He surged forward.

Soulrend snapped up, knocking the halberd wide. He drove in close, shoulder slamming into the lieutenant’s chest. They crashed together. Grashok hacked at the haft—once, twice—targeting the grain where the wood flexed under strain. The shaft splintered, then snapped clean through, the upper half of the halberd spinning away into the melee below.

The lieutenant snarled and slammed a clawed gauntlet into Grashok’s ribs. He grunted, staggered—then drove his head forward, cracking into the Ratkin’s snout.

They broke apart.

The lieutenant lunged with the stump of the weapon, now little more than a jagged, shortened polearm. Grashok turned it aside, stepped inside the reach, and cut across its face.

Steel bit deep.

The lieutenant reeled, shrieking, one eye ruined, blood pouring down its muzzle.

Grashok raised Soulrend to finish it—

The lieutenant stumbled back, heel slipping at the edge of the wall. For a heartbeat it teetered—then toppled out of sight.

Grashok stepped forward and looked down.

Below, Ratkin scattered—then surged in. Two seized the fallen lieutenant, dragging it clear as it clawed weakly at the ground.

A nearby Ratkin screeched, voice sharp with panic:

“Protect Kravik! Kravik falls—assist, assist!”

More Ratkin swarmed in at the call, bodies knotting together in a frantic shield around their wounded commander as they hauled it back toward the treeline, vanishing into the press.

Grashok watched a moment, chest heaving, then turned back as another Scuttler scrambled over the lip. He stepped in and met it mid‑motion, Soulrend rising once more in a brutal arc, cutting it down. The body dropped hard onto the walkway before despawning.

For a heartbeat, nothing followed. No claws scraping wood. No shapes cresting the wall.

Grashok exhaled, breath rough in his throat, and cast one last glance toward the treeline where the Ratkin had dragged their lieutenant. The forest swallowed the shapes quickly, but the shouted name lingered in his mind, sharp and unwelcome.

Kravik.

He didn’t know what it meant, not yet — but a tightness in his gut, a certainty he couldn’t shake told him that this one wasn’t finished with him. Not by a long shot.

Shaking his head he stepped back from the battlement then, sweat streaking the lines of his jaw, Soulrend lowering at last. Elenara followed, blade trembling faintly in her grip, her other hand clasping tight around her wrist as if to still the shaking. She gave the next rank of militia space to take their place at the wall.

The defence was holding.

Grashok scanned the field like a warseer surveying a painted map. The defenders were pinned—exactly as the Ratkin wanted. Their bulk pressed the militia to the walls, demanding attention, forcing archers to lean over exposed ledges and fighters to keep their eyes outward.

Ratkin surged against the base of the wooden wall, hammering it with claws, jagged weapons, and desperation. Bodies fell in clusters, but each loss seemed to birth two more. On the far end, a militia pikeman drove his iron‑tipped weapon clean through a frothing Gnawthrall that had slipped through a gap, the Ratkin’s tiny claws twitching even as it despawned into a neat grey loot bag with a faint plink.

To the left, Nyxie raised both hands and screamed a word that crackled through the air. Purple lightning surged from her fingertips, lashing downward. It tore into a knot of Scuttlers, then leapt to the Ratkin hauling siege ladders across the churned earth. The charge ripped through timber and flesh alike, splintering one ladder mid‑stride and hurling its bearers aside in a spray of gore. Some vanished instantly, their corpses blinking into loot bags before they even hit the ground.

The arc snapped further, striking a hulking Brute square in the chest. The creature staggered, its mutagen‑hardened bulk convulsing as the blast ripped through it. For a moment it held, then collapsed in a shuddering heap, smoke curling from its ruined frame.

Grashok nodded to himself. The line was bleeding, but not breaking. For now.

But this wasn’t the true strike.

He stepped back from the immediate heat of battle, eyes scanning beyond the parapet. The Ratkin’s strategy was clear now—pin them to the wall. Fix the defenders’ eyes outward while something else twisted behind. In his mind, he’d already anticipated the Vermin King’s play. This hammer wasn’t the killstroke—it was the distraction.

He turned and spotted her—Sylrith. The dark elf stood poised deeper within the town, still as marble. Her black and silver tunic fluttered in the wind, short skirt unmarked by dust or blood, her concentration focused as she watched the wall.

Grashok raised both arms skyward. His left remained aloft, rigid; the right cut down across the air in a sweeping arc. Deeper into the town, near the rear square, Sylrith caught the signal immediately and responded with a single nod, dark lips curving into a calculating smile. The dark elf raised her chin, high-heeled boots clicking sharply as she turned and strode towards her troops issuing orders in precise, clipped tones.

Grashok watched as her elite goblin phalanx, shields polished and spears braced, pivoted in perfect synchrony. The xvarts moved beside them, smaller but quick, bearing strange packs and glyph-marked bundles. Then, Sylrith turned to Mayor Vos, the portly man flinched as she leaned in to speak to him, gesturing curtly toward the town centre. He nodded, his face paling, sweat beading along his brow despite the coolness of the morning.

A soft chime rang out.

Above the mayor’s head, a glowing yellow exclamation mark sprang into being.

A ripple of laughter rose from the adventurers behind Grashok.

“Yo, new quest unlocked!”

“That’s a side chain, bet it links to the hidden city arc.”

“Do we do it? Or keep farming XP out here?”

“Split the party! Split the party!”

With a cheer, a handful of them broke away, weapons stowed and voices buzzing with excitement as they sprinted toward the centre of town. A few waved to Nyxie as they passed; she rolled her eyes and blew a sarcastic kiss in return. Others remained on the walls, eyes alight with glee, raining death on the pressing Ratkin for the sheer joy of the combat grind. Grashok glanced along the battlements, watching the same scene unfold in pockets all around the perimeter.

Good.

Everything was still running to plan.

His gaze tracked the movement near the base of the inner wall. Ellyn and Fiora slipped between defenders, both keeping low and weaving through the rear lines. heads bowed, cloaks drawn tight. Ellyn’s golden hair glowed soft even in the gloom, her garments shimmering faintly—dyed silks and fine leathers laced with enchanted threading. She moved with fragility but grace, pausing only to gently hand over vial after vial of crimson-tinted health potion.

Fiora, by contrast, carried herself with athletic steadiness—raven‑black hair tied back, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp with focus. Her belt was lined with satchels and wax‑sealed jars. She crouched beside a groaning fighter, steadying his hand before pressing a bottle into it. She lingered just long enough to see him drink, her free hand resting briefly on his shoulder in reassurance, before slipping low again and moving to the next. The potions were Maren’s work; Sypha had been busy with another project for the guildhall. Brewed overnight in the cluttered town‑centre apothecary, Maren’s concoctions were now keeping the line alive.

He exhaled. No peace, Grashok thought grimly. Not yet. Skarn padded back into view, black ichor dripping from his maw, tail swaying with satisfied heaviness. The wolf’s flanks were flecked with soot and splinter‑dust from the fighting farther along the parapet. He gave Grashok a quick, proud glance before settling beside him, ready for more.

His sword arm tingled, Soulrend’s hum like an itch beneath his skin. The blade seemed to quiver in his grip, eager. A screech split the air—one of the Ratkin had clawed its way to the top of the wall.

A huge, slavering beast, matted fur and ruined armour clinging to its frame, hauled itself over the parapet.

Adrenaline surged, the ache in his arm fading as he pivoted back toward the wall—just in time to see another Ratkin clamber up beside it, ragged blade raised. A third scrabbled over the timber, claws gouging deep grooves as it dragged itself into the fray. All three turned toward him, muzzles splitting into the same savage, blood‑slick grin.

Grashok grinned back, teeth bared.

Skarn snarled beside him, hackles rising, ichor still wet on his jaws.

They drove forward as one.