Chapter 69: BATTLE OF THE SWAMP (6)

The Central Plaza of Bastion was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, yet it was eerily silent. Only the roaring of the Bio-Reactor’s thermal chimneys and the hiss of escaping steam broke the quiet.

It was the entirety of the Spiral’s military might, unified for the first time in the Sector’s history.

The Troglodytes, clad in thick leather and wielding heavy Star-Iron mauls, stood like a wall of gray muscle.

The Grey-Fins crouched low, their toxic spears resting on their shoulders.

The Shell-Kin formed the rearguard, their ancient stone shells reinforced with newly forged metal plating.

The Kobolds lined the balconies and rooftops, their heavy crossbows loaded with armor-piercing bolts.

The Mudskippers carried clay pots of acid and flammable tar hanging from their belts.

And standing among them, towering over the crowd, were the Treants. They were no longer the peaceful, mossy guardians of the forest. Their bark was charred black from the proximity of the forge fires, and their glowing green eyes had turned a furious, burning amber.

They carried massive boulders in their wooden fists, radiating a terrifying aura of vengeance for the Root-Father.

High above them, standing on the elevated stone dais at the base of the temple, was Krug.

In his hand, he held a brazier burning with the Violet Flame. Below him, flanking the stairs, stood Gorak the Warlord and Iron-Scale the Inquisitor.

“Look at your hands,” Krug’s raspy voice echoed across the plaza, amplified by the cavern acoustics.

The monsters looked down. Troglodytes looked at their callouses, and Kobolds looked at their claws.

“I remember when those hands dug through the mud for blind-worms,” Krug said, his voice trembling with a heavy, ancient sorrow. “I remember when the dark was our only shield. We were the hunted. We were starving. We were the worthless things that the no Gods stepped in to help us.”

Krug raised the Violet Flame high, casting a purple glow over the 600 faces.

“Then, the sky cracked. And the Ka-Lam-Tee looked down into the mud!” Krug’s voice rose, vibrating with fanatical absolute certainty. “He did not give us pity. He gave us fire! He gave us iron! He took our weakness and threw it into the furnace, and from the ashes, he forged Bastion!”

The Treants groaned in agreement. Gorak thumped his chest with a massive fist.

“The Sun-Men march to our gates because they are afraid of the dark!” Krug roared, tears shining in his reptilian eyes. “They think we are still the starving worms! They think our lives are cheap! But our lives do not belong to the mud anymore! Our lives belong to the Spiral!”

Krug slammed the butt of his staff against the stone.

“If the Ka-Lam-Tee asks for our blood today, we spill it gladly! For every drop waters the roots of this city! We do not fear the light, for our God wears the Night as a cloak! Praise the Spiral!”

“PRAISE THE SPIRAL!” the army roared back, a deafening, unified shockwave that rattled the Star-Iron plating of the city.

Then, Krug stepped back, and Iron-Scale stepped forward.

He let the religious fervor settle for a second, then replaced it with killing intent.

“The Priest speaks the truth of the soul,” Iron-Scale hissed. “Now, let me speak the truth of the blade.”

Iron-Scale pointed his spear toward the eastern tunnels.

“We fought the Stone Mother’s moles. We fought the Rotting Druid’s weeds. You thought that was war?” Iron-Scale barked a harsh, cruel laugh. “Those were tavern brawls. We were children fighting over scraps of moss.”

He leaned over the edge of the dais, glaring down at the troops.

“Right now, four thousand of the Golden King’s Paladins are sitting on our border. They wear enchanted gold. They wield the sun. This is not a skirmish, but an extermination!”

“But they made a fatal mistake,” Iron-Scale smiled, a terrifying, toothy grin. “They marched into our house. They are starving. They are exhausted. And they have no idea what is waiting for them in the fog.”

Iron-Scale locked eyes with Gorak. The Troglodyte Warlord grinned back, hefting his massive hammer-axe. Iron-Scale looked at Razor-Fin, who flicked his tongue in anticipation. He looked at the Treants, trembling with wrath.

“The Ka-Lam-Tee is watching us right now from the Sky-Beyond-Sky,” Iron-Scale declared, his voice dropping to a deadly, conspiratorial whisper that carried across the dead-silent plaza.

“…Do not disappoint the Lord.”

A second roar tore through the cavern, louder and more violently aggressive than the first. It was the sound of apex predators catching the scent of blood.

“Gorak!” Iron-Scale barked, turning to the Warlord.

“Aye, Inquisitor!” Gorak roared, stepping up beside him.

“Take the Vanguard to the Tar-Mud Basin. Set the perimeter. Razor-Fin, take the deep water. Treants, block their retreat. Mudskippers, you know what to do.” Iron-Scale snapped his fingers, and his Kobold scouts fell in line behind him. “I’m going to go knock on the Golden King’s door and invite him outside.”

The army of Bastion turned as one.

With the heavy thud of Troglodyte boots, the slithering of Lizardmen, and the heavy grinding of the Shell-Kin, the six hundred monsters marched out of the glowing heat of the city and vanished into the pitch-black, toxic fog of the swamp, moving to their execution stations.

Red watched them from the void.

“Their morale is high and the benefits are also in effect. They will reach the battlefield in a few hours and the ground war will begin officially.”

Red watched the map. “Still… it’s 600 versus 3800. We have the advantage of the traps laid out in the swamp, but Aurelius’ army has powers. However…”

At the same time, the locusts were eating out Aurelius’ sick army that was retreating back to the Sun Spire.

“Maybe because they are sick… they are so weak. But even when the army Aurelius sent for the Rotting Druid, their skills weren’t particularly exceptional. They were all relying on the sharing powers of Aurelius. Now, whether or not they are skilled soldiers, I guess we will find out soon enough.”

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