Orcs and rats

A faint reddish corona through the perpetual thick, dark clouds marked the position of  Felucca in the sky. Razgrub stared idly up at it, scratching at an itch that was developing on his bottom. The campaign was to be a long one, that much he could tell, but the ladz were all eager and excited, working madly to complete the plan. No-one was quite sure what the plan was, of course, but they had their instructions – instructions from her, and she wasn’t to be disobeyed.

Idly Razgrub kicked a nearby charred skull. It bounced across the scarred planking of the docks, echoing hollowly, and vanished into the thick, steaming ooze that surrounded the docks. A faint wind picked up, blowing the stench of corruption from the ersatz sea, and with it came the ragged flapping of sails from the abandoned ship that listed against some underwater rocks out in the bay.

“’Oomies,” he muttered, “stubborn gitz.”

That was the thing about them, of course. Weak and pink they may be, but once they were set on a course of action, they clung to it like tics to a boar. The latest reports from Cove suggested that the humans were still fighting, even though the forests around had all been cut down and the land churned to mud by the besieging army.

Spitting into the thick ooze, Razgrub hitched up his belt, checked his sword with an absent hand, and turned back to retreat through the damned town to his camp. The restless dead ignored him, as they always did, and even the daemons barely paused in their mysterious endeavours to regard him with a cursory, scornful glance. They seemed to be digging for something, their powerful hands scooping out huge lumps of rock and debris. The jumping flames from the pit of lava in the centre of the town cast their malevolent glow everywhere.

There was something on the breeze, a hit of snow, and the faintest of chills that seemed out of sorts with the abysmal heat of this unnaturally hot summer.

“Dagger Isle,” he whispered, looking back into the darkness that hung forever over the sea of ooze. Something was waking there, something old…

Elsewhere, in a different land entirely, Iolo the bard lay on a golden beach, listening to the lulling sound of the waves. The delicious smell of cooking fish drifted through the still air, promising a delightful meal soon. He hummed gently under his breath, composing a brief song in honour of the exceptional mongbat chef, Hairy Ramsden, and his discovery that the strange root vegetables, which grew wild in Ilshenar, could be cut into long chips and fried, improving the meal immensely. All it needed now was some sort of seasoning, he decided.

There was a sudden crunch, and he jumped awake with a shock. There, against the shore that until a few moments before had been utterly undisturbed, was a strange vessel, looking almost like a sailing caravan. A plank was dropped to the beach, and from under the awning a long, twitching nose emerged, then two paws, then the strangest of sights – a large ratman wearing a brightly coloured waistcoat, and carrying a large picnic bag in one anthropomorphosised paw. The ratman scampered down the ramp, stuck a large umbrella in the ground, spread a tablecloth out before it, and began unpacking the picnic basket. After a moment, the bizarre creature glanced up at Iolo and smiled widely, revealing incredibly yellow teeth. Distinctly, but through a thick accent, he stated

“There is nothing, absolutely nothing, half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.”

Iolo was at a loss for a response.

“Well… quite!” he managed, eventually.

The ratman bowed to him.

“Skreethak,” he said, touching his chest, “Purveyor of fine goods, yes-yes, and manyfine thinks! You tell all – this weekend, Skreethak open shop here! Sell manyfine thinks! Ancient treasures! Fine silks! Fifty-seven different types of iced cream, yes-yes! Manyfine! Skyrocks, recipes, jam makers! Manyfine! Special-rare treasures from palace of Ice King!”

His head spinning, Iolo returned the bow awkwardly, turned, and ran for the ship back to Lakeshire.