FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The dawn sunrise had brought with it an unwanted gift in the form of a rift in the skies. A darkened fiery gaping hole in the very fabric of reality. It looked like something from an ancient prophecy come true. A dire warning of terrible celestial consequences made manifest.

Nisgarant had expected it. The Sceptre had reassured him that all was going to plan. That he didn't have to worry about the walls of the universe coming tumbling down around them. He would be safe. As long as he looked after the awful remnant, it would look after him.

Hemlock had come grumbling, as usual, to Threllif and the other officers, moaning and complaining about the state of his army, and everything that was going wrong. The rat pretended not to hear. All of this was just fuel for the Sceptre. Every living body that it pierced in the circumstances of these battles charged its powers. Every second that it remained in this forbidden universe gave it opportunity to kill. When the skies collapsed, when each atom of this reality was forcefully split apart and scattered into the void, the Sceptre would have enough magic to take them both to another wondrous place, where they could start their warmongering anew. The useless trinkets that Nisgarant had amassed here were as nothing to the riches that further galaxies held.

He had told Hemlock that this tear in the heavens was his doing, that it would bring panic and fear to the pitiful goblins who were standing in their way. The big reptile had nodded, wisely keeping silent, and lumbered off to begin the assault on the walled city upon the mountainside.

As Nisgarant had watched his General clamber awkwardly aboard his battle pony and head off at a canter to the front lines, he held his precious weapon extra tight. He hadn't forgotten about the dragon that followed him. The mystical Scaly One had paid for its foolish mistake of coming here by losing its collected Hoard. The rat could only wait for it to return with intent to steal the Sceptre back. A dragon without treasure was a dangerous foe, for what had they to lose? Nothing.

The Sceptre did not wish to be reunited with its former owner. The dragon would hinder its plans, ensnare it in magical restrictions, like a bird with clipped wings.

It also did not wish to be returned to the vaults of the Council of Sorcerer's, locked behind a heavy steel door where there was no opportunity for bloodshed. It had done more damage in these months out of that holding cell than thousands of years lying in dust could have achieved.

It was an invader in a foreign land, and destruction was its aim. How lucky, how fortuitous it was, to have found a frail-minded creature such as this rat, this Nisgarant. With the faintest of whispers the rodent's mind had opened up, welcoming the tendrils of madness that probed inside. Together they had carved a bloody trail across the maps of this quaint little world, a taster of what they could achieve together in grander settings.

After a light breakfast of eggs and porridge the shout had gone out, the banners had been raised, and Hemlock's polished sword had shone like a beacon in the morning rays to the sound of a thousand bows being notched and drawn back. The battering ram had left a shower of splinters as its resounding boom upon the grand gates had echoed across ice strewn grassland.

The goblins at the walls had answered in kind, returning fire with a volley of arrows. Their armour was shiny, and intact. Their stomachs full and pointed green faces stoic.

Every defending city and citadel had been the same, the residing warriors confident in the defences they had set in place, that the stonework that had seen many battles prior would still be standing at the end of this assault. Smirking at the rat and his men, they fought in the belief that they were merely biding their time until the attacking menace gave up and moved on elsewhere, like the disgusting hoards that had come before.

That wasn't how any of it had gone down, though. Nisgarant's soldiers had no intent on surrender, on abandonment, on ceasing. Every marauder under the rat's banner was here for one purpose. To fight, and win. There was no other choice. They had lived at the price of unwavering loyalty, to turn around now would mean death. If you lost your weapon, you would use your fists, if you couldn't use your fists then you would go in the stew pot. You died in the fight, or you died for dinner, or you were lucky to survive and you fought again another day.

As the citadel gate began to break and splinter, Hemlock directed a swarm of his men up onto the lofty ramparts, climbing the ancient masonry like ants upon a rock.

With a creak, the war machines behind them began loading up, ready to fire. In a moment, the ground was shaking as boulders smashed into the wall tops, clearing them for the ascending soldiers. The air was thick with dust. Goblin shrieks and hollers mixed with thunderous rumbles and the clash of metal upon metal.

Nisgarant, surrounded by a company of his most trusted advisers and treasurers for his protection, made his way down the battlefield to the now fully under siege city. The Sceptre would keep him out of harm's way, but he was still wary of the flying stones and grit. It wouldn't do to make his grand entrance as the new ruler of whatever this place was called - Evertown or something - covered in blood and bruises. He scratched at his lice riddled furry arms, idly, waiting at the threshold.

Threllif and his fellow gnolls were also here, poised and ready for action. The big mottled dog soldier was grinning from ear to ear, delighting in the pain and suffering of others. His tail wagged like an excited puppy and he clapped his bulky paws as the battering ram finally broke through the last of the thick reinforced wooden structure that made up the main gate and entranceway into the goblin city, reducing it to so much sawdust and nails.

Hemlock swept past, his sword still raised skyward as he gave the command for the lines of infantry to advance inward. They had an opening.

The ladders upon the walls creaked. Threllif threw up his head and reached out with a meaty forearm to grab hold. The time for watching was over. With a nod for his boys to take the sewers and slip into the heart of the citadel, and a final grin to his Lord: his brother in arms and fellow maniac, Nisgarant, he pulled himself up, blade wedged in his bristly maw.

Upon seeing their gnoll Major taking the ropes, the rat's soldiers at the battlements reached down for him and welcomed him at the crumbling stonework. No sooner had his furry hind paws touched gritty cobblestone he was swinging his blade and relishing the splatter of warm goblin blood upon his jowls.

Out the corner of his canine eyes, he spied the useless lizard, Hemlock, dashing back and forth along the lines of archers, still yelling. He was surprised that the idiot wasn't dead, yet. He'd been sure that Nisgarant would have had one of his funny turns and skewered him by now. He scowled. That reptid wasn't loyal like he was, he was damn certain of it. Sending pathfinders off to find the missing Lieutenant? Spreading rumours about their dead General among the men? Causing unrest! Whinging and complaining, like Warlock before him. If being General wasn't so hazardous he'd have accepted the promotion and gone about his duties properly! And Hemlock had shouted at him. The nerve! He was due a good mauling.

Before the moons were out, if the goblins hadn't got to him first, then Threllif would make the scaly bugger suffer.

Nisgarant watched the gnolls advance unseen through the murky waterpipes. Not long now, and the enemy would be drawing back, regrouping in panic as the threat they had underestimated continued to slaughter them like cattle. Once the city's leader or royal family or governor was dug out of hiding, he would finally complete the Sceptre's wish of execution. Now that the final collapse had begun, even if everything went wrong and they were defeated, he would turn the weapon upon his own ranks to sate its desire for murder. Come Hell or high water, people were going to die upon its three spiral spires.

A commotion and a sickly wheeze reached his rounded dish ears, and he whipped his head around, whiskers twitching, beady eyes wide at this most unexpected disturbance.

Feiknor was a mess. Bloody foam was at his muzzle, his coat was slick with sweat.

The rat took a step back. This was one of Threllif's most vicious gnolls. He'd been sent chasing after the dragon, or ghost, or dead General. One of the three.

"I bring you a message from General Warlock," he breathed loudly, speaking slowly, clearly struggling, "he is coming for you. He will destroy you. He killed the others of my company with a flick of his wrist. I saw a beating heart explode within its chest, cracking the ribcage open in an instant. You are not prepared, Nisgarant. None of you are. You will all perish at my General's magical hands..."

In a seething fit of screams and rage, the rat brought the Sceptre down in a deadly arc, silencing the wretched gnoll for good.

"Warlock! Is! Dead!"

With spittle-flecked cheeks he looked fervishly around himself. How could this have happened? What events could have possibly occurred to let the aardvark live? He was so close to victory, so close to escaping with the Sceptre and being given his due rewards, he couldn't die now! That was everyone else's fate, not his!

But the spectacle had been seen, and heard.

There had already been talk of General Warlock coming back, of him somehow exacting his revenge. Threllif and the other Majors had done their best to hide it all from him, but the rat was now no longer certain that he alone had their loyalty.

"You reptid bastard!" Threllif's hoarse voice was loud enough to be heard over the clamour of battle.

Nisgarant's heart was hammering in his chest as he wildly spun around, wondering what was happening now? His entourage gathered in closer.

The gnoll Major was leaning precariously over the battlements, shaking his fist to the far-off distance, still cussing foul oaths as his subordinates clung onto his fine linen shirt and trousers to stop him tumbling to his death.

"I'll bite your bony head off! I'll tear you limb from scaly limb! Get back here!"

Oh no.

General Hemlock had abandoned the battlefield.

He'd turned his pony around and fled.

No, not fled. No. It was much worse than that, as awful as that would have been.

He'd gone to find General Warlock.

There was a brief pause. A moment of internal inflection for every fighter under his blackened banner. Who was in charge now? Could they run away, too? Who was going to stop them?

The claws that gripped the rod of the Tri-Horn sceptre shook.

There was a rumble from the sky. A thunder without a storm.

The rat held his weapon aloft, "I'm still your Lord!" he roared, "you will answer to me! I have split the sky and called forth destruction! Bring me the goblin leader, and I will remind you of what I am capable!"

"Fight for the rat!" Threllif rallied, "fight for your glory!"

The Majors joined the call to arms, the Captains and the Sergeants too. But it was not loyalty that drove them, it was fear. The fear that those beneath them would punch upwards. For every officer with a set of armour, there were twenty lowly men who would just as soon kill them as they would a goblin, in retribution for all they had suffered in this horrific campaign.

The goblin folk hadn't hesitated, they'd taken advantage of that moment of discord, and used it to push back against the monstrous warmongers with renewed vigour. If the rat's army was truly in disarray, there was still a chance they could turn this battle around.

Beyond the flattened trees, past the deep ruts in the soil that the war machines had gouged on their travels, Hemlock's weary pony cantered unsteadily into the sunshine, with a bitter wind following, trampling daisies as they climbed up a grassy rise.

Moisture sprang to the corners of his reptilian eyes. His dangerous jaws were clenched. He was a dead lizard riding. He'd always suspected it, but now he had gone and sealed his fate. There was no going back now, no 'whoops, I rode off in the wrong direction', no excuses. This was his most traitorous move yet. But his heart swelled with hope. Could there really be an end to this madness? A final battle to despatch the rat and destroy his rotten Sceptre? A chance of peace. A chance to go home again. He'd take it.

The sky was blue. The clouds were puffy. All the horror and destruction lay behind him now as his pony's head came over the top of the picturesque sunlit uplands.

And he saw him.

It was all true. All of it.

General Warlock was walking with a company of travellers, including Lieutenant Brook, headed in his direction.

The aardvark officer looked strange in new clothes of bright blue, with a bag slung around his shoulder and a glow around his body. The spidery black wound of the Tri-Horn stabbing sat upon his upper chest.

They paused as they noticed him. Brook's daggers were out in a moment. The General raised his hand and an eerie orb sprang immediately into his palm.

Magic.

"My General!" He pulled his pony up sharply and was on the dampened grass in an instant, down to his knees in a bawling sobbing state. He tried to talk further, but it was lizard burbling and no more.

"Alright now, Hemlock, settle down."

Instead of settling down, the reptid clung onto his commander's leg dearly.

There was a strange tug, and he was lifted upwards and out of reach.

"Deep breaths man, get a grip. You can't fight a battle like that."

Hemlock was suspended in mid-air, floating. His tail and legs dangled.

Brook laughed, "I like that trick, sir!"

"It is rather good, isn't it?" Anar smiled. He placed Hemlock back down again, whereupon the officer gathered himself together with a few deep inhalations.

"They're at Everdwell, sir. I was leading the battle myself until Feiknor brought news of your return. I had to find out if it was all true, sir, I had to!"

Brook's green eyes flashed, "Everdwell?? Aw Hell no! I've got family there! I'm an Ever, see. Everweather. Brook Everweather, that's me." With steely determination she set off, rolling up her already short sleeves.

The aardvarkian lady hurried to keep up with her.

Hemlock offered the reins to his General. "My pony is tired, but I would not see you walk, sir." He looked around. "I was sure Brook had Bromor."

"Bromor is gone, Hemmy."

His face fell, "I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

The world went dark.

"Oh, what now?!" Hemlock yelped.

A shadow had fallen over the sun. A black cloud, moving, drifting; letting flashes of light through at random intervals.

They all turned to The Dragon, as it usually had all the answers.

The Dragon was smiling. "Taxi!" it grinned.

"What's a taxi?"

"You mean, like, a Black Cab kind of taxi?" Luci asked, frowning. "This is hardly central London."

A speck of black split away from the unusual cloud formation and wheeled towards them.

It drew closer, a pair of great bat-like wings visible.

With a mighty roaring scream, the Nightmare came upon them like a fighter jet, his hooves scraping the ground until he was at full gallop upon the soil barrelling into them joyously.

"I have returned from the Astral Plane, my Lord! I bring others who will fight in your battle! Come, let us wage war and be victorious!"

"Bromor?" Anar asked, squeakily as his steed trotted around him.

"No longer, my lord. I am Destroyer - prince of Nightmares! And your most faithful steed. Haste! Away!" With a push of velvet muzzle, the General was upon his broad, strong back.

More Nightmares alighted. They came in many colours, their wings had many forms, their weaponry assorted horns and fangs and barbs.

Still the others reeled about in the sky.

"Now this is more like it! My feet were killing me!" Brook smiled.

Lucinder clutched handfuls of mane, nervously. "Are we really doing this?"

They were.