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Deep into the stronghold, past the plush furnishings and the immaculate marble flooring, past the draping velvet swags and the lead-lined colour-panelled windows, the Royal Guard of Everdwell led the King and Queen with hastened steps to the very core of the mountainside Kingdom. The small Princes and Princesses had been scooped up carefully by the armoured cohort, metal plating cold against their warm clinging hands. The younglings were bawling. The sound of heavy footsteps ringing in their green pointy ears as their protectors' sturdy boots clattered along the old cobblestones past cobwebbed torches that threw a dim light. The last soldier in the line extinguished them. Behind them lay only darkness now.

A portcullis slid up with a clang and a grind. Old metal on old brick. Whoever had come for them would have a gauntlet to run, and rightly so. Everdwell was an ancient city that had sat out many invasions before. Being under siege was merely an inconvenience. Nothing more.

Here within the heart of the mountain was a small series of rooms. Royalty decades past had stayed here during troubled times, residing in an acceptable level of comfort while strife played out at the city gates. The chairs were now frayed, and the rugs had stray threads, but the chill air kept food fresh and the beds were still soft.

The goblin children dropped from the strong arms of the Guard and wiped their runny noses, looking around the unfamiliar surroundings in the way little one's do when deciding what they can play with. With a gentle lead from their mother, they found a room full of gaily painted wooden toys. The rocking horse was the star of the show. In a mad scramble they all clambered aboard, with soft wailing as the weaker family members were jettisoned onto the floor to make do with the balls and blocks and spinning tops. The Queen smiled, satisfied that they were all swiftly overcoming their ordeal. Goblin children were hardy creatures, a little bit of war wouldn't hurt them. She picked up her skirts, keeping the dust away from the fine cloth, and returned to her husband and his soldiers.

"Are the children settled?" he asked, sat on a faded upholstered seat, trying to look more relaxed than he was.

There was a thump, and a cry, "Mother! Mother! Chever threw a ball at me! Chide him, mother!"

"They're fine," she reassured.

He nodded, trusting her judgement in the matter of small people. He turned and addressed his Sergeant, "I appreciate the haste in which we were delivered to safety, but what of my Council? My Lord Chancellor? Chief Protector?"

The Sergeant was stoic, "Your Highness, it is expected of them to defend the realm. It is written as such in the Decrees."

The King blinked. "Really?"

The soldier nodded, "yes, Your Highness."

"It's been so long since I last cast eyes on them. I knew this time of peace could not last forever. Did Captain Worrel identify this threat? They had a banner, did they not?"

"A black rat with red eyes. Some sort of three-pronged staff. There was no reference in the archives for this."

"No enemy of old?"

"No, Your Highness."

He clicked his tongue. "Rats. What are they better known as, now? Skirren, is it?"

"Skaven, Your Highness, but our lookouts say that this army outside our walls is made of a multitude of races. The rat on the banner could be a leader, even perhaps a God. Some pestilential deity."

They exchanged a look. The sky had been torn up into a fiery bloody vortex. The wrath of a God could not be dismissed.

The ominous black banners were flying out in the meadows beyond the citadel gates as the goblin warriors prepared for the oncoming battle. Captain Worrel, aged commander of the Royal Guard, was not smiling as he gave his men one last inspection. In his lifetime he had not been tested in combat, nor had any of the soldiers in front of him. Everdwell was an impenetrable fortess. Or at least, it was for the usual bands of ruffians who came looking for trouble. This was the first organised army they had encountered for many, many years, and for all his solemn promises that they could withstand anything, and the city walls alone would be enough to dissuade invaders, now that it came down to the crunch, Worrel wasn't so sure. His eagle-eyed lookouts had warned of siege weapons. Trolls to load them, too. Their enemy was numerous and varied. It was bizarre to have creatures of different races and loyalties assembled together like this, quite how they hadn't fallen into chaos, scrapping among themselves, he couldn't fathom. They must have a leader with a tight grip, or a shared loyalty the likes of which he'd never seen.

And what did they even want? It was customary for an enemy spokesperson to approach and demand to speak to the King, laying down their demands, or inviting parley. No one had come forth. No horns had blown. They had simply greeted the dawn with the sharpening of blades in an eerie silence.

The whole business with the fiery hole in the sky didn't help matters, it was true. Portents of doom such as this reeked of magic. Magic was rare. Magic was trouble.

With a nod to his Lieutenant, his troops were ordered to their defensive positions, the council members and gathered Royal household workers looking lost among the trained warriors, following their lead, gripping their swords and shields tightly. Everdwell citizens all pledged to lay down their lives for the Kingdom, but no-one ever really expected it to be a reality.

All Worrel could do now was hold fast, and hope he was wrong about this enemy being far more dangerous than any before, as the fields before them organised into battle lines, and a heavily armoured Reptid commander on a pale pony rode out to them with his sword raised skyward, initiating the attack.

Captain Worrel repeated this action, his mass of goblinfolk returning in kind, the sun's morning rays reflected on honed steel as a thousand small voices screeched in otherworldly tones.

Black specks appeared in the air as boulders hurtled towards the thick ancient walls, the distant trolls loading up for another shot on their war machines, as even a haphazard aim couldn't fail to miss such an expanse of masonry. Stone exploded, high lofty towers that had stood intact for lifetimes now became peppered with holes. Shockwaves trembled under their booted feet.

Curious races raised bows and arrows below them, firing a volley of arrows up in the air.

The goblins raised their shields, swatting them like they would flies. More boulders smacked into the citadel towers, grit falling like mist.

There would be a lot of repairs after this was all over with.

After a few more rounds of arrows, there was movement off to the sides of the enemy's ranks. Ladders were prepared.

Worrel passed this information down the chain of command. It was time for their own archers to shine.

Goblins are a race of small stature, it's why they like carrying daggers, and to see a goblin archer trying to grasp a big yew bow and not clonk everyone about the head as they pass is a sight indeed. No one's laughing when they're notching those arrows, however. Those small mean eyes have fantastic focus.

Worrel's view of the meadows was impaired as he strained to see what else the enemy was getting up to. They were taking something out from the camp. Something big and on wheels. Something with a dedicated crew. He stepped out from his place at the very front of the citadel's battlement, nodding to his men as he passed, giving them that reassurance that all was well. Just a few boulders and arrows. Nothing they couldn't handle. All be over by teatime. He saw the battering ram that was the size of an oak tree approaching their gates, and he sweated.

In an instant he was bounding down the narrow steps to the lower levels, barking orders as he went. The gate had plenty of defence, of course it did, who'd have a main entranceway into a royal citadel that was easily opened? Except peacetime led to loss of urgency if some of the wood was splintered and iron was rusted. It still looked imposing, didn't it? And that was deterrent enough.

At the words "battering ram!", the sword fighters gathered behind the gate sprang into action, scrambling for all the wood and nails they could get their green hands on, reinforcing the timber, while above, beyond the staircase and out on the walls, shouts and cries sounded out.

Falling masonry was finally becoming a problem.

Worrel's legs twitched instinctively, his body wanting to go back out to the archers, but his mind told him they were safe under the Sergeant's orders and there was nothing he could do there. He helped here instead. The hastily fastened wood was smeared with blood as splinters had poked into flesh and hammers had missed. No sooner had they run out of immediate wood panels, the resounding BOOM of the ram echoed through the citadel.

The goblin archers had a new target.

With an exhale, Worrel finally bid his gatekeepers farewell and alighted the narrow staircase again to meet the bedlam on the perimeter.

Medics were busy ferrying the injured to the safety of the back walls, where stone met mountainside, as they bandaged up the unlucky soldiers in the boulder's firing line. Armour was wonderful stuff against a pointed weapon, but blunt force was a different matter. It bent and caved in, taking the wind out of your lungs and broke fragile bones.

Directing the archers to the immediate threat of the battering ram, Worrel caught a voice on the chill mountain breeze.

Between the thumping of the tree trunk ram, and the clattering of arrows upon shields, and the shouts of the distant Reptic commander still cantering back and forth in front of his battle lines, someone was trying to talk.

He gripped the stone wall and peered down, barging between two archers and hoping he wasn't going to get an arrow to the face. His helmet had a nose cover, sure, but you couldn't be too careful!

"Yield to Lord Nisgarant! Wielder of the Tri-Corn Horn Sceptre! Commander of the mightiest army this world has ever seen!"

"What?" Worrel cupped a pointed ear.

"I said! Yield to Lord Nisgarant!"

"Who?"

"Lord Nisgarant!"

"Never heard of him."

A brown rat in gleaming, butter-coloured breastplate and gauntlets pushed his doggy sidekick aside and raised aloft a black staff that had three spired horns jutting from its top.

So, their leader was a rat, as the banner had implied. The weapon matched the design, too. Fingers crossed no Gods were involved. That sky still screamed magic, though.

Lord Nisgarant's voice came loud and clear on the breeze, amplified by arcane methods. "I have come for you, Everdwell! You and your people! Bring me your leaders as sacrifices, trade them for your freedom, for I will not stop until you serve under my banner!"

Worrel went to reply with a smirk.

"Mock me at your peril, commander!"

He shrugged plated shoulders, "fair. We reject your proposal, and suggest you gather up your mongrels and fuck off, instead."

BOOM! The ram continued to test the structural integrity of the citadel gate. There was audible splintering.

Worrel tried his hardest not to look at it.

Nisgarant could see his lines of worry and a twisted smile grew around his rodent teeth, flashing dirty protruding fangs. "You can retreat, you can scurry and hide, but we will persist. We will be here until your precious city is in ruin. You will not be the first. You will not be the last!"

With a great snort, the goblin Captain of the Royal Everdwell Guards hocked his snubby nose and spat a fat glob of spit and snot at the horrid rodent far below. "That's what I think of you and your silly stick! Now go, before I piss on you!"

The rat's eyes glowed as he seethed at the insult, but he took a step back just to be cautious.

The door's reinforcements finally caved. There was a mighty CRASH and the ram's momentum carried it inside a fair few metres, crunching and yelling following its path.

The Reptid on horseback waved his sword and a whole new line of soldiers branched off, led by a patchy-furred wolf, marching smartly into the gaping hole that the tree trunk had carved for them. The ram itself was hastily removed and its wheels squeaked as it was rolled back down the path with a shove into the field, no longer of use.

Worrel knew panic was about to set in and wasted no time reminding his men that the battle was still within the walls of the citadel and could remain contained with their brave efforts. "Remember your training! Show no mercy! Goblins kill with a thousand cuts!"

"A thousand cuts!" they cried in unison, as the tall ladders were rested against their walls, and creatures of foreign race began to ascend.

Without warning, hewn lumps of rock blasted into the wall, obliterating whole lines of goblin soldiers. The enemy were clearing the way for the ladder climbers. Worrel had no choice but to draw his men back, out of the way of the flying boulders. The sharp clang of blade upon blade announced the presence of more intruders beginning their ascent of the narrow stone steps he had bounded up and down earlier. The enemy were now completely and utterly within Everdwell's walls, and the battle for their citadel had truly begun.