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Captain Worrel's vision was filled with armour, fur, goblin flesh, and blood as his small pointed ears rang with the clamour of heated battle. Shouts, cries, screams even, while blades swung and shields thudded with impact. From the corner of his keen green eyes he watched as an enemy soldier leaned over the now crumbled front wall and pulled an ally from the top of a ladder.

A huge brute of a wild gnoll, golden brown fur with bulging muscle beneath, grinned widely at the chummy welcome into the fray. He immediately swung a curved scimitar into one of Worrel's own, cutting them down and giving them a kick for good measure.

The Captain's blood boiled. He pushed forward, to get to this cocky bastard of a dog and shove his sword deep in his hairy balls, but no matter how he tried, there was always another target in his path.

The gnoll loitered by the wall, infuriatingly out of his reach, barking and growling commands and laughing with every spray of gore that came from his thrusts.

Worrel was giving directions of his own, trying to keep order among a million swarming bodies. Pretty successfully too, he might add. The threat was being contained. This was their territory, their home ground, they knew where to clump together to watch each other's backs, and which walkways led to useful dead ends. Nisgarant's men went in, and never came back out.

The big dog soldier turned and started screeching, having to be held back by his comrades before he fell over the wall completely and plunged to his death.

Something had gone wrong.

Worrel would take every advantage he could get! This was his cue to renew his efforts to push the enemy back towards the gate, back towards the entrance to the Citadel that they had entered uninvited. His voice was almost at breaking point as he yelled for the drive.

Goblins swarmed, knives flashing, shoulder plates clanging as they shoved and barrelled into the much larger targets.

Wolves and orcs and tauren and creatures Worrel had never seen before all began hissing at each other as they attempted to keep their places on the battlements. Their General had left them! Galloped off on his horse and fled! What was going on? Surely the offensive had only had begun, it couldn't be all over yet? Should they run, too? What about the rat? Was he still in charge?

More shouting carried over the din, a hue and cry to boost morale of the Warlord's troops. The sky rumbled and flashed. Worrel didn't want to know what that evil Sceptre was capable of. Even if his goblins took down every soldier here, how were they going to deal with that rat? It wasn't a problem to be dealing with right now, but it was a problem to be dealt with nonetheless. He gritted his pointed teeth and pushed it all to the back of his mind as he carried on swatting at the now nervous foes before him.

The cool air led them to the small dark tunnel hidden deep within the twists and turns of the cavernous inner realms of the mountain. They paused and sniffed, sheathing their weapons. It would be a tight fit, it was a goblin hole after all, but they were lithe and flexible enough to slink in on soft silent paw pads.

There had been lit torches along the slimy walls, but they had been cunningly extinguished in the hope that the invaders would be left at a disadvantage. Unfortunately, gnoll eyes are marvellous for seeing in very low light, and so they advanced, unperturbed. What was awaiting them at the end, they couldn't be sure. It smelled of dust, and food, and rot and rust. It also stank of fear. This was what they had been sent in for: the goblin leaders, whoever they may be, no doubt surrounded by the finest warriors ready to lay down their lives. It had all happened before. Sometimes they had lost members of their group, sometimes the guards surrendered almost immediately. There was no option for failure when Nisgarant's Sceptre was waiting for you. One thing though was vital and that was the Citadel's nobility were to be taken alive. They had to be slain with the cruel weapon. The rat would not be merciful if this order was not adhered to! They'd seen what the Tri-Corn Horn could do to living flesh, and they would choose any other death possible opposed to going out that way.

Beyond lay a tall grid of iron. A metal grate that sank into the floor. It made sense not to have a door, you needed air to flow before the oxygen levels became dangerously low. And it kept the stink out.

The gnolls carried on creeping, ever silent. The room ahead was dim, and occupied with several small figures. The goblins. This was where impatience would get them nowhere, they had to stay crouched in the shadows and wait for the right moment to make a move. The barrier between them could likely be ripped from its setting with a co-ordinated shove. There was even the chance that the stonework it was set into was weaker than the railings themselves, and gnoll fists were a force to be reckoned with. What they really needed though, was an element of surprise. A pack of dogs busting through a wall was the last thing anyone would expect, but it had to wait until the guards had moved away from the locked grate and the brightly dressed, unarmed targets were easy snatches.

Fortune smiled upon them as a tiny green bundle in a pink silk frock toddled into the room, wailing and snotting as it cried, lamenting the loss of a toy to a larger sibling.

A strong, hairy forearm darted between iron bars and gripped the goblin child by the waist, causing it to shriek and screech.

In a moment, armed guards turned and drew weapons, royalty dismounted from plush comfortable seats, other goblin children came running to see what had happened, insisting they hadn't done anything, and the cruel gnolls collectively grabbed a metal pole with their meaty paws and bent it, pulling their captive through triumphantly.

A wall of plate armour lined on the carpeted threshold as the King's men planted their booted feet firmly, faces stern.

The toddler continued thrashing and screaming its healthy lungs out. The gnoll shook it, roughly. This only made matters worse.

"What do you want?" the green-skinned guard with the most badges demanded with a growl, his pale eyes not leaving the distressed child for a moment.

"We want goblin King, take to Nisgarant Lord rat. You trade for pup?" the gnoll pressed a talon to the terrified child's slim neck.

It attempted to bite him in return for the sinister gesture.

The other gnolls sneered. The guards would have to unlock the door now. They didn't want to do that. But they also didn't want a dead Princess.

The goblin guards exchanged glances. If they were going to fight these mangy creatures, putting a key in the lock made them an easy target, didn't it? Whoever held the key would be getting stabbed for sure.

Sod the lock!

With a crash, their booted feet sent the grate flying forward from its loose fittings in the cement, straight into the bunch of pesky fleabags, gloved hands reaching for the dainty Princess in the dark, and blades cutting at fur.

This was a first for the gnolls! Usually they chased their quarry down, not lead them out, but this was what they were doing now. They scurried back along the tunnel, the wailings of the Princess bouncing off stone as the guards followed the noise back to the light of day.

They emerged, blocking the tunnel entrance, gleefully holding aloft the child who's yelling drew the attention of everyone in the vicinity. "We have Princess! Alert Lord Nisgarant!"

"Call Nisgarant! We have the Princess!" the yells travelled down the battle scene, reaching their deadly target.

Worrel's heart sank at the words he heard. If one of the Princesses was captured, what had been the fate of his men who had been placed in charge of protecting the Royal family? None of the rat's soldiers had even reached the inner city! They were still here, fighting the same fight and getting no further.

Unless there had been a group the goblin soldiers had missed, who had somehow slipped through unseen. Battles were full of small victories and small defeats, the enemy advanced, the enemy were driven back, over and over, back and forth, it was written down in history. Until something big happened that turned the battle for good.

A captured princess could certainly be regarded as something big.

Would they really have a rat for a King? Everdwell had been ruled by goblins since its creation. The Ever family seated upon its thrones for generations. To have that lumpy brown rodent sitting on its golden gilt seat would be an atrocity!

His mind swam in desperation. How could they retaliate against this? What could they possibly do to swing events in their favour? All they had were swords and daggers and bows and fists and teeth and claws and numbers.

With a burst of strength pulled from the very depths of his soul, Captain Worrel bellowed and shoved his shield through a line of filthy vermin, making his way to a final stand at the scene unfolding at the very centre of his beautiful Royal city.

Nisgarant's advisers had stayed close to him through the morning's dramatics. They'd watched the battle begin, ducked from arrows, and cheered as the ram had broken down the gate. They'd waved to Threllif as he'd ascended the tall ladder to the top of the Citadel wall, and begun cutting those pesky goblins down with ease.

The rat had twitched, and scratched, and still gripped his precious Sceptre dearly. He'd waved it once or twice, causing the great rip in the sky to shimmer and rumble, as a show of power but it hadn't actually done any real magic that they could see. Their lord whispered of a great Final Act that it was being saved for, and he was too unstable to be questioned.

Having General Hemlock abandon the fight had been a bit of a low point, but the field Majors picked up the command on their ponies well enough, and only a few of their soldiers decided to flee. The trolls at the back with the launchers were unfortunately slow to catch up on events due to the pause in orders, and they'd sent a few boulders smashing into their own troops up on the battlements, but it could have been worse.

When the shout came down that the Princess had been captured, the rat's beady black eyes lit up and his long wormy tail flicked restlessly. This was what he had wanted! And so soon! An easy victory, after all the doom and gloom that his Generals had been spouting over the poor state of his army. Now look at them, taking down a mountainside city in a morning!

They carefully patted the rat on his back, careful lest he should turn on them in ire, and followed him up the white stone ramp and through the obliterated remains of the city gate. The fighting had moved on from here. Skirmishes were dotted around the walls, and the civilian alleyways, but their own men had cover of them, and they traversed safe to the inner walls and the Royal domain within.

Nisgarant held his black Sceptre high, the air crackling around it, still sat on his gaunt steed as it walked slowly onwards.

This was it. The final scene. There would be bloodshed. Screaming. Wailing. Crying.

Victory.

A bright flash of blue swept over them. The brightest azure light imaginable lit up the Citadel for one wondrous moment. It burned the eyes, filled the senses, and filled their heads with a buzz and vibration. They had a moment to turn and look at each other, to begin forming questions and hold their ears before the world shifted.

It lurched.

With a shockwave of unimaginable proportions, everything moved. A ripple spread through every block, every window, every living body. Glass shattered as cracks sliced through the floor.

A voice, clear and angry and direct roared like a winter's blizzard through the mountain.

"NISGARANT! I HAVE COME FOR YOU!"

The rat's men faltered in recognition of those deep, commanding tones.

General Warlock had returned. Their dead General, whom they had all witnessed the ruthless murder of, out on the battlefield only a few days ago, was here. And he was not happy.

Everything stopped. They lowered their weapons, surrendering to the goblins.

"What are you doing?!" Threllif screamed, saliva flinging with his words. "Your Lord will show no mercy! You're all dead men walking! Pick your blades up and fight! This isn't over yet!"

The rat cowered. They were out in the middle of the goblin city, exposed, easy pickings. The Majors and Lieutenants came running to surround them.

Nisgarant flicked the Sceptre and a yellow arc leapt, creating a fiery circle around them for protection. He was loathe to waste precious dark Power, but needs must! The universe was collapsing, and if he wanted to live to see a bright new future, he had to protect himself and the Sceptre, no matter the price. As long as it had enough Power left to send them out across the dimension boundary, all would be well. If he had a magic ghost General AND a dragon on his tail, this could be almost impossible.

Dark shadows flitted across the sky. Wings swept. Curious screams and whinnies carried on the breeze. Wheeling and dipping, strange horses studded with natural horns and spikes and barbs were gathering. A monstrous airborne offensive. Nisgarant sat and waited, trembling, for the deceased aardvark officer to arrive. His heart pounded. Fear had entered his soul, shaking him to the very core.

Worrel exhaled. His breath hung in the air, warm and moist against the chill of the mountain. At his booted feet gnoll corpses bled out, and in his strong arms Princess Lillian sobbed quietly. He stood with his Lieutenant, who he was relieved to see alive and well. His King and Queen and the other Royal children hung back in the safety of the tunnel, under orders, after such strange goings on had occurred. Fortune had come to them as a bolt from the blue, quite literally it seemed. There had been shouting concerning a dead General who had come for revenge against the rat Lord Nisgarant. His ugly troops had surrendered. The top officers and the rodent, however, were under magical protection out by the courtyard. Now, they would tend to the wounded, and wait to see what Everdwell would endure next.