The battle standard bearer had been in a bad mood ever since they had picked him out of the heap of ratmen corpses. Commissar Pendleton couldn't disagree. There were some in the Empire who doubted the existence of the cursed ratmen, but they were familiar foes to mercenaries of Tilea. Men who had fought in the Blighted Marshes, men who remembered the fate of Miragliano.
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And three hundred miles from home, here they were again. A vast chittering horde of innumerable ratmen, teaming towards his exhausted forces. The Riders of Udolpho had done their best to distract the swarm, riding back and forth until they were finally taken down by the long-range shots of the ratmen's evil war machines.
"I HATE that volley gun!" Fagiolo ran his fingers through his bloodied hair. "Come! Let us speak of it no more!"
Pendleton scowled at their experimental war machine, leased from the mad inventor Congreave Mitman at an exorbitant price. For the third battle in a row, the volley gun and underachieved expectations. The master gunner was now staring at it, hands on hips, shaking his head and drawing breath between his teeth in the traditional attitude of a tradesman about to charge a large amount of money to repair a faulty machine.
The Viadaza Toreadors had manage to scatter one of the smaller rat packs, but could do nothing against the rolling advance of verminicious creatures. The spearmen had charged in, the greatspears had charged in, the greenjackets had thrown aside their crossbows and charged in. Even Aurelius, their hireling wizard, had got over-excited and charged in.
Ratmen had died in scores, yet five times their number pressed ahead. Pendleton had to admit defeat, and the mercenaries abandoned the field.
"One does not simply charge into a ratmen horde," Fagiolo advised. "Come, let us speak of this no more!"
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