Vermin of the Deep

The Ratkin Warlord wears the patched cuirass of a victorious Clan and the torn cloak of a defeated one — often his own. In the galleries of the Rotted-Heart, one rises or falls by the same knife: no Warlord sleeps without having sealed, had sealed, or poisoned the antechamber. He knows half his lieutenants are waiting for an opening; he also knows that fact makes them efficient.

On the field he harangues the ranks with grandiose boasts ("Thirteen-thirteen victories, brothers-brothers!"), then withdraws behind the Clan Warriors the moment the fight turns. This methodical cowardice is doctrine, not weakness: a dead Warlord serves nothing of the Thirteenth, and He waits to inherit the world, not for vermin to die for Him. When victory comes, he claims it all. When defeat comes, he is already gone by a hidden stair, thirteen-thirteen paces ahead of the rout.

The Thirteen-Seer is not a wizard like the others. Where mortal mages bend the Breath, the Seer reads the signs of the Thirteenth in dead rats, in cracks of Corrupted-Steel, in the crackle of collapsed galleries. The Way of the Thirteenth flows through him — magic of Death, of Shadow, of Putrid Breath, fuelled by Corrupted-Steel shards sewn into the scalp.

No Warlord argues with a Seer. When he speaks, he speaks for the Empty Seat, and none — not the greatest of Clan Verminée, not the most devout of the Pestilents — dares contradict the prophecy. The cost is steep: half the Seers die in mutated fire at their first miscast, and all bear the stigmata of the Way (twisted horns, sutured third eye, blackened tongue). But when the oracle lands true, the Council of Thirteen obeys before the blood dries.

The Warlock Engineer belongs to Clan Engin, and Clan Engin loves nothing but Corrupted-Steel. He tinkers with unstable engines under foul-oil lamps, burns apprentices who ask the wrong questions, and rates a prototype's success by the number of vermin dead in testing (few = good, many = revise, very few = probably faked).

On the field he accompanies his creations — Doomwheel, Corrupted-Lightning Cannon, Plague Catapult — and patches them mid-battle with stolen tools and doubled curses. His thin magic (two spells, barely) is made of small utility jolts: restart a seized engine, electrocute a friendly saboteur, vaporise an awkward witness. If Clan Engin loses an Engineer, it raises another in three days; notes seldom outlive the inventor, but Corrupted-Steel does not perish.

The Master Assassin comes from Clan Ombre, and Clan Ombre trains its recruits backwards: the master lives only if the student survives, so the master has every reason to teach truly. The Master has outlived his own masters. He reads shields by the light, aims under the chin, strikes in a single line and is gone in the same motion. Blades are bathed in Rotted-Heart venom; a graze is enough.

He does not serve the Warlord — he serves the Clan's contract. Often that contract orders the killing of the Warlord himself at the right moment; the Master executes. It is understood, it is documented, it is even expected. On the field, he advances hidden among the enemy ranks before the march, fells a lone hero, then rejoins the Vermin lines or vanishes by the mission. Nobody really counts him in the host — he is there, or he is not, and the tally is never clear.

The Plague Priest belongs to Clan Pestilent, which believes one thing: the Thirteenth speaks through sickness, and sickness is the highest prayer. He dwells in reliquaries of pierced bone and pus, drinks the runoff of infected ducts as a rite, and coughs the Liturgy of the Putrid Breath until his faithful enter holy frenzy.

He wears no armour — the skin is the relic: blackened, suppurating, living proof that the Putrid Breath has touched him and has not killed. In combat he advances with his Monks, swings the censer, strikes barehanded if he must. His frenzy is devotion: a Priest who retreats has lost the grace of the Thirteenth, and his own Clan will purge him in the cleansing fire within the week. Better, then, to advance. That also suits the Warlord, who does not like Pestilents getting too close to the rear.

The Chieftain holds the rung just below the Warlord — high enough to wear armour and banner, low enough to be replaceable. In the hierarchy of the Clans he is the field officer: he relays orders, has the hesitant Clan Warriors flogged, and dies on the front rank when the Warlord needs a symbolic sacrifice to rally the troop.

Ambitious Chieftains end up Warlords or in shreds. None last long: too visible to evade Clan Ombre's assassins, too important for internal rivals to ignore, too useful not to sacrifice. He often carries the standard and the battle-drum, because the Warlord wants neither near himself: a standard-bearer is a priority target, and a Chieftain is, by design, a standard-bearer with the voice to match.

Clan Warriors are the flesh of Clan Verminée and every other Clan. Levied soldiery from the galleries, armed in haste (short blade, patched shield, makeshift armour), fed on boiled bone and whipped to the surface. Singly they are cowardly, filthy, and think of flight before the march. Massed ten, twenty, fifty ranks deep, they become a chittering tide that nothing halts so long as it pushes.

Their strength is number. The Warlord counts them by tens, never by individuals. They know three-quarters of them will die before the day ends, and each does the silent maths: stay in the middle of the mass, never the front, never the rear (Pestilents drag there), always a sideways pace from a larger neighbour. Survivors loot the dead — their own Clan-brothers first, enemies second. The Council of Thirteen approves: a soldier who loots is not a soldier who thinks.

Elite Guard hold the rung above the Clan Warrior: heavy armour, halberd, double ration, the right to sleep outside the main corridors. They are the personal guard of a Warlord or a Councillor — drawn from his own Clan, in theory loyal, in practice loyal until the first better offer.

On the field they form the close screen of command: three to five ranks deep, halberds level, never charging, always receiving. Their discipline is real (relatively), but their true use is symbolic — a Warlord without Elite Guard is a Warlord on borrowed time, and all know it. When the day turns sour, the Fangleader orders the ordered withdrawal around the Warlord; when the Warlord falls anyway, the Guard scatters in the same heartbeat. No Guard has died for a Warlord post-mortem in the Council's annals. Not one. The Council considers it proof of intelligence.

Night Runners are the apprentice-strikers of Clan Ombre — not yet Master Assassins, already above the Clan Warrior. Light, unarmoured, kitted with throwing weapons and short blades, they scout the vanguard, infiltrate enemy positions before the battle, and mark the targets the true assassins will deal with later.

Their training is cruel: a Runner who is seen is demoted to Clan Warrior; a Runner who is hit is left where he falls. Survivors learn Move through Cover quickly, and the art of vanishing between two thorn-runs. In battle they harass flanks, hurl their lead-weighted stars, and pull back before contact — a discipline no Pestilent can match. The best join the Gutter Runners within a decade. The rest die young, or turn informants, or switch Clans, forgetting their previous name thirteen-thirteen-fold.

Giant Rats are not vermin — they belong to vermin, the way a hound belongs to its master. Bred in the flesh-pits of the Rotted-Heart, fed on corpses and corrupted fluids, they reach the size of a lean boar and the jaw of a wolf. A Pack-Master (always Clan Verminée, never Pestilent who would taint them) drives them with a bell-whip and shrill cries.

On the field they serve as moving guard, as fodder, as a mass that fills the flanks. They do not hold a line — they do not understand the idea. But they charge when launched, bite what moves, and die without asking. When a Master falls, the pack scatters or turns on the survivors; the Vermin call it a pity, but say that thirteen-thirteen hounds are always worth more than one Master.

The Rat Swarm is not a unit — it is a phenomenon. The Vermin barely command it; they aim it, the way one aims a torrent at a sluice. A few handfuls of Corrupted-Steel-tainted grain dropped in the right place, and the swarm follows. A few chittering cries, and it halts (sometimes). The rest is instinct.

There is no Guard, no Champion, no banner — just fur, teeth, and mass. On contact, the swarm overwhelms: it climbs shields, crawls under armour, bites at hocks, smothers horses. Psychology does not touch it — a rat does not know it is dying, so it does not flee. When the enemy cuts down half, the other half presses on; when nine-tenths are dead, the last tenth still bites. To break a Swarm one must kill every rat. No army has the time.

Gutter Runners are the elite of Clan Ombre — former Night Runners who survived a decade of missions, schooled in poison, evasion, and precise strikes. They operate in pairs or triads, under a Deathrunner, and do not serve in line ranks — they are assigned to targets: a hero, a wizard, a standard-bearer, a convoy.

Their gear is poor in appearance (short blade, lead-weighted stars, dark cloth), rich in practice (every blade venomed with Rotted-Heart sap, every sandal silenced, every hood oiled to break the scent). They march under cover, strike from the side, and vanish before the target has finished falling. The Council of Thirteen also uses them internally — when a Warlord displeases, the Gutter Runners come through the ducts, without knocking. Nobody likes seeing them. Nobody refuses their passage.

The Rat Ogre is a joint work of Clan Engin and Clan Pestilent — a shared blasphemy neither likes to admit. One starts with a Giant Rat fed on Corrupted-Steel, grafts on the arms of a human or ogre slave taken from the tunnels, welds the whole with Corrupted-Steel plates sewn into living muscle, and opens the chest to insert a secondary heart. Survivors of the procedure (one in ten) are monstrous beasts — ten feet at the shoulder, three arms, permanent frenzy, eight-second memory.

On the field they charge with their handlers (Master-Grafters or Pestilent-flagellants) and stop only when the frenzy has spent itself. The Warlord places them at the breaking point and never as close guard — a Rat Ogre cannot tell friend from foe when blood flows, and its handler lives only as long as the beast strikes elsewhere.

Plague Monks are the flesh of Clan Pestilent — fanatics in permanent frenzy, blackened skin, teeth fallen, bodies caked in a crust of dried pus that passes for priestly habit. They wear no armour (the skin is the relic), carry no shield (the shield deflects grace), and advance in hordes of fifty chanting the Litanies of the Putrid Breath until their voices give out.

In battle their frenzy is devotion. They never retreat — a Monk who retreats is purged by his peers before nightfall, so better to die in the front. The Bringer of the Word (champion) wields the sacred censer and howls the Litany of a Thousand Wounds, and each blow struck releases a cloud of putrid humours that infects the next. The other Clans' Warlords detest Pestilents — their hordes contaminate friendly ranks, their chants drown orders, and their Priest obeys the Thirteenth before obeying the Council. But none send them home: in the charge, nothing pushes like a Pestilent.

Long Rifle shooters belong to Clan Engin — the product of their third passion (after Corrupted-Steel and treachery): range. The Long Rifle is a monstrous shoulder-cannon, too long for a single Vermin (two crew, one to carry, one to fire), chambered for Corrupted-Steel rounds that punch plate armour at five hundred paces. The recoil breaks shoulders; Clan Engin replaces shoulders.

They operate as scouts, never in line. Three shooters form a cell, choose a ledge, lay a sighting plate, and wait for the target: a General, a standard-bearer, a wizard too visible. One bullet is enough. They fire, fold in four minutes, reposition. By the time the enemy guesses where the shot came from, the cell is already thirteen-thirteen paces away. Shooters who survive beyond five battles become Clan legends, which means they are assassinated by their apprentices in the sixth.

Gas Globadiers are the joint project of Clan Pestilent (which supplies the formula) and Clan Engin (which makes the vessel). The Poisoned Wind Globe is a hollow blown-glass sphere, wax-sealed, holding a yellow-green vapour distilled from Rotted-Heart flesh and vaporised Corrupted-Steel. Once thrown, the globe shatters on impact; the cloud lingers a few minutes and kills whatever breathes it.

The Globadiers wear a rubberised snout-mask (Engin innovation, prototype) and a six-globe harness. They operate as skirmishers, throw at short range, fold back before the wind turns. When the wind turns anyway, the masks fail one in three. The Clan keeps no register; the dead are replaced without ceremony. Survivors beyond three engagements are rare; they become trainers or die mutating. None grow old.

The Abomination of the Pit was not born — it was assembled. Clan Engin and Clan Pestilent collaborated once, in a deep makeshift pit beneath the Rotted-Heart, sewing a hundred fresh corpses together (Vermin, ogres, human captives) with tendon thread, Corrupted-Steel plates hammered into the flesh, and thirteen Corrupted-Steel shards planted around a single heart. The thing stood up. Nobody knows why.

It is twelve feet tall, drags its meat like a shroud, and bites with Corrupted-Steel-infused claws that crush plate armour like paper. It cannot be commanded — only aimed. A handful of Pestilent flagellants launch it at the enemy, then step aside; it advances in convulsive lurches, sometimes backwards, sometimes in circles. Wounded, it regenerates; beheaded, it presses on; scattered, it reassembles. The Vermin say it does not die. The Vermin lie often, but not about this.

The Doomwheel is the pride of Clan Engin and the favourite target of Clan Ombre — every Engineer who rolls one out of the assembly pit becomes a legend or a corpse within three battles. The Wheel is a twelve-foot steel cylinder, ringed with Corrupted-Steel spikes, driven by a Vermin-pilot chained to the mechanism and fed corrupted-water that drives him past fear into frenzy.

Corrupted-lightning projectors mounted on the hub belch arcs at anything in range. The Wheel rolls straight (or tries) at full speed, crushing enemies and allies alike. The pilot does not steer — he accelerates. When the Wheel hits a wall, the pilot dies; when it hits an enemy formation, the enemy dies; when it hits a friendly one, the Warlord pretends not to have seen. Wheels that survive the day are whip-driven back to the Galleries for re-spooling. Of ten Wheels launched, two return.

The Corrupted-Lightning Cannon is Clan Engin's most prized and most unstable weapon. Four crew serve one cannon — a loader, an aimer, a condenser-pumper, and a Warlock-Engineer who prays to the Thirteenth and stands behind the warranty. At the tube's heart, a Corrupted-Steel cell wound in copper coils accumulates the charge; at the Engineer's cry, the trigger releases a bolt as thick as an arm, which strikes everything on the straight line, allies included.

The rate is slow — thirteen-thirteen seconds between shots, sometimes more, sometimes the cell ruptures and kills the crew. Range is great. Accuracy is wild. The ratio of intended to hit target is a holy randomness. But when a bolt crosses a formation, it scatters it, burns banners, vaporises horses. The Council of Thirteen orders more and more, despite the crew cost: a single cannon has already decided a battle.

The Plague Catapult is the Pestilent answer to the Engin Cannon — less spectacular, more diseased. Instead of a Corrupted-Steel discharge, it lobs a cast-iron globe filled with putrid humours distilled in Clan Pestilent's pits: pus of forgotten fevers, vapour of the Rotted-Heart, bone-splinters of liturgical plague-victims. On impact the globe shatters; a heavy yellow cloud spreads over the target and everything within ten paces.

The crew is mixed (Verminée crewmen, a Pestilent priest as supervisor, an Engin Engineer for the mechanism) — a combination none of the three Clans tolerates for more than a few weeks. The shot is slow, imprecise, and often kills by contagion rather than impact. But the cloud lingers; the struck zone is impassable for hours after. The Council approves: a catapult that poisons ground for a day is worth thirteen-thirteen ordinary cannon shots.

Censer Bearers are the Plague Monks furthest along the Way — those whose skin is so blackened with dried pus the fur no longer shows, those whose voice has burned out in the Litanies, those the Priest deems worthy of the censer. The censer is a perforated iron ball on a three-foot chain, packed with embers and Pestilent putrid spices; it is whirled overhead, and the incandescent mass spreads a cloud of humours around every blow.

They advance as skirmishers, in permanent frenzy, and never withdraw. On contact they strike with the chain, spin the censer over the head, and release vapours into the enemy ranks. Half die in their own swings (the censer is as dangerous to the bearer), the other half infect. When a Bearer falls, the censer keeps spinning on inertia for thirteen-thirteen seconds, and the cloud still bites — which, the Pestilents say, is the last offering to the Thirteenth.