Angel Fall's-Chapter 13 The siege of Cordoba part 1

CORDOBA, THE JEWEL OF THE RIVER

Cordoba had always been a city of greatness. She sat nestled beside the wide, winding river like a queen upon her throne—her towers of white stone gleaming in the sun, her domes and minarets and cathedrals rising high over tiled rooftops. For generations, the river had brought wealth from inland and from the sea: spices, silk, iron, gold. It flowed beneath grand arched bridges and between stone embankments lined with warehouses, shipyards, and merchant stalls.

Within her outer walls sprawled the lower city—teeming with blacksmiths, weavers, fishmongers, coopers, butchers, scribes. Every district was alive with its own rhythm: the clang of hammers in the artisan quarter, the scent of saffron and lamb in the market squares, the chants of scholars from madrasas and monasteries alike.

Above it all, on the western hill that hugged the river, rose the Alcázar de Plata, the Silver Fortress. Its white towers had never fallen. It was here that the King of Andalusia kept a private court and garrison in times of war. Its walls were engraved with ancient sigils of the Light and the Sword. The banners of Andalusia and Aragon flew side by side, brothers-in-arms.

The cathedral, once a mosque, stood at the heart of the city. A fusion of faith and time, its labyrinthine halls held candlelit masses, whispered confessions, and in recent days—funeral rites. Its great bronze bells no longer rang in joy, but in warning.

But now... everything had changed.

The streets were quiet.

Markets shuttered. Stalls overturned. The air hung heavy with the scent of ash and fear. Refugees from the countryside crowded the plazas, sleeping under arches, clutching starving children. Town criers no longer shouted news—they whispered rumors, of tunnels beneath homes, of neighbors dragged into the dark, of eyes glinting in the cellars.

Rats were everywhere. Not the normal kind. These were bold—large, twisted, smart. They ran in packs. They stared back. Some said they could speak.

In the city archives, scribes poured over forbidden tomes and ancient scrolls, seeking any mention of creatures like these. In one dust-choked corner, an old monk whispered: "Skavanni. The Scourge Below. The Vermin God's spawn... I thought they were myth."

The city guard, worn thin by a week of brutal defense, was stretched across the walls. Inside, they patrolled in threes—never alone. Some disappeared. Others returned... changed. Hollow. Eyes sunken. One man gnawed his own fingers to the bone and muttered: "They're already here. They never left."

The people of Cordoba did not yet despair—but they feared. They clung to routine like a drowning man clings to driftwood. Bakers still kneaded dough. Priests still prayed. But all eyes watched the eastern horizon, where the sun rose blood-red through smoke.

Outside Cordoba – The Siege Camp of Madness

The eastern plains of Cordoba were no longer fields, but a scar upon the land—a festering ruin of dirt, blood, and rot. The once-clear riverbank was now choked with refuse and bodies, its waters turned green with bile and filth. And atop a low, corpse-dotted rise overlooking the battlefield stood two figures—one man, one beast.

The Duke of Granada, draped in gold-trimmed black robes and flanked by his personal guard of silent, pale-eyed men, surveyed the wall of Cordoba with a gleam in his eye. A strange red gem pulsed on a chain around his neck, faintly in sync with the unnatural beat of the rat war drums in the camp below. His face was gaunt, haunted, but alive with something—purpose, or perhaps madness.

Beside him towered Swarmlord Ratbag, clad in plates of jagged blackened steel, slick with filth and blood. His armor was not forged, but grown—stitched with veins and runes of green warp-light. His claws clicked against the metal as he snickered and twitched, his long, armored tail curling and uncurling like a whip.

"Excellent," the Duke said, his voice low and delighted. "All is going according to plan. Don't you agree? I say we are ready for the next phase. Wouldn't you agree, Swarmlord Ratbag?"

Ratbag's snout curled into a grin full of crooked teeth. "Yes-yes, very good! The towers are built, the tunnel is ready. The feast is prepared. We go fast-fast now! The big human army comes—marches slow-slow. We take city before they arrive. Victory feast soon, yes-yes!"

The Duke of Granada nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the distant eastern wall of Cordoba. He could just make out the human banners flapping in the wind. He smiled.

Below them, the siege camp of the Ratmen sprawled in every direction—a chaotic sprawl of filth and fury. Great siege towers shuddered forward on wheels reinforced with scavenged human bone. Tunnels belched up clouds of green vapor as warlocks pushed forward alchemical contraptions, glowing with runes and chittering prayers.

Here, Granadan traitor-men worked side by side with the Skaven—fanatics and outcasts, knights in tarnished mail, mercenaries promised land and titles. They shouted in broken tongues, hurled rocks into cauldrons, and spat on the banners of Andalusia. One of them, once a nobleman of Cordoba, now wore a rat skull as a helm and screamed praises to the "New Order Below."

Dark flags were raised from the towers. Warhorns blew—a horrible metallic shriek that cut through the moaning wind like blades."KIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII! KIIIIIIIIIIIIII! KIIIIIIIIIIII!"

The rats screamed back, a wave of shrill ecstasy and pain surging through their ranks. Some stabbed themselves with broken blades just to feel. Others foamed at the mouth, twitching and jerking as warp priests beat drums made of flayed human skin.

The Eastern Wall of Cordoba

The sun shone high in a sky streaked with soft, drifting clouds. The wind was gentle but carried the distant scent of blood and ash. Below, the eastern field shimmered with heat and death.

Jesus of Sagres stood atop the wall near the gatehouse, surrounded by the men he had marched with—farmers, fishermen, outlaws turned into soldiers by war. Now, they held the short stretch of wall closest to the city's main gate, a position both vital and deadly.

His cloak, torn and stained, fluttered lightly behind him. Though the storm had passed days ago, the true tempest had never left. It pulsed in the air, humming through the stones, waiting to break loose again.

Around him stood twelve thousand defenders—soldiers, templars, archers, even beardless boys forced to take up arms. Sunlight gleamed on rusted helms and dented armor, and though their faces were worn with exhaustion, their eyes still burned. They held.

High atop the gatehouse tower, the Duke of Faro stood with his sword drawn, helmet tucked under one arm. He roared through the wind with the fury of a lion:

"Archers in front! Swords and spears in the back! Hold your fire until I give the command!"

Jesus glanced his way, then looked back toward the battlefield.

They had survived a week of hell. Relentless waves of suicidal assaults—Ratmen chanting to foul gods, Granadan fanatics charging with wild eyes—had battered the walls like a sea of madness. Cordoba had held, but it had bled.

One thousand defenders were dead—friends, sons, comrades. A thousand fewer than when this siege began.

The enemy had suffered worse. Four thousand Ratmen had perished—burned, broken, and riddled with arrows. Another thousand Granadans had died, their bodies now rotting beneath the sun. But there were always more. Always.

The enemy had crept forward behind barricades—timber walls and refuse, shielding their archers and slingers. But yesterday, the defenders had struck back. Cannon fire and fire arrows had reduced those barricades to blackened heaps. The field now lay open.

Before Jesus stretched a graveyard—a no-man's-land of broken barricades and tangled corpses, vultures circling above. There was no more cover. Only death waited in that sunlit killing field.

And now, beyond it... they came again.

From the edge of the distant woods, the full might of the enemy emerged. A black tide of vermin and men, weapons raised, banners flapping in the breeze. Jesus narrowed his eyes.

Fifty-five thousand. Maybe more.

They poured from the tree line like floodwaters, spreading from the southern riverbank to the northern edge of the wall—a monstrous line over seven hundred fifty meters wide.

The Ratmen led the charge. Feral, snarling, most wore only rags. Jagged knives, rusted cleavers, sharpened bones flashed in the sun. Some howled. Some foamed at the mouth. Some gnawed on their own flesh as they marched.

Behind them, black-armored war-rats advanced in tighter ranks—taller, broader, bearing cruel halberds and shields engraved with unholy sigils.

Then came the Granadan traitors—a twisted echo of humanity. Most were peasants, dragged from fields and forced into battle with wooden shields and chipped spears. But scattered among them were fanatics and mercenaries, armored in chain and mail, flying the crimson-tattered banners of the Duke of Granada.

Jesus felt his knuckles tighten around the hilt of his sword. His men—his brothers—held the wall beside him. Many would die. But they would not break.

He looked once more toward the Duke of Faro, who raised his sword to the sky:

"Steady! Wait for my mark!"

The wall was silent now. The wind blew softly. The sun shone on the broken field like a mockery of peace.

Then—distant, sharp, and unnatural—the warhorns of the Ratmen split the air.

"KIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII! KIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!"

The earth trembled beneath the march of the enemy. Drums pounded—a deep, throbbing beat that echoed through the battlefield like the sound of doom. The air was filled with the squeaky, high-pitched chants of the Ratmen, their voices rising in a maddening chorus:

"Death to men! Death to men! Death to men!"

The rats screamed in unison, the words dripping with venom. Their commanders, perched atop wagons or leading the charge from behind, shrieked:

"Louder! Louder!"

A frenzy of madness swept through their ranks, urging them forward. The sight was terrifying—fifty-five thousand rats, skittering and shrieking, eyes red with hunger and madness. Feral energy radiated from them, the air thick with the stench of fear and blood.

Mixed among them were the Granadan men, forced into this horror. The faces of the conscripted soldiers were pale, their eyes wide with confusion and fear. Some questioned their lot in life—how had they come to this? They'd joined out of desperation, poverty, or blind loyalty. But now? Now it was too late. To flee would be to fall into the jaws of the rats.

But the rat army marched forward without mercy, carrying with them an arsenal of siege weapons—wooden barricades on wheels, ladders, and towering siege engines. The most fearsome of these were the Rat-Ogres—hulking, misshapen beasts standing over three meters tall, their muscular bodies covered in filthy patches of fur. Some wore pieces of armor, others nothing but their own deformed skin. With brutal force, they pushed the siege towers forward, their massive arms straining against the weight.

The men atop the walls watched in dread as the ground shook with every step. Fear spread among the defenders. These were men—many of them conscripts—who had never seen real combat, let alone faced such a grotesque horde. The tension in the air was suffocating.

Seeing the men's resolve weakening, Duke Faro strode to the front, his voice booming above the rumble of the battlefield:

"What is this I see? Men shaking in fear? In front of a bunch of rats? You cowards!" He threw his gauntlet to the ground, the clang echoing. "Remember who you are! You are men of Iberia! You are the light that stands in front of the dark!"

The men straightened at the Duke's words, renewed by his fierce resolve. Their fear had not left them, but their loyalty to their cause, to their homes, gave them something to cling to.

"You will not falter! You must be brave this day for your families!" the Duke continued, his voice rising like a storm. "I say we send these rats back to the dark holes where they came from! I for one will not stop until all these rats are back in their holes, where the only smell they will know is the shit coming off my boot heels!"

A roar of approval erupted from the men. The shields beat the walls like drums of war, their voices a defiant clamor that filled the air.

But Jesus of Sagres and his men did not cheer. They did not need the Duke's words, for they had already found peace in the Force, a calm that neither fear nor madness could touch.

As the enemy continued their march, the ground seemed to shake with their advance. The Ratmen closed in, now only two hundred and forty meters from the walls. The defenders tensed, shields at the ready. The barricades were in place, siege towers loomed, and small catapults were rolled forward behind them, ready to unleash their deadly payload.

The atmosphere grew thick with anticipation. The Duke's voice rang out:

"Hold! Wait for my command!"

Suddenly, a deformed black rat, standing on a cart, raised a hand and bellowed:

"Release the prisoners!"

A chill ran through Jesus and the men at the gatehouse as they saw the enemy's twisted cargo—prisoners—strung up like cattle in the distance. They were human, or had been once, faces twisted in horror and terror.

And then the first wave hit.

From the catapults came the grisly payload—severed body parts, torn from the Ratmen and the Granadan prisoners alike. They flew through the air, cannonballs of flesh, crashing into the walls with sickening thuds.

Jesus felt something heavy slam into his shield. He lowered it, his eyes falling to the ground. At his feet lay the severed head of a man, blood still trickling from the gaping wound. He could not tell who it was, but the others could.

Around him, the air was filled with the sound of flying body parts—limbs, heads, and chunks of flesh. Some of the severed limbs did not even make it over the wall, hitting the outer ramparts and splattering against the stones with sickening wetness. Blood ran in rivers on the wall as the defenders scrambled to avoid the grotesque missiles.

The men, unprepared for such horrors, reacted with shock and terror. Some screamed—their minds unable to process the brutality they were witnessing. Others retched, the stench of blood and rotting flesh too much to bear. The once-strong spirits of the defenders faltered in the face of such unrelenting gore.

Amidst the chaos, an Aragonian warrior pointed at a severed head that had fallen near them:

"Is that Pablo?"

Another warrior lifted a head from the pile and grimly inspected it:

"That's not Pablo, this is! That's Hugo!"

The words cut through the tension like a blade. Familiar faces. Fallen comrades. Their bodies broken and desecrated in ways no man should ever see.

The Ratmen's war chant continued to ring in the distance, their shrill voices mingling with the sounds of carnage. And behind it all, the endless surge of the enemy—relentless, overwhelming, unfeeling—pressed forward.

The defenders of Cordoba stood on the walls, watching their fate draw closer with each passing second.

As the Ratmen continued their advance, they snickered among themselves, their shrill voices barely audible over the rumble of war drums and the screams of the dying. At the base of the catapults, the rats were busy at work—cutting apart the bodies of fallen humans and rats, severing limbs and heads with vicious, haphazard strokes. Human villagers, forcibly conscripted into the rat army as little more than meat shields, were dragged from the battlefield and thrown into the machines of death.

The rats laughed cruelly as they chopped at the remains, their sharp teeth grinning as they prepared to hurl the bloody remnants toward the walls of Cordoba. Some of the villagers who had refused to flee in time, or those who had chosen not to cooperate with the rats, now found themselves as little more than tools of war—their fates sealed as the rats would either devour them or use them to desecrate the defenders' morale.

From his vantage point atop the eastern wall, Duke Faro saw this grotesque display. His face twisted into an expression of pure rage, his hands gripping the edge of the rampart as if ready to tear it apart.

"You vile, evil, little, fucking shits!" he screamed, his voice carrying across the walls, a wild fury building within him. "You're gonna pay!"

Beside him, the Lord of Segres—a calm, calculating figure—yelled in panic, his voice shaking with urgency:

"Not yet! Don't do it!"

But the Duke would not listen. His voice rose with unbridled anger, drowning out the pleas of his ally:

"Send these foul rats back into the abyss! Fire at will!"

The Duke's words were a spark. The command rippled across the entire wall like a wildfire. Soldiers who had been standing at attention, steeling themselves for the inevitable clash, suddenly came alive with action.

"Fire at will!" the men roared, their voices filled with the fervor of men fighting for their homes, for their lives.

In an instant, the air was filled with the sound of thunderous cannon fire. The cannons, strategically positioned atop the towers, launched their deadly payloads into the masses of rats below. Musket shots rang out in rapid succession, their puffs of smoke mingling with the rising tension. The archers joined the fray, their arrows soaring through the sky.

At a range of 240 meters, many shots fell short, unable to reach the massed enemy. But there were so many rats, so many targets, that the defenders were able to hit something, even if by sheer luck.

The cannonballs crashed into the rat barricades, sending splinters flying in all directions. The wooden shields and siege towers that the rats had laboriously pushed forward were shredded into pieces, the force of the impact obliterating entire sections of their ranks. Rats were hurled through the air, cut in half, their bodies torn apart by the force of the explosions. The battlefield became a mangled mess of blood, limbs, and destroyed siege equipment.

One musket ball found its mark in the red eye of a particularly large and grotesque rat. The bullet exploded the rat's skull, splattering brain matter as it fell dead in its tracks.

A hunter, his eyes narrowed in concentration, pulled back on his longbow. His arrow sailed through the air, a perfect shot. It struck a rat flag-bearer clean in the arm, the force of the impact causing the rat to scream in pain.

"Damn you! Damn you, human!" the rat cursed, clutching at the shaft sticking out of its arm.

But as the rat continued to curse, the unthinkable happened. A cannonball, fired from one of the nearby towers, soared overhead and slammed into a siege tower, smashing through the center. The rats inside were instantly obliterated, their bodies flung in all directions, the debris scattering across the battlefield. However, the tower did not stop. It continued to advance, the momentum of the remaining rats pushing it onward despite the catastrophic damage.

Destruction was everywhere. Hundreds of rats lay dead on the field, their bodies disfigured and broken, but the swarm did not stop. Even after two hundred rats fell, the rest surged forward, undeterred.

The defenders had inflicted damage, but the rat horde was still vast—still relentless.

The Duke of Faro's fury only grew with every passing moment. But even as he screamed for more fire, he knew—their forces were limited. The city only had thirty cannons and around two thousand musketeers. The number of longbowmen and crossbowmen was small compared to the enemy's size. Even the archers with their short bows could only reach so far—a hundred meters at best.

But even with the overwhelming rat numbers, the defenders pressed on.

And then, as if to match the Duke's defiance, the Ratmen answered.

The rats at the front of the line charged, their ladder-bearers sprinting forward with frenzied zeal. Behind them, more rats carried barricades and siege towers, pushing them relentlessly toward the wall. The catapult crews, unable to withstand the chaos any longer, abandoned their posts and joined the charge, hurling themselves into the melee with brutal abandon.

The Swarm Lord, watching from the rear, observed with calculated malice. The catapults had been of little use anyway, their low-impact shots failing to cause any meaningful damage. But the charge—the relentless surge of bodies, the deathless momentum—would carry them through.

Jesus stood at the wall, watching the rats approach, his expression unreadable. His grip tightened on his sword as he prepared for what was about to come. There would be no stopping the rats, not until the last of them fell, but he would make them pay—every last one.

The air was thick with tension, the relentless pounding of war drums, the cries of the wounded, and the deafening shrieks of the rats as they pressed in on the walls. The battlefield, a grotesque clash of life and death, now teetered on the edge of something even darker.

Jesus stood firm, his eyes narrowing as the enemy closed in. Patience was his weapon. The Force hummed within him, his mind calm, his body prepared. The army of rats was nearly upon them, but he knew the real bloodshed would begin as soon as they closed the gap.

When the enemy reached 100 meters, the true killing began.

Shortbows erupted from the walls in unison, their arrows cutting through the air with deadly precision. At the same time, the Ratmen retaliated, unleashing a barrage of stones from their ranks, a cloud of jagged rocks aimed at the defenders above.

Jesus' helmet, designed for battle, did little to protect him from the chaotic scene unfolding. As he surveyed the battlefield, a stone came flying toward him from the distance. With a swift tilt of his head, the stone zipped past his ear, creating a whistling sound as it missed him by mere inches.

On his right, one of his archers wasn't so lucky. A stone, sharp and jagged, struck him directly in the forehead. The force of the impact split his skull instantly, and the archer crumpled to the ground, dead before his body even hit the stone floor.

Another archer, drawn into the battle with a grim sense of duty, aimed his bow over the battlements. He released the string, but before the arrow could fly, a stone struck his left hand, crushing and twisting his fingers with a sickening snap. The archer screamed in agony, his hand mangled beyond recognition. He was swiftly pulled back from the wall, his comrades trying to tend to him.

Around them, the chaos continued. Slingers from the rat army sent stone after stone toward the defenders. Some missed, falling harmlessly to the ground, while others found their marks. Dozens of men were struck down, their lives extinguished by the relentless bombardment.

The rat army, however, was not without its flaws. Despite their fury, the defenders still held firm. Human archers, despite their lack of numbers, fought with everything they had. The majority of the slinger stones went wide, missing their targets. Only a few found their way to their intended victims, but the loss was painful for the men on the walls.

As the ladders arrived at the walls, the rats surged forward with screeches of insane enthusiasm. They climbed with reckless abandon, as if the very act of reaching the top would bring them victory. Jesus saw the frenzy in their eyes—something unnatural in their frenzied ascent.

He smiled grimly.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice barely audible above the chaos. He turned to his three force-sensitive men, their faces set with a resolve that mirrored his own. They nodded in unison, their eyes meeting his for a brief moment before they returned to the task at hand.

Each section of the wall was broken up by towers, and the only way to cross into the other sections was through these inner gateways. It was the perfect setup for the defenders, especially with the ladders now placed in front of them.

Six ladders stood across their 40-meter stretch of wall, each one beginning to tilt as the rats scrambled up them. Jesus and his three followers, all force-sensitive, moved into position. They reached out with the Force—together, their minds linked, a singular wave of power surging from their outstretched hands.

With a single thought, they focused their combined energy on one ladder.

The effect was immediate.

To the rats climbing the ladder, it felt as though they were being shoved hard by an invisible hand. The ladder jerked violently, and before the rats could react, it collapsed. The rats that had been climbing were thrown into the air as the ladder buckled beneath them. The highest rat, nearly at the top, crashed to the ground with a sickening thud. He landed on the bodies of others, his broken body and theirs combining into a bloody heap.

The screams of the rats filled the air as nearly twenty of them were crushed in an instant, their lives snuffed out by the force of the fall. The other rats, seeing this, were momentarily stunned—their momentum shattered by the unexpected shift in their climb.

For a brief moment, there was a pause in the rat army's advance. They looked on in horror as their comrades were thrown to the ground, crushed by the weight of their own foolishness.

But that moment of hesitation was short-lived.

The remaining rats began to panic, scrambling to climb the other ladders as quickly as possible. Their insanity overtook them once again, and they rushed forward like wild animals, desperate to get onto the walls.

But the defenders were ready. The spears and swords of the men on the wall met them with brutal precision. The first wave of rats that managed to reach the top found themselves face-to-face with the sharp end of a spear.

A few managed to push forward, but they were quickly overwhelmed. The defenders, well-prepared for this moment, pushed them back with all their strength. Jesus and his men, calm and collected, watched from above, their gazes focused on the sea of rats.

A Ratman, its sword gripped tightly in its paw, clambered up a ladder with a relentless determination. It was a brave one, a warrior with feral fury in its eyes. As it reached the top, a spear came down toward it, but with a swift motion, it raised its shield, blocking the attack. Another spear thrust came, but it met the Ratman's shield with a clash, and the rat, using its free paw, swiftly pulled itself up the ladder, its torso exposed.

The peasant spearmen, desperate to defend their wall, did not hesitate. One drove his spear into the Ratman's stomach, the metal biting deep into its flesh. But the rat didn't flinch. It was beyond pain.

"Die, human!" the Ratman howled, the words gurgling through its bloodied mouth.

Read latest chapters at freёweɓnovel.com Only.

The spearman looked down in terror as the Ratman forced its body forward, pushing past the blade of the spear and all the way to the wooden handle. With its sword raised, the Ratman lunged forward, slashing across the spearman's neck, cutting it clean off in a single motion. Blood sprayed, and the man's body slumped lifelessly.

The bowman standing nearby, seeing the carnage unfold, turned in shock. He drew his dagger and lunged at the Ratman's back, stabbing it between the ribs. The rat grimaced in pain but kept its focus on the spearman in front of it. Another spear was thrust into the Ratman's side, piercing its flesh with brutal force. Finally, the Ratman's body went limp, and the spearmen pulled their blades free, momentarily relieved.

But the Ratman was far from dead.

Suddenly, a second Ratman appeared over the wall. It surged forward, its spiked mace raised high. With a brutal swing, it struck the bowman on the head, crushing his skull with a sickening crack. The man's face caved in, his body falling lifeless to the ground.

The spearman, witnessing the chaos, froze in fear. His legs turned to jelly, and he collapsed to the ground in a heap. Urine soaked his trousers as the terror of the moment overtook him.

The Ratman smiled, its sharp teeth glinting in the dim light, and advanced toward the terrified spearman. It raised its sword to strike.

But just as the blade descended, a shield interposed itself.

Jesus stepped forward, his shield raised to deflect the blow. The rat's sword struck the metal with a loud clang, but Jesus' defense was impenetrable. His sword in his right hand, he moved with ruthless efficiency, cutting the Ratman in half at the waist. The upper half of its body fell forward, lifeless, as the lower half dropped to the ground in a heap.

Without hesitation, Jesus focused his energy and, with a powerful psychic wave, sent the severed corpse of the Ratman flying into another climbing rat. The impact sent both rats tumbling off the wall, their bodies crashing into the mass of soldiers below.

"Push the ladder down!" Jesus ordered, his voice cold and commanding.

His followers, moving swiftly, shoved the ladder away from the wall, sending it crashing to the ground. The rest of the rats, now hesitating at the sight of their comrades falling to their deaths, struggled to find their next move.

From a distance, the Lord of Segres watched the chaotic scene unfold. He saw the bravery of the defenders, but he also saw the overwhelming numbers of the rat army, pushing ever closer to the walls.

"We must not falter now!" he shouted, turning toward his men. "Get those archers away from the ladders! Swordsmen, to the front! We cannot let them take the walls, or the city will fall! The lives of every man, woman, and child in this city depend on us!"

The battle for the walls grew more intense, with fierce clashes taking place all along the parapets. The rats, relentless in their pursuit of destruction, continued to surge forward. For each one that fell, another took its place, clambering up the ladders and hurling themselves at the defenders.

The towers on either side of the city walls provided cover for the archers and musketeers. Volley after volley of arrows and bullets rained down on the Ratmen, striking their exposed sides as they climbed. The defenders, though outnumbered, fought with everything they had, each man driven by the sheer will to protect their home.

At the gatehouse, Duke Faro looked out over the battlefield with grim determination. His mind raced, calculating the odds. The cannon fire and muskets had taken down many of the rat forces, but there were still too many of them. The rats were relentless, and if this continued, he knew they wouldn't last much longer.

"Six minutes have already passed since the first shot was fired," the Duke muttered to himself, his voice low with frustration. He gazed out at the battlefield, where over two thousand rats had already died, and yet it felt like nothing was enough to halt the tide.

His eyes narrowed as he turned to look at the city's castle in the distance. He could almost feel the cowardice emanating from the Duke of Cordoba's retreating position. The thought of being left to command the city's defense alone, while the Duke of Cordoba hid behind his castle walls, filled him with rage.

"Damn you, Duke of Cordoba." Faro muttered under his breath. "How dare you leave me to do your dirty work? How dare you leave me to face this... this filth!?"

With a deep breath, he turned toward his commanding officer standing beside him.

"Make the rats burn," he commanded.

The soldier saluted briefly, then quickly raised a red flag. Across the city, the same signal was echoed from the other towers. Torches were thrown down to the ground in front of the walls, lighting the oil-soaked earth alight in an instant.

The flames leaped into the air, casting a sickly glow across the battlefield. The black smoke quickly swirled, engulfing the rats climbing the ladders. The once-confident Ratmen began to choke and struggle, their lungs burning from the smoke. Their frantic scrambling slowed as they began to fall back, overwhelmed by the fire and the suffocating air.

For the defenders, this was a momentary respite. The fires had claimed over five hundred rats in mere seconds. The smoke offered the humans temporary cover, allowing them to breathe and regroup for the challenges ahead.

The Duke of Faro let out a sigh of relief. Though the battle was far from over, the small victory gave him a moment to gather his thoughts. He had bought his men precious time, and now they could focus on what came next: the siege towers.

But as he looked out across the battlefield, his mind lingered on the city's fate. Victory was uncertain, and the rats were only growing in number. The final test was yet to come. And when it did, he knew, it would be a test of every ounce of strength he and his men had left.