The kobolds quickly catch on to their emperor's plan. With a roar, they swarm Merat's form, climbing up his body like a swarm of ants. They cover him until little of Merat could be seen under, then begin stabbing. Swords, daggers, even a few kitchen knives make gruesome work of the gigantic figure. Limbs grow, and are hacked off again in a matter of seconds. Merat's bellows and trembles throw off little fighters in the dozens, but such is little compared to the rest of the legion, resting quite neatly on shoulders and hanging off of knees as they saw them. 

Rughoi knew that the effectiveness of this tactic was not sustainable. He was still losing good soldiers, fast. They had Merat on the ropes now, but soon, he will adapt to the situation again, and everyone would have to start over. He needed to strike now, while the iron is hot. But with what? He needed more hands, more support for this final push up to Merat's heads. "You!" he bellowed, gesturing to the nearest guard. "Fetch your worg and ride for Traeton! Get the auxiliary guard, militia, anyone!" but the soldier didn't seem to hear. It seems, once again, all of it came down to his own personal management. He began climbing at a haphazard rate up to his final goal, the heads. Occasionally, he would slip and lose ground, or suffer a near plummet to his death, but a hand from a loyal soldier would catch him, pull him up with an encouraging chorus, and help him on his way. The end was in sight, but only if he had just a bit more help.