As an Ironbreaker of the Ironbreakers, Betris Ilmina was undoubtedly powerful, but even such a warrior, facing a warband of thousands of Beastmen, had no choice but to flee with his wife and child.
Ingrid (Ingrid Sturlmarik), take Andumgar Ilmina to the human lad's city-state quickly! The people of the nearby Hawk's Hold will help us! Go!
"No, my husband, I'm staying to cover you!" Ingrid picked up the flintlock rifle her father had made for her and unleashed a roaring blast, firing at the damned Beastmen bastards.
"I'm staying too!" a loud and firm voice said. "Get to safety!" (Betris/Ingrid)
"You little runt, you've only been wielding an axe and shield for a few years! Do you think you're impressive just because you've been fighting for over twenty years since birth, huh?! Get to the city-state, quickly!"
"I'm sorry, Andumgar, you must go to safety. Your father and I will definitely return. I promise Valaya we will return victorious."
Betris took a step, a standard punch aimed squarely at Andumgar's face. Andumgar struggled to adjust his body, using his arm to block the obvious attack. "I must take this hit. I can't run anymore. Mother, Father, you've already sacrificed too much for me. I want to fight with you."
"Hmph, ah, cough, cough." Clearly, taking a direct hit from an Ironbreaker's fist head-on was the most foolish thing to do, but Andumgar still did it. "I want to fight with my family; I will never be a coward!"
"Betris, the Minotaurs are charging! Come help me!"
"Damn it!" Betris cursed under his breath. "Hold onto your axe and shield! Weapons can be lost, but you don't have good armor, so you must hold your shield! If you can't hold it, then get to the human city-state!"
"I promise, honored Father!"
"Alright, lad, protect yourself! Let's go!" *Whoosh!* Betris stood his ground. "Ingrid, just go help Andumgar. I'll handle the enemies nearby." Even though his dwarven physique prevented him from making many agile movements,
Betris Ilmina, the Ironbreaker of the Ironbreakers, still executed the best possible moves, lowering his stance, raising his leg like a spring, and charging into a jump.
A charge of over a dozen Minotaurs. Clearly, their minuscule brains couldn't comprehend how such a short, squat dwarf could charge them, but in the next second, they realized the immense threat.
A full-force overhead strike, a perfect jump-chop, severed the Minotaur's ugly head. "Pah! I'll use your bastard skulls to clean away my grudges!"
The corpse of the leading Minotaur successfully halted the destructive charge of the Minotaurs, forcing them into close-quarters combat.
Years of combat experience and instinct quickly allowed the Ironbreakers to understand their current predicament and how to resolve it. The dwarven body structure was insufficient for long-distance, highly agile evasive maneuvers,
but it was enough to dodge and weave within a confined space. Betris skillfully controlled his body, evading attack after attack, and launching even fiercer counterattacks.
One Minotaur attempted a jump-chop to finish Betris, but Betris simply raised his shield, letting the Minotaur crash violently into it, then flung it away, knocking down a swathe of enemies.
Betris realized he needed to end the fight with these bastards quickly. Andumgar and his wife were barely holding back the assault of thousands of Beastmen warbands. Even though only two-thirds remained now, the scattered Ungors, those still fighting, could be considered elites.
Axe after axe, faster and fiercer strikes, smashed this small squad of Minotaurs. Andumgar gripped his shield tightly, charging forward again and again, pushing back wave after wave of enemies. He was using the most physically exhausting method to buy time. "Father!"
Andumgar watched as Betris wielded his twin axes, slaughtering foes. His shield was thrown directly, smashing into a charging Centigor. Betris immediately grabbed Andumgar. "We'll fight and retreat."
The Ironbreaker was already exhausted. The high-speed killing efficiency had consumed a tremendous amount of stamina. Hundreds of Beastmen corpses had been left behind, hundreds had fled, and a squad of 20 Minotaurs had been cut down. Only the Beastlord and his personal guard remained.
"Wait!" Ingrid immediately pulled Andumgar to run towards the Hawk's Hold fortress. Betris roared, pushing his wife and child away. Ingrid, with a look of reluctance, immediately dragged Andumgar to escape. "Now, shut up, Andumgar! We must reach Hawk's Hold fortress immediately!" "Why? My father can't resist such an enemy with us. Isn't the opponent just an ordinary Beast King?" "No, Andumgar, you're wrong. That's a Great Gorehorn." Such a familiar voice. Carefully feel the ground's vibrations.
"It's a Great Gorehorn," Andumgar murmured, his voice lost.
Betris looked at the monster before him, sending his last gaze to his loved ones behind him. "Come on, monster."
Betris threw both axes; one struck, and the other embedded itself in the monster's right cheek. He erupted, pulled the fuse of a grenade, and lunged, embracing the Great Gorehorn. The monster fought back desperately but was ultimately blown into a half-paralyzed state.
Ingrid brought the disoriented Andumgar to the dwarven community.
Ingrid looked at the dwarf before her, his heroic posture, resolute eyes, and the iron hammer on his shoulder. "Take good care of my child, Deskel." Old Des looked at the enemies behind the mother and son, the Centigors. "Ah, rest well, little Ingrid. Time to stretch my old bones. Berman, take them to a safe place." "Yes, ."
Berman carried Ingrid on his left and Andumgar on his right, quickly running into the house and down into the underground.
"You scoundrel, wouldn't it have been good to have Berman and a squad of Rangers assist you? Ah, if it's fate, it's fate; if it's misfortune, you can't escape it." Des muttered the common saying that the young human lad used to say, an excellent culture from Cathay, which he found quite catchy.
Des took up his stance, wielding his hammer. Perhaps it was the passing of another compatriot. A new grudge was recorded, and Des was much more furious and aggressive than usual. Such a Des was terrifying, cutting down the miscellaneous cannon fodder that had snuck in like grass.
After slaughtering the pursuing monsters and cleaning up the battlefield, he pushed open the door of the house. Deskel looked at his old acquaintance, Sten. "Is Ingrid doing alright?"
"She's alright. She fainted after facing such a tragedy. But this young'un… well, that's another story. His coming-of-age ceremony coincided with a Beastmen invasion, and that old scoundrel died in the accident. His mother fainted and is unconscious. Such a blow for a child is a pain he shouldn't have at this age. Yet he hasn't broken down, truly worthy of being that scoundrel who refused Berman's help."
"How about we stock up a few liters of beer for him to ease him for now?"
Des stared at Sten with an extremely ruthless gaze, implying, 'I'm about to beat you up.' "This is the best solution right now, Old Des!" Sten immediately backed away, darting and rolling before slamming the door shut and shouting.
"Ah, come in. You hold him; I'll pour it down him." "Alright!"
Sten pushed the door open with his right hand, and Des delivered a straight punch to Sten's left arm. "By the Ancestors! Damn you, Old Des, you're just as much of a scoundrel as Betris!" Sten rubbed his left arm and cursed.
After a few liters of dwarven fine beer, Andumgar lost consciousness on the spot and fell into a deep sleep. "Sten, you guide him. Guide him to settle his grudges, let vengeance ease his pain, and let time heal his wounds."
"Why not you?" Sten teased Des. "Me? You want me to beat him up and then curse at the child, is that it?" Des put his hands on his hips, righteous. "You scoundrel, you know what would happen if it were me."
"Ah, ha! Of course! After all, Deskel is unrivaled in 'boosting morale'!"
Des immediately threw a punch at Sten's right face. Sten immediately charged forward with a headbutt. A moment later, "By the beards of the Ancestors! You two are truly energetic, no less than youngsters!" Berman barely suppressed his laughter as he watched the two dwarves, glaring at each other, covered in bruises.
Andumgar woke up feeling like he had lost something, but he couldn't find what it was. "Hey, hey, little Andumgar."
"Uncle Sten?" "Ho ho, you still remember this old fellow, huh? Uncle Sten, your butcher-red beard is so eye-catching."
"Hahaha, I won't tease you anymore. You don't need to know what happened before, at least not now, and there's no 'why.' Des has prepared equipment for you. You must retrieve a treasure for your mother." Ingrid was very angry. "There's still enough time until your coming-of-age ceremony."
"What?! That scoundrel bullied my mother?!" Andumgar's small beard bristled with anger at this point. He blew his beard and glared, questioning Sten, "Where? What place? Who?"
"In the Black Forest, a small path leads to that monster."
"Thank you." Andumgar immediately stood up, took the map Uncle Sten handed him, and set off to equip his armor and weapons. Before leaving, Des specifically made Andumgar take a protective amulet.
"Alright, I said it, tell those engineer lads to speed up! These broken catapults have no power. If we can't even take this small Dwarves's fortress, how will we waaagh back to Pillar City?"
On a small hill out of range of the dwarfs' fire, several Night Goblins leaders were whispering to each other, all wearing large hooded cloaks. It seemed the one in the middle, with the highest status, also had the tallest hat.
"And, get those stupid, greedy Trolls out for me! All they do is eat and do no work; I'd rather have grot than them!"
After one of his subordinates left to carry out the order, the Night Goblins Boss continued to issue his commands.
"Faster for me, even faster! The surrounding Dwarvess won't ignore this! They might already be on their way!" the Night Goblins Boss muttered to himself, his voice tinged with anxiety.
"Gobbla, be patient! You'll get a big meal soon, yes, your favorite dwarf meat!" he said to the squig beside him, which appeared to be a size larger than common squigs.
Watching his Goblins surge like waves towards Undermountain Hold's walls, and listening to the clanging of weapons from underground, the Goblin Boss felt good. His eyes slowly lost focus, and he fell into memories of the past.
It was a moonlit night. After the membrane receded, the Night Goblins Boss's small hand touched the soft soil. At that time, his little brain had no other desire than to frantically dig at the earth, pushing it upwards.
After taking a breath of fresh air, he looked around. Everywhere were newly born Goblins like him, but he looked smaller than the others, yet greener, with redder eyes, and seemingly a quicker mind.
The newborn Boss and the Goblins born with him walked along, guided by an innate sense of direction. Soon, they came to a fire.
"Ikit, Ikit is the greatest!"
"The Evil Moon shines, Goblins reborn! This is a good thing! New Goblins dedicated to Ikit, this is a gift! They will fight dwarfs and big rats!"
The newborn Night Goblins found a group of their predecessors gathered before the fire, howling. These predecessors did not give the Night Goblins Boss a pleasant experience at the time.
Goblins are creatures that bully the weak and fear the strong, and the Night Goblins sub-species even more so. These predecessors severely bullied the newborns of the tribe.
The Boss noticed Ikit, who, to him at the time, seemed as tall as a mountain, holding a double-headed axe. His tall hat was embroidered with many grinning moons and some crying suns. One of Ikit's eyes was blind, he had a long scar on his face, and his hands were stained black with snot.
Ikit growled. He stood up and swept aside all the Night Goblins in his way with his axe, both the newborns and the existing ones.
"These runts are useless! I need new warbands to fight the rats, not this pig swill! Look at you, lying around like a bunch of grot! Listen up, by the next full moon, I want four squads of strong lads, or you won't live!"
Ikit casually grabbed a Goblin and threw it against the wall; the poor fellow immediately died. Then he swaggered off, his personal guard following him. These strong kin were armed to the teeth, smiling wickedly at their weaker kin by the campfire.
At that moment, the newborn Night Goblins Boss had an idea—he wanted to become the Boss!
However, subsequent developments did not go as he wished. In the early days, the little Goblins were forced to join the tribe as slaves. Their task was to train and collect mushrooms that parasitized in the shacks.
The Night Goblins Boss at the time was called "Little Rat" due to his small stature, but this physical disadvantage did not prevent his rise in the tribe's hierarchy. This was because he gradually discovered he possessed a wisdom beyond the usual for Greenskins.
After teaching several generations of newborn Goblins, "Little Rat" was finally recognized as a true tribe member and was officially renamed "Big Rat" because he was still the smallest Goblin.
He began to use his authority and wisdom to try and gain greater influence within the tribe. One day, he rescued a scrawny little squig from his opponent's dinner table.
These attempts did not significantly change "Big Rat's" living conditions until one day he released a truly big rat, a Stormvermin of Clan Mors captured by the tribe.
Within the Skaven under-empire, the highest decision-making power belongs to the so-called Council of Thirteen. Thirteen is the sacred number of the Skaven god, the most powerful of the Chaos minor gods—The Great Horned Rat.
However, the Council of Thirteen only has twelve Skaven members. This is because legend says the owner of the thirteenth seat will be The Great Horned Rat's chosen one, but to this day, this person has not appeared. The current thirteenth member is a symbolic object, a giant effigy of The Great Horned Rat.
The chief of the Council of Thirteen is the Grey Seer Lord. Since the Grey Seer is the spokesperson for The Great Horned Rat, he can vote on behalf of The Great Horned Rat, thus the Grey Seer clan has two votes, and the Grey Seer Lord is also the chairman of the Council of Thirteen.
Although the Grey Seer clan holds a high position, their population is very small compared to other Great clans. At the same time, they have always been committed to promoting tribal unity, acting as mediators among the major clans, so their influence on Skaven society is not the greatest.
Among the many factions in the entire Skaven under-empire, none are as powerful in military, political, and influence as the Four Great clans.
These ancient clans are the Skryre Clan, which trains Warlock Engineers; clan Moulder, which breeds mutated beasts; clan Pestilens, which trains fanatical Plague Monks; and Clan Eshin, surrounded by assassins.
The Four Great clans are at the pinnacle of the under-empire's rule. Their wealth, power, and influence can change the political landscape and social structure of the under-empire in an instant. Their power is so immense that the leaders of the Four Great clans each hold a seat on the Council of Thirteen.
Clan Mors is one of the most powerful clans in the under-empire, considered a newly prominent Great clan. Due to recent victories and rapid expansion, this family's power and influence have already rivaled the Four Great clans, and its Warlord also holds a seat on the Council of Thirteen.
Members of Clan Mors, contrary to Skaven societal norms, are highly unified and exhibit unprecedented loyalty to their clan leader. Even a large number of members from other absorbed clans quickly praise their clan Lord Gnolandor and the Council of s.
This loyalty is not necessarily caused by the most obscene and wicked sorcery or some as-yet-undiscovered drug; perhaps it is due to other things unknown to the rat-folk.
This Stormvermin, named Big Yellow Tooth, began exchanging information with the Night Goblins Boss, then known as "Big Rat." Specifically, they exchanged intelligence on their respective enemies, which made the Night Goblins Boss very wealthy and his reputation grew daily. However, good times did not last.
His rival, Snotruk, a Night Goblins also in the middle ranks of the tribe, discovered his secret dealings and reported him to the tribe leader. The Night Goblins Boss was ordered to be executed.
However, a dwarf expeditionary force arrived in time and attacked his tribe's camp. "Big Rat" was hastily thrown into an underground river, drifting away from Karak-Eight-Peaks.
When he barely survived the underground river and drifted ashore, the poor "Big Rat" was discovered by a group of goblin wolf riders and taken as a slave. The leader of the Wolf Rider tribe was a strange and enormous Goblin, whose moniker was Makiki the Barbecuer.
Perhaps it was due to his extensive experience from years of riding Dire Wolves across the Badlands, or perhaps simple curiosity, Makiki was different from previous tribal leaders. He sensed "Big Rat's" potential.
Therefore, he wanted to confirm this by observing what this little creature would do during his captivity. In his opinion, such a green, red-eyed, and seemingly intelligent fellow had a strong possibility of forming a spiritual connection with Gork and Mork and becoming a Shaman.
For this reason, Makiki kept "Big Rat" in a small cage for several years. During his imprisonment, "Big Rat" studied the habits of the Wolf Rider tribe, learning many tactics and strategies he hadn't known before.
As the Wolf Rider tribe roamed the wilderness, "Big Rat," using his intelligence, learned Dwarfish and Human Common Tongue by eavesdropping, questioning fellow captives (dwarfs and Humans), and other means.
Thereafter, "Big Rat" seized the opportunity to demonstrate his wisdom and cunning to Makiki. Makiki realized that although this small individual had not awakened spellcasting abilities, he could still be immensely useful.
Thus, Makiki released "Big Rat" and appointed him as his spy. Just like before, "Big Rat" quickly distinguished himself with his unique cunning and intelligence, so much so that other tribe members became somewhat fearful.
Having lived with these plain Goblins for a long time, "Big Rat's" body began to grow larger and larger, eventually surpassing most Night Goblins, yet the plain Goblins still considered him a small runt.
Eventually, "Big Rat's" ambition surpassed Makiki the Barbecuer. Having witnessed the prosperity of the Crooked Moon Tribe in Pillar City, he felt there was no future in following the latter.
This was because Makiki only thought of selling defeated armies as slaves, rather than assimilating them and forming a massive Waaagh!
"Big Rat" finally found an opportunity to murder Makiki the Barbecuer on a dark and stormy night and took over the entire Wolf Rider tribe. His first command as leader was to return to Karak-Eight-Peaks to get revenge on his former master.
Upon discovering that the lower levels of Karak-Eight-Peaks had been conquered by Clan Mors of the Skaven, "Big Rat" decided to sneak in through secret passages to negotiate with Ikit the Hangman, leader of the Crooked Moon Tribe.
However, "Big Rat" was captured by his old enemy Snotruk, who had betrayed him. During his absence, this old rival had not been idle; he had become the leader of the Crooked Moon Tribe's vassal tribe, the Backstage Boys.
Snotruk intended to make "Big Rat" duel to the death with a group of hungry Cave Squigs. However, the largest and most despicable squig betrayed his companions and bravely protected "Big Rat"!
"Big Rat" realized that this squig was the one he had impulsively saved years ago, so he decided to adopt it as a pet and named him Gobbla.
With Gobbla's help, "Big Rat" broke free from his bonds and fed Snotruk to it. Finally, he absorbed the Backstage Boys amidst the cheers of his kin.
When "Big Rat" set his sights on the central throne of Karak-Eight-Peaks, Gork and Mork, whom he had only vaguely sensed, responded to him.
There, "Big Rat" believed he saw the one among the two Greenskin gods who emphasized cunning and wisdom—Mork.
Mork told "Big Rat" that his power was not yet sufficient to seize Eight Peaks Mountain from his kin; he needed to do other things first.
From then on, "Big Rat" had a new name—Skarsnik, meaning the ruthless dagger.
After receiving Mork's oracle, Skarsnik put his clever mind to work. He needed to find a good place to accumulate strength and return to Pillar City.
After gathering intelligence and weighing the pros and cons, Skarsnik chose the Grey Mountains as the starting point for his dominion. This was because, in his view, the Grey Mountains had just experienced a massive Waaagh!
Due to the characteristic of Greenskins releasing spores after dying or being wounded, it was foreseeable that a large number of newly born Greenskins would emerge from the ground here.
Similarly, because Gulu, the greatest Goblin Warlord, had raised his army in this area, his lingering prestige would make it easier for Greenskins to accept a Goblin as their Boss.
Beyond these two points, Gulu's massive Waaagh! had gathered the Greenskin tribes that originally occupied various strongholds, leaving a power vacuum. It had also impacted the surrounding forces of order, such as Humans and dwarfs, which would alleviate pressure on his developing power in its early stages.
Such thorough consideration is enough to show Skarsnik's difference from ordinary Greenskins; he possesses a strategic vision that is rare among all intelligent races.
If everything went according to plan, he would capture Karak-Azgaraz and use it as a base to grow his power. Years later, he would return to the Badlands with a large army, and through a series of bloody battles and cunning schemes, gain control of the upper fortress of Karak-Eight-Peaks.
From then on, Skarsnik would become the most threatening Greenskin Warlord in the World's Edge Mountains, earning an entire page dedicated to him in Thorgrim's great book of grudges.
Besides Goblins, even orks and Black Orc Warlords would be forced to submit to this cunning Goblin, or be fed to Gobbla.
This Goblin, who had earned the title of Warlord of Eight Peaks Mountain, would constantly fight two sworn enemies: the vengeful rightful lord of Eight Peaks Mountain, Belegar Ironhammer, and the mad Warlord of Eight Peaks Mountain, Queek Headtaker. Their battles would last almost until the end of the world.
If, everything went according to plan.
At lunchtime, Fatis led his warhorse over to Gromril.
"What? You're going to have a few drinks before the big battle? If we drink all the wine we brought, we'll only have greenskin mushroom brew for the victory feast!" Gromril quipped to lighten the mood.
"The Night Goblins prefer to attack at night, so we need to find a good place to set up camp tonight!" said Fatis.
Gromril's expression was somewhat surprised; such information was common knowledge for dwarves, even children under the care of Valaya's priests could probably talk about it on paper for a few sentences. He didn't understand why this experienced Questing Knight chose this moment to say it.
"So, do you have any suggestions?" Gromril asked out of respect. Now, with a significant number of human adventurers in the caravan, Fatis could organize them into a fighting force, which greatly increased his importance.
"Master Gromril, I do know a good place!" Fatis said, taking a sip of beer. Gromril straightened up, knowing the main event was about to begin.
"Sanglak Castle, it's a remote small town in the middle of the Grey Mountains. I've studied the route, and it's within an hour's journey from the geomantic network your ancestors built!" Fatis began his enthusiastic sales pitch.
"It's a sturdy stone castle, and its outer walls can ensure you and your caravan have a safe night!" Fatis continued.
"Sounds good! Are you familiar with the lord of Sanglak Castle? It wouldn't be good for so many of us to visit unannounced, would it?" Gromril began to probe.
"We're quite familiar, I suppose. In my youth, Viscount Ackerman and I served as Errant Knights together, and we forged a deep friendship during an Errant War!" Fatis drank his wine and fell into reminiscence, which seemed to be a precious time for this deeply troubled Questing Knight.
"Errant Knight, is that considered a formal Knight?" Gromril asked the question he had always wanted to know.
"Every noble scion of Bretonnia, from the moment they are born, is dedicated to treading the path of knighthood; our Knight status is practically inherent!" Fatis answered proudly.
"Although one's birth can guarantee them the status of a Knight, most young nobles only receive formal feudal lands after proving their worth," Fatis continued, chewing on his hardtack.
"Nobles with feudal lands can be called Kingdom Knights, right?" Seeing that they were about to enter Bretonnian territory, Gromril wanted to learn as much as possible about this Knight Kingdom.
"Yes, some of my friends who are not skilled in combat obtained feudal lands through loyal service to high-ranking nobles, and some incompetent ones tried to acquire an estate through powerful connections and family ties." It was clear that Fatis had little regard for these two types of people.
"But if you ask me, for a young Knight, the most glorious and outstanding way to prove one's ability is to contend with the enemy on the battlefield!" His voice rose.
"Naturally, true warriors are worthy of respect wherever they are!" Gromril echoed.
"Every ambitious adult male noble in Bretonnia will leave home as an Errant Knight to embark on his first long adventure. This adventure will be their practical classroom for learning necessary knowledge. Of course, at this time, they have no experience at all, relying solely on enthusiasm and courage to roam around," Fatis recalled his state back then.
Gromril knew that sending hot-blooded young noble recruits out on adventures was already a tradition in Bretonnian society. At any given time, a large number of young nobles traveled throughout the country and even the entire Old World, seeking opportunities to prove themselves, though such behavior could also lead to trouble.
"Bretonnia is full of dangers! Filthy hooved creatures, omnipresent greenskins, Ratmen in the sewers, and possibly giant monsters!"
Time was of the essence, and the convoy had already set off again after a brief rest. Fatis walked beside Gromril, leading his snow-white half-elf warhorse named Emma.
"Even with my current strength, traveling alone in the wilderness is extremely dangerous! Therefore, most young Knights seek companions for their journeys. Generally speaking, other Errant Knights are the most popular choice because we are from the same social class and share common goals and living habits."
Fatis's words conveyed the unique arrogance of Bretonnian nobles; in their eyes, whether lower-class people, represented by serfs, even counted as their kind was a question.
"However, it's akin to a blind dog leading a blind man, so smarter youngsters choose to join adventurer groups. No group would refuse an excellent Knight!" His tone, though proud, spoke the truth.
"From adventurers of different backgrounds and social strata, they can gain more experience and avoid some detours, but young Knights would prefer to become the leaders of such groups."
Gromril nodded, understanding the inherent pride of these nobles.
"Was the Errant War launched by that Knight King also primarily composed of them?" Gromril asked. He was very interested in the mechanism of the Errant War's initiation. If there was an opportunity, the Mountains Kingdom had no shortage of shining gold.
"Yes, almost no Kingdom Knights participate in Errant Wars; they are busy governing their own lands, which are typically one or two small villages crowded with serfs, the fields they work, and their own small castles."
Fatis likely had relevant experience, as his description was vivid.
"As lords, they must supervise the serfs' labor to meet the tax demands of the Duke and the King. They also have to protect their people from the depredations of greenskins, Beastmen, and Norscans. Therefore, only during major wars do Kingdom Knights answer the call of their high-ranking lords, bringing their own armed retainers to join the conflict."
Gromril nodded upon hearing this. It seemed he would have to approach the upper-class nobles of Bretonnia if he wanted the help of a high-level Knight legion.
He had plenty of time; the entire caravan would spend the New Year at Karak-Varn. This was to allow sufficient time for merchants to travel throughout Bretonnia.
At the same time, merchants from the Imperium of Man's Reikland would cross the Reik River to conduct trade.
Furthermore, although this information was closely guarded by those in the know, there were High Elves colonies along the coastal areas of Bretonnia. Through this channel, trade with the High Elves could be conducted without traveling to Ulthuan in the vast ocean.
"Viscount Ackerman is a Pegasus Knight, and his noble steed and his own pure character are renowned far and wide!"
Upon hearing this, Gromril immediately instructed the rangers at the front of the convoy to re-route towards Sanglak Castle. As a Transmigrator, he deeply understood the importance of aerial reconnaissance.
Currently, he knew nothing about the situation of his enemies and allies. With the help of a Pegasus Knight, things would be entirely different.
Before setting off, Gromril asked Lord Brokk if Barren Fort had any dwarf Gyrocopters. As expected, he received a negative reply.
Facing the numerous flying units of the Athel Loren, which were enough to obscure the sun and moon in the sky, the few and inflexible Gyrocopters would likely only have one chance to take off.
After dinner, the convoy left the Geomantic Web and headed towards the southern foothills of the Grey Mountains, below which lay the territory of the Duchy of Parravon.
After a short while, Gromril saw a towering spire in the distance.
"That is Sanglak Castle!" Fatis said, mounted on his warhorse.
"The castles of the Duchy of Parravon are known for their high towers. In the forest, a tall enough tower allows watchmen a wide field of vision!"
Standing on the land of Bretonnia, even though this Questing Knight had always claimed he would never return home until he found the Holy Grail, Gromril still felt that he was as comfortable as a fish returning to water.
"Let me see…" Fatis cupped his hand over his eyes, looking into the distance by moonlight. "Old Ackerman must have raised the tower again; it wasn't this high originally. This is because most Pegasi prefer high places. No, that's not right!" The Knight's voice suddenly became tense.
"What's wrong, what's wrong?" Gromril tried to straighten up on his rock ram to see further, but a rock ram could not compare to a tall half-elf warhorse, and his stature was even less comparable to the tall Knight. After much effort, he saw nothing.
"Respected Chosen of the Goddess! That castle is under siege by Goblins!" Several scouting rangers ran to Gromril to report.
Gromril glanced at Fatis. He finally understood why this Knight had tried to persuade him to take a detour—he had anticipated that his friend's territory would be attacked!
"Change formation, keep the merchants and wagons at the back!"
"Combat units, advance at full speed!"
"Have the artillery crews remove the covers and prepare for firing!"
Gromril issued several commands in succession. He had no objection to Fatis's little scheme. This should not be the main force of the Night Goblins, because being stuck here would not cut off the connection between Barren Fort and Undermountain Hold.
If he could train his troops on a Goblin detachment, gain some combat experience and skill points, and secure the help of a Pegasus Knight, it would be killing two birds with one stone.
"Master Gromril, should I lead my men in a charge first?" As he spoke, the team advanced further, entering the woods on the mountainside, where the visibility was not as good as before.
Fatis's words were a little anxious. Emma, his mount, also seemed to sense her master's thoughts. She pawed at the ground with her front hooves, snorting white mist from her nostrils.
"Closer, a little closer. In the woods, other cavalry can't pick up speed like you! My cannons can't provide cover for you either!" Gromril soothed, narrowing his eyes and tightening his grip on his warhammer.
Under a forced march, the woods ahead soon thinned out. As Fatis, leading the human members, rushed to save their compatriots, Gromril saw shadowy Goblins.
"In the name of the Ancestor Gods, crush these filthy creatures!" Gromril roared, kicking his rock ram and charging out with his Anvil Guard.
Bursting out of the woods, Gromril surveyed the battlefield from his rock ram's back. He saw Sanglak Castle standing in a valley, facing south, backed by the Grey Mountains. Gromril and his troops had come over the eastern ridge, striking directly at the Green Skin forces' flank.
The Green Skins launched their offensive along the valley. Gromril did not see any orks; there were only large numbers of Goblins and Night Goblins, whose height was even less than that of dwarves.
They were driving some makeshift war machines, attempting to scale Sanglak Castle. Gromril saw that the castle's defenders were still fighting valiantly, which made him breathe a sigh of relief.
"Compatriots, form ranks at the front! Make way for our ranged firepower!"
Gromril shouted at the top of his lungs. At this moment, Johnson Strongshield's role became apparent. This dwarf, with his naturally loud voice, made Gromril's command heard across almost the entire battlefield.
The dwarf contingent advanced at the sound, forming a V-shaped formation to protect the flanks of the human troops who had entered the battlefield first, and to facilitate subsequent ranged firepower output.
The timely arrival of the dwarves boosted the morale of the human adventurers, who had lost their initial charge's momentum and were becoming entangled in a bitter struggle with the vast numbers of Goblins.
Fatis seized the opportunity, turning his remaining two dozen cavalry around. They spurred their mounts back a certain distance to gain space for another charge.
Before this, he could only wield his greatsword at the very front, relying on Emma's spirited kicking and dodging to counter the Goblins' attacks from all directions.
As the dwarf ranged units entered the battlefield, the "bang! bang!" of gunfire and the "whoosh! whoosh!" of crossbows rang out in quick succession.
Due to the narrow mountain path, the convoy was arranged in a single file. The gunmen and crossbowmen could not enter the battlefield simultaneously for a volley, so they first conducted a round of free firing.
Under the cover of over a hundred ranged weapons, Fatis and his men launched another charge.
The Goblins' height only reached the knees of the tall warhorses. The warhorses, along with their riders, sent the clustered, charging short goblins flying into the air!
The Goblins' already weak flanks collapsed. These small and timid creatures were even less resilient than ork Boyz; they could only fight when things were going well! As for holding the line against the odds? Don't even think about it!
"Brothers in the front, keep pushing!"
"Brockson! Adjust the cannon positions for me! Hit these short goblins hard!"
Gromril saw that the vanguard's attack was successful and then issued further instructions.
"Go back! You little runts, all of you go back!" A Night Goblin Leader equipped with a sword and shield ran back from beneath the city wall, shouting and attempting to stabilize the situation on the flank.
The Night Goblin Leader, accompanied by his own retinue of Night Goblins, who were noticeably better equipped, gradually stabilized the front line after cutting down a few panicked runaways.
"Hold the line! Hold it for me! That winged shrimp is already done for! Take down the shrimp's stone city, victory belongs to us, the great Goblins!" The Night Goblin Leader's sharp voice echoed across the battlefield, making Gromril's side tense up.
"What the hell are you talking about!" Fatis swung his greatsword in a circle, lopping off the heads of two Night Goblins who were a half-beat too slow. "Brother Akman has seen all kinds of storms; he's killed plenty of giants. How could he fall to you wastes, who are worse than rats!"
Fatis roared, "Kill them all! I won't take a single coin of the spoils!" He used the promise of profit to boost the morale of the adventurers around him.
"Brockson, aim carefully for me!" Gromril spotted the Night Goblin Leader and his retinue, who were clearly different from their peers. What better time than now to 'shoot the king first'?
This talented young engineer did not disappoint Gromril. While directing the artillery crew to correct the trajectories of the ballistas and cannons, he personally operated the Flame Cannon, which was the most difficult to use.
The Night Goblin Leader, gesticulating wildly at the front, had no idea what was about to happen. He was still smugly congratulating himself on successfully reforming the line and making those sudden enemies too scared to advance!
Just then, death rained down from above! Three massive ballista bolts, two cannonballs, and a huge fireball appeared over the heads of this group of Goblins.
As the artillery unleashed its power, another force appeared on the south side of the battlefield, at the mouth of the valley. Leading them was a small group of Knights, with the one at the front riding a Pegasus with wings sprouting from its ribs.
"Charge! For Bretonnia!" shouted the leading Pegasus Knight! He and his companions behind him held their lances level, forming an assault formation with him as the arrowhead.
Behind them were literally 'cloth-clad' archers, who rained arrows down on the Goblins in their charge path with their longbows.
"Peasant Archers!" Gromril muttered. He had some understanding of Bretonnia's only ranged force.
In Bretonnia, almost every peasant had to learn how to use a bow, whether they wanted to or not. This tradition was usually enforced by local lords to ensure they could respond to the call of war at any time.
This was because the chivalric code followed by the nobles forbade them from using any type of ranged weapon, which was considered cowardly.
The equipment of these temporarily conscripted peasant archers did not come from the local lord's armory; instead, they had to provide their own. Therefore, they wore a variety of mismatched clothing when going into battle.
Similarly, their bows and arrows were also their own property, passed down from father to son, and thus varied in quality. This resulted in their poor shooting accuracy.
To compensate for these weaknesses, archers often gathered in large Cluster units on the battlefield, performing organized volleys against incoming enemy forces. They also used makeshift wooden stakes and chevaux de frise to defend their positions, barely resisting enemy charges.
Although a peasant archer's pay was meager by most standards, it could still supplement a family's income during the off-season.
Driven by the desire to earn money, the morale of the peasant archers was very low. Without Knights supervising and encouraging them, it was common for archers to flee directly when the enemy approached.
Under the archers' cover, the charge of the newly arrived Knights achieved pleasing results. They drove straight to the center of the battlefield before slowly decelerating, where they met up with Gromril's vanguard led by Fatis!
Looking at the land plowed by artillery and the unrecognizable Goblin remains and severed limbs, every Bretonnian couldn't help but marvel at the power of the artillery.
"In the Lady's name! What brought you here, Uncle Fatis!" cried the Knight on the Pegasus. He clearly recognized Fatis.
"Don't talk about that yet! We need to quickly crush the Goblins completely and rescue the defenders in the castle!" Gromril arrived, riding his rock ram.
Seeing the valley mouth, their only retreat route, blocked by human reinforcements, the Night Goblins below Sanglak Castle began to fight like cornered beasts.
Under the command of a Night Goblin Shaman who was waving a staff and shrieking, they furiously charged the city walls. This was a race against time.
Every Night Goblin knew that only by rushing into the castle, organizing a defense using the very walls that had stopped them, and waiting for reinforcements would they have a glimmer of hope.
Similarly, the human defenders on the city walls also knew that the battle had reached its most critical moment. Although exhausted and near their limits, they still desperately wielded their weapons, trying to drive the Goblins from the walls.
"Fire! Aim for the base of the city wall!" This was Gromril's voice, as he shouted to Brockson, who was commanding the ranged units.
"Lads, hold on! In the Lady's name, I, Maldini, am here!" The Pegasus Knight leading the reinforcements spurred his mount into the air. Gromril's eyes widened as he watched the magnificent Pegasus spread its wings, and he suddenly felt his own little rock ram seemed rather inadequate.
Brockson loaded two tracer rounds into his double-barreled rifle. They left two yellow streaks in the night sky, illuminating the area in front of Sanglak Castle. This was a common method used by engineers to help shooters correct their aim in low light or darkness.
However, this was also a double-edged sword, as it would expose the engineer's own position and draw enemy fire. Therefore, it was generally only used when the enemy's ranged firepower was insufficient.
As the Dwarves' firepower poured down, the peasant archers once again drew their bows and loosed arrows. This time, they had smeared flammable grease on their arrows, and the flames illuminated Sanglak Castle's stone walls red.
The Goblins, whose morale was already low after their leader was executed by cannon, suffered another blow. Night Goblins feared light and fire even more than their surface-dwelling counterparts, and their last shred of courage broke.
"Sons of the Mountains! Spread out, block the valley mouth! I don't want any dirty dwarf-goblins to leave this valley alive!"
Gromril roared from his rock ram, hoping to annihilate all the Goblins here to prevent news of him and the reinforcements from reaching the main Greenskin force.
The Dwarves precisely executed Gromril's command. They detached a portion of their forces, abandoning their usual dense formation, and formed a horizontal line to block the valley mouth, pushing inwards.
While the melee units blocked the valley entrance, preparing to "close the door and beat the dog," the ranged units still on the ridge didn't rest.
They began to attack, in free-fire, those attempting to climb the mountain and escape.
As the battle progressed, when Roggof the Manticore Butcher blocked the Night Goblin Shaman who had thrown his staff and was trying to impersonate a common Night Goblin to escape, then swung his battle-axe and cut him in two, Gromril knew these goblinoids had completely lost the will to resist.
"Arrange for the pursuit and the cleanup of the battlefield!" Gromril, after striking the Rune of Fury and Destruction one last time to break a group of Night Goblins trying to make a final stand, dismounted from his rock ram.
He instructed Captain Grenson.
"Have the caravan find a place to camp.
We'll rest for the night and continue our journey tomorrow.
Karak-Azgaraz is our true destination, and a major battle might be waiting for us there!"
Gromril instructed Tomi.
Having gone through a series of small-scale clear-out operations along the way, Gromril had become much more composed.
He was no longer excited by a small victory.
"What skill point should I allocate?" Gromril realized that the experience he had accumulated from small victories along the way had made him level up.
He began to ponder.
Currently, his ultimate skill, Avatar of the Gods, was still locked.
Based on his experience playing Warcraft in his previous life, he speculated that he would only be able to allocate points at level six.
His current choices were to put another point into Stormhammer, or to choose Thunder Strike or Bash.
Of these three skills, Gromril least favored Bash, a passive effect.
At level one, it only had a twenty percent chance to deal extra damage and stun.
Gromril wasn't confident he could play the role of the "Stun Hammer Prince" like the famous player "Egg" in his previous life.
If he fought for a long time and it never triggered, he would be left with no tears to cry.
Considering that his main opponents would be numerous but low-quality Goblins, level one Stormhammer already provided enough crowd control.
Gromril decided to allocate a point to Thunder Strike.
Although he already had the Rune of Fury and Destruction, he could never have too much area damage and control.
As Gromril pondered, he walked towards the gate of Sanglak Castle.
Reaching the castle, he saw several Troll corpses.
These creatures were about the same height as the Ogre bartender he had seen in Karak-Heorn, but that was their only similarity.
Trolls are purely creatures of Chaos, generally believed to be mutated species, like Gryphons and Manticores, born when the polar warp gates collapsed and the forces of Chaos surged forth.
Just this alone made them incomparable to the pure-blooded creations of the Old Ones—the Ogres.
Trolls seem to have a slightly higher intelligence, of course, this is in comparison to Giants.
Compared to any intelligent creature, they are undoubtedly stupid and clumsy.
Trolls live in groups.
They use crude blunt weapons—such as tree trunks and clubs—and their own vomit as weapons.
Trolls are often half-deceived and half-driven into battle by Chaos warlords or Greenskins.
As simple-minded creatures with a chaotic and indiscriminate omnivorous appetite, anything is edible to Trolls.
This is thanks to the extremely potent digestive fluid in their stomachs.
Trolls will spray semi-liquid bile and semi-digested food at targets, corroding their armor and burning their flesh.
This is truly an utterly disgusting way to die.
Perhaps the most well-known characteristic of Trolls is their ability for rapid skin regeneration.
Their recovery rate can almost keep up with the rate at which they take damage.
To stop a Troll, to prevent it from regenerating and moving, one must inflict a massive amount of damage all at once.
However, even then, the Troll might still heal and recover after a few days.
The only thing that prevents Trolls from regenerating is fire.
Burning them to death is the only reliable way to kill a Troll.
The Troll corpses currently before him almost all had massive holes gouged in their upper bodies, killed with a single blow.
Otherwise, with these creatures' powerful fists and crude, massive weapons, Sanglak Castle's thin stone walls would have struggled to hold out until Gromril's arrival.
Escorted by the Anvil Guard, Gromril entered the castle.
He knew there would be some gains here.
Inside the walls, Gromril found the streets crowded with shabbily dressed peasants.
They must have lived in nearby villages and sought refuge in the lord's castle after the Greenskin invasion.
Gromril also saw several medics bandaging and treating the wounded.
He noticed that some of the injured wore decent armor, which distinguished them from the peasants who went to battle in simple cloth clothes.
"Respected Longbeard , thank you for your generous help!" a voice rang out in front of Gromril.
Gromril saw a handsome young man with golden hair.
"These men are our castle's Infantry Regiment!
They are all excellent fellows, and two of the most courageous in combat will later be promoted to Mounted Squires!" the young man introduced.
Gromril nodded at his words.
"Let's go this way.
My father sustained some injuries earlier, but they have just been brought under control with the help of the Athel Loren elixirs.
However, he is still unable to come out and greet you!" The young man gestured for him to follow.
"It's a small matter, a small matter!
Speaking of which, do our Bretonnia lords also form formal infantry units?
I thought they only conscripted peasants when needed."
Walking through the castle courtyard, Gromril asked.
In his memory, his impression of Bretonnia was only of various types of cavalry and a large number of old peasants.
"Naturally.
Peasants are often untrained, and they are not up to the task!" The young knight noble pursed his lips, clearly looking down on the peasants.
"Every knight needs a group of infantry, whether he is a lord with just one village or His Majesty the Knight King himself!" the young man explained.
"During wartime, they must resist the enemy until we find a suitable moment to charge.
When there are no military operations, these men perform regular tasks for the lord, such as monitoring the borders of their territory, or apprehending bandits and the like!"
Gromril could tell that this young man was currently studying military command theories.
His words had a somewhat theoretical, armchair general quality to them.
"Every year, in midsummer, after the planting is done, peasants from the surrounding areas come in groups to our castle to be reviewed and selected by the squires.
Those strong and loyal enough will be granted the honor of joining the Infantry Regiment, carrying equipment bearing our family crest, and fighting for my father!"
The young knight's words implied that this was a great favor.
Gromril knew that becoming a professional soldier would undoubtedly be a better life than farming, of course, not because the military pay was good, but because the life of a peasant was simply too harsh!
Sanglak Castle, as the seat of a Viscount, was not particularly large. Gromril, led by the young Knight, quickly arrived at the entrance of the reception room.
"Longbeard , um, may I ask your esteemed name? We're here!" The young man pushed open the door, intending to announce Gromril, but then realized they hadn't exchanged names yet.
"My name is Gromril-az Thorson, and by the standards of us Sons of the Mountains, I'm still quite young!" Gromril said, being modest, as he thought his name shouldn't have spread this far yet.
Seeing the somewhat dazed look in the young Knight's eyes, Gromril didn't wait for him to utter any polite phrases like "It's an honor to meet you!" and simply pushed the door open and entered.
He saw Fatis and a middle-aged man with a bandaged shoulder sitting together, chatting. The middle-aged man looked to be about the same age as Fatis, one with a face weathered by time, the other already balding at the crown.
"This is Viscount Ackerman, my old friend! And this is Master Gromril, my current employer!" Fatis introduced the two.
Viscount Ackerman stood up to show his gratitude to Gromril, his savior. Seeing him wince slightly as he moved his wound, Gromril quickly gestured for him not to bother with formalities.
"Thank you both for your timely assistance! Otherwise, my people and I would have been in great trouble!" Viscount Ackerman waved his uninjured left hand.
"Please try this, esteemed . This is the finest wine from our Dukedom of Parravon, absolutely no worse than what the Carcassonnian Duke's special reserve offers!" Viscount Ackerman picked up a bottle of red wine from the table and poured a glass for everyone.
Gromril had heard the Longbeard s around him mention the Duke's special reserve. This wine was considered the best quality wine in Bretonnia because only twelve bottles were produced each year.
Two of these bottles would be offered to the Knight King, while the remaining ten bottles would each sell for a hundred gold coins. Selling this wine was a significant source of income for the Duke of Carcassonne.
When Gromril first heard this, he secretly scoffed. Due to the frequent appearance of famous wines like "'82 Lafite" and "Romanée-Conti" in films and TV shows in his previous life, he had learned a bit about them.
From what he knew, even if it was rare, producing only twelve bottles a year was an exaggeration. This should be the result of deliberate limitation. If so, the Duke who set this rule was quite business-savvy.
Of course, many sommeliers across the Old World—including dwarves and humans—doubted whether this wine was worth such praise. Due to its low alcohol content and mild kick, it wasn't particularly popular in the Mountains Kingdom.
Gromril took a small sip. He began to try and savor this drink he hadn't often consumed in his previous life. The sweet taste was very different from the beer he had been drinking since his transmigration.
"What brings you two with such a large force to my mountain city?" After clinking glasses once, Viscount Ackerman asked the question he was most concerned about.
"It's like this, I'm going to rescue my kinsmen who live in Karak-Azgaraz, which you call Undermountain Hold. After that, I will go further west to Breezehold," Gromril said simply.
"Hmm, yes, these dwarf Goblins, like straw, are endless and appear in droves. That area must also be suffering from incursions!" Viscount Ackerman exclaimed angrily. Gromril felt that he must have had a very violent temper in his youth.
"If I hadn't taken a small Waaagh spell from a dwarf Goblin Shaman while dealing with those disgusting Trolls, and then couldn't dodge in time and got hit by a club, I would certainly go with you to rescue your kinsmen," Viscount Ackerman hammered the table with his left hand.
"Father, perhaps I can go! Knightly virtues tell me I should be brave and honorable! Repaying this 's kindness is an inescapable duty!" The young Knight called out from behind Viscount Ackerman.
"Good lad!" Fatis praised. "I haven't seen Maldini in years, and he's grown so much! I didn't even recognize him when we met on the battlefield just now. He truly has your old style when riding a Pegasus!"
Only then did Gromril realize that the Pegasus Knight from earlier was the Viscount's son. This greatly moved him; all he wanted was a Pegasus-riding aerial scout, and Gromril didn't care if he was old or young.
"Hahaha, seeing the battle turn against us, I had him ride out on a Pegasus to seek aid. My original intention was for the lad to escape if he could, but I didn't expect him to actually return with a group of reinforcements!" Viscount Ackerman was very pleased with his son's performance and greatly enjoyed his old friend's praise.
"How could I abandon you, Father, and our people to escape alone?" Maldini exclaimed. "If I were to commit such an unchivalrous act, how could I ever face the Lady?"
At this, both Ackerman and Fatis's expressions froze. Maldini also realized he had spoken out of turn. "Uncle Fatis, I didn't mean to offend..."
"It's alright. People, they should be responsible for their own mistakes! If the Lady is willing to forgive me, that is Her mercy; if not, then I will simply atone with my death!" Fatis sighed. Years of adventuring had made him somewhat philosophical.
"Alas, my dear Fatis, I say you should go home and take a look. If your family line truly dies out..." Ackerman took a sip of wine and tried to persuade him.
"I have laid down my lance, which was once the symbol of my duty; I have abandoned those I love, and those who love me; I have given up everything, taking only what my trial requires; no difficulty will stop me! Nor will I seek help; I will not stay in the same place for two nights; I will dedicate my body, mind, and soul to the Lady I seek and will serve!"
Fatis's voice resonated softly. He sat up straight, repeating his Questing Vow. The fire of faith seemed to burn in his eyes, and Viscount Ackerman, seeing this, found it hard to persuade him further.
"My eldest at home went east with His Majesty Charlemagne to clear out the Greenskins. When he returns, I'm sure he will have grown into an excellent lord capable of managing the territory! Then I too can lay down my lance and pursue the Holy Grail!" Viscount Ackerman clinked glasses with Fatis.
"Even though I've been busy managing the territory all these years, I haven't let my skills rust! My flail, combined with the impact of Yapo descending from the sky, hey, the Troll didn't even have a chance to regenerate before I caved its head in!"
Viscount Ackerman seemed to have a personality somewhat like a dwarf. After a few drinks, he spoke with animated gestures. Gromril guessed this was why he became a lord in such a remote place.
"Oh? Solving a few trolls makes you feel good? If you ask me, with your paltry skills, you'll probably be green fodder before you even leave the Grey Mountains!" Fatis grinned, joking with his old friend.
"Hmph! You better be careful. If I find the Holy Grail first, you'll have nowhere to put your old face, you 'Beast King Horn-breaker' Fatis, hmph hmph!"
Just as the two s began to bicker, young Maldini looked at Gromril and spoke hesitantly.
"May I, may I ask if you are Prince Gromril-az Thorson, the third son of the King of the Mountains himself?"
"Yes, what about it?" Hearing this, Gromril felt a bit strange. The young man in front of him didn't seem old enough to be losing his memory.
"My goodness! Your epic battle with Gulu at the Battle of Iron Gate has long spread throughout our knightly circles! Please, would you sign my cloak!" Bartini's eyes lit up as he grabbed Gromril.
"Wh-what? Epic battle?" Gromril was stunned. Viscount Ackerman and Fatis also turned their heads upon hearing this.
"What is it, my son? Do the knightly virtues you always speak of tell you to treat our saviors this way?" Viscount Ackerman was a little annoyed.
"By the Lady of the Lake! This is Prince Snorri! His story has been sung in taverns these past few days!" Maldini was unfazed and continued to exclaim.
"What! So it was you! My old friend's arrival obscured my vision! Please, come and sit!" Viscount Ackerman also became excited upon hearing this.
"What, has Master Gromril's name spread so widely already?" Fatis was also a bit taken aback.
"This gentleman, he didn't tell you about it?" Maldini asked, "Then Prince Snorri is truly the embodiment of the virtue of humility! Allow me to tell you about his achievements!"
Amidst the stunned silence of Fatis and Gromril himself, Maldini excitedly began to narrate.
"It was this summer, after Grumm the Great Belly King, that wicked and cunning Goblin, plagued the Border Princes, he attempted to pass through Black Fire Pass into the territory of our friends on the other side of the Mountains!"
Maldini got into the zone, clearly this young knight had often listened to bards perform in taverns.
"Thorgrim Grudgebearer, the King of the Mountains, organized a great army and arrayed his forces at a strategic point. He swore to uphold ancient oaths and, while he was at it, to settle a great many painful grudges! Prince Snorri marched with the army; this was his first battle!"
Upon hearing this, Gromril nodded. This part, so far, was consistent with the facts. But the following content left him dumbfounded.
"Prince Snorri is a born warrior! The wrath of the dwarf War God Grimnir burned fiercely in his chest! As soon as he saw that corpulent Goblin riding its crude war chariot onto the battlefield, he deemed it the greatest and deepest blasphemy against the Ancestor Gods!"
Bartini snatched his father's wine cup and took a gulp; the alcohol further stimulated his enthusiasm, and Viscount Ackerman was also engrossed, ignoring his son's impolite behavior.
"Prince Snorri, wielding the warhammer in his hand, charged directly towards Gulu's chariot! What a magnificent slaughter it was! Along the way, there were three, no, five Goblin chieftains, two ork Warbosses, and an Arachnarok Spider driven out from the deep forest!"
"Good!" Fatis exclaimed.
"That spider, larger than a house, could drain the life essence from its prey, leaving only bones and skin. Its hard shell was natural plate armor! And know this, the bite of all great spiders contains potent venom, capable of completely paralyzing its victim, and if that weren't enough, it carried a swarm of Goblins on its back; any enemy who saw it was sure to lose their courage!"
This passage was in the classic bardic style, where they would exaggerate the enemy's might to highlight the protagonist's bravery.
"Of course, those who felt fear did not include Prince Snorri. He used his ancestral warhammer—a weapon no less formidable than ghal-maraz itself!—to smash their heads open one by one! By the time he reached Grumm the Great Belly King, behind him lay a path of blood and flesh that even the Lord of Skulls himself would commend!" Maldini said, waving his arms as he spoke.
"And then? And then?" Fatis hadn't heard this story; his interest was piqued.
"Then, Prince Snorri loudly challenged Gulu, and that was a 'Champion's Duel'!"
Gromril knew about Champion's Duels; it was a popular form of single combat in the Old World, where the 'champion' was the most skilled fighter from each side's respective army.
Generally, the dwarf participant would be the Lord himself, but if there was a vast difference in status between the two parties or if the Lord was old and frail, the strongest warrior of the Mountain Stronghold would fight on his behalf.
By custom, unless it was the contemporary Phoenix King of the High Elves, Finubar the Seafarer, leading the charge himself, Thorgrim would never engage in a duel from his Throne of Power; other lowly opponents were not worthy of the Axe of Grimnir in the King of the Mountains' hand! In previous battles, Uncle Longhammer and Big Brother Grom had both fought for him.
"Prince Snorri's extraordinary valor intimidated that cowardly green-skin! He even trembled on his chariot, not daring to dismount!"
"What!?" Gromril cried out; this was far too absurd.
"Gulu, that cowardly and greedy fellow, relying on the speed of the four-legged beasts pulling his chariot, barely managed to contend with Prince Snorri. In the end, the valiant Prince, having expended too much stamina breaking through the enemy lines earlier, was narrowly defeated by half a move!"
"Filthy! By the Lady of the Lake! Its very existence insults the spirit of chivalry!"
"Long live His Majesty William III! These green creatures should be utterly annihilated!"
The two older knights exclaimed, abandoning their usual aristocratic etiquette and beginning to heartily drink wine straight from the bottle.
"After this, the Dwarf race's merciful Mother Goddess bestowed divine grace upon Prince Snorri. Not only did his injuries heal, and he gained greater power, but he also acquired the magnificent ability to share this divine grace with others, making them energetic and no longer fatigued!"
Maldini finished the story he had heard. Gromril, the protagonist of the tale, was utterly dumbfounded. Aside from the beginning and end, which were barely consistent with reality, what was all that stuff in the middle?
"Praise the Goddess!"
"Praise Prince Snorri!"
The three humans enthusiastically clinked glasses with Gromril.
Gromril suddenly had an epiphany—a noble prince, a grand battlefield, powerful enemies, heroic bloody battles, and the Goddess's grace.
When these elements were gathered, the protagonist's height, whether he rode a sheep or a horse, was no longer so important; this was enough to drive every Bretonnian yearning for the Holy Grail mad!
After listening to his own story, which had been magically altered, Gromril was impressed by the rich imagination of his clan and clansmen.
He could imagine one fellow merchant after another embellishing his story at the tavern table; he could also imagine one dwarf hotel owner after another giving a few silver coins to bards who only sang knightly epics, encouraging them to describe things with even more exaggeration!
As it was already late night from dusk, Gromril and Viscount Ackerman agreed that Maldini would lead a portion of the human army to support Karak-Azgaraz tomorrow, and then they bid farewell.
Early the next morning, the young Knight led his Pegasus to join Gromril's team. With him were ten Errant Knights, their ten squires, thirty infantrymen armed with swords and shields, and fifty peasant archers.
They were originally helpers that Bartini had found from several surrounding knightly domains, riding his Pegasus. When Gromril promised a package price of two hundred gold coins, these people immediately declared that rescuing their dwarf allies in Undermountain Hold was also their essential mission.
At Gromril's instruction, Bartini mounted his Pegasus and soared into the sky. Pegasi are relatively the cheapest and most easily acquired of all rideable flying mounts, but they are still extremely precious.
Pegasus Knights almost all come from the Duchy of Parravon, because only in the Grey Mountains there can their noble mounts be found.
Considering that the Duchy of Parravon is the birthplace of Pegasi, Maldini owned a Pegasus even when he was still an Errant Knight.
But in other Duchies, Pegasus Knights are mostly Kingdom Knights with their own fiefdoms, and they are either exceptionally brave or come from prominent families.
Pegasi are difficult to capture and train, and raising them is quite expensive. It is very difficult to support them without one's own territory.
Last night, Gromril couldn't help but chat with the local dwarf Rangers about capturing Pegasi. They told Gromril that if raised from a foal, without the guidance of older family members, their wings would gradually atrophy and they would lose the ability to fly as they aged.
Even a flightless Pegasus can run faster than most mounts in the Old World, only slightly slower than their flying kin, but losing the ability to fly undoubtedly significantly reduces its value.
In the more mountainous and rugged regions of Bretonnia, a Pegasus that is unaffected by bogs or thorns can better highlight its advantages.
Pegasi themselves even possess considerable combat power. They descend from the sky at high speed, and the enormous kinetic energy of both themselves and the heavily armored Knight on their back is enough to crush the heads of most enemies! Viscount Ackerman relied on this combat method to slay the Troll.
With Bartini scouting from the air, Gromril successively wiped out two waves of Greenskins that were plundering everywhere.
To ensure complete annihilation, Gromril always had local dwarf Rangers, familiar with the terrain, guide him to set up artillery positions in key locations beforehand, and then, by besieging three sides and leaving one open, forced the Greenskins to flee into the predetermined artillery attack range to be obliterated.
Although this slowed down the marching speed, it also ensured that the Goblin Warboss, who might be besieging Karak-Azgaraz, remained unaware of the approaching dwarf reinforcements.
At noon on the third day, Maldini descended from the sky on his Pegasus.
"Prince Snorri! I found a group of Ogres ahead!" He tossed his golden hair and spoke.
For normal human friends in the Old World, they still preferred to address Gromril by his Prince title.
After all, the faith of the Ancestor Goddess Valaya is limited to dwarfs, and a technical title like Rune Master is, in the eyes of humans, far less noble than being the son of the High King.
"A group of Ogres?" Gromril muttered to himself, thinking of the bartender he had seen in Karak-Heorn.
"They must be Ogre mercenaries!" Fatis's voice rang out. He had traveled the entire Old World in search of the Holy Grail, making him very knowledgeable.
"Whenever destructive actions occur, Ogre mercenaries will appear, whether it's fighting, besieging, destroying, or plundering towns. In those places, raids can happen at any time, and it usually means there's meat to eat. Ogres will rush there, set up camp, and look for a job."
Fatis introduced information about the Ogre mercenaries.
"So I can hire them too?" Gromril asked. Ogres are essentially a neutral race, and with the unknown number of enemies, Gromril was very willing to strengthen his own forces a bit.
"Indeed, but I must warn you, these Ogres usually demand a high price. If you run out of money and can no longer afford them, the best outcome might be that they leave without looking back."
Fatis hesitated to speak further. The reputation of Ogre mercenaries throughout the Old World was not too good. In his opinion, considering the dwarves' inherent love for gold, perhaps not hiring these fellows would be a better choice.
"I have plenty of gold! The entire Mountains Kingdom doesn't lack those shiny little darlings, and in contrast, the life of every one of our clansmen is a priceless treasure!"
Gromril tried to pat the Questing Knight on the shoulder, but due to the height difference, he ended up patting his backside.
"If we don't hire them, what if the Greenskins choose to act? Those green-skinned fellows have no use for gold; I heard they use their own teeth as currency."
Gromril said, mounting his rock ram, "Come on, let's go meet those big, drooling chunks of meat!"
"I haven't heard of any cases of Greenskins hiring Ogres in all these years! They think Ogres aren't 'WAAAGH' enough…" Fatis still tried to persuade him, but Gromril had already nudged his rock ram forward, and he could only follow.
Gromril walked to the very front of the Team, with the Anvil Guards trotting along behind him. Thanks to Maldini's aerial reconnaissance, he wasn't worried about being ambushed.
Soon, he smelled a foul odor. Without asking, Gromril knew the owners of this smell—the Ogres—were nearby.
"Listen up, big guys! My Boss wants you to take down the Dwarves's stinky wall!" Suddenly, Gromril heard a sharp voice, and he instinctively tightened his grip on his warhammer and rings.
"They, the cowardly dwarfs, are hiding behind the city walls, and we can't get our chariots in!"
The sharp voice was still ringing. Gromril made a silencing gesture. He dismounted his rock ram and tiptoed forward. With the help of the starli boots on his feet, he ignored the potholes and thorns along the way.
"Price! Ironhead Aykhatam wants your price!" A muffled, rough voice rang out, undoubtedly belonging to the Ogre mercenary leader.
"Price? Is that all you fat guys care about! Isn't having a fight and something to plunder enough? Waaagh! Waaagh!" The Night Goblin Leader seemed to have just crawled out of the ground, and his head wasn't quite clear yet.
"Get that ugly big-nosed thing off my face! My, my smartest Boss told me he's willing to pay you five hundred gold!"
"Five hundred? Not enough! Not enough! dwarf meat tastes earthy, and they're old and tough to chew! Ironhead Aykhatam doesn't like eating them!" The Ogre leader yelled.
"Eating dwarves gives you indigestion!"
"I don't like it either!"
The other Ogres also shouted. Gromril felt the Anvil Guards behind him clenching their weapons, on the verge of erupting.
"Hahaha, warriors from afar who worship the great maw! Look here, I have an even better offer!" Gromril, protected by the Anvil Guards, stepped out from the bushes where he was hiding.
"Dwarvess! How are they here! In front of us…" The Night Goblins were startled and cried out.
"Good! Good! Ironhead Aykhatam likes competition! This way he'll earn more, and eat more!" The Ogre leader sat on the ground, patting his belly plate.
"So, dwarf, how much are you willing to pay me and my lads?"
"Five hundred, also five hundred! Don't rush, warrior, hear me out!" Gromril offered the same price. Seeing the Ogre leader pick up his weapon from the ground, Gromril quickly raised a hand to soothe him.
"Are you making fun of Ironhead Aykhatam? Five hundred and five hundred, hmph hmph!" The Ogre pointed his massive Stormhammer at Gromril from a distance.
"It's the same price, true, but wouldn't easier work count as a better offer?" Gromril began his analysis.
"Those blackened green goblins want you to lay siege, to attack the sturdy Mountain Strongholds carved out of the Mountains by us Sons of the Mountains! You'll have to advance under cannon fire, gunshots, and heavy crossbows! Although you, Aihetanmu, are protected by armor, what about your clansmen behind you? They only have belly plates! How many do you think will be left after one battle?"
Gromril posed his question. He knew that although they weren't wealthy living in the harsh lands, most Ogres covered their bellies with armor. For them, belly plates were crucial because their most important organs were hidden behind that large belly.
Belly plates could prevent them from being disemboweled—the most terrifying way to die in an Ogre's mind—but their shoulders and heads remained exposed to fire, with only their natural thick hides offering a little protection.
"And all I need you to do is swing your clubs and smash those green guys who aren't much bigger than your Gnoblars!" Gromril saw some small green creatures bouncing around near the Ogres.
These small green-skins were bred by the Ogres when they migrated from the Giant Mountains to the Mournful Mountains. Ogres generally regarded them as pests or the lowest form of slaves. If there was truly nothing else to eat, they could be used as small snacks. Only a few Ogres used them as something akin to hunting dogs.
Compared to Goblins, Gnoblars were smaller and had an exaggeratedly large nose, even by Goblin standards.
"Sounds good, dwarf! Smashing these guys is indeed much easier! They can't even reach Ironhead Aykhatam's belly!" The Ogre leader burst into laughter.
"So, green thing a bit bigger than a Gnoblar! Are you going to raise your price?" The Ogre asked the Night Goblin Leader.
Gromril frowned at this. He didn't want to get into a bidding war with green-skins who didn't need gold! He opened his skill panel, directly selected Stormhammer, and targeted the Goblin leader who was contemplating a few dozen paces away.
Because Gromril hadn't brought any ranged firepower to speed things up, the Goblin leader, noticing this, didn't take much precaution.
"Hey! Take this hammer!" Gromril roared, throwing the warhammer in his hand.
With a "thud!", under the skill bonus, the Night Goblin Leader's head shattered instantly!
Looking at the green and white mess on the ground, everyone present was stunned for a moment. Soon, the Ogres reacted, picking up their weapons and standing up.
"Come back!" Gromril beckoned with his hand. The master-level throwing rune on the warhammer was triggered. The warhammer trembled slightly and flew back into Gromril's open palm, also smashing two Night Goblins who wanted to retrieve their Boss's corpse.
This move intimidated the Ogres in front of him. For these big guys, understanding this was a bit mind-boggling.
"What are you waiting for? For new mushrooms to grow out of the ground?" Gromril roared at the equally stunned Anvil Guards.
The Anvil Guards immediately snapped out of it. They swarmed forward and hacked the dozen or so Night Goblins who had come with the Night Goblin Leader into a bloody pulp.
"dwarf, you are very good!" Watching his initial prospective employer turn into shattered body parts in an instant, Aihetanmu frowned and opened his big mouth.
"I heard from the s of the tribe that green-skins are always cruel and cunning, but if you ask me, you are even more cruel than them!"
"Mercy to enemies is cruelty to oneself, isn't it?" Gromril took a towel and wiped his warhammer. The towel brought out tiny arcs of electricity on the hammerhead, which made many Ogres stare wide-eyed again.
"Wahahaha! You're right, dwarf! Ironhead Aykhatam likes employers like you, because you always win! That way, he and his lads get paid and get to eat meat!" The Ogre leader patted his belly plate, laughing heartily.
"Now what? I don't seem to have any competitors. Five hundred gold coins, are you and your men willing to work for me?" Gromril swung the cleaned warhammer in his hand, recharging the recently triggered runes while staring at Aihetanmu with ill intent.
The Ogre leader also felt a bit uneasy. He pretended to look around before nodding. "It seems I can only work for you! Let's be clear in advance, we don't do suicide missions!"
"Naturally, but I must ask clearly, you haven't desecrated the bodies of my clansmen, have you?"
Gromril asked, narrowing his eyes. He and the Anvil Guards behind him stared at the Ogres with intense killing intent.
If these mercenaries gave the wrong answer, then even if it meant some losses, Gromril would certainly settle the score here!
In dwarf tradition, the most important thing was to be buried in peace. If they stood by and watched their clansmen, after fighting bravely, still be picked over by Ogres, such hatred would be enough for every dwarf to swear the Slayer's Oath!