Gromril's actions, in the eyes of Karak-Azgaraz's elders, undoubtedly conveyed this message:
"I, Gromril-az Thorson, am the Chosen of the Ancestor Goddess, son of the High King, disciple of Master Krag the Grim, and a member of the Drazklad Clan that rules the Everpeak."
"I'm not targeting anything specific in the warehouse; what I mean is, everything you all cherish is merely trash to me! Since it's all trash, I'll just casually pick one to show my appreciation."
Suffering such humiliation, these Old Dwarves felt deeply ashamed. However, these men, whose sharp edges had been blunted, neither dared to lash out nor swear the Slayer's Oath.
After all, Gromril hadn't actually said anything offensive; the previous thoughts were merely their own assumptions.
At their age and with their strength, if they became Slayers, they would likely report to the Ancestor Gods before even reaching Karak Kadrin. They still wanted to enjoy the taste of power for a while longer!
"Uncle Moens, I think you've become senile! Such behavior in front of the Ancestor Goddess is an absolute disgrace to our entire Undermountain Hold!" Lord Savaak said, addressing the old dwarf who had first jumped out to challenge them.
"You should go back and rest properly! I think the position of Citadel Steward should be handed over to your eldest nephew!" Lord Savaak had clearly taken Gromril's recent advice to heart, skillfully seizing this opportunity.
Hearing this, the surrounding elders quickly distanced themselves from Moens. They were all old, and they didn't want to offend Gromril and then be reported to the Ancestor Goddess.
"You are truly generous!"
"You bestow kindness without expecting anything in return; your character is as pure as Mithril!"
"As expected of one favored by the Ancestor Goddess! Such generosity is truly an ancient virtue!"
The dwarf elders of Undermountain Hold praised Gromril to ease the awkwardness. Of course, they couldn't say that their own possessions weren't good enough for Gromril, so they could only focus on his enthusiastic help and selflessness.
Gromril, seeing this, didn't show much. He knew that maintaining a smile and an air of mystery was best at this moment. Amidst the praises, he leisurely returned to his guest room on the upper level of the fortress, locking the precious gear into his safe.
Subsequently, Gromril kept a low profile, continuing his research into Rune Magic. On the third night, Balin and Cousin Tomi knocked on Gromril's door.
"Cousin! You are truly extraordinary! If it were me, I'd definitely pick the most expensive thing!" Cousin Tomi said, with three parts confusion and seven parts admiration.
"Yes, now everyone in the taverns is spreading word of your generosity! They all call you Gromril the Generous!" Balin added.
Indeed, with Gromril's previous willingness to reward subordinates and not covet spoils at Mountain Lake Fortress; his initiative to pay extra to buy technology from wanderers; his repeated refusal of tribute at Hornburg; his full payment of war bonuses and personal purchase of fine wine for clansmen at Undermountain Hold; and then, after offering help the previous midday, only taking one gear as payment—these deeds, intentionally or unintentionally spread, led the clansmen to start calling him "the Generous."
Gromril was very pleased to hear this. He had always wanted an epithet related to moral character. In his opinion, this was the most valuable type he could obtain at this stage.
Moral character epithets highlight what one possesses that others lack. If a Skaven were called loyal, a Goblin brave, or a Troll wise, everyone who heard it would immediately recognize that individual's extraordinary nature. The same applies to a dwarf, known for stinginess, being called generous.
In contrast, strength-based epithets should emphasize fewer modifiers and a wider scope. Imagine if the three who loved and hated each other at Eight Peaks Mountain could remove the "Eight Peaks Mountain" from their titles of "True King," "Warlord," and "God of War," or replace it with a broader scope like "the Mountains" or "the World's Edge Mountains"; the level of awe would undoubtedly increase.
Currently, Gromril cannot obtain a strength-based epithet. If he were to insist, it might be something like "First Rune Master of the Young Generation" or "Slaughter God of the Western Mines of the Silver Road," which would inevitably sound somewhat ridiculous.
As for weapon-based or physical characteristic-based epithets, those are even less suitable for public display. "Respected Chosen of the Goddess – Gromril the Flying Hammer!" Such an incongruous pairing would even make Gromril himself laugh at the thought.
"Cousin, what are you laughing about?" Balin asked, seeing Gromril smiling foolishly and spacing out. In his opinion, Gromril's addiction had undoubtedly grown stronger.
"Nothing, nothing! I just want to tell you both something," Gromril thought for a moment and decided to give his two relatives a hint.
"We should use what we have in abundance to acquire what we lack! Gold, this lovely thing, only generates true value when it flows." Balin didn't understand, but Tomi seemed thoughtful after hearing it.
After Gromril arranged for them to coordinate the delivery of the Organ Gun, he lay back down on his bed. He needed to start planning for his and his elder brother's future matters.
In Gromril's mind, his elder brother's wedding was already a certainty. Given the Dwarves' emphasis on promises, as long as no major mishap occurred, the Lord of Weifeng Fort (Breezehold) had no reason to go back on his word.
As for the so-called assessment, whether it was just a formality was hard to say, but Gromril felt that with his cunning and the warhammer in his hand, dealing with young clansmen from minor places shouldn't be too difficult.
Through the great battle with Skarsnik, Gromril re-evaluated his own strength. Although that Night Goblin Warlord's personal strength was at the bottom among the legendary lords of various races, and his supposed exceptional wisdom should be judged by Greenskin standards.
Nevertheless, this proved that he possessed a certain ability to protect himself; at least, he wouldn't easily fall into the hands of nobodies.
But when it came to his anvil of doom, Gromril still had no clue. His father, Thorgrim Grudgebearer, had only given him the message that "Weifeng Fort (Breezehold) has a spare one" and a theoretically sufficient budget, but he knew nothing of the specifics.
He couldn't blame his Old Father; as the High King of the Mountains, he had already done his utmost. If he went further, it wouldn't sound good if word got out that he was trying to seize an ancestral treasure from another fortress for his son.
Gromril currently needed all sorts of information related to this anvil of doom. What was its condition? Did it need repair? Who exactly wanted to monetize it, turning it into widely usable Oathgold?
And who, for what reasons, wished to keep this treasure in Karak-Zfirin, even if it meant it remained obscured for a time. Understanding these things would give him a certain advantage in negotiations.
Thinking of this, Gromril once again began to disguise himself. As usual, he just put on a fake beard, a hooded cloak, and that was it. For a relatively conservative race like the Dwarf race, disguise was still a novel thing.
Gromril once again headed to the communication hub for male dwarves—the pub. This time, he was still playing the role of an outsider merchant, but his purpose had changed to inquiring about potential business opportunities for his next stop.
Gromril made his way to the entrance of the Warrior's Pub, the largest pub in Karak-Azgaraz. In a dwarf stronghold, the largest pubs usually had some official background, managed by the Lord's own family or their closest vassals. Therefore, both the quality of the drinks and the personal safety of the customers were more guaranteed.
Pushing open the two half-height doors, Gromril immediately felt the lively atmosphere unique to a pub. Large, ornate candles hung from the high ceiling, their soft light illuminating the entire hall.
Tables were packed with celebrating clansmen, from Longbeard Elders to young'un, all gathered around, relieving the fatigue of a day's hard work with hearty drinking and delicious food.
Gromril knew that the pub's booming business these days was influenced by the arrival of the caravan. He saw many merchants who had traveled with him also lingering here.
Some formed their own tables, exchanging experiences from a day of trading and sharing business intelligence, while others, perhaps like himself, had infiltrated the local dwarfs, looking for business opportunities.
Smelling the rich aroma of wine and roasted meat filling the room, even though he had already eaten dinner, Gromril's craving was still piqued. Who wouldn't agree that pub food had a unique flavor compared to the mess hall?
"Hey! Make some room, fellows!" Gromril, fearing exposure, didn't squeeze towards the individual tables but instead found a seat at the bar.
"What can I get for you, friend? Thanks to Master Gromril, Chosen of the Goddess, we have Bergman's fine brew in today! This good stuff is only available around this time of year!"
Seeing a new customer, the bartender, who was burly even by dwarf standards, wiped a beer mug with a wet cloth while greeting Gromril.
"Hoh! That's really good! Give me a glass of Bergman No. 7, and, hmm, a grilled sausage platter!" Gromril thought for a moment and decided on a meat dish. Drinking without something to line his stomach wasn't pleasant.
"One grilled sausage platter!" the bartender yelled to the kitchen in his loud voice.
"You look new, friend, but you've certainly picked the right dish. Our Warrior's Pub has hired a Halfling chef at great expense, and his cooking is famous throughout the Grey Mountains!" The bartender, who had seen countless people, proactively struck up a conversation with Gromril.
Bergman's fine brew was already expensive, and its price soared even more after the long journey from the World's Edge Mountains to the middle section of the Grey Mountains.
The bartender had just mentioned it casually. In his experience, the peak consumption for that drink was during the New Year. It wasn't a holiday now, so any dwarf who could afford this fine brew for everyday consumption was undoubtedly wealthy.
"Hahaha! Indeed, indeed, I am not a local dwarf. I come from Karak-Heorn." The bartender's initiative to talk suited Gromril's intentions perfectly, though he gave a casual false piece of information, which the bartender didn't seem to mind.
"I thought so! Your wealth and demeanor are incomparable to those flatland dwarfs who associate with those scrawny human cubs!" the bartender praised.
Gromril was slightly taken aback. When a dwarf used an insulting term like "dwarf," it meant that the conflict between "Imperial dwarves" and "Karak dwarves" here was already quite intense. Of course, this also meant that his population migration policy would yield good results.
After winning the Battle of Black Fire Pass and establishing the "Great Alliance," the first Human Emperor Sigmar invited the dwarfs to leave the Mountains and settle with his people.
He sought the dwarfs' help to build cities and towns. Many dwarfs answered this call, and their descendants remain loyal Imperial citizens to this day.
Over the two millennia that followed, as the Mountain Kingdoms progressively declined, many dwarf strongholds, large and small settlements, and mining outposts fell one by one.
This forced a portion of dwarf clans to leave the Mountains and go to human lands, attracted by the high wages offered by humans, willing to dedicate their unique and superb dwarf skills for this pay.
These dwarfs residing in the human world, on the surface, looked and behaved very similarly to their relatives, the "Karak dwarfs," who lived in the Mountains, but in many subtle ways, they differed greatly.
Many dwarfs living in the Mountains believed that their kinsmen's long association with humans diminished the honor and traditions of the Dwarf race. Conversely, from the perspective of the Imperial dwarfs themselves, their Mountain kinsmen in the dwarf Kingdoms were too conservative and short-sighted.
Despite this, when their kinsmen were in danger, most Mountain dwarfs were still willing to accept them, and the flatland dwarfs were also willing to contribute their strength to the revival of their ancestral Mountain Kingdoms.
Gromril coughed twice and moved past that topic. To his knowledge, compared to the clansmen in the World's Edge Mountains, the clansmen in the Black, Grey, and Vaults Mountains were already relatively more open.
The current situation might be due to the bartender losing a lot of business, after all, the outsider clansmen had no fixed property here, so engaging in service industries, running pubs and restaurants, was quite reasonable.
"Innkeeper, I haven't traveled this trade route in many years. For a while, I was always heading north. Compared to that, it's still warmer here! North of Karak Kadrin, all the way to Kislev, the snow and wind were freezing!" Gromril started a new topic.
"Indeed, many adventurers from Kislev come here to make a living! And I must say, they really suit our tastes!"
"Karak-Zfirin, how's the weather around the New Year? If it's too cold, my old aching legs will need some warming-up gear in advance!" Gromril brought the conversation back to Breezehold.
"Hoh! Over there, well, as the name suggests, Breezehold!" The bartender pushed a glass full of bubbly golden liquid towards Gromril.
"The climate is quite mild! In winter, the warm, moist sea breeze from the Great Ocean means the northern part of the Grey Mountains barely sees any snow!" the bartender said with a chuckle.
"That's really good. I heard that Master Gromril has a secret mission this time, do you know anything about it?" Gromril decisively brought himself into the conversation to foster a closer relationship.
Gromril's penchant for spreading gossip in the tavern was undoubtedly in line with dwarf customs, and it quickly drew him into the discussions of the clansmen around him.
"What do you mean? Is it another arrangement by the Ancestor Goddess?" The barkeep stopped what he was doing and looked at Gromril with interest.
As it stood, Gromril's story was quite the hot topic in the bar. Even human bards knew that exaggerating the prince's tales would earn them much applause and generous tips.
"He, the esteemed Master Gromril, is going to Breezehold to escort his elder brother, Prince Grom, to his wedding!" Gromril mused that a year had passed since this news broke, and those who should know already did. For those who didn't, knowing now wouldn't matter much.
"Escort to a wedding? Well, well! It must be Princess Pamela, then?" The barkeep's booming voice could be heard by almost half the patrons in the hall, which was one reason why news spread so quickly in the tavern.
"Hmm? Yes, yes, it's Princess Pamela. Speaking of which, how did you guess, old man?" Gromril paused, then realized. He had only heard his father mention his future sister-in-law's name once in Karak-Varn.
However, he then thought that Karak-Zfirin was a long and arduous journey from Everpeak, so it was understandable that the clansmen who traveled with him wouldn't know the princess.
Karak-Azgaraz, on the other hand, was only a four or five-day journey from Breezehold, so it was reasonable for the clansmen here to know more about their close neighbors.
"Ho! You're a foreign Clansman, so you wouldn't know. Last year, this same caravan passed through on its return journey from Everpeak, with Princess Pamela in tow." The barkeep burst into hearty laughter.
"Back then, though I didn't see the beautiful princess myself, I heard no less than ten versions of her appearance! Wouldn't you agree?" He shouted to the surrounding patrons, which was undoubtedly a way to liven up the atmosphere.
"Indeed! The young'uns were constantly circling the inn where she stayed!" This was the disdainful voice of the Longbeard dwarves.
"Hahahaha, our Lord Savaak will be crying secretly in his bed when he hears about this!"
"Prince Grom? He once escorted a caravan here himself. He's a warrior worthy of such a match!"
The clamor of the clansmen buzzed around Gromril, rattling his skull.
"Hehehe, I heard that Lord Savaak at the time—no, the Steadfast King was still alive then—Prince Savaak, spared no effort in trying to win Princess Pamela's favor!"
Gromril gasped at this, completely taken by surprise. But thinking about it, it made sense: "The water-side pavilions get the moonlight first, and the sun-facing flowers are the first to bloom in spring." It was normal for Lord Savaak to have such intentions.
"This, ah, well!" Gromril casually agreed a few times, then brought the topic back.
"Lord Granite Hand, besides Princess Pamela, must have other children, right? Lord Savaak can wait a bit!"
"You're right about that. That lord is about the same age as our former king. He has two other adult children: his eldest son, Stringer, and a second daughter, though I don't know her name." The barkeep provided Gromril with the information he wanted.
"That Prince Stringer was originally a famous genius in our Grey Mountains. Just last year, at less than a hundred years old, he became a Rune Smith, only half a step behind our Master Gromril!" Before Gromril could prompt him further, the barkeep continued on his own.
"You see, compared to the Chosen of the Goddess who apprenticed under Master Krag the Grim, a Rune Master over a thousand years old whose power rivals the Ancestor Gods, Prince Stringer, who apprenticed under Master Halleck, had far fewer advantages."
Hearing this, Gromril thought that Master Krag hadn't exactly given him special treatment, but then he remembered the legendary starli boots on his feet, and his complaint died in his throat. He even had to push his feet further under the bar to prevent anyone from noticing the extraordinary nature of the starli boots.
"Originally, all of Breezehold was proud of their prince, believing he would eventually become an outstanding Rune Lord! When a Rune Master also serves as the lord of a fortress, he earns the title of Rune Lord."
Gromril, of course, knew this; becoming a Rune Lord was already his goal. Nevertheless, he nodded cooperatively.
"I heard that the prince himself was incredibly arrogant. Hmm, as a merchant, you're well-traveled, but I mean by the standards of us Sons of the Mountains, arrogant like a Pointy-ears!" The barkeep added, seemingly afraid Gromril might misunderstand Stringer's temperament.
Hearing this, Gromril's heart skipped a beat. Although Breezehold currently had no other Rune Master, if there was a young man with potential and status, then his anvil of doom would be in danger.
"However, with the news of Master Gromril receiving the Ancestor Goddess's grace, and subsequently completing a Master-level Rune in three days, spreading throughout the Mountains, Prince Stringer reportedly became like a knight whose lands had been stripped away, even his voice trembling!"
The barkeep seemed to have a hint of schadenfreude, perhaps because Prince Stringer's arrogance had earned him many enemies.
"What need is there for a mere merchant like me to worry about the lords' affairs? Instead, tell me what Karak-Zfirin is lacking right now! If I don't make a profit, I'll have to run off to my human friends' territory to trade during the New Year!"
Gromril once again brought the topic back. If he could know in advance what supplies Breezehold urgently needed, besides making a profit to fill his wallet, it might also make his offer more attractive than a simple oath-bound payment.
"Lacking what?" The barkeep stroked his shiny, well-oiled beard, a beard Gromril envied a little. If it were in a game, it would undoubtedly be a "Pure Great Beard."
"If you ask me, perhaps I could give you an answer more easily if you asked what it *doesn't* lack!" He feigned a moment of contemplation, then offered Gromril this amusing suggestion.
"Then, what does it *not* lack?" Gromril was also amused. "Gold?" He named the thing a dwarf stronghold usually had in abundance.
"Hahahaha!"
"It doesn't lack gold! Lord Granite Hand's treasury is so full you could grow green mushrooms in it!"
"I didn't realize you were so old and yet loved telling jokes so much!"
The clansmen sitting around Gromril also burst into laughter, which made Gromril a little embarrassed.
"What do you mean?" he asked the barkeep.
"Hahahaha, this is gossip, but it should be true!" The barkeep built up the suspense. "It's said that Grumm the Great Belly King arranged for his most greedy goblins to empty Breezehold's treasury!"
Upon hearing that the Breezehold's treasury had been looted by the Greenskins, Gromril was first delighted, then worried. He was delighted because, under these circumstances, the weight of the oath-gold in his hands had undoubtedly increased. He was worried, however, about whether the anvil of doom had been damaged or even stolen.
However, Gromril knew it was not the time to ask such sensitive questions. After all, the existence of an extra anvil of doom in Breezehold was already a secret, and its specific condition was not something that could be inquired about in a tavern in a neighboring fortress.
After getting a general understanding of Karak-Zfirin with a few more questions, Gromril relaxed and began to enjoy the food and wine. After all, shouldn't he reward himself after finishing his business? In a few days, he would be marching in the cold wind again.
In the following days, Gromril heard from the clansmen around him that Lord Savaak was cleaning up the fortress's elder council.
Riding on the momentum and prestige of the successful relief, the young dwarf Lord began to drastically replace the administrators, which made Gromril secretly shake his head.
In his opinion, Lord Savaak was still too hasty. In a relatively conservative race like the dwarves, such work should be done gradually. Being too aggressive could very likely lead to a backlash.
On the other hand, this also undoubtedly put Gromril, the one who secretly offered advice, on the spot. Although his prestige was such that no clansmen had come out to slander him, it was clear that Gromril did not want to interfere in the internal affairs of other Karaks in such a sensitive capacity.
Faced with this situation, Gromril simply stayed in the inn for a few more days. When the time came, he did not linger for a moment, urging his convoy to leave Karak-Azgaraz.
Looking back at the heavily rebuilt gates and walls of the Karak, Gromril took a deep breath of the cold mountain air. Feeling the chill that permeated his chest from outside in, he dispelled the weariness in his heart.
Here, he had slain his great enemy, Skarsnik. But the past was over; he had to move forward with great strides, continuing to strive for the revitalization of the Mountains Kingdom.
To Gromril's surprise, this journey did not have the snow and wind he had imagined. The road to Breezehold was almost smooth, with hardly any snow visible on the ridges.
Along the way, Gromril enjoyed a round of exotic scenery. This area was close to the vast ocean, and the gentle sea breeze brought a completely different climate.
For Gromril, who was once a Huaxia person, the temperate continental climate was undoubtedly more suitable. In comparison, the extreme cold of the World's Edge Mountains made him somewhat uncomfortable.
Along the southern foothills of the Mountains was the Duchy of Montfort. The Duke who ruled here was a living saint who had drunk the water of the Holy Grail. Under his relatively enlightened and benevolent rule, dwarf merchants said that the farmers here lived better than in other places.
To the north was still Reikland, controlled by William III. This future Emperor of the Imperium of Man was a powerful and far-sighted sovereign. Under his governance, Reikland was thriving.
Because both sides had relatively strong governments, the security along Gromril's route was quite good. After passing through two small dwarf settlements in a row, Gromril finally reached the last pass on his journey.
"Axe Bite Pass!" Gromril looked at this famous trade route. It connected the heartland of Bretonnia and the heartland of Reikland, making it arguably the most important thoroughfare between the Imperium of Man and Bretonnia.
Axe Bite Pass was therefore highly valued by both sides. On the Bretonnian side, the Duke's own towering Montfort Fortress guarded the narrow passage through Axe Bite Pass.
Thousands of years ago, at the beginning of the Knight Kingdom, the first Duke of Montfort, Malclaud, a companion of Gilles the Unifier, who was fondly remembered by his people,
chose this place for his residence and built the fortress walls to a towering height. This castle was famous throughout the Old World for its solidity, so much so that the image of its towering turrets was depicted on the Duke's family's coat of arms.
And on the Imperium of Man side, Helmgart Fortress was also a truly formidable pass. She was not only an important fortress but also a major trading hub.
As the Imperium of Man's most powerful neighbor, the Bretonnians occasionally encroached. To prevent this, the Imperium built solid fortresses here and deployed a large amount of artillery.
Helmgart Fortress consisted of three massive curtain walls carved out of the granite mountainside of the Grey Mountains. In addition, another curtain wall extended from the fortress to the other end of the valley. Anyone attempting to cross Axe Bite Pass had to pass through these curtain walls, which had only single gates.
From the fortress, the surrounding area could be overlooked, with unrestricted lines of fire covering the one-third of the passage distance near the Imperium of Man side of Axe Bite Pass.
"Let's go, we're going to Helmgart!" Gromril gave his command. According to the plan, the convoy would stop at this Human fortress for three days. This had hardly happened on the journey so far, but considering the importance of Axe Bite Pass and Helmgart's characteristic as a trade center, it was not surprising.
There was also a reason for choosing Helmgart over the larger, more solid, and more important Montfort Castle among the fortresses at both ends of the pass.
Between Bretonnia and the Imperium of Man, the two major Human-dominated powers, the dwarves undoubtedly preferred the Imperium of Man. Firstly, because of the ancient alliance between Kurgan Ironbeard and Sigmar,
and secondly, because the dwarves disliked the ruling Knight Lords of Bretonnia. In the dwarves' view, these Knights were mostly too arrogant and difficult to communicate with, and they also liked to flirt with the Pointy-ears in the forests to breed their warhorses.
Aside from these, there had always been a rumor in the Mountains Kingdom that the Lady of the Lake, whom the Bretonnians worshipped, was also a deity worshipped by the Pointy-ears. However, this rumor had never been confirmed.
Of course, Gromril knew this was true: the Lady of the Lake was also the Elf goddess Lileath, who presided over the moon, dreams, and magic. But considering that she had many devoted followers, and they were quite capable fighters, Gromril did not want to expose her without any benefit.
Gromril sent several Anvil Guards to protect Balin and go to the fortress to report, then slowed down the convoy and proceeded slowly, awaiting the Humans' reaction.
After a short while, the three gates of Helmgart opened one by one, and a stylishly dressed Human noble with colorful feathers in his wide-brimmed hat appeared before Gromril, surrounded by a group of Human warriors.
Out of respect for their dwarf friends, these Humans did not ride horses to avoid further widening the height difference.
"Greetings to you, Gromril, who has traveled a long way! May our friendship be as eternal as gold!" The Human noble removed his wide-brimmed hat and bowed, sweeping his hand across his chest.
Gromril returned a salute to the human noble from his rock ram, "Good afternoon, my friend! My caravan and I would like to rest and trade in your esteemed territory!"
"That's certainly not a problem! Your arrival brings great honor to my Helmgart!" The human noble also spoke politely. "However, I'm afraid I'll have to inspect your carriages!"
"Hmm?" Gromril frowned slightly. This was a sign of distrust, and for a dwarf, being inspected by others was undoubtedly an offense.
"This is a special time, a special situation!" The human noble knew this wasn't ideal, and he bowed again. "To be frank, my sewer cleaners here have reported to me that some large rats, seemingly capable of walking upright, have appeared!"
"Skaven!" Gromril muttered. It was not surprising for these filthy rat-things to appear anywhere.
"After that, my city's corners have been plagued by theft, murder, missing infants, and other public security issues. You know, my place has been hit twice by Greenskins this year," the human noble poured out his grievances to Gromril.
Gromril sighed and reluctantly agreed to his request to inspect the caravan. With no contraband in the caravan, but a large sum of public funds for himself and his elder brother's business, Gromril was less willing to pay heavy taxes to the profiteering knight lords in Montfort Castle opposite than to endure a small inspection and the potential risk of Skaven.
"I know about Grumm the Great Belly King's incident, but what else?" With Gromril's approval, the caravan slowly passed through the gate. The merchants pulled back the tarpaulins covering their goods, revealing the items inside.
To avoid potential disputes and conflicts - dwarves are all truly stubborn, and while the clansmen who venture out for trade are generally more patient, there might still be a few hot-headed individuals. Gromril simply stood with the human noble at the city gate, chatting idly.
"May I ask for your esteemed name?" Gromril asked the noble.
"Kembey Thompson, current Lord of Helmgart, Reik Councillor, Reik High Law Lord, Hereditary Viscount!" The human noble rattled off a long string of titles.
"I've heard much about you, much indeed!" Although Gromril had not truly heard of this human's name, he still put on a good show.
"A Reik Councillor? Then you truly hold a high position and great power!" In his previous life, Gromril had some understanding of the human hammer-wielding big guy, the accessory to His Majesty the Deathclaw, Emperor Karl Franz, and his court.
He knew that the Reik Council, and William III's power as Prince of Reikland, included raising emergency taxes during crises, minting coins, summoning lord advisors, and commanding the Reikland army.
However, any decree exceeding these powers had to be approved by the Parliament - the Reik Council - composed of the Prince's courtiers. At the same time, many of the Prince's daily affairs would also be handled by members of the Reik Council.
"Uh, um..." Viscount Thompson was a little embarrassed by Gromril's flattery. At this point, Gromril also realized that William III was not yet the Emperor of the Imperium of Man, and the Reik Council was not yet the Emperor's inner court advisory group.
"I know about Grumm the Great Belly King's incident at the beginning of the year, but what about the second time? Which Greenskin Warlord emerged then?" Gromril decisively changed the subject.
"Heh, to be honest, it was still him!" Viscount Thompson pursed his lips. "After he entered the Imperium of Man through Black Fire Pass, he made a circuit and then tried to attack my city again. But just like last time, we repelled him under the leadership of the great Prince William!"
"And now? Is that bloated fool still rampaging in Middenland?" Gromril believed the Viscount had more information than the dwarves in the tavern.
"Indeed, that fellow, it is said, tore down the White Wolf God Temple and used its roof to build a new, what the Greenskins call a 'Bouncy Thing'! Although our northern friends vehemently deny all of this, every general who has clashed with that Greenskin can see the Ulric emblem on it; that thing cannot be faked!"
Viscount Thompson showed a hint of schadenfreude. The free and open Reikland did not have a good relationship with its powerful northern neighbor.
The people of Middenland are inherently stubborn and proud. Their accent is loud and bold - or, as southerners would say, crude.
Compared to Sigmar, the Human Emperor, it is the center of worship for Ulric, the White Wolf God of War. The bad temper seemingly inherited from the White Wolf God makes the people of Middenland extremely resistant to foreign objects and cultures, which is very similar to the dwarves. Therefore, Middenland also has a considerable number of dwarf settlements.
"Hmm, just as I expected!" Gromril nodded. According to the original history, Grumm the Great Belly King would continue to rampage there for a while before setting sail for Ulthuan with a Waaagh!
Gromril therefore abandoned the idea of visiting the Imperium of Man now; he didn't want to get an axe in the chest again.
"Let's talk about the skaven! How many are there, and do you know which clan they belong to?" Although he only planned to stay for two or three days, if the opponent's strength wasn't great, Gromril wouldn't mind being a rat-exterminator. The rats reproduce too quickly, and without timely clearing, a rat tide would be imminent.
"skaven?" Viscount Thompson tugged at his goatee. "Do you mean those, those things, are serfs who escaped from Bretonnia?"
"What do you mean?" Gromril was also confused. At this moment, Balin timely reminded him that some knight lords in Bretonnia believed that serfs were like rats in a barn, stealing their grain.
"I'm talking about skaven, the skaven, those large rats that walk upright!" Seeing that the caravan had only gone halfway, Gromril began to get a little impatient.
"Do you really believe such things exist? I always thought they were mythological creatures, like Vampire Pirates and animated skeletons, used by taskmasters to scare the ignorant villagers." Viscount Thompson had a surprised expression.
Seeing this, Gromril shook his head repeatedly. He couldn't bear to tell this short-lived race in front of him that all those things truly existed in the world.
In fact, after Emperor Mandred the Rat-Slayer achieved victory in the war against the skaven a thousand years ago and drove them out of the Imperium of Man, the skaven have always held a grudge against the Imperium of Man.
Assassins from Clan Eshin seized the opportunity to assassinate Emperor Mandred, but that wasn't all. Afterward, skaven assassins continuously murdered all important figures related to the war, while also strenuously destroying records of the war.
This led to a blank period in Imperial history, and thanks to the tireless efforts of the rat-men, people in the Imperium of Man decades later did not even believe that skaven truly existed.
"I can tell you clearly, my dear human friend, Skaven are everywhere; they have existed since the very beginning of your Imperium of Man!" Gromril said in a low voice.
"Among the Mountains, in the tunnels you ignore, my clansmen have fought them in bloody battles for millennia! Though they are the latest enemies to appear, the entries about them in the great book of grudges kept by my father are no less numerous than those for any other race!"
Gromril's words were like a heavy hammer, striking Viscount Thompson's heart again and again. He knew the Dwarf King in front of him would not and had no need to lie to him, but accepting that a story he had always considered an urban legend, something to be amused by, was actually reality, was difficult for him at the moment.
"Then what should I do?" Seeing that the convoy had already moved on, and Gromril was mounting his rock ram to enter the city with them, Viscount Thompson quickened his pace.
"Inspect your sewers thoroughly! Tell those sewer cleaners to be vigilant and report to you daily!" Gromril calmly offered his advice.
After eradicating the rat plague in the Imperium of Man, Mandred the Rat-Slayer knew that the Skaven could return at any time. For this, he established a special unit to patrol the sewers as a precaution.
Although this emperor was assassinated, the unit he formed survived, gradually evolving into the sewer cleaners.
This job was arguably one of the lowest and most disgusting in the entire Old World; given a choice, working as a pimp in a brothel might even be better.
Gromril had learned about this profession from the story of Gotrek, the most failed of slayers. Sewer cleaners had to crawl along narrow walkways in the dark, and one slip would send them tumbling into foul sewage full of feces and garbage.
Besides these "natural" threats, it was foreseeable that almost all unspeakable evils would choose to occur in the dirty sewers.
Encountering mutated, corrupted monsters, witnessing strange cult rituals, or being blocked by large, bipedal rats were all possibilities at any time. These factors made sewer cleaning a high-risk job.
"To be honest, while my clansmen are all experts in underground combat, I don't think you can afford the price to make them clean your sewers! You know, just deodorizing our beards costs a fortune!"
Seeing that Viscount Thompson was about to say something more, Gromril preemptively cut him off. Honestly, he didn't want to clean sewers himself, and putting himself in their shoes, he didn't want to force his clansmen to do it either; his title of "Generous" hadn't even warmed up yet!
Gromril nudged the rock ram beneath him and followed the convoy. They would head directly to the dwarf settlement here.
Outside the Mountains, dwarves generally lived in clans, but these clans were not bound by specific guilds. The clan Chief and Elder were responsible for the daily operations of the entire clan.
When more than one clan resided in the same Imperium of Man settlement, they would form an Elder Council to manage the Imperium of Man dwarf community. This was actually similar to the management style of strongholds within the Mountains.
In fact, in Gromril's view, the structure of dwarf communities in the Imperium of Man was not much different from a stronghold.
What he saw before him was, literally, a "city within a city." It was a cluster of circular, compact, stone-built structures, no more than two stories high by human standards. Entry to the cluster was only possible through a heavy main gate.
The outer buildings were like true city walls, with no small doors facing outwards but small windows facing the exterior for potential trade communication. Of course, Gromril knew that in an emergency, these small windows could transform into reliable firing slits.
Since the time of the first Human Emperor Sigmar, every time successive Human Emperors sought help from the dwarves, they were asked to grant certain privileges to the expatriate dwarves in the Imperium of Man.
Over time, the laws of the Imperium of Man recognized the dwarf communities' right to self-defense and self-governance, and local administrative and law enforcement agencies had no right to interfere in these matters.
Furthermore, if truly pushed to the brink, many in the local government hoped that when the town was again invaded by Greenskins or Undead, the dwarves would let them in to take shelter, as this city within a city would undoubtedly hold out longer.
Currently, the gate of the settlement was not closed. A small group of dwarves was waiting at the entrance. Seeing the convoy gradually approaching, the white-bearded old dwarf leading them stepped forward and cupped his hands in greeting.
"Is the one approaching the Chosen of the Ancestor Goddess, Son of the Lord of the Mountains, Master Gromril the Generous?" The old dwarf's voice carried a liveliness unsuited to his age, which was rare among the Longbeard Elders in the Mountains.
"Good afternoon, esteemed Elder!" Gromril jumped off his rock ram and returned the bow.
"Please come in quickly! clansmen from the Mountains, you can call me Stonemason. I am a master stonemason!" The old dwarf introduced himself while leading the convoy into the settlement.
As the convoy entered, although the sun had not yet set, the clansmen became lively. Gromril, accompanied by the settlement administrators, arrived at its center.
Undoubtedly, the social hub of any dwarf area was the tavern. Larger dwarf settlements had as many as ten or more taverns, but even the smallest settlements had at least one.
The tavern before him was no less impressive than any in a stronghold. "This is my son's business. That young'un thinks stonemasonry doesn't earn as much as this! But I believe traditional craftsmanship still needs to be passed down, don't you agree?" Elder Stonemason said to Gromril.
In the eyes of almost every Clansman meeting him for the first time, Gromril, enveloped in layers of auras, should undoubtedly be a staunch defender of tradition. For this, Gromril always needed to expend some effort to correct ingrained prejudices.
"That is natural, but I am also happy to embrace new things, as long as they contribute to the development of the Mountain Kingdom."
The group chatted as they walked to the second floor of the tavern, where there were independent compartments that could be used as private rooms or meeting places.
"Welcome! With you and your Iron Hammer Guards here, we wanderers away from home finally have a backbone!" After everyone was seated, Master Stonemason stood up and toasted the first drink.
Gromril knew what he meant. Due to the betrayal of Dieter IV, which Thorgrim Grudgebearer had recorded in the great book of grudges, and that foolish emperor moving the capital to Altdorf, the capital of Reikland, these clansmen who had long resided in Reikland felt somewhat awkward.
Gromril understood the awkward predicament of these Imperial Dwarves, but he was powerless to change it. After all, he was a direct victim of Dieter IV's betrayal.
Until this Grudge was settled or erased, these clansmen could only pray to the Ancestor Gods and do their best to protect themselves.
After three rounds of drinks, the Stonemason Elder brought the conversation back to the present matter. "Have you heard about our human friends discovering the Skaven?"
After receiving Gromril's affirmative reply, the old dwarf began to ask him for help. Gromril found this a bit strange.
"With all due respect, Elder, I don't know the population density of our settlement, but from what I've seen on my journey here, we probably have six or seven hundred clansmen, right?" Gromril asked, stroking his beard.
"That's right, in fact, sometimes even more. Helmgart is a trade town, and during the peak season for mining, many clansmen selling gold, silver, lead ingots, iron ingots, and stone extracted from the Mountains will stay with us," the Stonemason Elder burped.
"Then I think we should have enough self-defense capabilities, shouldn't we?" Gromril stroked his beard. Based on the Dwarf race's two-to-one male-to-female ratio and age demographics, there should be about four hundred combat-ready clansmen here.
Even if they were all just ordinary dwarf warriors or Quarrelers, four hundred people relying on the Mountain Stronghold would be enough to deal with most threats. Moreover, the actual ratio would certainly be higher.
Although the Imperial Dwarves might not match the total wealth of the clansmen in the Mountains, they were relatively more willing to spend money to arm themselves, as there were more threats on the plains than in the Mountain Stronghold.
"Ahem! Theoretically, yes, but there was a small accident." The Stonemason Elder's old face flushed slightly. For these clansmen who had left the Mountains and actively sought a living in human society, turning back to the Mountain Dwarves for help was somewhat embarrassing.
"We have a young man here, named Andumgar. He's a, well, a very adventurous young'un." The old dwarf carefully chose his words, indicating that Andumgar was a complex character difficult to evaluate.
"The adventurous spirit I speak of is not by the standards of the Karak clansmen, nor by the standards of us plain Dwarves, but by the standards of our Reikland friends."
"Then he truly is a talent!" Gromril praised. Adventurous spirit was undoubtedly rare in a conservative race like the Dwarf race. "So, what has this Andumgar done?"
"He, ah, he organized a dwarf Mutual Aid Association, well, that is…" The Stonemason Elder's words were vague, and it seemed Andumgar's actions were somewhat beyond his descriptive ability.
"Simply put, he connected the surrounding settlements so that if one side has trouble, all sides will help!" A burly middle-aged dwarf, holding a large platter of meat and with two barrels of beer tucked under his arm, pushed open the private room door with his round belly.
"Come, my son! Tell Master Gromril about Andumgar!" The arrival of the tavern owner rescued the Stonemason Elder from his awkwardness.
"I don't know much either. He's an orphan who fled from a fallen settlement to here and grew up under everyone's care," the bar owner scratched his head, recalling.
"He honed his skills, learning a trick or two from various heroes. Since he had no inheritance, becoming an adventurer was a good path for him."
The bar owner licked his lips, and Gromril smiled, pouring him a beer as well.
"How dare I!" The owner quickly waved his hand, declining.
"No matter, no matter! As the old tales say, didn't the Ancestor Gods also feast with everyone?" Gromril didn't mind; he was a practical person and didn't care for such formalities.
"Andumgar later grew into an excellent Ranger. During that time, my tavern menu featured many fresh wild game!" Recalling those days, saliva almost flowed from under the owner's beard.
"But he quickly became dissatisfied with that. He left the settlement and traveled everywhere. I don't know what happened in between, but every time he returned, he would add many stories to my tavern."
"Uh huh, and then?" Gromril had been traveling for several days. Although not particularly arduous, sleeping rough was unavoidable. He gestured for the tavern owner to speed up so he could take a hot bath and get a good night's sleep.
"Then, a group of young'un gradually gathered around him, mostly like-minded individuals. They formed an adventuring party and made quite a name for themselves with the bravery and trustworthiness of us Sons of the Mountains."
"Very good! Very good!" Gromril praised. He was starting to get interested in Andumgar; growing from an orphan to a leader was undoubtedly an inspiring story.
"With that pig Dieter IV's ascension, our lives became increasingly difficult!" the tavern owner continued, which resonated with the Imperial Dwarves in the room.
"Persecution! Slander!"
"That stupid pig! Cowardly like a rat, yet as greedy as a pig."
"He betrayed the ancient alliance!"
The clansmen in the room started cursing, and Gromril echoed them. As mentioned before, his own transmigration and that stupid pig's betrayal of the alliance, which left the Dwarves to face Gulu's army alone, were inextricably linked. Gromril would not thank him for that.
"Jealousy of our influence and wealth proliferated in his court. He and his cronies, a nest of vipers, concocted several laws to tax us to satisfy his overflowing material desires!"
Gromril knew of Dieter IV's greed. He also knew that this emperor would, a few years later, grant Marienburg—the largest commercial center and port city in the entire Old World—autonomy for a large bribe, and would consequently be deposed by the angry Elector Counts.
Without waiting for Gromril to respond, the owner continued, "The passage of these laws brought us heavy tax burdens. Many clansmen suffered harassment or even imprisonment for failing to meet the unreasonable demands of the Imperial Treasury, and their property was confiscated."
"How could this be?" Gromril was shocked to hear this. "Why didn't I know? Did no one tell my father this news?"
"The High King may or may not know the general situation. After all, not much time has passed. Alas, if there's no improvement by the Grudge Gathering, this old dwarf will make a complaint in the Grand Throne Hall!"
Gromril then realized that as a long-lived race, the Dwarf race had a different concept of time than humans. Their resilience, coupled with their desire to solve their own problems, also actively hindered the spread of information.
"I understand now. When the caravan returns to Everpeak, I will report what I have seen and heard to my father. If it's convenient, you can entrust your difficulties and requests to me in writing, which will give my report more substance."
Gromril was not qualified to intervene in this matter now; he hadn't received the relevant authorization. However, he didn't want to stand by and watch his clansmen suffer. To some extent, these relatively open Imperial dwarves were more likely to accept his plan to revitalize the Mountains Kingdom.
"That's not necessa—" The Stonemason Elder was about to decline, but Gromril directly interrupted him and motioned for the tavern owner to continue telling Andumgar's story.
"Exactly! Faced with the unfair treatment suffered by his clansmen, Andumgar saw it with his eyes and raged in his heart! He and his people championed those suffering clansmen in various ways."
The owner spoke, occasionally glancing up at Gromril's expression to maintain an appropriate level of discourse in front of a high-ranking individual. This was undoubtedly an intuition developed from long years in the service industry.
Gromril didn't pay much attention to these things; as long as they didn't directly offend his kin or the Ancestor Goddess, he wasn't particularly sensitive.
"As time went on, he found that the strength around him was still not enough. You know, we Sons of the Mountains can't compare in population to those short-lived human brats, especially when we're on their territory!"
Seeing Gromril's indulgence, the tavern owner spoke with increasing fervor. It seemed he had also suffered a great deal of exploitation during this period.
"Andumgar then teamed up with other ambitious young men from other settlements to form a mutual protection pact. No matter which settlement was troubled by the human brats, clansmen from other places would rush over to help. Right now, he's taken about a hundred men to Grey Lady Pass!"
Gromril nodded repeatedly after hearing Andumgar's story. In his opinion, Andumgar was a fellow with both ideas and capability. If given the chance, he would very much like to meet him.
"So, our settlement doesn't have many able-bodied young men right now, and no extra manpower to clear out the skaven, right?" Gromril concluded.
Watching the Imperial dwarves in the room nod frequently, Gromril smiled and drained his beer.
"Alright then, I permit you to hire the caravan guards to do what you need, but you'll have to sort out the specific details yourselves! Whether you find volunteers is up to you." Gromril finally relented.
"But you must be quick! I must reach Karak-Zfirin before the New Year; that is my duty!"
He added finally. The caravan guards' duty was to protect the caravan, and this would not be relaxed just because they entered a settlement. Allowing them to take private jobs was already a concession from Gromril.
"Understood, understood! Thank you for your help!" The Stonemason Elder was quite satisfied with this. He then extended another invitation.
"By the way, do you have time to preside over a ceremony tonight? We wanderers, far from home, haven't bathed in the divine grace of our Ancestors for too long."
Gromril, of course, had no objection to this. He didn't mind doing more of such things that served multiple purposes: increasing his influence, earning revival points, and spreading the grace of the Mother Goddess.
Having agreed on the specific time for the ritual and the required offerings, Gromril stretched his limbs and returned to his guest room.
He wasn't in a hurry for the evening's ritual. Typically, dwarf Ancestor Gods' temples outside the Mountains are located in the basement of the largest establishment in a settlement. For the Helmgart settlement, that temple was in the basement of this very tavern.
For Imperial dwarves living individually in villages, it would be simpler; they usually place a shrine dedicated to Grungni and their clan ancestors in a cellar or a corner of their workshop.
Just as Gromril was about to go back for a nap to adjust his state, things were not calm in the sewers of Helmgart.
"Seer, Seer, there are beard-things!" A sharp and garbled voice rang out.
Grey Seer Kodlud-Sharpclaw looked up from the foul scroll before him. He wore a standard grey robe covering his grey fur from head to toe, and a pair of twisted horns on his head further displayed the favor this rat had received from the horned rat god.
"Yes, Yes! This I know!" Kodlud flicked his long tail. "Hasn't this been confirmed long ago? Beard-things, five hundred, five hundred! But all are old, weak, and sick!"
"Seer, a new batch of beard-things has arrived, many, many!" the skaven scout continued.
"Many? Should not be! Should not be! Their beards should all have been cut off by that, that big fat green-skin!" the Grey Seer shrieked. Clearly, besides the horned rat god himself, no creature in this world liked plans that didn't keep up with changes.
"Have the beard-things discovered Kodlud's plan? No, no! But they are troublesome, troublesome! Harder to deal with than human-things!"
"What to do? We, we still want to overthrow this human-thing's fortress?" Another grey-robed skaven poked his head out from behind Kodlud.
This skaven looked very young, and compared to Kodlud's twisted bone-horns, his horns were at most bony protrusions sticking out from his fur.
Most skaven are as cowardly as Goblins; in their rat-life creed, fleeing and retreating are never derogatory terms.
"Hmph hmph! Little rat, do you want Kodlud to fail his mission, mission, and then be punished, punished by High Priest Greyclaw-Krittslik?" Kodlud narrowed his red eyes, staring at his young subordinate.
Grey Seers are an independent clan, governed by a council of one hundred and sixty-nine powerful skaven. This is because The Great Horned Rat's sacred number is thirteen, and the rat-folk chose the square of thirteen.
Every official Grey Seer councilor holds a high position in the Skaven Empire. To avoid the internal strife caused by the deep-seated flaws in the skaven bloodline and ensure everyone works together for the great cause of the horned rat god, the Grey Seer Council strictly prohibits official Grey Seers from openly fighting each other.
If a Grey Seer violates this, he will be directly expelled from the council, stripped of his title as an official Grey Seer, and hunted down.
But the problem is, it's almost impossible for young subordinates to become official Grey Seers by waiting. These fellows can cast powerful skaven magic and also know how to make life-extending elixirs from warpstone.
The current High Priest Greyclaw has already lived for several centuries, which is unimaginable for short-lived species like the skaven.
To ascend successfully and enjoy the power that comes with servants, longevity, mating rights, and so on, new Grey Seer candidates can only find a way to eliminate an official member and then logically inherit everything he possesses.
Facing his teacher's suspicion, the young Grey Seer apprentice cowered and lowered his rat-head. This kind of reserve Grey Seer was not protected by the non-aggression pact.
Official Grey Seers and their apprentices had a relationship of mutual exploitation. Official Grey Seers needed apprentices to do their bidding and to fend off challenges from other apprentices, while the newcomers needed a mentor and protector.
Once an apprentice became strong enough, he would want to kill his mentor, and the mentor constantly monitored the strength of his apprentices, ensuring they weren't too weak to be useless, but also not so strong as to be a threat.
"Cordluth must act now, act! Beard-things, die, die!" The Grey Seer closed his scroll and slammed his staff on the ground.
"Rat-things! We cannot delay any longer! The beard-things will search the sewers, and if, if we are discovered, more enemies will emerge!"
Cordluth was far from as calm as he appeared before his subordinates. When he heard the news of a large influx of dwarves, his first reaction was also to flee.
But then he thought of the terrifying High Priest Greyclaw, the Lord Krittslik, chief of the Council of Thirteen who voted on behalf of the horned rat god, whose magic was boundless. If he disobeyed his orders, Cordluth feared he would have to cut off his horns and flee to Lustria to survive.
Hearing their leader's command, the Skaven lurking nearby began to assemble. The Grey Seer surveyed his subordinates with an almost prideful emotion.
Gathered around him was a group of Stormvermin. These Skaven were large and sturdy, their distinctive white fur gleaming, which perfectly matched their red painted armor and black helmets adorned with blasphemous runes.
They were the Council Guard, the elite of the elite: well-fed, well-dressed, disciplined, far superior to the lowlier Clanrat and Slave Rats, and even stronger than their fellow Stormvermin.
To protect their precious spellcasters, the Grey Seers had bred these individuals wielding two-handed halberds. Under the influence of elixirs and strange magic, they even possessed things that should not appear in rat-things – loyalty and courage.
"Give, give those rabble a good, a good meal!" Cordluth issued his orders. "Tonight, when Morrsleib rises, rises, charge out and kill all the human-things and beard-things!"
"Squeak! Squeak!"
"Kill, kill!"
The surrounding rat-things cooperated by letting out strange cries. They had lived in the sewers long enough; their desire for plunder and bloodlust was uncontrollable.
Gromril was still unaware of all this. In his subconscious, he still believed the city was relatively safe. Humans and dwarves had lived together for so long without incident, and even if there were Skaven, they were just some stray rats.
After dinner, Gromril went to the tavern's basement. According to tradition, the center of the temple here housed a giant statue of Grungni. On either side of him, in wall niches, were smaller statues of Valaya and Grimnir.
Beyond them were even smaller statues of the Ancestor Gods and the ancestral statues of the dwarf clans that made up the Helmgart settlement.
Outside the Mountains, most dwarf priests were often itinerant clergy, as the Ancestor Gods had not manifested miracles since the Golden Age.
Therefore, which deity was primarily worshipped often depended on which part of the ritual the presiding priest understood. Since the true Chosen of the Goddess had arrived, this ceremony would undoubtedly be centered on Valaya.
The temple was not large, so only the Elder Council, composed of the clan Chiefs of the settlement, Longbeard Elders over three hundred years old, and all female clansmen, were present.
As Gromril descended the steps, surrounded by several Eternal Hammer Guards, a fervent cheer erupted in the underground temple.
For these Imperial dwarves, seeing other peoples' deities occasionally manifest, whether healing the injured, buffing their allies, or even directly harming enemies,
while their own Ancestor Gods remained unresponsive, inevitably left them feeling empty. Some heretical clansmen even began to worship human gods related to their professions. In this situation, Gromril's sudden emergence was undoubtedly a powerful stimulant.
The ritual proceeded very smoothly; it was the same old routine. First, a story from the Ancestor Age was told, then the Mother Goddess's compassion was praised, and finally, the efforts and piety of the clansmen present were commended, delivering blessings on behalf of the Ancestor Goddess.
While this traditional style was old-fashioned, it was undoubtedly well-received by the clansmen. Gromril, while slaughtering small rock rams as sacrifices to the Ancestor Goddess, began to consider whether to spend some Revival Points to make the Mother Goddess "manifest" for a moment.
The Helmgart settlement did not have a large population, nor did it have a figurehead like Queen Mother Mari of Hornburg. Gromril also felt that his title as Chosen of the Goddess was now firmly established, and he could begin accumulating Revival Points to prepare for retrieving artifacts and conducting rituals for other Ancestor Gods in the future.
Just as he was deliberating, several huge explosions solved his dilemma.
"Calm down! Don't panic."
"Ladies! Use the secret passage to leave here, you first!"
"Go, go out and see what happened, don't crowd!"
Gromril and the Stonemason Elder were both experienced leaders. They calmly evacuated the crowd. This underground temple had secret passages leading to more defensible locations; to be precise, the entire dwarf settlement was connected by tunnels.
Rushing out of the tavern's main door, Gromril saw the entire dwarf community in a state of chaotic order. The old, weak, women, and children were gathering at the blacksmith's, while the battle-ready clansmen were either running home to get equipment or were already fully armed and assembling on the roadside.
The settlement guards had closed the main gate and stood at their posts with their muskets. Seeing Gromril and the leaders emerge from the tavern, two dwarf Rangers ran over.
"Master Gromril, skaven! The explosions were caused by those filthy rat-things, and they're swarming all over the streets now!" The Rangers quickly reported the information they had gathered.
"We await your command!" The Stonemason Elder was a stonemason and not skilled in combat command, so he decisively handed over command to Gromril.
"Have any rat-things infiltrated the settlement?" Gromril didn't stand on ceremony and immediately began gathering intelligence.
"None found so far. The sewers here don't connect with the human-cubs'! The rat-things must have come from there!" From the way he referred to humans, Gromril judged this was a Ranger from the caravan.
"That's good. Settle the women and children, and close the gates so they can't get in. I'll go to the outer wall to take a look!" Gromril said, and surrounded by the Guards, he walked towards the settlement's outer wall.
Gromril, surrounded by his bodyguards, walked onto the roof of one of the outer buildings of the Helmgart settlement. He dared not be careless when facing the Skaven, whose true strength he did not know. The ranged firepower of these rats was not something those green mushrooms could compare to.
Things like Poison Wind Globadiers, warpfire throwers, the widely popular Rattling Guns and Jezzail teams, and warp lightning cannons—all powerful warpstone-driven weapons—were enough to make even the strongest ork archer boy ashamed and hide his not-Waaagh-enough shooting.
Although Gromril wasn't sure how far the Skaven Empire's technology had developed now, more than a hundred years before the End Times, he didn't want to risk his life to find out.
Gromril looked up, and the evil moon Morrsleib was glowing green in the night sky. On the ground, many large rats were scurrying through the streets, making squeaking noises.
"These guys should just be ordinary rats. They've undergone all sorts of strange mutations due to the warpstone the skaven carry!" Johnson Strongshield's voice rang out. As a former Ironbreakers veteran, his experience fighting the skaven underground was extensive.
"There shouldn't be just these things, right?" Gromril said, looking at them. Before he could finish, a shout of battle came from the end of the street.
"A few humans, my esteemed Chosen of the Goddess!" a sharp-eyed Ranger reported. As soon as he finished speaking, the humans approached.
"Ugh, ah!"
"George! No! These rats!"
"Go! Hurry! Giddy up!"
The shouts of the humans reached Gromril's ears. He saw one human seemingly struck in the back by something, falling off his horse, and then dragged away by the rats on the ground to be devoured.
"Come, my kinsmen, let us go and assist our human friends!" Gromril put on his helmet and descended from the roof. Hearing his command, the guards at the settlement gate half-opened it.
"Bang! Bang!"
With a volley of dwarf gunfire, a group of skaven pursuing them was shot down. Seizing this precious opportunity, the two remaining human riders charged through the settlement gate, and the guards quickly closed it again.
"Is Elder Stonemason here?" The two riders dismounted. Gromril noticed that the backs of their plate armor and helmets had various uneven dents. These were likely caused by slave slingers using their crude slings.
No, Gromril stroked his beard, examining the two humans up close. He noticed clear traces of dwarf craftsmanship on their plate armor. Although not a professional blacksmith, Gromril could still tell from the details.
This, in addition to indicating the riders' extraordinary status, also meant that the stones that damaged the plate armor likely came from stronger members of the ratmen, such as Night Runners or even Gutter Runners.
Those black-clad death squads of Clan Eshin—Gutter Runners. Rumor had it they were trained in mysterious combat techniques originating from the Far East. These combat skills allowed them to bend their flexible bodies with speed and agility unattainable by ordinary beings.
This was not a good sign. Being able to employ Clan Eshin suggested that the leading skaven Boss had considerable wealth. Combined with the previous explosion, Gromril began to suspect if this was a Warlock Engineer of the Skryre Clan.
"Master Gromril is in charge here now! Humans, what do you seek at the High Prince's presence?" Before Gromril could speak, Captain Grenson, the conservative and stubborn dwarf Warrior, spoke for him.
"Hmm, uh," discovering that the familiar smiling face of Elder Stonemason was not before them, and this group of watchful, unfamiliar dwarves were also exceptionally well-equipped, the human rider paused for a moment.
"Respected Longbeard, I am Reiksguard Knight Walter, sent by Viscount Thompson to request your assistance!"
"What is the situation now?" Gromril asked directly. To be honest, he was a little worried. Could these two humans be deliberately released by the rats to seek aid, in order to lure his forces out of their advantageous position?
This tactic of besieging a point to attack reinforcements had to be guarded against!
"Those large, bipedal rats are all over the city; they seem to be emerging from the sewers!" Walter said somewhat impatiently.
"Nonsense!" Gromril was a bit annoyed. To be honest, he now somewhat understood why the elders often lacked patience with their human friends.
Due to their short lifespans, they didn't have as much time to acquire knowledge, so many things that were common sense to dwarves seemed like fairy tales to young humans.
Clearly, Viscount Thompson hadn't listened to what he said at the city gate, or at least hadn't shown enough seriousness. His messenger even treated the rats emerging from underground as news. Did they expect them to fall from the sky?
"Uh, uh…" The young human was startled by Gromril's interruption. Although not yet the future Emperor's personal guard, the Reiksguard Knights were already taking shape.