The young men who comprised it were all young scions of Reikland nobility, eager to become part of this legendary unit to add a significant chapter to their youthful lives.
This age composition meant they were young and strong, full of zeal, but also generally lacked experience.
"Where is Viscount Thompson? How many skaven are there? Which clan do they belong to? Or what are the distinctive features of their forces?" Gromril fired off several questions like a machine gun.
The two Reiksguard Knights looked at each other, and Walter spoke again. "The Viscount is protecting the civilians, withdrawing towards the Temple of Sigmar. It's nearing the end of the year, so there aren't many foreign merchants in the city."
"The Viscount sent two teams: one to Altdorf for reinforcements, and the other, which is us, to you for aid. As for the other questions, to be honest, it's our first time seeing these guys, and we didn't notice in the haste."
"Tsk!" Gromril frowned. What they said was basically useless; he was still completely in the dark about the enemy's situation.
"Before we broke through, the Viscount was locked in a tug-of-war with the rats over the defense in front of the Temple. Please come to our aid as quickly as possible!" Seeing Gromril still pondering, the two Reiksguard Knights grew anxious.
"Alright, kinsmen, form up!" Gromril picked up his hammer. He waved his hand, refusing the reins offered by the Anvil Guard. He didn't want to ride a golden lamb as a living target during this street fighting.
Hearing Gromril's command, the dwarves quickly formed a relatively dense formation. Considering that the skaven could appear from any angle through the sewers, they enveloped their ranged units with melee troops.
The two Reiksguard Knights breathed a sigh of relief when Gromril decided to send troops to support them. They had been worried that the High Prince in front of them would pull out a book of grudges, read the articles about Dieter IV's betrayal, and then smash their heads with the warhammer in his hand.
However, their worries were unnecessary. After all, having experienced transmigration, Gromril himself only regarded Dieter IV as a normal betrayer.
But Gromril was the most prominent dwarf at the moment. In the eyes of all Imperium of Man individuals who were related to Dwarves and understood Gromril's story, he was undoubtedly the biggest victim of Dieter IV's betrayal.
Just this morning, upon hearing that the visitor was Gromril, Viscount Thompson brought his Reiksguard Foot Knights and Greatswords to greet him. This grand reception made Gromril mistakenly believe that he was being highly regarded, but what he didn't know was that this regard was of a different kind.
In Viscount Thompson's own view, Gromril was likely an extremely conservative and stubborn fellow. He was leading such an armed convoy, and it was entirely possible that he might first attack Helmgart to collect some interest.
Gromril was unaware of what these humans were thinking; he was busy reorganizing his troops. The convoy's guards, having finally reached a large settlement, had almost all gone to taverns to relax, so their response to the sudden attack was not swift.
"Lead the way! We'll go save your Lord first!" Gromril called out to the two humans, a bead of sweat forming on his brow as he looked at his somewhat disheveled subordinates.
The two Reiksguard Knights' warhorses had also been hit by Skaven slingshots, and they were exhausted from their frantic ride, so the two knights simply walked alongside the Dwarves.
"Please, Lord, no, Prince, this way!"
Gromril shook his head inwardly as he watched the two stammering Reiksguard Knights. In his opinion, this was because the source of soldiers was still limited to Reikland, far from the future glory of gathering the Imperium of Man's elites in one place.
This led to these two knights not exhibiting the so-called "naturally forming the core of the battle line, inspiring ordinary soldiers, letting them know that the Imperium of Man's blessings are with them" qualities.
However, in fact, he was still wrong. The main reason for the poor performance of these two knights was the pressure from Gromril himself. Gromril's repeatedly embellished story had spread even in Bretonnia, where Dwarves were scarce, let alone in the Imperium of Man, where Dwarves were everywhere.
Standing next to such a legendary figure, rumored to be the bravest in the army, capable of fighting for three hundred rounds with the Greenksin Warlord who flattened his own capital, ran rampant, and stirred up trouble in the country, was already stressful enough.
What was even more terrifying was that this fierce man had a deep hatred for his liege's liege, and not only that, he was also likely to be vengeful—"My nickname is the Grudge-Bearer, so how good can my son be?"
Gromril had no time to care about the thoughts of the two knights; he was worried about the limited strength at his disposal.
The human adventurers hired by the convoy had not entered the dwarf settlement, and because the settlement already lacked young and strong men, a basic defensive force needed to be left behind to protect themselves from the Skaven attack. This resulted in Gromril only getting a few symbolic handgunners from the local Dwarves.
He now had far fewer troops than he did before Karak-Azgaraz. For this reason, he decided against any fancy tactics like dividing forces or having reserves, and instead, the entire army, clustered around the artillery, rushed directly to the temple in the city center.
Turning the corner from the settlement's entrance, Gromril saw a group of Skaven besieging a tavern. Leading them was a Skaven Warlord. Gromril made this judgment based on his combat experience in Karak-Varn and the obviously superior equipment on the Warlord compared to its kin.
"Beard-thing! Die, die!" The skaven warlord was clearly not surprised by the arrival of Gromril and his group. Perhaps its original mission was to obstruct the Dwarves' reinforcement, and attacking the tavern was merely an impromptu act.
"Charge! Smash these rats for me! Send them to a better reincarnation in their next life!" Gromril cursed, realizing that this group of Skaven in front of him was still the same, just a rabble.
Although he shouted loudly, Gromril was still very cautious. He did not ride his small ram, but instead, he was protected by the layered shield wall of the Anvil Guard. Many commands were relayed through Johnson Strongshield.
Clearly, the Skaven leader underestimated the elite level of this dwarf unit. Although it had made some targeted arrangements based on the characteristics of dwarf troops.
It equipped the Slave Rats and Clanrats with long weapons to gain a little more attacking space and provided the front-line Skaven with tattered shields, hoping to block some of the Dwarves' ranged firepower.
If it had been temporarily conscripted dwarf warriors from the settlement, these measures might have had some effect, as even with the Dwarf race's excellent innate talent, clansmen engaged in daily production for a long time would find it difficult to fully utilize it.
But the dwarf unit the rat-kin faced now was different; they were all battle-hardened professional soldiers, and their equipment was relatively more complete and superior.
The Skaven's defense line, built up by sheer numbers, was broken through by Gromril's forces like dry leaves in a storm.
The Anvil Guard didn't even need to dodge; they simply advanced with their shields, crushing the rats. The rusted long spears couldn't even leave a white mark on the meteorite iron armor, and even the rotten, worm-eaten wooden shafts were snapped by the strong clansmen.
Facing dense gunfire and the sharp war axes in the Dwarves' hands, the rat-kin's wooden shields were almost useless, being cut in half along with their bodies.
In almost an instant, Gromril's forces had broken through three or four rows of Skaven formations. This defensive failure caused the rat-kin to stir, preparing to flee in panic.
The Skaven Warlord was also stunned. It felt its "die, die!" shouts still echoing in its ears, and now it seemed it was about to die itself.
"Bugs, you bugs! Hold them! If you run, the Seer, the Seer will make you pay!" It had no choice but to bite the bullet and lead its Stormvermin bodyguard forward.
As the skaven warlord, wielding a warpstone battle-blade glowing green, joined the fight, Gromril's forces finally felt a hint of resistance.
Though barely, these elite Skaven were finally able to parry a few more blows and endure a few more hits.
Gromril calculated the size of Helmgart. The dwarf settlement was in the southwest corner of the city. From there to the central temple, his Rune of Fury and Destruction should have cooled down.
"O Earth! Unleash your fury!" Gromril decisively struck the Rune of Fury and Destruction.
As the runes were activated, the explosions and flames erupting from underground shook the Skaven Warlord's tightly maintained battle lines.
Those robust black-furred rats were knocked off balance, and the dwarves under Gromril seized the opportunity to cut them down after encircling them.
Deprived of the extra courage brought by their "numerical superiority," their resistance also became futile.
"Leave one alive!" Gromril shouted, growing anxious as his subordinates, who harbored deep hatred for the skaven, became increasingly zealous in their slaughter.
"Alright!"
Soon, two Stormvermin were brought before Gromril; one had its legs broken by a warhammer, and the other had an arm severed, with two battle axes crossed over its neck.
"Speak honestly, which clan do you belong to? And what's your Boss's deal? Tell me clearly and I'll grant you a swift death!" Gromril immediately began the interrogation.
"The Great Horned Rat walks among us! When, when the horned rat descends to the mortal world, beard, beard things will all die, die!" Before Gromril could finish, the rat with broken legs shrieked.
"Hmph! You little rat are quite stubborn! Johnson, give it a taste of its own medicine!" Gromril mimicked the skaven's tone as he instructed his Anvil Guard captain.
Under the fearful gaze of the two Stormvermin, Johnson Strongshield's dusty beard revealed a sinister smile. He pulled a small bottle from his armor and sniffed it under his nose.
"Heh heh! Master, I have nine ways to make it talk, nine ways!" Johnson muttered as he approached the rat.
"Come on, little fellow, this is a good thing from the southwestern Cathay Empire, all red and vibrant. I chopped it up, then boiled it in dwarf ale, and finally cooled it down and strained out the residue to make this!"
Johnson Strongshield babbled on; in many cases, psychological pressure during interrogation can be more effective than physical torture.
"This stuff, sigh, we call it chili liquor. One sip, and even in the blizzards of Karak-Vlag in the northernmost part of the World's Edge Mountains, your chest feels like it's on fire."
Gromril knew that was Bleak Hold, the northernmost fortress of the Mountain Kingdoms, a place close to the Chaos Wastes, a bridgehead against Chaos's southward advance. During the Great Crusade, it had fallen into the hands of the previous Everchosen, the barbarian Anointed Archaon the Everchosen.
However, after High King Auricsson and Magnus the Pious defeated the Chaos invasion, it was rebuilt once again with the help of Slayer King Agrimm Ironfist.
"It can even be used externally to treat arthritis and rheumatism. Ever since we re-established contact with our compatriots in Du Long City, it has become a flagship product of my clan!" Johnson clearly enjoyed being the center of attention; he even started promoting his product.
"Come on, go to your wicked god's blasphemous domain, and don't forget to share this unforgettable experience with your kin!" The rat was already terrified by the small bottle held before it, but Gromril and all the dwarves were not going to give it a chance to beg for mercy; usually, only bloody information was trustworthy.
"Good heavens!" Gromril secretly praised as he watched Johnson pour the secret chili liquor directly into the skaven's nostrils. He had initially thought pouring it into its mouth was enough. It seemed this Anvil Guard captain had no intention of getting information from this particular rat.
As Gromril expected, in an instant, this robust black-furred rat, initially quite stubborn, began to convulse and twitch. It tried to struggle and escape, but its broken legs clearly prevented it from doing so.
As its escape turned into painful writhing, the rat bled from its seven orifices and could no longer speak coherent words, only emitting "Squeak!" "Oww!" in muffled wails.
The chili liquor had such a strong effect partly because skaven live underground for extended periods, their eyesight diminishing in dark environments, with their developed sense of smell partly replacing vision.
Their noses are densely packed with blood vessels and nerves, making them very sensitive to external stimuli. Scents like incense and mint make them uncomfortable, let alone direct pouring of chili liquor.
The potent power of dwarf ale was also a contributing factor. This stuff is so high-proof that it can even be lit directly as fuel, and throwing it into enemy water sources to make them drunk and unable to fight at full capacity is one of the dwarf Rangers' signature tactics.
Such a violent substance was simply too powerful a stimulus for the skaven. The Stormvermin, perhaps from suffocation, painfully passed away a minute or two later.
"Beard play, no, Beard sir, sir! I'll tell you everything!" Witnessing the horrific state of its kin completely broke the other Stormvermin's will. As Gromril looked at it, it started to blurt out information before he even spoke.
"We are, uh, strictly speaking, not a clan. We obey Grey Seer Kordel-Sharpclaw! He received orders from High Priest Greyclaw and hired and integrated a force!" The skaven reported its leader's information clearly and concisely.
"Grey Seer?" Gromril muttered to himself, his mind picturing those grey-furred, horned skaven spellcasters.
"What school is he? Ruin or Pestilence?" Gromril asked his second question, which involved whether he needed to prepare antidotes and gas masks.
"No, I don't know! Please, please, don't pour that into me!" The Stormvermin struggled, kneeling on the ground, making a gesture of supplication with its only remaining arm, unable to give Gromril a satisfactory answer.
"What other units did he hire?" Gromril stroked his beard, looking at the rat's somewhat extreme reaction, and suddenly felt a bit like a villain.
"I know of Clan Pestilens and Clan Eshin, and, and us, a wandering Warlord clan," the skaven rattled off everything it knew like beans pouring from a bamboo tube.
After asking a few more questions and extracting all its value, Gromril made a simple gesture, and the Anvil Guard behind him swiftly chopped off the creature's rat head with a meteorite iron battle-axe.
Gromril had no intention of fostering skaven power; these filthy rats had no loyalty. Even towards The Great Horned Rat, one of the strongest of the Chaos Lesser Gods, they lacked true loyalty, and Gromril didn't believe he could conquer them with his royal charisma.
"Grey Seer, these guys are really rich!" Gromril muttered to himself. Of the four Great skaven clans, two were present, excluding Clan Pestilens, which was at odds with the Grey Seers.
Although the enemy might be powerful, Gromril still decided to fight them. On one hand, he had some control over the course of history and knew that this batch of rats wouldn't amount to much; on the other hand, he also had reasons why he had to fight.
Gromril's decision to go to war, besides the so-called Ancient Alliance, was primarily driven by the fact that he would be passing through this area again with his caravan in a few months.
If Helmgart turned into a Skaven nest, he would face additional risks whether he proceeded through Axe Bite Pass as planned or was forced to change his route.
Moreover, he knew that Skaven were far more formidable foes than Greenskins. In the original End Times, the entire Dwarf Holds, from Karak Kadrin in the north to the Angrund Clan in the south, and almost every Mountain Stronghold along his caravan's route, were all annihilated by the Skaven.
His father, Thorgrim Grudgebearer, was also assassinated by Deathmaster Snikch after slaying Queek Headtaker.
At that time, the Skaven possessed numbers sufficient to overwhelm the dwarves and incredibly bizarre technological weapons. Gromril did not want to let the rats drag things out until then; he was unwilling to miss any opportunity to weaken them before ultimately conquering Skavenblight.
"Keep moving!" Gromril then gave the order. They had defeated the ambushing Skaven and, incidentally, rescued some human adventurers from the tavern. Gromril thought for a moment and did not ask them to accompany him to the Temple of Sigmar.
In his opinion, these adventurers, skilled in solo combat, would find it difficult to coordinate with the dwarf battle formation. It would be better to let them fight freely, hunting down the scattered Skaven pillaging the city.
Gromril advanced another block. According to the two Reiksguard Knights, they would reach their destination after passing through the inner city's wealthy district ahead. Every dwarf remained vigilant.
"Hoo!" "Puff!" "Bang!" "Thump!"
Suddenly, they heard sounds of a struggle coming from an alley to their right, with one side's voice clearly not of normal volume.
"Go, over there, let's see!" Gromril called out. Large units on the order side were rare. If something could make a wall-shaking sound like that, it was either an exceptionally powerful warrior or, more likely, an enemy.
"Impressive! Great skill!" As they turned into the side path, Gromril couldn't help but praise. He saw Fatis wielding a greatsword, battling a twisted giant nearly two stories tall.
"Rat Ogre!" The dwarves all muttered, these things were not unfamiliar to them.
Just as the name implied, they were large monsters, the size of Trolls, but with a rat's head. These creatures were a pure combination of brute strength and insane rage.
Rat Ogres were the flagship product of Clan Pestilens—a powerful Skaven clan that became one of the four Great clans through alchemy and genetic modification. This was one of their most successful creations among countless others.
After countless cross-breeding and alchemical experiments, the Lords of Pestilens finally discovered this creature. Those malevolent Skaven literally stitched many beasts together and then forcibly bonded them with the infamous warpstone gel.
Rat Ogres perfectly combined the speed and ferocity of Skaven with the powerful muscles of various beasts, charging forward, driven by twisted madness.
Generally, these creatures were entirely consumed by their wild instincts and needed to be driven into battle by a Beastmaster. Just as he thought of this, Gromril saw the corpse of a Skaven holding a Beastmaster's pole on the ground.
From the bisected state of the Skaven's corpse, it must have fallen beneath the greatsword of the Questing Knight. This experienced warrior knew that the primary objective when dealing with such giants was to eliminate the controller.
"Hoo! Ha!"
Fatis gripped the hilt with one hand and the small guard with the other, using both hands to apply force, parrying the punch-dagger on the Rat Ogre's left claw with the flat of his blade.
To increase their lethality, the owners of these giants often bound blades to their claws. In extreme cases, they would even cut off the claws and replace them with warpstone battle blades, drills, or crushers, though this would reduce their lifespan.
Even though Fatis stood over six feet tall, human strength was still no match for such a twisted creation. Although he lowered his center of gravity, he was still pushed back by the monstrous force.
As the Knight was about to be driven against the wall, every dwarf held their breath for him. However, out of respect for his Questing Vow, the dwarves, though gripping their weapons tightly, did not intervene.
Just then, Fatis suddenly used his left hand, gripping the small guard, as a pivot, and fiercely twisted the hilt with his right hand. The spinning blade sliced the Rat Ogre's claw, sending green blood splattering.
"Awooo!"
The foolish creature, in pain, stood on its hind legs, disengaging from the blade. Fatis seized this opportunity. He powerfully pushed off the wall behind him, using the momentum to swing his greatsword, delivering an upward strike like 'Burning the Sky with Fire'.
The sharp blade cut open the beast's belly, but these injuries were not enough to bring down the genetically mutated creature; instead, they ignited the ferocity in its bloodline.
The beast fell into a frenzy. Its attack frequency increased, and its strength grew. But these changes were ineffective. Fatis's martial arts, honed over decades, had reached perfection; at forty years old, he was at the peak of both skill and strength.
Fatis held his sword ready, combining small parries with nimble footwork, skillfully dodging the chaotic, wild swings of the frenzied Rat Ogre. The beast gained nothing but leaving numerous fist imprints on the ground and walls.
As the Rat Ogre lost blood and its stamina waned, its attack speed slowed. Fatis seized the opportunity to launch a counterattack.
He changed his stance, choosing to grip the hilt with both hands and thrust forward. While this caused less damage than cleaving, it offered a wider attack range, higher frequency, and greater flexibility.
After several feints, the more the Rat Ogre lunged, the faster its wounds bled. But the monster, consumed by abnormal brutality and fanaticism, had disregarded its own life, only wanting to tear apart the bouncing human.
"In, in the name of the Lady of the Lake!" Finally, Fatis seized an opening, thrusting his two-handed greatsword into the Rat Ogre's chest with all his might. He gasped for breath while invoking the goddess's name.
After a moment of silence, nothing happened. A flicker of imperceptible disappointment crossed Fatis's face. He delivered two more thrusts to ensure its death, then sheathed his sword and walked up to Gromril.
"Gromril, you've arrived! This beast is much tougher to deal with than a Troll!" Fatis said, wiping sweat from his brow.
"That's natural. This is the rats' favorite plaything! And something they've only developed in recent years." Gromril admired the Knight before him even more. Among his subordinates, few could defeat this Rat Ogre alone, apart from the Eternal Hammer Guard.
"Now what? Where are you going?" Fatis asked.
"To the Temple of Sigmar in the center of the fortress. Would you like to come along?" Gromril extended a warm invitation. After all, who would complain about having more combat power?
"Perhaps not, Master. I think my identity is as sensitive as yours!" Fatis joked, plucking at his beard.
Gromril chuckled. He thought that Helmgart was the frontline of the conflict between Bretonnia and the Imperium of Man. It seemed rather illogical for a former knightly noble to be busy saving an Imperial city.
"Woo~"
Fatis put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. Emma, the beautiful silver-white High Elves warhorse, leaped over the courtyard wall from another yard.
Emma lowered her head slightly, and Fatis nimbly jumped onto her back. Watching them gallop away in the moonlight, Gromril shook his head, "Will he find the Holy Grail?" Gromril murmured to himself.
"Let's go, we're moving forward! Load your guns, prepare for battle!" Johnson relayed Gromril's command.
Two minutes later, the Dwarves' vanguard had charged out of Helmgart's wealthy district. Before them was a vast ocean of mammals.
Gromril saw that the square in front of him was swarming with rats. The standing vermin were fiercely attacking the Temple within his field of vision.
Beyond that, many rats in small squads were slaughtering residents and plundering valuables in the surrounding buildings.
"Take down that small building!" Gromril yelled at Johnson Strongshield. He didn't have a Shieldbearer combat platform, and even if he did, he wouldn't want to climb up and be a living target in this situation. He needed a high point to observe the battlefield, at least to find a relatively reasonable direction of attack.
"Understood!" This was not a difficult task. The small building next to them belonged to a human merchant, who, along with his family, had likely fled directly into the Temple for refuge when the situation turned sour. The remaining gatekeepers and servants met a tragic end after a brief resistance.
Stepping over the scattered corpses of humans and Skaven and the ransacked interior decorations, Gromril arrived on the second-floor balcony.
"Telescope!" Protected by the Ironbreaker's shield wall, he began to observe the battlefield through the railing.
The Temple of Sigmar was found in every corner of the Imperium, from the Byzantine-style cathedral in Altdorf to numerous small village churches. The church in Helmgart was of medium size, and Gromril thought it could probably squeeze in a thousand people.
Gromril was now on the southwest side of the square. He noticed that the Skaven's attack was very disorganized, meaning there was no concentrated direction, nor were there many elite troops. The limited Black Furs were acting as overseers, driving their weaker kin, and not engaging in combat themselves.
For a moment, Gromril didn't know if this was because the Grey Seer leading them lacked command experience, or because Viscount Thompson's defenses were impenetrable, leaving no opportunity, or if the rats were simply besieging without attacking, having an additional strategic objective.
Gromril was in a quandary. For a moment, he didn't know how to act. As a fortress city, Helmgart was not large internally, offering little strategic depth for him to maneuver.
However, the current situation was undoubtedly not the worst. Viscount Thompson, being entrusted with such an important position, must be capable. He was not eliminated directly by the first wave of night raids but organized effective resistance and retreated to terrain favorable for defense.
"How long does it take to get from here to Altdorf?" Gromril asked the Reiksguard Knights beside him.
"If riding, at the speed of my comrades, probably by noon tomorrow," Walter's voice rang out.
"Hmm, then it seems these rats are the ones in a hurry!" Gromril stroked his beard, making his judgment. To be honest, he wasn't sure if the knight sent to Altdorf for reinforcements had successfully broken through.
But since the Skaven couldn't completely intercept the small reinforcement team from the nearby dwarf settlement, the chances of success for the other side were very high.
Even if the messenger was truly ambushed and killed, given the close proximity, the Skaven wouldn't have much time. Gromril still trusted the keen senses of Reik's High Prince William III.
"clansmen, I think we should put some pressure on those rats from the periphery!" Gromril immediately began issuing orders.
"Grenson, Johnson, you two each take a team and capture the two adjacent buildings. Then, Brockson, set up a long-range firepower network in these three small buildings!"
Gromril's tactics were very simple. The surrounding cluster of buildings were well-positioned. Setting up gun emplacements on the balconies and windows would allow firepower to cover the Temple square and the entire block.
Under the cover of long-range firepower, close-combat troops would clear out the Skaven building by building, which would put pressure on the Skaven while protecting civilians and minimizing losses.
Time was now on Gromril's side. As long as his troops advanced steadily, the Skaven would inevitably become anxious and take action to break the stalemate, which would also mean creating vulnerabilities.
Upon receiving the orders, the two dwarf captains quickly selected their troops and charged towards the buildings on either side. Johnson completed his task with ease, but Captain Grenson encountered a few Clan Eshin Night Runners.
These black-clad rats hid in cabinets, attempting to bypass the Ironbreaker at the front and ambush the dwarf warriors in the rear. Fortunately, their numbers were small, and they were eliminated at the cost of a few clansmen being wounded.
Although the first phase of the mission was successfully completed, Gromril did not relax his vigilance. He stood on the balcony, observing the battlefield with a telescope in one hand and holding a runic megaphone brought from the settlement in the other, cheering on the humans in the Temple.
"I am High Prince Gromril-az Thorson! I have come to aid you in accordance with the ancient alliance! Hold on, do not worry, my subordinates are dealing with the rats in the city, and they will protect your families!"
Gromril's words undoubtedly boosted the morale of the humans. Clearly, the Prince not only came to their aid but arrived so quickly, which was beyond Viscount Thompson's expectation.
"Gulp!" Gromril roared a few more times, pulled out a bottle of beer, and chugged it down. Wearing armor and being exposed to the wind on a winter night was quite cold.
"I'm going inside to rest for a bit! Call me immediately if anything happens!" Gromril instructed the Rangers before ducking back into the room.
In fact, just as Gromril had predicted, the Skaven soon reacted. Helmgart's lack of strategic depth applied equally to the Skaven.
"Respected Chosen of the Goddess! The rats are making a move!"
Gromril sprang to his feet. His backside hadn't even warmed the sofa beneath him yet! "Brothers, prepare for battle!"