Gromril noticed that the Skaven in the square began to converge on the northeast corner of the temple. Since the small buildings Gromril occupied were in the southwest corner, the fire coverage in the diagonal position was the worst.
"It seems that Grey Seer didn't completely lose his mind from consuming warpstone," Gromril muttered.
"No rush! Inform Johnson and Grenson to recall the scattered troops!" He issued another command, but he wasn't planning to attack the Skaven immediately.
What if their gathering in the northeast corner was a feint? If Gromril abandoned his advantageous terrain like that, the dwarves' speed in changing positions would be far from keeping up with the fast-moving Skaven.
Gromril decided to wait until the main force of the Skaven and the Human defenders in the temple had fully engaged before taking action, to avoid his side entering the battlefield too early and becoming the primary target of the Skaven.
Although he decided to support the Humans here, Gromril didn't want his clansmen to suffer too many losses. The dwarves have a low birth rate, and every Clansman is the most precious asset.
Gromril saw that the Grey Seer Lord was still launching attacks in the traditional Skaven manner, with a large group of Clanrats and Slave Rats being driven towards the back door of the temple.
Viscount Thompson did not sit by and watch the Skaven rush to the temple entrance. He commanded his halberd regiment to form a dense phalanx at the door. These Human warriors wore blue and red uniforms, colors unique to Reikland.
To distinguish the troops of various provinces during coordinated operations, the Elector Counts chose liveries representing their territory's culture for their armies.
Gromril knew that these Imperium of Man infantry belonged to the provincial legions; they were full-time soldiers receiving fixed pay, ready to answer the call to battle at any time.
Of course, in addition to serving as regular forces to repel invading enemies during wartime, they also played roles as city guards, firefighters, and law enforcers.
However, this particular unit was assembled somewhat hastily, and some members did not have time to put on their complete uniforms.
These warriors wielded their halberds with bone-shattering force—different from the combined glaive and spear-like fighting weapons prevalent in Gromril's original world, which had both hooking and thrusting functions.
These weapons, with their heavy blades, might be more accurately called poleaxes. They had a short axe head, a sharp spike on the back, sometimes a curved hook, and a spear or javelin tip at the end.
Compared to spears, they were better at fighting large enemies. Because Reikland was often harassed by Beastmen from the great forests, monsters from the Grey Mountains, and knights from over the mountains, the provincial legions here preferred to equip halberds. Their power was enough to cleave through heavy armor and tough hides.
However, against a low-quality, numerically superior race like the skaven, they were not as flexible. This was also a tactical error caused by Viscount Thompson never having fought skaven before.
Wielding a halberd required more stamina, and more importantly, they had to be operated with both hands. Therefore, despite having no protection other than breastplates, these soldiers had to fight without shields.
Without shields, these halberdiers quickly suffered losses under the dense ranged rock-throwing attacks of the skaven. However, their brave fighting still inflicted heavy casualties on the rat-men.
Soon, Viscount Thompson made adjustments, and some infantry equipped with longswords and shields replaced their weary comrades, guarding the gate.
Swordsmen were undoubtedly a more suitable unit for fighting the rat-men. Seeing their attack stalled and unable to utilize the Clanrats' numerical advantage in the narrow back door, the skaven leader also adjusted his tactics.
After a brief standoff, Gromril saw a group of Rat Ogres approaching the battlefield from a distance. There were about ten of these monsters, and they charged at the forefront, driven by several Clan Pestilens Beastmasters.
"Human friends! Be careful! The rats have sent out their monsters!" Gromril warned from afar using a runic megaphone. At the same time, Brockson began directing the artillery crew to reload.
"Bang! Bang!" Before the Rat Ogres could leap and approach the temple's back door, two cannonballs slammed into their formation.
To Gromril's surprise, the artillery, which had been unstoppable so far, finally hit a snag. The Rat Ogres that were hit did not die in the explosion; instead, they went berserk and continued to charge towards the temple.
Gromril couldn't help but worry for his Human friends. These basic line infantry, who relied on courage and combat skills, would find it difficult to withstand the charge of monsters.
"Sigmar is with us! Warriors, show your courage! Crush those filthy creations!"
A booming voice echoed through the night sky of Helmgart. Gromril twisted the telescope in his hand to focus and get a clear view of the speaker.
Soon, he saw a bald man. The bald man held a one-handed warhammer in one hand and a book in the other. He wore plate armor and exuded a faint golden glow all over his body.
"Sigmar Battle Priest!" Gromril curled his lip. He thought of Volkmar the Grim from later generations, who rode on a War Altar and went to deliver his head to Nagash.
These individuals, who shaved their heads to show loyalty to their God-Emperor, had to enrich the spiritual well-being of citizens through sacred prayers, protecting them from the erosion of Chaos, and also inspire their armies through brave and heroic combat.
"Strengthen your faith! Our belief will coalesce into the toughest shield!" the Battle Priest roared, as a faint golden light emanated from his body, then spread to the surrounding Human warriors. He transformed the Humans' faith into a shield, as hard as castle wrought iron.
"Well, given the size and importance of Helmgart, it's not surprising to have a Battle Priest!" Gromril stroked his beard. He had a good impression of these bald men.
It's not easy to find a group of powerful and devout individuals in this Chaos-ridden world. More importantly, they also honored the alliance established between their God-Emperor and the dwarves, making aid to the dwarves a part of their doctrine.
Gromril watched as the group of Human swordsmen, protected by the Shield of Faith, were not directly overwhelmed by the Rat Ogres. They retreated into the temple's back door, allowing only one monster to squeeze through at a time.
Under the cover of the swordsmen's shields, the halberdiers used their weapons to hack down two of the most bloodthirsty creatures. However, the Rat Ogres behind them also began to directly attack the temple walls under the command of the Beastmasters.
Their claws and crude weapons left a dent in the brick and stone walls with each strike. After two or three hits, the temple's back wall began to tremble slightly.
Facing the Skaven's assault on the wall, Viscount Thompson inside quickly reacted. Although this temple had always been blessed by the divine magic of successive Sigmar priests,
Helmgart, due to its crucial strategic position, had been conquered multiple times by various forces since its completion, and the temple had suffered repeated damage as a result. Therefore, relying on the wall itself would be a dead end.
Gromril didn't know exactly what Viscount Thompson did, but he could hear dense footsteps and loud but chaotic shouts, which put his mind at ease.
Gromril's reinforcements arrived quickly. From the explosion that kicked off the night raid to him assembling his forces, receiving the distress call, repelling the ambush, and seizing the high ground, just over an hour had passed.
Now, the evil moon Morrsleib still glowed with its greenish light in the middle of the sky. Gromril believed in Viscount Thompson and the human defenders here; they shouldn't be unable to hold out for even this short time.
"Dong, dong!" The back wall of the temple was tottering.
"Human things! Die, die!" The ratmen cheered at the sight. They seemed to have already smelled the scent of victory.
"Boom!" After two more rounds of Bash, the wall finally succumbed to the strain. It collapsed, bricks raining down.
The Rat Ogres squeezed into the breach where the wall had fallen, all eager to tear apart the humans inside and satisfy their grotesque hunger.
However, what these beasts couldn't understand was that the tender white sausages inside were not like the ones they had seen before. They weren't sprawled on the ground, trembling and wailing strange sounds, nor were they oozing yellow fluid.
"Boom!"
"Whoosh!"
"Cackle!"
Gromril saw a flash of fire erupt from the breach in the wall. With the sound, a cackling flame head appeared. With a joyful shriek, it leaped into the Rat Ogre crowd, bouncing happily.
"Wizard thing!" The Flame Head spell wasn't particularly effective against large units, but as it ricocheted, several Clan Pestilens Beastmasters shrieked and were incinerated.
Although they were already genetically twisted creations, the biological instinct to fear fire still existed within the Rat Ogres.
"Lads, kill these creatures of Chaos! Aqshy is with you!" Behind the Flame Head, a sturdy man wearing a fiery red robe, with an exaggerated torch-like hairstyle and beard dyed brass, charged out.
He held a torch-like staff in one hand and a longsword burning with fire in the other. The halberdier units charging out with him also had the same magical effect on their weapons.
"Ruin Fire Sword, there's a Bright Fire Wizard here!" Gromril praised, saying,
he knew that magic. Users of the Lore of Fire bound Aqshy—the Lore of Fire within the Eight Winds of Magic—to their allies' weapons, causing them to burst into flames, greatly increasing their power and adding a scorching effect.
"Is the Imperial College of Magic in Altdorf now?" Gromril turned to ask the Reiksguard Knights beside him. He, of course, knew that sacred place for training mages, but he wasn't very sure where it was located now.
"Uh, yes, initially, at the request of that great High, uh, no, that scheming Pointy-ears wizard," the Reiksguard Knight quickly corrected himself, sensing the unfriendly gazes of the old dwarfs around him.
But Gromril, of course, knew who he was talking about: High Elves Archmage Teclis, the supreme leader of Ulthuan's White Tower of Hoeth.
He was likely the strongest living spellcaster currently, perhaps only Lord Mazdamundi, the strongest of the Second Generation Slann, who presided over the Southern Star Pyramid, could compare to him.
Besides this, Teclis was also Lileath's chief sycophant, brandishing Lileath's Staff of Moonlight—a powerful staff that, besides containing the Elven Goddess's eternal magic, was also carved with her naked bust—parading it around.
"His late Majesty Magnus the Pious established the College of Magic in Altdorf, but to be honest, we mortals have never truly seen those colleges," the Reiksguard Knight added.
"That makes perfect sense!" Gromril nodded. Magic cast with Aqshy is extremely aggressive, destructive, and vibrant, so Fire Wizards are often conscripted by lords or Imperial generals to serve as battle mages.
Gromril watched as the halberdiers, amplified by the Bright Fire Wizard, killed several Rat Ogres. The remaining beasts, having lost their Beastmasters' command, followed their instincts and fled in terror.
Just as Gromril rubbed his nose, preparing to take another sip of his liquor, he heard a bell.
"Ding! Ding! Ding!"
"screaming bell!" Captain Grenson returned. He warned after hearing the bell. "Master, let's move. The man-cubs might not hold out!"
"How so?" Gromril was a bit surprised. Seeing the Battle Priest and the Bright Fire Wizard, Gromril still had confidence in the defenders inside.
"This thing can make the ratmen even crazier! When an ocean of rats overcomes their fear, they can truly engulf everything like an ocean."
The old dwarf used a metaphor. Most of the Sons of the Mountains dislike water and the sea. Not being able to stand on solid ground makes many old dwarfs uneasy.
"Only those grey-furred rat spellcasters know how to make this bell. Generally speaking, only the more powerful ones can afford to make it!" Johnson Strongshield also returned. As an Ironbreaker, he had fought Skaven many times.
"Ding! Ding!"
As they spoke, the bell did not stop but became more urgent. Gromril noticed that the ratmen's eyes grew redder as the bell rang terrifyingly.
"Squeak! Squeak!"
"Die! Die!"
"Move! Move!"
The Skaven's shrieks slowly converged into a chorus: For whom the bell tolls? They knew perfectly well.
The humans in the temple also visibly tensed up. This bell seemed to not only boost Skaven morale but also instill fear in enemies with less resolute minds.
Gromril noticed that the bald Battle Priest began to recite the scriptures in his hand to counter it, but it seemed that under the light of the evil moon, his power was not as strong as that of the Grey Seer ringing the bell.
"Human things! Your god, abandons, abandons you!" A sharp voice, accompanied by the rhythm of the bell, rang out. The bell seemed to amplify the volume.
"The Great Horned Rat, walks among us! Helm, Helmgart belongs to us!"
"Nonsense! Sigmar is with us!" The Battle Priest was not to be outdone; he also roared.
"Die! Die!" Gromril finally saw the screaming bell, a bell emitting a green glow, clearly made of warpstone, mounted on a small cart and entering the battlefield.
"Boom!"
Gromril was also adjusting the focus of his telescope, trying to see more clearly. Soon, by the green glow of the screaming bell, he saw the Grey Seer, who was gesticulating wildly with his staff.
As he cast his spell, a crack appeared in the ground in front of the back door of the Temple of Sigmar. The Battle Priest was clearly the primary target of this spell. He and several warriors around him, unable to react in time, fell into the crevice, their fates unknown.
"A Grey Seer of the Ruin Clan!" Gromril, upon seeing this Earthsplitter spell, deduced the magical affinity of the grey-furred rat.
There are three main basic types of skaven magic, each functioning as an independent magical system: Plague, Stealth, and Ruin. Among these, the Ruin Clan is the most common and versatile.
Of course, a small number of skaven spellcasters also choose to delve into necromancy and embrace other Chaos Gods, but such instances are always swiftly eliminated by the skaven themselves and are very rare.
The human defenders were clearly intimidated. The power of magic was already enough to inspire awe in mortals; it had only been a little over a hundred years since Imperial Wizards were legalized in the Imperium of Man.
Before Teclis persuaded Magnus the Pious to stop the Imperium's persecution and ostracization of potential magic users, anyone caught would be handed over to the Witch Hunters of the Sigmarite Church and burned at the stake.
Although humans have now gradually accepted the presence of spellcasters among them, how to defend against magic remains a problem for them.
What's more, the unique magic of the Skaven, driven by warpstone, is not part of the Eight Winds of Magic. They don't even know of the Skaven's existence, let alone understand their magic.
"Move! Move!"
Seeing this, the Skaven's morale soared. They roared and charged towards the collapsed breach in the temple. In contrast, although Viscount Thompson shouted repeatedly, his soldiers continued to retreat.
"It's our turn!" Gromril drained the beer from his bottle and smashed the empty bottle on the ground. "clansmen, form up! Let's go rescue our human friends!"
Gromril descended from the small building under the protection of the Anvil Guard. His melee troops were already arrayed, and his ranged troops were rapidly pouring out of the buildings.
"We will directly strike the Skaven's flank!" Gromril did not intend to pass through the temple to fight alongside the humans. With too many people, the front line would be stretched, leading to a stalemate, and his losses would certainly be greater than a direct rout.
That Grey Seer Lord was neither blind nor foolish. Gromril and his hundreds of dwarves were entrenched in a cluster of buildings only a few hundred meters from the main battlefield. Even a war pig would know that these guys meant no good.
Although the arrow was on the string and had to be loosed, the Grey Seer still made some targeted arrangements. Gromril saw that the Skaven had deployed a considerable amount of extra forces on the flanks of their battle array.
The Skaven Warlord, who had made a quick escape after the unfavorable ambush battle in front of the dwarf settlement, appeared once again. Beside him was another Skaven spellcaster, also wearing a grey robe.
"Rats! Hold, hold the line for me!" The Skaven Warlord roared, waving the warblade in his hand. This time, he had many more troops at his disposal, and their quality was also higher than before.
It was clear that the Grey Seer Lord commanding the screaming bell was a sensible rat. Realizing that the newly arrived dwarves could not be stopped by rabble, he had allocated some forces, which made the Skaven Warlord feel very good.
A large group of shield-bearing Clanrats formed a line in the middle of the street, interspersed with some black-furred Stormvermin acting as strong points for the defense. Behind them were dense ranks of Skaven ranged units.
"Wait, wait until Lord Kordelus kills all the human things! You, we, all, all will have fun!" The skaven warlord encouraged his subordinates. Despite the increased strength, he still felt a bit apprehensive facing the dwarves' excellent weapons.
"Yes, Yes! Kill, kill the bearded things, you will all be rewarded! Dare, dare to run, all of you, go, go dig in the mines as Slave Rats!" The Grey Seer also chimed in, choosing to use threats to motivate the Skaven to fight bravely.
For Clanrats and Stormvermin, being reduced to the lowest Slave Rats was a punishment second only to death. It was essentially a death sentence with a stay of execution, and they would suffer before dying.
"Brothers, push forward, these rats can't stop us!" Gromril commanded, waving the warhammer in his hand.
The dwarf troops advanced quickly, and the vanguard soon engaged the Skaven. Although the Clanrats were numerous, they caused almost no casualties. All they could do was use their bodies to shield their stronger, black-furred comrades from the dwarves' axe blades.
The Stormvermin, armed with single-handed swords and shields, could not break through the meteorite iron armor of the Ironbreakers with their barely adequate weapons—this special unit was formed specifically to counter the Skaven.
Only some of the black-furred rats using two-handed heavy weapons could cause some damage to the dwarves through the shock of their Bash attacks. However, they had no opportunity to block damage with shields, so they could only push the Clanrats in front of them, using these rat meat shields to protect themselves.
Seeing that even with increased strength, they couldn't withstand the dwarf assault, the skaven warlord grew anxious again. The Grey Seer, tasked with the blocking mission, pulled out two regularly polished warpstone coins from his robe and swallowed them.
After a brief spasm, he unleashed several bolts of dark green warp lightning. However, due to the inherent low power of this magic and the poor spellcasting ability of the young, probationary Grey Seer, this round of spells caused almost no damage to the dwarves.
Just as the Skaven defense line was constantly retreating and their resistance became increasingly weak, Gromril suddenly heard shouts from the front ranks: "Watch out! Gas rats!"
Gromril looked up and, sure enough, clouds of green mist appeared at the front lines where dwarves and Skaven were clashing. This must have been caused by the Poison Wind Globadiers.
"By Grungni's beard, they are truly selfish and insane!" Gromril cursed. Poison Wind Globadiers were a specialized unit developed by the Skaven to counter the dwarf Ironbreakers.
They were suitable for fighting in narrow, windless underground tunnels, but using them in an open outdoor environment like this seemed like a double-edged sword.
Their gas bombs were glass or crystal spheres filled with deadly warpstone gas. When thrown, the casing would shatter, releasing the billowing smoke inside.
Compared to the resilient dwarves, the Skaven troops had less resistance to the gas, and many Clanrats were already beginning to twitch in agony.
"Iron Drake Handcannons ready, we're charging through!" Gromril frowned at the sight. The Skaven Warlord, in his bid to block them, was willing to sacrifice his own troops to create a gas zone with Poison Wind Globadiers.
Gromril initially didn't want to force his way through, but on one hand, due to the uncertain fate of the Sigmar Battle Priest and the Grey Seer's participation, the human side was under immense pressure, pushed back into the Temple, fighting around the broken back wall.
On the other hand, if they took a detour, Gromril felt that while the humans might not necessarily fail to hold out until they arrived, the problem was that the Skaven were faster. They were perfectly capable of creating another gas zone on the new path before the dwarves could reach it.
By then, the back-and-forth running would exhaust them, making a breakthrough even harder and potentially leading to greater losses.
Gromril saw the Skaven retreating, leaving behind a trail of Clanrats with ulcerated skin and gruesome deaths. It seemed the Skaven Warlord didn't want to commit all his forces to the gas.
The Iron Drakes from the rear pushed to the front, and at Gromril's command, a dozen high-temperature flames erupted in the not-so-wide passage.
The flames heated the air in the alley, reducing its density and causing it to float upwards. While it couldn't completely dissipate the poison gas, it could at least reduce its concentration.
"Hold your breath, we're charging through!" Gromril shouted, pulling out a towel to cover his mouth and nose as he rushed forward.
The twenty-meter distance vanished in an instant. At this point, the front-line Skaven were still painfully coughing and struggling to reform their lines. Once inhaled, the Skryre Clan's specially made warpstone gas would immediately fill the lungs with frothing pus.
Gromril directly activated the Rune of Fury and Destruction, and the sudden explosion shattered the ratmen's plans to regroup. This rune strike also sent the quicker-reacting Clanrats, who had inhaled less gas and miraculously survived, to meet their horned rat god.
Now, only the stronger, more resilient Stormvermin stood at the front line. These black-furred rats, battered by friendly fire gas and subterranean explosions, and unable to escape in time, immediately suffered another round of attacks.
Gromril's Hammerers charged quickly, swinging their two-handed great hammers with devastating force, smashing the Stormvermin and their red plate armor to pieces.
Without the cover of the Clanrats, once these black-furred rats were directly exposed to the dwarf attack, they couldn't last much longer than their weaker counterparts.
After Gromril broke through the front-line melee Skaven, he found that the ranged Skaven wielding slingshots had not fled. He protected his face with one hand, while using his warhammer to deflect the rain of stones.
These stones struck his plate armor with a "crackle, crackle" sound, but did not cause much damage to Gromril.
"Fire! Fire for me!" Gromril called out to Brockson. He knew that firing when enemies were clustered together was undoubtedly the most efficient. Soon, two cannonballs slammed into the mass of Skaven.
"Boom!"
The power of the artillery was fully displayed in this urban environment. Even the fragments of flagstones stirred up by the explosion were enough to cause widespread wailing among the unarmored Clanrats.
Although the Skaven Warlord and the young Grey Seer were still shouting and urging them on, they were already being swept backward by their demoralized subordinates.
Gromril noticed a few Poison Wind Globadiers lagging at the end of the fleeing group. These gas rats ran slowly because they wore runic armor under their robes for protection.
This was partly because the immense lethality of Poison Wind Globes always made them primary targets on the battlefield, and relying on pure rat strength, these less robust individuals found it difficult to hurl the large glass spheres very far.
To avoid being picked off by enemy ranged fire before reaching suitable combat positions, Poison Wind Globadiers required some extra protection.
Of course, the Skryre Clan—the Skaven Empire's number one arms dealers—with their warehouses full of warpstone currency, also provided the necessary material basis for equipping runic armor.
When the armor on common Clanrats was heavier than that of their sturdier Stormvermin counterparts, it was perfectly logical for them to fall behind during the literal head-over-heels scramble.
Gromril didn't want to just watch them clumsily escape. He hurled his warhammer, easily felling the fastest one, and then the Anvil Guards rushed in to dismember the rest.
"Assign a few warriors to strip their gear and bring it back! I want to study it!" Gromril commanded Johnson Strongshield, kicking the gas rat corpses to turn them over.
To survive accidental gas leaks, Poison Wind Globadiers were equipped with meticulously crafted gas masks, goggles, and cumbersome respirators.
Gromril was very interested in this set of equipment. He knew that battles with the Skaven would be frequent in the future, and besides the Skryre Clan, clan Pestilens, whose main forces were in Lustria, were also adept at using plagues. These items might even prove useful when facing the daemon armies of Nurgle.
The fleeing Skaven blocking force was scrambling to rejoin their main force, which was attacking the Temple. The rapid breakthrough by the dwarves on the flank undoubtedly threw the leading Grey Seer into disarray.
Gromril saw him scolding his apprentice from a distance, then pulling out some strange object and forcibly pouring it into the young Grey Seer's mouth.
The dwarf reinforcements once again instilled courage in the humans. Viscount Thompson knew he needed to seize this opportunity. If the dwarf reinforcements were repelled, the only one he could rely on was William III of Altdorf.
And with the walls of the Temple of Sigmar—his most important stronghold—already collapsed, he wasn't confident he could hold out until reinforcements arrived.
Indeed, Castle Montfort, standing at the other end of Axe Bite Pass, was closer to Helmgart, but the Viscount had not sent anyone to request aid from the Duke of Bretonnia.
For a noble of the Imperium of Man, doing so would be worse than fighting and dying at the hands of xenos. That way, at least his family's status would be maintained, and his descendants could still inherit his title.
For this, Viscount Thompson charged out with his most elite troops—a small group of Greatswords wielding two-handed greatswords and a dozen Reiksgard swordsmen in full plate armor, equipped with longswords and shields.
The Bright Fire Wizard had previously cast two more spells to curb the Skaven's frenzied assault, spurred on by the screaming bell, but he still drained his Winds of Magic to unleash a Cloak of Fire.
"Aqshy blesses you!"
Flashes of fire surrounded the Viscount and his subordinates, capable of both protecting them and burning their enemies.
Gromril and his troops, in conjunction with Viscount Thompson's forces, launched an attack on the Skaven from two directions, one from the front and one from the flank.
The Grey Seer Lord under the screaming bell was clearly flustered. Under his desperate pounding, the deafening bell rang throughout Helmgart Fortress. Fueled by the bell's ringing, the Skaven's ferocious nature seemed endless.
They surged like waves towards Sigmar's temple, one after another. It seemed the leading Grey Seer also knew that Gromril wouldn't truly risk his life for the humans, and he wanted to crush the human forces first.
In fact, Gromril did want to minimize his own losses. After all, protecting Helmgart Fortress was ultimately Viscount Thompson's own business, and His Majesty Dieter IV would not pay him compensation for any losses the Dwarves suffered there.
"Let the ranged units fire at will!" Gromril commanded the melee units in a tug-of-war with the Skaven, wanting to use ranged firepower to break the Skaven's flank before him.
Upon receiving the order, the Thunderer and Quarreler units dispersed to find suitable firing positions in the surrounding buildings. In a human city, the straight trajectory of dwarf ranged firepower was not easy to utilize.
After a brief skirmish while waiting for the ranged units to get into position, Gromril ordered the surrounding warriors to retreat. He didn't want to be accidentally hit by his own ranged fire like his elder brother.
The skaven on the flank were a bit further from the screaming bell, and the morale boost they received was relatively weaker. Seeing these troublesome bearded creatures actively retreat, they were overjoyed!
These vermin propped themselves up with their weapons, panting heavily. Although they had eaten their fill before the battle, their innate high metabolism still made them feel hunger and fatigue very quickly.
But soon, death rained down from above. Hundreds of Thunderer and crossbows fired in rotation, showering them. In an instant, the skaven fell like wheat being cut.
The armored Stormvermin could hold on for a bit longer, while the Clanrat could only use the bodies of their dead or half-dead comrades as shields.
"These rats are worse than beasts!" Gromril noticed some skaven secretly gnawing on the corpses of their fallen comrades, trying to replenish some stamina on the battlefield. As for pilfering equipment from their dead kin, that went without saying.
A few more Clanrat, seeing that the leading Skaven Warlord didn't stop them, eagerly tore at the body of a Stormvermin, stripping off its red-painted plate armor while the corpse was still warm and not stiff.
Gromril felt that when the vermin's morale was low, he should hit them hard. He secretly told Brockson to prepare to fire the cannons.
Just then, Gromril faintly heard a few grunts and screams.
"Something's wrong!" Gromril looked around, signaling the Anvil Guard to gather around him.
"Clan Eshin!" he and Johnson Strongshield exclaimed simultaneously.
Gromril hadn't seen the black-cloaked Clan Eshin skaven on the main battlefield, so they were likely either deployed in advance in some dark corners or had just returned from a nefarious mission.
"In groups, support our ranged units!" Gromril secretly regretted his carelessness. When the dwarf forces were concentrated, those sneaky stealth rats wouldn't show their faces, but once they dispersed, they would emerge to cause trouble.
Gromril dared not let the melee Dwarves spread out as individuals again, otherwise, except for the Anvil Guard in full meteorite iron plate armor, other dwarf warriors could be caught off guard by the sneak attacks of gutter runners and suffer.
As Gromril's command was relayed, the dwarf warriors in the rear formed groups of three to five, moving deeper into the buildings back-to-back. Short bursts of battle cries echoed out.
Gromril was still worried about his clansmen, but the Skaven Warlord on the other side didn't want to miss this rare opportunity. Taking advantage of the sparse dwarf ranged fire, he reformed the skaven's battle line.
"Bearded things, die, die! Otherwise, otherwise, we will die, die!" The Skaven Warlord's rat eyes revealed madness; clearly, he had been threatened by the Grey Seer Lord under the screaming bell earlier.
Repeated failures to stop the enemy had made his superior lose patience with him. skaven do not gradually gain respect or status, and in their brutal society, it is certainly not given voluntarily, so they must savagely seize leadership.
Every Skaven Warlord had already proven themselves to be a first-class warrior and a cunning opponent in the past. Once pushed to the brink, they would erupt with a ferocity capable of inspiring fear.
The Skaven Warlord brandished his warblades and led the charge. His speed was very fast, heading straight for Gromril. This sudden increase in speed made Gromril suspect that he had triggered an effect similar to a seeker.
The young Grey Seer apprentice once again swallowed a warpstone coin to gain an extra reserve of Winds of Magic. He had just been force-fed a mad potion by his master, and now he was casting spells at the risk of overloading his magic circuits, or even exploding.
He gestured, activating the berserker strength within the skaven, urging them to unleash their madness upon the Dwarves. Their charge speed and strength were both increased.
Gromril felt the pressure for a moment, but he was not alarmed. He had even killed Skarsnik; would he be afraid of these literally nameless vermin?
"Spray them! Roast the rat meat, let these starving ghosts have something hot to eat!" Gromril roared. He hadn't dispersed the Iron Drake; facing the charging hordes of skaven directly in the streets was their perfect opportunity to shine.
The Iron Drake advanced with their weapons, and Gromril and the Anvil Guard around him made way for them. Tongues of fire raged through the streets of Helmgart as triggers were pulled.
Gromril wrinkled his nose. He smelled the burnt odor of singed fur and the charred aroma of roasted rat meat. He waved his hand in front of his nose to fan away the smell; this roasted rat meat was not edible!
Only Nurgle, the fat grandpa in the warp, probably knew how many strange bacteria and viruses these sewer-dwelling beasts carried. It was truly "clean and hygienic."
However, this round of flame-spraying wasn't too effective. Due to their madness, the skaven didn't charge in neat formations but in a scattered manner.
The armored elites couldn't outrun the unarmored lower-tier troops, so they suffered very few losses. Thus, when the Iron Drake retreated to reload, Gromril and his troops faced the frenzied Stormvermin.
"You rats, die!" Gromril roared, slamming his warhammer into the ground. A shockwave spread out from him.
The rats affected by the Thunder Strike visibly slowed their charge, and some, losing their balance, tumbled to the ground. The skaven behind them, driven by madness, didn't retreat or yield, stepping directly over their fallen comrades.
Looking at the rats before them, the dwarves around Gromril were not nervous. To be honest, the clansmen who could become Anvil Guard and Hammerer were all strong enough and had extensive combat experience.
Especially those from Karaz-A-Karak, the capital of the Mountains Kingdom, there were no substandard individuals among them. Even if larger, stronger, and more waaagh orks charged, they would fight them without changing their expressions, let alone these slightly larger rats?
The Anvil Guard held their ground, fighting them. For a time, the 'thwack' of axes cutting into flesh and the 'hiss' and 'clink' of skaven weapons slashing or stabbing against meteorite iron armor echoed through the street.
Gromril twisted and slammed his hammer into the waist of a Stormvermin in front of him, knocking it to the ground, then parried a spear thrusting in from the side.
Gromril extended his left hand, letting the spearhead pass, and grabbed the wooden shaft. He pulled hard, and under the Dwarf race's superior strength and mass, even with the enhancement of evil magic, the Clanrat behind the spear was dragged stumbling forward.
"Thud!" Gromril smashed the rat's head with his hammer. In its madness, the rat didn't dodge the hammer Gromril raised with his right hand, instead focusing on gripping the spear shaft with both hands to wrestle with him.
"Lads, those in the back, move up! Those in the front, go to the back and rest!" Gromril roared. He knew that after dealing with this group of rats, there would be another fierce battle under the screaming bell, and he needed his subordinates to conserve their strength.
Catching a break on the battlefield to take a few sips of ale and rest to recover some stamina was not difficult for the Anvil Guard. They often needed to maintain vigilance day and night while patrolling underground.
Gromril knew that for some Ironbreaker teams that had been together long enough, they trusted their comrades enough that warriors in the back of the formation could doze off during combat.
The dwarves quickly changed their formations. These well-trained warriors made no extra sound except for the clanking of their iron boots on the flagstones.
As time passed, the Death Frenzy magic cast by the Grey Seer apprentice began to wane. The remaining skaven, gradually awakening from their madness, shivered at the sight of the dismembered limbs of their kin scattered across the ground.
What made them even more fearful was that the dwarves opposite them seemed to have suffered no losses. Their faces beneath their visors were unreadable, and their armor was stained with the blood and brains of their own kind, as if they had just rolled out of the Blood God's domain.
"Bearded things, powerful, powerful!"
"Charge, charge, we will, die, die!"
The skaven grew fearful; they began to hesitate. Just then, the dwarf ranged units' firearms and crossbow bolts resumed firing. Clearly, with the help of the melee units, they had dealt with or driven away the nearby Gutter Runners and Night Runners.
These Clan Eshin assassins were expensive, few in number, and would swiftly flee at the first sign of trouble. They took money for their services and had no loyalty whatsoever.
"Bang! Bang!"
A volley of gunfire completely shattered the skaven's will to resist. They were no match when there was no ranged fire suppression, and now they were even more outmatched.
Perhaps fearing being cut down and sacrificed to the horned rat by an enraged Grey Seer lord if they ran back, the remnants of these sniping units scattered directly into the buildings of Helmgart. Some even more agile ones flipped open sewer grates and jumped in.
"Grimnir's wrath!" Gromril cursed. He threw his hammer, trying to take down one of the two leading skaven, but there were too many rats for him to aim properly, so he could only kill a Stormvermin as a small consolation.
After the skaven flank was routed, Gromril began to re-examine the battlefield. He saw that Viscount Thompson and his subordinates were engaged in a bitter struggle. The humans, due to their height difference, found it somewhat awkward fighting the skaven.
However, the height difference was only one aspect; another was the issue of weaponry and equipment. Due to the suddenness of the attack, the Reiksguard Knights did not have time to mount their horses, so they abandoned their usual lances and instead used single-handed swords and shields.
Compared to the foot knights, who, despite awkward weapons, could still hold the line in full plate armor, the Greatswords' situation was even more embarrassing.
These were a group of elite heavy infantry capable of serving as personal guards for human lords on the battlefield. Unlike the knights, who were composed of noble scions, they were made up of the most skilled veterans from the provincial legions.
Relying on experience honed in bloody battles, fine plate armor crafted by dwarves, and the gigantic two-handed swords they wielded, capable of splitting a large green-skin in two, they could contend with most bloodthirsty savage tribes and mutated cloven-hoofed beasts of the forests.
However, when facing the frenzied skaven, the Greatswords' formidable killing power seemed somewhat excessive, while their weaknesses became even more apparent—
Although they were equipped with what was called full plate armor, it actually left one arm and one leg exposed to facilitate weapon handling. Their massive weapons were slow to swing, which exposed many vulnerabilities.
The cunning nature of the skaven was fully exploited in close combat. They attacked the less protected parts of the Greatswords' bodies, and after only a short engagement, these elites suffered significant losses.
This caused Viscount Thompson great heartache, as these veterans received higher pay, lived in comfortable barracks within his own castle, and enjoyed better rations.
However, these Greatswords remained in high spirits, because whenever a soldier officially joined the Greatsword regiment, he was required to take an oath never to retreat.
Gromril realized that now was a good time to launch a full assault and rout the skaven. Although the humans were in a tough fight, the skaven were also extremely fatigued. The ringing of the screaming bell could invigorate their spirits, but spirit could not ultimately transcend the physical body.
Gromril noticed that many skaven were already afflicted by the Black Hunger, and their madness could no longer conceal the weakness in their limbs.
Although the humans had lost the support of their spellcasters, the Grey Seer lord also seemed exhausted. Even though he had a large magical reserve, continuously casting spells was undoubtedly a great burden on his fragile body; he was currently sitting cross-legged under the screaming bell.
Gromril swung his warhammer with his right hand, cupping his left hand to his mouth like a megaphone, cheering on his human friends from afar.
"In the name of the Eternal Covenant, we'll be there soon! The rats are doomed!" Noticing that Gromril had already routed the Skaven flank and was only about a hundred meters in a straight line from the enemy's main formation under the screaming bell, the human morale soared.
"Kill! Kill all these big rats!" Viscount Thompson was not wearing his fashionable wide-brimmed hat now; he was in full military attire, relying on his plate armor and the sword and shield in his hands to stand at the forefront of the line with the Reikland Foot Knights.
"Gollum the Great Belly's waaagh couldn't break Helmgart, the Mountain's bitch's lickspittles couldn't break Helmgart, how could she fall into the hands of a bunch of beasts?" The Viscount roared, hacking at the rats in front of him.
Just as he was fighting furiously, misfortune struck. In the dark sky, under Morrsleib's green light, several black figures suddenly streaked across.
They lightly leaped from the roof of the Temple of Sigmar, rolled slightly upon landing, and deftly dodged several weapons blocking their path.
"Watch out, Viscount!"
"No! Don't!"
Viscount Thompson, who was in the midst of battle, was stunned by the words, but by the time he reacted, a dagger had already appeared in his chest.
"Hmph, hmph!" Looking down at the dagger tip that had suddenly emerged from his chest, the human lord gasped a few last breaths before dying from the warpstone's potent venom.
"My, why didn't my Dwarven refined runic plate armor work?" This was his last thought before his death.
"Ahhh!" The human warriors were enraged, abandoning their posts and charging at the several Skaven who had descended from the sky.
"Bang!" One of the Skaven assassins seemed to have anticipated this situation; it pulled a bomb from under its cloak and threw it to the ground. The bomb, upon exploding, did not release fire or shrapnel, but rather spewed black smoke.
This smoke obscured the Skaven assassins' figures and made the attacking human warriors cough repeatedly, struggling to breathe. Accompanied by a few short screams, they rolled and leaped several more times, disappearing into the sea of Skaven.
"Weeping Blade? Death Runners?" Gromril murmured to himself as he witnessed this scene. In truth, Gromril was not at all surprised by their appearance; he had been secretly wary ever since he discovered traces of Clan Eshin.
To be honest, the appearance of only Death Runners was already a relatively good situation—those bestowed with this title were the most promising Gutter Runners to become Assassin Adepts.
They were the elite among the Gutter Runners and would also serve as squad commanders in the absence of higher-ranking Clan Eshin members. They were especially adept at using mysterious Far Eastern combat techniques.
Fortunately, the leading Grey Seer Lord couldn't afford enough warpstone coins; otherwise, he could have invited Assassin Adepts from Clan Eshin or even Chief Assassins with the title of Death Master to serve him.
Gromril silently offered a few prayers for the human noble with whom he had chatted quite a bit at the city gate that morning. But he knew there was no time to delay now; he had to seize the opportunity of the human warriors' indignation over their lord's death to crush the Skaven, otherwise, it would be difficult once their ardor cooled!
"Fight, human friends! Fight! Protect your homes!" Gromril shouted, and at his signal, his subordinates all cheered.
"Man-lings, the Sons of the Mountains are here to help you!"
"Hack down the rats, settle the grudges!"
Surrounded by his clansmen, Gromril felt a sense of security in the cold winter night. Ever since his transmigration, he had always warned himself to be careful and cautious, to avoid being too ostentatious in battle, lest he be taken out by strange long-range firepower or assassins.
Now it seemed his self-preservation instinct had achieved the desired effect. Gromril believed he was also a primary target on the Death Runner assassination list,
But due to being constantly under the protection of the Anvil Guards, and with no particularly eye-catching features on his equipment, the Skaven assassins, in their haste, couldn't determine which one was the commander of this Dwarven force.
From the perspective of Clan Eshin's assassins, perhaps Captain Grenson, who was better equipped than his comrades, had a white beard, and wore a conspicuous blue uniform; Johnson, who had a loud voice and was clearly an elite Dwarven commander; and Brockson, who commanded the artillery crew, might all have a higher assassination priority than Gromril.
The humans' desire to fight was very strong. Soldiers of the Provincial Regiment also rushed out from the ruins of the Temple, followed by several apprentice Sigmarite Priests, who had also undergone the tonsure ritual like full members.
For any race of order, having their lord and mentor killed by Skaven on the battlefield, within their own ranks, was a great shame. The fire of vengeance burned fiercely in their chests.
Gromril saw that even the Bright Fire Wizard had drawn his sword and begun to hack at the Skaven in front of him in close combat.
However, this state of a close-combat mage appearing on a Flame Wizard was not surprising. Aqshy, with its fiery nature, favored reckless and passionate individuals, and its users were often skilled fighters.
Despite their short legs, the Dwarves quickly covered the short distance. With the powerful inertia provided by their armor and weight, Gromril and his subordinates crashed into the Skaven's already compressed and distorted lines like a battering ram.
Almost instantly, they trampled a swath of rats, pushed to the front by their fellows behind them, creating a huge indentation.
"Brockson! Tell the artillery crew, smash that broken bell for me!" Gromril roared. He saw that the Grey Seer had already descended from the small cart carrying the bell, leaning on his staff, and a large white-furred rat with grotesquely swollen muscles and a back covered in glowing green warpstone shards had taken over ringing the bell.
"By Mogrim! warpstone can be used in such a wide variety of ways?" At a distance of only twenty meters, Gromril could clearly see the temporary mutant rat, which was obviously a one-time consumable, even without a telescope.
This fellow was much more energetic than the skinny spellcaster; it pulled the rope with enough force to shatter the bell, and under the influence of the noise, the ratmen perked up again as if they had taken stimulants.
Brockson had been annoyed by that glowing green, moving target for a long time. He pushed aside the original gunner and personally aimed the cannon at it.
The Grey Seer felt a jolt in his heart as he looked at the dark muzzle of the cannon not far away. He knew that the screaming bell was crucial for boosting the ratmen's morale now; once the bell was destroyed by artillery fire, the already starving Skaven army would quickly collapse. He immediately pulled out a bottle of magic potion and drank it.
Watching the Grey Seer begin to consume warpstone, every dwarf grew anxious. At this point in time, the Skryre Clan's warpstone technology and clan Moulder's genetic engineering had not yet developed to an absurd degree, so the most mainstream extraordinary power of skaven forces was still the skaven magic unleashed by the Grey Seers.
The dwarf ranged firepower also aimed at the mutated Stormvermin that was ringing the bell. For a time, the sound of "bang! bang!" of gunfire was incessant in Gromril's ears.
"Yes, yes, horned rat god, unleash, unleash your wrath!" The Grey Seer waved his staff as he watched the barrage fly towards him, and a magical storm appeared in the trajectory of the dwarf ranged firepower.
The storm was still furiously releasing green and black warpstone lightning. It was composed of pure chaotic energy, driven by The Great Horned Rat's evil divine power.
"Warp Gale?" Gromril said with a hint of uncertainty. In his memory, this spell was originally used to blow enemy troops into the sky, disrupt their formation, and prevent them from moving.
However, this Grey Seer creatively used this destruction spell to block the projectiles fired by the dwarf ranged firepower. Gromril watched as crossbow bolts and gunshots were directly blown away, and cannonballs, though heavier, were also deflected and landed in empty space.
"Troublesome!" Gromril thought to himself. Once this spell was cast, its duration was quite long, severely limiting the effectiveness of the dwarf ranged firepower.
Gromril frowned. He realized that if he couldn't deal with that bell, even if he ultimately achieved victory, he would suffer significant losses.
Because he was currently in the square, the limited Anvil Guard could not completely block the roads, and the frenzied skaven would inevitably be able to attack the dwarf warriors in the rear. These clansmen, without meteorite iron equipment, would certainly be injured.
"Sigh, it seems this is the only way!" Gromril called up his system. He had gained another skill point after defeating and slaying Skarsnik in front of Karak-Azgaraz, but he had kept it unused until now.
Gromril decisively upgraded Stormhammer by one level. In previous battles, the power of this skill had seemed somewhat insufficient; his failure to kill Gobbla in one blow was still fresh in his memory.
Gromril held his breath and focused, locking the skill's target on the screaming bell behind the Warp Gale.
"Go!"
Gromril roared, activating the skill and throwing his warhammer. He felt that the second level of Stormhammer made his exertion smoother and more complete, and the feedback from his body after the throw was also better.
The warhammer streaking across the night sky attracted the attention of all combatants. It passed through the distorted Warp Gale with a "whoosh! whoosh!" sound, accurately striking the green screaming bell.
"Crack!"
"Crack!"
Under the Grey Seer's predatory rat eyes, cracks appeared on the bell. Finally, with a "smash!", the screaming bell, which had just undergone violent striking, shattered into pieces.
As the bell's ringing abruptly ceased, the skaven awoke from their frenzy. Exhaustion and hunger instantly filled their bodies and minds. The watchful humans and dwarves around them, coupled with the scattered limbs, re-ignited their innate fear.
"Stormhammer!"
Seeing Gromril's spectacular strike, where his thrown warhammer passed through the warpstone storm and shattered the screaming bell, the surrounding dwarves began to shout, led by an unknown clansmen. For a time, the title "Stormhammer" echoed throughout the square.
"Not bad, not bad, this cultural level is pretty good. To think of this is much better than 'Flying Hammer'!" Gromril felt very satisfied hearing this new title successfully emerge.
He had once doubted that to successfully acquire this nickname, he would have to go to the Chaos Wastes and find the legendary ancient Dragon Ogre, K'daai Fireborn, and strike it once.
He was one of the first descendants of K'daai Fireborn's father, Krakanrok, and an ancient Dragon Ogre who had existed in the mortal world since ancient times. Due to K'daai Fireborn's arrival bringing widespread strong winds and heavy rain, he was also called the Stormbringer by the barbarians who revered him.
The skaven in the front began to retreat. Both those attacking the temple head-on and the flanking interception units were moving closer to the Grey Seer lord. It seemed that this Great Horned Rat's chosen one's magic or the tight formation of his kin could give them some extra courage.
Those Council Guards, who should have acted as a supervisory force to prevent the retreat of the front line, now looked at their master with questioning eyes. If they planned to "reposition," these defeated rat-soldiers could still serve to delay time.
"Krodlus is enraged, enraged!" The Grey Seer lord looked at the scattered warpstone fragments and his gradually collapsing front line, beginning to rage in impotent fury.
"No, no! Beards, damn, damn!" He squeaked and waved his staff. Krodlus's rat brain rapidly spun, analyzing the current battle situation.
His own magic reserves were depleted, the heavily hired clan Moulder and Skryre Clan helpers were almost all dead or wounded, and the Clan Eshin assassins and the two subordinates sent to intercept were missing. These unfavorable conditions stacked up meant he had lost the chance to win.
However, he was still very unwilling. He had spent so much effort to eliminate the bald priest in the temple and dealt with the leading human. If it weren't for a group of beards suddenly appearing today, he would have already achieved victory.
But there was nothing he could do now. He needed to escape quickly. Although the four Great clans only recognized warpstone and would not show respect to Krodlus-Sharpclaw, an ordinary Grey Seer, The Great Horned Rat's mouthpieces were still highly respected among small and medium-sized skaven clans.
If a skaven clan had the support of a Grey Seer, it meant it would gain a superior position, being able to be one rat-level higher when dealing with other clans. They could gain the upper hand in trades and mercilessly pressure skaven in a subordinate position.
Of course, every rat knew that in skaven society, whatever was gained came at a high price.
After a Grey Seer provided support, he would eventually make his own demands, which might lead the entire clan into an abyss. But almost no small clan could refuse such a temptation; they would only take full advantage of this superiority while it still existed.
"Yes, yes, Krodlus will come another day, another day! The human's territory, territory, will eventually belong to The Great Horned Rat!" He stomped his staff and issued the order.
The surrounding skaven, hearing this, felt as if they had been granted amnesty. Even unique troop types like the Council Guards were no exception; they were brave, it was true, but they weren't truly fearless.
Watching the skaven change formation in chaos, preparing to flee, Gromril knew he couldn't let them succeed.
Every dwarf present knew they couldn't let the skaven escape, especially when their leader hadn't been killed and their forces hadn't been completely scattered.
Given the skaven's incredibly fast reproduction rate, it was foreseeable that it wouldn't be long before the leading Grey Seer would gather a new army from who knew where.
Gromril, using the knowledge he had acquired over the years in his current body, knew that skaven reproduction occurred through the Mother-Rats deep within the breeding pits.
Whether it was the result of natural evolution or something deliberately engineered by some male rats through malevolent bio-technology, for the Mother-Rats in the breeding pits, procreation was their sole purpose.
They averaged over a dozen pups per litter, giving birth to four to five litters annually, and skaven pups only needed two years to mature into adult skaven. Given one year, a Mother-Rat could breed hundreds of small rats.
"Charge! Crush them in the Mother Goddess's name!" Gromril reached out, recalling his warhammer, then led the charge towards the clustered skaven.
"Earth, unleash your fury!" As he approached the even denser skaven lines after their contraction, Gromril activated the Rune of Fury and Destruction, which had already cooled down.
The power of the Rune disrupted the skaven's formation, and Gromril's subordinates began to hack and slash.
"Boom!" Gromril brought his hammer down, only to find that the white-furred rat in front of him had blocked his hammer with the double-handed halberd in its claws.
"Ha!" Gromril pressed his left hand onto the hammer handle as well, exerting force with both hands to push down. The rat was very nimble; instead of clashing directly with him in strength, it took a step back to deflect some of the force.
Gromril shook his head. He re-positioned his hammer and moved in small steps, looking for a new opportunity. The elite level of these Council Guards surpassed any enemy forces he had encountered since his transmigration.
Their equipment seemed to be enhanced by unique skaven enchanting techniques, and their combat skills and physical prowess were also superior to their kin. Fortunately, their numbers were not large.
Gromril looked around and found that his Anvil Guards were also struggling to break through the lines quickly. Their short-handled weapons were suitable for fighting in narrow underground spaces, and their armor-piercing effect was not particularly good.
Although the Hammerers had greater lethality, a single strike from their runic hammers could almost incapacitate a rat, but they had to dodge the rats' attacks in a somewhat clumsy manner.
Similar to human Greatswords, to facilitate the manipulation of their powerful two-handed warhammers, their armor had undergone some modifications; their shoulder and elbow joints lacked plate armor protection, having only an inner layer of chainmail.
And those Council Guards wielding halberds quickly discovered this weakness of the dwarves; their relatively longer weapons aimed directly at their arms. Their muscles, combined with their specialized halberds, had already injured several of Gromril's subordinates.
"Open fire! Give me the flame…" Gromril roared halfway before remembering he no longer had flame cannons. Bulkin had taken the support munitions with him when he returned to Karak Norn.
"Unleash the Iron Drake Handcannons!" Gromril immediately changed his command, realizing that technological weapons were more effective against these elites.
When a dozen tongues of fire appeared in the square, even these brave white-furred rats could not withstand the high-temperature flames. They began to retreat, gradually turning from an organized retreat into a rout.
Gromril could only sigh at this situation; his troops still lacked the ability to pursue. After symbolically chasing them for a few hundred meters, he recalled his forces and returned to the temple.
"May your souls be blessed by Sigmar!" Gromril stood before the twisted corpses of Viscount Thompson and the Battle Priest, who had just been pulled from the ground fissure, and offered a prayer.
Viscount Thompson was a temporary commander dispatched by William III. His viscounty was not here; Helmgart Fortress, as a strategic and trade hub, was currently under the direct control of the Prince himself.
Therefore, Helmgart Fortress currently lacked a substantive human military commander. If that Sigmar priest hadn't died under the Earth Splitter spell, he might have been able to gain command based on his prestige and religious status.
But now, the Imperial captain in charge of commanding the provincial legion could not mobilize Viscount Thompson's private forces—his hired Greatsword guard and the Bright Fire Wizard who served as his magical advisor.
And Viscount Thompson's private army captain was clearly also unauthorized to command the provincial legion established by the Reikland Prince.
Of course, both sides understood that with the Grey Seer still alive and its Council Guards not completely annihilated, pursuing alone would be far more likely to provide a night snack for the rats than to successfully avenge their lord.
Gromril knew the principle of striking while the enemy is down, but his own sensitive identity currently prevented him from organizing human cavalry for a pursuit.
After a brief discussion, Gromril learned that military operations here would only return to normal after William III appointed a new Helmgart Lord, and Viscount Thompson's private army would also leave to return to his territory to continue fulfilling the remaining contract for his family.
This meant that if his convoy also left, Helmgart would experience a temporary gap in its defensive capabilities. Those rats had scattered in their retreat, and it was uncertain if they would launch a counterattack.
Gromril did not want to leave just yet, as his night of bloody battle could very well be for naught. Without a leader and spiritual backbone, the humans might find it difficult to withstand a skaven counterattack.
However, he also needed a reason to stay. Although he was already "Gromril the Generous," if he shamelessly offered to help defend the city for the human faction, which bore a grudge, it might lead to his reputation developing in strange ways.
As Gromril was deliberating on his next move, the Reiksguard Knights, who possessed a sense of national pride, helped him resolve his dilemma.
These Imperial Knights were all noble sons from the local Reikland, directly reporting to the Reikland Prince himself. Their presence here was partly to strengthen Viscount Thompson's defenses and partly to monitor him.
Sir Walter, who had previously come to the dwarf settlement for aid, had fought his way through and then witnessed the skaven's military strength from outside the temple, giving him a more intuitive understanding of the power of these upright-walking giant rats.
Amidst whispers, he convinced his comrades. These Imperial Knights, on their own initiative, invited Gromril's convoy to stay and assist in defending Helmgart, and they pooled their private funds to cover the hiring fees.
Gromril accepted this gesture, which had a hint of self-deception. He stated that since they sincerely requested it, he would reluctantly stay to protect the city until a new lord took office.
Afterward, Gromril remained in the temple, observing the humans organize the aftermath and offering them some necessary advice. For instance, after stripping the Stormvermin of anything valuable, all the rat corpses should be burned to prevent the spread of plague.
Several mounted messengers departed overnight for Altdorf to report the latest situation to William III, and the provincial regiment, under the command of their captain, was clearing out the remaining Skaven in the city.
By the time Helmgart's internal affairs officer began to tally the financial and personnel losses from the night raid, and temporarily conscripted militiamen to guard the city to compensate for the troop shortage, Gromril left Balin as his plenipotentiary diplomatic representative and returned to the dwarf settlement.
Looking at the faint morning light in the sky, Gromril let out a big yawn. It had been another night of fierce fighting, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of melancholy, thinking of the people who were alive yesterday afternoon but were now corpses laid out in the temple.
The fallen were not immediately buried; traditionally, they would wait for a newly appointed temple priest to preside over their final rites, ensuring that the souls of these brave warriors could smoothly ascend to Sigmar's divine realm and not be desecrated by the Chaos Gods.
Gromril considered that it was already winter, and the temperature was relatively cold, so the bodies should not decompose too quickly and spread plague, thus he did not object.
Of course, he knew that Sigmar was currently trapped by Tzeentch in the Lore of Heavens, one of the eight Winds of Magic, but there was no need to tell his human friends about such things. Gromril didn't want to attract Witch Hunters.
To Gromril's surprise, the Skaven did not attempt another attack; it seemed the Grey Seer needed time to recover. Altdorf, however, reacted very quickly, and on the morning of the third day, a new Helmgart City Lord took office.
This was within Gromril's expectations; after all, besides its capital, Reikland only had two or three other important towns, so a quick response was quite normal.
However, Gromril also received news from Balin that the new City Lord wished to host him at a "private" dinner and express his gratitude to him and the dwarves.
Gromril stroked the beard on his chest, his mind racing. Although he was a transmigrator who knew the course of history, he wasn't sure if William III currently harbored ambitions to become Emperor.
In the original history, what truly led to Dieter IV's abdication was his acceptance of bribes to grant Marienburg autonomy.
"Tell the new City Lord that I am willing to accept the invitation, but the venue must be chosen by me. This bar will do!" Gromril tapped the table.
This was partly to ensure the privacy of the exchange; the new City Lord had just taken office, and his control over the area was visibly not strong enough. Relatively speaking, the Sons of the Mountains were undoubtedly more trustworthy.
On the other hand, it was also for security; the assassination by the Gutter Runners was still vivid in memory. At least, the dwarf settlement was not so easily infiltrated by the Skaven. Many Mountain Strongholds where Imperial dwarves originally lived had fallen into their hands, so it was impossible not to take precautions when establishing new settlements on the plains.
This was no longer a question of whether or not to wear armor during meals. The Weeping Blade—a weapon made from warpstone and unique forging techniques from the Cathay Empire—had an extremely strong armor-piercing effect. Viscount Thompson had died unexpectedly due to carelessness before.
The Anvil Guard tasked with relaying the message left, and Gromril dozed off again. He needed to find a way to solve the problem of dwarves' short legs always failing to catch up with fleeing enemies. He couldn't always rely on ambushes or his Stormhammer.
Sir Monk, the newly appointed noble, was said to be a former Witch Hunter. He accumulated merits through years of fighting Chaos cultists, and when he finally grew weary of it all, he exchanged his service for a knightly title.
At this juncture, this former Witch Hunter was temporarily reinstated to deal with the Skaven threat. When Gromril heard those stories about Sir Monk, some true, some false, somewhere between heroic epics and horror tales, he was somewhat skeptical.
As night fell, Mannslieb, the twin sister of the evil moon Morrsleib, hung high in the night sky. A figure wearing a fur coat, a dirty wide-brimmed hat, and with a bulging waist, presumably carrying weapons, pushed open the door of Helmgart's largest dwarf bar.
"I have a reservation, in the name of the Ancestor Goddess!" The human had a distinct northern accent, seemingly not a local of Reikland.
"Karaz-A-Karak, the stairs are over there!" The bar owner calmly stated the room number.
dwarves living outside the Mountains loved to use dwarf-language place names from the Mountains or other things as names for their surroundings, which expressed the Imperial dwarves' longing for their homeland.
With a series of "thump-thump" sounds of leather boots hitting the ground, the strange human ascended the stairs. From the sound of his footsteps, one of his legs seemed to be disabled; although he tried to conceal it, there was a slight dragging sensation.
"Bang!"
Gromril, who was deep in thought, was startled by the opening door. He saw a tall, slightly hunched human kick open the door, a loaded short-barreled blunderbuss in his hand pointed forward.
"Man-cub, you are disrespecting the High Prince!" Captain Grenson stepped forward, raising his warhammer. Although he was much shorter, the elderly dwarf Warrior was not lacking in presence.
"Hmph, have the dwarves in the Mountains reached a point where young'un makes the decisions?" The newcomer seemed to have seen many grand occasions. He was noncommittal to Captain Grenson's threat and looked at Gromril, who was seated at the head of the table, saying.
"Indeed, I am the Chosen of Mother Goddess Valaya, the Rune Master of the Drazklad Clan, Gromril-az Thorson, the Stormhammer!" Gromril said in a deep voice. Generally speaking, the epithet 'The Generous' was not suitable for him to announce himself.
"Human, I must remind you, vigilance is a good thing, but if excessive, hmph, it will make you lose friends!"
"On the path to eradicating Chaos, I trust no one but myself!" The human spoke with great arrogance.
"Then why did you come here?" Gromril smiled upon hearing this. This human spoke tough, but hadn't he still obediently come over?
The human was speechless. He pursed his lips, pulled out a chair, and sat down opposite Gromril. "Alright, I have to admit, relatively speaking, you dwarves are still trustworthy!"
"Please!" Gromril pushed a glass of Bergman's Finest towards the human.
"Gulp, gulp!" The human was not polite, drinking more than half the glass in one go. "Hahaha, dwarf beer is still the best! In Altdorf, all I drink is grape juice, and after drinking for a long time, besides feeling bloated, I don't feel anything!"
"You wanted to see me, for what purpose?" After three rounds of drinks, Gromril got to the point; he didn't have much time left here.