After the healing power of beer, Andumgar felt remarkably restored. He equipped himself with the gear Old Des had prepared for him.
The veteran's equipment was among the few exquisite pieces in this dwarf community.
"I'm ready, Elder."
"Go and return quickly, little Andumgar. Protect yourself. Use your weapons well and hold onto this amulet."
"In the name of the Ancestors, thank you, honored Elder. I will return safely."
"Hoo~ Hah~ Hoo~ Hah," Andumgar gasped for oxygen, leaning against a tree, trying his best to recover his strength, but the aches and pains from all over his body constantly affected his nerves. Before him was a Great Horned Minotaur, its aura like a rainbow, ready to launch a devastating charge.
"This is terrible, Andumgar. Terrible. Trapped in such a situation, with so much strength expended, and a Minotaur still eager to charge right in front of him. In such a predicament, Andumgar forced a smile, gasping for oxygen, trying to relax as quickly as possible and find a solution."
Before this, Andumgar's body was a terrifying sight, crisscrossed with blood, as if he had just emerged from a pool of blood. His armor was severely damaged, but his battle-axe still retained a rare sharpness. The marks on his amulet were even deeper.
Upon entering the Black Forest, Andumgar tried his best to remain cautious, but he soon realized it was a futile effort. They were everywhere, these damned beasts, ready to launch a sudden attack at any moment. After cleaving and hacking apart a few scattered Ungors, Andumgar decided to simply confront these rabble. He would fight his way to that damned beast. Fight! Keep fighting!
After one arduous battle after another, Andumgar had lost count of how many Great Horned Beasts' heads he had severed. On the path to his enemy, there was a narrow passage. Andumgar saw a squad of Great Horned Beasts charging towards him. Incredibly, they were moving in a line. These Great Horned Beasts had obeyed the Great Horned Minotaur's command. After an internal struggle, they decided to engage in a champion's duel to prove who was the most powerful beast lord.
"If it's a blessing, it's not a curse; if it's a curse, it can't be avoided," Andumgar murmured, recalling the Cathay culture he had heard from the Elder.
After a long time, the air was filled with an unbearable stench of filth and blood. On this battlefield, only one dwarf stood proudly. Even though his armor was severely damaged, even though he was bathed in the blood of his enemies, he stood proudly, striking an aggressive pose.
After Andumgar butchered a squad of Great Horned Beasts like a butcher, the true Boss of the area, the Great Horned Minotaur, found him!
When Andumgar saw this monster, the deep-seated grief overwhelmed him. As Andumgar was about to be buried by pain, the amulet glowed. In ancient times, a Rune Smith had crafted this treasure for the Mother Goddess Valaya, and it still functioned after countless years. In an instant, Andumgar moved his body. "Thank you, I understand everything now. Come on, you damned monster, beast, bastard!" Filled with rage, Andumgar prepared to face the Great Horned Minotaur.
After a few exchanges, Andumgar realized that the Great Horned Minotaur, with its immense strength and formidable physique, whether it was the impact of its leaping chop or the stagger caused by its shield bash, merely tickled him. He dodged several times, evading the sharp headbutt from the Minotaur's horns, and sidestepped one charge after another. Each dodge was met with an attempt to counterattack, but with little effect.
This led to the current terrible situation.
The Great Horned Minotaur was about to charge again, taking a preparatory stance, intending to destroy the bearded thing before him.
"You damned bastard, you think you're invulnerable, do you?" "Very well," Andumgar took his stance again, but this time, it was neither defensive nor offensive—it was a charge!
After several dodges, Andumgar's stubborn mind grew increasingly enraged, and he abandoned Elder Des's advice of dodging and countering.
He boldly and decisively charged at the Great Horned Minotaur. His father's aggressive fighting style was ingrained in Andumgar's bones, and his blood flowed with furious rage.
Andumgar held his shield forward, charging towards the Great Horned Minotaur, and with his last reserves of strength, he slammed into him.
Perhaps it was the favor of the goddess of luck, or destiny accompanying Andumgar, but the Great Horned Minotaur could not comprehend how the short dwarf before him could possess such counter-attacking power.
"Face me, you bastard! You damned beastly scum!" Andumgar roared with an extremely resonant voice.
He swiftly raised his axe and swung it at the Great Horned Minotaur's head. Destiny once again accompanied Andumgar; the Minotaur's head directly met the axe. He sidestepped slightly to deflect a horn attack, then slammed his shield hard into the Great Horned Minotaur's face. "Good!" Andumgar was certain this charge had severely wounded the Great Horned Minotaur, as foul, ugly blood splattered all around. The Great Horned Minotaur's left cheek was gashed open.
He turned and pulled out his handgun. "Go to hell, you bastard!" The sound of thunder swiftly assailed the Great Horned Minotaur.
Facing the roar of thunder, amidst the flashes of lightning, he could not resist. He could only endure this roar with his ugly body!
"Hmph hmph hmph ah ah ah ah ah ah ah! I'll use your skull to please the Dark Gods, you damned dwarven runt! You troll-like bearded thing! A coward who only uses a handgun like a human shrimp! You will be smashed to pieces today!"
"Bah! Roar of Thunder! Blade of the Axe!" Andumgar gripped the gun, having hastily prepared the axe blade before moving. His mother's handgun had been modified many times. Thinking of this, Andumgar grinned.
Having been suppressed for so long, Andumgar could only bide his time, waiting for an opportunity. Now, he finally regained the initiative.
"Ha, you damned beastly thing, today, it is you who will be smashed into eight pieces!"
Andumgar lunged forward, thrusting himself beside the Great Horned Minotaur. With the Minotaur's unreasonable strength, a single lapse in concentration would mean instant death.
But Andumgar feared none of this. At this moment, it was either his death or his life.
Andumgar pushed himself to his absolute limit. The axe blade plunged in, ripped out, then slammed back in. Bathed in blood, Andumgar couldn't care less. The Minotaur turned; Andumgar dodged, plunging the axe blade into its ribs. The Minotaur threw a punch; Andumgar swiftly embedded the axe blade into the Minotaur's thick right arm, then flipped out, pulling it free, and reversed his grip to drive the axe blade into its jaw. The Minotaur lowered its head, attempting a horn attack on Andumgar's exposed back. Andumgar released his handgun, rolled forward, turned, and directly confronted the Great Horned Minotaur with his hard helmet. The Great Horned Minotaur's attack did not injure Andumgar; instead, it put itself in a difficult position, the handgun in its jaw sinking deeper. Andumgar pulled out his last throwing axe, exhaled, feigned a charge, jumped, and delivered a leaping chop to the Great Horned Minotaur's chest. Axe after axe, a storm-like offensive, hammered the monster before him. The monster couldn't comprehend it; just moments ago, it was playing cat and mouse, but now it was the beef, and Andumgar was the butcher.
The Minotaur still wanted to make a last stand. He knew that if he didn't do something, he would truly become beef, the kind that smelled delicious when roasted. The bearded fellow before him was also at his wits' end, on the verge of death, if only he could get up!
"Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah!" The Minotaur let out its final roar.
But all this was useless. Andumgar decisively and swiftly pulled out a grenade and fed it to the Minotaur before him.
"Face me, you bastard!" The Minotaur tried to spit it out, but Andumgar delivered another punch, sending the grenade further into the monster's body, then used his last ounce of strength to roll away to avoid the explosion.
The explosion, centered on the Minotaur, threw Andumgar into the air.
"Hmm, of course, of course! I never questioned the Mother Goddess's care for Her children," Lord Rorek explained, his current state not good, and his words not very appropriate.
Gromril didn't dwell on it. "I understand your difficulties, but you should also know that for someone like me, who serves the Gods, some things are negotiable, and some things are not!"
Lord Rorek nodded, indicating he understood. Due to frequent dealings with the Lords of Bretonnia, the Dwarves of Breezehold likely had the most comprehensive and clear understanding of the Gods in the entire Mountains Kingdom.
"If you are truly under a lot of pressure, you can subtly spread some rumors. As long as they're not too outlandish, I won't directly deny them, though I won't openly acknowledge them either," Gromril offered Lord Rorek a way out, as he hadn't yet acquired the anvil of doom.
"Good, this matter should be dealt with sooner rather than later. After the ritual, you can come with me and we'll retrieve it!" Lord Rorek said decisively, and Gromril didn't want to delve into the intricacies.
He knew clearly that even though he was the Chosen of the Ancestor Goddess and the anvil was unoccupied, there were certainly still clansmen who didn't want him to have it.
Gromril sent an Eternal Hammer Guard to inform Cousin Tomi to bring the oath money, then prepared to preside over the ritual. This was the largest and highest-spec ritual he had presided over since his transmigration.
Before the New Year, sacrificing to the Ancestor Gods and Ancestors who made outstanding contributions was an unshakeable tradition for Dwarves since the Golden Age.
Even if the Chosen of the Ancestor Goddess presided over the sacrifice today, other Gods would not be neglected. The chief priest needed to offer sacrifices and eulogies to each honored one in their shrine in order, though the order might vary slightly in different places.
At the same time, this was also the largest in terms of participants. Strictly speaking, all clansmen in the surrounding areas, whether or not they lived in Breezehold, were eligible to participate in this ritual.
When Gromril emerged from the preparation room in his best formal attire, he was overwhelmed by a tsunami-like cheer. Enthusiastic clansmen filled the interior of the temple, and there was hardly any standing room even in the outer square.
Every dwarf wanted to see the Chosen of the Ancestor Goddess. Gromril's display of divine grace during the previous challenge further intensified this effect.
A simple prayer could allow the Mother Goddess to heal injured clansmen. A high-spec ritual like this would likely bring down divine grace. With this in mind, many clansmen living in human settlements also rushed back early.
Gromril had, of course, prepared for this. He didn't say much; after all, witnessing facts firsthand was better than any words.
Lord Rorek, feigning energy, gave a brief opening speech before stepping down from the platform. Sacrifices were brought before Gromril one by one.
First was a superb piece of marble. The stone was full-bodied, without cracks or inclusions, and had unique patterns suitable for stone carving. This was dedicated to Father God Grungni.
According to an old tradition, the offering to Father God Grungni during the New Year's sacrifice should be the best ore mined by the entire dwarf community throughout the year.
No matter where, the Father God was always the first to be sacrificed to, and this would not change even if Gromril was the chief priest. He respectfully presented the ore before the statue and then recited a prayer provided by Lord Rorek beforehand.
When his voice fell, no unusual phenomena occurred, but this did not surprise the Dwarves present. After all, he was the Chosen of the Ancestor Goddess; the real show was yet to come.
Next, Gromril picked up a beer barrel. This was the best beer brewed locally in Karak-Zfirin this year. By tradition, this was the year-end offering to Mother Goddess Valaya.
Every year, the tavern owners in the fortress would hold a competition to determine whose beer was worthy of being chosen as the offering. This was also known as the Beer Festival, a carnival unique to Dwarves.
Gromril presented the beer barrel before the Mother Goddess and then began to chant. Although he was not a local, his status as the Chosen of the Goddess granted him the right to modify parts of the prayer.
After reporting to the Mother Goddess, on behalf of Lord Rorek, the major events that occurred in Breezehold this year within Valaya's sphere of influence, he also included a bit of his own personal agenda.
Gromril took the opportunity to report to the Mother Goddess his achievements along the way and his contributions to the revival of the Mountains, earning continuous cheers from the clansmen.
Every dwarf eagerly awaited witnessing divine grace, but when Gromril finished this part of the ritual, nothing happened.
Almost all the clansmen in Breezehold cried out. Gromril's previous display of divine grace during the challenge meant no one doubted if he had lost the Mother Goddess's favor. They cleverly controlled the variables, unleashing their anger on the owner of the beer.
"Old man! Your swill has angered the Mother Goddess!"
"A fix! The judging was rigged!"
"I told you long ago we should use rock ram! The Chosen of the Goddess always used that before! It's what the Mother Goddess favors!"
It wasn't that Gromril didn't want the Mother Goddess to display divine grace; rather, there was a cooldown period after he had just performed the Valaya Ritual. However, he had other preparations.
Listening to the clansmen's various shouts eventually coalescing into doubts about the offering and accusations against its provider, Gromril sighed and shook his head, walking towards Grimnir's statue.
Gromril knew that because he had always chosen rock ram as an offering, under the trend he set, rock ram became expensive in the Mountains for a time.
Every Clansman hoped to have rock ram as an offering when sacrificing to their Ancestors. Some wealthy fellows would even use them to replace the main course on their dinner tables, so they could enjoy the same delicacies as the Mother Goddess.
Last night, someone specifically came to ask if he needed to change the offering to the Mother Goddess. Gromril, out of respect for thousands of years of tradition, did not change it. Personally, whether it was rock ram or fine wine made no difference.
After all, no matter how delicious the lamb, he wouldn't eat it; no matter how mellow the wine, he wouldn't drink it. He didn't know if the Mother Goddess was satisfied, but whether divine grace would be bestowed was still up to him.
Gromril saw that the next offering was a dried Greenskin head. From the size of the thing and the scars on it, this fellow must have been a very Waaagh Greenskin in life.
Indeed, the offering to Grimnir, the God of War, was traditionally the strongest foe slain by the fortress that year, and the owner of this head was an ork Warboss under Grumm the Great Belly King.
Gromril blocked out external interference in his mind, brought up his system, and opened the ritual panel. Then, without showing any emotion, he placed the offering before the statue.
As Gromril began to recite the prayer, the square gradually quieted down. Regardless, the Dwarves in the Mountains still had a corresponding respect for such rituals.
Gromril chanted as he selected the option to increase replenishment rate in the Grimnir ritual.
In the game, this effect quickly restored the numbers of units decimated in the previous battle, but in reality, this effect manifested as igniting the fighting spirit in the clansmen's hearts.
When performing the ritual, Gromril chose the entire Karak-Zfirin as the effective range, which cost him five hundred points; if he wished and had enough Revival Points, he could even extend the effective range to the entire Mountains Kingdom.
As the Revival Points decreased, Gromril exited the system in his mind and refocused his attention on the present world.
Gromril saw Grimnir's idol glow red, and as the light gradually spread, every Clansman present seemed to be filled with rage, the wrath of the God of War filling their chests.
"What is this?"
"I feel full of strength!"
"My battle-axe is thirsty for blood!"
Realizing something was amiss, the clansmen communicated with each other, and as Gromril chanted, their voices gradually evolved from whispers into chaotic shouts and arguments.
Some dwarves seemed to understand something, while others tried to deny it, but none of them could be sure.
Gromril, having completed the ritual, turned to face the clansmen below and spoke at the opportune moment.
"Just now, I reported our impending military action to the Ancestor Gods, and the venerable Grimnir responded to my prayer.
He told me that we will surely achieve victory in this battle! A sincere alliance will be fulfilled, and the grudges against the Vampires will be settled!"
Gromril's voice resounded in the temple of Breezehold, and every dwarf present roared at the top of their lungs, either cheering or shouting battle cries.
The young young'un only saw the most superficial aspect: that the God of War had manifested, and the Dwarf race's army would be bathed in divine grace, achieving victory in the upcoming war.
However, for some Longbeard Elders whose wisdom had grown along with their beards, they perceived something more.
Within a very short period—a year is nothing to a long-lived race like the dwarves—the consecutive revival of two Ancestor Gods, and among them the three most important main gods, seemed to signify something more, such as the gods collectively returning to their children.
Amidst wave after wave of cheers, Gromril completed the entire ritual, and his prestige and Revival Points soared once again.
A champion favored by both the Mother Goddess and the God of War, hah, even the Slayer King Agrimm himself would have to be somewhat cautious!
Everything that followed went unexpectedly smoothly; when Lord Rorek officially announced that Gromril would lead the expedition to aid the knights of Bretonnia, the volunteer recruitment station was immediately overwhelmed.
One male dwarf after another gave up their New Year's Eve celebrations; they held their wine glasses, ate roasted meat, and stayed up late to queue at the registration point.
Breezehold's New Year's banquet thus became almost a semi-open-air event.
The tavern owners had no objections, or rather, a significant portion of them no longer had time to object.
Many cooks, bartenders, and even the owners themselves dug out ancestral armor and weapons, wanting to join the departing army.
Besides the male clansmen, the females were not to be outdone; Gromril's most ardent supporters were the female clansmen.
Mother Goddess Valaya is the only female among the Ancestor Gods and the patron goddess of all female dwarves.
Upon learning that Gromril was leading an army, the physicians and Valaya priests of Breezehold all requested to accompany the army; Gromril agreed to the requests of some of them.
Many of Valaya's priests mastered the runes of hearth and home, which are the most basic and simplest runes, and even women with a little talent can use them.
They could also play a role in dealing with Vampire corruption.
Lord Rorek also proposed to provide Gromril with the idle anvil of doom; since he had already discussed it with some of the elders, this matter was smoothly achieved.
Those elders who had not immediately expressed support also ceased to make things difficult after seeing the God of War bestow divine grace.
Only Master Farek intended to obstruct, but he opened his mouth for a long time only to find that he couldn't come up with a single valid reason.
To incur the displeasure of Gromril, a favored figure before the Ancestor Gods, for the sake of a vague "training another Rune Master many years later," and to delay his progress in revitalizing the Mountains, no normal Clansman would do such a thing.
Gromril specifically took some time to explain to the beer provider; although that barrel of beer certainly couldn't have made the Mother Goddess respond, Gromril still didn't want to use that method to increase his Butcher recruitment pool.
Compared to becoming a "successful" Butcher, that tavern owner would contribute more to the dwarves by continuing to run his shop.
After completing the entire ritual process, Gromril indulged in the feast; on the first day of the New Year, he was woken by the clansmen delivering goods.
Lord Rorek acted quickly; he unsealed the anvil of doom overnight and sent it, along with its base, to Gromril's room.
To be honest, he had to act fast; the dwarves were setting out tonight.
The dwarf army chose to set out at night so they could enter the human territories outside the Grey Mountains during the day.
The Vampires of the Warhammer World were not much different from those in Gromril's previous life; they were also creatures that came out at night and rested during the day.
According to Lord Rorek, they also feared sunlight; of course, the specific manifestation was not turning to dust at the touch of sunlight, but rather a certain weakening of their stamina and combat power under the sun.
Gromril rubbed his eyes, sleepily examining the anvil of doom before him; he was very satisfied with the condition of this treasure, which had clearly been well-maintained and gleamed with a pleasant luster.
The anvil of doom itself was not the "palanquin" from the game; the palanquin was the base, similar in form to Thorgrim's Throne of Power, both being a platform with a high-backed chair and an extended front section.
However, the extended part of the Throne of Power was used to hold the great book of grudges, while here, the anvil of doom was placed in front.
The anvil of doom was about the size of an office desk; Gromril's outstretched arms were about the same length as it.
This precious treasure was extremely hard, inscribed with runes containing unique power, the most crucial of which were the sorcery runes, which endowed the anvil of doom with the ability to channel the Winds of Magic.
In this transaction, Sister Pamela saved Gromril one hundred oath-gold; a price of four hundred was definitely a friendly price.
Besides Gromril himself, his Anvil Guards were also incredibly excited; this elite unit could finally live up to its name.
In fact, the main content of the intensive training Uncle Longhammer organized for Gromril to form this unit was how to establish a battle line around the anvil of doom and fight while carrying the Anvil.
Their primary mission shifted from patrolling the geomantic network and guarding key nodes as Ironbreakers to protecting a single individual.
These Warriors swore that no matter the situation on the battlefield, they would never abandon the Anvil and the Rune Master.
Gromril wiped down the anvil of doom and transported it to the nearest forge, eager to transfer the runes he mastered onto the Anvil to unleash its power.
By the time they departed in the evening, Gromril had barely managed to transfer the Rune of Fury and Destruction onto it. His skill was far from that of seasoned Rune Masters who had dedicated centuries to their craft. The title he earned through the system's forced advancement didn't provide him with the corresponding knowledge base.
Gromril chugged a pot of coffee to rouse his spirits; he needed to inspect the departing troops. Gromril sat atop his anvil of doom, greeting the clansmen who cheered him along the way.
The Anvil's base was carried by four Anvil Guards. Gromril, sitting atop it, enjoyed an effect similar to a Shieldbearer's platform—better battlefield vision, greater visibility to his subordinates, and a stronger morale boost. Of course, it also made him instantly recognizable as the commander to the enemy.
"By Grungni!" Gromril's steel skirt and the hard stone seat were in intimate contact, and combined with the cold touch of winter, it made him very uncomfortable.
"Which goblin brain designed this thing's mechanism, anyway? They didn't even add an arrow-blocking curtain or a canopy! I wonder how many of our ancestors and comrades died from volleys of arrows from the Pointy-ears during the War of the Beard!"
Gromril muttered to himself, the assassination of the Helmgart lord amidst the chaos of battle still fresh in his mind. He didn't want to be too conspicuous.
However, for now, within the stronghold of his kin, it would suffice. In the eyes of the clansmen, it seemed only natural for a Rune Master to sit upon the anvil of doom.
Gromril's forces were assembled. He inspected the troops who would accompany him on this expedition, moving from back to front. Gromril saw many familiar faces, these were the caravan guards who had traveled with him all the way from Karaz-A-Karak.
These Everpeak Warriors, with no relatives in Breezehold, found the prospect of extra warfare and extra income more appealing than sitting in a bar, bragging endlessly.
Lord Rogov was also pleased with this; on one hand, they were professional soldiers, undoubtedly more experienced in combat than conscripts. On the other hand, these were not his own subjects, so using them against the Vampires would cause him less heartache.
Of course, Lord Rogov could not ignore his eager-for-battle subjects, nor could he let Gromril go with just a small force to rescue his allies. He carefully selected a portion of volunteers for Gromril.
Lord Rogov naturally would not allow all able-bodied males to go to war, as the Mountain Stronghold also required a certain defensive force.
Gromril's troop roster is as follows:
Gromril-az Thorson, Rune Master (anvil of doom)
Eighty Anvil Guards
Eighty Hammerers, including ten Eternal Hammer Guards
Forty Ironbreakers
One hundred and sixty Longbeard Warriors
Two hundred dwarf warriors
One hundred dwarf warriors (heavy weapons)
Sixty Stonemasons
Sixty Thunderers and sixty Quarrelers each
Thirty dwarf Rangers
Twenty dwarf Slayers
Twenty Iron Drakes
One ballista
Two Cannons
Two Organ Guns
Plus the official engineer Brockson and Rune Smith Stringer.
Lord Rogov arranged for his son, Stringer, to join Gromril's forces; this would be the young Rune Smith's first battle.
For an old father, such a thought was reasonable. Firstly, with Gromril, the double-chosen, leading this expedition, the military representative sent by Breezehold should ideally not overshadow him, so Prince Stringer as a secondary commander was very suitable.
At the same time, this was a victory ordained by Grimnir, the God of War. Having his son participate in such a divinely endorsed, guaranteed victory would not only ensure his safety but also enhance his reputation.
"Ha! Esteemed Master Gromril, little brother of the venerable Mogrim, who wanders the mortal realm!" As Gromril was examining the Stonemasons, he heard a loud and familiar voice from beneath the Anvil.
Gromril didn't yet know that busybodies were already spreading rumors that he was the child of the God of War and the Ancestor Goddess. Among the Ancestor Minor Gods, only Mogrim was a descendant of Grimnir; one more seemed appropriate.
"Rogov! Esteemed Warrior, what new achievements have you made these past two days?" Gromril looked down at the burly Slayer, whose bare upper body now bore several more bandages.
"We found a Manticore and tried to tame it for Fatis, but that beast didn't know what was good for it, so we had to send it to meet the Ancestor Gods! Its cub, however, sold for a hefty sum!"
The Manticore Slayer was in good spirits. Although he had missed the manifestation of the God of War's grace by upholding his oath, he was still happy about the god's revival and that he had followed the right person.
"Hello, Prince, my colleague!" Gromril then greeted Stringer, who was surrounded by a group of Hammerers in the gray-white uniforms of Breezehold, followed by a group of heavily armored clansmen wielding dual short weapons.
Stonemasons are a unique troop type of Breezehold. They carry their tools—hammers, steel chisels, and carving tools—onto the battlefield. These highly skilled artisans can accurately embed their implements into the enemy's vital points, and their killing efficiency is no less than their skill in carving stone.
After greeting his clansmen, Gromril turned his gaze to the catalyst for this expedition—the Knight from the Duchy of Bordeleaux. Gromril saw a richly dressed young human noble quietly conversing with Fatis.
"Master, turn left, uh, no, lean to the left!" Gromril stood up and immediately sat back down, nearly stepping off the Anvil. He needed time to adapt to this platform.
Achieving perfect synergy between a Rune Master and the guards carrying the palanquin requires ample time to train. For now, Gromril could only direct them with words, an experience akin to taking a taxi in his previous life.
"Good evening, esteemed Gromril, I am Constantine Farrien, Regent of the Duchy of Bordeleaux! Thank you for your righteous assistance. I believe that under the grace of the Noble God of War, those vile Vampires will be as helpless as small boats in a raging storm!"
Gromril looked at the human in front of him; he had long black hair and a face deeply etched by the elements, making him appear older than his actual age, giving him a very mature look.
"Greetings, Fatis, time is short, so let's talk as we go!" Gromril gestured for the army to set off. Constantine was naturally eager for this; although he had full confidence in the sturdiness of his castle, the battlefield situation changes rapidly, and no one could guarantee what would happen.
Constantine and his subordinates led their mounts at the front of the procession, acting as guides. Gromril noticed that the Knights under his command were not equipped with the usual Knight lances, but rather long-handled tridents.
"Are these, Manann, God of the Sea Knights?" Gromril asked, recalling, as he sat on the anvil of doom, his height similar to the walking humans, making communication very convenient.
"You are indeed as knowledgeable as the rumors say!" Constantine praised. "Yes, they are a religious order of Knights serving Manann, God of the Sea. Manann, God of the Sea Knights is a nickname given to them by outsiders; internally, we call them Sons of manann!"
The young human noble was very proud of this unit; in all of Bretonnia, they were unique. Gromril observed the demeanor of these five Knights and secretly nodded in approval.
Their martial arts might be slightly inferior to those of seasoned Kingdom Knights like Viscount Ackerman, whom he had seen earlier at Sanglak Castle, but Gromril sensed the faint scent of divine grace upon them. Though subtle, the great power of a deity was enough for them to contend with the strong among mortals.
"Let's talk about the enemy! The Vampire Pirates, you must have dealt with them quite a bit, right?" Gromril's primary concern was still the adversaries. Karak-Zfirin also had no flying vehicles, making Gromril's favorite method of gathering intelligence beforehand difficult to carry out.
"Indeed!" Constantine pulled a flask from his tunic and took a swig. Gromril noticed it wasn't the wine commonly drunk by Bretonnian nobles, but a type of alcohol he hadn't seen before.
"Praise manann!" Constantine declared a divine name. Manann, God of the Sea was a local deity born at the beginning of this world, not a disguise for any Elven god, so there was no need to be discreet in front of Gromril.
"Compared to the Dark Elves, those inferior breeds among the Pointy-ears, the raiders from Norsca sailing longships, and, ahem, the navy of our friends from over the Mountains, the Vampire Pirates are not that big of a threat!"
"Is that so? I think so too!" Gromril nodded. In his opinion, the legendary lords of those Vampire Pirates were not particularly impressive.
Aranessa Saltspite, the Norsca cripple, and Cylostra Direfin, a common singer before her death, were hardly worth mentioning; they were almost incomparable to the true powerhouses who roamed the Old World.
Count Noctilus, who commanded the Dreadfleet, was indeed a legitimate member of the Manfred family of Sylvania.
However, his claim of "being tired of power struggles and yearning for a free life at sea" was, in Gromril's opinion, questionable; it was more likely that he couldn't gain the upper hand in power struggles. This meant he was a powerful mage, but nothing more.
Luthor Harkon, the Pirate King of Lustria, was indeed a figure. He was once the commander of the Lahmia port guard, and later transformed into a Vampire by the Blood Dragon Vampire patriarch Abhorash. Becoming a Blood Dragon Vampire meant his personal strength and military prowess were guaranteed.
However, he then accidentally triggered a magical barrier left behind by the Slann Mage-Priests in Huatl - an abandoned Lizardmen temple city. Luthor Harkon was afflicted with multiple personalities by the magical impact; specifically, twelve different personalities were vying for control of his body, turning a perfectly good Pirate King into a schizophrenic.
"The real trouble lies with the fellows on land. My duchy is sandwiched between Mousillon and Aquitaine. Leaving aside Mousillon, which has become a cursed land, there are many Vampires lurking in Aquitaine alone!"
Constantine explained to Gromril. He knew that the Sons of the Mountains disliked the sea, so he elaborated a bit more for Gromril.
"Hahaha!" Gromril burst out laughing. "Of course, I know! Many of your compatriots are even more ruthless in exploiting their people than Vampires! Vampires only suck blood; they also extract marrow from bones!"
Gromril had heard that many Bretonnian peasants preferred to be ruled by the Bloodline. Generally speaking, as long as they provided fresh blood on time, they could live in peace and contentment the rest of the time, which had a bit of the meaning of a 'Snake-Catcher's Story' from another world.
"Your clansmen's thirst for gold is no less than the Bloodline's thirst for blood!" Constantine mumbled, but he knew what Gromril said was true, which also led to the fact that in duchies where peasants lived poorly, Vampires could never be completely eradicated.
"But in Bordeleaux, everything is different! Although my father has not yet drunk the water of the Holy Grail, he always holds himself to the standard of a living saint!"
Constantine then briefly introduced his homeland to Gromril: unlike some duchies almost entirely covered by forests, most of Bordeleaux's land was arable, and there were also some pastures near the coast.
The entire duchy only had the Forest of Chalons in the southeast. This forest was not as dangerous as the part in Bastonne; although Beastmen also roamed there, it could still be developed and utilized.
"Bordeleaux, in terms of area, is not large among the various ducal territories, but this also means that our family's decrees can reach the countryside without being obstructed by Knights or even village elders!" Constantine concluded.
Gromril secretly nodded in his heart. He did not see the pride common among Bretonnian nobles in this young man. From his enthusiasm and talkativeness, he seemed more like an experienced sailor whose passion had not yet been extinguished.
"Your family's decrees?" Gromril repeated, "Shouldn't they be yours? Respected Regent."
"Hahaha! My father and brother have taken the duchy's Knights to participate in a crusade in the name of, well, that lady! I'm just filling in temporarily." Constantine laughed. "Don't mind me, if Fatis, the Beast King with the Broken Horn, wasn't by my side, I might even use the common term from our friends over the Mountains to refer to Her!"
"Oh? Is that so? The term we know wouldn't be the same, would it?" Gromril's interest was piqued by the remark.
"A woman engaged in the noble profession of giving her body, with a very unique working environment!" Constantine laughed heartily like an old captain. Fatis simply took his horse a few steps forward, choosing to ignore it.
Gromril also burst out laughing at the words; he really didn't have much affection for The Lady of the Lake, Lileath. This Elven goddess, along with her chief sycophant Teclis, basically ignited the entire Order faction during the End Times, to the point where even Mother Goddess Valaya's grievances could indirectly be attributed to her.
The Lord of the Undead Nagash's eventual resurrection also had Lileath's three-tenths contribution; she once had the idea of having Nagash raise an army of the dead to fight Chaos. However, Nagash refused her alliance against Chaos but still adopted the part of the plan concerning his return to the mortal world.
"I say, my different Bretonnian friend, won't you face a lot of pressure doing this? I'm afraid there are many chivalry-obsessed patients in your duchy who want to get rid of you quickly?" Gromril expressed his concern after he finished laughing.
"Perhaps in other ducal lands, but in Bordeleaux, not a few people support me, and perhaps even more!" Constantine took out his flask and took another sip.
"The coastal nobles and commoners, their wealth almost all comes from the sea: trade, fishing, salt production, and so on. And my god, manann, will not tolerate disloyalty in faith!"
Gromril heard something beyond piety in Constantine's words, and he had some idea about it. Unlike the Mountains Kingdom, where gods were not manifest and clansmen were bound by guilds, human society had gods who could manifest their grace at any time.
Church forces, formed by the bond of common divine faith, became organizations that limited the power of feudal lords. These churches and lords competed with each other, but also intertwined.
Throughout the Old World, the largest and most influential were undoubtedly the Cult of Sigmar and the faith of The Lady of the Lake, but other gods also had their spheres of influence. Different factions were constantly struggling for various interests.
The two who had just met found it inconvenient to discuss deeper matters. After leaving the Grey Mountains, Gromril dismounted from the anvil of doom and remounted his golden rock ram.
Having lived in his previous life, he was still somewhat resistant to being a literal 'person above others,' especially when being a 'person above others' was neither comfortable nor safe.
The entire army moved quickly; they passed through the narrow territory of Montfort Duchy in a forced march with almost no rest.
Dwarves, a resilient race, were accustomed to using this method to compensate for their short legs and small strides, and the few humans accompanying them were also extraordinary, either skilled in martial arts or blessed with divine grace, allowing them to endure for a short period.
On one hand, saving people was like fighting a fire; on the other hand, there wasn't much baggage—no longer protecting a large convoy of merchant wagons, Gromril felt the army's progress was like a weightlifter taking off the sandbags from his legs.
After a day's march, Gromril and his legion arrived at the natural border between Montfort Duchy and Bastonne Duchy—the bank of the Grismerie River.
Gromril whistled as he looked at the mighty river before him. Since coming to this world, he had almost always been active in the Mountains, this was his first time entering human territory, and his first time seeing such a rushing river.
It is said that the benevolent enjoy the Mountains, and the wise enjoy water. Transmigrating into a world with such dark and cruel overtones, Gromril felt he couldn't afford to be "benevolent," so being a wise man was also very good.
"The Grismerie River is the largest river in Bretonnia; she originates in the Athel Loren Forest and flows all the way to the marshes of Mousillon into the sea!" Constantine's voice rang out.
"Hoh! Does manann's authority also cover the freshwater river basin?" Gromril nodded secretly as he listened to Constantine's introduction. Outside the domain of the Mountains Kingdom, his advisor Balin would not be able to exert himself, so Gromril needed to obtain information from other channels.
"My god's followers include sailors, boatmen, pirates, and all those who make a living on the water. You wouldn't think that the one in the freshwater lake would bless these poor people, would you?" Constantine joked again.
"As far as I know, in Bretonnia, The Lady of the Lake worship is mainly for nobles, while farmers generally believe in the Goddess of Mercy, Shallya, or other gods!" Stringer also came forward, surrounded by his Iron Hammer Guard.
Just as Gromril was wondering why this Rune Smith knew these things, he continued.
"No farmer wants to live more than a few minutes' walk from a Shallya shrine. Recently, a custom has rapidly become popular, where many nobles have also begun to donate and build a small Shallya shrine near the Grail Chapels."
Gromril nodded at this. This prince, being groomed as an heir, still paid some attention to Breezehold's pillar industry—stonemasonry. In all of Bretonnia, the only buildings worthy of, or rather, able to afford, dwarf stonemasons were the castles of knightly nobles and the churches or shrines of the gods.
"Let's go, let's cross the river and rest in the territory of Bastonne Duchy!" Constantine called out, leading his horse forward. "My duchy has better relations with Bastonne, and I've already greeted Duke Von Deyke in advance on the way here!"
Gromril naturally had no objection; since dwarf settlements in Bretonnia only appeared in ducal castles, it was all the same where they spent the night now.
After Gromril agreed, Constantine dispatched two Sea God Knights who galloped ahead, and then the main force slowly began to cross the bridge.
"Wait! There's something in the water!" This was Brockson's voice. With his ever-present monocle, he keenly noticed a huge dark shadow under the bridge in the afterglow of the setting sun.
"Relax, my dwarf friend." Constantine's voice came from the front.
"The Grismerie River is full of dirty things. Her slow current means creatures can easily swim upstream, whether they are monsters from the sea or Undead creatures from Mousillon. But those things aren't stupid; with so many of us, they won't seek their own demise!"
These words convinced the warriors in the army. Such a force could already be called a large army; if necessary, they could conquer most of Bretonnia's castles, except for the ducal residences. Any species with the ability to think would not come looking for trouble.
Across the bridge was a human town, with a sturdy stone wall along its river side. This small town obviously didn't have enough rooms to accommodate so many Dwarves, so Gromril's army could only choose to camp in the wilderness.
After sending the quartermaster into town to purchase ingredients for dinner, Gromril sat in his tent and spread out the map. Before, there was only one path to choose, but now, how to cross Bastonne needed to be discussed.
"This beer is garbage! It's like, like the Greenskins' mushroom brew!"
"Nonsense, mushroom brew is at least stronger!"
Gromril's tent was filled with the complaints of his clansmen. His quartermaster had locally purchased two cartloads of "superior local beer" and distributed it to the warriors. As they were traveling light, Gromril's army had limited provisions, and they would choose to resupply from cities along the way whenever conditions allowed.
"We usually drink wine, of course, our friends in Bordeleaux might have more options!" Fatis also grumbled. Having traveled with the dwarves all this way, his taste in beer had also improved.
"Perhaps you could try this, rum!" Constantine raised his flask. "It's brewed from a plant called sweet cane discovered in the New World. Those of us who ride the waves choose it!"
Gromril pursed his lips. "We'll see. It won't be too late to sample it when we reach Bordeleaux City!" He knew that at this time, he should share hardships with his warriors, a tradition that had been passed down since the time of the Ancestor Gods.
Gromril noticed that while Stringer frowned occasionally, he was still diligently chewing the fish on his plate with the poor-quality beer, which made Gromril regard him with higher esteem.
Due to extensive contact with humans, dwarves outside the World's Edge Mountains were somewhat influenced by their concepts of status and hierarchy. Therefore, for the lords here, having a small private meal during wartime was not entirely unacceptable. Stringer's initiative to eat the same food was quite good for a young man leading troops for the first time.
"Grilled trout is a famous dish in this town! Hmm, it's said that the Knight King himself is very fond of it!" Stringer's advisor, seeing his lord struggling to swallow, introduced it from the side.
Gromril, with his past life experience, was quite accepting of fish. In his opinion, the fish was indeed well-cooked. The fresh, local ingredients, combined with a generous amount of spices, further enhanced the fish's flavor.
However, fish was never on the menu of the Sons of the Mountains. Its inherent fishy smell made it difficult for many clansmen to adapt, especially those from Everpeak.
"Well, at our previous marching speed, it will take about three days to cross the Duchy of Bastonne!" Constantine wiped his plate with bread and began his analysis. This was also his first time cooperating with dwarves, and it would take some time to adapt.
Gromril looked at the map and calculated in his mind. Their forced march speed was about fifty kilometers a day. "As long as you and your mount can endure, we can maintain this pace."
"Then we can do this!" Constantine drew an arc on the map with charcoal. "Bastogne Castle is in the center of the Duchy. We'll spend a day and a half to reach there, then rest for an afternoon and a night before continuing."
"Bypassing the Forest of Chalons?" Gromril said, looking at the arc on the map.
"And we'll take the main road!" Constantine added.
"Why? We have so many warriors, what short-sighted fellows would come to their deaths?" Stringer asked. The young Prince was already eager to embrace the victory from the oracle.
"Bastonne is the land of Gilles, the first Knight King and Unifier. The residents here like to see themselves as the core of all Bretonnia, and geographically, that is indeed the case!" Stringer's advisor stepped forward again. It was clear that this middle-aged dwarf was also eager to show off his knowledge.
"Their pride in their Duchy and their devotion to the Lady of the Lake are stronger than their counterparts in other Duchies. Therefore, more Knights from here participated in the expedition to eradicate the Greenskins!"
Upon hearing this, Gromril couldn't help but give a thumbs-up to the diplomatic approach of the Breezehold dwarves. This group of clansmen outside the World's Edge Mountains understood the importance of things beyond mines and workshops. Gromril was sure that the various settlements provided intelligence to Lord Rorek on time.
"Yes, and this has led to Bastonne's current weak military strength! Not to mention supporting us, the nobles left here are struggling even to deal with the Beastmen and the peasants who are taking advantage of the situation to rebel!" Constantine added.
Gromril knew without asking that he must have sought help from the Duke of Bastonne first, and only turned to the dwarves of Karak-Zfirin after failing.
The relationship between Bordeleaux and Bastonne had been very good since the time of Gilles. A Duchy based on traditional industries like agriculture and animal husbandry and a Duchy with strong trade and shipping capabilities needed each other.
"You can recruit some more of your clansmen at Bastogne Castle to set off together!" Gromril was noncommittal about Constantine's words. Before setting off, he learned that the dwarf settlements in the castles of the various Bretonnian Dukes were roughly the same size as the one in Helmgart.
Centered around the dwarf's core industries of masonry, forging, brewing, and craftsmanship, the total number was within a thousand people. Bretonnian Knight nobles also refused to use ranged weapons, which meant dwarf technology had no market in this land.
Gromril believed that, when requiring quality, that settlement could at most provide him with a hundred troops. Part-time warriors lacking daily training would not play a significant role.
However, he didn't raise any objections. It would be good to visit the Duke's castle; it would be the largest human settlement Gromril had seen since his transmigration.
"After that, we'll take this route to Bordeleaux City!" Constantine continued the curve with his charcoal. Gromril noticed that Bordeleaux Castle, unlike Bastogne Castle, was not in the center of the Duchy but closer to the border of the Duchy of Aquitaine.
"Alluvial delta?" Gromril leaned closer to the map, carefully observing. Noticing that Bordeleaux City was located at the mouth of a river, he subconsciously blurted out a geographical term from his previous life.
A delta refers to an alluvial plain that gradually develops when a river flows into an ocean, lake, or another river, and its flow rate decreases, causing a large amount of sediment to deposit. The land is usually fertile, and for the tonnage of ships in this world, it is also a good harbor.
"Delta?" Constantine muttered, probably thinking it was a dwarf word, and didn't dwell on it.
"Bordeleaux City is at the mouth of the River Gylrow. It's a natural good harbor, and this river, originating from the Ogre Mountains, can also transport goods faster to other parts of Bretonnia." Stringer's advisor added for his Prince.
"It should also serve as the Duke's role in guarding the nation's gate!" Gromril looked at the map, seeing the castle next to the Forest of Chalons, across the river from the Duchy of Aquitaine, and thought of Montfort Castle on the Bretonnian side of Axe Bite Pass.
"I still plan to take a detour to avoid the Forest of Chalons!" Constantine continued. "Besides Vampires, there are also Greenskins and Beastmen in there. Villages on the forest's edge are frequently attacked. Every now and then, we have to organize forces to clear them out, otherwise, the next time we go, it's likely to be nothing but ruins."
"No problem!" Gromril immediately agreed to Constantine's plan. When he had no better ideas, it was always a good idea to listen to the locals.
After a night's rest, Gromril and his troops set out at sunrise, while the previous night's watchmen rested in the carriages carrying the artillery.
Along the way, Gromril distinctly smelled a hint of unease. Although there wasn't even a small group of Greenskins daring to show themselves, he could still feel the watchful gazes from the woods on both sides of the road while sitting on his rock ram.
"Perhaps this is the work of that talent?" Gromril mused inwardly. He idly tapped the 'See Through Schemes' title he had acquired after slaying Skarsnik in the system, but naturally, he received no reaction and couldn't find anyone to verify it.
"Your Excellency, Regent, it seems things aren't peaceful around here, are they?" Stringer, after being called aside by his advisor for a whispered conversation, shook his head and approached Constantine to strike up a conversation.
Gromril observed this scene. He noticed that, compared to Balin, Stringer's advisor was more often guiding him, teaching him to do certain things. In fact, this was true; the eldest son's advisor often needed to take on more responsibilities, as some experiences needed to be imparted by them.
"Hahaha! More than that!" Constantine took another sip of wine. This time, his rum was finished, and he was likely drinking newly purchased wine.
Bordeleaux's fine wines were also famous throughout Bretonnia. The wines produced along its coast were of good quality, and more importantly, the yield was also very large, making them inexpensive and affordable for the general public given the Duchy's relatively wealthy situation.
There was a saying to describe the Bordeleaux people's love for wine: "If a Bordeleaux man's thirtieth birthday falls on the good month of Mansly's full moon, then he might stay sober for one day without drinking."
"Along this stretch of road, there are plenty of peasant brigands! They gather in groups, organized to rob passing merchants. It's just that we have too many people for these scoundrels to dare to act! Do you know how much effort it took me to disperse these rascals when I came?"
Constantine's voice carried a hint of anger; clearly, the young Regent had had a bad experience. "These fellows, more slippery in the woods than fish in the sea, smear everything they can find on their filthy weapons! Pitchforks, the literal kind!"
Stringer's mouth twitched upon hearing this. For people of their noble status, even giants might not be as terrifying as pitchforks. Fighting a giant beast, even if they lost, was considered glorious, but fighting these peasants would be disgusting for a long time, even if they won.
Gromril's army passed through two villages in succession. Their leaders, facing such an iron tide, all chose to keep their gates tightly shut.
Although Gromril felt there was no need to even bring out his cannons, as those dilapidated wooden gates couldn't even withstand the charge of the Anvil Guards' bodies, it at least offered some psychological comfort to the poor people inside.
"Every single noble in Bastonne is an excellent Knight, but their proportion of being competent as Lords can be reversed!" Constantine had quite a few opinions on his neighbors' behavior.
The Kingdom Knights whose fiefdoms were these two villages abandoned their duties, taking their squires to join the King's expedition. If proper Knights with existing territories acted this way, then there was even less to say for the Errant Knights who needed to achieve deeds and establish themselves!
It could be said that no Errant Knight could be found in the wilds of the entire Duchy of Bastonne. If one were encountered on the road, the likelihood of him being a Blood Dragon Vampire might be higher.
Both villages were managed by the Knights' stewards or village elders. Relying only on a few slightly trained infantrymen and temporarily conscripted farmers, whether they could protect the villages was probably known only to the Goddess of Mercy.
After spending a few silver coins to replenish the convoy's water from the village well, Gromril and his subordinates had a simple meal and continued their journey. By dusk, they finally reached a larger town.
Bretonnia's human settlements were simply divided into three tiers: the lowest tier was villages, which usually had only simple walls. The only two decent buildings were her owner's residence—a Kingdom Knight's house—and a small chapel for The Lady of the Lake. The Lord's subordinates consisted of a few Knight squires and a small squad of infantry.
The second tier was towns; the one before them and Sanglak Castle, which they had passed earlier, both fell into this category. They usually had relatively strong stone walls. These towns were generally located on important trade routes or borderlines, and their Lord would be a noble with a title.
Compared to their subordinate Kingdom Knights, these nobles had better-trained infantry and the right to mobilize Kingdom Knights and Errant Knights within their territory.
The highest tier, of course, was the Duke's Castle. Besides commanding their subordinate lower nobles, Dukes would, depending on the situation, have some more advanced and locally distinctive troop types, as well as prophetesses and holy women serving The Lady of the Lake to provide magical support.
"Earl Kailu, the Lord of Chevigny Castle, is a Grail Knight. We all need to be a bit reserved in front of him!" Constantine reminded Gromril at the city gate.
"Good heavens!" Gromril praised. He had learned about Grail Knights early on; they were perhaps the most popular unit in the game from his previous life. However, here, these living saints could not be recruited in units as freely as in the game.
In fact, no one knew exactly how many Grail Knights there were in the entire Knight Kingdom. The Imperium of Man across the mountains had always tried to figure this out.
But what was certain was that, even counting those on the legendary "Isle of Lilies" where The Lady of the Lake's fairy resided, directly obeying her worldly representative, and those guarding the Goddess's sanctuary in secret places, the total would not exceed two hundred.
"Compared to other Duchies, Bastonne has an unusually high number of Grail Knights among its nobility. Perhaps this is a manifestation of their chivalry!" Constantine, seeing Gromril in a daze, also sighed with emotion.
The castle before them looked unremarkable, even a bit desolate. Since they had sent word in advance, the Earl's subordinates led the leaders of the troops into the city at the gate, and then marked out an area outside the city for the army to camp.
Gromril and his party passed through the gate and headed straight for the Earl's residence inside. This was a small town, and they quickly arrived at the inner tower's entrance.
"Esteemed and noble guests, my master is currently performing evening prayers for the Lady. Please, have some tea and wait." The Earl's butler seemed a bit odd; his tailcoat didn't fit him very well, being a little tight around the stomach.
His speech was also not very refined, with elegant words mixed in and misused, suggesting he wasn't of noble birth.
However, Gromril didn't mind; it was a matter of the guest following the host's lead. After waiting for a moment, a tall, burly human entered from the back door.
As he entered, the humans present, being of some status and not seeing a living saint for the first time, were mostly unfazed.
But the dwarves couldn't help but tense their muscles. Gromril narrowed his eyes, observing Earl Kailu. The Knight exuded an aura brimming with strength, discipline, and faith.
"Greetings to you, Earl!" Constantine greeted him proactively.
"Things went smoothly, young man!" Earl Kailu nodded, looking at the room half-filled with dwarves.
"Our troops are passing through your esteemed land; we apologize for the intrusion!" Gromril also stood up and offered his greetings.
"You must be the legendary Gromril? I have long heard of your virtues and valor! I believe if you were a child of Bretonnia, you would surely have the opportunity to drink from the Lady's Holy Grail!" Earl Kailu's voice was loud and slow, exuding a powerful presence.
"Good fellow!" Gromril thought to himself. This Grail Knight really didn't know how to speak, or rather, he displayed the inherent pride of Bretonnian nobility, which, of course, might have been part of the reason he became a Grail Knight.
A brief silence fell over the room. Captain Grenson gripped his warhammer, which had been resting on the floor. If Gromril showed any inclination, he was willing to test the Knight's skill.
"Hahaha, shall we dine together?" Fatis reluctantly stepped forward to smooth things over. Earl Kailu's rather unprofessional butler was probably beyond hope, so this task fell to him.
"Hmph! It's not your place, you drunkard and fratricidal sinner of Carcassonne, to speak here!" The Grail Knight showed no mercy, directly calling out Fatis's past crimes.
"Ever since I swore the Questing Vow, I have dedicated my body, my mind, and my soul entirely to the Lady I seek! Only she has the right to judge all that is mine!" Fatis, though his sore spot was revealed, could only manage a defiant retort.
However, this somewhat eased the tension in the room. The group moved from the living room to the inner dining hall, and after taking their seats according to precedence, the food was served by the male servants.
Gromril poked at the steak on his plate. To him, the meal seemed a bit meager, but he wasn't sure if this was due to the Grail Knight lord's frugal style, a bad harvest this year, or simply a lack of importance placed on the meal.
The oppressive atmosphere was finally broken by the Earl himself. He inquired about Constantine's journey and then complained a few times about the situation in his own domain.
Originally, this living saint commanded a full company of Kingdom Knights and Errant Knights. While it might be an exaggeration to say they were invincible when arrayed in a lance formation with him at the vanguard, handling the daily security issues within his territory was effortless.
However, at present, let alone a company of Knights, Earl Kailu would struggle to even assemble a company of mounted squires. He himself had reached the pinnacle of both the knightly quest and worldly power, and thus remained steadfast in his duties. But his Knights still had aspirations!
Constantine could offer no help for the Earl's situation; was the Duchy of Bordeleaux not in a similar predicament? Constantine's father and brother had both joined the great army serving the Lady, and at their call, the nobles in the inland regions of the Duchy who worshipped The Lady of the Lake had also largely sent their troops.
After promising to try and clear out any undesirables along the remaining half-day's journey, the banquet hastily concluded.
"What do you think, how would you fare against that Grail Knight?" As Gromril stepped out of the castle, he eagerly asked the question that concerned him most.
"If we had fought just now, I am absolutely confident I would have smashed that arrogant fellow's head! Even if he had his family's heirloom weapon or equipment blessed by The Lady of the Lake fully donned, he wouldn't stand a chance against me in a foot battle!"
Captain Grenson spoke with certainty, and Gromril believed him. These were some of the strongest dwarf warriors in the Mountains Kingdom, and they were equipped with the best of the standard issue gear. Gromril didn't think an Earl could produce weapons of exquisite or higher quality.
"But, he is a Knight, not an infantryman after all! If he mounted his warhorse, and I believe his horse wouldn't be inferior to that of young Fatis, then I would be in trouble!" Captain Grenson took a pinch of snuff and waved his runic warhammer.
"This thing is very difficult to use against a charge!"
Gromril understood, of course. Pure-blooded Elf warhorses accelerate very quickly and have greater stamina, capable of repeatedly launching charges. It wasn't a matter of simply enduring the first impact before engaging in a close-quarters struggle.
However, he mainly wanted to assess their strength. In actual combat, no one would use Hammerers to withstand a cavalry charge; at the very least, they would choose shield-equipped units combined with ranged firepower to limit them.
Since they were spending the night in a town with a Grail Knight lord, Gromril wasn't too worried about safety. The troops rested peacefully for the night before setting off again.
The latter part of the journey, as they gradually approached the Duchy's capital, Bastogne Castle, saw an improvement in public order. Nearing midday, Gromril saw a towering stone castle in the distance.
"We can eat in the town below the castle!" Constantine suggested. Moving residential areas outside of castles, which primarily served military purposes, was a common practice. This allowed for easier management and greatly improved issues like public hygiene.
As populations grew, more and more Dukes chose to do this. In these dark times, most unfortunate people hoped to gather together and live in places with ample military protection, and in most cases, the safest place was the Duke's castle.
Gromril, of course, agreed. The dwarf settlement in Bastogne Castle was also outside the castle. He led the army through the low walls of the castle town, where remnants of the New Year's festive atmosphere still lingered.
It was winter, and the new round of farming hadn't yet begun. Many temporarily idle Bretonnian people curiously observed this dwarf army.
In their short lives, they had never seen such a heavily armed group of dwarves. Perhaps in their minds, dwarves were not much more threatening than the Mootland Halflings who often appeared as cooks.
Gromril surveyed the town along the way. Compared to Helmgart Fortress, it appeared somewhat chaotic, clearly lacking systematic planning during its construction.
The ground was uneven, and the buildings lining the streets were also quite disparate. Nevertheless, it was bustling with people.
"There seem to be quite a few outsiders here, don't you think?" Gromril turned to ask Fatis.
"Indeed, this is a bustling pilgrimage site! As the birthplace of Saint Gilles, everyone who believes in the Lady of the Lake would want to come here. Especially since the legendary Sacred Lake is located deep within the Forest of Chalons, shrouded in magical mist year-round, making it difficult to find."
Fatis had clearly been here before, perhaps more than once, as he recounted the tales of Saint Gilles's knighthood as if they were his own. Which Kingdom Knight in all of Bretonnia wouldn't admire the first Knight King who unified Bretonnia by defeating the invading Greenskin horde in twelve great battles?
The dwarf settlement here was in the deepest part of the town, right next to the castle, like the one in Helmgart—a city within a city, complete with its own walls.
Due to the limited space in the settlement, which couldn't accommodate so many warriors, and with the Duke nearby, the risk was low. Gromril dismissed the troop at the entrance of the settlement, allowing his clansmen to find places to rest on their own.
These clansmen, who had rushed to war before properly celebrating the New Year, could use this half-day to relax. By tomorrow morning, when the army marched, they would likely remain tense until the war ended.
Gromril himself, of course, did not join the ordinary warriors in their leisure. He and Stringer, surrounded by their retinue, entered the settlement. They were to have dinner with Duke Von Eyk that evening, so communication with the local clansmen needed to happen during lunch.
The local dwarf elders showed immense enthusiasm for Gromril and Stringer. Though these two young men did not have long beards, neither was easily underestimated. One was the theoretical co-lord of the dwarves within Bretonnia, and the other was a favored figure before the Ancestor Gods.
To be honest, Gromril didn't get much useful information beyond a good meal. The few administrators here were loyal and diligent master craftsmen, primarily concerned with the success of their own businesses.
Rubbing his stomach, Gromril entered his room, deciding to take a comfortable nap to adjust his state, so he would be more refreshed for the evening banquet.
That evening, Gromril and Stringer, dressed in formal attire, were led by several Kingdom Knights into Bastogne Castle.
"Here are the sacred ancient relics of Saint Gilles. Although some of them might be later embellishments, there are still taboos to observe. Stick close to those Kingdom Knights, and it's best not to wander off!" This was the advice the elder of the settlement gave his compatriots before entering the castle.
Gromril covertly observed the ancient city. He saw stone buildings, clearly much older, standing on both sides of the road. These remnants of the ancient castle ruins were meticulously maintained, and some even seemed to have pilgrims guarding them.
"Respected dwarf Princes, this is where the former King Saint Gilles practiced his swordsmanship! That year, he cleaved a mountain with a single stroke, and the sword mark remains to this day!" The escorting Kingdom Knights noticed the dwarves looking around. With great pride, they became part-time tour guides.
"However, these ancient and sacred relics are forbidden to outsiders and peasants! If you wish to enter and pay your respects, you can request permission from the Duke himself later!" another Kingdom Knight added.
"Is this the otherworld's version of the 'sword-testing stone' and 'no natives or dogs allowed'?" Gromril cursed inwardly. However, proving strength and bravery by striking hard objects was indeed a very common practice. If he was lucky, perhaps in the future there would also be classic attractions like "Stormhammer Gromril's Hammer-Testing Site."
Bastogne Castle itself was not too large. Only Kingdom Knights, nobles, and their retainers lived there daily. Since many had gone on the expedition, it felt much quieter than the town below.
The group quickly reached the Duke's personal tower along the mountain path. Although they had heard rumors, the dwarves in the group couldn't help but gasp at the sight before them.
It was a huge, red dragon head. Although over a thousand years had passed, it was well-preserved, still allowing one to imagine its former might.
"The demon dragon Smilgus! That year, it invaded Bretonnia, and half the land wailed under its wicked dragon's breath! It caused widespread devastation! It could swallow a brave Kingdom Knight, horse and all, in a single gulp!"
"Former King Saint Gilles, single-handedly, braved its fiery breath and plunged his lance straight into the demon dragon's skull! Afterward, he used his sacred sword to sever its head and brought it back!"
The Bastonne Kingdom Knights leading the way narrated the former King's story in the tone of a bard. Gromril knew this world was not Azeroth, where his skill template came from, and generally, dragon species were not distinguished by color.
And its might clearly wouldn't be that of a Sun Dragon—the youngest giants were called "Sun Dragons" by the Pointy-ears because of their fiery temper and rich, warm-colored scales. So, it was likely discolored due to Chaos corruption; perhaps it was even a Khorne dragon!
"Heh heh! It's nothing special!" Stringer smiled slightly. This time, he didn't show the pensive expression Gromril had.
"Do you two know that during the War of the Beard, one of our ancestors from Karak-Zfirin, with a ballista personally crafted by the Venerable God Mogrim, consecutively shot down seventeen Pointy-ears' dragons! Their burial place is now called the Dragon's Rest!"
The two Kingdom Knights' mouths twitched upon hearing this. Indeed, the total number of dragons slain by all races in this world probably didn't amount to as many as the dwarves killed in the War of the Beard.
This wasn't to say they lacked the ability to slay dragons. The main reason was that dragons had generally fallen into slumber due to various reasons, possibly including climate change. Now, even the legitimate Dragon Princes of Caledor could only awaken them through the ancient Caledor Dragon Songs.
"Where is that place?" Gromril asked, startled, turning his head.
"Where? In some forest in the Oakhill Mountains, I suppose? What? Do you question the records of our fortress?" Stringer seemed a little puzzled. Gromril shouldn't be undermining him now, by rights.
"I finally understand where those Zombie Dragons under the Vampire Lords' butts came from!" Gromril muttered to himself. His ancestors back then were truly extravagant, not even bothering with common dragon materials.
"It's nothing, I just asked casually, thinking I might have a chance to witness the ruins of that great war firsthand!" Gromril chuckled, covering it up. They bypassed the dragon head displayed in the foyer and entered the main hall.
The human nobles of Bretonnia were different from the Dwarves in the Mountains. In most cases, Dwarves were accustomed to holding banquets around a round table, mainly because of their smaller population and less pronounced hierarchy.
Here, Gromril saw a long table. Four human nobles were already seated along the side nearest the door. They stood up when they saw the Dwarves enter.
After a brief assessment, Gromril was once again surprised. Besides Constantine, who had traveled with them, the three unfamiliar individuals were all Grail Knights!
"Well met, please be seated!" The tall man in the center made a gesturing motion. Gromril, as the Dwarven commander for this trip, sat opposite him, while Stringer sat to Gromril's left, diagonally across from Constantine.
"Thank you all for being willing to help my countrymen!" The red dragon crest embroidered on Duke von Deycke's formal attire made his identity clear without needing to ask. In Gromril's perception, the aura of divine grace on him was also the most potent.
"In this era of rising Chaos threats, mutual assistance is only natural," Gromril responded with standard pleasantries.
The Duke himself seemed somewhat taciturn. After briefly introducing the other two Grail Knights—his standard-bearer and his cousin—he instructed the servants to bring out the food.
Gromril nodded as he looked at the steak on the plate. The main course for this meal was venison; it was dark red and had a uniquely mild flavor. Compared to other meats, it was very lean, with almost no excess fat or marbling.
Venison was the highest-grade ingredient in the Knight Kingdom of Bretonnia. Only nobles could enjoy it. If a peasant was found eating venison, he would face severe punishment. Serving it as the main course at least showed respect.
Gromril had already thought about what he would say. In fact, obtaining some potential external aid from Bretonnia to reclaim the lost Mountain Stronghold was one of his important objectives for this trip.
"From what I've observed on this journey, your Duchy seems to have some hidden troubles!" After three rounds of drinks, both sides were ready to discuss some practical matters.
"Indeed, for a moment, I don't even know where to begin!" The Duke was already overwhelmed by the internal affairs of his Duchy. Duke von Deycke was widely renowned throughout the Old World for his martial prowess.
This Duke had a more impressive nickname than "Dragon Slayer": "Dragon-Dreaded." Like most Knights of Bastonne, he embarked on a Quest for the Grail not long after becoming a full Knight.