Translator: CinderTL
Mogdin roared in fury, his voice echoing through the battlefield.
But his roars were met only by more dwarves instinctively crouching, retreating, or even cowering behind their shields.
When the defenders unleashed their cannons, the situation deteriorated further.
The battlefield was strewn with corpses. The fallen warriors hadn't been grazed by arrows or pierced by spears; their limbs had been blasted apart, their chests crushed, and their skulls shattered. The sheer brutality of the wounds far surpassed anything they had ever witnessed in generations of fighting in mines and caverns.
A young warrior knelt beside his fallen comrade, his trembling hand reaching out to check for breath. But half the man's face was gone, his brain matter mingling with blood as it seeped into the mud. The warrior vomited violently, his axe clattering to the ground.
"This isn't a battle..." he cried out in terror. "We're being slaughtered!"
An older dwarf warrior tried to rally the troops. "Hold the line! Shields up! If we charge fast enough, we'll reach the walls alive!"
But before he could finish, a bullet struck the seam of his shoulder armor. The metal projectile tore through flesh, erupting in a crimson mist. He screamed and collapsed, his shield clattering to the ground, throwing the surrounding dwarves into chaos.
The dwarf warriors were no cowards. They had battled subterranean monsters in the deep mine tunnels, carved paths through collapsed rock formations with their bare hands, and each one was a hardened veteran.
But they had never experienced warfare like this—no roaring charges, no clash of axes against shields, no visceral, close-quarters combat where bloodlust and brute strength clashed. Instead, there was only the fire-spewing muzzle of a weapon behind a gray wall a hundred paces away, accompanied by a piercing shriek that tore through the air. Each flash of light claimed another life.
Fear seeped into the group like groundwater, spreading silently and relentlessly.
Mogdin roared, slamming his hammer into the ground, trying to crush the wavering morale with his authority. "Anyone who retreats will feel my axe!"
He watched helplessly as another volley of fire erupted from the wall. Three of his bravest Warhammer wielders fell simultaneously mid-charge—one with a bullet through his throat, another with a shattered knee collapsing to the ground before a bullet pierced his skull, splattering blood and brain matter across the rubble.
Rage burned in his chest. He was about to bellow another order to charge when he surveyed the battlefield. Thick smoke mingled with the stench of blood. The surviving warriors huddled behind rocks, none daring to raise their heads, none willing to advance another step.
In that moment, Mogdin's rage finally subsided, leaving him to confront the cold reality.
They couldn't break through. This wasn't a matter of courage, but of overwhelming disparity in strength.
His warriors were being torn apart a hundred meters away, without even glimpsing the enemy's faces. Continuing the assault would only lead to the annihilation of the Stonemason Clan's elite forces before these gray walls.
"Withdraw!" he roared, his voice hoarse and bitter, as if torn from the depths of his chest. "Full retreat! Back to the mountain pass!"
The dwarf warriors instantly felt as if they had been granted a reprieve. Without hesitation, they dragged their wounded, shouldered their battered shields, and scrambled back toward the mountain pass.
Inside the fortress, the Ogre commander issued a command, and the massive iron gates swung open with a thunderous clang.
A squad of infantry surged out, advancing in a skirmish line to pursue the retreating dwarves.
The pursuit lasted nearly half an hour, the terrain gradually rising and becoming overgrown with thickets. The dwarves had vanished ahead, leaving only a network of mountain paths branching in different directions, each winding deeper into the mountains.
The commander abruptly raised his hand. "Halt the pursuit!"
He crouched down to examine the footprints in the dirt. The tracks of the dwarves' war boots began to diverge, leading down several narrow trails into the heart of the mountains.
As he looked up and surveyed his surroundings, the towering cliffs on either side loomed like the jaws of some colossal beast, casting deep shadows.
"Too risky," he muttered. "Those dwarves know this terrain well. If we push further, we'll likely fall into their ambush."
Without hesitation, he barked the order: "Maintain formation! Retreat to the fortress!"
In the Stonemason Clan's great hall, Clan Chief Imar slammed the battle report onto the stone steps, roaring, "Worthless! Mogdin is utterly worthless!"
He glared at Mogdin, who knelt before him, his eyes bloodshot with rage. "You led so many elite warriors, yet you turned tail and fled at the sight of an unfinished wall of mortar? You've made our entire clan a laughingstock! If the orcs of Abal hear about this, they'll laugh themselves sick!"
Mogdin remained prostrate on the ground, his voice low and pleading. "Clan Chief... their weapons weren't bows or crossbows... they were tongues of fire. Within a hundred paces, our shields couldn't stop them, nor could our armor withstand their assault. If we had continued the charge, we would have been annihilated!"
"Cowardly excuses!" Imar roared.
Mogdin slowly raised his head, a final spark of defiance flickering in his eyes.
"Clan Chief!" Mogdin's voice was low and hoarse. "If you don't want our warriors' blood to be shed in vain... there's one more way."
He met Imar's icy gaze and slowly said, "Release the Abyssal Maw."
The air in the hall froze instantly. Several elders gasped.
"Are you mad?" Imar roared. "Those are sacred beasts guarding the Sacred Cavern! Not war hounds to be unleashed in battle!"
"They were born for war!" Mogdin snapped, his eyes bloodshot. "They tear through rock like cloth, crush iron gates with a single bite, and turn entire squads of soldiers into bloody pulp with a sweep of their tails! Let them crawl out of the earth and charge into the human camp! Their walls will crumble before them like sandcastles! A single one of these beasts could flatten Grayfort!"
Thorin, the clan's treasurer, frowned. "These colossal worms are difficult to control. If they run amok, they'll tear apart not only the humans but also our mines and outposts."
Imar nodded. "Indeed, the Abyssal Maw should not be deployed lightly. It's a last resort, to be used only when all other options have failed."
Regaining some composure, Imar turned to Thorin. "I will assemble another powerful warband to crush the humans."
"Clan Chief," Thorin's voice remained steady, seemingly unaffected by the recent defeat. "Mogdin is right. The humans' firearms are formidable. A direct assault will only lead to the needless slaughter of our warriors."
Imar's gaze turned icy again. "Then what's your solution? Wait for them to build their fortresses right under our noses?"
"No," Thorin shook his head. "We lure them into the mountains."
He pointed to the mountain path map on the stone table. "Our strength lies not on the plains, but in the deep mountains and underground tunnels. We can dispatch nimble strike teams to harass the human camps, feigning attacks to draw them into pursuit."
His finger traced a deep ravine on the map. "Once they're deep within the narrow mountain paths or underground tunnels, our main force can ambush them. We'll trap them with long axes and rolling logs, or even trigger a cave-in to bury their entire army in an instant."
(End of the Chapter)
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