The scent of blood at the bottom of the deep pit had not yet dissipated, and the dwarves had already begun to systematically clean up the battlefield.
The surviving Warriors and Disputants carefully pushed aside the Skaven's corpses, carrying the bodies of their fallen comrades together—some dwarves' arms were still in the posture of gripping an axe, some armor was torn to shreds by the Skaven's sharp claws, while others clenched their teeth, as if still fighting for glory.
"Wipe our brothers' armor clean and place their weapons beside them," Kadrin knelt beside the body of a dwarf warrior, gently closing his wide-open eyes, his voice hoarse. "Dwarves never abandon any comrade; even in death, they must return home with honor."
The Butchers put down their blood-stained axes and carefully wiped their comrades' armor, placing their weapons by their bodies; the Musketeers collected scattered muskets and lead bullets, while also counting the Skaven's corpses—over a thousand Skaven bodies, piled up like a small mountain at the bottom of the pit, yet far from enough to compensate for the dwarves' losses.
Kadrin stood up, looking at the more than twenty dwarf bodies before him. Each face had once fought alongside him, but now lay cold on the ground, and his heart ached as if struck by a heavy hammer.
He raised a hand to wipe the blood from the corner of his eye, then turned to look at the top of the deep pit—the over twenty-meter-high pit wall was steep and smooth, covered with excavation marks, with no place to climb. Getting out of here would be harder than ascending to heaven.
"Sir, how do we get up?" A Warrior walked up to Kadrin, his face full of worry. "Our brothers are all injured, and the Giant Rams can't climb. If we stay here, and the Skaven return to ambush us, we're done for."
Kadrin frowned deeply, saying nothing.
He looked up at the sky above the pit, his heart filled with anxiety—were they to be trapped and die in this deep pit full of Skaven corpses and blood? Just then, a "Clatter" of ropes rubbing against something suddenly came from the top of the pit.
Kadrin and all the dwarves instantly became alert, raising their weapons and looking towards the top of the pit.
Dozens of thick hemp ropes were seen dangling from the top of the pit, extending down the pit wall to the bottom. Immediately after, the light of torches peered over the pit's edge, illuminating the figures above—they were a group of orcs, all bare-chested, revealing strong green muscles, holding ropes in their hands, their eyes full of impatience.
"Hey! Ya dwarves down ther! Whachu doin' ova ther?! Climb up quick, will ya!" A booming voice came from the top of the pit; it was Glen.
He stood at the edge of the pit, his red-skinned squig glowing vividly under the torchlight, followed by over eighty orc nob, each equipped with fine iron axes and leather armor.
Kadrin was stunned.
The orcs were actually going to rescue them? This completely exceeded his understanding—in his eyes, orcs were all dimwits who only knew how to fight and steal. How could they offer help? Could this be an orc trap? Would they be ambushed by the orcs once they climbed up?
"Sir, beware of a trick!" The Butcher chieftain beside him whispered a warning, gripping his great axe tightly. "orcs aren't that kind; they might be trying to trick us into climbing up just to kill us!"
Kadrin said nothing, staring intently at Glen at the top of the pit.
He saw Glen frowning, impatiently kicking an orc beside him, muttering, "Git da ropes tied good an' proper! If da squigs—eh, dwarves—fall, da boss'll be gittin' me again!"
That impatient tone didn't seem feigned.
Kadrin looked again at the injured dwarves beside him—some had broken arms, others had legs wounded by Skaven battle-axes, completely lacking the strength to fight again; and those few Giant Rams, though not seriously injured, couldn't climb either. If they didn't accept the orcs' help, they might truly be trapped and die here.
"Let's trust them this once," Kadrin finally decided, his voice low. "But everyone must remain vigilant. Once we're up, immediately prepare for battle!"
The dwarves nodded in agreement and began to climb the ropes in an orderly fashion.
The Musketeers first tied their injured comrades to the ropes, allowing the orcs above to pull them up; the Warriors and Disputants held onto the ropes, carefully climbing upwards, still clutching their weapons, ready to respond to any sudden situation; the Giant Rams were harnessed by the dwarves with ropes, and a dozen people worked together to pull them to the top of the pit—these Giant Rams were not only important combatants but also their most crucial companions.
Kadrin was the last to climb up.
He gripped the rope, vigilantly watching the orcs at the top of the pit, taking extra caution with each step.
When his hand finally grasped the ground at the top of the pit, several dwarves reached out and pulled him up.
As soon as he stood firm, Kadrin immediately drew the short axe from his waist, vigilantly looking at the surrounding orcs.
But he hadn't expected that those orcs would merely glance at him before retreating, creating a sufficiently large buffer zone for the dwarves.
Glen stood at the front of the orc Team, with his arms crossed, saying impatiently, "Da boss told me ta save you lot! Now dat yer up, move yer grot-asses! Don't be standin' 'round lookin' all ugly 'ere!"
Kadrin was stunned.
He looked at the orcs before him—though their eyes were fierce, they showed no intention of fighting; instead, they were genuinely retreating.
What exactly was going on? Why would the greenskin chieftain save them?
"Who is your boss? Why did he save us?" Kadrin couldn't help but ask, his confusion deepening.
Glen rolled his eyes, clearly not wanting to say more to the dwarves:
"Our boss is Kurzadh! He saved ya 'cause he said, 'you're still useful… fer now.'Stop askin' stupid fings an' get movin'! If ya don't leg it soon, I'll just chop ya meself!"
With that, Glen waved his hand and, leading the orcs, turned and left, quickly disappearing into the forest's night, leaving only scattered ropes and a group of bewildered dwarves.
Kadrin looked in the direction where the orcs had disappeared, then at the surviving dwarves beside him, his heart full of doubt and vigilance.
Greenskin chieftain "Kurzadh"? He had never heard that name, yet he could make the orcs so obedient, even actively rescuing enemies. He was clearly no ordinary greenskin chieftain.
"Sir, what should we do now?" a Warrior asked.
Kadrin took a deep breath, suppressing his doubts, and said, "First, let's find a safe place to rest, treat our wounds, and bury our fallen brothers. As for these orcs..." He paused, his eyes filled with complexity, "Let's not provoke them for now, but also remain vigilant at all times. You can't guess what orcs are thinking; who knows if they'll suddenly attack next time."
The dwarves nodded in agreement, began to pack their equipment, and carried the bodies of their fallen comrades, heading deeper into the forest.
The torchlight flickered in the night, illuminating their tired yet determined figures.
Originally, this was a sneak attack against the orcs, but they inexplicably fell into an inexplicable pit in this strange environment, encountered some inexplicable Skaven and fought them, and most crucially, were inexplicably rescued by the orcs.
By the dwarf King!
Meanwhile, in another part of the forest, Glen was riding a giant squig, galloping towards Stonewatch.
He was full of displeasure—if Kurzadh hadn't specifically ordered it, he wouldn't have gone to save those dwarves! But then he remembered Kurzadh saying, "keeping the dwarves is still useful," and he could only suppress his anger.
The area around the deep pit gradually returned to calm, leaving only scattered ropes and Skaven corpses at the bottom, as if the bloody battle and rescue had never happened.
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Kadrin POV