The Battle of Blackrock Mountain

To reach Evindeldan, one first had to pass through a long, narrow canyon before Blackrock Mountain, known to the dwarves as the Path of Glory. The terrain was treacherous, flanked by soaring rock walls. In the middle lay a chasm spanned by stone bridges, lined on both sides by imposing statues. They represented Dumathoin, god of mining and gems; Clangeddin Silverbeard, the dwarven god of battle and valor; Thard Harr, god of the hunt; and Gorm Gulthyn, god of defense and vigilance. Deep within the Path of Glory stood another deity, endowed with a thick, luxuriant beard and considered exceedingly beautiful by dwarven standards: Sharindlar, the dwarven goddess of love and fertility. As the gateway to Evindeldan, the canyon was easy to defend and perilous to attack. Across the sheer, nearly vertical cliff faces ran an intricate network of tunnels and defensive works excavated by the dwarves, capped with blockhouses perched atop the crags. At the far end of the canyon stood an impregnable rampart, proudly dubbed the "Orc's Tombstone" by the dwarves. Over the millennia, the northern orcs had launched thirteen southward invasions, and eight of them had broken against the Orc's Tombstone. The stone was scarred by ancient, mottled bloodstains. Though patched and repaired through the ages, the marks of brutal battles remained starkly visible, standing as a testament to its illustrious deeds. Dwarven warriors in heavy armor, bearing fine crossbows and short spears, stood at the ready atop the battlements or lay in wait within the tunnels flanking the cliffs. High on the wall, Toru Aaron—a dwarven general clad in heavy hide armor and a horned helm—tilted his head back and drained a wooden cask of strong liquor in a single draught. Wiping the dregs from the corners of his mouth, his face flushed crimson and his eyes nearly spitting fire, he roared at the dwarven soldiers before him: "B-Brothers! "This time, we hold them outside the wall again! We won't let these orc bastards catch so much as a glimpse of Evindeldan's walls! "Smash them to pulp!" A thick stench of alcohol rolled over the battlements, but no one found it offensive. For dwarves, drinking before a fight to keep their spirits high was second nature. Seeing their commander drink with such abandon only stoked the warriors' battle lust. They raised their warhammers high, letting out booming cheers. "Long live King Ed!" "Smash them! Evindeldan shall never fall!" "The Mountain Kingdom is eternal!" Dwarves appeared upon the hills, inside the tunnels, and across the parapets, poised and ready, waiting for the orc legions to emerge. The last orc invasion had taken place four centuries ago; only the most ancient dwarven priests had lived through it, while the vast majority of the warriors had not even been born back then. Even so, the dwarves possessed boundless confidence. They firmly believed that the Mountain Kingdom boasted the finest gear and the mightiest warriors in all of Feanso. "Those damned, Gruumsh-worshipping bastards... If not for them, I'd still be drinking and carousing at a feast right now." Cursing under his breath, General Toru climbed up the watchtower and gazed into the distance, only to be struck instantly sober by what met his eyes. "Great Moradin..." Countless frenzying orcs had blanketed the distant wilderness like a motley, roiling tide, interspersed with hill giants, ogres, goblins, and other foul creatures. Orc cavalry mounted on worgs galloped across the earth, while vultures and giant eagles wheeled overhead alongside fiendish mercenaries summoned from Hell. Witnessing the terrifying spectacle, his hands trembled so violently that he could not even keep a steady grip; the cask, which still held some liquor, tumbled from the wall and plunged down to smash to splinters on the stones below. Though Toru Aaron prided himself on being the Mountain Kingdom's foremost champion, he had never imagined the orc legions would arrive in such overwhelming, thunderous numbers. Compared to orcs, dwarves enjoyed an absolute advantage in individual physical strength. While they were shorter than average humans, their dense muscle and barrel-chested builds made them far heavier than ordinary folk. Dwarves were born warriors, possessing formidable combat skills and indomitable will, able to endure punishing physical and magical blows while smashing their foes flat with handcrafted warhammers—and the shield dwarves of the Mountain Kingdom were the absolute cream of the crop. Yet they suffered from a fatal flaw: their small numbers and low birth rate. Even as the most populous dwarven realm on the continent of Feanso, the Mountain Kingdom had fewer than a hundred thousand citizens, and most were scattered across the mountains. In Evindeldan, the kingdom's capital, there were barely over twenty thousand dwarves. Once the elderly, the frail, and the sick were excluded, the warriors capable of fighting off the orcs numbered no more than twelve thousand. Out on the barren Ugo Steppe, by contrast, the orcs reproduced with reckless abandon, tearing up the very turf in their desperate hunt for food. For centuries, dozens of orc tribes had warred and slaughtered one another according to their bloody customs, battling to produce champions who could win Gruumsh's favor. Now, the mighty orc chieftain Batu Skullsplitter, leading the Red Fang Tribe, had successively conquered twenty-three major clans and a hundred and fourteen lesser ones. Uniting more than a million orcs from the Ugo Steppe, he had marshaled their full strength and marched south once more in obedience to the decree of their Great All-Father, Gruumsh. Bolstered by hellish mercenaries and enslaved races such as goblins, ogres, and hill giants, the orc army outnumbered the dwarves defending Evindeldan by dozens of times over. It was a horrifying figure! Most dwarven warriors had never seen so many orcs in their entire lives. Amidst the rushing horde, a massive wasteland landwyrm let out a deep snort. Its humped back was overgrown with yellow-green weeds, resembling a grassy knoll from the steppe. Perched atop its spine, lashed tight to the beast, stood a throne built of stark white bones, and seated upon it was an extraordinarily tall, muscular orc. He wore pauldrons fashioned from dragon scales and horns, and his bare torso was carved with crimson runes. His visage was hideously savage, dominated by protruding, dark-yellow tusks and a single eye burning with murderous intent—his other socket was concealed beneath a leather patch, though ugly scars remained plainly visible around it. It was said that during a battle against a Titan godblood, this chieftain had ignored a sword thrust straight at his face to cleave his foe's skull with a battleaxe, earning himself the title of "Skullsplitter." In doing so, Batu Skullsplitter had permanently lost his left eye—just like their All-Father, Gruumsh One-Eye. Following that clash, the orcs venerated Batu even more fervently, regarding him as an emissary sent by the All-Father to lead their kind in conquering the world. Gazing at the mighty fortress gradually emerging in the distance, Batu Skullsplitter rose slowly from his throne of bone. He hefted the bloodstained greataxe at his feet, his lips parting in a frenzied grin. "Hahahaha! Finally! Evindeldan will soon belong to the orcs!" Beside him, a stooped, wizened orc shaman trembled with excitement, his voice a hoarse whisper: "Magnificent... magnificent! The All-Father is watching over us! The millennium-old dream of the orcs is at hand... "I hear the All-Father's joy! He has recognized you! "Lord Batu, you are the chosen champion of the All-Father! You will lead our people to conquer this continent and show the world the might of Gruumsh!" The old shaman stepped forward, produced a handful of blood-red powder, and smeared it across the chieftain's forehead, tracing the mark of a single eye between his brows. —The holy symbol of Gruumsh, the Unsleeping Eye. The moment the eye was drawn, Batu Skullsplitter felt a surge of wild fury flood his limbs, setting the blood in his veins ablaze. "Aaargh!" The lust for slaughter, the ambition to conquer, and the flames of vengeance instantly consumed his heart. The orc chieftain raised his greataxe high, its crimson gleam threatening to split the very sky. "The All-Father has manifested!" "Praise the Great One-Eyed God! Praise Gruumsh!" The orcs looked up at the bloody radiance in the heavens, their turbid eyes gleaming with fanatical devotion. At last, their eyes settled upon Batu Skullsplitter. The chieftain panted heavily as he adjusted to the surge of power. Soon, every rune across his skin glowed with a bloody aura. His remaining bloodshot eye burned with battle lust and madness, radiating a terrifying pressure that whipped into a howling gale. Batu stood tall, gazing down upon the tens of thousands of orcs below, and raised his greataxe with one arm. "Warriors, rejoice! I have received the word of the Great All-Father! "'If you wish to perish, then show weakness! Those too feeble to fight for the tribe deserve to be impaled upon spears! "'The greatest gift Gruumsh the Watcher, the One-Eyed God, has bestowed upon the orcs is the power to thrive where lesser races wither and die! "'Build your strength upon these lands, and use it to crush your enemies!'" Batu swung his greataxe again. Jagged red light tore through the heavy clouds, leaving a scarlet scar across the heavens, and his voice rose to a fever pitch, booming like a primal war chant. "'Seek out every chance to wage endless war upon your foes! Slay or enslave any who dare stand against you! "'Seize their territory! Seize your living space! Annihilate the elves, tear down their homes, and ravage their lands! Shatter the dwarves, and claim their caverns and fortresses as your own!'" Finally, the orc chieftain exhaled a foul gust of white vapor, thrust his axe toward the sky, and roared with all his might: "Destroy the Mountain Kingdom! Conquer Evindeldan!" "Destroy the Mountain Kingdom! Conquer Evindeldan!" Across the hills and plains, the multitude of orcs roared in unison. Their war cry shook the earth and sent tremors through the sky, far more ferocious than that of the dwarves. "Charge!" "Crush them!" The dwarven soldiers holding the outermost wall and the rocky crags scrambled to return fire, loosing a relentless volley of arrows. "Quick, hold them off!" "There are too many! There are just too many of them!" "By Moradin, these ugly bastards are like rabbits on the steppe—you can't count them all!" *Whir—whir-whir—* Sharp bolts and arrows streaked through the air, piercing clean through orcs and pinning them to the earth, yet the horde behind surged forward without hesitation, trampling the corpses of their kin. The dwarves defending the outer line numbered only three to five hundred, while the orcs massing before the wall were tens of thousands strong. The dwarven missiles were like pebbles tossed into a churning river, swallowed without a sound and stirring barely a ripple. Orc chieftains had already begun directing hill giants and half-giant orcs to hoist massive tree trunks, ramming them brutally against the timber gate. "Heave!" *Boom—boom—* Dull thuds echoed one after another. Dwarves on the ramparts poured down arrows relentlessly, but to no avail. Brawny dwarven warriors emerged from the narrow side tunnels carrying casks, hurling barrels packed with strong spirits and gunpowder straight into the swarm. *Boom!* The casks shattered violently in massive detonations. The expanding inferno engulfed a dozen orcs in an instant, briefly stalling their advance. Yet almost immediately, the dwarven champion was struck by arrows from orc longbowmen. Before he could retaliate, a boulder hurled by a hill giant crushed him flat. Giant eagles and vultures circled overhead, swooping down at the shrill signals of orc beastmasters' bone whistles to peck out the eyes of the dwarven defenders. Several giant eagles even swarmed around a single dwarf, beating their wings to blind him, until the harassed warrior lost his footing and plunged from the wall. "Tear that dwarf apart!" "His skull is mine!" In an instant, dozens of orcs waiting hungrily below pounced on him, ripping the unfortunate dwarf to shreds. Blood and gore splattered as flesh was torn away; in their frantic squabbling, not even a single intact arm was left behind. Under the relentless assault of tens of thousands of orcs, the few hundred dwarven champions on the frontline suffered devastating casualties, and many were forced to retreat into the tunnels. From his perch atop the wasteland landwyrm, Batu Skullsplitter pointed his greataxe toward Evindeldan in the distance, his deep, grating voice carrying across the valley. "Batter down their walls! Break their spirit! "Hahahaha! They will learn only fear—fear of the orcs!" More hill giants and half-giant orcs took up the battering logs, charging to the base of the wall to strike the thick oak gate. With every muffled crash, cracks and fractures spiderwebbed across the timber, and the dwarves bracing behind it looked on with mounting dread. *Crack!* With a sharp snap, the heavy oak gate gave way under the relentless battering, splintering apart to reveal over a hundred armored dwarven warriors holding the line. "Hahaha! Charge!" "Shatter the dwarves! Offer their blood to the All-Father!" The hundred-odd armored dwarves swung their heavy warhammers, battering the vanguard into paste and cutting down hundreds of orcs in moments. Yet the horde surged forward in unending waves, instantly swallowing the small band of dwarves. "Children of Moradin, my brothers, never yield!" The dwarven warriors gave their final roar. One swung his warhammer with fury, crushing an orc's skull, only to be impaled by several spears at once and collapse to the ground. Frenzied battle cries echoed through the canyon as the orcs poured like a burst dam down the Mountain Kingdom's Path of Glory. Their objective lay ahead: the kingdom's capital, Evindeldan.