Slaughter in the Canyon

As the only passage to Evindeldan, the Path of Glory was exceptionally narrow, permitting only five or six orcs to march abreast. No guardrails lined the edges of the road, while the sheer cliff faces alongside it were riddled with tunnels excavated by the dwarves and bristled with an array of meticulously prepared traps. A single misstep would send an orc plunging into the bottomless abyss beneath the gaze of towering dwarven statues. It was said that below the Path of Glory lay the "River of Bones," a chasm accumulated with hundreds of thousands of skeletal remains. The orcs panted heavily, their eyes bloodshot, howling chaotic, frenzied battle cries. "Hahaha! Evindeldan is right ahead!" "Once we conquer this place, I'll smash these dwarven idols to pieces!" "Just as the great All-Father Gruumsh said—the weak and those who fear death should be impaled on spears!" Evidently blinded by the lust for war, they knew no fear of death. Wielding bone spears and scimitars, wave upon wave of orcs charged into the treacherous death trap crafted by dwarven engineers. "Here they come!" "Slaughter these orc bastards! Water the Path of Glory with their blood!" Accompanying the enraged roars, dwarven fighters emerged from the tunnel openings along the cliff walls. Some drew recurve bows while others cocked hand crossbows, raining burning arrows and bolts down upon the orcs below. *Whoosh—* *Whoosh, whoosh—* Sharp, air-piercing whistles rang out as dense volleys of fire arrows crisscrossed between the cliffs, like a tight net woven of living flame. Orcs struck by the arrows shrieked in agony as fire engulfed their bodies. Thrashing and rolling on the ground, they quickly tumbled off the stone ledge. Their wails echoed for a long while before dull thuds resounded from below; fresh corpses had joined the River of Bones. An orc officer was struck in the shoulder by an arrow. Fueled by the dwarves' potent secret gunpowder, flames flared from the wound, exuding the scorched scent of charred meat. An orc attendant beside him gasped and rushed forward. "Lord Monk!" "Ignore me! It's just a dwarven parlor trick. Keep charging!" The orc named Monk ripped the arrow from his shoulder and snuffed out the flames with his bare palm. "These weaklings, though..." Monk glared with blood-red fury toward the dwarves concealed in the tunnels—he, too, possessed only one eye! Veins bulged along the orc's massive arm. With a burst of fury, he hurled his double-headed battleaxe. Driven by tremendous force, the spinning axe blade shredded the air. Caught off guard, the dwarven fighter let out a cry before he could dodge. His breastplate shattered instantly, and his stout, muscular body was violently embedded into the cliff wall, dead on impact. "How dare you provoke me, insulting a fearless warrior of Gruumsh!" Monk roared. Incredible power exploded from his burly frame as he leaped across the gorge, hurtling toward a tunnel entrance dozens of meters away on the cliff face. Looking up at the airborne orc hurtling toward them, the dwarves inside the tunnel panicked slightly, yet held no fear. "He's coming across!" "Hold the line! Shove this bastard of Gruumsh into the abyss!" "Send him down to the River of Bones, just like the rest of the orc scum!" Dropping their bows and crossbows, the dwarves raised their round shields and braced forward, aiming to knock the orc commander out of the air. *Boom!* Monk crashed down like a falling boulder. The immense kinetic impact splintered the oak shield instantly, crushing the dwarf beneath him into unconsciousness. "Weaklings! I will crush you all! Orcs shall be the masters of Evindeldan!" Monk brought his fist down with crushing force, bursting the dwarf's head like a shattered watermelon, splattering red and white across the stone floor. "By Moradin!" "Bess is dead just like that?! What kind of monster is this thing?!" Witnessing their comrade's gruesome end, the surrounding dwarves finally felt a flicker of dread and fell back warily behind their shields. "Fear! Tremble! Cower! This is the power bestowed upon us by the All-Father!" Sneering viciously, Monk lunged forward, seized a dwarf by the hair, hoisted him into the air, and hurled him over the edge into the bottomless abyss. "In Moradin's name, avenge our kin!" "Brothers, attack together! Send this damned orc bastard to his Gruumsh!" Hearing their comrade's dying shriek, the dwarven fighters snapped. Brandishing warhammers, they surged forward from all sides to pound him into paste. Yet the hulking, muscular orc was far from clumsy. Leaping high, he ripped the double-headed battleaxe free from the stone wall, casually flinging off the dwarf corpse skewered upon it. The blood-drenched axe cleaved through the air in wide arcs. Severed flesh and splintered armor flew everywhere amid the screams of dying dwarves. "Orc scum, die with my brother!" A dwarven fighter snatched a spear from the ground and charged blindly from behind, abandoning all defense. Without even turning his head, Monk swung his battleaxe backward with a flick of his wrist. The blade caught the dwarf dead in the face, cleaving his thick skull in two. Soon, the only figure left standing on the cliff ledge was the towering orc commander, over two meters tall. Dwarven corpses, oozing fresh blood, carpeted the stone beneath his feet. Lifting his double-headed axe, Monk stood amidst the pool of gore, licked the warm blood from his face, and raised his weapon to roar: "Those who fear death shall burn in eternal flames! Those who die valiantly shall attain immortality in the realm of the All-Father, Gruumsh!" Monk Limb-Cleaver was a champion of the Red Fang Tribe renowned for hacking off his enemies' limbs. He was the younger brother of Chieftain Batu and an exceptionally powerful Eye of Gruumsh. An Eye of Gruumsh was a fanatical follower of the orc god, an honor reserved only for the strongest warriors. Every prospective Eye of Gruumsh had to endure a bloody and agonizing rite—gouging out their own right eye with their bare hands. If a candidate made a sound during the ordeal, he would lose Gruumsh's favor and become nothing more than a cripple. If he endured it in absolute silence, his lost sight would balance with that of his god, granting him the most savage, sinister power and allowing him to see what ordinary eyes could not. Monk was such a warrior, and for that, he commanded the veneration of the entire clan. Just moments ago, this blessed orc champion could easily have evaded the incoming arrow, yet he had chosen not to. He had not tasted pain in far too long, and the sensation intoxicated him. Brandishing his orc battleaxe, Monk leaped forward once more, bellowing at the top of his lungs: "For the great All-Father Gruumsh! For the glory of the orcs! Crush these dwarves!" Rallied by Monk, the orcs attacked with redoubled fury, pouring into the Path of Glory without regard for casualties or consequences. "For Gruumsh!" "The world is ours to conquer!" The dwarves unleashed endless volleys of fire arrows and rolled down explosive kegs, blowing hundreds of orcs apart or hurling them over the edge in an instant. Yet the crazed orcs paid no heed. Screaming, they surged forward, throwing away their worthless lives like weeds to advance the legion's front lines. The giant eagles and vultures kept by the orcs struck again, disrupting the dwarves along the cliff faces and casting many into the abyss. Meanwhile, the ranks behind adapted their tactics. Hill giants and half-giants hauled massive shields on both flanks of the column, deflecting the rain of arrows pouring from the cliff tunnels. Under the cover of the great shields, orc infantry advanced swiftly, reaching the end of the Path of Glory and drawing near the "Orc's Tombstone." Upon the towering wall stood ranks of heavily armored dwarven infantry clad in steel plates, bearing polehammers and tower shields. Like a low wall of steel, they stood unyielding before the orcs. Undaunted and resolute, they barred the orc legion's path, led by none other than the dwarven commander who had just guzzled strong liquor—Toru Aaron. Unlike typical dwarven fighters, though he stood less than one and a half meters tall, the polehammer in his grip measured an astonishing five meters in length. "Kinfolk! For three thousand years, Evindeldan has never fallen—even when we fought alone!" "In Moradin's name... hold these orc bastards at the Orc's Tombstone! Send them to meet Gruumsh!" "Send them to Gruumsh! Die, orc scum!" The dwarven heavy infantry roared in unison. Moving like an iron fortress, they braced forward, colliding head-on with the tide of orcs. The orcs scrambled up siege ladders brought forward by the hill giants and half-giants, scrambling to scale the wall. Though short, the dwarves were exceptionally stocky, their strength far exceeding that of ordinary orcs. In the first clash alone, dozens of orcs were smashed off the battlements by the crushing polehammers. Flushed with drink, Toru hoisted his polehammer high and leaped. Whirling the massive maul through the air in a sweeping arc, he brought it down with earth-shattering force. *Crack!* A sickening crunch rang out as a half-giant's head was smashed to pulp. The hulking brute, several times taller than the dwarf, collapsed with a thunderous crash, crushing a swarm of orcs beneath him at the base of the wall. "Disgusting bastards, go to hell!" Toru laughed boisterously, sweeping his polehammer—dripping with gore and brain matter—in a wide stroke into the dozen or so orcs swarming forward. Under the terrifying momentum of the polehammer, the orcs' bodies warped and flew backward, scattering bloody bits—teeth, eyeballs, and ears—across the stone. Under the steadfast resistance of the dwarven heavy infantry, the surging orc tide was halted in its tracks. Hundreds of orcs were hammered into paste. A rare wave of panic even rippled through their ranks as they instinctively tried to pull back, only to collide and shove against the press of reinforcements surging from behind. In the end, dozens of orcs fell shrieking into the bottomless abyss, adding fresh corpses to the River of Bones. "Children, do not fear death! It is the glory of an orc warrior! Die in battle here, and you will achieve eternal life in the realm of the All-Father! Die a coward, and you will be slaughtered like livestock for the feast!" An orc shaman circled overhead atop a giant eagle. Raising a staff crowned with an orc skull, he chanted an ancient verse: "Blood is our wine, skulls are our cups, screams are our song, fear is our meat... When the enemy's bones pave the earth and the orc empire spans the world, the great All-Father Gruumsh will descend upon our realm—" Orcish society was built upon the ideals of strength, survival, fear, and war—principles rooted in the worship of Gruumsh and beaten into young orcs through brutal experience. Shamans passed down orcish legends from generation to generation, spreading faith through terror, zeal, and iron-fisted tyranny until every orc believed without question. Dwarves on the wall shot arrows skyward, trying to bring down the circling giant eagle, but an invisible barrier shielded its underbelly. Concluding his chant, the orc shaman muttered incantations as a crimson glow flared from the hollow eye sockets of the skull atop his staff. A scarlet, single eye manifested high in the heavens, glaring down upon the slaughter below. At once, a thin red mist swept across the canyon. Inhaling the blood-scented vapor, the orcs turned even more berserk. Stripped of all reason, they could no longer form coherent, logical sentences. "Awooo!" "Kill! Kill all the dwarves!" The orcs launched a frenzied assault. Forgetting death entirely, their only instinct was to slaughter the dwarves. Time slipped away amid the madness of battle. Orc corpses piled up beneath the wall, gradually forming a mound, and those behind climbed over the heap of dead without hesitation to breach the battlements. "Huff... huff... Damn bastards, there are too many of them! Do they have nothing in their heads besides war and breeding?!" Panting, Toru exhaled a hot breath reeking of liquor and swung his hammer once more, sending an orc attempting to scale the wall flying. Enemies' blood and his own sweat drenched the dwarf's skin. He had lost track of how many times he had swung his polehammer and how many orcs he had flattened. Perhaps three hundred, perhaps five hundred; he had lost count past a hundred. Yet the orcs were far too numerous, vastly exceeding his expectations, and the dwarven fighters on the left flank of the wall were already faltering against the overwhelming onslaught. Just then, Toru heard a deep, manic voice easily cutting through the battlefield's clamor and screams, striking a chill deep into his heart. "Dwarf, your skull... would make a fine offering to the All-Father!" He whipped his head around. On the left side of the wall stood a burly orc with a double-headed axe resting on his shoulder, smiling at him as though appraising prey. More terrifying still, the orc was casually tossing and catching a wide-eyed dwarven head in one hand, chuckling, "I hope... you won't be as boring as these weaklings." It was Monk Limb-Cleaver, the mighty and mad Eye of Gruumsh! At the orc commander's feet lay a mound of dwarven corpses—Toru's elite soldiers, his beloved kin. And the wide-eyed, lifeless head the orc toyed with belonged to Toru's closest comrade-in-arms, Glandor! Toru Aaron felt as if he had been plunged into icy water, the flush on his face turning grimly cold. "Heh, was he important to you? Good. That'll make you much more entertaining." Monk curled his lips into a sinister grin. Veins bulged along the back of his hand as his fingers clenched hard. *Pop!* Another head burst like a watermelon, splattering bone shards, minced flesh, and brain matter everywhere. Instant fury flushed Toru Aaron's eyes red. His hands trembled on the polehammer, and he ground his teeth nearly to dust. "Orc bastard... you're asking to die!" Enraged, the dwarven commander raised his polehammer high and brought it crashing down. Monk met the blow with interest, raising his double-headed axe horizontally to parry. *Clang—!* Metal collided with metal in a deafening shriek, blasting out a shockwave that sent tremors through the surrounding dwarves and orcs alike.