In fact, long before Gitt Sourbelly's defeat at Fort Ducan, Skarsnik had already received numerous reports about Belagar's return. The Badlands were vast and treacherous, and the appearance of a powerful Dwarf-Human coalition army wasn't new anymore.
Even when the expeditionary army first reached Seagate, Skarsnik had already heard from the Skaven of Clan Mors that Belagar Ironhammer had returned, leading an unprecedentedly large army. To Skarsnik's surprise, the Skaven warlord Queek Headtaker had, for the first time, issued him a warning. Queek informed Skarsnik that Belagar's offensive would be fierce, and that the reinforcements he had summoned were formidable, including the legendary human hero, the Lake Witch's chosen one—yesyes—the King of the small kingdom of knights, Ryan Malcador.
The Grey Seers of Clan Mors had even received a vague prophecy from the Great Horned Rat, suggesting that an alliance between the Skaven and the Bad Moon Clan might be necessary to oppose Belagar and his army.
However, Skarsnik flatly refused. The Warlord of Eight Peaks had no intention of allying with the treacherous Skaven, knowing full well that Queek was eager to collect his head. Moreover, Skarsnik himself longed to claim both Belagar's and Queek's heads as trophies.
The hatred between the Three Kings of Eight Peaks—Belagar, Skarsnik, and Queek—had reached its peak. Each desired nothing more than the other two dead.
Feigning an alliance, Skarsnik lured the Skaven to a negotiation only to ambush and slaughter them, using their skulls to build a monument. This was his way of declaring his strength and making it clear he would never form an alliance.
But the cunning Warlord of Eight Peaks hadn't ignored the Skaven's warning. On the contrary, Skarsnik discerned from their concern that Belagar's return was indeed a serious threat.
"Strategically underestimate the enemy, tactically respect the enemy"—this had always been Skarsnik's guiding principle. Over the centuries, he had used his guile and ruthlessness to defeat countless foes, becoming the only goblin warlord capable of perfectly suppressing and commanding Orcs, even the mighty Black Orcs.
Before Gitt Sourbelly arrived at Eight Peaks, Skarsnik had already devised a plan to deal with the expeditionary army. Any greenskin warlords who foolishly suggested meeting the enemy head-on were promptly fed to his beloved squig, Gobbla. Instead, Skarsnik had a clear strategy in mind.
"Useless, utterly useless," Skarsnik sneered as he beckoned Gitt Sourbelly closer. "But at least you managed to escape. For the glory of the Bad Moon, I'll give you one last chance. Now, who's the boss here?"
"You, boss! You're the biggest boss here!" Gitt stammered, rushing forward.
"Get lost!" Skarsnik kicked him away. "Don't get too close to your boss, the most valuable of all! Now, take the wolf riders and listen up. Here's how you deal with the bearded scum and tin-can humies. I'll only say this once!"
"Yes, boss! No problem, boss!" Gitt stood up straight, puffing out his chest.
"Listen carefully: 'If the enemy advances, we retreat; if they retreat, we pursue; if they camp, we harass; if they tire, we Waaagh!'" Skarsnik shrieked in his high-pitched voice. "Now get out of here!"
"Yes, boss!" Gitt scrambled out.
Skarsnik nodded slowly as he gazed around the empty, dilapidated dwarf ancestral hall, grinning.
He loved to smile because only through his smile could he hide all his schemes, conceal all his plans, and keep his subordinates guessing about his next move. None of the greenskins ever knew whether Skarsnik would promote them to leader in the next moment or feed them to Gobbla.
This would be a long war, Skarsnik mused.
From the perspective of the expeditionary army, Belagar and Ryan's coalition was undoubtedly powerful, difficult to defeat in a direct confrontation. The fall of numerous greenskin fortresses along the Blackwater Bay and the loss of Fort Ducan made it clear the enemy had come well-prepared. Rushing out to engage the army in open battle would be a foolish mistake. Skarsnik had never considered guerrilla warfare unworthy of a Waaagh. In fact, if he could claim Belagar's head, that would truly be a Waaagh.
Watching Orcs fight was entertaining, but for a real Waaagh, it had to be Skarsnik, Warlord of Eight Peaks!
On the other hand, while the expeditionary army was strong, the Badlands were greenskin territory. Humans and dwarves couldn't easily secure supplies here, and humans, in particular, struggled to adapt to the harsh environment. They had to rely on supplies from the Empire, or even farther, and if the war dragged on, the expeditionary force might not be able to hold out.
Skarsnik knew his Moon Clan wouldn't lose. But could he achieve a swift victory and wipe out the bearded scum and tin-can humies in a single battle? Unlikely.
He needed to drag the war out, turn it into a protracted campaign, and wait for the right moment to strike.
As for scorched earth tactics, Skarsnik wasn't planning to abandon all the greenskin fortresses. He only had direct control over the Moon Clan of Eight Peaks, and he couldn't command the other clans.
His plan was to concentrate the Moon Clan's forces, fortify Eight Peaks and another key stronghold, Valaya's Sorrow. He would gather his strength, avoiding open-field battles and opportunities for the expeditionary army to pick them off one by one. When the time came, he would hole up in the Eight Peaks fortress and dare them to lay siege. Let's see who could outlast whom!
Belagar! You and I—one of us has to die!
…[I'm Waaagh! End of section]...
While Skarsnik was plotting his grand strategy for the coming war, February in the Old World, at Fort Ducan, was bustling with activity.
The expeditionary army was now partly stationed at Seagate, with the bulk of their forces at Fort Ducan. After a month of fortifications, the fort had been transformed into a solid military stronghold. Its six-meter-high walls were equipped with cannons and firing slits, and the twenty-kilometer-long fortress wall, originally built on a greenskin stronghold, had been upgraded. Dwarven engineers had diverted the waters of the Blackwater River to create a moat, complete with traps, and the fort was equipped with dwarven war machines. Serf archers, dwarf crossbowmen, and handgunners patrolled the walls.
Inside Fort Ducan, a strange kind of prosperity had emerged. With over 40,000 troops stationed there, merchants flocked to the area like sharks smelling blood. They knew the expeditionary army was rich, flush with spoils of war. Even though Olivier's and Hadrian's trading companies were monopolizing much of the loot, there were still plenty of scraps for smaller traders to profit from.
Along with the merchants came all manner of goods. Soldiers had money, nobles had money, everyone had money, and they needed to spend it. Merchants seized the opportunity, organizing caravans to transport goods to Seagate and Fort Ducan for trade. Even women were arriving, hoping to make a name for themselves among the soldiers.
Although Ryan strictly enforced military discipline, he allowed knights and soldiers some leisure time when not on duty. Most of the knights chose to stay at Fort Ducan, as Ryan, setting an example as king, remained there himself.
In the camp of the Waywatchers known as the "Green Wind," the Wood Elf scouts were stationed, though they found the Badlands a challenging environment. They could hardly feel the energy of the forests here, and as a low-desire society, the Wood Elves were uninterested in loot or spoils. For them, killing greenskins was the only real reward.
Deep in the camp, a half-elf was busy maintaining his weapons, oiling his short sword. He had lived this way for years, and although his appearance hadn't changed much, his movements had become much more skilled over time.
If anyone still remembered, this half-elf was Estelle, who had once adventured with Ryan in Nord. Years had passed, and Estelle still served under Ryan. He had accumulated some wealth, and after receiving a noble title and a piece of land from Ryan, he quickly married a freeman's daughter, settling down. But the good times didn't last long; his wife died in childbirth, leaving him with a daughter. The tragedy struck Estelle hard, making him even more withdrawn and silent.
A few years after his first wife's death, Estelle remarried another freeman's daughter. This marriage hadn't yet produced any children, but it wasn't unusual for half-elves to have 3-5 marriages in their lifetime.
"Estelle? You're here?" A voice called from a distance. Estelle recognized the footsteps—human, not elven. Although his pride as a half-elf made him reluctant to acknowledge the speaker, it was an old acquaintance. "Lops? It's you, long time no see."
"Yeah, long time. You look just as young as you did during our adventures in Nord," said the middle-aged man
in his forties. He was Lops, the son of a Nord lord who had followed Ryan to Brittany and been rewarded for his contributions in the Mousillon campaign with the title of Baron of Waz, responsible for guarding the coastline.
The man wielded a long halberd, a weapon that had been reforged by dwarves many times over the decades. Seeing Estelle, Lops smiled wistfully. "How are you, old friend?"
"Doing alright," Estelle gestured for Lops to sit down. The Waywatchers' camp was small, with a simple campfire outside where a pot of soup was simmering, filled with herbs and meat. "What brings you to see me?"
"Why, can't I come for a chat?" Lops sat down naturally, grabbing a stick to poke the fire. "Everyone's busy, and I've got nothing to do."
Estelle sighed. He knew why.
Lops had been with Ryan since the early days in Nord, an old comrade. But the Nord had reached his limits. After ten years, Lops remained at the peak of the elite rank, unable to break through to the Legendary rank. His leadership and administrative abilities weren't terrible, but they were mediocre at best. Over time, he had been sidelined from the core decision-making group. Though still respected, his opinions were no longer seriously considered.
But wasn't Estelle in the same boat? He, too, had served Ryan for over a decade, but his status as a half-elf had always limited his advancement. Ryan had appointed him leader of the "Green Wind" mostly due to his unique background. Without any extraordinary accomplishments, Estelle's future would likely remain the same for decades.
"Want some? It might not be to your taste," Estelle offered Lops a bowl of stew.
"Ten years have passed, and you still look young, but I've grown old," Lops said, taking the ceramic bowl. The dish, made by the Wood Elves, seemed to have a special magic to it. As Lops looked into the bowl, he saw his reflection—a middle-aged man with crow's feet and sagging cheeks, a far cry from the young halberdier he once was.
"If you're feeling old, you should stay in your lands, Baron Lops. There's no need to insist on joining this expedition," Estelle scoffed, his tone both arrogant and mocking. "Courage doesn't mean rushing to your death."
"No, a true warrior's fate is never to die a coward's death in bed!" Lops retorted, indignant. "Ulric guides me. A true warrior's best end is to die on the battlefield, fighting for humanity's future, for honor and faith."
"Honor and faith won't give you a better life or a higher status, Baron," Estelle sneered. "The times have changed, old man. You should live for yourself."
"I've lived enough," Lops said, setting his bowl down. The baron looked at the half-elf with disdain. "I went from being the son of a Nord lord to a landed baron. I've brought honor to my family, married, and had children. What more should I ask for?"
"Yes, yes, you're so satisfied that you want to die!" Estelle thought, realizing it was pointless to argue with this stubborn human.
"Each generation does what it must," Lops said, shaking his head. "While I can still hold my halberd, I must leave something behind in this world. Otherwise, I'll be forgotten. Death doesn't scare me. Ulric will guide my soul to the realm of the Wolf God. Estelle, if you only think of yourself, you wouldn't have come to the Badlands. I'm sure you had plenty of excuses not to join the expedition, right?"
"Enough! Forgotten? You have a family, a coat of arms, a title. How could you be forgotten?" Estelle shouted, throwing his bowl to the ground, spilling stew everywhere. The half-elf stood up, clearly agitated. "What do you know? Do you understand what it means to be a half-elf? To humans, I'm an elf. To elves, I'm a human! Neither side sees me as one of their own; they both think I'm biased toward the other!"
Estelle's anger flared up quickly but faded just as fast. He glanced at the broken bowl, took a deep breath, and sat back down. "Sorry, this isn't your problem."
"So, we understand each other?" Lops smirked.
"I suppose," Estelle nodded.
"Looks like lunch is over," Lops said, picking up the broken pieces of the bowl. "Let's make a deal. When this expedition is over and we return to Brittany, let's have a proper meal together."
"Deal," Estelle agreed.
_________________________
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