Snowflakes, swept up by the wind, struck the helmet with a fine, rustling sound.
Grondaz Redbeard crouched behind the embankment at the top of the canyon, his thick, stubby fingers tightly gripping the handle of the Warhammer at his waist, his knuckles white from the effort.
His distinctive fiery red beard was dusted with snow, looking like a clump of frozen red thatch, but the eyes embedded in his wrinkles shone like Mars in a furnace, fixed intently on the beastmen surging below the slope.
"Why the hell did these beasts have to come here..." he cursed under his breath, his spit instantly freezing into tiny ice pellets upon hitting the snow.
In truth, they didn't want to clash head-on with the beastmen at all—the caravan was just three *li* ahead in the woods, laden with iron ore and dwarven strong liquor transported from the Gezhik city-state.
If they hadn't spotted these wretches beforehand, it would be his caravan and his young Boyz currently trapped and beaten in the canyon.
He glanced sideways at the dwarves behind him: fifty-three sturdy men, each wearing gleaming iron armor, carrying a Warhammer on his back, and a musket slung across his shoulder.
These were all old companions who had traveled north and south with him, capable of hauling cargo over mountains in a blizzard, and capable of using muskets to beat the beastmen into a panicked retreat.
But there were too many beastmen opposite—about a hundred Ungor were stumbling around like headless flies, the iron armor of a dozen Gor beasts gleamed ominously in the snow, and there was that Great Horned beast, chewing on a human leg, standing a head taller than an ordinary man just by being there.
"Dad, should I take a few Boyz down there and stab them in the rear?" Kadrin Redbeard leaned over, his young face still showing lingering immaturity, his fiery red beard shorter than his father's but fluffier.
He was fiddling with a copper-studded Warhammer in his hand, the coming-of-age gift Grondaz had given him last year.
Grondaz glared at him: "What's the rush! Did you forget what I taught you? A hunter waits for the prey to step into the trap."
He motioned toward the bottom of the canyon, "You take twelve Boyz, circle around the side, and hide in the rock pile at the bottom of the gorge.
I'll lure these beasts up here later, and the moment their backs are exposed, you hit them hard!"
Kadrin grinned, showing two rows of white teeth: "Got it! I promise to skewer their arses!"
He called over twelve dwarves, crouched low, and slipped into the nearby bushes.
His thick, short legs moved quickly through the snow, and he vanished soon after, leaving only a trail of footprints quickly covered by the snow.
The beastmen below the slope were still stalling.
The Great Horned beast named Burlok seemed to sense something was wrong.
He pointed his iron axe at the embankment and roared a few times, and several Chaos Warhounds immediately darted down the slope, sniffing the snow and emitting low whines from their throats.
"Damn it, they have keen noses." Grondaz spat, pulled a horn from his chest, and blew it forcefully—"Ooooh—" The long blast echoed through the canyon, like an angry bull roaring.
"Fire!"
Following his command, the dwarves simultaneously raised their muskets, the dark muzzles aimed at the beastmen below the slope.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
A volley of gunfire erupted; white smoke billowed from the muzzles like mushrooms, making people cough.
Lead shot whistled into the herd.
The first few Ungor rushing forward instantly collapsed in the snow, their rags stained red with blood, twitching twice before going still.
One Chaos Warhounds was shot in the eye, yelped in pain, leaped up, and turned to bite the Ungor behind it, throwing the herd into further disarray.
"Hahaha! Well shot!" The dwarves laughed heartily, slapping their gun stocks, their Redbeards shaking with their laughter.
Grondaz didn't laugh; he stared down the slope—the beastmen were disorganized, but they weren't retreating.
The Great Horned beast, Burlok, roared, violently plunging the iron axe he held into the snow, kicking up a spray of snow mist.
"Kill! Drag the dwarves down and make them snacks!"
About a hundred Ungor charged up the embankment like madmen, wildly swinging the axes and wooden clubs in their hands.
A dozen Gor beasts also moved, their heavy iron armor crunching the snow.
Their horns were still stained with dried blood, and every step carried a foul, bloody stench.
"Hold steady! Don't let them reach us!" Grondaz roared.
The dwarves immediately formed two ranks, the front row crouching, the back row kneeling, raising their muskets once more.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
After another volley, a swath of Ungor fell below the slope, the bloody holes in the snow looking like blooming red plum flowers.
But this time, the beastmen didn't stop.
The Ungor behind them charged up, stepping over their comrades' corpses.
Some were already close to the top of the slope, their foul-smelling spittle nearly splashing onto the dwarves' helmets.
"Switch to Warhammers!" Grondaz violently drew the Warhammer from his waist; the patterns on the axe head gleamed coldly in the snow light.
"Let these beasts know that dwarves are not to be trifled with!"
The dwarves uniformly dropped their muskets and drew the Warhammers from their backs.
The clang of metal echoed everywhere, like the start of a battle song.
The first creature to scramble over the slope was a Gor beast.
It roared and swung its axe at the nearest dwarf.
The dwarf rolled aside, dodging the axe, and swung his own axe down onto the Gor beast's leg—*Clang!* The axe head bounced off the iron armor, leaving only a white scratch.
The Gor beast turned and swung another axe blow.
This time, the dwarf couldn't dodge; his iron armor was dented.
He grunted but desperately grabbed the Gor beast's axe handle, swinging the Warhammer in his other hand toward its neck.
"Pffft!" Blood sprayed onto the dwarf's face.
The Gor beast's head tilted to the side, and it crashed to the ground.
"Well done!" Grondaz shouted, immediately confronting Burlok, who was charging up.
The Great Horned beast's iron axe whistled as it struck.
Grondaz raised his axe to meet it—*Clang!* The two axes collided, sending Mars flying.
Grondaz was forced back two steps, his hand stinging, but Burlok merely shook slightly, clearly possessing far greater strength than him.
"Dwarf! Your bones must be brittle!" Burlok growled, saliva dripping from his mouth and mixing with blood onto the snow.
He swung his axe again; the blade, carrying a bloody stench, came straight for Grondaz's head.
Grondaz lunged sideways.
The axe struck where he had just been standing, splitting a deep trench in the snow.
He seized the chance to swing his axe at Burlok's knee—a weakness of the beastmen, unprotected by iron armor.
Burlok cried out in pain, dropping to one knee.
Just as Grondaz was about to follow up with another blow, an Ungor suddenly rushed in from the side, swinging a wooden club down onto his back.
Grondaz stumbled forward from the impact.
Burlok seized the moment and swung his axe in a sweep; the blade grazed his arm, splitting the iron armor and immediately drawing blood.
"Damn it!" Grondaz cursed in pain, but instead of retreating, he rushed forward two steps, bringing his Warhammer down on Burlok's neck.
Burlok was too slow to dodge; the axe blade bit into his flesh.
Although it didn't sever his neck, it caused profuse bleeding.
Just then, a deafening roar came from the bottom of the canyon: "Dwarves! Time to stab some arses!"
Burlok whipped his head around—only to see over a dozen dwarves charging out of the rock pile at the bottom of the gorge.
Kadrin ran at the front, hoisting his Warhammer.
They were like a pack of red-haired boars, rushing straight toward the backs of the beastmen.
The Ungor who were charging up the slope were caught completely off guard.
Some were struck in the small of the back by Warhammers, and others were knocked down the embankment, screams rising one after another.
A Gor beast had just turned around when Kadrin's axe struck him across the face, blinding one eye and sending him rolling in agony in the snow.
"Pincer attack! These beasts are finished!" The dwarves on the slope cheered, their morale greatly boosted.
They had been nearly suffocated by the pressure from the beastmen, but with the reinforcements, they immediately shifted from defense to offense.
Burlok looked at the dwarves attacking from both sides, then touched the wound on his neck, a flicker of fear in his eyes.
He roared in fury, forced Grondaz back with a swing of his axe, and turned to bolt out of the canyon.
Seeing this, the few remaining Gor beasts followed him out.
Without a leader, the Ungor became completely chaotic, some rushing up the slope, others running down, being cut down by the dwarves like chopping vegetables.
"Don't let that Great Horned beast escape!" Kadrin yelled, raising his warhammer and giving chase.
But Burlok ran extremely fast, and the snow made the terrain difficult; Kadrin was shaken off after only a few steps.
Grondaz stopped him: "Forget it, don't pursue a desperate foe."
He gasped for breath, the wound on his arm still bleeding.
"See how the Boyz are doing."
Kadrin stopped, looked back, and his eyes immediately reddened.
In the snow at the top of the slope and the bottom of the canyon lay over a dozen dwarves; some were motionless, others were still groaning.
The formation that had been neat moments ago was now scattered, their iron armor stained with blood and mud.
"Dad... we..."
"There's no war without loss." Grondaz patted his shoulder, his voice hoarse.
"Carry the living back to the caravan.
The dead... take them back to Gezhik and bury them in the ancestral burial grounds."
He looked toward the canyon entrance.
Burlok and the Gor beasts were long gone, leaving only a trail of bloody footprints in the snow.
"This debt, we will settle with them sooner or later."
The dwarves silently began cleaning the battlefield.
Some carried the wounded, others collected the iron armor and Warhammers of their fallen comrades, their movements heavy as if filled with lead.
The snow continued to fall, slowly covering the bloodstains and corpses on the ground, as if trying to completely erase the traces of the slaughter.
The dwarves in the Old World of Warhammer are a group of "Hard Bones" who live in the mountains.
They are exceptionally good fighters and masters of craftsmanship—whether it's forging iron and casting swords, or crafting runic magical items, they excel at it all.
These dwarves value two things above all: first is the face (honor) passed down by their ancestors.
If anyone dares to bully them or destroy their property, they hold a grudge until the end of time, meticulously recording it in the "Book of Grudges," and they will seek redress eventually.
Second is genuine skill, whether it's standing firm with axes against greenskins (orcs and hobgoblins) and Skaven on the battlefield, or building cannons in the workshop capable of demolishing city walls—they are uncompromising.
They were glorious in the past, with great castles dotting the mountains one after another.
Then misfortune piled up: they had a falling out and fought with the elves, followed by earthquakes in the mountains, and greenskins and Skaven took advantage of the chaos to seize territory, causing them to lose many ancestral homes.
But the dwarves did not collapse; they still guard their remaining fortresses, fighting relentlessly against anyone who provokes them.
Simply put, they are a tough group of mountain dwellers who are good fighters, skilled craftsmen, fiercely protective of their honor, and incredibly vengeful, having fought greenskins , Skaven, and Chaos all their lives.
Kurzadh, hiding in the distant bushes, watched everything clearly.
He rubbed the stubble on his chin and whispered to Wreelx beside him: "See that? dwarves aren't just good with muskets; their axes are Hard Bones too.
Don't mess with them if we run into them later."
Wreelx swallowed, watching the dwarves clear the battlefield, and suddenly felt that staying hidden had been the right decision.
He nodded, then peered into the canyon, a flicker of greed in his eyes: "Boss, they... they seem to have left those muskets behind..."
Kurzadh followed his gaze—on the slope, several muskets the dwarves had discarded were stuck in the snow, faint white smoke still rising from the barrels.
He grinned, showing two rows of yellow teeth: "Let's go! While the dwarves aren't looking, let's grab some 'spoils of war'!"
The greenskins crouched low, sneaking toward the canyon like foxes stealing chickens.
In the snow, the sighs of the dwarves, the groans of the wounded, and the stealthy footsteps of the greenskins mingled together, carried away by the howling cold wind.