The night had not yet faded; only a pale fish-belly glimmer showed in the eastern sky, sketching the outline of Blackrock Canyon.
Thick black shadows still cloaked the cliffs on both sides. Wind keened through crevices, mingling with the distant, lingering sounds of slaughter from Ravenholt, filling the quiet canyon with a suffocating killing intent.
Scarface crouched halfway up the western cliff, body pressed to the cold rock, knuckles white around his curved sabre.
The hobgoblins and skaven beside him held their breath, eyes fixed on the canyon mouth; bows and spears were ready, every breath kept feather-light.
They waited for the army led by Prince Barton—Alric—to walk into this carefully laid death-trap.
Then, from far away, came a heavy, measured tread, like distant thunder rolling down the canyon. Step by step it grew louder; the ground trembled.
Next, crisp hoof-beats joined the beat, weaving into an oppressive battle-song that marched on Blackrock Canyon.
"They're here—the humans!" a skaven scout hissed, eyes wide with tension.
Scarface drew a slow breath, tightened his grip, and eased forward to look.
One glance and his pupils shrank; his heart lurched. "Damn—so many?!"
At the canyon mouth a colossal, perfectly ordered host was entering.
Leading them came three thousand heavy cavalry. Each rider wore thick silver-white plate etched with lifelike lions; snow-white horsehair plumes crowned their helms. In the wan dawn they looked like lion-gods descended to earth.
They were the core elite of Prince Barton's fiefdom—the Heavy Lion Knights.
Even more awesome, their white mounts wore bespoke barding, likewise engraved with lions, sheathing every part save legs and heads. They moved with calm, crushing power, not a hoof out of step.
Three thousand Heavy Lion Knights advanced in a flawless square; their silver armour flowed like a river of starlight, radiating invincible majesty.
Behind them marched five thousand Heavy Lion Warriors.
They wore black-iron plate studded with golden lion badges, hefted man-high Lion Shields and keen longswords, every stride precise and thunderous.
Their blade-sharp eyes were cold and calm—veterans of a hundred battles.
After them came ten thousand guards of Prince Barton's fiefdom.
In thick leather and padded coats, they carried spears and bows, ranks as neat as ruled lines.
Though not elite like the knights, they showed clear discipline—utterly unlike the rabble Harry had led.
Eighteen thousand strong, the host advanced like an unstoppable tide of steel, breath-stopping and flawless.
Sunlight climbed, gilding the armour with dazzling reflections, turning the canyon into a corridor of light and revealing every ounce of the army's might.
"So this is Prince Barton's real capital…" a hobgoblin chief muttered, voice shaking. "Boss wants us to ambush this? Too risky?"
Scarface shot him a glare and snarled, "Scared? greenskins don't know fear! Stick to the plan—even if they outnumber us, they'll fall!" Yet inwardly he wavered.
He hadn't expected Alric to bring so many elite, so perfectly arrayed—far beyond Harry or Gwynn's forces.
He forced himself calm, scanning the formation: "Heavy Lion Knights up front—toughest defence, still mobile; Heavy Lion Warriors in the centre—main assault; guards at the rear, Archers for support.
To succeed we must break their order first, then focus fire on their weak points…"
As Scarface watched, waiting for the whole column to enter before giving the signal, a sudden change!
The advancing host halted as one.
Three thousand Heavy Lion Knights yanked their reins; white chargers neighed in perfect chorus, fore-hoofs rising without a flicker of disorder.
Five thousand Heavy Lion Warriors snapped their Lion Shields up, locking into an unbroken wall.
Among the ten thousand guards, two thousand Archers stepped forward, bows drawn to the ear, steel heads aimed straight at the cliffs.
"Found us?!" Scarface's heart lurched; cold sweat ran down his brow.
He'd hidden the hobgoblins and skaven so carefully—how had they been spotted so fast?
"Damn, these humans are good!" he cursed under his breath, eyes hardening.
To sense danger while marching, to form defence in an instant—their vigilance and training far exceeded his estimates.
Below, a tall man in gold plate and a lion-crested crown rode forward.
Broad-shouldered, iron-faced, hawk-eyed—Prince Alric of Barton had arrived.
Alric swept his gaze across the cliffs on either side of the canyon, the corner of his mouth curling into a cold smile as he shouted, "Green-skinned bastards hiding up there, stop cowering! This king spotted your little tricks long ago! Since you dared to set an ambush here, get out here and die!"
His voice was powerful and carried far, echoing through the canyon and making hearts tremble.
It turned out Alric had sensed something amiss while leading his army here.
Though the sounds of slaughter from the direction of Ravenholt were fierce, there were still no signs of large-scale greenskin reinforcements. He knew how cunning Kurzadh was and that there had to be a follow-up, so he ordered the vanguard guards to stay alert and scout the moment they hit treacherous terrain.
And Blackrock Canyon, with its perilous terrain, was a perfect spot for an ambush, so the guards paid extra attention.
A seasoned Guards captain noticed several rocks on the canyon cliffs that looked out of place, as if moved deliberately, and immediately reported it to Alric.
Alric ordered the army to halt, the Archers to ready their shots at the cliffs on both sides, and sure enough they sensed greenskins hidden in the shadows.
"Loose! Shoot those green-skinned bastards off the cliffs for this king!" Alric barked coldly.
Twang-tw-tw-twang—! Two thousand Archers released their bowstrings as one, and countless arrows rained like black sleet toward the canyon walls.
The shafts tore through the air, struck Kurzadh with dull thuds, and sent chips and dust flying.
hobgoblins and skaven on the cliffs panicked; several slower hobgoblins were skewered, screaming as they tumbled to the canyon floor and died on impact.
"Damn it! Fight 'em!" Scarface's eyes flashed viciously; since they were spotted, hiding would only get them killed under the human arrow storm.
He sprang up and roared at the hobgoblins on the cliff, "All o' ya, show yer faces! Grab yer gear and give these human scum a taste—WAAAGH!"
At Scarface's howl the hobgoblins lurking in the cliff shadows threw off concealment, leaping up with crudely built yet deadly weapons in hand.
They were hobgoblin Firearms muskets, custom-modified by hobgoblin Technicians.
The guns looked like oversized arquebuses with thick, long iron barrels etched with irregular patterns and studded with chunks of rough warpstone. Stout timber stock and hide-wrapped grips gave them a crude, wild, unmistakably greenskin brutality.
Rough as they were, the pieces packed ferocious power, long range and heavy punch, one of the Blackrock Tribe's secret weapons against human heavy infantry.
"Level! Aim! Fire!" Scarface bellowed, eyes bloodthirsty.
Boom-boom-boom!!!
A rolling volley thundered along the canyon rims, black-powder smoke billowing as scorching lead balls shot like meteors toward the humans below.
The bullets shrieked, struck armor with sharp clangs.
Some slugs ricocheted off the plate of Heavy Lion Knights and Lion guards, clattering to the ground.
Yet more bullets found gaps in the plates or struck unarmored guards, punching through flesh in gouts of blood.
Aaagh—!
A chorus of agony erupted through the human ranks.
A heavy Lion Knight's warhorse was hit in the leg, collapsing with a scream and flinging its rider.
Several Lion guards' shields were cored, the slugs smashing into their chests; they toppled, blood seeping through the seams of their armor.
Scores of guards were struck in vital spots and died on the spot, their blood running in rivulets down the canyon floor.
The once-neat human formation dissolved into chaos: clattering armor, screaming horses, shrieking men and booming guns merged into a ghastly battle hymn echoing through Blackrock Canyon.
"Damned greenskins—with firelocks!" Alric's face darkened, surprise giving way to fury. "Archers, keep shooting! Heavy Lion Warriors, advance—knock out their firing points!"
"By your command, Prince!"
Two thousand Archers drew again, and arrows slashed through the smoke to strike the gun-toting hobgoblins with deadly precision.
"Agh! I'm hit!" A hobgoblin howled as a shaft nailed his shoulder; his musket clanged to the rock. Clutching the wound, he tried to retreat—only to catch another arrow through the chest and crumple, dead.
Boom-boom-boom!!! The hobgoblins didn't flinch; maddened, they fired again and again through the arrow storm.
Though hobgoblins kept falling, their volleys stayed fierce and human casualties mounted.
Heavy Lion Knights spurred their mounts, but the sheer walls hemmed them in; they could only pace the passage, slashing at bullets with longswords to little effect.
Lion guards raised shields and charged the cliff base to climb and destroy the firing points, yet bullets from above punched them down, staining the stone at the foot of the cliff red.
guards took the worst losses; without thick plate they were mowed down, their neat ranks now a shambles of stacked corpses and pooling blood.
hobgoblin casualties on the canyon rims were mounting too.
The human arrow storm was relentless; countless hobgoblins were shot and fell shattered to the canyon floor.
Powder smoke thickened on the cliffs, and the hobgoblins' rate of fire began to slow.
Their ammunition was running low, and many hobgoblins had already fallen; the survivors were mostly trapped in a hopeless situation.
"Boss Scarface! The humans' arrow storm is too fierce! We can't hold much longer!" A hobgoblin squad leader, covered in blood, screamed at Scarface. An arrow had pierced his arm, blood streaming from the wound, and his musket was already empty.
Scarface looked down into the canyon. Though the human army had taken heavy losses, they still held formation. The Archers' volleys never slackened, Heavy Lion Warriors kept charging toward the cliff base, while on his own side more than half the hobgoblins were dead or wounded and ammunition was almost gone. The skaven had long since hidden in rock crevices, too terrified to show their snouts.
"Damn! Never thought these humans could fight like this!" Scarface cursed through clenched teeth, eyes full of resentment.
He knew that if the fight continued, he and the remaining hobgoblins would all die here, without even a chance to send word back.
"Pull out! Pull out now!" Scarface decided on the spot, roaring, "Follow me! Retreat through the tunnel! Move!"
The surviving hobgoblins, as if pardoned, scrambled toward the tunnel entrance at the foot of the cliff.
As they ran they still had to dodge the human arrow storm; hobgoblins kept falling, struck down on the retreat, yet the rest charged desperately for the tunnel mouth.
Scarface ran at the rear. Watching his hobgoblin brothers drop behind him and the human army below still firing madly, his eyes brimmed with icy killing intent and unwillingness.
He ground his teeth, turned and shouted to the hobgoblins beside him, "Grab every musket—don't leave a single one for the human scum!"
Several hobgoblins nodded at once, scooped up the fallen hobgoblin-muskets, hugged them tight, and followed Scarface toward the tunnel.
Human arrows kept whistling in, grazing their bodies, striking rock and spraying chips, but they dared not stop, sprinting for the tunnel mouth.
"Quick! Inside the tunnel!" Scarface reached the entrance first and yelled back at the hobgoblins behind him.
The hobgoblins dived into the opening one after another, nimble as rats, racing into the depths.
When the last hobgoblin vanished inside, Scarface glanced once more at the human troops below, a fierce glint in his eyes, then slipped into the tunnel—ordering the skaven beside him to cover the entrance with rubble and dirt.
"Rumble—" Stones and soil rolled down, sealing the tunnel mouth so thoroughly that from outside it looked no different from the surrounding rock.
Down in the canyon the human arrow storm gradually ceased.
Alric, mounted, stared at the cliff faces where no greenskin figures remained—only hobgoblin corpses and scattered weapons—his face so dark it looked ready to drip water.
"Your Highness, the greenskins have fled! They escaped through some tunnel at the cliff base!" A Guards captain rode up and reported respectfully.
Alric looked down; that pile of deliberately covered rubble did look suspicious.
He ground his teeth. "These greenskin bastards—cunning as ever! They actually dug a tunnel to ambush this prince!"
He surveyed the battlefield: the human army had suffered grievous losses—corpses and blood everywhere, formation in shambles. Of three thousand Heavy Lion Knights, five had fallen; of five thousand Heavy Lion Warriors, more than eighteen; of ten thousand guards, over four hundred. Total casualties: four hundred sixty-three.
The greenskins, though equally bloodied with corpses littering both cliffs, had still managed to escape—and taken every one of those fearsome hobgoblin-muskets with them, leaving nothing behind.
"Your Highness, shall we dig open the tunnel and pursue?" A general rode up and asked in a low voice.
Alric shook his head, eyes frosty. "No need.
The tunnel situation is unknown, and those greenskins are sly—there could be an ambush.
Clear the field, treat the wounded, reform the ranks, then press on to Ravenholt!"
He paused, a cold murderous glint in his eyes, and growled, "Kurzadh, Blackrock Tribe… this prince remembers you! For this sneak attack I will repay you twofold!
Once I break Ravenholt I swear I'll exterminate every last greenskin bastard and grind your bones to ash!"
The generals answered in unison and began ordering cleanup, treatment, and reorganization.
Through the canyon human Soldiers now bustled among the corpses and gore; the air reeked of blood and gunpowder, sickening to breathe.
The sun climbed higher, its golden light washing over this blood-soaked ground, yet it could not dispel the grim killing cold.
Inside the tunnel, Scarface was leading several hundred battered hobgoblins in a swift retreat toward Ravenholt.
Every one of them was bloodied and exhausted, but none dared slow down.
Scarface rode a hobgoblin mount at the head of the column, eyes blazing with frustration and rage.
"Boss, we just gonna run? The humans took heavy losses too—if we'd hung on maybe we could've beaten them!" a hobgoblin panted.
Scarface shot him a vicious glare. "Hang on my ass! Keep at it and we'd all be corpses! The humans still have over ten thousand men; we've got a few hundred and no ammo—how do you fight that?!"
He drew a long breath, gaze turning grave. "Right now the main thing is to get back to Ravenholt fast and tell the Boss!
Alric's army is tougher than we thought, and they've already sniffed out our tunnel plan. The Boss has to change strategy at once, or our Blackrock Tribe is in for big trouble!"
The hobgoblins nodded and quickened their pace.
Inside the tunnel only their hurried footfalls and ragged breathing echoed through the black passage.