Chapter 572: The Battle of Blackstone Mountain
To enter Avenderdan, one must first pass through a narrow mountain valley before Blackstone Mountain, known to the dwarves as the Road of Glory.
The terrain here was treacherous, flanked by towering cliffs with a fractured ravine connected by stone bridges and lined with majestic statues.
These were the gods of the dwarves: Dumathoin, god of minerals and gems; Clangeddin Silverbeard, god of dwarven bravery and war; Thard Harr, god of dwarven hunting; and Gorm Gulthyn, god of defense and vigilance.
Deeper along the Road of Glory stood a bearded goddess of stunning beauty in dwarven eyes—Sharindlar, goddess of love and fertility.
As the gateway to Avenderdan, this place was easy to defend and hard to attack.
Nearly vertical cliffs were riddled with dwarf-dug tunnels and defensive structures, with bunkers crowning the mountain tops.
At the end of the valley stood an immensely sturdy wall the dwarves proudly called the "Orc Tombstone."
Of the thirteen northern orc invasions over the millennia, eight had been repelled at the "Orc Tombstone."
The wall bore ancient bloodstains and signs of repairs, telling tales of fierce battles and hard-earned glory.
Armored dwarven warriors with fine crossbows and short spears stood ready atop the wall and in tunnels along the cliffs.
On the wall, dwarf general Toru Yalon, clad in beast-hide armor and a horned helmet, tilted his head back and downed a barrel of fiery liquor.
He wiped his mouth, face reddening, eyes burning as he roared at his soldiers: "Bro-brothers! This time we'll keep them outside again! Let those orc bastards never lay eyes on Avenderdan's walls! Smash them flat!"
The heavy smell of alcohol filled the ramparts, but no one minded.
For dwarves, drinking before battle to lift morale was entirely normal.
Seeing their commander drink heartily, the dwarves raised their hammers and cheered with fervor.
"Long live King Edd!"
"Smash them flat! Avenderdan shall never fall!"
"The Highland Kingdom is eternal!"
Dwarves manned the hills, tunnels, and walls, standing ready for the approaching orc horde.
The last orc invasion had been 400 years ago—only the oldest priests had witnessed it; most warriors hadn't even been born.
Yet the dwarves remained confident—they believed the Highland Kingdom had Faenso's finest arms and mightiest warriors.
"Damn those Gruumsh-worshipping mongrels! If not for them, I'd be feasting and drinking right now."
Grumbling, Toru climbed the watchtower and peered into the distance—only to sober up in an instant.
"Great Moradin..."
The wild plains were a sea of orcs—like mottled waves—mixed with hill giants, ogres, and goblins.
Orc cavalry rode dire wolves across the land. Above them, vultures and giant eagles circled, along with devils from the Nine Hells.
At the sight, Toru's hands trembled, his barrel dropped and shattered on the ground.
Though he prided himself as the kingdom's top warrior, Toru Yalon never imagined the orc horde would be so vast and fierce.
In one-on-one combat, dwarves held the upper hand—though shorter than humans, their dense muscles and barrel-like builds made them heavier and stronger.
Born warriors, dwarves had honed combat skills and iron will. They endured magic and physical harm and smashed foes with handcrafted hammers. Shield dwarves of the Highland Kingdom were elite.
But they had one fatal flaw—low numbers and weak reproduction.
Even as the largest dwarven nation in Faenso, the Highland Kingdom had under 100,000 citizens, most scattered in the mountains.
Its capital, Avenderdan, housed just over 20,000 dwarves, with barely 12,000 able-bodied fighters.
Meanwhile, on the Ugo Plains, orcs bred wildly, tearing up grasslands in search of food.
For centuries, dozens of orc tribes fought in bloody contests to gain Gruumsh's favor.
Now, chieftain Batu Skullcrusher of the Redfang Tribe had conquered 23 great clans and 114 smaller ones.
He unified over a million orcs on the plains and marched south, obeying Father Gruumsh's divine command.
With hellish mercenaries, goblins, ogres, and hill giants, the orc horde outnumbered the dwarves by tens of times.
A terrifying figure! Most dwarves would never see that many orcs in their lives.
Among them, plains drakes snorted, their mossy backs resembling hills.
Atop one drake's spine sat a throne of bone—on it, a massive orc.
He wore shoulder plates of dragon scale and bone, his bare torso inked in bloody runes.
His face was monstrous, with one dark yellow tusk protruding. His one eye gleamed with killing intent, the other hidden behind scarred leather.
Rumor said that in a fight with a Titan-blooded warrior, he let a sword stab his face just to split the foe's skull with his axe—earning the name Skullcrusher.
Batu lost his left eye, just like their god, the One-Eyed Gruumsh.
Since then, orcs revered him as their god's chosen champion—destined to lead them to conquest.
Glaring at Avenderdan in the distance, Batu Skullcrusher stood on the bone throne, raised his bloody axe, and grinned.
"Hahaha! Finally—Avenderdan, soon to be ours!"
Beside him, a hunched, elderly orc shaman cried out:
"Yes! Yes! Father watches us! The orcs' millennia-old dream nears!
I hear Father's joy—he approves of you!
Lord Batu, you're his chosen hero! You'll lead us to conquer the continent and show the world Gruumsh's might!"
The old shaman stepped forward, spreading red powder on Batu's forehead, drawing the symbol of the One-Eye.
—The sigil of Gruumsh, the Ever-Open Eye.
As it appeared, Batu felt a violent surge of power—his blood roared like fire.
"Ahhh—!"
His heart ignited with bloodlust, ambition, and vengeance. He raised his axe skyward, crimson light tearing the heavens.
"Father has blessed me!"
"Praise the One-Eyed God! Praise Gruumsh!"
Orcs gazed at the red sky, eyes filled with fanatic faith.
They turned to Batu, who panted heavily, adjusting to his newfound power.
Runes across his body glowed red. His one bloodshot eye burned with rage and battlelust, and his aura surged in a violent storm.
Batu rose, overlooking tens of thousands of orcs, and lifted his axe with one arm.
"Rejoice, warriors! Father has spoken!"
"Show weakness and you die. Any who cannot fight for their tribe must be pierced by spears!
Gruumsh, the One-Eyed God, gave orcs the gift to survive where lesser races perish.
Build strength on these lands. Use it to crush your foes!"
Batu swung his axe again. Bloody light tore the clouds, leaving a crimson scar in the sky. His voice roared like a barbaric chant.
"Wage endless war on your enemies! Kill or enslave those who oppose you!
Seize land. Seize survival. Destroy the elves, their homes, their lands! Crush the dwarves! Claim their caves and fortresses!"
Finally, Batu exhaled foul smoke, raised his axe, and screamed, "Destroy the Highland Kingdom! Conquer Avenderdan!"
"Destroy the Highland Kingdom! Conquer Avenderdan!"
The mountains echoed with the orcs' roars, shaking the heavens and earth—far fiercer than the dwarves.
"Attack!"
"Crush them!"
Dwarves on the outer walls and rocks scrambled to shoot arrows.
"Quick! Stop them!"
"Too many! There are too many orcs!"
"By Moradin! These ugly bastards multiply like rabbits—we can't count them!"
"Thwip—thwip-thwip—"
Arrows pierced orcs, pinning them down—but those behind stepped over their kin without hesitation.
Only a few hundred dwarves defended the outer line, while tens of thousands of orcs surged outside.
The arrows vanished into the orc tide like pebbles in a river, barely making ripples.
Orc chieftains now had hill giants and half-giants slam heavy logs against the wooden gate.
"Heeyah!"
"Boom—boom—"
Dull thuds rang out. Dwarves rained arrows down, but it was useless.
Burly dwarves carried barrels from narrow tunnels—explosives filled with liquor and gunpowder—then hurled them at the orcs.
"Boom!"
Barrels burst, flames devoured dozens of orcs, stalling their charge.
But soon after, the warrior was struck by arrows and crushed by boulders hurled by giants.
Giant eagles and vultures, guided by bone whistles, dove from the skies, blinding dwarves.
A dwarf was swarmed by eagles, his sight blocked until he fell from the wall.
"Rip that dwarf apart!"
"His head is mine!"
Dozens of orcs pounced and shredded the unfortunate dwarf.
Blood splattered. Flesh flew. Not even a full limb remained.
Under the orc onslaught, hundreds of front-line dwarves perished. Some retreated into tunnels.
Batu stood on the plains drake, pointed his axe at Avenderdan, and shouted hoarsely:
"Tear down their walls! Break the dwarves' spirit!
Hahaha! They only know fear! Fear the orcs!"
Giants and half-giants surged again, slamming into the oak gates.
With each thud, more cracks appeared. Dwarves guarding the gate looked panicked.
"Crack!"
With a snap, the gate finally gave way, revealing a hundred dwarves in armor.
"Hahaha! Charge!"
"Crush the dwarves! Offer their blood to Father!"
Dwarves swung their hammers, flattening the lead orcs—killing hundreds in moments.
But wave after wave followed, soon overwhelming them.
"Children of Moradin, my brothers, never yield!"
A dwarf roared, smashed an orc's skull, but fell pierced by spears.
Thus, warcries echoed through the valley. Orcs flooded into the Highland Kingdom's Road of Glory.
Their goal: the capital—Avenderdan.