Chapter 575: Molten Iron and Heavy Cavalry
"Boom!"
Another barrel filled with liquor and gunpowder exploded mid-air, engulfing hundreds of orcs in raging flames.
The roaring fire blazed before the wall like a searing barricade, halting the orcs in their tracks.
"Do not fear!"
"Father Gruumsh watches us! The brave shall be reborn in the flames!"
An orc officer burst from the crowd, raising his spear and letting out a fanatical roar.
"Charge!"
"For Father Gruumsh!"
Instantly, the hundreds of orc warriors behind him grew frenzied, rushing into the fire and charging the wall.
But the ground before the wall suddenly gave way—traps collapsed into deep pits, impaling the orcs on sharp steel spikes.
"Damn it, a trap!"
"No, help! I haven't even fought the dwarves yet—I can't die like this!"
Amid the chaos of explosions and war cries, the screams from the pit were barely audible.
Unaware, the orcs behind them kept pushing forward.
—Until they saw the spike-filled pit littered with bodies. But by then it was too late, and they fell in too, their flesh filling the trench.
Finally, the officer atop the ridge noticed and ordered hill giants and half-giants to lay logs across as makeshift bridges.
Orc shamans waved bone staves, chanting ancient spells, causing rock to rapidly grow and seal the gap.
Dwarven archers on the walls continued firing—flaming and poisoned arrows rained down like a storm.
The few hundred meters of open ground became a meat grinder, shredding the orcs who entered.
Dwarven craftsmanship—thousands of years in the making—manifested in traps and sharp weapons, ruthlessly harvesting lives.
When orcs came within a hundred meters of the bastion, another trap activated.
Dwarven statues on the wall opened their mouths, revealing metal tubes that sprayed poisoned silver needles.
"Buzz—"
A shrill whistle filled the air—entire rows of orcs fell, their corpses exuding thin poisonous mist.
Orc shamans raised their hands, chanting reverently.
"Praise to Father Gruumsh, the One-Eye!
You are strength incarnate—you are wind, you are storm! Your eye makes the world tremble, bringing the will of vengeance!"
Their raspy voices echoed across the battlefield—and miraculously, it seemed to work.
"Whoosh—"
A blood-scented wind swept through, dispersing the poisonous fog, lifting orc morale.
Braving arrows, exploding barrels, and falling iron balls, the orc horde finally reached the base of the wall—at great cost.
"Avenderdan is right ahead!"
"Climb the walls! Crush the dwarves! Take Avenderdan!"
"Hurry! Charge! Gruumsh watches us! He will bless the one who reaches the wall first!"
Hill giants, half-giants, and ogres unloaded ladders onto the towering walls.
Orcs swarmed like ants, scrambling to be the first atop the ramparts, eager for Gruumsh's favor.
Dwarves toppled the ladders, shooting orcs as they fell, crushing many below—hundreds died in moments.
"Kill them!"
"We must defend Avenderdan! These mongrels must not get up here!"
"By Moradin! For dwarven glory!"
But the orcs' sheer numbers overwhelmed the traps and arrow fire.
They clustered below the wall like crashing waves, repeatedly battering the fortress.
On the rampart, Bjorn furrowed his brow. Though over 400 years old and stooped, his eyes were filled with resolve.
"By Moradin, the orcs shall pay for their greed and foolishness. I watched them be driven north 387 years ago by brave dwarves. Today, history shall repeat."
The old minister entered the tower and slowly pulled an iron lever.
"Clack."
A crisp mechanical sound echoed. Flames burst from Avenderdan's central forge, spewing hot steam.
The molten iron meant for homes was diverted—tons of searing metal flowed toward the walls.
Orcs looked up, feeling the heat and hearing the roar. Fear filled their eyes.
"No!"
"Watch out! What are these dwarves doing?"
Metal hatches on the wall clanged open.
Then, with a thunderous roar, red-hot molten iron poured like waterfalls.
Sparks flew—thousands of orcs and giants were doused and consumed.
"No—"
"It's so hot!"
"Molten iron! Run! These cursed, filthy dwarves!"
Orcs screamed in agony, trying to flee, but it was no use.
Steam burst around them. Once the moisture evaporated, their flesh met molten metal.
Steam veiled the battlefield—pops and crackles filled the air, orc screams faded.
In this steel inferno, flesh burned instantly.
The first orcs to reach the wall were completely melted—reduced to slag.
Once the iron solidified, no orcs remained—only warped metal lumps radiating heat.
"Taste the burn, orc scum!"
"Hahaha! This is Moradin's punishment!"
Dwarves on the walls laughed openly, delighted by the orc carnage.
"Such fine iron—could've made weapons. What a waste."
"Yeah, dumping it on Gruumsh's mongrels—it's criminal."
"Moradin, forgive us."
Veteran craftsmen looked at the solidifying metal, sighing in regret.
Despite the terror, the orcs didn't retreat. They still believed they would take Avenderdan.
More orcs gathered, crowding the iron-covered wall, starting a new assault.
"For Father Gruumsh!"
"Crush the dwarves! Take the fortress!"
Ladders were mounted again—hundreds of orcs clinging to them like teeth on the bastion.
Death reigned in this narrow battlefield, but the orcs, spurred by their shamans, fought bloodily.
Inside Avenderdan's gate, the air was solemn.
Hundreds of dwarven cavalry sat silently—armored, wielding hammers and iron rods, mounted on giant-horned goats.
Their armor gleamed; even the goats wore well-crafted leather armor.
These heavy cavalry were the kingdom's fiercest—unmatched for a century. Bards sang, "They charge like avalanches."
Now, 500 of them waited, ready to counterattack.
As the orc tide battered the walls, Avenderdan's defenses grew thin. If breached, the fortress would fall.
"It's time."
"Only retreating demoralizes us—action must be taken.
We strike back now—dwarves never yield! Avenderdan shall not fall!"
A deafening cheer echoed among the cavalry.
Edd finally made his choice, mounted his huge goat, and gripped his warhammer.
"Open the gates!"
He commanded, pulling down the metal faceplate of his helmet.
"Boom—"
With a rumble, dwarf guards turned the winch, and the massive gate slowly opened.
Orcs outside, seeing the gate open, shouted in excitement.
"The cowardly dwarves surrender! Avenderdan is ours!"
"Hahaha! They can't resist the orc assault!"
"Wait... what's that?"
But the orcs soon saw—it wasn't surrender. Awaiting them were eager dwarven heavy cavalry.
At their head, King Edd, face masked, was a mighty presence.
"All troops—charge!"
"Charge!"
The ground trembled. Dust rose.
Iron surged from the gate. Armored goats trampled orcs like twigs.
Mounted dwarves smashed orc skulls with hammers and rods—harvesting lives with ease.
"By the Highland Kingdom—Avenderdan shall not fall!"
At the vanguard, Edd raised his warhammer. His goat leaped meters high.
"Bang!"
A hill giant's skull exploded—blood and bone flew. A headless corpse crashed down.
Riding the momentum, Edd slammed his hammer to the ground—it blazed with Moradin's blessing.
"Boom!"
The impact made a crater. Cracks and scorch marks spread.
Fire burst from holes and cracks, burning nearby orcs to ash.
Acrid smoke rose. A metallic stench spread. Edd swung again, targeting hundreds of orcs.
"By Moradin! Dwarves shall never be slaves!"
As he spoke, a rock hammer hundreds of tons heavy materialized midair, crashing down.
"Boom!"
The ground collapsed. Rocks flew.
The shockwave shook a hundred-meter radius.
The orc squad—over 200 strong—was buried and blended into the earth.
One blow sent hundreds to Gruumsh's dark realm. Yet it wasn't over—King Edd charged solo into the horde.
Wherever he went, dust and rubble followed. All who dared approach were crushed.
In a few charges, nearly ten thousand orcs outside the wall were slain—none dared get close.
This was the dwarf king revered as "Highland Lord" and "Master of the Forge."
—Edd Klayne.
A legendary warrior, wielding Moradin's own "Hammer of Bedrock," clad in ancestral armor.
A century ago, he saved the Highland Kingdom.
In that war, he alone held back the godspawn of Holy Fadlan, ending their emperor's ambitions.
Now, history seemed poised to repeat.
"Moradin above— Father, grant us strength in this crisis."
Edd gripped his hammer, staring at the restless orcs—his heart heavy with dread.
This time, the orcs were all-in. They were determined to take Avenderdan.
Gruumsh's savage blood surged in them, driving ambition.
Monk Brokenbody, Gruumsh's Eye, stood on a slope, raising his twin-headed axe—his one eye bloodshot.
"Traps and cavalry can't stop us! Dwarves won't make us fear!"
"Until we take what's ours, we are worthless! Gruumsh's dark realm won't welcome cowards!
Remember—do not stop until Avenderdan is ours!"
Red light flashed in Monk's eye. His veins bulged like tree roots.
"Awoo—"
A massive black dire wolf leapt over the ridge, crouching before him.
—The strongest wolf of the Bloodfang Tribe: "Black Hill."
It had killed seven beastmasters, refusing all riders—except Monk, who tamed it barehanded.
Monk leapt atop the beast, raising his axe and roaring.
"Charge!"
"For Gruumsh!"
Inspired, the wolf riders howled—their wolves answered with piercing cries.
Spears and axes in hand, they charged—glowing-eyed, ravenous wolves leading the assault.
Edd raised his hammer again, rallying the dwarven cavalry.
"By Moradin's name—dwarves shall never be slaves!"
"Dwarves shall never be slaves!"
The earth quaked. Armored goats galloped. Dwarven cavalry formed a steel wall, charging the orcish wolf riders.