Outside Ravenholt, the war has already boiled over, with roars, clashing weapons, and screams shaking the heavens and earth, the very air heated by blood and smoke.
Glen swung his massive axe like a door slab, a raging bull out of control, tearing through the human infantry; his blackiron heavy armor was splattered with dark red and emerald blood, each swing cleaving a human Soldier's armor and spraying flesh everywhere.
"WAAAGG! Slaughter these scraps! Don't let them get within a step of the gate!" his roar mixed with the battlefield din, terrifyingly authoritative, and the orc boyz behind him bellowed, charging wildly and driving Harry's shattered infantry into a rout.
Bone Tree, with a squad of hobgoblin Archers and Spearmen, held position behind the street barricade on the inner side of the gate, firing from above.
Poisoncoated arrows fell like black rain on the charging human soldiers; anyone hit convulsed instantly and collapsed.
He was tall and thin, skin a deeper moss green, his face marked with tribal wartattoos, eyes cold and calculating; he occasionally raised a hand to signal the hobgoblins to adjust their aim, picking off any human Soldier trying to approach the gate.
"Hold the line! The boss has ordered us to dig the tunnel through, then we'll have a great time!" Bone Tree's hoarse voice carried undeniable authority, and the hobgoblins answered in kind, their rate of fire growing ever faster.
Outside the city, Harry had long lost his former arrogance; stumbling off his horse, his ornate gilded armor caked with dust and blood, he crawled behind a noble guard, trembling and muttering:
"Don't let them come! Block them! Guard! Block them!" The usually pampered nobles now lay on the ground, their heavy armor a burden, cut down by the orc boyz's reckless axes, their screams rising in waves.
Ordinary guards and levies broke apart in chaos, some chased by orcs, some trampled by their own, the whole battlefield turned into a greenskin slaughterhouse.
Gwynn led the remnants of his cavalry, forced once again into the fight.
He brandished his longsword, trying to organize an effective defense to cover the retreating infantry, but the greenskin onslaught was too ferocious; the orc boyz clung like mad dogs, the hobgoblin rain of arrows was unstoppable, the cavalry suffered further losses, and his own arm was grazed by a poison arrow, the toxin spreading through the wound, chilling his body, yet he gritted his teeth and pressed on.
He knew that behind this slaughter lay a greenskin plot, but he could not fathom what Kurzadh was truly scheming.
Meanwhile, inside Ravenholt a completely different scene unfolded—a bustling, covert operation, far removed from the bloodsoaked fighting outside, filled only with the "shash" of shovels digging dirt, the "creak" of wooden levers prying stones, and the heavy breathing of greenskins and skaven, weaving a busy, secretive symphony.
Beneath the Town Hall at the town's center, the oncenarrow cellar had been expanded into a massive tunnel entrance; thousands of skaven and greenskins were hard at work, feverishly digging the tunnel.
These skaven were elite members of a tribe the Blackrock had contacted in advance, each slender, agile, their skin grayblack, covered in fine fur, wielding speciallymade iron shovels and pickaxes, digging at astonishing speed.
Accustomed to life underground, they excelled at tunneling; whether hard rock or soft soil, they could carve through it swiftly.
Assisting the skaven were the Blackrock Tribe's goblin Laborers and a contingent of orc boyz.
Though short, the goblin Laborers were unusually nimble, tasked with clearing the excavated earth and rubble, loading it onto crude wooden carts, then pushed by the orc boyz through the tunnel to the abandoned houses on the town's outskirts, where they were quietly dumped.
They worked with extreme secrecy, fearing detection by the humans outside.
Kurzadh stood at the tunnel entrance, arms crossed, clad in blackiron heavy armor, shouldering the bloodsoaked great axe; his gaze was deep as he watched the bustling crews, his silhouette stretched long, fragments of warpstone on his armor glimmering with a cold light, making his facial lines even more feral.
He occasionally lowered his head to glance at the beastskin map in his hand, the routes of the tunnel marked in charcoal.
From the depths of Ravenholt, heading west through wilderness and hills, the tunnel would ultimately emerge thirtysix li away at Blackrock Gorge, his preplanned ambush point.
"Boss, the tunnel is halfdug! The skaven say in three more hours we'll reach Blackrock Gorge!" a hobgoblin foreman shouted, his face smeared with dirt, excitement mixed with fatigue in his voice.
Kurzadh nodded slowly, his eyes drifting toward the dark tunnel depths, where only scattered torchlight flickered like dormant eyes beneath the earth.
"Speed up! Spare no cost, the tunnel must be finished before dawn!" his voice low and resolute, bearing unquestionable authority, "Outside, Glen and Bone Tree can only delay us; once human reinforcements arrive, or Harry's remnants hold the line, our plan will be exposed!"
"Understood, boss!" the hobgoblin foreman Big Valley replied quickly, turning and charging back into the tunnel, shouting at the busy skaven and greenskins, "Everyone, work faster! Dig faster! The boss said, when the tunnel's done we'll have meat to eat! Wine to drink! And human loot to seize! WAAAGG!"
Hearing "meat and wine" and "loot," the greenskins instantly grew excited, digging even faster while shouting, "Dig! Faster! Loot the human scraps! WAAAGG!"
Though the skaven were not as bloodthirsty as the greenskins, they too were enticed by Kurzadh's promises of food and ore, working diligently without a hint of slack.
A cruel smile curled at Kurzadh's mouth corner, his mind already having plotted everything.
He would have Glen and Bone Tree lead the main greenskin force outside, tying down Harry's infantry and Gwynn's cavalry, blinding the humans into believing the greenskins' full strength lay within Ravenholt, forcing them to focus all their defense there.
Meanwhile, he secretly dispatched thousands of skaven and greenskins to dig tunnels around the human army's rear, straight to Blackrock Gorge.
He had already received intelligence that Prince Barton Alric learned that Ravenholt had fallen, and that Harry and Gwynn's forces were locked in a bitter fight; he himself had led the elite troops of the Prince's Fiefdom, racing toward Ravenholt, expected to arrive on the battlefield by dawn.
And Blackrock Gorge was a choke point the human army must cross; the gorge's steep cliffs on either side left only a narrow passage, making it an ideal ambush site.
"Alric, you think a few scraps can retake Ravenholt?" Kurzadh muttered softly, a cold murderous glint in his eyes, "I'll show you my methods are far harsher than you imagine! When you lead your army through Blackrock Gorge, I'll have the greenskins and skaven burst out of the tunnel, catching you offguard! This tunnel is my 'big gift'—a present that will doom Prince Patton's fiefdom forever!"
He looked up at the sky; the night was still thick, the moon hid behind clouds, shedding only a few weak rays that fell on Ravenholt's streets.
At the current digging speed, finishing the tunnel before dawn would coincide perfectly with the human army's passage through Blackrock Gorge; everything was proceeding according to his plan.
Yet even so, Kurzadh felt a lingering urgency.
He dared not make any mistake; this ambush would decide whether the Blackrock Tribe could utterly crush the Prince's Fiefdom, and whether he could lead the greenskins to trample the entire Prince's Fiefdom.
"Push them harder! Make the skaven work even faster!" Kurzadh ordered a nearby orc Nob.
"Yes, boss!" the orc replied immediately, turning and charging into the tunnel, his coarse voice urging the skaven and greenskins to speed up their digging.
The atmosphere inside the tunnel grew increasingly tense, and everyone was working frantically, sweat sliding down their cheeks and dripping onto the cold earth, where it was instantly absorbed.
The excavated soil and rubble piled higher and higher, and wooden carts shuttled back and forth, busy yet orderly.
Although the greenskins are naturally lax, under Kurzadh's highpressure urging and their feverish anticipation of victory, they have become unusually obedient at this moment, showing no sign of slackening.
In a secluded alley of Ravenholt, inside a dilapidated wooden hut, a boy of about seven or eight years old was cautiously peering through the crack in the door, secretly observing the scene outside.
The boy's name was Tom, an ordinary civilian of Ravenholt; when the greenskins seized the town, he hid in the house with his parents, too scared to go outside.
He had just heard the sounds of battle outside the town, feeling both curious and terrified, and while his parents were distracted, he slipped to the doorway, wanting to see what was happening outside.
On the street outside the hut, several orc boyz were strolling leisurely on patrol, clad in light leather armor, wielding battle axes, their bodies splattered with fresh blood, humming the rough songs unique to greenskins, their eyes scanning the surrounding houses ferociously, occasionally kicking a wooden door by the roadside to check whether any humans were trying to sneak away.
Tom trembled all over, his small body pressed tightly against the door panel, daring not to breathe.
Through the crack, he saw the orc boyz's faces covered with gruesome scars, cruel smiles curled at their mouths; as they passed a wooden hut, they deliberately swung their battle axes against the door, producing a 'clang' that sent a wave of terrified wails echoing from inside the house.
As Tom was about to retreat and stop spying, a slightly shorter orc Boy suddenly turned his head, his gaze landing precisely on the crack of the wooden door, his eerie green eyes instantly locking onto Tom inside.
'Hey! There's a little brat inside!' the orc Boy grinned, flashing sharp fangs, and shouted to his companions.
The other orc boyz immediately gathered around, crowding the crack, looking at the terrified, trembling Tom inside, their faces breaking into teasing smiles.
'Little brat, come out quickly! Let me have a look!' a orc Boy barked roughly, his tone laced with malicious teasing.
Tom froze in terror, his legs going limp; he tried to pull back, but fear rendered him immobile, only able to stare with wide eyes at the orc boyz outside the door.
'Not coming out, huh?' the orc Boy who had spotted Tom sneered, deliberately raising his battle axe and slashing the door panel, 'clang!' a crack split the wood, splintering dust everywhere.
He snarled at the crack, 'If you don't come out soon, I'll hack the door open, grab you, and roast you! I love eating human little brats, tender and fragrant!'
'Yeah! Roast them! Make them smell delicious!' the other orc boyz echoed, deliberately pulling grotesque faces, roaring at the crack to frighten Tom.
Terrified, Tom burst into tears with a 'waah', turned and fled deeper into the house; in his panic he slammed into the wooden door behind him, slamming it 'bang', and even pressed his tiny body against the panel, trembling and crying louder and louder.
The orc boyz outside saw this and burst into raucous, arrogant laughter, their crude chuckles echoing through the silent alley.
'Hahaha! The little brat got scared to tears!'
'What a coward!'
'Just a little brat; even if he comes out, he won't even fill the gap between my teeth!'
The few orc boyz teased for a while, and seeing Tom no longer daring to emerge, lost interest, then leisurely resumed their patrol, still humming coarse songs, marching deeper into the alley.
Inside the hut, Tom leaned against the door panel, crying and shaking, his tiny fists clenched tightly, his eyes full of terror.
His parents, hearing his cries, rushed over, hugging him tightly and soothing him softly, 'Don't be afraid, Tom, don't be afraid, the orcs have left, they won't come back...' Nestled in his parents' arms, Tom cried even harder; he didn't know how long this war would last, nor whether he and his parents could survive to see its end.
Meanwhile, thirtysix kilometers west of Ravenholt, in Blackrock Canyon, the night was denser than in the town; cliffs on both sides rose up to the clouds, their black silhouettes resembling a dormant giant beast, exuding a chilling, eerie cold.
The central passage of the canyon was narrow and rugged, the ground littered with rubble and thorns; rarely traveled in peacetime, it was now utterly silent, only the wind whistling through the cliff crevices, producing a 'whooo' sound, eerily like a ghost's lament.
Suddenly, a pile of rubble on one side of the canyon began to shift slowly.
The stones tumbled down with a 'rustle', and immediately a small grayblack head poked out from the rubble.
It was a skaven scout.
The skaven scout cautiously scanned the surroundings, its eerie green eyes flashing in the night, listening intently for any sounds; after confirming no humans were nearby, it slowly emerged from the rubble, letting out a sharp, faint call toward the tunnel entrance beneath the stones.
Soon, more skaven crawled out of the tunnel entrance, each agilely climbing the rubble, vigilantly observing the surroundings, then quickly spreading out to occupy the bases of the cliffs on both sides of the canyon, setting up makeshift watchposts.
Immediately afterward, a tall hobgoblin with a gruesome scar across his face emerged from the tunnel entrance.
It was Scarface, the goblin leader under Kurzadh.
Scarface wore finely crafted leather armor, wielding a curved blade embedded with warpstone fragments; the scar on his face stretched from his forehead down to his chin, giving him an especially ferocious appearance.
He surveyed the surroundings of Blackrock Canyon, a satisfied grin flashing in his eyes, and bellowed roughly at the tunnel entrance, 'Everyone, get out! Quickly! Take advantageous positions and prepare for ambush! The boss said once the human army arrives, we'll give them a big surprise! WAAAGH!'
With Scarface's roar, a flood of hobgoblins surged out of the tunnel entrance, splitting into two squads; one followed the skaven up the cliffs on both sides of the canyon, seizing the high ground and setting up firing positions, their bows and spears already ready.
The other squad stayed at the canyon floor, quickly constructing makeshift roadblocks from rubble and thorns to block the human army's advance.
In the night, the hobgoblins and skaven moved swiftly and covertly between the cliffs and the canyon, their busy silhouettes flitting about.
They knew they bore the crucial task of ambushing the human army; if exposed, not only would Kurzadh's plan be completely blown, they themselves would become dead souls under the swords of the human forces.
Scarface stood atop a massive boulder at the canyon floor, his gaze fixed toward Ravenholt, bloodlust glinting in his eyes. He glanced at the sky; the night remained thick, and dawn was still some time away—ample time for them to finish all ambush preparations.
'Everyone, rally your spirits! Keep a close watch on the surroundings, and as soon as you spot any sign of the human army, report immediately!' Scarface ordered the hobgoblins beside him, his voice gruff and commanding.
'Yes, sir! Boss Scarface!' the hobgoblins replied in unison, their voices hushed lest the distant humans notice any irregularities.
The atmosphere in the canyon grew increasingly tense, everyone cautiously finalizing ambush preparations, bows drawn, spears pointed down the canyon passage, eyes vigilantly fixed on the horizon.
The wind swept through the canyon, carrying a chill and a faint scent of blood.
It drifted from the direction of Ravenholt, heralding a larger, bloodsoaked clash that would silently erupt in this quiet canyon.