The days grew tense as the dwarven fort remained on high alert. The presence of goblins and orcs in the vicinity had put everyone on edge. Patrols were doubled, and the outposts with semaphore relay sheds were fortified and garrisoned. Reinforcements were on the way, but until they arrived, the defenders knew they would be tested.

  Within the fort, expansion work continued. Builders hurried to finish the additional barns for the incoming cavalry horses, while others toiled over the Rune Well, inscribing its deep stone walls with water-drawing runes. Despite their initial grumbles, even the builders understood the necessity.

  Amid this preparation, Garrok and Tink worked tirelessly in the workshop. Garrok refined his Dubbelebois design, adjusting the firing mechanism and perfecting a sturdy leg holster. Tink, staying close by since the goblin revelations, modified Garrok's old pistol to fit her smaller hands and frame, pairing it with a wickedly pointed stiletto dagger. Together, they prepared themselves for the battles they knew were coming.

  Then, one evening, the signal bell rang out—harsh and urgent.

  The captain strode from the citadel, his face set like iron. “One of the outposts is under attack,” he announced. “They are requesting reinforcements.”

  He turned to Ironheart. “Sergeant, take the scouts and twenty rangers. Ride to their aid.”

  “Aye, Captain!” Ironheart answered with a salute.

  As the relief force departed at speed, the fort's garrison was placed on immediate high alert. Those left behind readied their weapons—long guns, thunder pipes, crossbows, pistols, and grenades. The rangers took positions on the walls, while gnomes checked their grenades and engineers secured the gates.

  Twilight deepened into full dark.

  Then came the shout from the lookout: “WAGON APPROACHING! ORC RIDERS IN PURSUIT!”

  From the walls, defenders spotted a covered wagon barreling down the road toward the gates, the horses frothing with panic as orcish riders loosed arrows and javelins at the fleeing vehicle.

  “TO THE WALLS!” the captain ordered. “GIVE THEM COVERING FIRE! OPEN THE GATES!”

  The gates creaked open as shots rang out from the walls, dropping a few of the pursuing orcs. But as the wagon neared, Garrok's gut clenched. Something was wrong.

  “It's too clean,” he muttered. “Too obvious.”

  He grabbed Tink’s shoulder. “Warn the other gnomes—tell them to have their grenades ready!”

  Tink’s eyes widened, but she didn’t argue. She bolted, sprinting toward the gnome encampment.

  Garrok’s instincts were right.

  As the wagon reached the gates, a hand emerged from the canvas, pulling the peg that hitched the horses to the wagon. The animals broke away, galloping through the open gate—and scattering the defenders stationed there.

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  The wagon jerked to a sudden halt, blocking the gate from closing. The driver slumped sideways, revealed to be a corpse propped up with sticks and ropes.

  From within the wagon, goblins burst forth, guns and scimitars in hand. At the same time, orcs on wolves and horseback surged from the treeline, roaring as they charged the gatehouse.

  “It’s a bait and switch!” Garrok roared, spinning toward the walls. “CLOSE THE GATES! IT'S A TRICK!”

  But it was too late. The wagon wedged in place, the gates hung open as the assault poured in.

  The defenders, however, were not unprepared.

  “DEPLOY THE SPEAR WAGONS! SHIELD WALL TO THE GATEHOUSE!” the captain bellowed.

  Builders rushed to roll out heavy wagons outfitted with spear-tipped barricades, locking them into place to slow the orcish charge. Behind these, dwarves formed a solid shield wall, bracing for impact. From the walls, the rangers unleashed a rain of bolts and bullets onto the attackers.

  The gnomes, forewarned by Tink, now stood ready. Clusters of grenades arced through the air, exploding amidst the goblins still emerging from the wagon.

  BTOOOM! BTOOOM!

  Shrapnel and smoke filled the gateway as goblin bodies were hurled into the air. But despite the losses, the orcs pressed on, some managing to vault the barricades or force their way through the spear wagons. They smashed into the dwarven shield wall, hacking at the locked shields with axes and scimitars.

  The fighting at the gatehouse turned into a brutal melee. Orc riders who made it past the wall turned their mounts into the fort, wreaking havoc among the defenders. Fires sprang up where torch-lit supplies were overturned in the chaos.

  Garrok, firing from one of the barracks windows, watched as his comrades were cut down. His hands clenched into fists.

  “Damn it all!” he growled. “Can’t sit on my arse while this happens!”

  He slung his rifle over his shoulder, grabbed his hatchet, and loaded both barrels of the Dubbelebois. He burst through the door into the fray, letting out a guttural battle cry.

  “RAAAGHHH!!!”

  The roar turned heads—orc heads. An orc rider wheeled toward him, raising a blade—but Garrok’s double-barrel roared first, dropping the beast and mount alike. He holstered the weapon, hatchet swinging free as he closed the distance with the next group.

  “WHAT'S THIS? A HALF-BLOOD WITH A TOY?!” one of the orcs mocked, sneering at Garrok’s weapon.

  Garrok met the insult with lead and steel. Another blast from the Dubbelebois, another rider down. Hatchet in his left hand, gun in his right, he waded into the melee, smashing faces and hacking through leather and fur.

  Every time an orc fell, Garrok reloaded quickly, roaring curses and challenges to draw fresh enemies onto himself. He became a rallying point, turning the tide of the melee as defenders redirected fire toward the orcs distracted by his defiant stand.

  The battle raged on. Blood slicked the dirt. Arrows sang overhead. Grenades shattered clusters of goblins who tried to climb the walls. Smoke and fire curled into the night sky.

  Finally, above the din, came the sharp call of an orcish horn—the signal to retreat. The remaining raiders disengaged, dragging their wounded back toward the treeline as defenders took up pursuit, cutting down stragglers.

  The fort stood—but the cost had been high. Several buildings burned, many were wounded, and the dead lay thick at the gates.

  Garrok stood gasping, leaning on the Dubbelebois, sweat and soot streaking his face. This was how the captain found him, limping through the wreckage.

  “Well, Garrok,” Firebeard said, eyeing the half-orc, “twice now your gut has saved this fort. If you hadn’t warned the gnomes and spotted the trap, we’d be a pile of corpses right now.”

  Before Garrok could respond, a young gnome sprinted toward them, eyes wide with panic. Clutched in his hands were the shattered remains of Tink’s SPAL crossbow.

  “Captain! Gunsmith!” the gnome gasped. “They took her. The orcs—they took Engineer Gearlocke!”

  The words struck Garrok harder than any blow. His blood ran cold.

  The battered fort fell into stunned silence.

  The fight was over. But the war had only just begun.