The Battle for Ironhead pass

The noise of the battle was a dull, rhythmic butchery. In the confines of Ironhead Pass, the Imperial Dwarf legion had formed a wall of shields, and against it, a green tide of Orcs broke and reformed^.

From a ridge a half mile back, Commander Thurgrom Stonefist watched the slaughter through the thick viewport of the Mountain Breaker. The Behemoth’s four-legged stride had been pounding and earth-shaking on the climb, but now it stood silent, its engines idling with a hot, oily breath.

"Why are we waiting?" Orin, the Mountain Breakers Gunners voice crackled from the howdah above. "They're being slaughtered!"

"We are the reserve, gunner," Thurgrom grunted, his gaze fixed on the battle⁶. "Our orders are to hold this position and support the line if it breaks."

Borin Rock-Heel’s voice came over the speaking tube, laced with the worry of a true Warsmith⁷. "She's running hot, Thurgrom. That climb... she was not built for such speed."

"She was built to break," Thurgrom replied, his hands steady on the levers.

He watched the Orc Warlord, a brute atop a gore-draped mound, roaring his Ax regiments forward. Elite Orc Greatax, wielding massive two-handed cleavers, smashed against the Imperial shields, sending Dwarfs reeling. From the high scree slopes, cowardly Skulks sent clouds of arrows arcing into the Dwarf rear guard, while Orc Godspeakers chanted, hurling sickly green energy that caused Dwarf armour to bubble and melt. The Imperial line was bending.

"They won't last another hour," Borin muttered, his disapproval for the High Command's plan clear.

"They will hold," Thurgrom said. "They are Dwarfs. But be ready. Gunners, prime the Flame Cannon. Stand by."

A new sound cut through the din. It was not the guttural roar of the main Orc line, but a high, baying war horn from somewhere unexpected.

Behind them.

Thurgrom’s head snapped to the left. A narrow, dry riverbed that cut into the pass—a path the Imperial scouts had missed—was suddenly vomiting warriors. Orc Gore Riders, mounted on massive, tusked, porcine beasts¹⁷, were charging full tilt into the Dwarfs' exposed rear.

The main Dwarf line, caught between the Greatax and the Gore Riders, began to buckle. The Orc Warlord roared in triumph.

"Sir!" Bennek, Orin's Assistant, shrieked from the howdah. "They're behind us! They're... by Dianek, they're coming right for us!"

The Mountain Breaker was the only thing between the flanking charge and the complete annihilation of the Imperial legion.

Thurgrom’s stoicism vanished, replaced by a cold, pure rage. His orders were to hold, but his oath was to his kin.

"Borin! Full power! Turn us! Face the valley!" he roared. "Gunners! Traverse full right! Target the charge!¹"

The 40-ton Behemoth groaned as Borin slammed the throttle wide open, his mouth moving in silent prayers to Fulgaria, with the engine shrieking in protest the machine turned, its heavy, green-lacquered plates forming a wall of iron across the mouth of the side-valley. The Golden Ram's head was lowered, a direct challenge.

The Gore Riders, insane with bloodlust, didn't slow. They charged directly at the machine.

"FIRE!" Thurgrom bellowed.

Orin, pale but steady, jammed the firing pedals. A thirty-foot jet of incandescent, sticky fire erupted from the cannon, washing over the front rank of the charge. Gores and riders vanished in a cloud of greasy black smoke and high-pitched screams.

But the Orcs were too many. The next wave split around the flames, swarming the Behemoth's legs, hammering its hull with crude axes.

"They're too close! Can't depress!" Orin screamed.

"Borin! Stomp them! Shake them off! "

Borin, his face a mask of concentration, worked his levers. The Mountain Breaker reared up on its hind legs and slammed its two-ton front legs down, crushing a dozen Gores and riders instantly. Thurgrom engaged the Ram-Head, surging forward to batter another group into the canyon wall.

"Reload! Reload!" Thurgrom yelled.

A high, whistling thwack⁷ echoed— a Rock Lobber, hidden in the flanking force. The Heavy Stone slammed into the howdah’s armour. Metal screamed as razor-sharp shards of rock spanged and sparked off the hull plates.

The Flame Cannon stopped firing, and there was silence from the Howdah.

Thurgrom’s blood ran cold. "Orin! Bennek! sound off!"

The Orcs roared, seeing the flames die as the gunners were struck. They surged forward, a champion among them leaping from his Gore onto the Behemoth's chassis. He began climbing toward the howdah, black-iron axe raised.

"They're on the hull!" Thurgrom yelled. "Borin! Purge the steam!"

"It'll crack the manifold! She can't take it! " Borin screamed back.

"DO IT!"

Borin grabbed the emergency vent lever and slammed it home. With a deafening shriek of tortured metal, scalding, high-pressure steam erupted from every seam on the Behemoth's hull. The Orcs climbing the chassis were boiled instantly, their holds slipping as their flesh was cooked from their bones. The champion on the howdah was blasted from his perch, shattering like glass.

The flanking force, decimated and terrified of the iron beast, finally broke and fled back up the valley.

In the main pass, the Orc Warlord, seeing his trap sprung and his flanking force destroyed, let out a final, furious howl and sounded the retreat. The green tide receded, leaving the pass littered with the dead.

The Dwarfs of the Imperial legion let out a ragged, exhausted cheer.

Inside the Mountain Breaker, the silence was deafening, broken only by the hissing of steam.

Borin slumped over his controls, his face black with oil. The ancient engine, the same one that had held Dolgarth, gave one final, shuddering cough and died.

"Warsmith," Thurgrom’s voice was hollow, devoid of all emotion. "How is the engine?"

There was a long pause.

"She's... she's running hot, Commander," Borin replied, his voice thick. "No... that's a lie. She's dead, Thurgrom. The manifold is cracked. The pistons are slag. We killed her."

Thurgrom Stonefist looked at the blood dripping from the howdah hatch, He stared out at the pass, now held by the Dwarfs. The victory was total, but the cost was etched into the hull of their saviour.

"She held, Warsmith," Thurgrom said, his voice like stone. "She always holds."