„Load bolts, Quarrellers! Aim, fire!“ — Geribor gave the order to shoot. The trigger mechanisms released with a sound that was deeply satisfying to the dwarf’s ears, and the bolts flew instantly toward the enemy. They pierced shields, armor, and helmets, mowing down entire ranks and striking their targets with brutal precision.
The battle had already raged for hours. Yet Geribor had no concern about ammunition. The beardlings had done excellent work, having produced nearly 15,000 bolts. These lay neatly arranged in crates within the tunnel behind them, ready to kill.
The red glow of dawn painted the white mountain peaks a deep crimson, casting the range into a sea of fire. The next volley flew from the mountain-tunnel paths through narrow slits in the rock, targeting the — almost pitiable — goblins. They fled in panic, running against the direction of the assault and back into their allied ranks.
Geribor was already looking forward to the feast in the old hall — it wouldn’t be much longer now…
