You'll owe me a pint of Bugman's for this, lad. Make no mistake...

Kadrin Redmane... A venerable dwarf he was, and his name isn't something all beardlings know of... Mind you, I don't know all the details meself, but I'll tell ye what I know of him.

Named for his long, red beard he was, a trait in their clan. Red like the fire of the furnace, I hear told, and fitting too, for a fierce dwarf he was. And though his achievements are many and there are more tales of him than there are ways to skever a grobi, I'll tell you of Kadrin Redmane's last stand...

Back in the days, even before my time, Kadrin Redmane was the Runelord of Karak Varn. A wealthy hold it was, overlooking the Black Water Lake... And rich in Gromril. So very rich... In those days, you could throw your pick and start digging from where it landed, and you'd find a vein... Not like in these days, no. But those vile rats and grobi were envious. They wanted the hold for themselves. And betraying their usual, cowardly nature, they struck a pact... Surely intending to betray each other after the deed was done, but for the time, united against us, their hated enemy...

Aye, it was a long, bitter war. Fought with poison and fury deep in the caverns and halls of the mountain, but you've heard many a tale of that, haven't you, lad? And Kadrin Redmane didn't perish there, no. He died like a dwarf should, atop a pile of dead greenskins...

For you see, Karak Varn was not the only hold in need of Gromril. And Redmane lead a train of Gromril towards Karaz-a-Karak, there to be crafted into the finest armour and weapons you'd know. But not even above the ground was he safe, no. A massive horde of orcs descended upon him and his army, intent on plundering the gromril for themselves. Not that they'd know what to do with it, savages...

He knew they could not outrun the orcs. Even with the determination of our kind, we can't outrun the savage boars they ride, nor walk our way through while surrounded. But he knew his duty to king and hold, and gave the gromril train a chance. He separated his forces, each dwarf willing to sacrifice their life to let the others keep the train moving.

With the black lake protecting their backs, Kadrin and his army formed a shieldwall between the orcs and the train, letting loose with everything they had. Good, honest crossbow-work it is, and don't you let anyone tell you otherwise. Those manlings from the north or from the west might tell you that there's no honor in fighting from afar, but let me tell you, if you can hit a grobi between the eyes from two hundred paces... Well, it will be me buying you a beer, then.

Onwards the orcs came, more than ten for each dwarf, crashing upon the shieldwall protecting the train like an unstoppable green tide. But they held the line, boy. Not a single orc got their grubby hands on the gromril, the longbeards singing as they slew... Sorry, got something in me eye.

It was a long, brutal fight. The orcs came time and time again, howling in anger and rage but they pushed them back, hammer and axe cutting green skin and letting blood flow, each dwarf falling only lending more strength to the blows of the rest. And as time went on, the orcs seemed to forget the gromril altogether, their brutish, savage minds only focusing on the fierce defenders, the train making it's escape.

And those dwarves that guarded the train were heroes each, lad. Let none tell you otherwise. It would have been easy to take axe and shield to join the defense, but who would keep caravan safe from the next attack, lad? Nobody, that's who. Swearing to remember the day and giving grim oaths to pay the greenskins back, they watched behind as the line held the orcs at bay...

Kadrin himself was like Grimnir reborn, I tell you. Singing songs of war he killed, hammer in hand to slay his enemies, shield to protect himself and his kin. And fine artifacts they were too, lad! His shield of finest gromril, no ratman knife or orc cleaver could even dent it, whilst his hammer fractured limbs and crushed heads to pulp, like smashing potatoes, he was.

But even as mighty as he was, he could not win the war alone. Soon, the shieldwall began to bend under the weight of the greenskin charge. The line bent into an arch, our kin pushed back-to-back, knowing that to fall would doom the dwarf behind him. The black water ran red that day, and the beasts underneath the surface feasted on green flesh.

It was only after the defenders could see the baggage train vanish beyond a hill that they began to fall. Dead on their feet, not falling and letting the orcs step forth even in death, those precious seconds allowing for the line to form again, tightening until only Kadrin remained, his back to the lake, surrounded by his comrades, raging his defiance to the orcs from atop a mountain of corpses... Like Grimnir reborn, I tell you.

Twenty, thirty orcs he killed before the line broke, and fighting alone, only he himself will know. The pile of orcs was higher than a troll, I hear told, the leader of the orcs lying dead with his lieutenants at his feet, his body bleeding and bruised.

But before he died, he made sure to finish his task. The orcs weren't to get a single bit of Gromril that day. His shield finally shattered after thousands upon thousands of hits, and with his dying breath, he threw his hammer into the water, even then slaying a monster lurking under the water, I hear told.

No dwarf survived that fight, but it was the orcs that lost the battle, their prize denied, their numbers thinned. Some died trying to go after the hammer, eaten alive by monsters of the deep, and the Hammer of Kadrin Redmane still lies there to this day. Though I hear tale the engineers guild are building a bell for diving, and are intent on retrieving it... Bah. You know what bells remind me of? The ratlings. Shouldn't no honest Dwarf be building something like that, no...

That is the tale of Kadrin Redmane's last stand. Someone might tell it better than me, but you asked, lad... So now, about that ale, all that speaking made me thirstier than a sponge...