Once I’d got upwind of the tent I caught a whiff on the night air of some unfamiliar beast. Threading my way through the sleeping tents required little stealth—a Dwarf encampment by night shakes with the sound of snoring—and soon I had come upon the outskirts where a fenced enclosure held several score dark, shambling, hairy shapes. Not more dwarves, as one would think by my description, but large black bulls. At first I thought them to be camp provisions, but a long row of solidly-built saddles slung over the corral fence revealed their true purpose.

How the dwarves had managed to domesticate the beasts enough to ride them into battle was a mystery. Perhaps they share some common bond—they are both bold, hairy, aggressive breeds, after all. Perhaps, in the no-nonsense manner that is the Dwarf way, they merely held on for dear life and pointed the bulls in the direction of the enemy, who would scatter in panic, like the revelers who run before the bulls sometimes let loose on the streets in Spanish cities during the festival.