"Memo for Pathfinders when performing guard duty in the mountains...
1. Do not make noise! Mampas, Garap, and Rukhas (Trolls, Goblins, and Orcs) have excellent hearing!
2. Do not drink beer or ale on duty! It will make you burp and fart (see point number one).
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4. Do not sleep! A good Dwarf is a snoring Dwarf (see point number one).
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6. Do not forget to clean your weapon; steel does not like moisture.
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8. Do not leave tracks; Mampas (Trolls) of the winter mountains will easily find you and eat you!
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11. Do not neglect your beard! Even before death, you'd better comb it so the ancestors meet you looking good!"
"And what have we lost here, Gazardul?" I hadn't been called a sage before... Actually, it was pleasant to hear that despite the rapprochement with the human kingdoms and the Bronzebeards' policies, my kinsmen hadn't forgotten the old language of the people of Khaz.
"Need to check something," waving away the endless stream of questions, I climbed onto the next rock, driving a peg into a perfectly fitting hole, "Grim Batol holds many secrets; I'm sure we'll be able to find something interesting there."
"Yeah, I hope there'll be new trousers there," sniffing and scratching behind his ear, the Pathfinder scanned the surroundings with a suspicious gaze, "because judging by the rumors about this Cursed place, dirty ones are already guaranteed to us in double volume."
"No need to grumble so much, just cover me so Trolls or some other carrion don't show up and that's it!" The old scout's grumbling was already getting on my nerves, I swear by the beards of my ancestors. "A couple of days will be enough for me to study the inner halls..."
"A couple of days," spitting down, Dolf followed his spit with his gaze until it disappeared in the distance, "in a couple of days, we'll all be Cursed."
"Don't exaggerate, the Runeweavers have spoken to the spirits, so our bodies and minds are safe," rising to my full height with a grunt, I brushed the clinging dirt and snow from my knees, "I hope."
I whispered the last part under my breath, not strongly believing the claims of our spirit-talkers. And although I had several totems in my backpack to be set up around the camp and at the work sites, I hoped to finish everything much faster than the deadline so I wouldn't have to test the Shamanic tales for strength.
"Runeweavers, tsk, for goodness' sake."
Chuckling at the pompous and generally useless name they came up with so as not to have anything in common with Troll Shamans, I crawled further, occasionally looking back to ensure the safety of the others. Two dozen Dwarven Pathfinders, dressed in green cloaks, followed right behind me, watching the sides intently and ready to draw their weapons at any second to protect my life.
"Feels good, damn it."
Almost six months had passed since the creation of the machine. Six months of continuous work, having to finish the apparatus under the supervision and comments of the elders, bringing it into a proper state. Both the mechanism itself was fine-tuned and new attachments were created, expanding the range of goods produced. We selected a much more pleasant-smelling oil, and now there was no need to wash clothes after every session. We replaced several blades with a much more durable alloy that can work with rare minerals and ores.
But most importantly, based on the machine, they began to make other, much more interesting devices. The most important and probably impressive work was the creation of the "Milling unit for leveling, milling, grinding...".
A long and somewhat dull name from one of the young Dwarves who was trying to quickly secure the new device for himself so no one else would take his laurels. A bold, sharp, and moderately brilliant boy—who didn't miss his chance to rise to the top.
His impressive machine was capable of many things. Drilling, turning, grinding. Thanks to the swivel mechanisms, it could work in both vertical and horizontal positions. In essence, the young master attached a globe to my installation, and now the work table could be rotated at any angle, adjusting to the tool with the required side.
The first rifles created with the help of the new machine were released twice as early as the scheduled date. Build us another dozen such machines and then we'll be able to go into non-stop production! A miracle, no less!
And I was the one who started all this, so now I could calmly take the juiciest pieces from this "roasted bone." Knowledge, tools, ores, assistants, and the most wonderful thing—expeditions.
"For the greatest services rendered to the Dwarven people and the Kingdom of Khaz Modan," as King Magni Bronzebeard himself pompously put it while rewarding me and our clan.
And now I am free again, like a bird; the main thing is not to lose my whole beard on the roads and not to lose my way, periodically bringing all sorts of finds and new knowledge back to the Motherland.
According to the King, he had long wanted to organize something like this, so that a group of enthusiasts could unite under a common idea and set out into the outside world. No one believed these words, but I knew one of Magni's brothers who often spoke and dreamed of such a thing, and now, it seems, he managed to get his way.
Having talked the King into it, his younger brother—Brann Bronzebeard—set out with us. In the run-up to the war, he had many responsibilities, and before heading north after Muradin, Brann intended to fully enjoy the excavations and search for all sorts of junk in the former fortress of the Wildhammer Clan.
The fortress of our breakaway brothers, which was taken by storm and defiled by the vile Affliction of the Dark Iron Dwarves, the emanations of which still float in these mountains.
According to rumors, when the stronghold fell, for several months afterward, the spirits of fallen Dwarves roamed the battlefields, pouncing on everyone in whom life flows.
Whether this is truth or nonsense—I don't know. But knowing how the Dark Iron Dwarves loved to offer their backsides to all sorts of evil mystical filth and dabble in dark magic... I wouldn't be surprised if there's much more truth in these tales than fiction.
But let's get back to Brann, the eternal thorn in the side, Bronzebeard. May I replace my great-grandfather's crucible with a chamber pot if I don't express the general opinion of the mountain peoples toward the youngest of our kingdom's princes.
Brann was an unusual Dwarf.
Yes, damn it, he was bloody strange!
Smiling, often joking, he didn't like creating new things, preferring instead to dig in fossils rather than study books or create something for the benefit of the kingdom. And the most terrible thing—he didn't drink beer...
Hearing this for the first time, I stripped the beard of the brazen liar and slanderer into threads! But I was soon convinced that what was said was only the tip of the Iceberg (Corporation).
"Brann, maybe you'll take a sip after all?" Shaking a solid steel flask, inside which Bagman's dark foamy brew gurgled pleasantly, I hopefully held it out to the Prince, hoping he would finally come to his senses.
Understanding chuckles broke out behind my back at my question. All members of the expedition to Grim Batol didn't understand our temporary comrade's attitude toward drink. A clear mind and a firm intellect, that was his main motto in life, and everything that could cloud it—beer, ale, moonshine, wine, hooch, mushroom brew...
In short, a lot of things. If I started listing what Dwarves can make good booze out of, the process would drag on for a whole day, but let's get back to Brann...
None of this was accepted by this adventurer in any quantity. At all!
The boys and I even made bets on which of us could persuade the youngest of the Bronzebeards to drink. The winner of this competition was offered twenty-six Gold Coins!
"Leave him, Rodgirn," one of the Dwarves laughed loudly at my feeble attempt, "there's no helping him now."
"Yeah, doesn't drink beer, doesn't punch faces," a cheerful banter began among the Dwarves, jokes showering the poor Brann from all sides, "maybe he doesn't even... women..."
"Dismissed!" The commanding shout of the chief Pathfinder cut off all jokes in the bud. It was understandable; the Prince himself took such things with humor, but if such words reached King Magni...
There. Exactly what I was talking about. Even if everyone here is a comrade, as the saying goes:
"When two Dwarves share a secret—consider it already carved with a chisel on the gates of Ironforge."
"You've completely lost your minds, joking about the King's brother." Whispering the last part so only I could hear it, Dolf climbed onto a high rock with a grunt, taking my outstretched hand. "Thanks, Rodgirn..."
The seasoned scout looked around briskly, inhaling the high-mountain air. For several seconds, this broad-shouldered Dwarf moved his nose from side to side, looking for signs visible only to him.
His fingers twitched now and then, clearly about to reach for a weapon, but Dolf restrained himself.
"Smells bad here." In the end, the verdict was delivered... Although, considering that two dozen Dwarves—sweaty and smelly—were climbing a mountain in warm fur coats...
"Remarkable deduction." I couldn't help but poke at the chief Pathfinder; he had put on such a stern face. "At this rate, I might become a Pathfinder myself..."
"Joke all you want, Gazardul," curling his lips, Dolf bared his teeth, half of which had been replaced by silver blanks, "smells like Trolls... or Orcs."
"Is there a big difference?" Helping the next Pathfinder up, I fished out another one along with him, then left them to help each other while I stood closer to Dolf. "Whatever crap lies on the road, it's all the same."
My words provoked a quiet, agreeable laugh, and even the head of the Pathfinders squeezed out a semblance of a smile.
"That's true," putting his hands on his hips, the old scout moved his nose again. At that moment, he reminded me of an old Bear that had scented uninvited guests near its lair, "a bad place. It reeks of corpses far too strongly here."
Grunting at the scout's words, I rounded the rocks, standing before the gates of Grim Batol. We were approaching them from the other side, and now the once-majestic fortifications stretched out beneath our feet, revealing magnificent views of the former greatness of the Wildhammer Clan.
Traces of battle were visible everywhere. Ruined and rotted war machines, of which only pathetic wooden skeletons with rusted metal fittings remained. Fallen banners, most of them frayed, leaving huge, mournful holes in the fabric. Overturned tents and pavilions of the besiegers, piled in a heap, covering mounds of refuse left over from bygone times.
From above, the snow tried to gently dust everything. The white shroud did its best to hide the traces of war and destruction, but its efforts were in vain. The stench of death, which could not be caught by even the keenest sense of smell, was forever imprinted into this land...
"Khaz, guide their souls to the haven of the ancestors," came the voice of one of my guards from the side. A Blackbeard, a sturdy and lean Dwarf, dropped to one knee, picking up a banner torn in half from the ground.
Along with everyone else, I felt a bitter sting of guilt. My heart was pierced with pain and remorse.
"Now is not the time to think about this... The fortress fell long ago, and there is no point in mourning their deaths now."
Following the banner, we managed to find other traces of our Wildhammer brothers...
But besides all that, the decayed bodies of Dark Iron Dwarves lay everywhere. They were scattered all over. Defeated traitors, abandoned to the mercy of fate; even in the afterlife, there was no peace or oblivion for them, only the agonizing lot of eternally wandering the battlegrounds.
The Runeweavers had told us about the curse of the old fortress. During the war between the clans, the queen of the Dark Iron Dwarves, possessing secret and dark knowledge, led an army against Grim Batol. After a brief but fierce siege, her troops managed to break inside, killing everyone in their path, but in the final battle, the Thane of the Wildhammer Clan stepped forward and personally struck down the vile sorceress—crushing her chest with his hammer!
The rich armor, decorated with precious stones of crimson hues and made from an alloy of rare metals, could not withstand the power of the elements and burst.
Washed in the blood of the vile traitress, rubies and garnets scattered across the area, falling from the high mountains into the valley. According to eyewitnesses, they saw a crimson rain pouring from the sky to the earth, bright as falling stars and sparkling in the light...
With the death of their leader, the traitors lost heart; defeat and shame awaited them... But even in her death, that damn witch Modgud managed to leave a parting foulness. Her death released a massive torrent of Unholy power, forever settling in the sacred halls of the fortress.
There was no longer any life for the Wildhammer Clan there, and their great victory did not lead to celebrations or the singing of heroic deeds. Barely having time to count their dead, they had to leave their beloved ancient fortress and go far to the north, settling in the lands of the human kingdoms, creating their home anew.
Every Dwarf knows this story, and despite the fact that we have long since lost contact with our northern kin, we, just like them, curse the Dark Iron Clan and their descendants.
"Cursed brutes..." A terrible mixture of insults in Dwarven, Common, Human, and the ancient language of Khaz poured into our ears. One of the veteran Farstriders carefully picked up and folded a surviving banner. "The memory of your deeds will not be forgotten..."
Clenching my fingers into a fist with such force that the leather of my glove began to creak warningly, I was the first to turn away from the horrific sight. It was unpleasant to look at the great walls that would never be restored. They served as an excellent monument and a reminder to the Dwarves of our pride and conceit. Like our people themselves, Grim Batol was slowly rotting under its own weight out of pride.
"Break camp," I said, cutting off obvious questions by immediately chopping the air with my palm. "We won't go down or enter the fortress. The spirits of the fallen might not like our appearance. Better not to risk it."
Grunting in agreement, the Farstriders began to briskly carry out their work, breaking into pairs and setting up small tents. Several groups left to relieve our patrols, who followed at a distance from the rest of the squad, while the majority leveled the ground.
"Good work is better than any talk." Not wanting to shirk, I rolled up my sleeves slightly and joined the work with the others.
"Right you are, Gazardul," following my example, Dolf also threw a shovel over his shoulder, "good labor always helps... and we have a lot of work ahead of us."
His gaze slid over the fortress and its surroundings. It was obvious that the old scout's heart was not at ease, but there was nothing we could do to change that now.
The days passed slowly and steadily; I was in no hurry, confident in my guards, who could protect me from most of the continent's dangers.
Together with Brann, we began to actively study the remains of the Dark Iron army, and with each passing day, we found more and more unusual solutions. Most of the armor and weapons of our vile kin had long since vanished into oblivion, but what remained and was preserved held a certain weight. Unlike me, Brann understood a bit of practical magic, and most importantly, he knew the theory by heart, and it was thanks to his skills that we were able to begin grasping the enemy's craftsmanship without delay.
"They clearly powered it through Arcana, but I just can't understand what this weave is..." The prince twirled a small wand in his hands. The magic had long since evaporated from it, and the bound spirit had fled when the crystal in the pommel cracked. Poking the faded stone with his fingertip, Bronzebeard gave a funny yelp and recoiled when it burned him slightly. "It's still warm..."
Though, unlike Brann, I was more interested in the siege engines, each of which defied the imagination. Complex mechanisms that were invented hundreds of years ago were only now beginning to appear in Khaz Modan. As black as the hearts of our fallen brothers were, so great were their designs and ambitions.
With disgust, I sifted through rotted records that contained explanations of how some of my finds worked. Simple algorithms, rituals for maintaining the machines, and the like.
A mean little thought sometimes whispered in my head: how could we have missed such things ourselves, since the Blackrock Clan had attacked Ironforge as well...
Casting a discreet glance at Brann, I quickly found the answer. Unlike me, he wasn't very surprised by the finds; only the most unusual and exciting specimens brought him to delight.
"I see, Troll vomit. They probably hid everything in their storerooms and destroyed the rest."
Spitting on the ground, I tossed aside a falling-apart diary, perfectly aware that we wouldn't find anything truly valuable here, not like in the halls beneath the mountain of Grim Batol. Nature had tried too hard to sweep away the traces. Even the power of the curse felt many times weaker here, washed away by fresh air and time.
And so our daily lives passed, until finally, the decision was made to descend deep into the mountain and look for something interesting. Brann hoped to find the personal belongings of the Dark Iron queen, who had died somewhere in the depths of the fortress, while I didn't know what to expect.
There was a faint hope of finding a couple of the Wildhammers that the locals were so famous for. Civilized weapons of times past. Not that they didn't know how to create the same in Ironforge, but our old kin's versions turned out many times better and more powerful, though no master of Khaz Modan would ever admit it.
But the main problem remained. As soon as we entered the mountain, a crushing sensation settled on our shoulders, interfering with clear thinking. Heat and nausea, lethargy and strange thoughts. Modgud's curse began to overcome us as soon as we crossed the threshold, which meant it was time to pull out the gifts from the Dwarven spiritualists.
The Priests and our Shamans put forward various theories about the curse of Grim Batol, but most agreed that it depended entirely on Modgud, or more precisely, on her body, which remained somewhere in the depths of the Dwarven stronghold.
On one hand, we could try to destroy the corpse ourselves and perform a burial rite to appease the restless and cursed spirit, if it was still there, but on the other...
Why hadn't the Wildhammer Clan disposed of it themselves, allowing their home to be destroyed and desecrated?
"Gazardul, we're being watched," Dolf's voice was like a bucket of icy water on the back of the neck after a Brewfest. Over the many days spent outside, I had grown accustomed to no one bothering us and being able to peacefully engage in interesting work... And then this, and at the very moment we stepped inside. "Hurry up and set up those magical trinkets! Come on!"
Without arguing with the old scout, I quickly set up the totems carved from stone and wood, which illuminated our group with their soft blue light. They pulsed, driving away the darkness and fear, gradually bringing us back to normal. A pleasant blue of magical energy enveloped us from all sides, creating a kind of dome—a true oasis in this world of death and darkness...
And it was at that very moment that our enemy decided to show themselves—refuting the old-timers' claims that living in Grim Batol was impossible.
"Lok'Tar Ogar!!!"
"Victory or death."
The translation from their primitive and crude language flashed through my head. After the destruction of the southern human kingdom of Stormwind, many refugees had flooded the roads. Old men and children, warriors and knights, militia and bandits, even aristocrats and the lowliest beggars...
And most of them told horrific things—frightening stories that kept people awake at night: the young from fear and the old from the call of conscience.
But almost all of them, in a single voice filled with terror, said that when you hear this guttural battle cry, you can surely expect trouble.
The roar of iron lungs echoed through the spacious hall. To our own shame, we only now noticed how few traces of destruction and debris there were here. We couldn't blame everything on the warlock's curse, much as we wanted to.
Huge green-skinned figures slipped out of the darkness. Hiding behind columns, in side rooms and corridors, they quickly flooded the hall—rapidly approaching us.
Here and there, another freak would throw back his head, shouting a battle cry and rushing into the attack. Dressed in savage rags, without armor or any protection whatsoever, they charged forward—their massive muscles glistening.
Crimson eyes stood out particularly in the darkness and the rare glimmers of torches and lanterns. Large tusks and powerful jaws. Ponderous fists and crude axes and spears barely fit for combat...
There was no fear of the creatures themselves; the mere appearance of the Orcs evoked contempt and disgust, but their numbers...
It stunned the Farstriders, and me as well.
"Don't piss yourselves! Fall in line!"
Dolf's thundering shout made my ears ring. While the scouts formed a combat circle, Brann and I froze in place, having only managed to draw our blades and preparing to sell our lives dearly.
"Form a circle! FAST! Remenu!" Calling our kin to battle, Dolf drew his own weapon, swinging it excitedly from side to side, already joyfully imagining how he would drench it in green-skin blood.
A small passage of bodies opened before us, which we immediately slipped into, silently thanking the old warrior. Dropping my backpack to the ground, I pulled out a human pistol: right now I needed speed, not raw combat power.
The slightly modified weapon had become many times more reliable, and now there was no need to fear that with every second shot, your own hand might serve as the projectile.
At the same time, Brann was unsheathing a massive blunderbuss, one of the first of its kind. A true work of art that only someone like a clan head or his closest relatives could afford...
Well, or the King's favorite younger brother. Imagine a sturdy, short gun with metal inserts, decorated with images of mountains and axes. A massive stock made of dark wood, inlaid with iron and carved for a specific hand. A barrel slightly wider than usual and a small, neat front sight at the end of the barrel.
It was a stunning weapon, even to my amateur eye.
And it would be a long time before we could arm all our regiments with them.
"Filthy rich bastard."
The King's brother quickly loaded his treasure, which surely cost more than our entire squad, looking now at me, now casting rare, cautious glances at the approaching horde of green-skins. They were descending and rapidly closing in on us, throwing spears and axes, hoping to thin our ranks before the direct clash, but small round metal shields deftly deflected the rare projectiles that reached the formation.
The light of the totems illuminated stern Dwarven faces, as if carved from stone. The gloom of the curse hovered at a distance, ceasing to test our resolve and seemingly waiting to see how it would all end.
My blood boiled, my fists were already itching, while my eyes peered into the vile, tusked faces. The mere sight of them awakened unpleasant feelings in my soul.
"You're not so scary. You're all the same freaks as the Trolls."
I managed to think this before the halls of Grim Batol were once again filled with the scent of gunpowder and the thunder of shots.
"FIRE!" Dolf's resonant roar deafened my left ear; even the fire of a dozen rifles seemed like a soft whisper of an Elven harlot in the darkness of a bedroom by comparison.
The first volley felled and scrambled the enemy's ranks. The echo carried for many miles—making the mountain peaks grunt in displeasure. The synchronized shot struck the Farstriders' ears, but no one even winced; like me, charged by the shouts of their commander Dolf, the scouts paid no attention to the thundering volleys, continuing to peer into the gunpowder smoke.
"AGAIN!" Waving his hand, urging the slow ones on, the old Dwarf walked behind his subordinates. "LOAD!"
We couldn't see them, but I heard the painful howls of those brutes.
"They wail just like everyone else," Dolf shared my thoughts, and that only made it more frustrating. The enemy wasn't as terrifying as they had been described to us, which meant Ironforge could have entered the war against these creatures, and perhaps our allies would have survived. "Final volley!"
The crash of pistols and rifles once again rang through the ancient halls, disturbing the silence and peace of the traitor-dead. Inhaling the gunpowder smoke, I felt my mustache bristle with martial spirit. My hand impatiently gripped the handle of the axe right at the blade. My thumb affectionately traced the pick on the reverse side.
"Now we're going to crack your skulls."
"Axes ready!" Seeing the approaching wave of Orcs, Dolf gave the order before the creatures reached our positions. "Send these brutes into oblivion!"
As if reading my thoughts, the Farstrider commander gave the command, and all of us, as one, adjusted our grip on our weapons. Small battle axes with a sharp blade of modest width and a dangerous small pick on the other side. Additionally, every scout had a round shield that covered the arm to the elbow. Not enough to stand as a wall, but it would help deflect a blow. Orcs, according to human stories, love to jump and bring down all their strength and weight, breaking through enemy defenses with a single lunge. Strong and stupid, just like Trolls.
"They're coming!" Standing in the front ranks, Dolf hopped impatiently in place while the other Dwarves waited for the final command. "Scatter, we fight to the death!"
With the last word, the first body flew out of the smoke, bringing its weapon down on the nearest Dwarf. Putting all its strength into the blow, this dull-witted carcass watched with surprise as its axe slid off the small metal shield, throwing sparks, but the green-faced spawn didn't get to see the end. The small pick of the defending bearded warrior drove exactly into its temple.
With the first body fallen, the same began to repeat over and over. Lone Orcs flew through the clouds of gunpowder smoke, trying to catch us off guard, but instead lost their legs, caught the edges of shields with their teeth, or lost their manhood—which, besides the spirited shouts, filled the halls with pathetic whimpering. It was inconvenient for them to fight us; they had to constantly bend down and watch their legs, where our sharp-edged axes were already welcomingly waiting, easily reaching the bone with a single blow and sometimes cutting through it.
And only when the smoke began to dissipate from rare drafts of air did we begin to take our first losses.
"Protect the smart ones! Baruk khazad!" The ancient battle cry filled the walls of Grim Batol. A dozen axes soared into the sky in sync and just as quickly descended upon the nearest enemies. "Stand firm!"
Before Dolf could finish, a purple projectile fell into the center of our formation. A huge blotch splashed across the area, hitting many, including the Farstrider commander himself.
The old scout clutched his face in agony, as if trying to tear off his skin just to get rid of the pain, but it was all in vain. In just a couple of moments, the corpse of a kinsman lay beside me. A terrible agony had distorted his body, expressed in every frozen muscle.
For a few moments, I stared at his mutilated body before someone's scream reached my ears.
"Retreat!"
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