"We know for certain that the Trolls once had their own empire—the Amani.
A sufficiently large state, the fragments of whose power
Can still be found deep in the jungles,
Where their degraded descendants dwell.
The Trolls themselves claim they were a great people,
And despite all skepticism, the evidence of such is obvious.
They had cities, powerful magic, their own strong gods,
And most importantly—an army, a vast host that could fight on equal terms
With both the Elves of Quel'Thalas and the Empire of Arathor,
When the latter was at the peak of its greatness.
To my regret, and that of all world historians and archaeologists,
Virtually nothing remains of their legacy, and most of the knowledge has been destroyed,
Buried beneath the ruins of a fallen civilization."
"Khazukan Kazakit—ha!" The ancient battle cry of my people echoed across the battlefield.
And although there was only one Dwarf here now, my shout was enough for the fanged freaks to take notice of me. The battle cry of our people would be long remembered and would forever remain in their hearts as a synonym for fear and horror.
Unlimbering my personal Fire-spitter, the "Iron Dragon," I squeezed the trigger with a devilish grin, unleashing a stream of flame, splashing it across the front ranks of the advancing savages.
"Aaaaaah!" Pushing the throttle to the limit, I felt my hands tremble from the power being spewed forth! "Burn the bastards!"
My deep, bassy shout was taken up by the other flamethrower operators. Forming a chain, we flooded a vast area of the forest line, lighting up the morning gloom with a flame as bright as daylight.
Like a tidal wave, the fire rolled through their ranks, finding every crack, every hole in their clothing or slit in their masks, settling on armor made of bone and wood—reaching their foul bodies, burning a path to the Troll meat.
"For Khaz Modan!" The first drops of sweat began to roll down my temples. Despite the protective casing, I felt to my very core the unique and wild power I held in my hands.
The weapon in my palms roared no worse than a real dragon. Tongues of flame leaped forward a good thirty meters, and the specially carved shape of the barrel accompanied every shot with a guttural roar that was as effective as the Fire-spitter itself.
Through the metal mask, lined on the inside with special leather, my wide-open eyes were visible, tracking every twitching body.
The fire roared in my ears, destroying life itself. The power of the element strained for freedom, clearing our path, and we let it loose like a fighting dog off its leash.
To my left marched Tim—a true machine clad in plate, with an enlarged tank identical to mine resting on his back. We walked at the tip of the spear, paving the way, and no one could stop us.
The village oaf stepped steadily. The power of the Fire-spitter did not affect his gait in the least, as if he were holding a thin, dry twig. Chuckling grimly, occasionally growling no worse than his weapon, Tim once again showed his complex nature—hidden behind the mask of a simple-minded lad.
The thick jungles, which had always been the Trolls' main ally in the war with Stromgarde, were now their main weakness and trap. They prevented them from shooting at us or quickly closing in to plunge a dagger into the heart of a bold midget and his lackeys, piercing tissues and filling the muscles around the main organ with blood to slowly enjoy watching us die in agony.
They couldn't throw a spear as they usually did—pinning the bodies of the flamethrower operators like insects on pins.
And they couldn't fall upon us with axes in hand—crushing the defense and disregarding their own wounds.
The beasts could do nothing!
Oh, I'm just certain... certain of how many times they will repeat my name in their foul tongue when they stand before their ancestors!
I hear them wishing for it in their death cries, cursing me and the others unto the seventh generation. Among them were Shamans. Not those mighty guides of spirits, but simple half-wits who were the first to stand against the foolish army of humans that had wandered into the forests and mountains.
But we were able to handle them, able to walk over their corpses burned to ash, indifferently treading on bones crumbling underfoot.
My gaze darted from side to side. Immersed in an adrenaline rush, I didn't even notice that Tim and I, along with a few other crazies, were left alone, but we still kept moving forward, slowly but surely burning out the Troll forests.
Before us bloomed the humid jungle. Difficult to ignite by ordinary means, but now it blazed like dry hay the moment it was doused with my fire-mixture. Unusual bright flowers of various shades. Exotic beasts, birds and snakes unfamiliar to me, a cloud of insects, and of course, the cursed Trolls themselves, who for long centuries had considered these jungles their impregnable fortress.
But all of this vanished in the blink of an eye, and behind our backs burned an unquenchable flame. Black earth and collapsing tree trunks, snapping at the base and falling down, straight into the abyss of fire and death.
It was a pity that only by maintaining the flame could this filth be burned out; otherwise, the fire would eventually burn out, yielding to the humidity and the abundance of fire-resistant plants.
"Finishing up!"
Unleashing the last stream, I thrust my fist upward—a simple sign to stop, and even yesterday's Militia and peasants, who had been hired to become Fire-spitter operators, had managed to learn it.
Releasing their final charges, my flamethrowers stood in place, sweeping their barrels from side to side. Among those left in the ranks, I saw the most desperate and those who had suffered most from this endless war. They strained forward, longing to continue the slaughter of those who had taken their families and happy homes, but to their regret, our work for today was finished.
Without staying to watch the edge of the forest burn out, I led my boys back, and only after covering most of the way did I allow them to remove the special masks, revealing our sweaty and flushed faces to the world.
We walked slowly and in silence, having the opportunity to fully admire the work of our hands. Nearly a hundred meters of the path had been scorched, creating a new road through the thick jungles of the Hinterlands. Like a red-hot knife through old, dried butter.
We were already being met. Fighters who had fled out of fear and rejection of such things. Knights and soldiers, clerics, Militia, attendants, and a few Wizards—though, according to the Biotics users themselves, they were more like apprentices, especially by the standards of the magical city-state of Dalaran, which, after the destruction of Stormwind and its mages' guild, had become a monopolist on magical services.
Hundreds of people crowded behind the king's back at various distances from each other and now stared intently at the smoldering forest we had left behind.
Their gazes darted back and forth toward Thoras, searching his face for a reaction to what had happened, for none of these nobles, warriors, and scholars had even suspected how terrifying and devastating the weapon I created would turn out to be.
But while most people looked on with horror, the expression on the king's face amused me and convinced me of a prosperous future.
A snarl. Not a smile, not a smirk, and not a crooked grimace... It was the snarl of a Demon finally reaching its prey. A man who was glad to have obtained such a thing, and I was certain he would be ready to give even more to get something more dangerous and powerful, would lay everything on the altar of victory if the result was even half of what he had seen.
And as soon as I approached and stood beside Thoras and Danath, the powerful paw of this Orc in human form descended onto my shoulder, squeezing with a steel grip.
I think if anyone else—one of his aristocrats or his own little son—had been in my place, the poor fellow would have had to beg for an audience with a Mage or Priest, pleading to mend a broken bone.
"You have exceeded all my expectations, Master Rodgirn," the man rasped, his throat parched, swallowing his endings and struggling to get the words out, "fulfilled a long-held dream of generations of my ancestors..."
"Ha! You haven't seen anything yet, Your Majesty," I said, shaking my beard, which had been oiled with several compounds at once so it wouldn't accidentally burn in that bacchanalia of raging flame. I mirrored Thoras's snarl. "You haven't seen anything yet."
From the side, we must have looked like a pair of madmen, but neither of us cared. Proudly shaking the Fire-spitter gripped in my hands, I pointed into the distance—to where the last city of these fanged beasts was supposed to stand.
"With my brains and your resources, we will create something truly amazing..." Shocked whispers rippled through the ranks of the royal retinue. I didn't know what they were more surprised by—my manners or the prospect of possessing something more destructive... and I didn't want to know. Something else concerned me far more. "But we'll talk about war and my toys later. First, beer."
Voicing my thoughts aloud, I received warm approval from both Thoras and his nephew. Striking hands again, we headed toward the camp being built a kilometer away.
*****
"Don't let the beast get away!" Issuing commands, I didn't forget to reload the Iron Dragon. "Corner it, corner it!"
This was just some kind of clusterfuck. No good Dwarf should swear so banally and like a human; only our beautiful language is capable of conveying the full degree of dissatisfaction to one's interlocutors, even if the interlocutor doesn't understand a damn thing.
But right now, no curse could be found in Dwarven, Human, Elven, or even the Troll tongue.
Connecting a new tank of fuel, I hurriedly threw it onto my back, returning to the battlefield. Though it looked more like a slaughterhouse when a wolf is driven into a chicken coop.
At first, everything was fine, and our advance through the Troll lands was in full swing. Rare, poorly organized resistance was occasionally interrupted by large raids from various tribes of fanged filth, but the outcome was predictable.
With small losses and a huge expenditure of fuel, we carved a black swath with the Fire-spitters, which they had already begun to mark on new maps.
Thoras Trollbane was seriously considering building a proper road in the wake of our advance and beginning to establish new settlements here that would start supplying timber and other resources available from the jungle.
But all that was a matter of time, and right now we were more concerned with the city that had appeared from behind the thick thickets. A real, mother-loving Troll city. With walls, gates, and all that crap. I had said myself that there were rumors about it, but I only fully believed those tales when I saw this shit with my own eyes!
The scout who ran to us just blinked, not knowing how to explain what he had seen, and we ourselves, I admit, didn't believe the poor fellow's words, thinking he had just gotten drunk on duty or smoked some local flower.
That was another little problem that had cropped up. Enterprising soldiers, no matter how good their discipline, remain living and sentient beings with their own problems and quirks. So the soldiering found new ways to relax after a hard day, and with each passing day, these methods became crazier.
It got to the point where one of the squads was licking the backs of colored frogs to get hallucinations and other incomprehensible effects. And the most unpleasant thing was that I wasn't sure—would my kin have acted any differently if the booze had run out on the march!?
*A circus, the lot of you.*
And that thought had crossed my mind more than once or twice during the month and a half of our journey. But back to our rams—no offense to Smetchik.
Three days ago, we began storming the Troll city... I still can't believe I'm saying that, but a fact is a fact. Albeit battered, stinking, and dirty... albeit it looked more like a pyramid-temple or something, it was still a city!
And since then, everything had more or less stabilized, and we were slowly but surely fighting our way past the walls, selling our lives dearly. There were so many Troll corpses that at one point, makeshift barricades began to form from their bodies.
It seemed that, terrified by our rapid advance, the fanged beasts had flocked from all around, deciding to make a final stand in their main stronghold.
In the city, we couldn't use the Fire-spitters as actively, fearing we'd set fire to the thatched roofs and wooden buildings, but when we emerged into large squares or wide streets, the cries of dying enemies rang out over the ancient structures.
Their screams helped us advance faster, but all of this had a negative result as well. There were fewer and fewer people in the flamethrower squad, and I myself could no longer look so calmly at dozens of sentient beings burning alive. Only guys like Tim happily continued to douse the enemies with fire-mixture, encouraging themselves with various battle cries and jokes about burning food.
But it wasn't just humans who felt the mounting pressure, slowly breaking... the Trolls did too, and unlike us, they couldn't just leave, leaving their comrades to die—no. Instead, our fanged "friends" began to fight like cornered rats and use the most vile rituals and sorcery, significantly reducing our numbers.
If at first, they just threw unpleasant spells at us, with every hour and with the increase in our advance speed, the inventions of the Troll Shamans became more dangerous and more loathsome.
Animated corpses that felt no blows, pain, fear... or pity. Crowds of the dead, slowly prowling between houses, tearing everyone to pieces, ignoring lost limbs and new holes poked in their bodies.
Grisly beasts that no one would wish for as enemies... well, except for Orcs... and it wouldn't be bad to pit the Trolls themselves against this filth, tsk.
If we didn't have Fire-spitters, I would have seriously feared for the failure of the entire military campaign; the new enemy turned out to be far too unexpected and strong. Но under the power of the flame, they burned just like everything else.
But that was only the beginning. Curses and diseases rained down on our army. Priests were run off their feet, fighting the symptoms with the power of the light and medicines, unable to prevent the new nastiness the bastards generously bestowed upon us.
People died, collapsed, though a moment ago they had stood in the ranks. The foul stench of shit and vomit filled the camp, but Thoras refused to retreat. Seeing the end of his ancient enemies before him, he flatly refused to leave, even hanging a couple of his nobles as a warning to the rest. The poor devils were killed like dirty outlaws, which quickly cut off the voices of all the dissatisfied, and the people, with new strength and fear of their own ruler, rushed forward, laying down their lives on the altar of victory.
Through curses, sweat, tears, and the cries of dying comrades—the soldiers of Stromgarde were achieving the impossible before our eyes.
As it turned out later, the altar in this city was not metaphorical.
"A pickaxe in my eye! Get the ropes! Arbalesters! FIRE!"
Three dozen bolts thudded into the monster's belly, eliciting a dissatisfied hiss, but the creature didn't even notice the wound, rushing in the other direction, toward where much more biting targets stood.
"I WILL BURN YOU TO ASHES!"
Tim's mad scream, as the man leaped out to intercept a massive blood-colored spider we had been trying to kill for two hours now, was... effective.
The monster reacted instantly, twisting and directing its huge pincer-legs at my assistant, but the lad was only waiting for that. The barrel of his Fire-spitter was dangerously red-hot, and now, tilting it upward, this crazy peasant fired right into the spirit's face. Apparently, Tim had broken the limiter, and now, in less than ten seconds, the entire contents of the tank instantly rushed forward, settling on the head and back of the magical creature.
The blood-red spider flew past my assistant, stumbling and screeching in pain. Its huge legs struck random poor devils who were unlucky enough to be nearby. Trolls or humans, it made no difference to the monster now. Their bodies flew like broken dolls, leaving bloody trails.
The beast burned for a long time. Other flamethrowers doused it from all sides, occasionally losing comrades when the spike-covered pincers pierced their bodies, easily punching through steel and casings, breaking the Fire-spitters. Several tanks detonated when the monster managed to reach their operators, but that no longer mattered.
The Troll spawn, spirit, god, Loa, or whatever they call that shit?! It fell, toppling onto its back, pulling in its huge legs, most of which had fallen off and were now burning nearby.
A foul smell of burning flesh, blood, and shit hung around, and over this entire palette of flavors wafted the scent of burnt fire-mixture.
Removing the axe from my belt, I threw the mask off my face and, wiping the sweat with the back of my hand, headed toward the monster's head. The thoroughly roasted spider emitted heat of such intensity that I had to shield my eyes. Steam and smoke rose from its body, and baked meat oozed from under the chitin, flowing in a disgusting mass.
"Tsk. Gelek menu caragu rukhs," I grumbled, pointlessly mentioning Orcish shit, which the monster's entrails so closely resembled. "Ashes to ashes, beast," with a wide swing, I punched through the creature's flimsy armor, burying the axe to the hilt and splitting everything on the way to the brain, "now you're definitely dead... Although..."
Summoning the flamethrowers, I pointed to the skull I had split open, and to the anticipatory expectation of these psychos, I gave the signal.
"Let it burn with a blue flame!"
"YES!"
A few enthusiasts quickly ran for a fresh tank, and just a couple of minutes later, it was poured entirely over the monster's head. The pyromaniacs took pleasure in lighting the remains from a respectable distance, rightfully fearing a flare-up. When a pillar of fire shot into the air, with faint tints of blue visible in the tongues of flame, I grunted approvingly and clapped my hands.
Even the knights and marksmen, who had been wary of us and our weapons, were now joyfully shouting all sorts of threats and other nonsense, glorifying their king and wishing the trolls a "long" life.
Struggling to suppress a yawn of exhaustion, I sat down on a nearby stone, stripping off my protective equipment. I was glad that near the altar where they had summoned this spider, there was a small lake where I was now going to wash off the soot and sweat, disregarding any orders or requests.
When I was down to just my shirt and trousers, I heard the clatter of army plate behind my back. A few minutes later, Thoras himself descended from the high Troll structure, accompanied by his nephew.
In the right hand of the ruler of Stromgarde dangled the head of the local high priest. The freak's maw was wide open, twisted in a silent scream, and its eyes had rolled back. It seemed Trollbane had tortured the bastard quite a bit before granting him a quick death.
Noticing my ironic gaze and raised right eyebrow, Thoras, having cooled down from the battle rage, looked as bashful as a schoolboy.
"I'll polish it and hang it as a trophy," he said, lifting the head to eye level. He grimaced at the stench and hooked it to his belt. "A few more heads will be joining it soon."
Pricking up my ears, I moved closer. Apparently, the priest had been talkative enough for the King to continue his cherished campaign despite the heavy losses.
"There is another city deep in the jungle," Trollbane said, skeptically surveying the ruins, most of which consisted of attached shacks. He sat down beside me. "Larger than this one and stronger. Many trolls from all around are gathering there... many times more than here. When we attacked this temple, all the creatures from the surrounding lands who didn't make it here likely flocked there."
"I see..." What else was there to say? There wasn't much expected of me; I didn't even have to go on this campaign, but I had really wanted to knock out a few tusks myself. "You want to squash them all at once? Sounds dangerous. Do we really have enough strength for that?"
"I've already thought it through and decided the game is worth the candle," Thoras said, scratching his mighty chin. He slapped his knees and stood up from the stone, and I followed him. "Most of the city garrisons will be reduced, and they will arrive here within a week."
"That won't be enough." Having already estimated how many men it took just to take the temple and get this far, it was clear our forces would hardly suffice to repeat the feat. "And I thought you left the greenest recruits in the cities."
"Heh, there's that." A crooked smirk spread across his stern face. The King clearly disliked admitting such a thing, especially a warrior king whose people were recognized by everyone else in this difficult trade. "But I understand the situation, so I've seen to it that Revenge arrives. A messenger has already set out and will soon reach his destination. A day, maybe two, I think."
"Ooooh," I said, showily stroking my beard and fumbling in my pockets for my pipe. "And who exactly is coming to our aid?"
Finally finding what I needed, I lit the dry tobacco leaf in a couple of motions, inhaling the thick, dense smoke and feeling it rush through my lungs. That rascal Thoras waited until I closed my eyes in pleasure before giving his answer.
"Lordaeron."
***
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