"Warlocks see enormous possibilities.
Their goal is power, and in achieving it, dark arts assist them.
Warlockery is a path of degradation for arcanists or shamans
Who have abandoned the practice of arcane or natural magic for another Powerful source of power – fel magic.
The Gurubashi Empire, of which the Amani trolls were once a part,
Contained such warlocks as Hukku.
Their teachings speak of 'dark and terrible creatures' that 'mutter in the darkness.'
It is also assumed that the Amani warlocks mean
Not the classic demons we know of.
Apparently, they learned the art of warlockery from 'these voices'
And mastered the mysteries of dark magic,
Which suggests a source of power beyond our understanding."
"Ha! That fucking Mump is too cocky for an ugly cripple!" Getting more and more worked up, my old friend increasingly resembled a rabid Gnoll, saliva nearly dripping from his beard in rage! "Give me two dozen guys with Fire-spitters and I'll make a Nogarung out of his dumb skull!"
Threatening the city with his fist, Muradin slammed his pound-heavy fist on the table, making several scribes jump and knocking over all the figurines lined up along the edges. And his threat – to craft a beer mug from the enemy's skull – was more than a weighty statement that impressed few of our kin who had arrived with him.
"Damn... His words got to you hard, old friend, though... You're not the only one."
Looking around, I noticed how many of those present were seriously considering the proposal, especially the Trollbane family. Both the elder and the younger had quickly found common ground with this drunkard and rogue from the first day of acquaintance, easily conversing without any ornate verbal frills that many of royal blood love so much – and I'm not just talking about humans. True Dwarves, pity their bodies fell short.
Three days ago, our united army approached the largest city of the Amani tribes, as the captured trolls assured us.
Jintha'Alor, or whatever it's called, was a very strange structure resembling a huge staircase, making the place look extremely impregnable, which emboldened the trolls to hurl insults at us from the walls and shower us with abusive words...
And sometimes shit, no point keeping quiet about it now.
Their current leader and chieftain of the "United Against the Great Threat" tribes – Zul'jin – was the most active in these antics. The nastiest, slyest, and cruelest troll mug ever born among that wretched tribe. For a long time, he lurked in the north, on the outskirts of elven lands, constantly clashing with them, but our success in the war forced him to move further south to prevent the annihilation of his kin and our alliance with the elves in destroying him.
Under his command, the trolls did impossible things – like tactics and strategy. And coherent speech, some discipline, and probably even started washing...
Alright, I'm joking. We do have a magical world, but not that much, heh-heh.
But back to business.
The sick bastards poisoned all the drinking water sources in the area, scattered the game, and deliberately bred swarms of insects in rotten carcasses, hanging huge meat incubators along our path.
True hordes of flies, venomous vermin, and other filth crawled at us from all sides, taking the lives of inattentive soldiers and dim-witted laborers following with the wagons and siege engines.
Lordaeron's army no longer looked so splendid, having lost all its polish, fancy rags, and stately banners. Now they looked more like us – angry, exhausted, and thirsting for troll blood.
United by common troubles and a goal, we easily redirected all the soldiers' anger in the right direction, without even needing to exaggerate or lie, just constantly reminding and slightly embellishing. Though the guys from the Order of the Silver Hand didn't like this approach either, and getting to know them better, I could understand why.
There were six of them in total, as the recently formed order of "paladins" – whatever that word means – was a new structure and initiative of the priest who came with his spiritual disciples, Alonsus Faol.
A spry fellow trying to be everywhere at once and periodically watching me from around corners, which pissed me off to no end. I'd heard stories about human priests who love little kids, but with all due respect, only a blind stoned orc could mistake me for a child.
As for the young lads who came with Alonsus... I swear by our ancestors and Great Khaz's ass, they still had milk on their lips, and only one had seen real combat, surviving Stormwind's destruction, while the rest chased outlaws and riffraff in Lordaeron.
May a Fire-spitter get shoved up my ass, one of them was a fucking monk! Never held a weapon in his life! And this guy was their lieutenant! I don't know how righteous or talented he is, but the fact that these runts dragged a yesterday's monk into the thick of battle...
"Great ancestors, give me strength."
What pissed me off most was that when I met these bunny-boys, whom the priest selected by the spirituality of their faces and proud profiles, or maybe for other, extremely "deep" reasons... Anduin Lothar, damn him! Stormwind's Lion, humans' defender, and first among all their tribe! He just stood there grinning into his beard!
The damn joker couldn't get enough of my shock and outrage! And when Muradin learned all the details from me, Lordaeron's army commander became the sole audience for the concert: "Two dwarves, common sense, and swearing."
I can't remember exactly how long we argued; it felt like every damn day. As soon as we calmed down, Anduin or his suspicious buddy Alonsus would send one of their kids to chat with us. And damn it, I'm never against teaching youngsters some sense! I made a normal, reasonable one out of Tim, and with these, who have brains in place, I'd manage even better, but they're "lightbringers" to the bone.
"FUCK! They've got Holy Light instead of brains."
Spitting on the ground, heavy smoking, and downing a week's worth of human beer reserves in one morning became routine for me. And how much Bronzebeard poured into himself is scary to imagine, since unlike me, his position forced him to communicate with these beatifics far more often.
A bunch of little righteous pricks!
Glory to the ancestors and our distant home, we finally caught up to the troll pit, or whatever they call that dump!? And I hoped I'd soon vent all my anger and disappointment in humans on a couple dozen toothy mugs.
But Zul'jin, his priests, and several thousand trolls thought otherwise. The very first assault made us wash with blood, rolling back under the mockery of these Gimil-thumane, Gol'gethrunon, Haldji-drugan (Untranslatable dwarven profanity).
And now we stood in the tent, discussing plans for the next attack. As the only competent engineer and probable siege master, I was invited among the first, since relying on humans in this – is like trusting goblins to comb their beard.
We gathered in Thoras's tent, whom Anduin easily took for the main one, standing at his right shoulder and giving sound advice, occasionally throwing mocking glances at Muradin and me.
Wiping the pipe with the edge of a cloth, I bit it angrily, striking sparks from the flint – screw it that it was a pistol flint, mine got lost somewhere in the fight, so no strength or desire to look for a new one.
For a couple seconds, Alonsus's kids and the priest himself stared at me like Smetchik at new food, with genuine interest and bewilderment, until I finally exhaled the first puff of smoke that settled under the tent ceiling.
"Finally, Master Rodgirn finished his performance and we can begin," gently chiding me, Thoras leaned on the table, looking me straight in the eyes. "What do you say, gentlemen dwarves? What will we need to breach those walls or at least the gates?"
Exchanging glances with Muradin, who adequately realized his capabilities in siege matters, I stepped forward a bit under his silent approving nod, drawing the attention of all gathered.
"BAH! We could burn the gates right now, no problem with that," jabbing my thumb behind my back, I grinned into my mustache. "'Firebird' will burn right through them this instant, singeing a couple troll asses! Elgraz... Ahem, I mean, that pathetic shack will flare up like dry hay on a summer day, and if we stuff the remains of the fire mixture from the tanks in there, it'll blow no worse than my..."
Interrupting my speech, Trollbane hid a smile, clearly recalling my first meeting with the paladins and swiftly changing the subject.
"Excellent, so our main problem is getting closer – that's something at least," nodding, Stromgarde's king definitely improved his mood and now looked at the assault far less pessimistically than a couple minutes ago. "And what about the walls?"
"That's trickier here, Uzbad. Solid walls, I'd never believe trolls built them. And even now I barely do," shifting the pipe to the corner of my mouth, I leaned closer to the map, tapping fingers on particularly sturdy sections. "Here, we'll sooner smash our own heads against the walls, sending soldiers to ram them."
Turning the map and scanning it, I addressed Muradin, quickly speaking in our native tongue, as I could poorly explain the gist of my idea.
For a couple minutes, the others watched as the king of Ironforge's brother and I yelled at each other, frequently waving hands and shaking fists. Quite a spectacle, as most gathered hid smiles.
"Whining like a woman!" Roaring at my old friend, already tired of reconciling with his childish stubbornness, I slam my fist on the table with a thud. "You'll have plenty of time to fight!"
"How will I!?" Not mincing words, Muradin compared me to a beardless goblin, nearly earning a cuff to the ear. "You, Menu shirumund Gurp!"
"What did you call me, Mump?" But I'm no snot-nosed apprentice, so I voiced everything I thought about his beardless daddy! "Khagam menu penu shirumund..."
My palm delivered a solid smack to Muradin's head, sending the dwarf into the table and toppling it with him, upon which Bronzebeard immediately grabbed his hammer's handle, drawing it.
"You little punk!" With the grace of a seasoned thresher – that is, scattering the remains of papers and table – Bronzebeard jumped to his feet, eyes flashing belligerently. "I'll show you what a real fight is! Last time I spared you, but now you'll taste my hammer, you little..."
"I won't hear that from someone who Ozirum menu seleku!" The gravest insult among craftsmen. Especially since Muradin, like his brother, were solid smiths-weaponsmiths.
"AAA!"
Already poised to leap at me, Bronzebeard was forced, eyes bulging, to jump aside as Trollbane's pound-heavy fist nearly crashed on his head. I lacked such agility, so Anduin easily slapped me and wrenched my arms into a hold!
Somewhere in the background came Muradin's scuffle and shouts, drawing retainers and guardsmen to the tent at the noise, and seeing their prince, thane, and sworn brother being subdued by human leaders, they thought nothing better than to charge into the fray, rescuing their chieftain.
Some surrealism began. Dwarves and humans fought everywhere around, gleefully bashing each other with fists – glory to the ancestors, without resorting to weapons.
The brawl spread further, and the longer it lasted, the more outsiders got involved, utterly clueless about what was happening.
Tim and the flamethrower guys caused the most chaos, seeing Anduin holding me, with paladins gathered around him keeping everyone at a couple meters' distance; my loyal sergeant-ranked assistant bellowed at the top of his lungs and charged, knocking over Lieutenant Turalyon – that very white-handed monk – knocking the wind out of the cleric under the stunned gazes of the other Order of the Silver Hand members.
"MASTER RODGIRN!"
His beastly roar momentarily halted the fight, drawing eyes to the knight-lads, though they weren't idle for long.
"The sergeant showed us the way!" Oh, my dear blockheads didn't stand aside long. Raising a fist to the sky, the first flamethrower after Tim charged. "Forward, lads! For Stromgarde! Beat the Lordaeron softies!"
The crowd of rescued pyromaniacs crashed into the small group of paladins, swarming them from all sides and knocking them down. They were smaller and narrower-shouldered than the Lordaeron-fed paladin boys, but feeble-mindedness, bravery, and harsh life in Stromgarde helped them shine in this fight!
Across the united army's command section of the camp, officers, noble family reps and kings, knights, and important personages passionately punched each other's faces. Here and there flew knocked-out teeth, humans or dwarves fell with rolled-back eyes, staring into the void.
Several guys spun one of Muradin's guardsmen and hurled him into the nearest tent, collapsing the structure.
A few lads distracted Anduin, giving the famed supreme commander and Stormwind's hope a black eye, letting me escape his iron grip and run farther away.
Leaning back against the fence, feeling the swelling (again!) bruise on my face, I watched in shock as everyone mindlessly beat their neighbors. If at first people somewhat grouped by units, race, kingdom, now it was everyone against everyone, clearly venting the pent-up anger from the long march that they couldn't unleash in the bloody clash with the trolls.
"What the fuck is going on?"
With light chuckles, I voiced questions aloud and couldn't stop laughing. I wanted to join the fray, crack some knight's or maybe even dwarf's ribs. The last one raised serious questions in my head, but they were cut off by a loud signal from the gates.
For a few seconds, the world froze, as did all the brawlers. I saw Thoras Trollbane holding one of Muradin's guardsmen at arm's length while a second retainer tried gnawing his armor with teeth.
Nearby on the ground lay Tirion Fordring, fending off some wizard pinning him with a body and yanking his hair.
Not far from them loomed Anduin. Angry, almost growling Anduin Lothar, holding Muradin by the beard while the latter pulled Lothar's leg, trying to topple the much taller and heavier man.
Following their gazes, I saw the gates, vigilantly guarded by junior officers, slowly opening as a winded squad leader dashed in. Nearly collapsing to his knees from breathlessness, he jabbed a finger behind him spasmodically.
"T... Tr... Trolls, milord."
But the stern gaze of Lordaeron's army commander promised the junior no good, demanding a proper report. Catching his breath, the squad leader straightened and, overcoming chest pain, reported far better and clearer than I expected – and probably than anyone expected.
"Lord Lothar, during the incident all gates were locked to not disturb the junior ranks and rank-and-file." At this point, blushes crept over the brawlers' faces, even through swelling bruises. "Now the troops are forming up before the camp in Defensive Positions, preparing to repel the strike from the city."
Pounding fist to chest, the poor guy threw his head back so high he risked breaking his neck. He still breathed heavily but calmer, more worried about what the high command might do if displeased.
"At ease, drink some water and return," glancing at King Thoras, Anduin awaited the approving nod and addressed us all. He quickly oriented and tried presenting it simpler and more familiarly, as in his Stormwind days. "Enough fun. Trolls crave our fists more! Everyone form up, we move out immediately!"
Adding his habitual commander growl that made even the haughtiest aristocrats and soldiers obey, Anduin led by example, releasing Muradin and heading to the gates toward the outer camp.
Everything sprang to motion; soldiers released recent foes from holds, looking around in bewilderment, incredulously eyeing their handiwork. Many scratched napes passing me, staring more at their knuckles bearing strike marks.
"Come on, what you sittin' for?"
Slapping my shoulder, Muradin hauled me up, shoving a simple hammer into my hands. Quick steps took us after the rest, and only halfway did my old friend snap out of his odd state and speak again.
"That was some troll shit, no other explanation," thumbing under his swelling bruise, he grimaced displeased. "Can't recall ever losing my temper that fast in life."
"Yeah..."
"That was different then. Long months I stoked my rage, pondering it often and not letting emotions cool, but what happened here," gesturing at the inner camp we hastily left, Bronzebeard spat a chipped tooth on the march. "that's abnormal. I attacked one country's king, another's commander, and beat you again..."
"You sure about that," slapping his shoulder, causing a new pained grimace, I overtook the grumbling dwarf and brazenly laughed at his plight. "Not a scratch on me, while you got thrashed by humans! HA-ha! Thrashed by humans. Sounds good, even better than your bruise-covered mug creaking as it tries thinking. Our folks in Ironforge will rejoice at how mighty Bronzebeard is now!"
"Mump..." Muradin began grumbling, but I saw the smile creeping under his stern puffed-up face and tousled beard.
"And I'll still look better than you!"
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan