"Amid the darkness... In the farthest depths,
Where light never shines
And only the eternal smell of blood accompanies you at every corner...
In the darkness there are none of our Loa, no life, no future.
There he lives, hiding among the shadows.
Thirsts for freedom, thirsts for vengeance.
He cherishes death and decay.
His blood is both gift and poison, which we accepted ourselves.
And every time our people made a deal with him...
We regretted it every time."
"Faster! Faster! Form up!"
Only Anduin Lothar's shouts and his paladin aides' spurred the humans to move their feet quicker. Despite the high spirits in camp just a couple hours ago, the human army now resembled overboiled turnips ready to fall apart and ooze between fingers.
Soldiers barely shuffled feet, many stumbling on flat ground, dragging neighbors down in heaps. Despair and weakness showed on their faces, like after a good binge.
Many could scarcely hold weapons, often dropping swords and spears at their feet, toppling forward reaching for them.
Unsettling whispers rippled through the ranks. Soldiers eyed each other fearfully, hiding gazes and bombarding with questions about what was happening. Everyone knew this didn't happen for no reason, and the troll army emerging from Jintha'Alor gates confirmed the fears.
Humans huddled fearfully to comrades' shoulders, breaking formation and ignoring commanders. Many already glanced back at camp or farther, hoping to slip out of sight and flee this eerie jungle depths their kings' bloodlust had led them to.
Such talk was swiftly quashed, but the trend displeased neither me nor Lothar, whom I finally caught up to. Unlike the rest, Lordaeron's supreme commander showed no state of his own, only bags under eyes betraying the truth. Wrinkles on brow and cheeks deepened, eyes gained an unaccustomed gray of age and fatigue I'd never noticed before.
Around Lothar, his paladin lads scurried like fiends on hot tar, trying to do everything at once. Only Alonsus stood proud-chinned, eyes fixed on the city walls where enemy shamans and warlocks danced their savage rites.
Joining the group, Muradin and I were about to speak when the priest's voice beat us.
"We won't hold long." Unfamiliar hoarseness contrasted sharply with Alonsus's usual vigor and strength. "The Power of the Light is great, but we are mere mortals, conduits of His will, and cannot maintain the barrier long."
"Understood," nodding curtly, Anduin wiped sweat from his brow. "I'm sure we'll manage, and you... Hold as long as you can."
"You speak so lightly of it, my friend." Sadly shaking his head, Alonsus sighed deeply, as if the world's weight settled on his shoulders. "But we face strong sorcery and troll gods' might; already that..."
Spotting us, Lothar cut the priest's drone and sent him off, ending with a staring contest.
"Glad our trouble only grazed you." Extending a conciliatory hand, which I gladly crushed in a firm grip, showing my state by deed not word.
"Bah! For some asses' piss yanked from the spirit world to spoil my mood," punching open palm, I glanced at weapon-toying Muradin. "you think too low of dwarves! Pour us more brew and let us lead these shat-pants soldiers you call warriors! We'll clear the path and show you soft sun-and-tea lovers how real men fight!"
My words weren't quiet, and when the improv speech ended, fifty dwarven voices exploded in approval, while Lothar's nearby fighters grimaced displeased, psyching themselves up, banishing Loa-induced fears and weakness.
Humans didn't like the unveiled humiliation. Eyes flashed, brows furrowed, mutters grew louder and angrier; glory to ancestors, their rage was swiftly channeled right by skilled commanders.
"Hope your axe is as sharp as your tongue, Master Rodgirn," Thoras Trollbane appeared beside us, with his amused nephew. "Every blade in a firm hand counts now..."
Stromgarde's king looked decent too, only slight finger tremors and facial twitches betraying discomfort.
"My men writhe, eager to charge and shed weakness and fear." Last words clanged like metal. Trollbane was clearly displeased with his state and his men's – showing such base emotions before other kingdoms' reps. Growling in fury, Thoras gripped his blade tighter, breathing heavily through nose. "Signal, and we'll strike with all might, sweeping all obstacles!"
He said the last to heartened Anduin, ending our little war council. With other dwarves, we headed to the most fun spot – Stromgarde's assault squads, where Khaz's glorious axes would show the toothy freaks not to resort to dirty magic tricks!
Taking positions, our mere arrival heartened these lads. Unlike Lordaeron softies, they had true steel balls, not the flaccid rock western neighbors tote between legs!
Draped in beloved red banners, Stromgarders busied with gear, hiding fear and induced weakness under duty. Armor clanged on shields, swords hissed from sheaths...
At least they simplified their mugs, or with those stone mines they'd look like heading to their own funerals!
But with a mob of chattering, fight-anticipating dwarves nearby, staying serious and focused got tough.
"This'll be Durak Runk, not a battle!" Anticipating bloody slaughter, dwarves boldened each second, shaking weapons at approaching foes. "Let the frilly-clothed wimps fight first before we level that fortress knockoff to dust."
"Troll fortress?! HA!" Came the clang of armored glove on helmet. "Those words confess your dimwitery! It's shit! We climb such stairs to shithouses! If you like their dump so much, your beardless daddy must've sinned with one of those hunchbacked mud-molders!"
"What'd you squeak? Metun menu caragu?" Offended kin thundered like winter storm, momentarily drowning comrades' laughter offering troll-shit eating. "Better sleep with them than a woman from your family!"
Swearing, laughing, staging mock fights, and of course guzzling beer and mushroom brew full tilt, Muradin's retinue made more noise than the rest of the hushed army. Only the troll army's approach drowned merry shouts and steel flask clinks under thousands of footfalls.
"They're coming!" Trollbane's roar echoed over the future battlefield. "Prepare for battle!"
Less than an hour passed before swift, bloodthirsty trolls reached our lines, forming a wide front with huge gaps – unimportant to them. Tribes didn't train in formation, preferring personal skill, innate strength and agility, and above all – regeneration. For these freaks, a dogpile was best and luckiest, and their warlocks would deliver it.
Troll army's front ranks were solid youths. Raggedly dressed poor, without proper weapons – just shitty spears good only for ass-scratching. Many had privates uncovered, some merely body-painted to stand out. No jewelry, no proper fangs, just blind, drug-hazed thirst for destruction and blood.
Bastards eyed us like food; Muradin and I barely held the retinue from attacking. Apparently, the noble "sirs" of the dwarven squad were insulted by the staring. Though they reeked of booze, farted and belched more than spoke...
Sending the last chatty Bronzebeard squad member to line, I inhaled fresh air forgotten amid these lads. Eyes stung from stench and booze breath, and by slightly swaying fighters, many had gotten drunk again.
But those were Muradin's problems; let him raise and lead his retinue as he likes, I don't give a shit. Bigger matters now.
Troll army halted two hundred meters out, which these long-legged beasts could cover in fifteen seconds or less.
Enemies' hands twitched feverishly, foam drooling from many mouths, crafting a truly horrific image of naked crazy savages. Many asses burned so hot they took steps forward, then thought better and rejoined the "formation."
Soon magic parted the waves; toothy crowd split, letting through the discipline's cause. Some bowed heads, others pounded chests. Some shouted his name, speechless ones bellowed skyward, heads high, lungs full, hailing their chieftain.
"Fuck, look how huge," nudging my shoulder, Muradin brazenly pointed at the sullen Amani chieftain. "Bet I lop his huge useless legs faster than you, bringing him to knees or lower."
"Sounds like shitty foreplay..." Couldn't resist the obvious joke, stepping back prudently to avoid immediate beard-smack.
"Ew, fuck you, Rodgirn!"
Beard bristling amid subordinates' hearty laughter, Muradin swung his axe, barely restraining urge to charge and smash a skull – or more.
But Zul'jin drew our full attention – massive one-armed troll masking face with small cloth. His white mohawk adorned with trinkets, as was his body, but no gold or gems among them. Just bones and metal harmonizing with hundreds of scars from crown to toe-tips.
Stepping forward, he pointed at our army with hand, drew dagger from belt, slashing bloody line across chest, howling guttural ravings. His long speech was expressive, irritating, and frankly threatening. Raising dagger-gripped hand to sky, he let his blood drip on face, blissfully closing eyes.
"Manja-Loa Atal'ai..."
A living sea of fangs and blades surged with thousands of arms, shouting and repeating. They raved, pounding chests, shaking weapons.
"Feugo Zin..."
New shouts, but now rage and hate crashed on our ears instead of joy and anticipation. Many trolls mimicked their leader, blooding their weapons. Many licked it from blades, eyes searching ranks.
New words, new reaction, but for all my drunken life, blackouts galore, I'll forever remember Zul'jin bellowing his tribe's battle cry at lung-top, swinging hand our way and charging first.
"Tazdingo!!!!!!"
More leaping than stepping, the beast crashed into humans' confused ranks first, foot-kick toppling some wretch and axe-cleaving his head. Behind Zul'jin, the rest slammed into Lordaeron lines. They vaulted over into second and third ranks, slamming full weight, felling foes to ground and finishing with whatever handy.
The first seconds of the battle looked horrific. The formation was crumbling, people were dying too quickly, unprepared for such an onslaught, and the warlocks' spells were heavily pressing on minds and bodies, hindering the fight.
"Come to me, sons of Lordaeron!" But this disgrace didn't last long. Not only did the fang-mouthed freaks have charismatic leaders in their ranks. "Stand firm!"
Lothar's voice, like a purifying light, swept across the battlefield, followed by a real beam of light striking into the sky.
A beam, a massive golden beam pierced the clouds, dispersing the gray clouds and revealing the evening sun to us. Like a living thing, it stretched upward, shuddering and smoothly bypassing invisible obstacles to us. It was visible how the initial surge of Holy power gradually subsided and it slowly yielded to the unknown enemy, but then five more flared up beside the first pillar. One after another, they emerged nearby, merging into one whole, becoming larger and stronger.
The spilled gold flooded the sky, and then tiny, playful sparks rained down on our heads—particles of Holy power, penetrating straight to the heart, expelling darkness and evil sorcery.
They didn't cloud the vision; on the contrary, they granted only enlightenment and calm. Mental and physical wounds evaporated before our eyes, and soldiers who had fallen moments ago rose from the ground, taking up arms and re-forming ranks.
Only now they weren't trembling, no longer fearing the unknown power from the barbaric shamans and warlocks. The Lordaeronians rallied, proudly lifting their heads and preparing to meet any threat imaginable.
Their muscles filled with strength, just like mine. Their lungs breathed freer, filling the body with sparks of Light. Their thoughts, incoherent and confused, regained clarity and meaning, coming together and pointing the true path.
As for me...
"Ancestors, great mountains and underground halls... I've never felt anything like this before."
Running my hand through the air, I gathered specks of light, as if drawing them in, just by passing my palm nearby. They reached for me, absorbing into my body, and with every second there were more of them.
Excited whispers of dwarves experiencing emotions like mine sounded around. And somewhere far off, the battle quieted, as even the trolls froze in place, afraid to disturb this great power.
But not all our enemies felt similar reverence. Shedding amulets burning in holy flame, hundreds of trolls began stabbing themselves with daggers, slashing open their own bellies, while shamans dancing on the walls convulsed, falling in bloody clumps—portending nothing good.
Over Jintha'Alor, the sky instantly darkened. Clouds swirled into a real maelstrom, occasionally shooting lightning and chunks of ice. Several bolts struck a nearby rock, collapsing part of it right onto the city, from which panicked shouts erupted—and at that moment the hurricane of swirling clouds collapsed, a hole appeared in the sky, and something began emerging from it.
First came two huge claws that gripped the edges and began prying the passage apart. Then wings squeezed into our world. They resembled dragon wings, but were covered in feathers of every color instead of skin. The wingtips ended in sharp claws, and from them fell bluish poison, melting the walls of Jintha'Alor and any trolls caught in the way.
Finally, the monster's muzzle appeared.
"Damn it..."
Not quite a lizard, not quite a rat or a bird. A vile beast with a mouth full of teeth and fangs of all sizes protruding outward. Its eyes resembled two blazing bonfires that quickly scanned the entire battlefield before fixing on the pillar of Light rising into the sky.
"RAAAAA!"
Letting out a roar that echoed in the head and prevented proper focus, the monster fluttered out, allowing the funnel to collapse. Its serpentine body slithered through the air like a fish in water. Huge wings helped gain speed, and its outstretched scythe-like paws raced forward in hopes of killing all the paladins and champions of Light.
A pulsing crystal beat in its chest, and blood and blue clots streamed toward it from all sides, bursting from the bodies of dead trolls.
"What the fuck did you sick bastards drag into our world!?"
Something had to be done—I doubted the Silver Hand trainees could handle such a monster. Only Trollbane or Anduin with their magical ancient blades could surely take it down, but first it needed to be stalled.
"What are you gaping for! Forward!" Giving the nearest clansman a cuff to the back of the head as an example, I pulled out a modified human pistol from inside my coat. "Time to fight, let's show what the sons of Khaz are worth! Pistols to ready! FIRE!"
We were practically in the rearmost ranks, shielded by the backs of Stromgarde and Lordaeron men, but now, shoving aside dawdling soldiers, Muradin's clan loudly charged forward, aiming all possible firearms at the monster's muzzle.
The volley from fifty pistols was deafening, so many humans unfamiliar with such weapons fell to the ground, clutching their ears, fearing the sky was falling or an earthquake had begun. But the main thing—they did their job, and the fucking worm veered off course, dodging and screeching in pain.
"Reload!"
While Muradin issued commands and hosed the monster with lead, I grabbed Tim and his crew, slung them onto the back of the Iron Dragon, and ran forward, hoping to make it before the beast changed targets.
It needed to be caught when it went for another "landing," and until then, protect the paladins whose Light shielded us from curses and all the trollish crap they wallowed in.
Amid the unrelenting roar of shots, this unknown abomination flew overhead, occasionally diving down, reaping a true harvest of bodies with its scythes. Each pass left clear swaths among our soldiers, and the aggressively joyful roar only fueled the fire, killing budding courage in the fighters at the root.
"Whoa... Doh Menu shirumund beast!" Bronzebeard's booming voice overpowered even the monster's roar. Cursing in all directions, Ironforge's prince fearlessly stepped forward, emptying his pistol straight into the diving creature's forehead—forcing it to veer aside. "May your father's Krut (A nasty disease spread by mountain goats)..."
I didn't hear the rest, but a bloody lightning bolt struck Muradin's position. Like a whip, it whipped over our heads, shooting forward at incredible speed and unleashing the full might of this horrific spirit on Bronzebeard's clan.
"Tim!" Urging the assistant, since in reality we could only count on this deranged troll slayer, I raced through the ranks. "Faster, it's about to attack!"
Under the canopy of Holy Light, we ran forward, managing mere seconds ahead of the monster from the past—deity or whatever else could describe such bullshit—as it crashed into the circle of paladins, eager to devour them whole.
Widening its maw, the beast dove down; I could clearly see its eyes gleaming with triumphant malice and anticipation.
"You picked the wrong dwarf! Khazuk-ha!"
Roaring in fear at the top of my lungs, I raised the Fire-spitter's barrel overhead, unleashing the most powerful stream of flame, overloading the mechanism and feeling my skin burn even through gloves and protective casings. It instantly reeked of charred meat; the viscous fire-mixture shot forward, drenching the bastard up to its gills! A few drops of liquid flame hit me, burning through my suit.
"AAAAA!" Screaming at the top of my lungs from a mix of fear, pain, and battle lust, I kept the lever floored. "KHAZ MODAN!"
My bellow drowned out the monster's roar and the crash of the freak slamming into the ground. Gasping and bulging its huge, malevolent eyes, the monster crashed down, plowing a massive trench and leaving a trail like a meteor strike.
Bloody trail—that's all that remained of many good guys shielding the priests with their bodies; the impact was so strong. The force scattered me, the paladins, and the remnants of the guard in all directions, and the Light barrier began to slowly fade.
"Stand down! Protect Alonsus Faol!"
Anduin's loud shout rallied most of the soldiers rushing to his aid. The seasoned warrior instantly grasped that despite the lucky hit, victory was still far off, and the troll Loa was still full of strength, though seriously wounded.
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan