"The language of the Orcs is generally very similar to that of Trolls, Goblins, and Ogres.
Many scholars seriously believe they are representatives of the same race, can you imagine?
But that is not so!
We know for certain that the Orcs came from another world, as did the Ogres.
But Goblins and Trolls are indigenous inhabitants of Azeroth."
The similarity of their language, I believe,
Is explained by the similarity of their lifestyles.
A tribal structure where might makes right.
Martial prowess, notorious honor, duels, rituals, and the like.
Though the Goblin clans and their princes would disagree with you,
In fact, they have replaced strength with cunning and intellect,
Which, overall, complements my theory."
Wiping the sweat from my forehead, feeling the irritation on my skin worsen from frequent touching, I grimaced in displeasure. My entire face burned like fire; my dry skin reacted painfully to the droplets trickling from the top of my head. My lips were cracked, and it seemed I had lost part of my beard and eyebrows.
My whole body ached, and my hands shook from exhaustion. My fingers were cramped in the position in which I had been holding the Dragon-slayer. My hands looked like the branches of an old tree—just as wooden, crooked, and disobedient, ready to snap and fall apart at any second.
"Tim..." My throat was hoarse; my mouth was as dry as an old forge after a full day's work. "Tim."
I tried calling my assistant once more, to which the lad only raised a hand, signaling that he was still alive and heard me. Without making a sound, he lay on his side, clutching his broken arm, which had been pinned by one of the stones from the destroyed tower.
Our cover had been destroyed immediately after the second shot. One of the maddened Kig-Yar crashed into the structure, ramming it with his body, heedless of wounds and injuries; the dragon roared and raged insanely, trying to find us in the pile of rubble until he was shot down by ballistae.
As it turned out, broken scales are easily pierced by our Arms, and beneath them, Meat and bones break and tear, bringing to the vile creatures at least an echo of all the pain the defenders of Tol Barad endured.
"Probably another damn magical..."
I could have gone on listing epithets for the dragons and their magical nature in my head for a long time, but we had other things to do.
"Tim... Tim, get up," I said, limping and trying not to step on the leg pierced by shards as I made my way to my assistant, nudging him in the back gently, almost tenderly, trying not to touch the burns. "Let's go, it's getting noisy outside again."
And as if to confirm my words, the flapping of wings sounded again beyond the fortress walls, followed by an explosion and a roar of pain that filled the inner courtyard.
The stupid lizards turned out to be not so smart after all—at least the smaller specimens regularly tried to fly down and help their still-living kin, only to fall under the aimed shots of our Dragon-slayers.
Yes, specifically ours. Using the blueprints, the smiths were able to create a couple more such devices, so now I didn't have to do all the work alone.
"But, damn it, it didn't get any easier," no one reacted to my words, as talking to oneself had become the norm over the last few days. "When will the reinforcements from Aerie Peak finally arrive?"
Bracing my palm against the wall, feeling the roughness of the heated stone through my callouses and pain, we carefully descended the steps—or rather, what was left of them.
"They said on the third day from the north," Tim answered my question, whispering under his breath and wincing in pain but continuing to follow me loyally. "They'll come with the first ray of sun... In brilliance and glory, damn them... Sorry, Master Rodgirn."
"Ahhh," I waved him off, snatched some tobacco from the hands of the soldiers sitting nearby, and, ignoring their protests, walked on. "Those 'griffon-fuckers' are too pompous and self-satisfied. Damned Krut (Shepherds). I bet they don't even know how to mine stone."
Choosing not to comment on my words and simply taking them on faith, Tim shrugged silently and immediately winced in pain. My loyal assistant looked absolutely terrible. Covered in soot, with dried blood on his face, arm, and chest, dragging one leg. He was clearly moving on pure natural stubbornness, convincing me once again that he had the soul of a true Dwarf.
"You know what, lad, let's head to the basement and get you patched up."
"The line is forty meters long, and as for how many are lying inside..."
Shaking his head, Tim voiced my own thoughts, and we continued our way, realizing we couldn't afford to lose that much time. The cursed dragons returned periodically, though their numbers grew fewer with each passing day; however, now Orcs had taken to infiltrating the fortress, brazenly climbing over the walls and prowling the scorched wastelands among the dragon corpses.
"As if we didn't have enough problems, now we have these green-skinned freaks too."
My mind flashed back to the first encounter with the Orcs, when I, along with a couple of volunteers, had left the fortress hoping to carve up a dragon corpse.
I wanted to see how they were built. Do the scales lose their properties after death, or only when magically depleted? What were their bones, teeth, claws, and, of course, Meat like?
"Mmm, dragon meat will be my favorite dish for all time. A cold, foamy beer, hot, spicy dragon meat, and a pipe packed with Ironforge tobacco."
Smacking my lips at the saliva pooling in my mouth, I forced the fantasies away. I wanted to bolt to the kitchen right now and devour a few pieces.
Actually, everyone in the fortress had become heavily addicted to dragon meat and now looked forward to mealtimes like junkies.
And I understood them perfectly. One only had to taste the meat of a Red Dragon for your whole body to be infused with strength, power, and the urge to act. There were downsides, of course, in the form of a rock-hard erection in one's trousers, but those were trifles compared to the fact that minor wounds and cuts healed by nightfall.
And considering that the pantry stocks weren't getting any larger and we were in danger of soon switching to damn porridges, grains, and the grass the Elves use to wipe their backsides, the lizard meat turned out to be quite timely.
Adjusting my belt, I cast aside thoughts of food; otherwise, I felt I wouldn't be able to control myself and would head straight for the kitchen.
"Eh, what I'd give for a nap now, with some juicy..."
"Elf." My Human assistant guessed my thoughts correctly.
"Yes, an Elf. Narandiel, for instance—oh, what glorious curves she has," I said, tracing an hourglass figure in the air with my hands, spreading into a lewd grin. "I'd show her how to properly use such a..."
"I meant something else, Master," the lad coughed into his fist so his lips couldn't be seen, pointing a hand in the direction of our movement. "There are Elves coming toward us, and it seems they heard you."
With a stone face, Tim turned into the nearest corridor, where he vanished among other soldiers whose clothing consisted mostly of fresh bandages.
"Little shit."
"You're one to talk, you lustful macaque," Sarandiel said, valiantly baring her blade and shielding her sister with her body, her cheeks and ears flushing red. "I should cut off that thing between your legs; maybe then you'd start thinking straight..."
"Yes, yes," I waved my hand in front of my face as if shooing away a pair of annoying flies, continuing along my route, hoping the two sisters would buzz off quickly today. "The answer is still the same, so you can go and be angry in a corner somewhere."
"You bastard..."
"Sister," Narandiel said, placing a palm on the younger one's shoulder. She stepped forward, displaying her body in all its glory and knocking the last of my wits out of me. "You're as active as ever, Master Rodgirn."
"Yeah, as if it could be any other way," the effect of the dragon meat came to mind all too clearly. "Let's get to the point, my pointy-eared beauty; even your looks won't make me change my mind."
"I know," she said, tilting her head so that her golden hair disheveled and slid smoothly over her shoulders. The Elf closed her eyes for a moment, reflecting on something, and having made a decision, spoke in a much more confident and calm tone. "I must apologize..."
"Save it," I bared my teeth, smirking with only one side of my face as I looked into the eyes of this old woman with the face of a child. And old-timers don't like changing their minds, no matter how they look. "I see right through you. You might fool this fool and the Humans, but not me..."
At my words, the younger one blinked blankly, her gaze darting between me and Nara, her eyes constantly shifting with emotions, displaying youth and inexperience... Compared to her sister, though I had thought they were the same age... But the longer I spoke with this curvaceous fox, the more I was convinced she was many times older than her little relative... If they were even relatives at all.
Narandiel burned me with an icy gaze while maintaining a tender smile that contrasted wildly with her eyes. In fact, the Elf's entire appearance, except for her eyes, evoked pleasure and sympathy, making one want to stare at her incessantly, try to be closer, and want to touch her.
But let my father go bald and become a farmer—at that moment, I wanted to run as far away as possible!
"You are very perceptive, unlike your kin and..."
Glancing suggestively at the Humans scurrying nearby, the Elf grimaced almost imperceptibly, but her ear-caressing voice continued to flow like a stream.
"What a piece of work you are," I snapped my fingers in the air, searching for the right word under the interested gazes of the two girls. "Aha! A spiteful bitch."
Silence fell over our section of the corridor. Sarochka continued to gape, Narochka closed her eyes with a fox-like smirk, and I held my thumbs up, guffawing with my whole beard, venting the accumulated stress and fatigue.
"That was not kind. I will remember that."
"Ha! If you actually gave a damn, then I'd be worried," I said, ignoring the threat and inviting the sisters to follow me to the post where, I hoped, the escaped Tim would be waiting for me to vent my displeasure on him. "What does it matter what day-old butterflies say when you yourself will live for centuries..."
I didn't understand how Elves thought. It's hard to even imagine what goes on in the head of a being for whom Human, Dwarven, or Gnomish lives are just a page in a book the size of a Holy Light tome. A pathetic page where all successes and failures will be noted in dry handwriting and eventually forgotten as unnecessary.
She had surely seen more shit and wonders than her young "sister," me, and all the inhabitants of the fortress combined. In Narandiel's eyes, I saw the wisdom of years lived, when her true nature broke through the mask—though even that could be part of a game to gain more of my trust.
"Too complicated. Damned Khalam (Elves) and their games."
But for all that, I wasn't angry with her. Maybe in the heat of the moment, but to stay offended once the emotions faded? Definitely not, just like Narandiel herself.
Of course, she wouldn't take offense or argue; she would only chide and shrug. After all, what was the point of arguing and quarreling with me—essentially a child in her eyes? For all my hotheadedness, I wouldn't argue with brats and explain to them who's right and who's wrong. They'll make their own mistakes and learn, and if, bless their ancestors, they turn out to be right, then let their path be easy.
Without noticing it, I let a note of sadness and surprise into my voice, which made the reply from behind me catch me off guard.
"I don't think that way about everyone, Rodgirn. Sometimes, one is allotted far more in a short span than thousands of Elves in their entire long lives," I turned at her words and looked into the Elf's pensive face, not knowing what to say, but the girl continued. "My attitude is dictated by the attitude of sentient beings toward life. Elves, Dwarves, Humans..."
She grimaced at the last word, drawing our attention to a couple of soldiers playing dice for their own lives, arguing over who would be the next dragon bait.
"How many among them are truly worthy representatives, creators, scholars, great mages, warriors, or philosophers?"
Freezing in place, Nara let out her thoughts, striking with her cold-bloodedness and contempt. Her usually tender and gentle smile faded, and her face turned into a wax mask, like those used by actors in traveling troupes.
"Not long ago, we watched them hopping through forests and mountains like Trolls, and now Humans consider us equals, though the only thing that has changed is their appearance—and even then, not for all of them," a squad of soldiers passed us. Bearded, dirty, tired, and exhausted. "Humans do not evolve; they create nothing of their own, only taking from others and then putting their merits on display. Boasting of a strength they do not possess..."
"You're wrong," I'd had enough of listening to this; she might have been right about some things, but I knew too many excellent representatives of the Human race to listen to this in silence. "You judge too biasedly, especially considering that Quel'Thalas sits and rests on the laurels of past achievements, leaving the war with an unprecedented and dangerous enemy to us."
Leaving the last word to myself, I walked on, hearing only the solitary footsteps of the younger sister who followed me.
"I won't be apologizing..."
"I understand, and I'm not asking," Sara said, gathering her courage and waiting until there were no extra ears around us before speaking. "My sister can be biased, but she is good."
"As are we all," I said, shrugging understandingly as I finally reached the spot where the sleeping Tim was "waiting" for me. "Lucky bastard. Well, no matter, I'll get my revenge."
Shaking a fist at my assistant, I sat down at the oak table, and the Elf sat down carefully across from me.
"Now what?" I confess, through my "usual" tact and friendliness, irritation broke out. "I was hoping to rest, as the assault will surely begin soon."
"Don't be rude to me," Sarandiel said, flushing and hiding her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm on your side, actually, so there's no need to be rude."
"I take it I won't be able to kick you out."
"Bearded boor," her eyes flashed dangerously, and she struck where no Dwarf could endure. "Though, there's almost no beard left. You'll have to shave soon, Rodgirn. If you want, I can help; I'm quite good at cutting hair. In our estate, father often let me cut the hair of some soldiers or servants..."
Smiling cloyingly, this vile, brazen, insolent, pointy-eared...
"Easy, Rodgirn. Even if she looks older, you've never hit children. Be smarter."
"We'll shave you bald; you'll look just like your favorite bullets." Tracing a movement with her fingers as if rubbing something small and round, Sarochka smiled mischievously. "Shiny and round."
"You're dead."
"At least I'll grow new, proper red hair," I said, clearing my throat and packing my pipe with tobacco to finally have a smoke, as I was already starting to have withdrawals from all this talking. "By the way, where did you learn to cut hair?"
Not sensing the trap, the fool began to describe in vivid detail how, besides the servants, she practiced on her sister, mother, and father, sometimes enlisting the help of friends, experimenting with their hairstyles on rare days off when she wasn't patrolling the elven forest.
"I see," I said, puffing out smoke so that the Elf involuntarily recoiled, displeasedly pursing her lips and wrinkling her neat nose. "And here I was thinking you were cutting out your own gray hairs; after all, you're not exactly young anymore."
"Direct hit, like shearing a dragonet on the fly."
Seeing how my companion's face twisted, I knew I had to finish her.
"And how was it, by the way? Did your hair games help you?" The key was to show complete lack of interest, which I managed in spades. "It's just that there's no visible result."
Female fists slammed onto the table with fury. The second hit was just as successful as the first. Age and femininity—what could be more terrifying for any woman?
"I'll kill you, you damned midget..."
"Oh-oh, Sarochka, have you started swearing again?" I couldn't miss such a chance, so the next blow was on the same topic, but only fools believe lightning doesn't strike the same place twice. "I thought old folks became polite with age."
My mocking face barely managed to duck as a sword flew over my head. The slightly curved blade flashed just inches from the top of my head.
"Have you completely lost your mind, girl?!" Choking on smoke, I jumped up from the table with a crash. "You almost cut my head off, damn you..."
"So, I'm a 'girl' again now?" Reversing her grip on the sword, the pointy-ear smiled predatorily, preparing to attack. "How easily I grow younger, right at your words; I feel the strength returning to my body!"
Sarandiel leaned over the table, trying to grab me by the beard. Escaping the tenacious female grip, I tilted dangerously on the chair, and the fall was not long in coming. With a crash and a curse, my back hit the stone floor, from where I watched as, with truly feline grace, the Elf first jumped onto the table without preparation, pushing off the ground with only her feet, and then ran at me in a half-crouch, swinging her blade for a strike!
"Crazy bitch! You're just like your sister!"
Dodging careless strikes that were nonetheless made with a real weapon, I maneuvered around the room, throwing everything breakable under the enraged girl's hands without guilt or regret.
Tables, chairs, small shelves, cabinets, candlesticks, and much, much more.
Our chase continued for several minutes until I was backed into a corner, and here I didn't know what to do.
My eyes darted from side to side, my hands were shaking, and my body protested, begging for rest rather than a new sprint after several days of fighting.
The solution came to me instantly.
Pointing a finger out the window, I bugged my eyes out and yelled at the top of my lungs.
"The Orcs are attacking!"
"I won't fall for that..."
But at that very moment, fate turned against us. The alarm bell began to toll its warning signal rhythmically, and shouts and calls rang out through the fortress.
The garrison took their positions, preparing to sell their lives dearly.
The drums of The Horde beat louder and louder; the thumping of thousands of feet echoed through the area, crushing the earth. To the furious roar of dragons, shouts, and screams, the green-skinned army marched to assault Tol Barad, and their battle cry shook the ground and the walls.
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Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan