"Proud Dwarves, unable to come to terms with failure or personal tragedy,
In days of old, gave a blood oath before their people,
Shaving the hair from their heads, leaving only beards,
Which they were forbidden to groom.
They carved words of vengeance upon their heads.
The loss of family, honor, or treasure is unbearable for them.
Finding himself in such a situation, a Dwarf goes into voluntary exile,
Renouncing kin and clan,
Until his oath is fulfilled."
"Good to see you despite all the hardships!"
Powerful Human hands gripped my shoulders, squeezing me in an embrace, knocking all the crap out of my tired body. I wanted to swear and grumble, but my mood was so good and positive that I just let it slide, allowing Trollbane to fully release his wild nature and inhuman strength.
The King of Stromgarde smiled broadly, his thick mustache bristling. His tired and gaunt face was framed by a smile, showing even rows of healthy teeth. His broad shoulders seemed to have grown even larger, and his arms were filled with strength from constant sword-swinging.
Straightening his back, the King released me, enjoying my dissatisfied face and laughing loudly at the sky while bustle spread around us.
It was a good thing I'd managed to say goodbye to my lovely Elves, who promised me a swift meeting, otherwise, in such a crowd, it would have been simply uncomfortable for us. At the same time, Tim and the surviving members of the Beer Lord's first crew were zealously persuading the survivors in the fortress to join our crew, selecting capable people for the complement. But they weren't the only ones causing a stir.
Thoras's numerous subordinates scurried here and there, helping the survivors in Tol Barad and rescuing the many wounded we had brought from the ruined fortress.
Dozens of people were laid out in rows right on the ground, while Humans and Elf volunteers ran headlong around them, saving lives, calling upon the Holy Light and magic.
The light show was so bright that the eye couldn't linger on one spot for long. Bright flashes of mythical energy, which priests and Mages poured generously over our team, flared and faded, making hair stand on end.
Wizards from Dalaran, belonging to the mystical Kirin Tor order, wandered nearby, pouring their potions from small vials directly into wounds or mouths, forcing them open for unconscious fighters.
No one cared about us, for we stood on our own two feet, and as for the King being chummy with a Dwarf—who cares, there are more important matters.
"That's what I love about this city; the people here are more like us in character. Business first, then all the fancy-schmancy stuff the aristocrats love so much."
Beside Thoras stood the stooped figure of Turalyon, the weight of responsibility, duty, and care pulling the shoulders of the still-young man toward the earth.
With a meager smile, the poor fellow nodded at the greeting and, along with the other servants of the church, went to help the soldiers of Tol Barad. His appearance had changed significantly, and I wouldn't say for the better.
Now the model postulant was dressed in high-quality armor. Real knightly plate, the kind only real men like Thoras and his ilk can wear. The powerful armor didn't creak or make any sound, fitting the body tightly and increasing the hunched figure even more, bringing the Human's conditioning up to that of a small Orc.
"He doesn't look well..."
Tossing the words into the air, I didn't expect an answer.
"It's been hard on all of us," Thoras said, suppressing a sad sigh and waving a hand invitingly to lead me away from the Beer Lord's "landing" site to clear space for the restless medics. "Heavy fighting has stretched across the entire front, and every victory comes to us with difficulty. Not only that, the Elves of Quel'Thalas refused to participate fully in the conflict."
"What the hell?"
"Yeeeah," Thoras waved off the apparently already tiresome question, working his jaw to suppress his anger. "Their King is a real thorn in the ass. The old man thinks the borders of their kingdom are impregnable, and only rare volunteers, understanding the full danger of the situation, have joined us, leaving their homeland in a thin stream."
"Conceited bastard. I knew you couldn't trust the nobility, especially the Elven kind, but this!" Despite my fatigue and thirst for a date with a bed, I was briskly boiling like a waking volcano. "My grandfather said it right, bless his memory: 'Elves have no honor! No beer, no honor!'"
"Ha-ha-ha, you speak the truth, dear friend," Thoras patted me on the shoulder and pointed to the horses being led up, among which Smetchik's surprised ram face peeked out. "Saddle your pet; we're going to the city. There's still much to discuss."
"I hope you've already prepared drinks and food for us," I said, patting my four-legged friend on the scruff and jumping onto his back in one motion, exhaling with a quiet groan from the bliss running through my legs. "Ugh... on that damn island we had to eat whatever came to hand, and while dragon meat went down a treat, the rest of the rations in your fortresses I wouldn't even give to a Dark Iron Dwarf."
"Heh," the King grunted at the mockery, gave silent signals, and the retinue around began to gather. "You'll have your beer, Master Rodgirn, as well as good news, though it depends on how you look at it."
Jerking Smetchik's reins to align with Thoras's giant horse, I braced myself. A bad premonition immediately made itself known. Expecting the worst, judging by the King's darkening face, I clenched my teeth tighter, hoping that willpower wouldn't let me blurt out some stupidity for which my head would be lopped off.
"The fate of Ironforge and all of western Khaz Modan has become known," the King of Stromgarde said, becoming surprisingly tactful as he chose his words. "Muradin will tell you all the details; he leads your kin..."
The saddle fell away from under me, and I felt myself falling to the ground. Only Trollbane's reaction and strength kept me from colliding with the road.
Thoughts tangled in my head, and each was more unpleasant than the last.
"I must speak with him." Grabbing Trollbane by the forearm, ignoring the agitated retinue, I looked him straight in the eyes, practically demanding from the King of these local lands. "Immediately!"
My tone warned that if the King resisted, even despite all our difference in strength and status, I would have my way.
"Eh, that's exactly what I expected." Nodding understandingly, Thoras waved toward the receding and winding road along which patrols and numerous peasants walked. "He's in the camp they built for the war; that's where most of the Dwarves have gathered."
Without listening to the end, I kicked Smetchik in the ribs, sending the ram forward. Sensing my mood, the usually defiant beast now obediently broke into a gallop, carrying me further away from the King's procession with every second.
The minutes of waiting stretched into long hours while I, leaving a dusty trail behind me, galloped forward. Deserted villages flew past, and a solid stream of people walked along the road. Simple peasants, uprooted from their homes, sluggishly dragged their belongings, looking back at me. Despair was visible on their faces, speaking louder than any words about the Alliance's successes in the war.
Thousands of people. Feeble old men, the sick, and the crippled. They led very small children away from the war, taking them further toward Alterac and Lordaeron, where people would be safe until the steel march of the Horde was stopped.
Several times Smetchik had to jump over particularly zealous little people who stood in the way. Falling on their backsides, they shrieked something after me, but there was no time for sorting things out now, and what could one take from the old and the young. There weren't even any women among them; all had been taken to help the front, only the rare faces of old women and women who were pregnant or watching over throngs of children flickered in the crowd.
"Grim shit. If Thoras has started evicting people, things are truly bad."
Waving off the guards' call to stop, I burst through the checkpoint, using my ram's jumping legs, and the closer I got to the camp, the more terrifying the fears became.
There were thousands of Dwarves there, maybe even more, and most frighteningly, there were many young ones among my kin. Before my eyes, a couple of women passed by, holding infants who had just been taken from the breast.
And there were too many like that. So many signs and details that would explain clearly to one who knew that this wasn't just help for the war...
"Refugees."
The terrible word hammered in my head like a bell. Barely uttering it aloud, I jumped off the ram due to the too-large flow of Dwarves and was already pushing forward on my own two feet, hearing familiar voices and even distinguishing my own name several times.
Only now there was none of the old vigor and warmth. No foolish swearing and songs, no cheerful stories and old-timer's reproaches for the young. Masters did not speak, initiating apprentices, and old warriors did not spin yarns to pamper the young and bright-eyed.
Only weeping and quiet whispers, spreading out from me in all directions like a wave. More and more heads turned toward me, uttering my name aloud, but I ignored them, continuing my path until I ran out onto a clear patch near the largest house. Above its doors hung a painfully familiar symbol, which I had previously seen only in the clan quarter and the royal palace. A hammer and anvil framed by lightning.
At the entrance stood a squad familiar to me, or rather, a smaller part of it, and by all appearances, this hadn't been their own choice. Covered in wounds and fresh scars, they struck their chests in greeting, closing their eyes and turning their faces away.
Not stopping to dwell on it, I burst inside and immediately felt as if I'd hit a wall. Such a strong and familiar scent of hospital wards hit my nose.
The gloom of the room was lit only by a couple of candles burning on a thick oak table, near which Muradin himself sat on a bed.
His golden beard had faded, and his right eye was closed forever. His once-mighty arms were gaunt, covered in bandages through which blood seeped in various places.
Wrapped up like a Troll mummy, he stared blankly into the void, stroking the stump of his leg near the knee with one hand.
My head spun. Harsh male tears begged to come out, but the time for mourning and sadness had not yet come; now I had to find out what happened... no matter how painful it was for both of us.
My quiet footsteps drew the attention of the once-great warrior. His lone, clouded eye shifted to me, and at that moment, it was as if the last pillar had been pulled out of Muradin.
Crumpling and letting his shoulders hang, he bowed his head and broke into a quiet wheeze, muttering under his breath.
Rushing forward, I caught my dear friend by the shoulders, holding the haggard and unfamiliar face before me. Never before had I seen him like this; even in the most sorrowful days, a smile had always flickered on his face, giving strength to those around him. The strength to survive troubles and move on, but now... it was only a pale shadow, remaining as a grim reminder of who this Dwarf once was.
"Tell me everything. Everything, without hiding a thing."
His eyelids flickered for a second, but the veil did not lift from them, leaving my friend alone with his own nightmares.
"Uzbad, answer me." Shaking Bronzebeard slightly, I looked patiently into his eyes, gripping his shoulder tighter. "What became of our home? What calamity did our people endure in the mountains of Khaz?"
"Uzbad?"
His cracked lips barely parted, uttering the word. Former pride and honor had gone to a distant plane; only disbelief and indecision accompanied Muradin now.
"Lighten your burden, cast off the Hunk." My voice grew quieter. A whisper mixed with a wheeze escaped my mouth. "Tell me of everything. Ironforge, our home! What of it?"
"Ironforge?"
"Exactly," swallowing the lump in my throat, I led this heavy conversation, for I could not rest until I knew everything firsthand, "our first home, the abode of all Dwarves..."
"Fallen."
"What?"
Like the strike of a hammer, one simple word broke my will. Falling to my knees, I sat opposite Muradin, in the depths of whose eyes memories splashed. But the quiet whisper of my old friend drew my attention, and despite the void that had settled in my heart, I became all ears, catching every line of his story and filing them away in my head...
***
It was a sunless morning. The mountains of Khaz, with their mighty peaks, hid the firmament from us, plunging the entire valley into shadow. The snow-covered summits looked down upon us, swarming below. Perhaps they were even placing bets on who would win this terrible battle, but for us, it didn't matter.
We believed in our success, and although the Horde's troops were numerous, our chances of victory were high.
Ready for combat, knowing our native mountains perfectly, we marched from the east toward the besieging camp that had walled off Ironforge from the rest of the world.
Bypassing small fortresses and leaving small forces to block the enemy, the army under my brother's command moved forward. Confident in success, we sang songs and marched briskly, catching the Orcs in a pincer.
And they accepted our terms of the game, taking the fight head-on, as befits warriors.
With the first ray of sun that could make its way through the ridges of Khaz Modan, our armies clashed.
"KAZUK! KAZUK! KAZUK!"
Our Battle Shout, as in days of old, shook the mountains, awakening Khaz himself to see how his faithful sons fought for their home.
We took the high ground, taking the green-skinned bodies upon our shields and spears, shooting down the most zealous and daring who dared to break through the steel-clad legions.
Cannon fire, rune magic, Nature Spirits, and dark Affliction. Everything was put to use.
The bloody battle raged all day, but there was no advantage for either side.
In the course of the battle, our ranks became mixed until finally we stood with our backs to Ironforge, standing firm in its defense, covering the entrance to our glorious halls with our own bodies.
To replace every fallen man, three new ones emerged from the city, and there would have been no end to us until flames descended upon us from the sky.
Rare flying machines tried to hold them back but only crashed upon our heads, reaping a bloody harvest, and then the fire came in their place.
Soldiers were baked alive in their armor, not even having time to engage this terrible enemy.
Despair and fear seized us. Defeat hung over us, threatening to turn into a catastrophe, but my brother, Magni, led us. He led us forward, bursting into the ranks of the Rukhas, mixing with them so that the cursed lizards could not burn us with impunity, falling from the heavens.
And then I realized it was a trap. The Orcish ranks parted, and from among them emerged true giants, whose very appearance struck fear into the young. Some of them had two heads, while others appeared with one eye, but each could surpass anyone in strength and stature.
They scattered us, drove us back to the gates, cutting off my brother and his retinue from the rest of the army, and the enemy chieftain challenged him. Hiding in the crowd of identical bodies, they met in a duel that ended after a few seconds.
Just one true strike—and my brother's body was lifted into the air.
We were left without a King. Alone, in a full field of enemies. Fear seized even the bravest of us.
But the blood of the Bronzebeards still flowed in me, and I raised my brother's fallen banner, hoping to hearten our people. I called upon them to unite, to avenge our King and protect Ironforge...
But it was all in vain. Pressed from all sides, we opened the gates, hoping to find salvation there, but only brought death and destruction into the city.
The sacred halls, where the foot of not a single Troll had stepped, were desecrated.
I saw the guild houses burning, the corpses of our brothers falling into the lava, stripped naked. I saw Trolls, Orcs, and Ogres devouring our children, laughing after us.
Overcome with rage, I stayed with my squad to fight to the end, but instead of glory and death, I found only a stump and a miserable old age in disgrace and shame.
Few of us survived. Those who came to that field. And because of that, our shame is even more terrible.
I saw my brother fall, my King. I saw our women and children perish through our fault, how the home we created at the dawn of time was seized by creatures unworthy of life.
And I will be forced to live with this until the end of my days, as a punishment and a lesson to myself and others.
***
Muradin continued to speak, repeating himself time and again. His sick mind, lost to defeat and loss, could not stop, jumping from event to event until he finally fell silent, plunging once more into grief and melancholy.
My friend, practically a brother, locked himself away, ignoring my words, reliving that terrible day and the subsequent exodus when our people tried to escape north through secret paths.
Constantly hunted by wolf riders, devoured and pursued like game. Always under attack from all sides, watched by the eyes of dragons that allowed thousands of refugees to be led out onto Alliance land.
"Vile creatures..."
Barely restraining the rage seeping out, I clenched my fists until it hurt, tilting my head toward the ceiling, releasing my pent-up emotions.
A roar filled with malice swept through the area, startling the onlookers gathered around the house and the rare livestock. Only the understanding nods of Muradin's guards stood out from the general picture.
All the Dwarves were lost in thought. Dejected, despondent, and broken, they wandered slowly around the area, trying to settle their lives, but thoughts would return, time and again, to our home and the tragedy that had occurred.
Standing up, I paced the room. Cursing myself and my ambitions, assuring myself that I could have changed something if I had been there, along with everyone else. That if I had broken the King's order, perhaps Ironforge would have remained whole.
"And could you have changed anything?"
A stray thought, creeping into my head, struck my ears.
"Could you have fixed anything against such a threat? Thousands of your kin now lie in the ground, and you are but one of them."
Going outside, I squinted at the sun's rays, not knowing what to do next. Catching sympathetic, understanding glances upon myself, I paced before the house, flickering before the eyes of the crowd.
"A worthless warrior. A weak leader..."
I realized that this was all a delusion and my mind was now my own enemy. That I should calm down and think everything through properly, but the rage after Muradin's story simply would not leave my head.
"And what could I do? I already gave my word that I would protect Tol Barad, but it is lost... just like Ironforge."
"Gave my word... right," running back into the house and overturning all the shelves, I found what I was looking for, what would help me in my plan, "if you gave your word, you must keep it. No matter what."
Nodding to my own words, I made a decision for myself that changed my life forever.
Going back out under the gaze of all the honest Dwarves, I drew water from a nearby barrel, sitting on the ground in a level circle formed by the crowd that had stepped back from the house.
Dipping my palm into the water, I smeared a special ointment over all my hair, thickly covering my entire crown.
The first whispers were heard around, and several women disbelievingly hid their lips in trembling palms or calmed crying children. The old men dejectedly hung their heads, realizing what I wanted to do. They did not approve and did not judge; they merely accepted such an act.
From behind my belt slipped a dagger, held by a firm hand. Simple and reliable, it had come to me after the battle for Tol Barad fortress. Once it had belonged to a decent lad whose family, according to his stories, now lived in the outskirts of Stromgarde.
Taking one last look at the blade, I put it to use without hesitation, shaving the hair to the root, leaving only a clean head.
Footsteps were heard behind my back. Not the kind you expect from the defeated; these were the steps of the confident and those thirsting for vengeance.
Several other men sat down beside me, beginning to copy me. One after another, they sat in a circle, shaving everything except beard and eyebrows.
"Kazak Dammaz!" (War and vengeance!)
A meager chorus of voices rang out in the falling silence, repeating the words spoken after me. The old men nodded meagerly while the young silently opened their mouths.
"Uzkul Dammaz!" (Vengeance for the fallen!)
We spoke more confidently, more harshly, as if cutting away doubts and the last scraps of pity for our enemies along with the hair.
With the help of another Dwarf, I washed my face, removing the remains of the viscous gel. A shadow covered me, and the silhouette of one of the warriors froze behind my back.
"Stalgorn Dammaz!" (Vengeance for Ironforge!)
With strikes of thunder, we spoke the words of the oath to which we would dedicate long years, perhaps an entire lifetime.
Grasping the dagger by the blade, I passed the hilt back, clenching my teeth and bracing for the pain. But it was nothing compared to what my soul was experiencing.
A thin strip of steel easily sliced the skin of my temple, going further behind the ear, carving neat inscriptions in the ancient language of the Dwarves. A trickle of blood flowed down, sprinkling my hands, thereby confirming the ancient oath of vengeance from which only death could release me.
The final words were more like the fall of a cliff. So loudly and fiercely were they pronounced that they forced all the involuntary witnesses of our act to step back a couple of paces.
"Kaz Modan Dammaz!" (Vengeance for Khaz Modan!)
***
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