...Orcs! How many words have been composed about their strength and endurance!
But an old eye sees further.
It is not heroic might,
But their numbers—that is what became a bone in the Systems Alliance's throat!
Host after host, from the portal, like locusts from the earth's womb.
Merciless to the enemy, and to themselves—doubly so!
An Orc's life is worth a pittance if given for the glory of The Horde.
And therein lies the secret of their victories, not in muscle and fangs...
Incalculable numbers and fierce ruthlessness—
That is the true sword that hacked their path into Lordaeron.
"Hey, put me back down this instant!" Breaking free from Galen Trollbane's grip, I jump off the bed where this small, cunning Goblin was trying to shove me. "I am no Lordaeronian maiden nor a Pointy-Ears to take to my bed from the likes of this!"
"But, Master Rodgirn," the intimidated healer stammered, shifting a helpless gaze from me to Trollbane and back, "your belly was pierced by a piece of railing... Even if your condition has stabilized, still..."
"Bah!" Waving a hand at this bleating kid, I simply walk out of the room as the King's nephew rolled his eyes. After a quiet word with the healer, Galen Trollbane caught up with me in the corridor, immediately thrusting a flask into my hands, from which I took a hearty swig. "That's more like it... Holy Light, magic-shmagic... It's all interesting, of course, but a mug of strong booze—that is what can truly put a Dwarf back on his feet!"
"Or knock him off them..."
"Hush!" Amidst the chuckles of Galen Trollbane's Royal Guard, I brushed off such insinuations. "There is no drink in the world yet that could floor me with a couple of small sips..."
Theatrically shaking the liter flask, from which I had drunk more than half, Galen Trollbane pursed his lips, hiding a smile.
"Curse you Trollbanes!" Turning a corner, heading straight for the Throne Room where, according to the local guards, they were already waiting for us, I didn't even think of shutting up—venting my accumulated stress and anxieties. "If I, an honest master, had known that by linking up with your kin I would forever gain jokers who mock honest Dwarves!"
Another series of chuckles erupted behind me, while I couldn't stop and grumbled. A lot, for a long time, with feeling...
And there was reason for it! I swear by the breeches of my ancestors! No sooner do I fix my miserable little airship than some brute absolutely strives to shoot it down! Dragons and other filth with fanged maws and green skin weren't enough; now I have to deal with overgrown mice!
A bat, damn it! I wouldn't be surprised if these beardless bastards eat their dung or mate with those brutes in caves!
And Goblins too, Khaz give me strength. The Midgets crammed so many cannons onto their wrecks that they actually managed to damage the Beer Lord. Yes, granted, some of them exploded right in the air during the pursuit, but that doesn't change the fact. The little bastards breed faster than locusts and churn out their shitty contraptions in similar quantities; for them, the death of three crews is just a drop in the ocean!
Fine, this is all the grumbling of an old Dwarf who once again almost lost his most beloved creation.
The Beer Lord was in a terrible state. My beautiful airship had suffered so much that even with a whole camp of my refugee kin at hand, I could count on a month of repairs at best, no less.
And who knew if we had that month to spare or not.
Lost in thought, I didn't notice that we had reached the entrance to the Royal Hall of Stromgarde. I had been here many times before, but now the atmosphere surrounding this majestic and ancient place was entirely different.
Focused and anxious gazes. Gloom and the first seeds of fear surrounded everyone inside. As soon as the bulky and sturdy gates swung open, this entire aura washed over us.
"It's cheerier in a graveyard..."
I said it too loudly, so the beings arguing near the throne turned toward us in sync. And Ancestor Spirits, great kin of the past, give me strength—how I wished I didn't have to see many of those present.
The first was no less than the head of the Human industrial guild, who for many years now had been trying to piss in my boots like a small and nasty cat. He couldn't do a damn thing himself—Rodgirn Steel Barrel wasn't of that breed, and the King's protection allowed me to spit from a high bell tower on all the schemes of the local "masters"...
But that didn't make communicating and interacting with him any easier.
The second was Elder Britvar. A quarrelsome, spiteful old Dwarf with breath that stank like my boots after a month of fighting in the Orc rear.
He was bald, with a bunch of age spots and wrinkles on his sagging skin, but that did nothing to hide the piercing and loathing-filled gaze directed my way.
The old prick was as slippery as an eel and as stubborn as a rhino. In the past, he had stood fiercely in the political arena against the Bronzebeards, but when the war began, he conversely became their loyal ally. Since Magni's death, the old prick is still trying to crush the remnants of our society that are left under his thumb, but it's not working for shit, and the other elders would sooner shove a blacksmithing hammer up his backside than grant him sole power...
But what especially irritated him was having to negotiate not with Revered elders of our kin, nor with the Human King who had taken the Dwarves into his war-torn country.
No-no-no.
What annoyed him most was having to communicate with me. An upstart, a Midget, the son of an almost destroyed clan...
An outcast.
A long-bearded "sage," an elder, an authority... Pfft, Gelek menu caragu rukhs (And it still stinks like Orc shit).
The old man couldn't stand me, a feeling I returned in full. Except, unlike Britvar, I didn't need a damn thing from the bald shriveled prune, whereas he had to drag himself before my bright eyes, asking for help in negotiations or assistance in one matter or another involving the Humans.
The last in this colorful and unpleasant company was the Prince, surrounded by knights, soldiers, and aristocrats on all sides.
Galen Trollbane himself—this small, thin parody of his father, who, with eyes wide in fear, listened to the masters, warlords, and mere advisors whispering in his ears.
The boy didn't look well, though it was hard to blame him. The presence of The Horde beneath the walls of his home city doesn't add health or peace of mind to anyone.
"Brother!" Jumping up from the throne and forcing a crooked smile onto his face, the Prince of Stromgarde crossed the distance between us to clasp his larger and older relative by the shoulders. "How glad I am that you survived... When I was told of the airship's fall, I already feared the worst."
He seemed to speak sincerely, but the kid's speech still reeked of rot. I don't know if he's Thoras Trollbane's true son, but one look at this little weasel was enough for me to realize that every family has its black sheep.
"And I am glad to meet you, brother," Galen Trollbane must have noticed something too, seeing how his face twisted into a semblance of a smile he was trying so hard to force, "we saw from the sky what calamity has come to our home. How are you holding up?"
While the Trollbane brothers talked amongst themselves, the old wreck Britvar approached me on the sly. Jutting out his lower lip, grimacing and scowling, he stood half-turned to me, as if speaking to the air.
"Survived then, what a joy," the bald elder clasped his hands behind his back, watching the conversation of the royal family and their associates along with me, "and I was so hoping there would be one less fragile stone..."
"Speak for yourself, old man." Sniffling, I wipe the sweat that broke out on my forehead. The wounds were making themselves known, but that was the least of the evils. "Your health isn't what it used to be... You'll go to take a dump and forget to take off your pants... As usual, heh-heh."
"Little Menu shirumund..."
We would have stood there trading compliments, but Galen Trollbane and his brother had other plans. Finishing with the greetings, both Trollbanes beckoned us to a huge table where a map of the city was carved.
One thing Galen Trollbane didn't lack was family bluntness. No bowing or politeness—straight to business so as not to waste precious time.
Leaning over the map, the lad glanced briefly at one of the Stromgarde generals, who, stepping forward, slammed a fist against his chest and began the report. The grim man, with a magnificent beard and arms nearly as thick as mine, frowned darkly.
"By our modest estimates," clearing his throat, the general exhaled tiredly through his mouth before continuing, "their numbers on land alone vary from one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand..."
The figures spoken could be compared to the blow of a steel press to the back of the head. Gathering my eyes, I, like Galen Trollbane, spent several seconds processing what was said. Not long ago, that many people lived in the capital of Stromgarde!
Now, of course, many times more residents were sheltered behind the walls, plus nearly seven thousand Dwarves, but only a small fraction of them were warriors.
"How many are on the ships as a landing force, we have no idea, so it's hard to even guess," pointing a hand at the wooden map where the city walls were displayed with minimalist precision, the general ran his open palm along their entire length, "The Horde has besieged us from all sides. Their forces are more than sufficient for a dense, unbroken ring of manpower to cut off all escape routes..."
Pointing to small figures with flags, the soldier took the rest from his adjutant's outstretched hands and began briskly scattering them across the map.
There were Stromgarde soldiers, Dwarves of fallen Ironforge, and the Lordaeron corps—sent as reinforcements and currently undergoing rotation while waiting to be sent to the front.
Except there were about four times fewer of them than on the enemy side!
After the troop figures, siege engines began to be placed.
"They are fortifying—trenches, stakes, and primitive walls. If we had five or six thousand heavy cavalry, we could try to push them into the lake, but..." But there weren't many riders in Stromgarde to begin with, and those that were, Thoras Trollbane had taken with him, only leaving a few incomplete hundreds for Galen Trollbane to help me. "Our scouts report that they are building siege towers, a ram, and assembling ladders. The assault will be thorough, many times stronger and swifter than the first..."
And those were just the appetizers. The first clashes, when the Orcs tried to take the walls by storm in a rush, showed that among The Horde troops were many of their Warlocks and cursed Shamans.
Raised dead were spotted, mostly knights of the fallen Kingdom of Stormwind.
Large Orc clans, among which names familiar even to us flickered.
Remnants of the Amani and Gurubashi Trolls from the south, who brought the cursed bats—filling the entire aerial vicinity with them.
Several Goblin Cartels under the personal leadership of princes, currently assembling siege engines and stuffing their zeppelins with explosives to the brim.
And Ogre tribes, among which were their own Biotics users. These two-headed monstrosities were constantly testing the ancient city's walls for strength, and no one could say when they would succeed in breaching them.
In short, the situation was shitty, which I informed everyone present... and even Britvar didn't take the moment to once again reproach me and rub my nose in the humus.
The old bald prick was apparently impressed too and likely heard the true state of affairs for the first time today.
"You've already sent messengers with requests for help, right? In the best-case scenario, the Systems Alliance army near the Thoradin Wall could reach us in the next two weeks. Perhaps they can unite with His Majesty and take the Orcs in a pincer..." Looking at the downcast advisors, Galen Trollbane, like me, suspected something was wrong. "What is it?"
"My lord, all the messengers from the Wildhammer Clan were shot down as soon as they moved away from the city. The brutes literally tore them to pieces," looking around for support, one of the advisors looked toward Prince Galen, but the boy himself was in need of support and his father's strong shoulder right now, so no help was coming from him, "as for the land, we didn't dare send anyone... Even your appearance was a surprising coincidence, for we didn't expect to see anyone for the next couple of months."
"So... Wait." It was hard for Galen Trollbane to realize that his worst thoughts had become reality. "Galen, brother! Is this true?"
"Yes..."
The quiet voice of Thoras Trollbane's son was perfectly audible in the resulting silence. The young Prince gripped the carved table tighter, his knuckles whitening, trying not to look toward his brother.
"And the Mages? Wizards?" Still unwilling to accept reality, the King's nephew continued to insist, demanding answers. "Dalaran sent nearly fifty Mages to the front. Did His Majesty take them all?!"
"No, but..." Realizing that no one else was going to answer Galen Trollbane, that same general took the hit again. "According to them, the Orc Biotics users are creating interference around the city, and they simply don't have the strength to send a message..."
After a short pause, the man looked at us with doubt, clearly hesitating to ask his question, but curiosity eventually overrode protocol.
"As I said before, we weren't expecting anyone for months. The city has been under siege for a whole week, and your appearance is akin to a miracle!"
"A week?" Finding my voice, I quickly shut up, realizing what might have happened. "But in the letter..."
A press strike?! Now that was a real kick from a dragon to our balls! The worst fears had come true, and besides that, I was far more concerned about the identity of that Dwarf messenger who delivered the message to us.
Who could it have been? A traitor? Or one of those who broke through the aerial blockade? Questions, questions, nothing but questions.
But before we could continue our conversation, a warning horn sounded over the city. A long, drawn-out sound jolted everyone out of their stupor and the awkwardness of the talk. The windows rattled, and the weakest felt their breath catch.
The Royal Guard immediately pushed both princes back, forming small boxes around them, while the generals and soldiers bolted from the spot, without preamble and disregarding etiquette—rushing down the corridor toward the fortress wall.
The Castle began to resemble a disturbed hive. Everyone was running somewhere, shouting, asking questions, but no one really knew the answers...
And only when we ran onto the platform of one of the castle towers—connecting the ancient inner walls and the citadel itself—did all questions instantly vanish.
To the thunder of accelerating drums. Thousands of feet marched across the ground in a single surge. Brutes roared, warriors yelled battle cries, and over it all flew the crimson banner.
The green tide had begun. The Horde had gone on the assault.
(More chapters on Boosty)
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The Prince of Darkness has been reborn on his own terms and now he must remake another world to suit him. Humor, banter, a gripping plot, vivid characters, and a pinch of erotica!
https://author.today/work/475308
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Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan