...From the tree of fate, his axe broke off,
Which never knows weariness!
It hacks flesh as if cutting butter,
Drunk on the enemy's blood!
And his cry before battle is like heavenly thunder,
He who hears it is already a dead man!
Cowards tremble, but the warriors of The Horde only grow more feral!
Their eyes blaze with rage!
For leading them into battle is... HELLSCREAM!
"Quick-quick-quick!" Urging the soldiers on, Galen Trollbane froze near the gate tower, where almost all of us had moved in a mass. The main gates of Stromgarde were an impressive sight, but none of us would vow that they could hold back the waves of fanged creatures forever. "Bring more braces!"
Leaning over the inner embrasure, the King's nephew shouted to the soldiers scurrying below. For a few seconds, Trollbane watched as his order was carried out before pulling a powerful two-handed axe from behind his back, gripping it with one hand.
"What do you think, Master Rodgirn? Will we hold the city?"
The lad was shaking. His eyes kept darting to the approaching avalanche, and no one would dare reproach him for it. For unlike those fragmented and wild clans we had dealt with a couple of days ago, these bastards represented a cohesive, prepared, and well-armed host.
Thick hides, leather, bones of beasts and enemies served as Armor for the simple grunts, while The Horde commanders stood out with decent plate. Dense, heavy black metal covered vital spots.
Belly, groin, chest, shoulders, shins. Spikes adorned some, while others decorated their Armor with Human or Dwarven skulls stuck onto small spears or stakes.
The brutes flaunted their gruesome trophies, showing them in all their glory. Even from here, I saw their crooked and anticipatory smirks as they closed the distance to the walls at a light run.
The drums beat harder. The roar of thousands of these cursed instruments was deafening, making it hard to think straight. But even through all this infernal cacophony, I could distinguish Tim's joyful voice, already filled with bloodthirsty notes.
"Master Rodgirn!" My dear assistant, like a true rhino, plowed forward without looking at the road. Proudly ignoring, or perhaps truly not hearing, the torrents of swearing directed at his back, Tim handed me what I had sent him to the crash site of our airship for. "The others will be here soon, everyone who can hold a weapon in their hands..."
"What about the guns and shells?" Businesslike, I checked the Fire-spitter in my hands, noting a few new scratches on the barrel. Fortunately, they only marred a decorative element, and the flamethrower would be able to work without problems. "Did many survive?"
"Fortunately, yes," nodding joyfully, Tim smiled from ear to ear and patted the tank behind his back, "it wasn't for nothing you slaved over those boxes of cream, swearing like a..."
"You watch your mouth," I said, delivering a symbolic clip to the ear of my loyal subordinate, which he truly paid no mind to, as I swung my own tank onto my back. This lanky fellow had brought it too, and no particular fatigue was visible on him. "And it's not cream, it's gel, Balda..."
Snorting at my words, Tim simply stepped back in silence, letting me and Galen Trollbane pass, then loyally followed a couple of steps behind.
"Good news," nodding at Trollbane's unspoken question, I approach a small open section that had been cleared beforehand. There would be a dozen more such "holes" in the wall's Defense where my boys and girls with Fire-spitters would be stationed. "We have nearly a dozen flamethrowers, explosives, fifty muskets, sixteen cannons..."
"Whoa-whoa-whoa," holding his hands out in front of him, Galen Trollbane even ran around me, standing a couple of meters ahead, "were you planning to go behind the lines again with an arsenal like that?"
"Pah! Lad," a smile played on my lips against my will, "who do you think I am? A Human?! I am a Dwarf! A Dwarf!"
Sticking an index finger in front of Trollbane's face, I bypass the frozen Galen Trollbane, who had bewilderment written in large letters across his face at how clumsily I had dodged the question.
"We'll set the cannons up in the citadel; it'll be a little gift, just in case..."
Everyone understood what "case" I was talking about without further words. And there was great sense in it. The last trump card—which in the event of defeat... And if the Orcs were already besieging the city citadel, then it was definitely a defeat!
Besides, our cannons wouldn't fall to The Horde, which warmed my Dwarven heart, for ours are many times better than the Goblins'.
Stepping onto my position with Tim, I caught the exact moment when The Horde's ranks parted and, through a corridor of living bodies, a short but broad-shouldered Orc marched toward us.
These creatures are already imposing, but this monstrosity had arms like young oaks. He walked smoothly, like a beast on the hunt, constantly sniffing the scents wafting over the battlefield.
A monstrous axe was gripped in his right hand, even larger than the one Galen Trollbane wielded. The broad-shouldered one was clearly a chieftain, and judging by how the rest of The Horde bowed their heads in respect, he was clearly a high-ranking and famous chieftain.
What followed will remain in my memory forever. There were no threats, no grand speeches, no weird or stupid deals or offers.
The fanged carrion simply raised his axe in our direction, then spun on his heels and, lifting his arms to the sky...
Screamed.
No, it wasn't even a scream. A wild howl, as if from the very depths of the abyss. So fierce, bloodthirsty, and cruel, full of the anticipation of a good slaughter.
He screamed for several seconds—frightening our soldiers, forcing some of the most impressionable to cover their ears or hide behind the battlements, bowing their heads just so they wouldn't hear this insane cry.
"Lok'tar ogar!!"
The shout that followed this performance marked the beginning of the assault.
****
"Just die already!" Striking a Troll behind the knee with the barrel of the Fire-spitter, I landed a few more blows to the monstrosity's head before it slowly slid down the wall to its own groans. "BURN!"
Without a second thought, I blast a charge of flame directly into the fallen bastard's face to make sure of his death. Heat flared around me. Even through the thick heat-resistant jacket, I felt the fury of the spreading flame, which didn't want to stop, but thanks to the ancestors, it wasn't the flame that made the decisions...
A painful cry rang out to the left. Having already grown used to the fact that nothing good follows such yells, I pull a pistol from my coat, and as soon as my head turned to see the target, a shot thundered.
The head of an Orc swinging an axe shattered into pieces, and the massive carcass pinned one of the Stromgarde soldiers with its weight. Grumbling and cursing the green-skin, the poor fellow tried to scramble out from under the corpse, but another Troll caught him in a leap, mercilessly piercing the neck of the opponent who was unable to defend himself.
All the pistols were already discharged, and one had even snapped in half when I used its butt to smash another Orc into a wall battlement.
So all that was left was to snatch up one of the many swords underfoot and hurl it at the gloating monster.
The decent blade, made by Dwarven hands, sliced through the mask of tree bark without much trouble, entering the Troll's skull halfway. Frozen in its moment of triumph, the runt toppled forward, then vanished down the inner side of the wall, splattering against the pavement.
Breathing heavily the scents of soot, blood, and shit—catching a minute for a breather—I began hurriedly loading the pistols dangling from my belt and chest. Gunpowder spilled occasionally, bullets fell from numbed hands several times, but it had to be done! For there might not be another chance...
Galen Trollbane was fighting nearby. Under the banner of his kingdom, the lad was mutilating with a double-sided poleaxe—crushing skulls and lopping off limbs of any madman who dared approach him. Covered in blood from head to toe, squinting through a blood-filled eye from a gashed brow.
The King Thoras's nephew looked like a hero of epic legends—crushing the approaching hordes of Orcs and Trolls climbing the walls in an unending stream. And none of us doubted that this was only the beginning.
There were so many of the bastards that we didn't even have time to breathe properly. Three new ones took the place of every fallen one, and there were so many bodies around that we had to simply kick them down, burying the city in Orc corpses.
"Master Rodgirn!" Overpowering the din of battle, Galen Trollbane picked me out of the crowd. Driving his axe into the chest of a particularly large Orc specimen, he easily shoved the corpse away with a kick to the chest, dropping the still-living brute from the fortress walls onto the heads of his kin. "Where are those bombs you promised?!"
"Right here, lad!" My finger, in a soot-covered glove, pointed to a dozen kin straining to haul several crates to the walls, packed to the brim with bombs of all sorts.
It was intended that we would drop them from the Beer Lord, but as practice showed, my glorious airship doesn't survive until the moment such a thing can be carried out.
Another whistle sounded overhead, followed by the roar of a shot. Already knowing perfectly well what that meant, I flopped face-first, covering my head with my hands.
Not a second passed before explosions rang out within the city limits, followed by the first smoke rising to the sky. The fires spread rapidly. No matter how much I decried Goblin work, they knew how to blow things up and destroy, perhaps better than anyone in all of Azeroth.
The wild mixture of fuel and oils ignited upon impact, after which such a fire could only be extinguished by completely collapsing the building to prevent the blaze from spreading further.
Rolling onto my side while managing to pick at my clogged ear, I scrambled to my feet just in time, as my grumbling, bearded comrades—unfazed by the artillery fire—dragged crates of explosives onto the fortress wall.
"Danath! I need a few minutes." Removing the half-full tank from my back, I hastily wrapped it with cloth in all its vulnerable spots, simultaneously plugging the tube used for feeding the fuel mixture.
Next came a rather banal but no less painstaking task. I needed to create a shaped charge that would strike inside the tank—scattering the fuel as far as possible to cut off the brutes' path of advancement onto the wall.
The unceasing flow of Orcs was exhausting us too quickly, and both the humans and the few Dwarves required a respite, which these makeshift fire projectiles would provide...
And no, I didn't steal this idea from the Goblins!
Beside me, with their backs to the tower wall, a couple of other craftsmen settled in, quickly mimicking my every move and occasionally adding something of their own, though without distracting the others. Now was not the time for process perfection or precision—the result was all that mattered.
"Tim!" Without taking my eyes off the process, I shouted toward the direction where the most insane and maniacal laughter could be heard, punctuated by the roar of flames. "Get your asses over here! I need tanks!"
Without even turning around, knowing full well that my loyal assistant was already rushing to my call, I switched to the next tank, leaving the finished homemade bomb nearby.
Stromgarde soldiers were trampling around. Somewhere nearby, Danath was barking orders while I continued to mold the fiery explosives meant to grant us at least a few minutes of reprieve.
A soldier's body flew past. Clattering in his plate armor, he knocked over one of the Dwarf craftsmen—knocking out the old weaponsmith—but none of us were distracted by it.
The sounds of active combat erupted nearby. Screams, curses, weeping, swearing, growls...
Foul Orc blood splashed onto my face—scent I would recognize among a thousand—but my fingers kept working, assembling another bomb.
It was a bit of a shame to waste good tanks on such makeshifts, but at least they were easy to recast, even if from shoddy metal. Fortunately, almost all the refugees from Ironforge were currently in the city.
The last explosive took its rightful place, and just as I let out a sigh of relief, a Troll's head thudded at my feet, bouncing comically off the floor and coming to a rest face-to-face with me.
"Damn it, boy! I asked for a few minutes!"
Grumbling and cursing under my breath, I tried to ignore Danath's ironic gaze, which was full of wicked amusement and a promise of revenge. If I had said before that he was covered in blood from head to toe, now it felt as if the lad had taken a shower in Horde gore.
Leaning on the shaft of his massive axe, Trollbane watched with interest as the tanks were carried away to the catapults and ballistae, carefully transported under the guidance of the couple of masters who had been helping me.
"And? Will this help?" Blowing a clump of someone's bloody hair off his hand, Danath slung his axe over his shoulder, at that moment looking hauntingly like his uncle—the King. "Will it kill the brutes?"
"Pff, did the Orcs knock all the brains out of you or something?" Ignoring his ironically arched eyebrow, I waved my hand, inviting the younger Trollbane to follow me to the top of the gate tower. "Gods willing, this will spook them for half an hour so we can wipe our sweaty asses..."
Several bolt-throwers were stationed here along with a dozen archers who had long been firing without orders—picking off the largest and most agile specimens of the enemy.
"Alright, boys." Dragging a small crate to the edge, I climbed onto it to get a proper view of our targets, which would soon be taking flight. "Load the fire arrows! Who's the sharpest eye among you?"
Among the huddling archers, a pair of identical-looking lads was quickly found, glancing at each other mockingly. Clearly relatives... or their old man liked visiting the neighbors.
"Can you find a target this big in a crowd of greenskins?" Indicating the approximate dimensions of the tank, I received a pair of even more mocking and sarcastic smiles in return.
"Even a blind man could hit a midget like that, Master Dwarf," poking a finger at his presumed brother, the first black-haired youth stepped forward, flashing uneven teeth and a bulbous nose, "even Tar could manage it."
"Well, of course, I don't need eyes to hit a fat lady like that..." The second brother also took a step forward, drawing level with the first. "She's bigger than your stupid head, Tal."
"Shut it, both of you," barking at the pair of jokers, I unexpectedly let out a growl that made the entire dozen straighten up, striking their fists to their chests, "the catapults are about to fire in sequence. The first wave will be dummies, and your task is to try and shoot... I repeat—try to shoot them! As soon as they fall into the thick of the crowd—fire your arrows there, clear? You guide them, the rest hit the same spot."
"We can do that, Master Dwarf."
The two bobbleheads nodded in sync, burning the sky with their gaze, putting on a look of gallant stupidity, though their eyes were swimming with fiends of understanding and responsibility.
"Well then..." Sniffling and wiping my once-again charred beard, I nervously peered into the sea of fanged mugs surging beneath the walls. "Let's begin. CATAPULTS!"
Exchanging glances with a couple of Dwarf craftsmen near the Stromgarde artillery crews on the inner walls, I waved my hand without hesitation, giving the command.
To the collective creak of ropes, a dozen steel barrels, similarly wrapped in cloth, soared into the sky. The multicolored gifts flew rapidly into the crowd of greenskins and did not go unnoticed.
Orcs pointed at the sky and scattered, trying to avoid a meeting with a steel projectile weighing nearly fifty kilograms...
But to our collective grim joy, not everyone managed to avoid the presents.
"Now, you idiots! Show me what you've got!"
Not a second had passed before fire arrows from all along the wall flew toward the steel barrels. The projectiles blanketed the fanged ones, scaring them even more. Having already become well-acquainted with Dwarven handiwork, they quickly realized it wasn't wise to linger near such a suspicious object.
Huddling into groups and flowing around the suspicious barrels, the Horde opened up a view of the clear field for us.
"What is all this for, Master Rodgirn? Shouldn't we have hit the crowd with bombs immediately to take out more of those brutes..."
I already had an answer to Danath's fair question. Of course, I would have liked to kill more of the fanged freaks, but...
We needed to group the freaks together to catch more of them. Crowding on the other side of the barrels, the greenskins were in no hurry to run past them, forming numerous, albeit small, bottlenecks...
And that was exactly where the next projectiles fell.
Some didn't work. Others fell short or, conversely, went straight into a couple of lakes, but the majority...
The majority were corrected properly by the catapult crews and fell right in the middle of the clusters of Horde warriors!
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