The howl of icy winds stands over gray Khaz Modan,
Eternal snow on the peaks, guarding the graves of the ancients!
And in the heart, a longing for home, for the ring of the blacksmith's hammer...
In the mist lies our Ironforge, abandoned, bitter, eternal!
Ironforge, home of our fathers, in ash and darkness you stand,
Memory of our glory and pride, you return to the heart!
But the flame of vengeance burns in the hearts of your sons,
And the enemy shall not break our faith, as long as even one of us lives!
The green meadows of the Arathi Highlands were covered with the first snow. Boundless expanses stretched before my eyes, and for a moment, it even seemed that the world around me remained as it was...
That there had been no war, no death, and no destruction. That any moment now, I would open my eyes and see the beautiful valleys of Khaz Modan, with its deep blue lakes and fortresses tucked behind endless mountains with snowy peaks.
That the gates of Ironforge would swing open before me once again, letting me into its high halls, illuminated by the bright light of lava flowing in streams beneath our feet.
I would hear the cursing and bickering, the laughter and satisfied shouts...
I would smell the aromas of beer and oil mixed with tobacco...
I would feel the dizzying heat that only proud and stubborn Dwarves could endure.
Drawing in the fresh air with a heavy, long breath, I even allowed myself to close my eyes, savoring this rare moment. A chill ran through my body, causing pleasant goosebumps.
How I wanted to freeze in this state forever, eternally immersed in blessed dreams of the impossible, but the quiet, now-familiar pain from the oaths carved into my head began to gradually intensify.
My hands, hanging calmly along my body, clenched into fists, and my heart beat faster—returning me to reality.
Brushing a handful of snow from my shoulder, I pulled out a brand-new pipe, decorated with the symbols of our clan.
A gift presented by the few kinsmen who were lucky enough to survive the Ironforge massacre. Turning it over with my calloused fingers, I drifted out of reality for a few seconds, staring at the neat carving. Crossed battle and blacksmith hammers with lightning bolts on the sides on one side... and a mug of beer clenched in a fist on the other.
Snorting into my mustache, I rubbed the tip of my nose with my finger as soon as I felt the tart and sharp aroma of tobacco. This craft was far from those amazing flavors we used to enjoy at home... A pathetic imitation, grown by Humans with the help of magic, but as far as I was concerned—it was perfect right now. For the taste of good tobacco is the taste of home, of which we are currently unworthy.
As soon as the first sparks fell onto the dry leaves, thick smoke hit my nose. Sitting on a nearby stone, I smoked the pipe steadily, gazing into the distance, where the snow gradually gave way, disappearing under the feet of our enemies.
"Izbad." A familiar voice sounded behind my back. Dukat, one of the Avengers and my deputy, following me loyally even into the deepest depths of stench and darkness. "They are already close."
"Good... Very good." Shaking out the burnt contents of the pipe, I slowly, without haste, rose to my feet, not ceasing to gaze at the horizon, where changes were already visible to the naked eye.
The Horde was advancing upon us. And today, for the first time in a year of war, we will answer for our defeat!
"Send a message to the Stromgardians and prepare our warriors."
With a curt nod, Dukat disappeared behind me at a run, leaving his commander alone with his foolish thoughts... But not for long. No matter how much melancholy and the pain of loss tried to seize me, no matter how much insane rage and anger wished to swallow me whole...
None of this held full power over me.
A mixture of a growl and a dissatisfied huff escaped my mouth. Smoothing my unkempt beard, I gazed with grim satisfaction at the approaching green avalanche. The tusked monstrosities were marching straight for us, accompanied by their foul allies, whose silhouettes were already becoming distinguishable against the backdrop of hundreds, if not thousands, of Orcs.
Spitting on the ground in front of me, I smirked one last time before turning to face the troops gathered before me.
Hundreds of Dwarves of all professions and ages had gathered here. Clad in thick steel—of which there was more after the defeat than there were those capable of wearing it... Fiercely bristling their beards, they gripped their weapons defiantly, dreaming of putting them to use as soon as possible.
Here were gathered those who were ready to follow me, without past grudges or grievances... And some of my kin, especially the elders of the clans and guilds, had accumulated many—ranging from the death of King Brann's brother, which many had not forgotten... to how many weapons and inventions I had gifted to the Humans.
"Old pompous stumps... Their beards have long since dried out, Ironforge has fallen, our people are on the brink of extinction, and they still measure life by old customs and precepts."
Stepping through the parting ranks, I noted the gazes directed my way. Enthusiastic or empty, full of hope or meager respect... Irony, envy, fear.
A storm of emotions weighed down like an immovable mountain from all sides. Some bowed, others struck their fists against their chests or muttered respectfully in my wake.
But in each of them, in every one of my kinsmen, one could see the embers of a growing rage, uniting us into a single whole.
I passed through the dense ranks of my brothers like a knife through flimsy Goblin flesh.
Climbing aboard the Beer Lord, running my fingers along the guardrails, I walked along the side until I reached its bow. An ear-splitting silence hung over the deck. Everyone looked at me with grim anticipation, trying not to react to the approaching The Horde.
The drums beat louder and louder, until they began to reach our ears. With every second they became more furious, even drowning out the thumping of the living green wave.
"So, my noble kinsmen!" Suddenly shouting—causing the few Humans among the crew to flinch—I stood on the bow carved from a solid log, somewhat resembling the ram of Kul Tiras ships. "A great evil has befallen our race... because of the Orcs."
The words, echoed by magic, spread over the battlefield, forcing even the most zealous and unhinged representatives of my race to fall silent.
"We have already seen enough of their vile atrocities..." cutting the air with the side of my palm, I gripped the handle of my axe tighter in rage. "And only death shall await them for it..."
The airship began to rise slowly into the air, towering over the heads of the Dwarf army. No one looked up to the sky, but I was certain my voice was still being listened to just as intently.
"Well, then, my kin?!" The question, full of bitter irony and mockery, caused a slight stir. Beards shook, weapons glinted in the rare sunbeams trying to break through the gray gloom. "Take up your weapons and grip them tighter! Let us show these tusked brutes the might of Khaz Modan... for they are already coming to taste it."
Furious roars tried to drown out my speech. A little over a kilometer separated us from The Horde, and the cursed monstrosities quickened their pace, rushing toward us at full speed, like slaves driven by their masters' whips.
Tall, powerful, full of wild animal rage and bloodlust. Dressed in whatever they could find, pushing each other aside—they raced straight for us. Faces painted in scarlet and white... Foul grimaces, drooling during their insane screams...
Ogres, Trolls, Orcs...
All of them approached in disorganized ranks, easily climbing the low hill where we awaited them.
Raising my palm into the air, I felt the gazes of dozens of commanders focus on it, preparing to give the order on command. The mechanisms of the Fire-spitters roared in anticipation. The ignited fuses on the cannons hissed...
"Kazukan! Kazuki-ha!" Waving my hand, letting the rage and anticipation spread across my face, I gave the command.
***
Cleaning the blood from my axe, sitting on the carcass of an Ogre I had killed personally, I looked around. The bloody slaughter had long since ended, but here and there the cries of the dying, the wounded, or the enemies we were finishing off could still be heard.
The Orc army carpeted the ground all around us. One couldn't take a step without treading on another foul carcass—contorted and frozen in an absurd pose.
The wide, gentle hill was strewn with the bodies of both races... But how many more such hills there were in the Highlands, even Thoras Trollbane himself would be hard-pressed to answer, and he was the king and owner of all these lands.
My eyes slid over the mutilated corpses of the orcs.
Riddled with bullets with chunks of flesh torn out. Burned alive to the bone. Or broken by the paths of cannonballs.
We met them fully armed, but even so, we could not avoid hand-to-hand combat, for no matter how many troops the Systems Alliance gathered, there always seemed to be more of these monsters. And these weren't even the main forces, but merely a gathering of clans and tribes that weren't strong enough to be taken seriously, but even so...
It was a victory. One of the few in this bloody war that generously took lives from both sides.
Snorting into my mustache, I pulled out a dagger driven into the temple of a one-headed brute. The hulk turned out to be so stupid that even after I pierced his skull, he kept moving for a whole minute—aimlessly swinging his steel-shod club.
In the distance, shots rang out. Several gyrocopters hovered over the hills, continuing to track down the numerous fugitives and shooting them down without mercy like rabid dogs.
"Damned spawn," spitting on the ground, I stood up from the Ogre's body, "that's where you belong..."
My ears caught the thunder of approaching horses. A cavalcade of nearly a hundred riders was ascending the hill but was forced to stop so their four-legged friends wouldn't break their legs in this mess of corpses.
I already knew who was coming for my soul, so I didn't even deign to lift my "vengeful" backside from the spot.
"You could at least show a little respect, Master Rodgirn," a sarcastic mockery slipped through the official tone. The thunderous bass of the man speaking to me was perfectly familiar, so I wasn't surprised at all when a similarly sarcastic and ridiculous joke followed, "or should we address you as Lord Avenger now? Or perhaps Dragon Slayer?"
"Even as an Avenger, I can tell a horseshoe from my own head, Danath," the pipe flickered habitually in my hands, and tart smoke mixed with the smell of burning enveloped my head from all sides, hiding my smile, "by my great-grandmother's beard, next time I'd rather call those pompous boys from Lordaeron; they'd be of much more use in battle than blockheads like you..."
"Bah!" Unable to hold out first, sitting down next to me, King Thoras's nephew took off his helmet, resting it on the crook of his elbow. "Avenger, schmavenger... but you've become an even worse conversationalist."
"I was always like this, I just wanted to milk your uncle for more money for my toys," chuckling into my beard, I laughed at the grumbling Trollbane. For almost a minute we sat in silence before I broke the quiet, "Good to see you again, Danath. Alive and well."
"Likewise, Master Rodgirn... Dragon-slayer," a soft smile slid across his stern face. Fresh scars littered the young man's skin, and his already impressive figure had grown even larger from constant battles, "I was afraid you wouldn't return from your campaign..."
"You weren't the only one, boy... not the only one." Ignoring another jab, I puffed sadly on my pipe, inhaling deeply as if trying to drown the flickering thoughts in my head with this shitty tobacco. "It was easy to give in to the rage..."
Danath said nothing to that. The Stromgardians understood our pain like no one else, for with every month of fighting, The Horde seized more of their lands, slowly but surely advancing. Almost the entire east of the kingdom already belonged to them, and if things continued at this rate, it wouldn't be long before the eponymous capital was besieged by the green-skins and their foul allies.
"But today we won," apparently tired of just sitting around doing nothing, the king's nephew suddenly jumped to his feet, hands on his hips, surveying the corpse-strewn hill with grim satisfaction, "strong Dwarven steel showed its best side..."
"Don't belittle your own merits, boy," standing up next to Danath, I looked at the knights and soldiers of Stromgarde standing at a distance. Battered, with traces of recent combat and covered in green-skin blood, they waited steadfastly and without movement for their commander to return, "without your help, too many of my kinsmen might have returned to the ancestors."
"And there are so few of us left as it is... especially warriors."
I finished the thought in my head, but apparently Danath understood me without any words. The current army of the Dwarves of Ironforge was a rather pathetic sight, which is why the clan elders had decided to split it into several small detachments like this one, to serve as reinforcements for the larger Systems Alliance forces.
"Yes, you're right," nodding his short-cropped head, Danath was about to say something else when an eagle's cry suddenly rang out over our heads. Loud, long... and Trollbane and I knew perfectly well that the creature making such sounds merely looked like an eagle but was not one, "Ugh... I'll never get used to them."
Suppressing a smirk, I stepped forward a bit, being the first to meet the rider on the Griffon. A massive beast with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle—it flapped its impressive wings, nearly knocking Danath and me off our feet.
Throwing back its head, it let out a piercing cry one last time, drawing all the attention of those gathered around.
"Who knew Griffons were such self-important and pompous bastards... then again, they're not much different from their Menu shirumund (Beardless) masters."
As soon as the Griffon had fully enjoyed the glory and attention, a stocky Dwarf hopped off its back, almost with a skip. A member of the Wildhammer Clan, he was slightly shorter than his Ironforge kinsmen but much broader in the shoulders and with a far more massive jaw... actually, all those who enjoyed riding Griffons stood out with such physiques.
Tattoos covering his arms glowed with a mystical blue color. His brownish hair with rare streaks of gray was wind-blown, and only an iron ring held it in a "tail," preventing it from getting in his face.
Standing before us, the Wildhammer Clan member spent a long ten seconds studying us from under half-squinted eyelids before pulling a small tube from his tunic, which he handed to me with respect, while also giving a respectful nod to Danath.
Taking the message, I didn't even have time to say anything before the nimble fellow had already climbed back onto his pet and, rumbling something unfamiliar in the ancient tongue, jerked the reins, lifting the beast into the heavens.
"I know you're relatives, of course... but how glad I am that you aren't like them, Master Rodgirn."
Perhaps some Dwarf might have taken offense at such words, but I already knew the king's nephew well enough to overlook such jokes, just as he overlooked mine.
"What's in there?" As soon as I opened the tube, a tightly rolled parchment fell into my hands, and even a cursory glance was enough to recognize the seal—securing it. "The Systems Alliance crest... New orders?"
Without answering prematurely, with one light movement I broke the wax seal, unfurling the scroll before my eyes, hungrily reading what was written. The lines flickered before my eyes, and as I read, I realized the situation was as bad as it could be.
While we were fighting among these cursed and endless hills, several major clans of The Horde had besieged the fortress of Stromgarde from both water and land.
(And here is the continuation. I wanted to post it on Sunday, but it didn't work out—no luck)
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Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan