...In the dry lines of history textbooks—
You will never see everything that happened in the Second Orc War.
Only a series of major battles marked on the map
And the sizes of the armies on both sides.
...Stromgarde, Ironforge, Swamp of Sorrows, Thandol Span, Grim Batol...
The names of great heroes and commanders who led the Systems Alliance and The Horde.
...Anduin Lothar, Orgrim Doomhammer, Thoras Trollbane...
And so many forget that somewhere out there were other heroes...
Those who will remain only in personal chronicles
Or the memories of kin and friends.
Craftsmen and laborers, simple soldiers and knights,
Ambassadors and couriers...
The cold dawn painted the sky over Stromgarde in crimson tones, as if reminding of the flames that raged here yesterday. Finally, they had managed to extinguish all the night fires on the northern side of the city...
For better or worse, the houses and fortifications ruined by the Orcs burned significantly worse than full-fledged buildings, so massive conflagrations were avoided.
I trudged along the charred walls, feeling the ash crunch under my feet. In every damn step, there was a weight that canceled out all our sacrifices in defending this glorious city.
"And it was just yesterday..." Swallowing thick saliva full of ash and dust, I ran my palm over a wall that hadn't yet cooled. In the dragon flame, the ancient runes carved into its base had finally failed—turning the mighty stronghold into a heap of stones.
Yesterday Stromgarde was bleeding under the onslaught of the Orcs, and today it is drenched in dragon fire. Whose mercy was worse was a question that made my head ache.
The first breath after the night's madness burned my lungs with a mixture of soot and rot. The smell of death permeated everything. The stench that had pursued us since the Orcs first appeared on the horizon had now become even thicker, even more suffocating. I had to spit, trying to quell the nausea rising to my throat.
"Menu shirumund drakki..."
The walls. Once the pride of Stromgarde, now only charred skeletons gaping with holes. I saw those stones crumble yesterday under the blows of Orcish rams, but what the dragons did...
It was something else. The fire melted the stone, turning it into a glassy mass, leaving behind only black, smoking ruins... This hadn't happened in Tol Barad, which sincerely frightened everyone who had previously encountered these beasts.
Passing by the remains of the barracks, I noticed a familiar crest on one of the fragments—a rearing bull, the symbol of House Sumbersk.
"Poor Arthur, the head of the guard... He always made sure the crest was polished to a shine. I wonder where his shine is now?"
A dark thought, full of irony, rolled through my head. Dropping to one knee near the charred building, I traced funeral words in the ancient tongue with a light flick of my finger, then sprinkled earth over the scraps of the crest.
"Your spirit was strong..." The words broke off, interrupted by a cough. The cursed winds from the bay constantly drove ash and dust around the area, making it hard even to breathe. "...I believe you will find the way to the resting place of your ancestors."
Rising from my knee, having long ago given up attempts to clean the dirt from my torn clothes, I turned at the ruins of the market square, heading toward the citadel, to the south. To where life still flickered.
Walking through the destroyed streets, I, like any honest Dwarf, calculated the losses... And the numbers were not cheerful. Without the help of the rest of the Systems Alliance, Stromgarde would never get back on its feet on its own.
And it wasn't just about the money...
Houses turned to ash, streets littered with debris—all this could be returned... But the people. The Stromgardeans themselves—the question regarding them was acute.
I saw soldiers digging in the ruins, trying to find anyone alive. Their faces were black with soot, their eyes empty. They moved like shadows, resembling the dead rather than living warriors.
At the central square, it was easy to come across a group of refugees. Women, children, old men—they were all huddled around a pathetic campfire, warily keeping their distance from the flame, trying to warm themselves in the damp morning air. Their eyes were full of despair; the same question could be read in them: "What next? Where to go?"
I sat down next to one of the women. She held a sleeping child in her arms; her face was smeared with dirt and tears. Continuing to rock the Little One by inertia, she stared blankly ahead like a dead fish.
"How are you?" A simple question, devoid of any meaning considering how the foul winged beasts had screwed us like a ewe at mating! But I couldn't not ask it.
She only shook her head, unable to utter a word. Her gaze was directed somewhere into the void, as if she had lost her last hope.
To the side, crying was heard. A boy, about ten years old, sat on the ground and hugged a charred wooden horse. His lips trembled, and tears flowed from his eyes. The kid's hands were shaking, and he paid no attention to the cold—stealthily taking his life through his scorched clothes.
"Where are your parents, lad?" Burying my palm in my beard, furrowing my small red eyebrows, I hid the lump in my throat behind a mask of sternness...
But the boy didn't answer me; he only sobbed with all the might of his childish throat and hugged the toy tighter.
Something terrible was rising in my chest—that very rage that made my head throb. The blood-hungry runes burned with fire on my temples and the back of my head, demanding Vengeance-class light cruiser.
Anger consumed me, and only a steel will and memories of where bloody madness can lead helped me keep myself in check, but it didn't go away...
Anger at the Orcs, at the dragons, at those who allowed this. But most of all—anger at myself for not being able to protect these people who had trusted me.
My legs quickly led me to the citadel, where a pair of Trollbane princes sat. Something had to be done. Sitting idly was impossible.
The Orcs would return soon; they were already starting to pull back—having made sure the winged asses had flown away. And from the south, a landing of the horde fleet could disembark at any moment.
Stromgarde was Wounded, badly Wounded, but it was not yet broken! Hope remained, albeit a tiny one, but hope nonetheless. And I will do everything in my power to preserve that hope!
I was ready to swear by anything, even the beard of my deceased father!
At the walls of the citadel, a semblance of order reigned. The destruction here had not reached such proportions, so the Systems Alliance warriors had quickly put the square and fortifications into decent shape.
Though the ancestors see, to call these fortifications worthy of Dwarf warriors... May all the stonemasons on my third cousin's great-grandmother's side forgive me!
The citadel itself easily stood its ground, but the windows were blown out, and the roof was pierced in several places. A trifle compared to what they did to the Outer Wall in the north.
Both princes were in the Throne Room. Sitting at one table, surrounded by heaps of papers and maps. The faces of both boys were haggard, tired, and simply morally exhausted. And while Danath, by virtue of his life full of adventures on his backside, was still holding on, his brother Galen Trollbane...
The kid was nodding off and was clearly ready to faint at any moment, but the boy stubbornly remained on his feet, confirming that the thick blood of his father, as good as a fine dark ale and as powerful as an Ironforge anvil, flowed in his veins!
In general, the heir of Trollbane had been a sight for sore eyes in recent days. The long and cruel siege—the death of so many people, the hopes of his people, and the minimal chance of survival in the meat grinder—had tempered and sobered the prince quite well.
The rotten look, the cunning and sweet speeches, the confidence and pride had vanished, and in their place came determination and firmness... Thoras had fine ancestors after all, if one good fight turned his descendant into a worthy father of a Human!
"Rodgirn," the elder of the princes noticed me first, simultaneously pulling me out of an endless succession of thoughts. "What news?"
"Not the best, lad," sitting down on the nearest chair with a crash, I accepted a pouch of tobacco from Galen Trollbane's hands with a grateful nod, left in the Throne Room specifically for me. "The city is heavily damaged. Many dead... Fortifications... menu caragu Rukhas. (A piece of orcish shit)"
Danath sighed, running a hand over his face. Even though he didn't know the ancient language, he understood everything perfectly from the context. After all, it was for the sake of the latter that he had asked me to walk to the Outer Walls, and not for idle curiosity. He needed to know if the city was ready for a new attack by The Horde.
"I see... So it's even worse," closing his eyes for a moment, the king's nephew nodded to some thoughts of his own, as if deciding on an extreme measure unknown to me, "well... It was expected."
"What are we going to do?" Time was short, and my hands itched to create something, to build or fix... Anything that would be good at killing Orcs or dragons.
Danath raised a heavy gaze to me, inherited from his uncle. A spark flashed in his eyes, just as steadfast and determined as the one I had seen in Thoras Trollbane when we were smashing the Amani Trolls.
"We will fight, Rodgirn," his stern voice echoed through the ancient halls of the citadel. "We will rebuild Stromgarde. We will take revenge on the Orcs. And we will show these dragons what our wrath is!"
His words sounded like an oath. And I knew he would keep it. Danath Trollbane was not one to give up. This beardless boy knew the price of his words, and I swear by my uncle Gimli's last breeches—it is a fine quality for which I value the Stromgardeans.
"And I will fight alongside you, lad..."
Getting up from the chair, I was about to head to my old Workshop when a broad palm landed lightly on my shoulder. Gripping my fingers tighter, Danath resolutely turned me to face him.
His broad jaw protruded slightly, and his lips compressed into a thin line.
"Speak up, lad, otherwise in your thoughts you remind me of Smetchik." Returning to the table, showing that I was ready to listen—I shook my beard, which had once again been singed and become even smaller. "Don't drag it out... I already sense that I won't like what I hear."
"I have a task for you, Master Rodgirn," I already wanted to slam my fist on the table. How long could he keep starting from afar! Seeing something like that in my eyes, Danath exhaled tiredly—closing his weary eyelids—"forgive me, good Dwarf... Fatigue is taking its toll."
For a few seconds, our faces simultaneously twisted into understanding smirks. Crooked, full of dark, grim irony...
"I need you to take Galen Trollbane to Kul Tiras." He didn't let me get a word in... He probably realized that then he would have to listen to an hour of untranslatable Dwarf profanity in the ancient dialect, so choice that even my longest-bearded kinsmen would blush at what they heard.
"We need help. The Systems Alliance won't be able to come soon," spreading a simple map of the Arathi Highlands on the table, Danath ran his finger from the northern walls of Stromgarde. Further north, until he hit the Thoradin Wall, "the Orcs have likely besieged the Wall. It's the direct path to Lordaeron, and no matter how noble and loyal to the Systems Alliance King Terenas is, he won't sacrifice his kingdom to come to our aid..."
Near the image of the wall stood several figures representing the Systems Alliance and The Horde. Danath's hand moved further northwest, rising to the Alterac mountains.
"King Aiden Perenolde, despite our attitude toward him, has stood firm with his troops in the mountains," tracing a crooked line that roughly showed the front, Danath even clicked his teeth respectfully, "his army is small, but they know their home perfectly and so can hold The Horde there for years... But to go on the offensive?"
Even Galen Trollbane shook his head negatively, listening to his brother's explanations with both ears.
Trollbane's finger moved further west to the forests of the Amani and the Shield fortress, on the border with these once-troll lands. From the Shield, several roads led north into the heart of the troll settlements, but most importantly, one of them went further north, then turned sharply west, bypassing the Alterac mountains and coming out into Lordaeron.
"Uncle, along with Lord Lothar and the combined forces of the Systems Alliance, are standing here now, at least that was the case a month and a half ago. They have good supplies from Aerie Peak and Lordaeron," tapping his nail on the small but reliable stronghold, Danath looked up at me from the map, "they've been pinned down there tightly, so they can't even poke their noses out. Apparently, the Warchief of The Horde is right there now..."
The Trollbanes didn't even mention the Elves for obvious reasons. Pointy-Eared bastards without any honor!
"So our only hope is Kul Tiras, whose fleet, despite all the losses, is still capable of giving The Horde a hard time..." To my silent question toward Gilneas, Danath winced awkwardly, carefully choosing his words. "King Genn Greymane is a controversial figure. I wouldn't want to guess, but considering the situation at sea and in the Arathi Highlands, he will likely start strengthening his borders and coastline... So..."
On the last words, the king's nephew slowly spread his hands, as if inviting me to judge such actions for myself.
"In general, it's all clear, and I even understand why you want to send specifically me," tearing my eyes from the map, Danath faltered under my intent squint, turning back into an arrogant beardless boy, "so the Beer Lord has been repaired again?"
"Your... um, Elder Britvar," under my understanding smile, both Trollbanes forced out similar grimaces, "was extremely persistent and persuasive and allocated a lot of resources to repair the zeppelin."
"I see... What an old ram's dick."
My remark was tactfully ignored, giving me a few minutes to reflect quietly. Although what was there to reflect on, in principle?
Now was the ideal moment to break through the blockade, and since we had an excellent means of transport for such a thing, it would be a sin not to use it.
As much as I wanted to stay and generously shed Orc blood...
Exhaling heavily, clenching my fists until it hurt, overcoming the furious bloodthirsty hum in my head from the scars burning on my skin, I still gave my consent to this undertaking, even though it was a choice without a choice.
***
"Everything is ready, Izbad."
Loyal Dukat, covered in a network of terrible fire scars all over his body, stood nearby. Quiet, tired, but stubborn as any of my kin, he puffed discontentedly because I refused to take this stubborn one, roasted by dragon flame, with me.
"Do you judge me?" Watching the crew throw the last bags of supplies onto the zeppelin, I folded my arms across my chest.
"I understand with my mind," wincing from a sharp movement of his hand to his own chest, where his heart is, Dukat exhaled tiredly and sadly, "but my heart thirsts for Vengeance-class light cruiser... Dragon blood."
"The time will come," I wanted to clap my brother-by-oath on the shoulder. Squeeze his paw with mine, measure our strength... But those damn wounds, "the war is still far from over. We'll have time to shed plenty of our enemies' blood."
Nodding my beard in farewell, I was the last to board the Beer Lord, casting a parting glance at everyone who had come to see us off on another journey.
Danath, looking at me intently, as if once again demanding a confirming oath that I would protect his king's son. Soldiers and craftsmen, with faces as if carved from stone, in whose eyes alone a faint hope splashed.
Dwarves and Humans. Townspeople and refugees. All those who were able to tear themselves away from their grief and see us off, whispering prayers to ancestors, gods, and spirits—blessing us for success.
The whole crew lined up nearby, from loyal Tim to Captain Gorbin. A resilient and lucky bastard, he hadn't even acquired new scars in the succession of endless battles!
The Humans looked dejected. The Dwarves grumbled discontentedly under their breath. Everyone perceived our departure in their own way, and therefore something needed to be said.
"We are not abandoning them," my loud voice easily shouted over the actively working propellers, "we will return. Return together with the Systems Alliance fleet and army! We will drive away the foul green-skins and return Stromgarde to its former glory! No matter what becomes of us, we will deliver the younger Trollbane to Kul Tiras! And the ancestors see, if Daelin Proudmoore refuses his honor—I will personally beat the nonsense out of him and force him to come to Stromgarde's aid!"
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