"Khazukan Khazukit-ha!"
Cannons thundered overhead, accompanying our boarding of one of the Orc dreadnoughts. Another one, and the last on the tally. Feeling the burning in my palm, I slid down on one hand, straight onto the deck, amidst the Horde members who hadn't expected such a turn of events.
The ship's sides and masts shattered into splinters, knocking everyone off their feet. The Beer Lord fired in bursts, three or four cannons at a time, threatening to burst the barrels from overheating, having exhausted their durability limit... but now was not the time for sentimentality.
An arrow flew past from the side—piercing the skull of the first Orc to come to his senses. Pinning the green-skin to the floor, the shaft snapped, falling at my feet. Definitely elven; only those arrogant bastards allow themselves to shoot so close to their own.
Spitting on the corpse, I snatched a pistol from my coat, immediately leveling it at a Troll rushing toward me. The first shot in the gut, the second in the knee, and catching the falling body in the crosshairs—I put the last bullet straight into his forehead—splattering brains around.
The axe was in my other hand—hacking the legs out from under an Orc sneaking up from behind. The blade sliced through the first limb and got halfway stuck in the second; not wasting time pulling the weapon out, I pressed the barrel to the kneeling green-skin's chin—blasting a bit of "sense" into his thick skull.
A Frostbolt flew past. Arcana magic struck the center of the dreadnought—freezing an Ogre-Mage and shredding his retinue with shards.
The cannons struck again. Smoke lifted by the wind swept across the deck, hitting us in the face, but none of my Avengers cared. A fire was breaking out on the lower decks of the dreadnought, causing visibility to drop practically to zero. A burning Ogre ran past. The big guy's clothes were ablaze while one of my kinsmen sat on his shoulders, carving up the screaming carcass with a knife.
Barely dodging the dull brute, I fired into a large Shadow approaching through the smoke. Ducking under a blow—I intercepted the arm and, pressing the pistol into the elbow crease—unloaded the remaining bullets—tearing the limb apart.
Grabbing a simple spear dropped from a bloody palm and lying underfoot, I poked blindly through the smoke. With a loud squelch and a beastly roar, a massive Orc fell at my feet, having managed to grab the shaft in a steel death grip. He was trying to pull it out of his chest...
A pair of Trolls pounced on me from the side—not letting me finish off the Wounded comrade—and I met the first one with a bullet between the eyes, while the second forced me to step back a couple of paces and knocked the pistol from my hands. A Goblin jumped on me from behind—wrapping his arms around my throat and his legs around my waist. The puny little body dangled on my back while I dodged the blows of the pressing Troll.
With a dagger from my belt, I parried an axe swing to the side, then grabbed a new firearm from my hip—putting a bullet into the fanged bastard's knee. Dropping before me, he didn't have time to react before the dagger already found his throat, twisting and tearing out chunks of it.
A headbutt—broke the Goblin's nose. The flimsy little piece of shit released his grip and was instantly on the ground after a shoulder throw.
A forged boot descended mercilessly onto the frightened, bloody face—splattering the contents of the wretched skull across my trousers.
"..."
There were no words, only emotions. For the first time in many days, the pain was gone. My temples no longer burned with the oath, and every drop of spilled blood brought pleasure and satisfaction.
Picking up the Troll's axe, I was about to dive into the thick of the smoke when a refreshing breeze rolled across the deck, clearing the smoke for a brief moment and allowing me to survey the surroundings.
Several Avengers lay motionless, having finally found their death. The few humans had huddled together and were now using spears, shields, and crossbow bolts to drive the Orcs to the edge of the side, forcing them to dive into the icy water, from where they shot the helpless enemy without risk.
The elves were still covering our backs, their arrows and magic striking the most dangerous and unpredictable enemies.
The Horde members, however...
Piles of bodies littered the ship's deck. The dreadnought was drenched in blood and blackened by fires. The main mast had broken off and, leaning dangerously, had smashed through the bow of the ship, taking many with it.
The massive vessel was sinking fast. The fire, the point-blank shelling, and the death of most of the crew... now nothing could help this giant.
"Retreating!" Correctly interpreting the questioning looks from Tim and Sarochka, I drove everyone back to the zeppelin, even though my Avenger nature demanded I descend to the lower decks and cut everyone down to the root.
The oath runes burned with pain again. For a brief moment, freezing near the side where the ropes from the zeppelin hung, I scanned the area, noting a trio of identical giants we had successfully sunk...
Then my eyes slid across the sea surface. For just a second, I thought I saw something unusual in the water. Two bright yellow eyes. Watching me intently... but as soon as I tried to focus on it, the vision vanished quickly, leaving me alone with the realities of war.
"Master Rodgirn, everyone's loaded!" my faithful assistant urged me politely, while Sarandiel, who had vaulted over the side, stared intently at my face covered in someone else's blood. The Pointy-Eared girl had clearly sensed something and was already about to climb back down to me, but...
I manned up. My ancestors were the first who, alongside the Bronzebeards, tamed the lava flows! Could I not take control of my feelings and visions?! HA!
Wrapping the rope around my forearm, I waved a hand to Tim, ordering the Beer Lord to rise to a safe height. Even though we were far from the main battle now, it still wasn't worth the risk, for just a couple of stray cannonballs hitting the zeppelin just right, and we'd all be sent to meet our grumbling and indignant ancestors.
Under the steady hum of the propellers, the zeppelin rose into the sky, carrying me with it. Strong working hands easily allowed me to hold my own weight and get a better look at the madness unfolding in the Tol Barad bay...
And it could be called nothing else.
The sea was ablaze. Fire devoured everything it could reach. Dozens of vessels were belching smoke across the entire area, and the oil spilled from the sunken ships only made the task easier.
The flames ruthlessly pounced on the surviving Horde vessels, driving them toward the dreadnoughts we had sunk. The massive Orc vessels peeked out from under the water as burning hulls, sinking slowly, bit by bit, but clearly not fast enough to open a path for the fleeing ships.
The Troll frigates still somehow avoided collisions, but as soon as a surviving dreadnought ran into a fallen one, a bottleneck immediately formed. Like parts of a mechanism, the large Horde ships collided with each other, being pulled down by whirlpools or catching on the wreckage of their comrades hidden underwater.
This became a true feast for the fire. Unable to quickly uncouple the ships, The Horde sailors were forced to dive overboard, escaping the spreading conflagration that was engulfing more and more vessels.
"Flames in front, crazed Kul Tirans behind, a raging icy bay underfoot..." My smirk came out wicked, cruel, and full of bloodlust, but even realizing this... I couldn't stop smiling, watching as these creatures died by the thousands, burning in the fire or being dragged down by the sea. "This is a fate worthy of you."
Raising a free fist, I clenched it until it turned white, feeling a grim satisfaction in the gesture... the pleasure of Vengeance-class light cruiser for Ironforge. And it was wonderful that this was only the beginning.
***
Coming in for a landing over the port of Stromgarde, I was nearly deafened by the shouts of thousands of people welcoming us... Pouring out toward the port, the townspeople—exhausted by the long siege—Wounded soldiers, refugees, and Dwarves... they all shone with happy smiles full of hope.
But if only they knew the price at which that very hope was bought.
Almost the entire Kul Tiras fleet that had set out with us was destroyed. A pathetic dozen warships—that was only a tiny fraction of what Lord Admiral Proudmoore had led into battle. Of all the famous battleships, only two survived, one of them being Daelin's own flagship.
The Gilnean squadron had lost half, and the other half looked like they were ready for the grave. Their ships were towed in, and it's unlikely they'll be able to put to sea again anytime soon.
Of the elven volunteers, three frigates remained out of a dozen; the rest would remain forever on the bottom of the bay.
But even with all these losses, destroyed ships, and Dead sentient beings...
It was still a victory. An unconditional and final victory at sea, if the Wizards and the Wildhammer Clan weren't mistaken about anything. From now on, The Horde's fleet had ceased to exist, and the Systems Alliance held complete sway over the entire coast.
Three or four Troll ships—miraculously escaped from the fray—didn't count. Those weaklings tried so hard to hide that they managed to circle Tol Barad—escaping from us. And yet, around the old fortress, the ship graveyard was not much better than what we had left behind now.
The Beer Lord swayed, nearly throwing overboard several Stromgarde citizens who had clung to the railing, fiercely searching the welcoming crowd for their friends or relatives.
The zeppelin had been heavily damaged in the battle. And the fact that it managed to reach the shore was a miracle in itself... Incidentally, that was exactly why we had to land in the port instead of flying directly into the city to quickly learn the state of affairs in the capital of the dying kingdom.
"Tim, Gorbin, Brindal," calling over those who could organize the loading of the zeppelin onto a ship or, if things were truly bad, dismantle and destroy it so my precious wouldn't fall to the green-skins, I waited patiently for them to step aside with me. Originally, instead of Brindal, there had been another of my kinsmen, but a volley from one of the Orc dreadnoughts had pierced the hull and a third of the mechanics had died... not even bodies were left. "See to the zeppelin. You can chat with your own later. We need to hurry now, before The Horde comes to its senses..."
"You think they'll go for an assault, Master Rodgirn?" Nodding gratefully at the offered pouch of tobacco, Gorbin quickly packed his pipe and, after a few seconds, was already puffing away, blowing smoke through his nose. "Lest we have to jump from one fight straight into another... and a much more difficult one at that."
"Izbad, you ought to talk to the local king or whoever's filling in for that big guy Thoras now?" Running a hand through his beard, Brindal looked skeptically at the stained rings and ornaments woven into it. Unlike my Avengers, this Dwarf was a simple mechanic who had followed me out of a sense of duty. "The humans might figure it out themselves, but still..."
With a smirk and a nod toward Tim, Brindal gave me and Gorbin a sly wink, as if to say: "They're actually all like that, even if some hide it better."
"You're right..." Chewing my lip and suppressing a treacherous smile, I clap the new chief engineer on the shoulder. "Then find me a couple of rams and..."
"Hmm, speak of the devil," Brindal says, nodding behind my back. He crosses his arms over his chest, skeptically eyeing a small procession of knights riding into the port. "Is that your comrade, Izbad?"
"You could say that," I grunt into my thick, unkempt beard. I dismiss my three assistants and deputies, stepping forward to meet Danath Trollbane.
The King's nephew notices me too, closing the distance between us with quick strides. He looks terrible. Rumpled, filthy as a plague victim, and he reeks from several meters away—a mixture of sweat, alcohol, and medicine. Bloody bandages adorn his head and left arm, and one eye is tightly bound and covered with fresh gauze, through which a crimson color is slowly seeping.
Danath's mere appearance and determined resolve draw everyone's attention. Humans and Dwarves respectfully part ways for the defender of Stromgarde, while the newly arrived Elves and Kul Tirans watch King Toros's nephew with interest.
Bad thoughts flash through my mind. My gut tells me such a demonstration isn't for nothing, and as soon as Danath opens his mouth, all my fears are confirmed.
"The Horde has begun its final assault. All forces that returned to the walls are Attacking," Danath says. As if from nowhere, the Stormweaver sisters instantly appear nearby, followed by the Lord Admiral and his retinue, who stands out from his captains only by his magnificent hat.
"How many of them?"
"Seventy thousand, maybe more. There are too many Brutes to count..."
The numbers stun everyone present. Even gathering all its strength, Kul Tiras could hardly field half of the enemy's numbers, and so the Lord Admiral merely tightens his lips, understanding this better than anyone.
And this is after the Orcs have repeatedly broken their teeth against the walls of Stromgarde, and the dragon fire has done its work... May the devils take those Brutes in the afterlife.
"What are we going to do?" Surprisingly, Sarochka is the first to recover from the news, asking businesslike with her hands on her hips. Blowing a stray lock of hair from her forehead, she casts occasional glances at the others. "We cannot fight The Horde in an open field..."
"For a full evacuation of everyone gathered in the city, we'll need at least several days..." Daelin mutters under his breath, rubbing his chin with calloused fingers. The man is deep in thought while the eyes of everyone gathered are concentrated on him.
"That's too long. We won't be able to hold back The Horde for that much time," Danath says, shaking his head and wincing in pain. The young man's hand reflexively jerks toward his eye, but he restrains the impulse.
"How did you hold out until now?" someone shouts from the crowd of captains behind Proudmoore, but before the commander of the fleet remnants can protest the lack of discipline, the question is answered.
"Traps, collapses, sabotage... Besides, the Orcs were in no hurry. They methodically destroyed our defense, trying to preserve the city..." A malicious grimace momentarily appears beneath the mask of fatigue and pain. Danath clenches his free hand into a fist, clearly struggling with the emotions inside him. "At least the walls... Now, when we have a chance to escape, they've thrown everything they have into the assault."
"Filthy Brutes," I don't recognize the voice of the speaker, but he voices the general sentiment quite accurately, expressing the unified opinion of everyone gathered.
Only that doesn't change the fact that we have no further plan. No one can imagine how to hold back The Horde rushing into battle. Thousands, tens of thousands of Orcs, Trolls, and Ogres—this is not a force to be treated lightly.
Because if we don't hold them back...
My eyes scan the huddling people, who are quickly being driven closer to the water, lined up in queues as the evacuation begins. The Lord Admiral's brisk subordinates didn't wait for the meeting to end; with an approving nod from their superior, they set off to establish order.
People gather around them, surging like a stormy sea, while the Kul Tirans themselves, imitating their sea priests, lead the agitated and panicking people aside, returning them to the queue or answering general questions...
Ideas race through my head, but none of them seem capable of solving all our problems.
"Priests!" I blurt out an idea that hasn't even fully formed yet. I lock eyes with Proudmoore, who raises an eyebrow ironically. "Can't your priests command the water, guiding ships and helping them on their way? We'll build simple rafts and small floating piers a couple of hundred meters from the shore. The priests will support the structure and drive the ships to them, while our mages and commoners pull the rafts..."
"So the ships won't have to enter the port," Daelin says, catching my idea. He smiles in surprise, wagging an index finger as he continues to develop the thought. "They can just stop near the piers, not wasting precious hours entering and leaving the port..."
Then the Lord Admiral's smile fades. Calculating something in his mind, the ruler of Kul Tiras feverishly whispers to himself before shaking his head.
"But even so, we'll need at least a day to load everyone," the Admiral says, shrugging and looking toward the bay where ships have already begun taking on the first refugees. "Maybe half a day if we work to exhaustion... Though afterward, we'll have to crawl at a snail's pace to the Westfall of Lordaeron until the priests recover..."
"We'll deal with that later," I say, catching the first person I see from the Beer Lord's crew and pulling the lad aside. "Find Gorbin and Brindal; tell them to bring all the supplies of oil and gunpowder. Find Tim; I need all the fire-mix you can find..."
"Got it," the boy says, clearly not understanding a damn thing, but he bolts off, pushing through the knights and soldiers gathered around us.
"Britvar," I say, ignoring the interested glances. I address the disgruntled elder standing slightly apart behind Danath. The old Dwarf has significantly declined in the few days since we last met... He can barely stand on his feet, more out of stubbornness than internal strength. "We need everything there is. Oil, gunpowder, fire-mix..."
"What are you planning?"
"Rodgirn, dear," a soft female palm brushes my shoulder, pulling me out of my own thoughts and plans, returning me to the boring kings and princes staring demandingly at a simple engineer. "Perhaps you could explain exactly what you're planning?"
Narandiel's gentle voice is, for the first time in my memory, exactly as it sounds, without any hidden meaning or subtext. The pointy-eared beauty is clearly as worried as the rest, and so she has cast our typical games aside.
Scanning everyone gathered, my gaze catches Danath. Trollbane's nephew stands with his head slightly bowed, not listening to the others, merely watching the streams of people trudging toward the ships with a hollow gaze. His inner core is almost broken, but I see it... I see that he's still in there.
"Danath," I say, pulling the young man out of his self-reflection. I grab his shoulder as far as I can reach. "I'm about to save our peoples here... Your help wouldn't hurt."
My ironic and mocking voice stirs something in him. A fire ignites in his gaze, and his only healthy fist clenches with rage.
"What do you need?"
"Two hours of time," I say, calculating in my head how long everything will take, counting this way and that on my fingers under the bewildered and frankly displeased gazes of the others. I smile broadly. "Three dozen of the strongest men... And everyone who has ever been in the city's sewers and knows how they are laid out."
If Danath agreed to the first requests, he reacted to the last clarification much like everyone else—with utter shock. Losing all his fervor, replaced by doubt in my sanity, the King's nephew even looked aside, clearly intending to call the nearest priest to check if I was alright.
"Perhaps enough with the secrets, Master Rodgirn?!" Proudmoore speaks for everyone gathered, not holding back his voice. "What have you come up with? And why do you need guides into the sewers?!"
"I'm going to collapse Stromgarde into the ground."
***
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