"Trol'kalar is considered one of the most ancient artifacts of humans.
Its first appearance was documented back during the founding of the Arathi Empire,
When the tribes of humanity were uniting and the ruler of the Empire
Gave this huge and terrible blade as a sign of friendship and peace
To his most loyal and faithful of generals,
Ignaeus Trollbane.
With this terrifying weapon in his hands,
He went through the lands of the Amani tribe with fire and sword,
Earning a name for himself and all his descendants.
And although the Arathi Empire is no more,
The heirs of Trol'kalar still cherish its memory,
Dreaming of one day returning Stromgarde to its former glory."
"Come on, you stubborn beast, don't make such a stupid face," I said, pulling on the reins, trying to urge the stubborn ram forward, but the animal remained deaf to my pleas. "I know you understand me!"
Smetchik continued to chew on a head of cabbage, crunching serenely without losing a single crumb. The cunning beast made the most stupid and uncomprehending face, driving me to fury with his very look. I already wanted to use my fists, but knowing this bleating bastard, I could expect no decent behavior at all if I did.
So there was nothing left to do but wait until the ram finished the treat that the generous workers, led by Tim, had hauled into the Workshop. Delighted by the completion of the urgent work and receiving overtime pay for their excellent performance, they had simply showered me with various food and drink. And while I had nothing against the latter, indulging heavily at every opportunity, the vegetables, berries, and fruits scattered everywhere were starting to get annoying.
*This is probably what Elven brothels look like... I bet flowers grow everywhere too.*
This thought wouldn't leave me every time I cast a random glance at the abundance of various herbal food around.
Scratching the neck of the victorious Smetchik, I returned to other matters, since I had to wait until this bottomless horned backside finished eating.
Flopping into the nearest chair—which belonged at some fancy reception rather than in my dirty and cluttered Workshop—I stretched out my legs, resting them on a gun carriage.
One of the successful prototypes that was soon to go into production. Simple and reliable, requiring no special care and sufficiently durable—just the thing for the soldiers of Stromgarde. As Danath told me, the main thing was that in mud, rain, covered in troll guts and dung from head to toe, a fighter should be able to use the weapon; the rest didn't matter.
The main and only downside of such a device was its exorbitant weight, which outweighed all the positives. To transport a carriage with the weapon mounted would require four heavy draft horses, which was an immense force. No Elven ballista, human catapult, or Dwarven trebuchet weighed so much, even the largest of the ancient war machines I had seen mounted on great fortresses.
But Danath Trollbane had conveyed the will of his king to me, demanding the strongest and most reliable tools for war, and I had made them. There was nothing difficult about it compared to creating the Fire-spitter or real Dwarven pistols, which the Stromgarde soldiers or the king's nephew tried to beg from me every time.
*I suspect that if it comes to it, the gun carriages will be used as barricades... Stromgarde savages.*
Smirking without malice, I patted the solid wooden construction and, rising from the chair, decided not to indulge in idleness but to finish some important work.
My feet led me deep into the Workshop, to the place where only I and Tim could operate. The loyal giant had already become firmly integrated into my life, and I could hardly imagine how I would manage without him in everyday life. As it turned out, my slow-witted subordinate knew how to cook quite well, and he also brewed excellent moonshine, which only increased my good opinion of him.
Remembering the good stuff, my hand moved toward my inner pocket against my will, and a few seconds later, I was enjoying a strong and aromatic swill with the scent of meadow herbs and pine cones.
"Khaham menu demapdul, Tim!" Blessing the ancestors of my subordinate for giving the world such a glorious and simple lad, I couldn't help but take another gulp, spilling drops that seared my throat onto my beard. "What an excellent thing!"
Setting the flask on the table to have instant access to it if needed, I started up a small machine I'd assembled myself and slightly improved using a scheme from Ironforge.
Of course, it wasn't good to create such a thing here, but it was far too convenient a thing and hard to give up. My own creation, and many times more accurate, convenient, and effective than human tools.
Even though my overall attitude toward humans had changed significantly, I couldn't reconcile myself to this—at every opportunity, I would badmouth the local guild members and their handiwork, which had already led to my signature sayings being passed around among my workers.
"Beardless scraps!" Just remembering the junk the head of the local masters' association had first tried to push on me made my teeth grind. "Troll droppings..."
Checking the compression strength of the vise and adding a couple of clamps to the mounting, I screwed them down with the simplest bolts, of which I had plenty in reserve—a simple and extremely useful thing with which it was easy to assemble something far from primitive. The disk table, with special recesses for the bolt heads, easily accepted a bit more metal, adding reliability to the construction.
Tugging at the most vulnerable spots, I ran my fingertips over the areas of yesterday's work, enjoying the smooth metal whose even, rounded edges brought incomparable pleasure.
"Good... Very good."
Swallowing the thick saliva in my throat, I started the whetstone. My foot under the table slowly picked up the rhythm, increasing the rotation speed.
*It's going well; the wheel isn't wobbling and everything is well-lubricated. Good lad, Tim.*
I had begun to slowly train the boy in truly interesting things, and so far, he was doing excellently with simple tasks. Though he had little brains of his own, he could memorize and follow a paper just as well as monkeys... I mean, humans.
Which, by the way, advantageously distinguished him from those very... humans. And that indescribable childish delight that appeared on his face when everything worked out, even if it was according to the paper... An indescribable sight, which also distinguished him from many young guild workers who had come to believe they had hit a ceiling and no longer developed their talent as inventors and creators.
*Though, there's not much difference. Considering how much they mess up sometimes. Their hands clearly don't grow from the right place.*
My left hand slowly pulled the protective goggles onto my face. The wide lenses reliably protected against the metal shavings that would soon shower me in abundance.
My hands moved apart, each habitually grabbing the levers, and I began to slowly turn the mechanism, aligning the cutter and the part in the right places.
Glancing one last time at the part and the sharpener, I carefully turned the lever with the fingers of my left hand, bringing the vise with the part toward the wheel spinning at a decent speed.
At the same time, my right hand squeezed the second lever to the limit, fixing the cutter. Many people do the opposite, bringing the sharpener to the part, but I do as my father taught me and keep the tool in place.
At the moment of contact, my lips involuntarily stretched into a smile, revealing slightly yellowish, even teeth. The strong smell of tobacco from a recently smoked pipe hit my nose, and my beard still smelled of spilled beer... Oh, good.
A moment. And a shower of sparks hit the protective metal plate, scattering to the sides and falling into a special basin. Once, when I was still young, I had neglected such a trifle, and the table had caught fire from the sparks.
Since then, I have always shielded my workspaces and tried to keep wood and cloth away; even if it's inconvenient and wasteful, it's better than later trimming a singed beard or throwing out the embers that the furniture has turned into.
Staring at the miracle happening before my eyes, I pressed a bit too hard, causing me to shave off a few extra tenths of a millimeter.
"Shit," I said, moving the cutter aside, feeling a grain of steel hit my goggles. "Yes, yes. I'm the fool; no need to throw things at me."
I continued to talk to the part, reproaching it and promising that I would fix everything. Time and again, returning to the work and slowly starting over, carefully carving out the required size and smoothing the sharp corners.
Long and painstaking work, but how good I felt. It was a truly mesmerizing and exciting process, from which it was sometimes so hard to tear oneself away.
The flask of moonshine was half empty by the time I finally finished this part of the work, but a long technical process still lay ahead of me—but what Dwarf would regret that?!
Carefully removing the part from the vise, I took it to a special wash, where I tenderly washed away the remains of oil and shavings, removing everything unnecessary. Even now, it already looked superb, and this was only the beginning.
A new stage and new emotions. Different clamps, different grips, and the future barrel for my own Fire-spitter is set vertically, pointing straight up. A new tool is installed right above it—a simple nozzle change, yet what a difference in purpose and meaning!
A sharp, single-sided blade descends into the barrel at a steep angle, freezing a hair's breadth from the edge.
Different goggles lower over my eyes, followed by lenses clicking into place one by one in front of my right eye. One after another, they take their designated spots until I am satisfied and halt the process.
Now I can see everything in minute detail; the main thing is not to mess up by leaving a deep mark from the razor-sharp cutter blade.
Without pausing for a second, I ease the power on the lever. No matter how much I turn the rotary mechanism, it shifts the part clamped in the vice only by tenths of the distance separating it from the cutter.
Slowly, for nearly a minute, I bring them together, the blade tenderly biting into the inner surface of the barrel.
"That's it, clever girl," I whispered, holding my breath as I lifted the cutter—the key was not to jerk it sideways, or I'd have to start all over again—"and just like that!"
Happily clapping my hands, I downed another quarter of my flask, squinting blissfully and rubbing my belly where a soft warmth was spreading.
"Well then, let's get to it."
My leg started working at full power again, spinning the blade, and soon I watched as it began to rotate slowly around its axis, right above the barrel, on the same radius.
Carefully, I lowered the cutter, and it immediately began stripping away everything superfluous. Mere fractions of a millimeter, but I could see the shavings curling. Like the curls of a young girl, they danced merrily over the part and the cutter, leaping from edge to edge.
"Excellent..."
"Rodgirn, there's this..." Tim's familiar bass rumbled behind my back, nearly knocking me off my train of thought and ruining the process. It was a good thing the machine held the part and cutter firmly, or everything would have gone... south. "The Prince is here, calling for you."
"Oh, for God's sake," I muttered, waving a hand at the pensive Tim. I stopped the machine, carefully raising the cutter so its blade wouldn't leave a furrow. "They won't let a man work in peace."
My grumbling was interrupted by the slam of a door. Danath, damn him, Trollbane in the flesh, barged into the Workshop. Just as he opened his mouth, I hurled my flask at him; it whistled past his thick head by mere centimeters.
"Damn, that was a good throw," the prince said, clearly wanting to say much more, but I rose quickly from my seat, throwing my sleeveless jacket over my shoulders. "How many times do I have to tell you! Don't barge in here, may the trolls take you! You don't barge into people's privies, do you? Or their bedrooms? For me, this is exactly that kind of sacred place! What are you staring at? Let's go, we're already late!"
Choking with indignation, the man quickly caught up with me at the exit of the Workshop. He was as big as a bear standing on its hind legs, yet sometimes he whined like that sweet miller's daughter beneath me.
"And whose fault exactly is it that we're late? Eh?" Running around me, waving his arms furiously and unable to find the words, the proud scion of the Trollbane family tried to reason with me. "You were supposed to arrive at the palace an hour ago! We had an agreement! Why the hell did you sit down at your workbench again?"
"It's all Smetchik's fault," I said, sticking to my guns as I continued on my way, nodding toward the serene ram. "He refused to move until he'd eaten."
"You're blaming everything on a goat?"
"A ram."
"What?"
His face turned red, and his eyes grew bloodshot. I suspect it wasn't the insult, but my blatant disregard for the royal family. Though recently, this squirt himself had admitted that such an attitude appealed to him.
*Humans, you can't figure them out. One minute he likes it, the next he's shouting. Like a woman, honestly.*
"I'm saying, it's a ram," I said, mimicking curling horns over my head and pointing to the identical ones on Smetchik. "A Battle ram. You're supposed to be the future king; you should know these things..."
"Fine, fine. A ram it is," Danath muttered under his breath like some common holy man as he leaped onto his horse. A massive beast, more suited for battering down gates than carrying a rider. After a couple of snorts, the horse gave me and Smetchik a mocking look before shifting from foot to foot, waiting for me to climb onto my stubborn little ram. "And I am not the future king; Uncle Toros has a biological son."
"Really? Pity."
"Truly?"
"Yep, I like you, and I already know you," I spat on the ground and kicked Smetchik in the sides as payback for his behavior. "Who knows what kind of brother you have, maybe he's some kind of..."
"Better keep quiet." Waving a warning hand to dismiss the retinue following them, Danath leaned closer to my ear, whispering in a grim, cold voice. "And don't blurt that out to the King; he's a simple man—he'll punch you in the face first and ask questions later."
"That's why his name is famous among real Dwarfs."
The second heir to the throne smiled politely at my joke, spurring his horse into a gallop, and I followed suit. Smetchik maneuvered easily through the narrow streets of the city, which seemed designed specifically for war.
In fact, this entire city, even the very essence of Stromgarde and the lands surrounding it, was the face of war. The longer I lived in this beautiful land, the more I was convinced of it, feeling a growing respect and affinity for these people.
The ground floor of every single house was made of stone. The streets were hardly the wide thoroughfares travelers or friends had told me about—those who had seen Stormwind in its prime or current Lordaeron.
No unnecessary fluff, no stupid statues or fountains in the wrong places. Only minimalism and efficiency. It felt as though at any moment, the fortress-city was ready to transform into an impregnable structure where a heavy fight would await invaders on every street...
And I didn't blame or criticize them; on the contrary, I admired them. True warriors. It was a pity that in everything else, the Stormwindians were truly lacking.
They lacked everything, and with each passing year, the gap and lag behind other nations grew more palpable. Even with Alterac—one of the most unsightly, weak, and small kingdoms—Stromgarde was already forced to negotiate more often, whereas under the current king's grandfather, such a thing would have been a bad joke.
Blacksmiths, carpenters, architects, masters of simple civilian trades—not just those who forge Armor and Arms—that was what the city needed here and now. Food shortages and a lack of basic goods worsened the state's position daily, and the poor—literally—peasants were forced to head west in search of a better life, making life in the Kingdom of Stormwind even more difficult and heavy.
But besides them, Stromgarde lacked singers, dancers, poets, archaeologists, Mages, and many others. Even among my kin, one could easily find enthusiasts for such things. It wasn't that they dedicated their whole lives to it, but they were sufficiently trained in the field and studied new things, competing with each other and developing the craft.
The famous dances on the day of honoring Khaz. Our rough but soulful songs—echoing every day in the massive halls of Ironforge, drifting out of every tavern in the underground city. There were plenty of such examples.
*Here, however, everything is quite dismal.*
Dull, monochrome clothing, meager food without an abundance of various delicacies—everything dense and filling, just to get full, regardless of the taste. A lack of spice variety, simple and unimaginative drinks, and a roughly similar life.
In war, Stromgarde would have no equal, but in peaceful life, which still breaks through the endless skirmishes with Trolls, they withered and died.
Every year, more people migrate north in search of a better lot and life satisfaction. Every day, people see merchants from other countries, hear their stories, and wish to live the same way. They aren't to be blamed, but I felt pity for this country, for this nation of warriors who could do nothing to prevent such an outcome.
And no invention that comes from my hands would be able to fix that.
Watching a column of soldiers heading toward the main gates with a pensive gaze, I noticed several interesting wagons, covered on all sides with fireproof hides of monsters and beasts.
"Interesting..."
"Yes," Danath said, apparently realizing what I was thinking. He rode closer, also observing the rather impressive column of soldiers, most of whom were Footmen protecting the wagons from all sides. "Your weapon has greatly encouraged my uncle."
"It seems... a bit too much."
"Do you doubt it?"
"In the success of my Little Ones? Not in the slightest!" I didn't even have to fake righteous indignation. To think a mere Human would dare think that of me, ha! "But will it be enough to get rid of the Trolls forever?"
"Yes, I'm thinking the same thing."
Turning his horse, thereby ending the conversation, Danath moved on. Here, the crowd of people was many times thicker than at the city entrance, so we had to slow down and carefully pick our way through the throng, holding the animals back from any rash actions. Especially Smetchik.
The proud ram had no desire to yield the road or allow any weaklings to pass before him. His head lowered belligerently every time, promising broken bones and other injuries, so I constantly had to jerk the extremely aggressive jerk back, pulling him by the horns and scruff.
But finally, our journey was complete. Letting another column of fighters pass, we were able to enter the inner citadel, where Thoras Trollbane himself sat—the king of the kingdom and a little man whose appearance always defied expectations.
From the inside, the fortress was even more austere and awe-inspiring. It wasn't monumental and mighty like the Dwarven citadels, yielding to Ironforge, Grim Batol, and our other glorious fortress-cities, which could only fall to treachery or sorcery...
*Which are the same thing, anyway.*
It lacked the arrogance of other Human nations, where every interior wall had to be smeared with gold-colored shit, hung with paintings, and have servants in every corner to wipe down all that "wealth." No, the fortress Strom was the embodiment of the people inhabiting it, especially the royal family.
I felt it in my gut—how these ancient walls welcomed Danath, as if enveloping him in their cold, harsh power, promising to guard his peace while he was home. Every stone held millennia of history, and it was many times richer and more diverse than that distant little fort near the Thandol Span.
And when I saw the ruler of Stromgarde himself, I realized how deeply this man and his castle were connected. So deeply that Danath was simply lost in the shadow of his uncle. Even the son of the elder Trollbane was but a pale shadow of his mighty parent.
He was tall, or rather, enormous, closer in build to an Orc or a jacked-up Troll, though the latter should never be said aloud... especially to that seemingly simple and dim-witted face.
His icy eyes tracked my every step from the moment I entered the royal hall. He calmly continued his business, issuing numerous orders, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the barrel of a rifle was following me, and should I even hint at a step sideways, it would fire.
Our approach did not go unnoticed, and the first to pay attention to us was the young heir to the throne. A chubby little boy, despite all the training and hardening, looked entirely childlike, having strapped on battle armor and standing at attention with his palm resting on the hilt of his sword.
His contemptuous gaze swept over me from head to toe, comparing our height and attire. And, by all appearances, the boy did not form a high opinion of me.
*Heh, Buram, exactly what was to be expected from your line, full of self-importance and arrogance. Judging by the clothes.*
"You shouldn't look at my son that way, venerable Dwarf," Thoras said, dismissing the servants and retinue. He stood before me, stepping out from behind the desk, and now I realized I hadn't been far off in comparing him to an Orc in size... a massive, pink-skinned Orc. Why, in shoulder width, he was barely less than my full height. "He is still young and inexperienced."
"The length of the beard speaks of wisdom." The old proverb echoed through the royal chambers, drawing the gazes of numerous officers, nobles, knights, and other regulars of the place. "It's no matter; if I cared about the opinions of youths, I wouldn't have set out on a journey through the Human kingdoms."
My words sparked a flash of anger in the young prince, while Danath and Thoras merely smirked into their mustaches, demonstrating a friendly disposition despite the rather bold reply.
"My nephew warned me that you don't shrink before the powerful of this world and have a sharp tongue, but even so, I am surprised." Ruffling his son's hair, he stepped even closer, within arm's reach. "I am glad to see you in my home. My name is Thoras Trollbane, I am the King of Stromgarde."
Scanning me with his gaze once more, the man extended his hand, offering to seal our acquaintance with a handshake, and I did not refuse him.
***
***
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