"Dwarves have many traditions, good or bad,
It's not for us to judge them, at least not aloud.
But among all their ancient rituals, sayings, beliefs...
There is something that, as a man of high intellect...
Um... confuses me greatly. You see...
When a grudge passes between a pair of Dwarves,
One that cannot be resolved by simple words or the orders of Thanes...
They can, how shall I put it...
Undergo a trial of strength, and the one who loses is the one in the wrong.
It is an old tradition, very old,
And so it still occasionally appears in the lives of our mountain-dwelling friends.
Two opponents participated in the trial,
Except that dodging blows was forbidden.
Here, endurance, strength, and the honesty of your convictions were tested.
Of course, sometimes mishaps occurred because of this,
And the wrongdoer escaped accountability, but honestly... they are Dwarves, after all."
Our invasion into the east of the Hinterlands was dragging on. While waiting for help from our northern neighbors, we decided not to wait for the wind to change and began slowly advancing toward the Troll city, clearing a path so that the armies of Lordaeron could quickly reach our positions.
Day after day, forests were chopped and stumps were burned, ravines were drained, and the first wooden roads were laid, upon which thousands of soldiers marched, following us.
This tedious and long work was exhausting, sapping much strength and time, forcing me to toil alongside everyone else. Even Thoras himself ventured out a few times to fell trees with his heroic strikes... Damned half-Orc, though of course, I would never say that aloud.
But if for the Trollbane family this was fun and relaxation, I am Gazardul! A sage, an inventor, a creator of the new, not a damn lumberjack! So I decided to do things my own way.
"Come on, you slackers! Put your backs into it and move the machine closer!"
The massive wagon shook and threatened to overturn at any moment; only the twenty men holding it in position allowed this miracle of technology to perform its task correctly.
The huge engine, breathing heat and spewing tons of black, poisonous smoke into the sky, incessantly demanded more "offerings" in the form of wooden blocks.
Tim and a dozen other workers continuously chopped the felled trees, lopping off boughs and trimming branches with green, damp foliage. It seemed as though progress was standing still, but after a couple of hours, when ordinary people would have already needed rest and a fresh shift of workers, we were still able to continue.
My mad genius had created an excellent machine that took on most of the labor and trouble, hacking a path forward with massive, hand-carved saws.
Two enormous blades fell thick trunks without stopping, scattering woodchips around the area, leaving behind a trail of sawdust and two wide furrows from the wheels.
"Hook this up!"
Sitting at the head of this entire circus, I managed to give orders and drive the machine forward, monitoring a heap of indicators, each of which had to be displayed separately since there was absolutely no time for unification or compacting. I had spent four days tinkering with this contraption, assembling it out of shit and sticks.
A dozen levers, each responsible for a specific action, were labeled with small tags fluttering in the wind. The entire dashboard was poked with buttons and glass-covered gauges for temperature and speed. The needles on the latter jumped like crazy, but for now... for now, everything was within normal limits, so we could continue the work.
"Another miracle, Master Rodgirn!" The King's nephew shielded his face from sawdust, smoke, dust, and other delights, but nevertheless, a smile never left his face. "The day you arrived in Stromgarde definitely needs to be recorded for the ages!"
"Pff, if you say so..."
Muttering quietly under the boy's laughter, I immersed myself more actively in the work so that no one would notice my embarrassment. It was shameful to admit, but such treatment warmed my heart.
Danath's happy voice rang out from behind my shoulder. The lad was riding beside me today, filling in for Tim as the more brainy one. As good as my main assistant was, he simply couldn't orient himself quickly enough to handle the problems with such machinery, unlike the King's nephew.
I had, of course, told him right away that it could blow up at any moment, but the itch in the Trollbanes' backsides was so great that he simply ignored my words, boldly sitting down beside me, adjusting indicators and helping to stoke the furnace.
Tight cloths and thick goggles were fastened over our faces to protect us from the smoke and toxic fumes, though it didn't help much. There was no Armor on our bodies, only light shirts and aprons, so our entire heads, necks, and collarbones were covered in soot, turning us into black-faced Kul Tiran sailors engaged in the most menial labor.
Without turning around, I waved my hand, signaling that I had taken the lad's words into account, but the happy youth simply couldn't settle down, rejoicing and admiring this pathetic miracle of technology.
"And yet, I still can't believe it! You made this literally out of nothing," he said. At least the boy understood the danger of his recklessness and performed the work properly, even while wagging his tongue without pause. "First the Fire-spitter, now this! When we get access to the metals in the mountains, we'll be able to expand even more! We'll find you assistants, maybe we can reach an agreement with Ironforge..."
"Oh, you're getting carried away, kid. If a bumblebee doesn't fly the heavens in its youth, it won't fly in old age out of hunger."
Danath's naive dreams brought a kind smile to my face. With my appearance, the people of Stromgarde had begun to look at my compatriots differently, sincerely believing them to be much friendlier and more open than our brothers from Aerie Peak.
How wrong they were.
"HA! Old fart Magni would sooner wipe my magnificent ass with his red beard than enter into such contact with Humans from other kingdoms. It's already a miracle he sent Muradin with an embassy to Lordaeron."
And this last thought gave me no peace. I was sure that the big guy Thoras had told his friend the King everything without holding back. And Muradin was surely hurrying here, and I couldn't predict how our meeting would end. Of course, the middle Bronzebeard was much more progressive and sensible, but the death of a relative, living far from home, war in the Homeland, and now my gadgets here for the Humans... I just hoped the old geezer wouldn't attack on sight.
"Nah... He won't do that. I hope."
Calming myself with such assertions, I slapped Danath on the shoulder, warning him that it was time to finish, as the machine had begun to make far too many sounds that weren't intended by its design.
"Understood, Master Rodgirn!" Still happy, pulling the cloth from his face as soon as the engine died, Danath beamed a white-toothed smile on his blackened face. "Whoa, a beast of a machine!"
"We'll finish for today, we've done good work," I said, slapping the wheel of this homemade rig. I scanned the fruits of our labor with a satisfied gaze, noting that we had covered nearly forty meters today. "Everyone rest. Tomorrow, when we're ready, I'll call everyone."
Dismissing the men, I returned to work while the weak little Humans, groaning and complaining about aching bones, headed toward the camp.
Only the sentry squads remained near me, occasionally returning from their patrols to check on our status. No matter how much we had intimidated the trolls, their rare bands still occasionally fell upon our forward groups, trying to draw at least a little blood.
"Mampas... Metun menu caragu," among my kin, there was a common saying about troll shit-eaters. Supposedly, some tribes of the tusked ones like to gorge themselves on hallucinogenic mushrooms for pleasure... while the youngsters who can't afford such things eat the shit of their elders, hoping to get the same effect. "And then they crawl where they shouldn't..."
Standing at the edge of the work zone, halfway to the main camp, I looked back toward the forest, over which rocky ledges towered. Somewhere there lay the Troll city, the destruction of which would forever put an end to the mass raids of these parasites...
"I wish you'd all just hurry up and die so that honest Humans, Dwarves, and Gnomes could live in peace."
***
The army of Lordaeron arrived with fanfares. A massive host, at the head of which proudly marched standard-bearers, trumpeters, and some sweet-faced fellow, pomaded and dressed far more femininely than any woman in Stromgarde.
I didn't say that, by the way—those very women did, and there were plenty of them in Thoras's army. Tough broads, they were, not flinching or feeling shy about my height, heh-heh-heh...
The riders moved in even rows while their horses beat their hooves almost in step against the wooden planks, threatening at any moment to break through the flimsy road, which was definitely not intended for such a parade.
Following them were regiments of infantry and knights encased in plate, and between the units marched representatives of the Church of the Holy Light and Wizards from Dalaran who had decided to join our campaign.
"Coming in when the table's already set," I spat on the ground. I felt a firm, friendly grip on my shoulder from Danath and a cautionary look from the King, who had turned at the noise behind him. "Yeah, I get it, I get it. May these show-offs be..."
Though I was sure that both Danath and Thoras shared my position, unlike me, their lives wouldn't allow them to say such things aloud, even among their own.
The troops of Lordaeron fanned out in a wide arc, lining up before us, displaying themselves in all their glory. All the same height, broad-shouldered, handsome, in bright colors... and so fake. Fucking toy soldiers who even had clean boots. They proudly raised their blades and spears, taking rehearsed positions.
Under the helmets, I spotted boys, occasionally interspersed with real veterans who had actually fought trolls and who, unlike the youngsters, perfectly understood what they had signed up for...
Only there were vanishingly few such experts.
"What was King Terenas thinking, sending these children to the slaughter? Ancestors grant that at least every second one returns home."
A sad thought flashed through my mind, and I clenched my fingers into a fist until it hurt, trying not to look into the eyes of the Lordaeron soldiers, which shone with delight and superiority.
All the representatives of our reinforcement stood in a semi-circle so that each could appear before the gaze of King Thoras, hinting at exactly who he was indebted to for such generous help.
And when the army finally stood still, its commander rode forward, his face familiar to me. Mounted on a bay horse sat the commander of the host, which anyone could guess instantly just by casting a casual glance at him.
His proud posture and inner strength were magnetic; one wanted to stand beside him and follow, crushing any evil in the way. If Thoras Trollbane fascinated with his strength, passion, fury, and direct character, then this man was famous for his charisma, honor, righteousness, and loyalty.
Dressed in magnificent Armor, he nevertheless didn't deign to stand level with us and jumped from his horse right into the mud where the wooden road ended. A flowing cloak, a determined face, a firm chin...
"You didn't come to spoil girls, but for war. For fuck's sake, Anduin."
Noticing my expression, Anduin Lothar, the last representative of the Arathor dynasty of emperors and former commander-in-chief of the forces of the destroyed Kingdom of Stormwind, smiled mischievously, hiding the grin in his overgrown beard.
Walking calmly toward us, he scanned the faces of those gathered until he stopped in front of the elder Trollbane. Two massive men measured each other with their gazes for a few seconds until Anduin extended his great paw.
The loud sound of the clap as the King of Stromgarde squeezed the extended hand in a firm grip seemed like thunder on the silenced field, and only then did both armies feel the nerves taut with anticipation relax.
But I was no longer following the unfolding events, for besides Anduin, several other interesting people had appeared behind him.
Five men in sturdy heavy plate, which not every grown man could even lift, maneuvered easily between the ranks, making their way behind the leader of the host.
Each of them stood out in some way—by appearance, weapon, or facial expression—but all these differences paled beside the mere sensation of the Holy Light that permeated them through and through, to the point that bright solar sparks occasionally flashed through their pupils.
Sacred scriptures encased in chains hung from their belts, and their Armor was decorated with the symbol of a silver gauntlet. Five young men: knights, warriors, clerics. All identical, as if hand-picked, and only one with lieutenant's stripes.
Following them, a middle-aged man squeezed through, occasionally glancing in my direction. He wore a funny hat and carried an unusual staff, the end of which was fitted with the same kind of book as the knight-boys. And of course, the sign of the silver gauntlet also graced his chest.
"Cultists, motherfucker."
I managed to suppress another spit on the ground because the new participant in the negotiations with King Thoras was the one I knew best of all present.
His golden beard, flecked with red, bristled fiercely while Muradin's own eyes watched me fixedly. The brother of the King of Ironforge nervously toyed with the hilts of his hammer and axe, threatening to break into a fight at any second, which made my heart feel heavy.
"Looks like there'll be blood after all."
I had hoped my old friend wouldn't be so prejudiced against me, but seeing his state, it was clear that without a good fight, a drinking bout, and subsequent carousing—still interspersed with fights with me as the sole participant—Muradin wouldn't calm down and would continue to tear clumps of hair from his chin, cursing me in the ancient language of our people at every opportunity.
Catching a moment while both delegations gathered in a small circle to share pleasantries and news, I nodded to my kinsman, wanting to lead him aside. He grinned joyfully, easily slipping away from the "sleepless and attentive" gazes.
We made our way through the ranks of soldiers, easily getting lost behind their tall bodies and the "long" ears they had pricked up, wanting to eavesdrop on the conversation of the important asses in the hope of later brown-nosing one of them or bragging to friends about the news they heard first.
"Pah, tavern wenches, may the Orcs love you to death. If I had a barrel of powder and a void in my head, I'd kill most of them without even breaking a sweat."
Glancing back, I caught Muradin's understanding smirk; the old geezer was surely thinking the same thing, which meant all was not yet lost and perhaps I hadn't lost another friend... Far too many of them had gone to the ancestors in recent years.
Entering a secluded tent, I began to shed all the finery I had been forced to wear for the meeting with Anduin and his lackeys without a word. Khaz take him, but Danath Trollbane had inherited his uncle the King's stubbornness and wouldn't leave me alone until I made myself presentable.
My eyes never left Muradin, who was repeating my actions exactly, tossing aside his weapons and Armor until we were left bare-chested. Standing opposite each other, we froze in anticipation.
Clenching my fists, I lowered them, exposing my cheek, as if telling this hesitant wench to strike first. And Bronzebeard did not disappoint me.
His eyes flashed with fury, his beard stood on end, and Muradin himself turned red with blotches, growing more maddened by the moment and unable to restrain himself.
A firm hook, perfected by years of training, nearly sent me to the ground in the first few seconds. My vision went dark, and only long seconds later did it begin to clear.
Literally growling upon seeing a patronizing smirk from my opponent, I put all my considerable weight into a punch, driving a straight right. At the moment of impact, Muradin's eyes crossed, and no wonder.
Yes, I am not as great a warrior as he is, but years of hard labor, difficult travels, work in the forge, and skirmishes with everyone you can find on Azeroth had not gone to waste.
Had we been fighting to the death, I likely would have been opened from throat to navel like the most ordinary Goblin, but now we were forgiving grudges, showing each other that our friendship was still alive, even if one of us was in a literal rage.
Making no attempt to defend myself, I thrust my cheek forward, and a lunge similar to mine immediately crashed there. From the force of the blow, the skin split, covering my counterpart's fist with blood. My vision swam. Spitting blood onto the floor, I sniffed with effort through a battered but not yet broken nose.
My head was ringing and my face was growing heavy, but it was still too early to back down. So, biting my lips until they bled, I simply punched him in the ear with all my heart, like a real peasant.
Muradin's head wobbled, and the injured ear swelled instantly, turning blue. Bronzebeard himself shook his head violently, surely trying to get rid of the "spots" before his eyes.
Without a word, we took a short breather, breathing heavily and angrily, preparing to start anew.
Nodding at a questioning look, I shook myself like a dog, exhaling and growling angrily into my beard, again thrusting my head forward, where another blow soon landed.
And so it continued. When there was no space left on our faces, we began to pummel each other's chests and stomachs, sometimes breaking ribs, bruising livers, and inflicting many other injuries.
After half an hour, when there wasn't a single spot left on the front of my body, I felt my consciousness—or maybe my life, who the hell knows—leaving me. I could no longer stand on my feet, so I gritted my teeth one last time, feeling the pain spread through my body, but a new blow did not follow.
My old friend did not strike it. He stood silently opposite me now, fists lowered, looking at me with somber eyes. A sparse moisture gathered under his eyelids, and a single tear rolled down and disappeared into his beard. I pretended not to see it.
"I didn't save him." These words hurt even more. I knew I had no choice, but it was I who had killed Brann, so Muradin's words cut deeper than any Troll spear. "I forgive you for it."
It felt as if a void had formed in my chest, and breathing immediately became easier. Though, perhaps it was because I stood in a posture where the broken ribs didn't bother me.
But the mere realization of what had happened truly gave me wings. Until this moment, I hadn't even noticed how heavily the burden of guilt for the death of the youngest Bronzebeard had weighed on me.
Falling onto my backside, I leaned back on my hands, tilting my head back, feeling salty drops break through my swollen face, stinging the fresh wounds.
***
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