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XV
In the silence of the
early morning city, I snuck back to the great glowing anvil on velvet
paws. There, I pulled myself together, and, with a quick check over my
shoulder, clop-clopped quickly towards the throne room.
Not quickly enough. “Hey,
you! Halt!” Damnit. I froze, almost there, between our red-clad
faux-imperial guards, who had stiffened noticeably, and I glanced at the
source of the voice. A lone dwarf in red was coming towards me.
I parted my lips just
enough to let sound out. “Has our army arrived?” I intoned, through a
motionless jaw.
“All set, sir,” whispered
the right guard.
“Good,” I said. I turned
towards the approaching dwarf. “Is there a problem?” I said.
“Aye,” said the other,
loosening his axe. “No tauren live in Ironforge, which makes you an
outsider, sneakin’ around, after an attack, approachin the High Seat
alone!” He was almost upon us. His axe was in his hand now.
Out of the corner of my
eye, I caught some green movement from within the throne room. I was
covered. “What, exactly, are you expecting to do to me alone?” I said.
He stopped, just out of
reach, looking at the throne room’s two guards. They stared straight
ahead, looking awkward. Damn my big mouth. Until I’d shot it off, he’d
thought he had three to one odds.
“Guards!” he called,
loudly. It echoed in the cavernous silence.
Then, all at once, he
turned around, I pulled my mace off my belt and sprung after him, both
of our guards charged after him, axes flashing, and a ball of magic
whirred past us, striking the dwarf between the shoulder blades. He
buckled to the ground, and I landed on him, mace raised overhead. We all
froze, watching and listening.
Guards were coming,
clanking in heavy armor through the two nearest tunnels, flanking the
throne room. I hefted the unconscious dwarf on my shoulders, turned
around and retreated to the throne room. “Fall back,” I ordered. The
guards fell back into the chamber, and pulled off their red tabards. I
dropped the dwarf along the wall by the others, and he was quickly
burlapped. “Is the door set to blow?” I said.
“Sure is!” piped a
high-pitched voice from the other side of the jagged hole we’d climbed
through.
I glanced at each dwarven
sergeant, and nodded. “Let’s blow this joint.”
The sergeants issued
rapid-fire commands to their dwarves. They lined up across the entrance
of the throne room like clockwork, back a couple of paces, with the
mages standing behind, wands ready. I stood at the right end of the
line. The dwarf opposite me, nearest to the breeched stone door, glanced
down the line, then leaned into the hole and said, “Blow the lock!”
“Fire in the hole!”
squeaked the gnomish engineer. There was a sharp crack of an explosion
and a shower of stone fragments behind the door, and the enormous thing
swung forward, out into the chamber. The dwarves lined up behind it and
across the room, setting their legs and preparing, aware that a single
mishap and they would be crushed.
Five red-clad separatist
dwarves appeared in the chamber’s entrance, and stopped, looking
shocked, at our numbers, at me, at the ancient stone door with the
jagged blasted hole hanging on its hinges. “Stay right there for a
second,” I said to them, urgently, for their own good.
“What’s the meaning of
this?” shouted one of them, sounding confused enough to mean it.
“Just stay there!” I
said. One of them stepped forward, and the others followed. I grimaced.
“Blow the hinges!” I shouted.
“Blow the hinges!” said
the dwarf. “Fire in the hole!” squeaked the gnomish engineer. There was
a string of small explosions, running from the top of the hinges to the
bottom, and as it progressed, the door creaked, leaning dangerously, and
then, with the last explosion, falling free. The separatist guards
stepped back, eyes wide, and then ran, shouting for backup. The door
fell, slowly, sideways, leaning ominously for a moment over our
soldiers, but the dwarves pushed and the mages shot icebolts into it,
and as it collapsed to the floor it rocked over and landed perfectly,
leaning, sideways, up against the throne room’s great entrance. What had
been a nearly indefensible position was now a fortress.
The crash shook the
floor, and echoed for several seconds in the cavernous city. If there
had remained any beings in Ironforge Mountain that were ignorant of our
presence, they knew now.
The older of the two
dwarven sergeants signaled down the stairwell with a boisterous “Come on
home, lads!” and dwarves and gnomes started pouring up the stairway into
the throne room, clad in home-spun or home-hammered armor, wielding all
manner of weapons. They bore four long, thick planks, which, with my
help, they laid against the stone door, forming ramps. Four gnome mages
scampered up the ramps, lying down at the top, wands ready, watching the
cavern. We placed soldiers, our strongest and best-armed, at each end of
the door, the weak points of our fortification.
When thirty or so
soldiers had arrived and the room began to feel crowded, the sergeant
halted the influx, holding the rest of our army in reserve in the cavern
below. We had more than a hundred soldiers in all: among those that had
chosen exile over the traitors, the idea of fighting alongside their
prince to retake their home had been a popular one.
General Madoran had
instructed us to try to expand from our current position if time
allowed, but it didn’t. Within minutes, our gnome guards reported
movement across the cavern. A moment later, one of the gnomes reported
that artillery was being set up. I walked to the stone barricade, and
strained on my hooves to see over. Across the cavern, there was a large
and growing group of red guards, milling about, watching us. One was
slightly taller than the others, and wore a large, angular golden helm.
The leader, I thought.
There were indeed two
large crossbows being assembled at the front of their ranks. They
flanked the cavern’s center aisle, aimed directly down it, towards us.
“Harass them,” I ordered
the gnomes. Nodding eagerly, they began sporadically firing bolts of
fire and ice across the cavern. Most fell short, but a couple were
greeted with shouts of surprise and pain. The squadron of dwarves fell
back.
A sharp ping from
across the cavern, and a heavy metal bolt struck the far side of our
fortification. The door shrugged the attack off. Another ping echoed,
and this time, a flaming liquid exploded over the chamber’s back wall,
splashing on a couple of dwarves, who began screaming in pain. “Mage,
priest,” said the older sergeant pointing, “douse that and fix them!”
Two gnomes busied themselves.
Moments later, another
pair of pings echoed from the far side of the cavern, with one bolt
uselessly hitting the stone door and one splashing us with fire. More
mages began shooting ice at the fires, putting them out and giving
relief to scalded soldiers. There was a yell, in Dwarvish, from across
the cavern, and then more shouts and a drum-roll of feet – “Here they
come!” yelled the gnomish guards.
“Secure the barricade!”
yelled someone, the elder of the two dwarven sergeant. A mass of dwarves
rushed forward, hefting their shoulders against the stone. “Gnomes, when
they get close, sheep the front row, and then fireball the rest when
they trip over the sheep! You lads at the end, look alive or ye won’t be
for long!”
I peeked up over the
barricade again. A wave of red dwarves, at least a hundred strong, was
rumbling towards us, bearing a red battle standard of Ironforge, and
yelling at the top of their lungs. My breath caught in my throat. There
was another ping, and another splash of fire washed over us. The
dousers were keeping everything contained, but panic and anger was
growing in our ranks. “Let us at ‘em!” shouted one dwarf. “Patience,”
shouted the sergeant.
The gnomes counted down
from five. At zero, there was a quick succession of pops, and a couple
of bleats of fear from the other side of the barricade signaled that
their spells had landed. Immediately they began creating fire in their
small hands, gathering it with their minds and then hurling it into the
midst of our enemies.
Then, with a shout, the
wave of red broke on our fortification.
The great stone door
shuttered as twenty hearty dwarves put their shoulder against it and
pushed. Separatists began spilling in around the edges, hacking and
slashing ferociously at us. Several of our soldiers went down to the mad
assaults before the mages could sheep our enemies and knock them out.
Newly full burlap sacks were tossed unceremoniously on the other ones.
Dwarves stepped up from the stairwell to replace the fallen.
Separatist dwarves had
begun to stand on other dwarves’ backs to get over the door. “Mages,
fall back,” shouted the sergeant. They slipped deftly off their planks,
dropping on the heads of the barricade dwarves and scampering off.
The first couple of
dwarves that made it over were met with swords and axes, and fell
quickly. “Mages! Take ‘em down!” yelled the sergeant, and they began
throwing fire and ice again. “Aim to disarm, not kill!” yelled the
sergeant.
“Ye fools are weak,” spat
an evil-looking dwarf whose head had popped over just in time to hear
the order. He boosted himself up, axe drawn and ready.
“Stuff you!” yelled one
of the gnomes angrily, and a moment later the offending dwarf was hit in
the face with three simultaneous fireballs. He toppled over backwards,
screaming. There were cheers from our ranks.
I pushed the wide planks
aside, giving myself freer movement, shouting warnings as they fell to
the floor, then began running back and forth along the stone door,
behind the barricade dwarves, my hefty mace in hand, shouting with
bloodlust and bashing any dwarf head that appeared over the door. It
freed the mages to concentrate on the ends of the barricades, and after
a moment I realized that I was enjoying it heartily.
There were cheers from
the other side, and a worried hush fell over our ranks. Then there was a
screech, and a griffin winged by outside the chamber, armed with another
small crossbow. With a ping, one of our soldiers cried out and fell.
There were yells and screams from our soldiers, and more cheers from the
other side, and the number of separatist heads popping triumphantly over
the top of the door was suddenly too much for me to handle alone.
Another griffin winged past, and another soldier fell to its deadly
bolts. The air smelled like blood now. “Mages!” called the sergeant.
“Take them down!”
The first griffin winged
past again, and was met with a barrage of fire, singeing its wings, and
ice, wrapping around it and weighing it down. It spiraled down to the
cavern floor, happier to survive than continue to perform its rider’s
senseless bidding. In retaliation, another firebomb exploded off the
back wall of our chamber, and the gnomes were too busy dousing the
flames to confront the other griffin. Another soldier fell. I cursed
loudly, and our troops cowered. More separatists began climbing over the
fortification, and taking more of our soldiers down before they were
dispatched. In the heat of the battle, feeling the desperately
terrifying possibility of loss, the no-kill policy had turned into a
fight for survival.
Then, suddenly, a horn
rung out, clear and beautiful above the cacophony of the battle. “For
Khaz Modan!” called a powerful, familiar voice from across the cavern.
“For Madoran Bronzebeard!” shouted a crowd, a unified voice of people.
We stood up, our ears perked, hoping against hope, and the vigor was
back in our fight. Another separatist head popped up over the door, and
as I leapt up to bash it, I caught a wonderful sight: General Madoran,
atop a great, armored ram, charging down the center aisle of the great
cavern, eyes on fire, wielding a hammer
and leading the great masses of Ironforge, hundreds and hundreds of
armored and unarmored dwarves.
“Prince Madoran is
coming!” I shouted. Our troops echoed my shout, passing the information
down the stairwell. I looked up: the last griffin was circling, its
armored rider trying to get a bead on Madoran with his crossbow. I
pointed to him, and called, “Mages!” Flame and ice leapt from our ranks,
striking the griffin’s flanks. One lucky (or skilled) fireball struck
the dwarf in the head, catching his beard on fire. He clawed at his face
for a moment before pitching off the griffin and falling. There was no
thump: only a dull, thick splash, and some terrified,
bone-chilling screaming, and then nothing. I
shivered.
Then Madoran’s army of
the people crashed into the back of the separatist guard. Immediately
the pressure eased on us as the separatists turned to face the new
threat. Heads stopped popping over the door.
“Let us at ‘em!” shouted
a soldier.
“Have at ‘em!” shouted
the sergeant, pointing forward. There were cheers in our ranks, and
soldiers began flooding out the sides of the fortification, out of the
chamber and up from the stairwell. "Get 'em! Capture their flag!"
someone yelled.
Ah, hell, I thought. What
use is having a secret talent if you don’t get to use it when it’s the
most useful?
So I reached to the top
of the stone door, and boosted myself up. Gathering my legs under me, I
shouted, “For Khaz Modan!” and our dwarves cheered as one. Then, I
leapt, over the heads of our army, and in the air my bones pulled apart,
my legs and arms shrank and grew thicker, brown fur sprouted from my
whole body and I landed as a great, slathering, horned brown bear. There
were shouts of wonder from our ranks, and shouts of terror from the
separatists. I lashed out, tossing dwarves away like rag dolls, and then
I reared back on my hind paws and roared. Madoran looked over at me and
cheered.
Now powerfully
outnumbered and facing strong attacks on both flanks, the will left the
separatists. Those that could, fled. A few made to surrender, and Prince
Madoran shouted that they were to be spared. Immediately, others began
to surrender, turning on those that refused in an effort to shut them
up, and moments later, we had possession of their battle flag, and had
accepted the surrender of all of the remaining separatists. The battle
for Ironforge was over.
* * *
The cavern was
overflowing with civilians and soldiers. Those separatists that had
surrendered had taken off their red tabards. Some had disappeared, going
home in shame, while others stuck around, feeding on the victorious
mood. I wondered if they had had their hearts in the insurrection at
all, or if they were fighting because they’d been told to by stronger
people than themselves. Then I wondered
the same about those that had died.
I maneuvered my way over
to Madoran, standing at the great cavern’s center, next to the hot,
dully glowing anvil. He was giving orders to his lieutenants to secure
the city and find the separatist leader, who had disappeared from the
battle shortly after Madoran’s arrival. General Beren had arrived as
well, and was receiving glowing praise from his cousin for the
successful execution of his task. Madoran turned to me. “Bloody good job
back there,” he said.
“Good timing on your
part,” I said. “When the griffins showed up,
we were losing hope.”
Madoran smiled, then
grabbed the red battle standard and leapt up on the anvil, his thick
boots protecting him from the heat. “For Khaz Modan!” he boomed, holding
the standard aloft. The crowd erupted in cheers. “For the Bronzebeards!”
he shouted again. The crowd cheered again. “For Ironforge!” he bellowed.
The crowd cheered wildly.
“Today we won a great
battle,” he said to the crowd. “Those of you that chose exile, today
your choice has been justified. We would not have won this battle
without you. Those of you that chose your homes, I will never blame you
for that, and it was you that picked up your family axes when duty
called – it was you that fought and turned the tide of this battle. We
could not have won without you.” He paused. “My cousin, General Beren
Bronzebeard,” he pointed to him, standing below, “flew a dangerous
mission tonight to allow us to capture our beachhead here. Beren, I am
quite certain that this battle would not have even begun without you!”
The dwarves and gnomes cheered heartily. Madoran paused again, waiting
for them to quiet down. “Some of you may have noticed something larger
than a dwarf or a gnome running around the battle towards its end. Many
of you fought by his side all night, and many of you followed him into
battle at its climax.” My heart stopped. “He gave us ferocious hope when
we needed it most. Horse, the Great Bear,” he said, “you have a hero’s
heart and I am fairly certain that we could not have won the battle
without you!” My nose turned bright red. Why in the world
was he talking about me? But the masses of dwarves and gnomes were
cheering and looking at me, the nearest ones thumping me heartily on the
back. I smiled awkwardly, wishing that I could shrink to a gnome and
disappear into the crowd.
The crowd quieted, and
looked back at Madoran. “This is the end of a painful schism in our
people.” He looked around, at the sea of color, not one red tabard in
sight. “To those that fought against the people of Ironforge, I offer
you clemency and good will, if you will accept it. To the leaders of
this traitorous, murderous insurrection, I offer banishment or death.”
There was stony silence, but much of the room was nodding fervently. He
paused again, letting the silence ring. Then, he spoke,
slowly and regally. “The Stone King has fallen silent,” he continued.
“Ordinn his emissary has fled. In the name of my fathers and my family
and by the power of you the people, I shall be known, from this day
forward, Thane Madoran Bronzebeard the Second, king of the dwarves and
rightful king of Ironforge.” The crowd burst into wild applause. He
stood proudly and solemnly, the battle standard of Ironforge waving over
his head, amidst shouts of “For Khaz Modan!” and “Long live the king!”
“Many good dwarves died
tonight,” King Madoran said once the cheering had died down. “On both
sides of the battle. They were our friends and loved ones, and their
lives were the cost of this conflict. We must remember them, and pray
for them, and always fight to keep alive what they fought and died for.”
He bowed his head in a moment of silence. Then, he picked his head back
up. “Horse the Bear helped us tonight, and he requires my help tomorrow:
I must leave with him and go north, for a short period of time, on a
mission which is important to all life, including our own. I leave the
command of my kingdom to Beren Bronzebeard.” Beren bowed deeply, and the
people of Ironforge cheered him. “I will commission a monument,”
continued King Madoran, “carved into the wall behind my throne,” he
said, pointing, “with the names of all who died tonight, and
commemorating all who lived and what they fought for. I will return for
the dedication of that monument one month from today.”
He turned slowly, looking
at the entire room, his subjects, his people again. He raised the
standard over his head once again, and cried, “For Ironforge!” The
people erupted, shouting and cheering and chanting his name and chanting
and singing, and in a few moments, the entire hall had broken out in
Dwarvish song: the anthem of Ironforge, I thought. The cavern and the
city echoed with it, and I was sure it could be heard up to the highest
pillars of the heavens.
I fought back a tear at
its magnificence. This is it, I thought. This is what pride feels like.
XVI
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