"Br-r-r-r," I shuddered, shrugging my shoulders as I looked away from Narandiel's proudly straightened back at the ship's prow. Sensing my gaze, the elf gracefully turned only her head, sending an inquisitive, ironic look my way with a raised eyebrow.
A light, no longer so frightening smile played on her face, and the dimples on her cheeks had taken on a faint flush. A stunning appearance, despite the terrifying internal demons and Fiends hiding within.
Catching another shift in my mood, Narochka stretched her lips even wider, clearly satisfied with the unenviable state of one honest master and Dragon-slayer.
"Menu... Ah, to hell with it," I thought, waving a hand mentally as I stepped toward the port side under the "speaking" silence of Tim, who followed faithfully at my heels and hadn't uttered a word since the Pointy-Ears volunteers had rejoined the crew of the Beer Lord.
It was pleasant to watch the crew welcome their old comrades with joy and nostalgia. Not put off by the arrogant mugs and seeing right through the porcelain masks of the elves, the humans and Dwarves accepted them back easily, telling them of the adventures that had befallen us.
I myself was currently observing a truly impressive sight. At the entrance to the port, the majority of the Kul Tiras fleet was lining up. Huge battleships, cruisers, and destroyers of all sizes, with a small elven squadron on the flank.
Dozens of ships, each of which could change the course of a battle in an individual engagement, were now gathered into a single fist to try and crush The Horde's fleet.
I don't know exactly what Lothar and the Lord Admiral agreed upon, but in the end, nearly three-quarters of the Kul Tiras fleet would head for the shores of Stromgarde, accompanied by dozens, if not a hundred, cargo ships—scraped together from wherever possible. Most of them would sail along the coast and wait for the arrival of the strike fleet to reach the capital of the dying Kingdom of Stormwind under its protection.
A mad, desperate plan—built on the fact that no other Horde fleet formations had been spotted on the western coast of the Eastern Kingdoms. The Wildhammer Clan gryphon riders swore to it, as did the Wizards of Dalaran, which gave no small hope for the success of this dangerous undertaking.
As I understood from the conversation with Proudmoore, the Wizards of Dalaran had spent a great deal and delayed the construction of portals indefinitely to ensure there were no dangers to our mission. Whether for better or worse—only the future would tell.
I was distracted from my reflections on the whims of fate in the most insolent manner.
"Hey, bald knee," the familiar voice of the second sister suddenly rang out nearby. Having crept up to me within arm's reach, Sarandiel pursed her lips gloomily, folding her arms over her small chest. "Stop walking around with such a sour face and looking like a Wolf at my sister... You're only egging her on that way."
She added the last part much more quietly, with a faint shrug of her shoulders. Goosebumps ran across the girl's Velvet snow-white skin. Staring fixedly into the distance at the sea's surface, Sarochka ignored my questioning look, lost in her own thoughts.
"I've got better things to do," I grunted under my breath, pulling out a brand-new pipe. The old one had met an untimely end after its encounter with the dragon's carcass... and the ocean.
So, I had to acquire a new one. Simple in appearance, decorated with sea waves and octopuses, bought in the main port of Kul Tiras, it did its job perfectly, so there was no reason to complain.
"Don't lie to me," a crooked smile traced Sarochka's face. Shaking her head and tossing the signature hood of the Quel'Thalas Rangers onto her back, the Pointy-Eared beauty revealed blonde hair falling down her back, which was instantly caught by the rising wind. "I don't even need to look at your bloated mug to feel all the negativity surrounding you..."
"My mug is fine," I didn't have the strength for a worthy retort, nor the mood in general. The heavy conversation with the Lord Admiral seemed like a light stroll compared to the marathon of interrogation-style questions the elder Stormweaver had put me through. "Certainly better than your Pointy-Ears, hypocritical, dishonorable..."
"Easy there, Midget," Sarochka snarled habitually, standing half-turned toward me with one hand on her blade. "We're your friends... but I'll survive my sister's grief and her parting lament for you..."
"Pah, you think you've got the guts?" With a pointed glance at her small chest, I mirrored the girl's snarl, clenching one palm into a fist while the other gripped my pipe tighter, the smoke half-hiding my face. "There's less Meat on you than on a dragon... wouldn't want to break you by accident."
"Boor!"
"Dried fish!"
"Mountain ram!"
"And proud of it," I puffed out my chest, locking eyes with the Pointy-Eared girl for a few seconds before exhaling tiredly. The urge to argue had burned out like a well-oiled wick. Now I just wanted to smoke in silence, but something still needed to be said. "Good to see you again, squirt..."
"I'm older than you, how many times do I have to remind you?" Snorting under her upturned nose, Sarochka turned away proudly, trying to hide the traitorous flush starting to spread from her ears to her face. For a few minutes, we stood in silence, each thinking our own thoughts, before the elf whispered softly, so only I could hear. "And I'm glad too..."
I didn't stir the embers in this unstable furnace. Any crack could cause a rupture, so... In one of the brief glances Sarandiel stole in my direction, I simply smiled softly, without jokes or mockery, showing my sincerity.
"I see you're so cozy here," but how could one just let a good setup—I mean, atmosphere—go unruined? Like an armored assault Ogre, Narandiel barged into the conversation, scaring off her younger sister with her mere presence. "Mind if I join in too?"
"Khaz, I swear by the Ancestor Spirits, woman!" My beard nearly rose to the level of my nose, bristling so fiercely from the mounting anger I was struggling to contain. "You already had a fine time picking my brains, eating them with an Ozirum! (Child's spoon)"
"Didn't you enjoy our chat?" Feigning surprise, the elf tilted her head to the side, making a funny face, though my attention was drawn much more to the pair of supple globes on her chest that bounced in time with her movements. "I thought quite the opposite..."
The brat definitely noticed where my gaze was directed and was now watching from on high with a satisfied smirk... and not figuratively speaking!
"Khahun menu shirumundu! To hell with you, elf! You dragged me into a room with no fireplace, no food, no bed... and certainly no beer! Demanding answers to your stupid questions." A mixture of the ancient tongue and the Common tongue swept across the deck. The flash of my rage, fueled by the burning of the runes on my head, drew the attention of most of the crew. While the humans and Dwarves simply shrugged, our elven comrades watched the performance with concern. "And now you're pestering me again with your endless questions and nonsense! Leave me in peace for at least a few minutes!"
"Bed?" A strange mix of surprise and embarrassment crossed her face for the first time in my memory as part of the crew echoed those words. "Beer?"
"Rodgirn, I was just worried... I didn't think that..."
"Didn't think? A month of siege. Nearly four days on the road with nothing but shitty dragon meat and Troll blood for snacks. No eating, no sleeping! And instead of a good mug of Kul Tiran and a meaty waitress by my side, I was forced to listen to your nonsense for half the day!" My calloused finger nearly poked the Wizard's forehead; she was actually slightly taken aback by the onslaught. Stepping back a couple of paces, Narandiel started to say something, but emotions of understanding, indignation, doubt, and realization flickered across her face so rapidly... In short, I didn't give her a chance to speak. "I knew you fucking elves had no honor! No respect! Yes, may the ancestors preserve your souls and homes, Narochka! You don't even have beer!"
Stamping my foot, I swept my eyes around the deck. Apparently, that last shout had thoroughly derailed the serious mood for a quarrel; the elves and Dwarves exchanged awkward glances, not knowing whether they should start a fight or not. The humans... well, as usual, they didn't give a damn about what was happening, and so the smartest ones tactfully pretended nothing was going on.
With a final huff under my breath, chasing my kin back to their posts with a single look, I headed into the depths of the ship. I urgently needed to check the engine... and sleep. And there were some leftovers of mushroom brew somewhere that Dukat had shoved at me for the road.
***
My childish outburst had no effect on the crew's morale. As Tim later admitted to me, for which he predictably got a smack on the head: "Lovers' tiff..."
That damn brute of a boy! And I wasn't indignant about the fact that they'd married me off without my consent, but because nothing had happened! It would be one thing if I'd enjoyed a romp over soft and tender elven mountains, traversing them far and wide! But no! She nags like a shrewish wife but won't let me near...
Eh, this old grumbling of a life-weary Dwarf won't help matters, especially now when our simple plan was entering its decisive phase.
Peering over the side, I once again caught my breath at the sight of hundreds of ships sailing in a straight formation toward a single goal. Large and small, armed and not... they moved forward, cutting through the waves and preparing to meet their enemy.
And the enemy was already waiting... not even hiding. The Horde was moving forward, chest puffed out proudly in the form of unfurled crimson sails bearing their crest. Troll, Goblin, and Orc ships sailed fearlessly straight at us, not particularly bothering with formations or anything of the sort.
In the skies above them flew swarms of bats; true black clouds of fanged freaks flooded the sky, while on our side, there were only rare gryphon riders and the Beer Lord.
The ancestors must have intervened after their last blunder, for there were only a couple of Goblin zeppelins, which made our task much easier.
"Besides, this time I've got two dozen elven Rangers with me, you sons of bitches," I snarled bloodthirstily, no longer able to endure the pain and burning from the oaths carved into my skin, affectionately stroking the hilts of my pistols and axe, feeling the weapons quiver in anticipation. "Today we'll clog the bay with your bodies, bastards..."
The Troll vessels surged forward. Only minutes remained until the start of the battle, as sleek elven frigates rushed to meet them, followed slowly by Kul Tiran and Gilnean ships of the same class.
Thunder struck overhead. The wind grew stronger with every second, promising us less than ideal weather for the fight, but according to Gorbin, this storm would be many times weaker than the one we'd had to pass through earlier.
"Master Rodgirn! A message from the Lord Admiral!" One of Narandiel's Wizards, maneuvering deftly across the deck despite the pitching from the wind and his floor-length multicolored robe, stood beside me, grabbing a nearby rope just in case. "We engage first! We need to provoke the bat riders so they don't interfere with the fleet..."
Nodding, I turned to Gorbin, who stood at the helm, listening to the report out of the corner of his ear. The zeppelin captain simply gave a brief nod in response, after which orders rang out across the decks of the Beer Lord.
The engines roared, and the whistle of the propellers grew louder with every second. Gaining speed, we accelerated, breaking away from the fleet and pulling ahead, while simultaneously climbing higher so that stray magic or cannon fire wouldn't reach us.
"Cannons to the side! Prepare for battle, you rats! Bows, rifles, crossbows! Bring everything you've got!" Under the captain's thunderous shout, the crew scurried across the zeppelin's deck like ants. The ordered chaos lasted literally a couple of minutes before simple, sturdy shields were installed along the side, with arrows and barrels peeking through the gaps. "On your command, Master Rodgirn!"
The Beer Lord flew fearlessly forward, threatening to burst into the first large swarm. The zeppelin shook slightly; the deck grew quiet, with only the howl of the propellers and the roar of the engine breaking the silence.
The bats scattered. Circling, they flew around us from several sides, beginning their attack run. Through a small gap, I saw the Trolls' faces drawing closer every second, showing their gaping, slobbering maws, exactly like the beasts beneath them.
Dressed in the same wretched rags, nearly naked, filthy, and with ritual tattoos on their bodies. The Brutes rushed straight at us without fear, sometimes even colliding with each other in the air, eager to reach such desirable prey.
When the first bastard flew into the range of the elven arrows, I gave the long-awaited command with incredible satisfaction.
"Baruk khazad!"
Even before my hand had fully dropped, I heard the whistle of soaring arrows. The elven Pathfinders hit without fail, sometimes striking several opponents at once. A small but relentless rain poured down on the recoiling bat horde. Losing several dozen in the first few seconds, the creatures filled the area with a piercing screech that made my ears ring.
A rain of Dead bodies fell from the sky. Spinning chaotically in the air, the bats and their Cursed riders tumbled onto the heads of the Horde forces, smashing against decks or being swallowed by the seawater.
The cannons thundered; thousands of metal grapeshot balls swept away the remainder, tearing the flimsy bats to pieces—leaving entire swaths in the rapidly dying swarm.
Rifles and crossbows were lost in their shadow, making a less significant contribution, but a contribution nonetheless.
The Beer Lord drew first blood, deafening the ships sailing beneath us with thunderous volleys from the broadside guns. For a few seconds, the zeppelin was shrouded in gunpowder smoke, but soon it broke back out into the grim and darkening sky, taking a sharp turn.
Gorbin executed a steep bank, circling The Horde fleet, confusing the Troll and Orc sailors, forcing them to keep us constantly in sight, but soon the fanged abominations had other things to worry about.
Frigates and cruisers from both sides met in a deadly dance. Circling and avoiding ramming attacks, the elven ships—looking like eggshells compared to the others—passed easily through the disorganized formation and bit into the thick, lumbering vessels, leaving the Troll vanguard to the humans.
The battleships reached the fray. The pride of Kul Tiras, which had retreated only before the Red Dragons and struck fear into The Horde to this day. Surprisingly maneuverable giants, they burst briskly into the escalating struggle, pouring fire from both sides onto the enemy ships.
Cannons sounded; the hiss of artillery ropes, the crack of wood, and the screech of steel reached my ears time and again.
Then the first screams rang out, in many different languages...
To our left, a flash erupted as one of The Horde's dreadnoughts was consumed. Most likely, Goblin powder stores had detonated, causing the wretched vessel to lurch onto its side, a gaping hole yawning in its hull.
But there were hundreds, if not thousands, of such small stories in the chaos of this massive naval battle.
An elven frigate fails to turn and get out of the way of a Horde ship. A massive dreadnought smashes through the thin, light hull without any effort, burying both the ship and its entire crew beneath it.
Several Troll frigates attempt to board a Kul Tiras battleship, but the starboard battery reloads much faster—firing point-blank into the small ship, leaving nothing but rapidly sinking wreckage. But a second one reaches its goal, and a true Meat-grinder unfolds on the deck as a stream of green-skinned and gray bodies pours onto the battleship's deck.
Several Horde dreadnoughts lose their course. Elven frigates ruthlessly shot out the stern, damaging the rudder, and two giants—unable to turn—collide with each other.
An artillery duel begins between a pair consisting of a battleship and a dreadnought, and the Kul Tiran captain skillfully leads his opponent onto a shoal—knocking the enemy ship out of the fight.
Several sunken Troll ships drifted into a heap, and a Kul Tiran frigate, caught in a heated skirmish, went straight to the bottom when its prow cracked and settled, becoming part of the Dead wreckage.
A new series of thunder and lightning swept in the distance. The waves grew more powerful and fierce, as if gaining strength with every kill. The storm raged, thundering directly above us, whipping up the winds. The Beer Lord was repeatedly blown further from the fight, but for now, the engine held, faithfully returning us to the thick of the fray, allowing us to protect our allies' heads from the bat threat.
A Wildhammer Clan rider managed to fight his way to the side with difficulty. My kinsman from the distant clan looked unwell. All battered, bruised, and with a massive claw wound across his entire chest, he nonetheless held firm in the saddle, even giving a satisfied nod of greeting.
The gryphon beneath him looked no better. It felt as if it had been roasted on a fire... clearly the work of Horde Warlock magic. But the proud beast, matching its master, did not hang its head and stood proudly before us, chest out.
"Izbad! Proudmoore wants us to sweep the rear ranks." With a characteristic accent, the Wildhammer Clan Dwarf rumbled, pointing his clan's signature weapon to the east; the Dwarf swayed slightly, closing his eyes for a moment, but quickly brought himself back to normal, fiercely shaking his head and bristling his beard at the show of weakness. "Need to sink a couple of the big ones so the fanged scum can't escape!"
"We'll do it," I said, choosing not to say anything or pity the rider. I simply took a flask from the hands of the silent and understanding Tim and gave it to the Dwarf before me. "See you in the mountain halls..."
"Ha!" Grunting with satisfaction, the stocky, red-bearded kinsman nodded eagerly, accepting the wish, before—under the fierce cry of his gryphon—signaling from the side and diving down, immediately smashing some Troll's face with his hammer.
After watching the messenger for a couple of seconds, I just quietly closed my eyes when, on his next pass, a spear struck his chest—piercing his body through—and a bat pounced on the gryphon, indignant at such an event, helping its Troll rider finish off the majestic beast.
"You heard the new order! Gorbin..."
The port side cannon fire cut me off mid-sentence. Swaying slightly, I moved closer to the Beer Lord's captain, explaining with my fingers what was required of us.
"Damn Proudmoore!" Hissing the words through his teeth, Gorbin spun the wheel, once again adjusting to the wind currents so the Beer Lord wouldn't simply be blown off the battlefield. "As usual—mad orders and not a single clarification..."
Spitting on the deck, which was already liberally covered in water and blood, the captain of our glorious vessel nonetheless did not stop steering forward. Invoking Daelin and everyone he might have had a carnal connection with, Gorbin led us forward, over the escalating battle in the Tol Barad bay.
Everything had long since turned into a brawl where everyone was just trying to survive and save their ship and crew. The skeletons of ships littered the churning sea surface, repeatedly dragging the slow-footed down with them...
And the bodies... thousands of bodies floated in the salt water, staining it crimson. Orcs, Trolls, humans, Goblins, elves, Ogres... bloated corpses or poor souls floundering in the cold water, most likely not destined to be saved.
Merciless whirlpools dragged them to the bottom along with the ships, offering not even a ghostly hope of Survival.
***
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