"...So, rookie!
This isn't like passing gas from your granddad's tincture!
This is an extension of your arm, but a thousand times more dangerous...
Clean and grease every screw, every gear.
Rust is an enemy, just like a Goblin. If you spot it—sand it and grease it immediately.
Understood? Moving on.
Don't play around with the charges. Gunpowder is a fickle thing...
...And may the Hammer and Anvil forbid it,
If I see anyone thinking of smoking near it!
Aim carefully, double-check the calculations...
Don't think with your own head and follow orders without question!
The commander's head is bigger than yours, so he's the one who should be thinking!
...What to drink? Ale—you can...
...What's forbidden? Everything else.
Especially that swill old Torvin brews by the third mine...
And finally: listen to the experienced ones, learn fast
And remember—every shot brings us closer to victory!
Now—to the gun and show me what you're capable of, pup!"
"Get down!" Knocking a militiaman to the ground, I tumbled with him into a small ravine formed after a house collapsed.
The building had smashed through the sewers and sunk nearly ten meters underground. Only ragged fragments of the roof remained on the surface, covered in soot and blood.
Rising on my elbows, I determined by the groan that the poor soul beneath me was still alive and even looked alright, which meant he could be left here for now... Unfortunately, there simply wasn't time to fuss over every wounded man.
It was the fifteenth day of the siege, or the eighth since the Beer Lord was shot down over Stromgarde. Our little venture with torching the Orcs had been a success, and the cursed brutes had halted the assault until the next morning...
A pity that repeating such a trick proved impossible. The Warlocks had entered the fray, quickly showing us that no tricks would help against good magical support.
The cursed Biotics users intercepted the projectiles right in mid-air, causing us to lose several towers on the outer wall. The charges detonated right above them—burning both the structure itself and everyone hiding there to ashes.
After such a demonstration, the greenskin bastards were filled with delight and anticipation, and they swarmed our walls with redoubled strength. Every day, from morning till evening, rotating their fighters, they stubbornly climbed ladders and completed siege towers, generously drenching the meadows beneath the capital's walls with their blood.
Human forces were melting away before our eyes. There were so many dead that there wasn't enough time to prepare the bodies for cremation, forcing us to arrange mass graves where the defenders' corpses were dumped in heaps.
Weapons were forged day and night. The Dwarf refugees, together with human guilds, had set up a veritable industrial complex where ammunition, armor, and consumables of all types were created without end. In some ways, it even resembled our production lines in Ironforge...
But this morning, everything changed. The smoldering corpses of Orcs and humans throughout the city blanketed the sky with gray haze and smoke. So many slain fanged mugs had accumulated beneath the walls that there was nowhere to place towers or ladders, and so...
The cannons came into play.
Dozens of Goblin zeppelins took to the air, firing upon the city with impunity from a safe height. With every shot, it increasingly seemed to me that I could hear their vile, snickering voices. That disgusting joyful squeak and the rustle of sweaty palms being rubbed together. But besides that, dozens of cannons on the ground joined the battle—shelling the main gates and the walls in places where the defensive towers had burned out.
Picking up a gunpowder charge that had fallen from my hands, I returned to our gun, which was positioned on the second wall. The fortifications here were slightly higher than on the first, so the catapults and ballistae could easily fire in an arc, reaching at least the ground crews of the Goblins.
My team consisted of two humans and two Dwarves. Loyal Tim, hauling stones, cannonballs, and other projectiles that came from the hands of my kin in the workshops.
One of the last Pathfinders, Gimli, with a sharp eye and keen hearing, thanks to whom we had more than once moved out from under incoming shells in time. Fair-haired, lean, with several tattoos of runes and anvils on his arms. Gimli often turned an empty pipe in his hands, quietly grumbling about the lack of tobacco.
A young militiaman lad who served as a messenger and relayed my orders to the rest of the gun battery. Currently, he lay nearby, moaning and exhausted. A mere youth, but fiercely eager to defend his city, so Danath's inner circle had found him suitable work.
And Brum—a massive Dwarf from Muradin's guard, who subsequently became one of the Avengers. Red-bearded like me, with the same shaved head and scars on his crown bearing the words of an oath. Together with me, this silent giant had gone through all sorts of shit. Loyal, honest, and following any order, even my most foolish one.
"Gimli! Above the second tower, to the right of the northern gates!" Pointing in the general direction of the target, I helped Tim, who was dazed by a nearby explosion, to his feet. My loyal assistant shook his head desperately but continued his work. "Tim, give me a fragile one, let's hit them with shrapnel!"
Another volley of cannonballs streaked over our heads. Not all Goblins could boast of accuracy, so sometimes the balls could fly across the entire city, though they lost their lethality.
"Brum, rope to the max! Pull it tighter!" One of the gate towers of the second wall shattered into fragments. A Goblin shell had found a weak spot, and now stone grit swept through the ranks of hiding soldiers—reaping a bloody harvest. "Move it!"
"Distance seven hundred seventy," wiping dust and blood from his face, Gimli dropped to one knee. The simple rangefinder in his hands shook slightly; after all, the makeshift bandage applied after being hit by several splinters wasn't the best solution, "wind... North-northeast."
"Reinforced, shrapnel," puffing and cursing, Tim dragged the shell to our battered catapult, then with difficulty hoisted it onto the spoon, "heavy bastard... But the effect will be grand! Seven seconds on the fuse, Master Rodgirn!"
"Correction!" A moment before the shot, Gimli ran up to the gun, beginning to make adjustments and desperately cranking the levers. "Twenty-seven degrees, take it left..."
"Ready to fire..."
"FIRE!" Striking the lever, I listened with pleasure to the soft creak of wood and cables, then joined the others in a small homemade harness to quickly move the catapult to another part of the wall. There was plenty of space here, so we constantly rolled the gun within a certain section to avoid staying in one place for too long.
Not two seconds had passed before an explosion rang out from the Horde camp. A cloud of fire surged into the sky amidst the screams of Goblins and Orcs. The flame was so intense that it scorched one of the zeppelins, and a couple of others were pierced through by fragments of guns and ammunition that scattered around the area.
"Ha-ha! Great job, boys!" Pumping my fist in the air, I unfortunately couldn't afford a long celebration. We had to drag the catapult away quickly, as the little scurrying bastards were surely already aiming at our previous position... But I couldn't help but sweeten the moment for my lads. "Beer's on me when all this shit is over!"
"YES!"
***
Things were going extremely poorly. The outer wall had practically fallen. It was the twentieth day of the siege, and there was no news from the rest of the world.
We had no doubt that the Systems Alliance had learned of the siege of Stromgarde, though there wasn't much point in that. By the time they gathered troops, prepared a plan, and established supply routes...
To drive out a Horde army of this size would require at least a hundred thousand men, equipped with cannons, mages, and gyrocopters with the Griffons of the Wildhammer Clan...
And that takes time. A lot of time, which we were running out of.
The foul taste of machine oil was stuck in my mouth, even though I spat every five minutes. The back of my hand wiped my bearded mug more often than decent Dwarves drink a mug of ale in a day.
But now was not the time for fastidiousness.
Stromgarde was burning.
The smell of gunpowder and torn flesh was etched into my nostrils, and the morning sun struggled to break through the smoky veil of the siege, as if ashamed of what was happening.
"Faster, brothers, faster!" My rasp barely reached the ears of the new crew that had come to replace the old one.
I nudged two exhausted human lads who were rolling a cannonball toward the insatiable maw of the "Pride of Ironforge."
This behemoth, with its forged steel barrel that looked as if it had been hammered out of the mountain itself, was my new creation. I had carved the runes on its sides with special pride, feeling every spark resonate in my soul.
I assured everyone that these runes were a guarantee of accuracy and power...
I had to blatantly lie, of course, but who does a little confidence hurt in such a hellish hour? Though, it seems Danath saw through me; that Menu shirumund had a far too cunning smile.
My eyes involuntarily drifted to the sky, to the main problem we couldn't seem to solve.
"The Horde is coming like a herd of pigs to a watering hole, and those Goblin scum are drenching us with lead from the heavens!"
And it was true, the vile creatures... Goblin zeppelins, bloated bubbles of shit and canvas with gondolas bristling with cannons, circled over the city like a swarm of giant vultures, accompanied by a cloud of bats and fanged mugs... Khagam menu penu Mampasdul (cursed Troll spawn).
They dropped cannonballs on roofs and scattered fire pots—anything to sow panic and destruction among the dying army of Stromgarde.
"We need to shake off these flying cockroaches," growled old Arvan, our battery commander, a veteran with decades of war behind him and a face that looked more like a map of a mine-riddled field. He had been the chief artillerist on the Beer Lord and, like all the Avengers, was clean-shaven with an unkempt beard down to his belly. "But as long as we're dueling with the Goblin cannons, we can't reach those pests."
And that was the catch. The greenskins had plenty of cannons. Dozens! Captured in Ironforge, plus those hastily cobbled together by their mad engineers.
They methodically, like goddamn woodpeckers, hammered the city wall, searching for a breach. And us? Fifteen Dwarven guns—including the "Pride of Ironforge"—and a couple of remaining ballistae and catapults. The quality was beyond reproach, of course, but against numerical superiority, it was like trying to start a bonfire with a single match in a storm.
"The ballistae are aimed at that nearest zeppelin," reported Elrik, thin as a rail, the lad responsible for the aforementioned weapon. "Their armor is non-existent, but just try hitting that flying piece of shit."
The man from Stromgarde spat viciously on the ground, watching one of the Goblin contraptions currently exchanging fire with our citadel, where most of the cannons were kept.
Everyone agreed with the lad; they had already suffered enough themselves...
But I knew that time was our main enemy, not a pile of hastily assembled flying crap. With every minute, the wall weakened, our soldiers died, and hope evaporated like ale from a leaky barrel. We had to think of something—fast!
"Arvan, I've got an idea," I said, wiping sweat from my brow with my sleeve, "let's shoot down the largest zeppelin. There's surely one of the Goblin princes or his proxy sitting there. Take him out, and the little shits will scatter in an instant until they appoint a new boss or get paid."
Arvan nodded, furrowing his brows as if chewing on a particularly tough piece of dried meat.
"Get to the point, Izbad."
"We'll move one of the catapults to the eastern tower," I pointed toward a half-ruined tower partially hidden by smoke, "they won't be able to see it because of the curve of the wall. We'll load the catapult with our new explosive shell. One shot—and a hellish firework of stones and sparks will erupt over their heads!"
Arvan pondered. The idea was bold... or rather, stupid. Move a catapult under the fire of Goblin artillery? Drag it onto a ruined tower with our own strength, and then, praying to the ancestors, load and aim it at a crooked angle?
"Insane? Foolish? No chance of success! Heh, strange, why are we still waiting?!"
It was possibly a one-way ticket to the ancestors' cauldron. But, hand on heart, I simply had no other options in my head.
"Alright," Arvan finally squeezed out with a crooked grin—as if reading my thoughts, "Let's do it. Rodgirn, gather volunteers. We need to be fast and... as much as possible... quiet."
Finding people willing to take part in a suicidal mission proved surprisingly easy. Five. Including Barak, a young Dwarf who had only recently arrived from the rear workshops. Thin, but with a spark in his eyes.
"Barak, you'll help me with the mechanism settings." Slapping the youngster on the shoulder, I dragged him along. We had to climb the tower and secure simple levers and ropes there. "The rest—I'm giving you shields to cover our small asses."
Under a ceaseless hail of cannonballs and whistling arrows, we made our way to the tower. Thorn, one of the volunteers, an old soldier with kind eyes like an old mastiff, collapsed beside me; an arrow had pierced his throat.
The poor man didn't even have time to do anything before a stream of blood soaked his hands, and he died with his eyes wide open.
A chill ran down my spine; gritting my teeth harder and driving everyone forward, I invoked the ancestors and my deceased clan, hoping that those old grumblers and freeloaders would protect us in this terrible moment.
We reached the tower. With the help of old Dwarven cursing and strong arms, we hoisted the catapult onto the shaky foundation.
Barak and I rushed to the mechanism, our fingers flying over gears and levers, adjusting the weapon. The bitch of a catapult kept trying to slide down the slope of rubble, so the others had to constantly hold it in place.
"Master Rodgirn, do you even know what you're doing?" The young Dwarf's voice trembled with agitation and fear. He flinched every time a cannonade of shots roared over the city.
"Yes, Barak," I assured him, trying to keep my voice steady, "in my short life, I've had the chance to fire all sorts of guns... I swear by my great-grandmother's nipples, this thing will hit exactly where we need it!"
We loaded the catapult with our special gift for the Goblins: a shell packed with various explosives and sharp metal fragments. I took aim. I accounted for distance, wind, and... well, perhaps a bit of luck wouldn't hurt us either.
"Ready," my quiet voice was thick with tension. Sweat poured down my forehead, and my throat went dry instantly. Just one shot. If we missed, most of the bastards would immediately rush to find us—drenching the entire area in cannonballs.
I grabbed the lever, putting all my anger and hatred for the greenskins into it. The catapult wailed like a wounded beast and spat the shell into the sky.
A second or two later, which felt like an eternity, the hellbomb soared over the city and struck right against the helium balloon of the main Goblin zeppelin. Even though we were slightly off with our calculations, it turned out even better.
A flash.
And then hell broke loose. The explosion shook the earth. The air filled with the screech of flying debris, fire, and screams. The massive balloon flared up like a match—incinerating the five escorts.
The Goblins shrieked and scattered, tripping over each other and jumping down, straight onto the city. Just like a herd of frightened sheep, only with green skin and sharp teeth. Zeppelins burned and exploded one after another. Scattered pieces of decks, shells, and guns... And sometimes the Goblins themselves hit other zeppelins that were hastily fleeing the city.
One of them was hit by a piece of timber, causing it to begin a slow descent like a downed bird.
I looked at Barak, and we both erupted into wild, triumphant laughter. We did it!
For a while, the Goblin aerial support went silent.
I knew it was only a respite. They would recover, regroup, and respond with double the fury. But for now... for now, we let them know that Stromgarde would not be taken without a fight.
That the Dwarves of Ironforge don't abandon their own. And that even a small number of my stubborn and obsessed kin with good guns and a love for explosives are capable of causing the green brutes plenty of trouble.
"Barak, time to load again. Let's try to pick off a couple of the runners." I said, grabbing the wrench again. "Let the bastards know who they're dealing with..."
***
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