A WARRIOR`S DEATH
I don't own Warcraft or any other Blizzard related material. Except my World of Warcraft account…Well, technically that belongs to Blizzard, since the GMs can close it at any time. But I own the characters, they are all mine…well the idea of them anyway. Should the account be closed, I no longer have them. Hmmm. I own the now-useless pre-paid game card.
The dwarf could barely see his own nose in front of him. The damnable fog had crept in at the worst imaginable moment of the battle. Without warning the firm, solid, dwarven shieldwall had broken into disarray and it had become for every dwarf and orc to fend for themselves. Flexing his fingers around the handle of his two-handed hammer, the dwarf shouted into the mist with a desperate hope to find his clan brothers. As if the fog wasn't enough, the reinforcements from Ironforge had also failed to arrive. Shouting again, but receiving no response, the truth at last dawned on the old fighter. But just before he was about to leave the scene, his heart rose with newfound hope, as he heard shouts in the distance. He ran as fast as his ironshodded boots could carry him and thanked the ancestors as the fog began to clear as well, only to reveal a most dreaded sight. The shout had come from the very dwarf who now lay limp before him, his killer standing only a few yards away cleaning its blade.
With a roaring battle chant, the dwarf raised his hammer and charged the orc. Alas, with a swiftness that belied his considerable bulk, the orc swatted the hammer away with his shield and rammed his forehead into that of his bearded foe. Before the dwarf could fully regain consciousness, the orc swatted him across the face with the shield as well. Unwilling to let the orc continue this brutal approach, the dwarf shattered the shield with his hammer and pressed forth his attack. The handle of his sword too short to wield with both hands, the orc roared a challenge and thundered towards the dwarf like a raging avalanche. Had there been any spectators left it would not make much of a difference. Thrust and parry, strike and dodge, the orc and dwarf danced across the battlefield, neither able to pierce the flesh of the other. As they trampled the corpses of several hundreds beneath them, the dwarf didn't even have time to apologize to his fallen brethren, even less avoid stepping on them. Unfortunately, the dwarf tried just that, and fell to the ground, his hammer flying from his grasp. But to his surprise, the orc did not press forward the attack. With a low growl, the fellow warrior stepped away. "I will not kill an enemy that lies helplessly on his back, even less unarmed. That is a coward's death, pick up your hammer!" As soon as the dwarf had gotten a firm grip around the hammer's handle, the orc charged with new vigour.
But suddenly the orc lost his balance, and the dwarf grabbed the opportunity. Before the orc could regain his balance, the dwarf swung his hammer in a wide arc directly into his adversary's chest, sending the orc flying. The ground below exploded in a cloud of dust as the orc landed with a heavy thud.
After making a tremendous effort to keep standing, let alone move his legs, the dwarf stumbled wearily towards his broken opponent. The orc's breathing was like a weak gasping, his entire chest shattered beyond repair and the dented armor pressing against his already strained lungs.
With his last remaining strength, the dwarf lifted his hammer high above his head to deliver the killing blow.
Wait..." choked the orc. Hesitating for but a split second, the dwarf's strength evaporated and he fell to his knees, his hammer slipping from his grasp. "Let me not die this coward's death…" the orc interrupted himself with a hacking, almost violent cough. "Let me die like a true warrior… *cough* *cough* Let me die with my weapon in hand."
The dwarf contemplated the situation and the request. Could it be a trick? Was the orc planning to decapitate him as soon as he had his sword in hand? No, his adversary was much too weakened to do anything at this hour. Dragging himself by his elbows, the dwarf searched through the corpses which they fought upon and found the weapon that so many times nearly ended his life.
It was a fine sword, one-edged, but not curved like a scimitar. But for the sharp, silver edge, the blade was pitch black, red runes resembling clan and family glinted like jewels near the hilt.
Not so very different from his own hammer. Dragging himself back to the orc, the dwarf managed to sit up in a kneeling position.
With one hand he held the sword and with the other he carefully led the orc's hand to it. As the green fingers closed around the hilt, the dwarf aided his foe in laying it to rest upon his heart.
"Thank you." The orc said in a low whisper. "One last request if you would grant it? Before my spirit leaves this broken shell…" With what little strength still resided in him, the dwarf leaned closer. "Before my spirit leaves this broken shell, may I have your name?"
Seeing no trickery or ill intent in the request, the dwarf answered, "Dinir. Dinir of the Hammerfist Clan." Seemingly no longer aware of the dwarf's presence, the orc gazed up at the heavens above them with a smile. "Dinir. Then Dinir is the name I shall toast to in the halls of my ancestors."
Then he said no more.
Closing the orcs eyes with his hand, Dinir gave a nod of salute to his dead opponent. He wasn't entirely sure why he did it, but something deep inside compelled him. Over his shoulder he could hear the whistles and shouts of the reinforcements and their gasps as they surveyed the dreaded scene around them. A small retinue marched towards him, cheering at finally finding someone alive. As more arrived the cheers grew even louder. They ran to him and put a blanket around his shoulders. They patted him on the back, supported him to help him walk and smote their axes against their shields as if he was a hero. But Dinir took little part in the celebrations, for an unexpected question repeated itself in his mind. What was there to celebrate when brother had slain brother?