Warcraft : Exile

Chapter 4: Playing Deadly Games with Dangerous Toys

Dhaine watched the griffons take to the air. Settling into formation reminiscent of migrating ducks, the winged giants and their riders burst off onto their patrol. It wasn't a sight he got tired of; even after seeing it so many times before, and he watched them a good moment longer before turning back to his task. Dhaine headed for the workshop, where the volunteers he requested would be waiting.

The elf found nine of them; six elves, two men and a dwarf. On open ground near them, gnome pilots in training twirled and rolled around in seats suspended in large rings. The smiths had convinced Prince Varien of the necessity of flying machines to supplement the Griffons- or replace them if worst came to worst. At the moment the dwarves inside the smithy were about shaping wings, engines and such.

Dhaine was greeted by the volunteers with a salute; he motioned for them to follow him and they moved toward the gates in silence. As the door swung upward peasants returned from the sunbat cave, containers on their backs. The gunsmiths had put them to work gathering sunbat droppings as a renewable source of saltpetre for the exploding powder- one more reason why Dhaine resisted the "new technology". He turned toward the forest and broke into a sprint, his volunteers running to catch up.

* * *

A dark and terrible ceremony took place in the territory of the Laughing Skull. On rounded stone pews surrounding the Altar of Dread, the Orcs watched the ritual in fear and awe. On the plartform stood their chieftain, and three Ogres, each holding an obsidan dagger. These particular brutes had impressed Mogor as good fighters and above normal intelligence, and now he had deigned to reward them with the power of the Ogre magi. Chained to the altar between Mogor and his lesser brothers were three Orc infants, born from the blood fed to Mogor's pet birth-hens.

Mogor began chanting in Demonic, a language anyone else would have feared to voice, even the warlocks. Before the first syllables had cleared his throat the sky began to redden and the wind started to moan, a moan of pain. The words he spoke, to any who dared wonder, revolved around the twisting nether- a dark miasma that saturated the Temporal plane, where anger grew and terror spawned, where rancour and rage fused into personifications of destruction- the Daemons.

Fortunately for the Laughing Skull such beings seemed uninterested by the display, perhaps because the ritual was not involving them but rather an appeal to the great faceless Nether itself. Mogor called on the nether to permeate his exceptional Ogres, but just as the birth hens had to be fed Orc blood to hatch orcs, the Nether needed life force offered to it before it could give anything back. Here the hopefuls would give it to the nether.

Near the climax of the ritual clouds turned dark, the strengthening wind moaned louder. Caught up in a trance, the three Ogres raised their daggers as one, then plunged them into their victims.

What sounded like someone in pain turned into the shrieking of unimagined torment. From the slaughtered on the Altar a burst of energy came forth and was pulled up into the sky. And just as quickly as it started it was over. The air fell silent, the sky returned to peaceful blue. When the Orcs looked at the three Ogres again they could tell the giants had changed; now they shared the glimmer of cunning, their multiple heads moved like one, they seemed the descendants of Mogor himself.

Mogor's left head turned to its match, though it said nothing aloud, the other shared its thought that they should maybe maim or slay one of the new Ogre Magi to remind them who ruled around here. Before deciding however shouts came from the guard towers, and all his minions rushed in their direction. Mogor rolled his three eyes.

As usual, the griffon Riders were flying their patrol and, as usual the guards wasted arrows trying to shoot them down. Mogor grumbled to himself how come the Orcs always seem to forget the griffons never flew within range, but worried if he gave them hell about it they'd turn the opposite and not watch for anything- like the sentries he found in one tower passed out from hooch. Their punishment had left many of the Orcs afraid to sleep, much less drink.

By the time he reached the perimeter the griffons were gone, and none of them had been hit. Those that had run to see the action grunted and jumped around, aggravated over their enemies having an air force while they themselves did not. When the rifts started to tear Draenor apart, the Laughing Skull dragons panicked, and were left behind in the rush to escape. Only one of the clan's zeppelins had made it to this world; its pilot kept flying while the gasbag slowly leaked, eventually the Orcs came across Steeq hiding under the cabin like a turtle holed up in its shell.

Although the Goblin resented being put to work at the end of a scimitar, word of the skirmishes with humans after going through the rift made it easier to convince Steeq he would have been killed on sight if the humans had found him first. He was denied safety in numbers; the last of his crew had died on Draenor. Thinking the damage done by the rifts was a sign of judgement day they screamed repentance for turning on the rest of the horde and leapt to their deaths.

At the moment Steeq grumbled in his workshop, trying to keep his 'help' from doing more damage than they already had. The peons assigned him were even stupider than the caricatures that humans made Orcs out to be, and Steeq wondered if Mogor for some twisted form of pleasure wanted the goblin to be ineffective. If so, one would never know from the threats and bellowing Mogor made when told of setbacks. And if Steeq had heard correctly more Ogres were to be promoted to spellcasters.

His fears were confirmed when born-again Ogre Mage Skelton barged in without kicking over a chest of gear that wasn't even in the way, "The boss wants to know what progress you've made." He even used the word progress correctly.

Steeq pointed to his assistants, as if that alone answered the question.

Skelton was not sympathetic, "Mogor assigned you the nimblest fingered workers he had."

"I'd do better with clumsier fingers if they were attached to an Orc with a less-numb brain. Now is there a particular unreasonable demand Mogor asks of me?"

"He wants to know the chances of building that fleet of zeppelin troop carriers he discussed earlier with you."

"Assuming I can find or manufacture enough hydrogen to carry your fat asses," Steeq wondered if part of him wanted Skelton to lash out, "The gas bags would be too explosive, the slighted rupture would take out maybe the whole fleet. You'd probably get better results making flying bombs."

"What about fighter Zeppelins instead?"

"Forget it, the Griffons would play with them like a hellcat with sabre- toothed voles. If you had any idea of the attrition rate the zeppelins had on Azeroth-"

"No I don't know how hard a beating they took in Azeroth," Skelton folded his arms, "But I don't care, and neither does Mogor. If you can't design an air force make a bow with a farther range or-"

"Or what? I'm the only inventor Mogor has left and even if he grinds me into meat for those stupid birds, without an adult goblin to rear them they'll be about as inventive," Steeq pointed his extra thumb behind him, "As these losers." Seemingly on cue one of the peons knocked over the table, smashing every flask and beaker Steeq had and leaving all the chemicals they contained to sink into the soil.

Skelton shook one head in bewilderment, "Fine, we'll find better help. But Mogor's patience is not eternal. And you would do well to hold your tongue or we might decide we're better off struggling on without you." Skelton shouted to the peons to follow him, Steeq was grateful to finally be relieved of the incompetents. * * * The figure was barely noticeable; in fact several volunteers did not notice it at all until, after a flash and loud thunk, the head of the scarecrow disguised by branches and bush rolled into the open, a broken shaft sticking out of its skull of carved squash. The volunteers looked in the direction they thought the arrow came from and jumped when Dhaine called out from behind them.

The Ranger cleared his throat, "During the Second war, when the Horde was pushing its way into Stromgarde, there were many bowmen and Elf scouts that found themselves stranded in Khaz Modan, cut off from the rest of Alliance forces. Unable to reach and join their brothers on the front, they took to fighting a different way, trying to demoralize the Occupying army with assassination and sabotage. The sharpshooters were born.

"A sharpshooter must balance the patience to wait days for a target of opportunity, with the skill to stay hidden. It's a thankless task and a perilous one, but those who master it might slay more enemies than any berserker."

The dwarf, a youth named Samwise who'd yet to grow a beard held up a hand, "You know, an arrow wouldn't be near as damaging as a musket ball-"

"I'm afraid dwarf rifles would be the worst choice of weapon for a sharpshooter. They're too noisy, give off too much smoke and I have noticed they tend to. deviate."

Samwise stared at Dhaine as if the ranger had insulted the entire dwarf people, "This is the first time I've ever heard that."

"Because until now, dwarf gunners have usually been shooting at a charging mass of grunts. A straying bullet might not be a liability in such circumstances, but this requires absolute precision." Momentarily a vein under Samwise's forehead was quite visible, but he slowly calmed himself and held back his tongue.

Dhaine heard no more questions, he unslung his pack and opened it, there were half strung bows and full quivers, one of each for the volunteers. For many days hereafter, they would barely put down the weapons at all.

* * *

Mogor listened to Skelton until the underling was finished, "So Steeq tells us zeppelins are no longer an option? I should have flattened his useless skull when we found him!" Mogor started to pace, his eye fixated on the ruins of the farm where he found the birthing hens. His heads then faced each other, seeming to have some sort of silent conversation. Finally Mogor headed for the stronghold, waving Skelton to follow.

Entering Mogor's chambers the chieftain rummaged through the parchments on his desk. Finally he found what he sought, a map of all the places his Orcs had been on this planet. He noted the spot where they first pitched camp after fleeing Draenor, traced the route followed to the abandoned farm they had pulled up stakes.

He studied Haven, the human township intently. They had built most of the city against sides of the rock formation they quarried from, shielding Haven with a barrier of stone, especially against a nearby forest which otherwise would have provided suitable cover for an assault. They also built a wooden palisade with arrow slits built in and several cannon towers spaced along its perimeter. They even regularly cleared bush for twenty feet around this fence.

"We've barely begun to explore this world, other than to pinpoint the Alliance's location and finding the birthing hens. I think we should organize details to do so, perhaps we will find answers to our problems elsewhere," Mogor turned to Skelton, "Start assembling teams." Skelton nodded and headed off.

* * *

Dhaine launched his blunted arrow toward the patch of green cloak he saw in behind the tree and unexpectedly watched his own shot be knocked out of the air by someone else's. Turning his head, he saw Samwise stand up, his cloak absent and his face in a grin, until another blunt arrow sent the dwarf on his back. By the time he sat up and spat out his dislodged tooth Dhaine was standing beside him.

"Showing your face like that was a big mistake. The Troll scouts aren't going to laugh with you, they're going to split your skull," Dhaine glowered for a long moment before his face softened, "But your aim is superb." He took Samwise's arm and helped the newly gap-toothed dwarf stand.

Tactical blunder aside, Dhaine felt proud of the dwarf. Two weeks of drills and Samwise had emerged as possibly his best student. He pointed to the cloak his pupil had draped over a sapling as a decoy, just then a trilling sound came from farther in the wood. It might have been mistaken for bird song, except to those who had learned to recognized messenger arrows.

All of the sharpshooters converged on Thavirat's location, he pointed to the tracks. Some brute on two legs had ploughed his way through the bush; from its girth and clumsiness it could only be an Ogre. There were also what might have been Orc tracks, though they were mostly wiped out from the brute's plodding steps. Dhaine marked where the footprints headed; he and his students became as ghosts, invisible in the trees, disturbing nothing.

It took them long, but they reached the limits of the wood. Staying behind the outer layer of trees they saw an Ogre and multiple grunts standing among what looked like ruined buildings. Most hung open with one or two walls torn down, others had collapsed outright. Of some only the foundations remained, looking like fences built to keep in tiny herds.

Samwise whispered to Dhaine, "We could kill all of them before they could blink."

Dhaine considered it. The Ogre and Grunts were very tempting targets, but when the rest of the Laughing Skull missed them and realize what happened they would likely retaliate; and Dhaine wasn't ready to risk Haven's safety just to score some hits. He gestured for them to return to Haven, report this to the Prince.

Varien took in Dhaine's account, "These ruins, how far are they?"

"About thirty, maybe forty miles to the southeast. Most of the buildings are at least partly held up, I'd guess as much area as Grand Hamlet on Azeroth took up."

Kurdan's brow furrowed, "You should have shot them down when you had the chance, there would have been less enemies to defend against," He turned to Varien, "The boys in the shop have been looking for someplace to test fly a bombing run. This abandoned city looks perfect, and they tell me the machines can carry them ten times that distance. We might even kill the Orcs and Ogre after all."

Varien shrugged, "All right, do it." Kurdan headed for the workshop, Dhaine and his sharpshooters, wearing from manoeuvres headed for the tavern to rest. Varien turned grim as he saw the flying machines take to the sky. Part of him remembered Kurdan's proposition of using the flyers to bomb the Laughing Skull Clan off the planet. Not a pleasant notion, but the Orcs might not give them alternatives. With every skirmish, it was increasingly difficult to see one community at peace without annihilating the other.

* * *

Skelton addressed the Wolfrider, "Ruined as this city is, there is much we can use. One of the few intact buildings has made for a serviceable outpost, and Grughr has found a fortified underground level beneath one of the centre ruins. Tell Mogor we'll need more hands to bring loot back."

The raider nodded. As his wolfriders turned to head back to base he stopped and faced Skelton again, "I'm supposed to tell you, Mogor said to go around the forest for now, the trolls have found signs of pinkos doing battle drills inside." And with that the raiders went off, careful not to go through the wood.

Skelton went back to his work and found Kleetas standing still looking up at the sky, "Damn it Kleetas what are you staring at?"

"D'em big birdies that's headed our ways," Kleetas pointed above the forest.

Skelton looked where the grunt pointed. They weren't birds, but they didn't look like griffons either. They made a strange whirring sound that made the Ogre-mage think of motors; and they came, to use the expression as the carrion bird flies, from-

"Haven! Flying machines from Haven! Everybody into the cellar!"

By the time the Orcs had slammed shut and barred the cellar doors the flying contraptions filled the air with their chopping propellers. Soon those sounds were accompanied by dropping bombs, whose explosions drowned out everything else. The walls shook with each blast, pieces of the ceiling fell and shattered yet the room held. That was little comfort to the Orcs; these flyers could return to Haven, resupply and level their base before they could reach it themselves.

Skelton had a notion, it was crude at best but time was short, "Stuff the sacks with anything- even rubble! Just make it look like they're holding something." Running to the doors, Skelton hurled his shoulder into them, already preparing to conjure the eye of Kilrogg.

* * *

Beggren took the lead, six other flyers behind him. The ruins lay waiting, he held out his hand telling the pilots to standby. Once the rear wing was over the first buildings he reached and pulled the drop lever, his wingmen seeing it did the same. One by one the bombs fell, and every one rang true. On turning around, the pilots saw that everything had been flattened. If the guard towers could be dealt with, a salvo like this would relieve Haven of the Orcs once and for all.

Patting themselves on the proverbial back the flyers turned toward Haven. Starting to cross the forest canopy they heard bellowing and shouts that carried even over their motors. Turning back the pilots saw an Ogre yelling threats to several grunts; all of them running in the distance and bearing full sacks.

Beggren knew it was likely the Orcs only carried some paltry loot, but the possibility they might have found artefacts or magic that could be used against Haven was too dire to be ignored. He threw his hand forward, signalling the other flyers to attack. It seemed they would break in their spearguns as well.

Skelton's left head turned to see the flyers taking the bait. He threw himself sideways, narrowly avoiding impalement. The grunts dropped their sacks of rocks and started heckling the flyers, a couple threw their sacks at the machines including Kleetas who got hit by his own sack and laid low. A spear pinned Grughr's leg to the ground, he broke it in half and pulled his leg free only to be run through by missile launched from two other flyers. Skelton's right head didn't even notice the battle, it concentrated wholly on the eye of Kilrogg reaching the wolfriders, if they didn't get here in time the flyers would kill them all and get away clean.

With one head fixated on the flyers and the other miles away, Skelton tripped over a dead Grughr, and fell, both brains losing concentration. Three flyers closed in on him like vultures, priming their shots-

The spears never came, howling and barking put the pilots on the defensive. The Raiders had seen the Eye of Kilrogg in the distance and doubled back, immediately knowing something was amiss; now they expertly snared the flyers in their nets. Having been built to carry twelve thirty-pound bombs not even a Wolfrider had the brawn to pull such a machine down, but their nets were reinforced with steel mesh for strength, they tangled the propellers and sent the airborne killers to the ground, where Skelton and the Orcs made short work of their pilots. Hacking down several saplings, the raiders made travois to carry back three of the machines, the others were torched.

That night Steeq studied the motors of the flying machine, giddy as a child with a new toy, "Fascinating! It burns Hydrogen and oxygen to make water, but then it splits the water back into hydrogen and oxygen! Continually recycling its own fuel, it's genius!"

"Yeah, yeah we're all happy for you," Skelton grumbled, "Now can you duplicate this or not?"

"Actually, I think I can," for the first time in many days Steeq's smile had no sarcasm, "I'll work out the specifics of lumber needed to make the wings."

"Lumber? The only source of lumber around here is the forest, and that's been turned into a human training ground."

"Well I guess you'll have to take it back from them if you want your air force- the trolls are superlative trackers if I recall."

"Oh really? You are the most helpful one, aren't you?" The Ogre Mage hissed through clenched teeth. Seeing him storm out, the goblin bit his hand to keep from giggling.