Chapter 21 - Cry of the Warsong
Nearly every human in the Eastern kingdom knew about the orcs. Their sudden appearance through the dark portal, the subsequent invasion on Azeroth, and even the assassination of the king of Stormwind had hit the entirety of the continent like a hammer to the gut... Which is Ironic, considering their leader called himself Orgrim Doomhammer. Dalrus had heard at one point the orc Warchief had been captured, but somehow he escaped and war went on once more, this time, apparently, due to the machinations of a crazy black dragon with lava leaking off his back and fire from his wings. Also something about a warlock and demons. In hindsight, that was probably their first warning.
He had always imagined the descriptions of the orcs were overly exaggerated; hulking brutes to match even ogres in size and strength, with glowing red eyes and a never ending thirst for blood and carnage. But, Dalrus figured, they couldn't be much different from humans, elves or dwarves, right? Just some poor, desperate saps who had ran out of land to live on and were now fighting to take it from other people. Despite how villainized they were, he could kind of understand what would drive someone to invade another land and try to seize their resources.
His viewpoint was drastically changed when he finally saw one with his own eyes the day after his chat with Lady Proudmoore. Apparently, the orcs had been relentless in their march and continued all night long, straight towards their camp, despite having been seen from kilometers away. This did not prevent their leader to climb up to a hill and lift the most unique looking axe Dalrus had ever seen in his life, then bellow out a warcry that could be heard by nearly every single person in the garrison before ordering his troops to charge. Orcs mounted on gigantic wolves as large as stallions charged forward, swords and axes high in the air as they echoed their leader's challenges to meet the Gilneas Brigade.
"That." Captain Lyafra had said earlier. "Is Grommash Hellscream, leader of the Warsong clan. They have always been a band of trouble makers, one of the few orc clans who evaded capture after the end of the second war against the Horde. Even by orc standards, he has always been more beast than anything else. Ravenous, thirsting for violence, and killing for pure pleasure. I wouldn't be surprised if this attack were just for their sheer desire for battle."
Dalrus had been ordered to remain behind the walls of the garrison and not to engage directly, much like back during the Siege of Gilneas. "I don't doubt your talent, young Dalrus, but today, it's not a matter of talent, but experience. Trust me, even if you're a long time veteran, you never want to go toe to toe with an orc." Thano had told him before leaving with the rest of the group to gather intelligence and try to hinder the orc's advance. Cannons were being fired from the defense towers and shots from the dwarven muskets. The knights and foot soldiers - Felrus amongst them - were forming a defensive line behind trenches and protecting the entrance to the garrison. The young rogue, of course, was by one of the towers close to the main gates, using one of his daggers to peel off a pear as he watched the orcs advance against their lines.
It was complete madness. The orcs showed no sign of military organization or tactic; over a dozen were dead before they even reached the defensive lines, and those who did reach them were violently pushed back by the defenders. From his vantage point, Dalrus saw that crude, wooden catapults were being pulled up along the hill so they would be in position to launch their projectiles at the garrison's walls.
"DESTROY THOSE CATAPULTS!" The captain leader was screaming. "KNIGHTS, WITH ME! MARCH FORWARD! LET US END THESE WRETCHED GREENSKINS! FOR LADY PROUDMOORE! FOR THE HUMAN EXPEDITION! FOR LORDAERON!" Battle cries could be heard from the men below, and most of them followed the knight captain towards the hill where the orcs were readying themselves to fend off the incoming counter attack. Incapable of holding back his curiosity, Dalrus triggered his stealth and followed them.
The battle over the catapults was already well underway when he arrived there. He had, of course, seen death and combat before - he himself having taken a few lives with those stabbers hanging from his belt - but this was something else. This wasn't a defense against monstrous abominations, it was a real battle against warriors.
The arid wastelands of Kalimdor made for a perfect battlefield. It was difficult to trip on that hardened soil, even with all the blood spilling on the ground. And now that he was closer, Dalrus realised, everything he heard from the orcs may have had some merit after all.
He saw his brother and two more armored soldiers engage an orcish grunt. The green man was almost twice as big as his attackers were, and most of that mass was composed of bulging, hulking muscles, those arms alone being as thick as a man's waist. Tusks were jutting out of the man's lower jaw, giving him an even more savage appearance. His skin was indeed a deep hue of emerald, and his eyes were, in fact, a deep crimson full of hate and lust for battle. His only armor was a strap over his shoulder and chest, a loincloth around his waist, thick hide boods and spiked bracers on his arms. His weapon, a simple wooden axe with an iron blade. Without a hint of fear, the orc bellowed a cry of challenge charged at his attackers, swinging his weapon from left to right.
Before the savagery of that onslaught, two of the soldiers faltered and stepped back, with the exception of Felrus, who stood his ground and raised his shield. The axe hit the iron kite square in its middle, which launched Felrus straight off his feet and made him fly about two meters in the air before falling heavily on the ground. Slamming AT his chest with his free hand, the orc roared once more and rushed forward, axe raised with both hands.
The soldiers were already stepping in to save his brother, but Dalrus was faster. With a shadowstep, he popped into existence on top of the orc's back - which was wide enough for him to easily lay on top of - and he sank his dagger all the way down to the hilt into the orc's neck. The tough, green flesh offered surprising resistance; it was like trying to stab a wheel of hard cheese. He had hoped the orc's anatomy wouldn't be too different from a human's, and twenty centimeters of steel scratching its neck bones would be enough to send him off to that sleep no one should ever wake from. To his delight, he was correct, and the orc's eyes rolled up on his head as his knees gave out and he collapsed on his side. Pulling the dagger out of the hulk's neck, Dalrus sighed and offered his hand to Felrus. "This time, no burn marks." He said with a grin.
"Light be damned, Dalrus, what are you doing here!? It's dangerous!" Felrus was already complaining as he took his brother's hand and stood up. "This is not like back then, this is a real battlefield! You're not a soldier, go back to the garrison!"
Dalrus scrunched his face at those words. "Yeah, love you too, bro. I can take care of myself, thank you very much. It's you I'm worried about. So you keep doing your thing, and I'll keep doing mine... Which is watching your back." And before Felrus could complain further, Dalrus pulled the power of the Void once more and cloaked himself in shadows, vanishing from sight.
"Damnit, Dalrus!" Felrus screamed as he lifted his shield - which now sported a huge dent in its center - and looked around. "This is no game! You go back right now!" Dalrus simply shook his head and retreated as the captain began to shout: "TO ME, MEN! LET'S TAKE DOWN THESE CATAPULTS! DON'T LET A SINGLE ROCK FLY!"
The catapults were being brought up to the hill overlooking the garrison. It was, of course, too far for projectiles to actually reach the defenders' base - otherwise, that would have been a terrible strategic location - but as soon as they were pushed down to the base on the other side, they would be able to rain down their deadly rain against the Gilneas Brigade.
Still cursing under his breath, Felrus pulled down his helm's visor and ran ahead with the other soldiers to aid the captain. Spotting a chance to be useful again, Dalrus decided to make use of his stealth and took a long lap around them.
The orcs were clearly too busy trying to kill everyone in sight to bother with someone they couldn't see. Smaller orcs, whom Dalrus had heard were called 'peons', were loading up the catapults as they dragged the war machines downhill, and the young rogue saw his chance there. Running at top speed, he leapt from the shadows, his dagger being encased in a thick mixture of raw shadow energy, making it longer and sharper, and he slashed at the catapult's ropes before vanishing again as he landed on the ground next to the machine. It was so fast, none of the orcs properly understood what had happened. The rope was split clean, and with a loud crack of wood, one of the catapult's supports snapped free, shooting splinters and metal pieces everywhere, which, in turn, made some of the peons let go of the catapult, which then made the weight too much for the rest of them, and thus the catapult was released, falling out of control downhill at top speed before crashing against the ground and shattering into a dozen pieces.
Satisfied with his results, Dalrus ran forward and hid underneath another one of the catapults, making use of the spreading chaos to add even more to his stealth. Surrounded by thick wood pieces and enormous wheels pushed by no less than six orcs, he pulled out his daggers and began to cut at the hinges of one of the wheels. It was difficult to do so whilst accompanying the catapult's movement, but in less than a minute, the support had been chipped off, and suddenly the wheel was loose. More screams could be heard as the catapult tipped and completely smashed one of the grunts under its weight. Dalrus ran once more, moving to the next catapult.
From the other side of the line of siege weapons, most of the orcs were busy fighting the humans. There was barely anyone left on that side protecting the peons and the rest of the war machines. But now that there was a big commotion over on his side, the orcs were starting to turn back, thinking that was a two pronged attack. A fatal mistake, as the Gilneans were able to more easily push against the orcs and force them back, destroying the catapults one by one, with Dalrus assisting them from the shadows. Not a single one made it downhill intact, nor did they launch any of its projectiles at the garrison's walls.
What struck Dalrus as the most curious was the orc's refusal to pull back. Down to the last man, they kept on fighting to the end, screaming and roaring challenges the whole time. It would appear they really weren't afraid of death. Once the siege party had been decimated, the knight Captain ordered them to regroup and engage the main orc attack force, led by who could only be Grommash Hellscream.
Now that was a prime example of an orc, if Dalrus had ever seen one. His thick black hair was falling around his shoulders, with the back pulled into a ponytail atop his head. A thick iron ring could be seen piercing his nose, And the orc's jaw and chin were about as large as his entire head. Like the rest of his kin, his only armour appeared to be fur and a single patch of iron strapped over his shoulder with skull adornations. And then, there was that singularly unique weapon he wielded.
"COME, HUMAN DOGS! GOREHOWL WILL FEAST ON YOUR FLESH!" He was screaming, the power behind those lungs leaving little room to wonder why he was called 'Hellscream.' His axe was red and dripping with blood, and each time he brought it down, Dalrus saw another life end. His eyes went wide. Just by the time it took them to reach the main battle, he saw the orc leader kill at least seven people, all of them with a single blow from his axe. The man was a beast. An unstoppable behemoth, capable of making the defenders shiver and hesitate with his screams alone.
Despite his personal victories, however, it was clear he was outmatched, once the reinforcements arrived. Little by little, the orcs were being pushed back, and victory was well within their reach...
And then, drums.
Loud drums.
Dalrus blinked. He had never heard something like that before. He peered up at the hill they had just abandoned to join the fray below.
Kodos, he recalled, was the name of those beasts. Enormous animals native to Kalimdor, they were twice the size of a horse, and their hide was a thick grey. Horns were sticking out of their heads, and they deeply resembled reptiles in their overall appearance, with large, pitch-black eyes. And riding them... More orcs. These, however, appeared different. Whilst the members of the Warsong were clad in predominantly purple attires, as it appeared to be their clan's colours, these new orcs wore mostly red attires... And some weren't even orcs at all.
From the reports he read since arriving, he heard those particular creatures running alongside the orcs were called the 'Tauren', beastmen who were bovine in nature. They had very powerful arms, and legs ending in hooves. Their faces looked like bulls and cows, with horns sticking out the tops of their heads, and most appeared to be carrying gigantic wooden poles over their backs.
As if that weren't enough, however, Dalrus also spotted something new. He had never seen those people before, and didn't quite know what to make of them. The ones he presumed were men were exceptionally tall, yet lanky in their build. They had obnoxiously long, crooked noses that reminded him of his master Silvius, and tusks so gigantic jutting out of the corners of their mouths, it was a wonder how they could keep their heads up straight. Their skin was varying shades of blue, and their hands ended in only three thick fingers. Most of them were wielding spears, with some holding staves and wearing ragged-looking dresses.
Later on, Dalrus would discover those were the trolls of the Darkspear tribe, who had joined with Thrall, the new Warchief of the Horde, who was at the very front of those troops, leading the charge.
The Warchief was, to Dalrus' surprise, much less intimidating than the orc they were currently engaged with. First off, he was wearing dark plate armour all over his body, and riding a huge black wolf. On his right hand was the fabled 'Doomhammer', which he was raising high towards the sky as he rallied his troops. His face, however, was the most discerning feature of the young orc warchief.
It was savage, to be sure. Imposing, fearful. But... Dalrus couldn't quite put his finger on why, but it looked a bit more... Humane to him. Every orc he had run into that day had bloodshot, crazed eyes and reeked of blood and death. This orc, however... Even while being from so far away, Dalrus could tell, his eyes were different. They were the eyes of a warrior, yes... But not one seeking death, but rather... It was quite similar to the look Dalrus saw in his brother's eyes whenever he was fighting.
"CAPTAIN! REINFORCEMENTS TO THE WEST!" A soldier screamed, and then, came the order: "REGROUP AND RETREAT TO THE GARRISON! DEFEND THE GATES!" And with that, slowly, the Gilneas brigade began it's retreat back to range of it's cannons and sharpshooters, all this while the savage Warsong orcs gave chase with loud shouts of mockery and provocation.
Raising up to the harsh words, a small regiment detached from the main group, led by a human archmage. Ignoring the captain's orders, they engaged the orcs while the rest of the main group retreated.
Dalrus didn't know what to do. It was suicide. Those people were going to their deaths. There was no way they could engage that massive Horde rushing to their direction alone. He heard their shouts: "Take out their leader! For Lady Jaina!" And archmage who lead the group even said: "Wretched orcs! How dare you follow us to this land!" And he also heard Hellscream's bone-chilling reply: "Save your breath, human! You'll need it to scream when I start tearing off your limbs!"
Dalrus bit on his lip. Could that work? The main host was somewhat far away... If they did a surprise attack at that moment, could they actually kill Hellscream before retreating?
The clock was ticking. Most of the defending forces were already within the safe zone of their cannons, but the orcs were being halted by that little squad ready to engage them.
And then Dalrus saw a familiar face amongst them.
What was his name again? The little man was so tiny. A gnome, Dalrus was reminded, was what they were called. So minuscule, they would pass for dwarven children... Dalrus remembered his first day on the Garrison as they arrived in Kalimdor. There was a friendly guy who helped him out, wasn't there? How could he possibly mistake that ridiculous robotic avian the gnome was riding?
"Oh, bugger me..." Dalrus whispered to himself with a moan of regret as he turned back and raced back towards the Warsong orcs.
There had been hope on his side. The armies engaging each other were of similar size, even as the main host retreated. It was a pretty even battle... That is, if it weren't for that unstoppable force that was Grommash Hellscream. The orc was like a whirlwind of death. Brandishing his weapon, Gorehowl, with both hands, each time the axe came down, another soul left this world. He was not uninjured, of course. The orc was bleeding, but he didn't even seem to realize it. All there was... Was that burning, borderline feral look in his eyes as he cleaved through lives as one would cleave through patches of hay.
Dalrus located Sticks within moments, despite the gnome's size. Today, he was wearing a special harness for the battle, made of this leather that covered his tiny body and legs, and thick gloves over his hands. He also wore a large leather helmet and goggles over his eyes, and Dalrus couldn't tell if it was just the atomic mecha bird runner or whatever it was called, but it really looked like the little guy was trembling from head to toe, his lips firmly pressed together as he guided his mechanized mount to ram against orcs from their flanks or zap them with electricity shot from the chicken's mouth. Those actions appeared to do very little more than distract the orcs, but it looked like it was enough.
That is, until Sticks strayed a bit too close to Hellscream. With a scoff of disdain, the orc clan leader made a swing down for the gnome. To everyone's surprise, however, he was able to jump straight over the orc's arm, and even shot some bolts at his face. Sadly, this only appeared to anger Grommash even more, as with another yell of rage, he made a swing for the gnome. He was a tad too slow on his dodge this time, and Gorehowl cut the robotic chicken's legs clean off, it's little rider falling off the cockpit with a loud 'oof' and laying on the ground. Lifting his goggles, he sat up on the dusty floor, and looked up to the massive figure of Grommash's body eclipsing the sun behind him, axe raised high for the death blow.
'Oh, gods, Felrus is going to be so pissed at me...' Dalrus thought with another moan of regret as he leapt out through the shadows, one arm wrapping around the gnome's waist, and pulled him out of the axe's range just as it's blade carved a deep hole on the ground where it's target just had been.
In hindsight, Dalrus realized, it really was his mistake. Silvius would carve his heart out for knowing he had done something like that. Just because most orcs were barbaric savages who preferred death by frontal assault, that didn't mean there weren't any amongst them bereft of skill... Especially one strong enough to be a clan leader. Thinking he could outrun an orc like that while carrying someone else - even one so small as the gnome - was pure dumb arrogance of his part. He didn't even look back that moment; he simply ran forward, trying to find a breach among the chaos of combat, when he felt a very large hand grip the back of his black tunic and hoist him off the ground and toss him three meters high in the air. Dalrus lost his grip over Sticks that moment, and the gnome went flying in the opposite direction he was. Dalrus saw him land heavily on the ground, and a moment later a dead orc with an arrow sticking out its neck fell on top of him. 'Oh come on, really!?" Dalrus thought to himself as he whipped out his daggers and righted himself in the air, landing swiftly on his feet before a very angry looking Grommash Hellscream.
To be the direct target of those hateful eyes was quite an experience. Dalrus was reminded of that day he had the worgen chase after him to save the Gilnean troops by the shores of the city, and even those beasts couldn't hold a candle to the oppressive might of the orc before him. "What's this!? A child!?" The orc said, then spat on the ground next to him. "How dare you insult me with such pathetic troops? Am I to turn my axe on babies now? Is this truly the best you humans can offer? Children and tin toys?" He reached down for his axe - which had lodged itself so deep into the earth, the handle was sticking straight upwards - and, with one hand, he pulled it off the ground. 'Bloody hell, I am so buggered...' And still, Dalrus couldn't help but try and bluff his way out of this situation. "Yeah, well, imagine what they are gonna say when they hear a child was able to draw blood from the mighty Hellscream."
And to his utmost surprise, he saw the orc actually grin. "Bold words, human. More than can be said for most of your species. NOW DIE!" And with that, gorehowl came down.
Holy hells, the orc was fast. For a weapon so big and heavy, it came down as swiftly as a thin blade. Dalrus barely had time to roll to the side and avoid it's blow, but then he was peltered by debris, which prevented him from counter attacking, as his view was obscured. He got up to his feet again, only to see that axe swinging once more, for his head this time, coming from a more diagonal angle from below. He had to arch his back and stretch himself, and barely the blade flew over his face, missing him for hair's breadth.
And therein was his opportunity. The orc was much bigger than he was, far stronger, and had more reach... But, despite how fast he was... Dalrus was faster. He was reminded of his master's words, long ago: 'Remember, boy. When faced with an opponent with more range than you, you have two options: close the distance or run for your life.'
Running wasn't much of an option that moment. If he turned his back to the orc, he was dead. The only reason he wasn't already was because Grommash had underestimated him earlier by letting go of his collar and allowing Dalrus to land by himself. He doubted the orc would repeat that mistake.
And so, he lunged forward.
He could tell the orc was absolutely not expecting that move. Within a second, Dalrus stepped in, then brought his dagger to the orc's side. He was still recovering from the wide swing with Gorehowl earlier, and thus, both his arms were still upwards, which left the torso vulnerable... Not that Dalrus could actually reach the orc's vitals from where he stood. For now, crippling tactics would have to do. And so, the tip of his dagger found the orc's hip, and with a savage grunt, Dalrus pushed his weapon as far as he could inside, over half of the steel vanishing within the orc's body before the grip was suddenly wrestled from his hand, as Grommash screamed in pain and trashed his body, his arm coming down against Dalrus like a catapult's boulder from the sky.
And once more, his reflexes saved his neck... Literally. Dalrus' instincts told him to twist and push the dagger in further, but his training forced him to loosen his grip and duck before rolling between the orc's legs and getting up on the other side, one dagger still in hand, eyes never leaving his foe. There was no time to strike at a blind spot as Grommash brought his axe down on the ground, once more cascading Dalrus with debris as the orc turned around to face the boy.
"That stinged a bit, child." The orc said, his left hand coming down to curl his fingers around Dalrus' dagger and pull it off. Blood was leaking from the wound, and the weapon fell to the ground next to the orc's boot. "You surprise me. Anyone else would have died three times over by now. I'm gonna enjoy splitting your skull into two!"
Dalrus bent his knees and got into a low crouch, his only remaining dagger twisting around to an underhand grip while his free left hand hung in front of his body, as he had been instructed to do when holding only a single dagger. 'Welp, this is it. Guy didn't even blink when I buried fifteen centimeters of steel in his gut. Man, I hope master Silvius never hears about this... Ah who am I kidding, he'd chase me to the afterlife to scold me for all eternity after this one.' Taking in a deep breath... Dalrus readied himself to make his last stand.
And then another dead orc fell on top of him.
"Son of a...!" Was all Dalrus could say as he collapsed under that massive weight, feeling as if the very sky had fallen on top of him. His vision was obscured, and he gasped, barely able to breath. All he could see were feet moving back and forth all around him, the loud noises of blades clashing, the screams of the fallen and the bellows of the victors...
And then... Silence.
Dalrus couldn't hear much from under the dead weight pressing down on him. He heard people talking... One was Grommash. No way he could mistake that deep, rumbling voice. The other one... Dalrus had no idea. They were arguing about something... It appeared as if one of them was... Berating Grommash? Something about attacking the humans. Then Grommash complaining about lust for battles, and something about a frail girl leading the humans. Dalrus closed his eyes and tried to listen.
"...Blocked off the passes leading to the north." Hellscream was saying.
"Well, we must make it through to the pass despite her. I'll send our hunters to scout the area while we establish a base. Until then, the humans are not to be touched!" Dalrus blinked. What?
He heard a scoff. "Whatever you say, warchief. Right after I finish this little whelp off." And for Dalrus' relief, the dead orc was lifted off his back... Only for him to realize what that meant a second later, as he looked up and saw Grommash lifting his axe high up, obscuring the sun.
'You know, all things considered, this isn't such a bad way to go. I'll just choose to believe that thanks to my heroic efforts, everyone managed to retreat safely.' Were Dalrus' final thoughts as he braced himself for death. With a sadistic grunt, Grommash brought his axe down.