Ironforge was silent. Only the methodic hum of the Great Forge could be heard pulsing and low in the background. In their absence, someone had thoughtfully cleaned the Throne Room; Asterius’ last message was the only evidence of the murder which had occurred. Around a grim map, peering down, stood a Tauren, a Troll huntress, a half-orc, a large horned bear, a blood elf and a gnome. None said a word and only Mekkatorque had the forethought to bring parchment and a metal quill, which didn’t seem to require any ink. The scratching sound of the odd quill was startling in the throne room and seemed to echo off of the walls.
“It looks like a map,” Vanfi was the first to point out, breaking the respectful silence. Mekkatorque piped up, looking up from the page he was copying it out onto, which Pug quickly translated with a smirk.
“He says it’s a map.”
“I jus’ said dat, Orc,” Vanfi growled. “Map o’ where?”
“Stormwind,” Pug continued translating, as Mekkatorque pointed at his diagram, “That’s the Tram entrance and a few towers are marked, including the Gryphon Master’s and the part that’s circled is the Stockades – Stormwind’s prison and the most likely place for Bronzebeard to have been taken. And he wants to know what those symbols mean.“
“They’re Taurahe - must be a message for Leda, ” Iyotanka nodded at the diminutive Orc. “I guess we always knew we were going to Stormwind, but the prison will have to be our first target. I’m guessing Bronzebeard is our main objective.”
“That looks about right,” agreed Vanfi, kneeling down at the original. "Any ideas how to go about that Iyo?”
“A few off the top of my head, but …” his head turns down at his twin, still laboring to breathe, “Why don’t we take an hour and meet back – no, not here. Over there, in that building.”
“The medical supply shop? I could use some more supplies,” Leesha smiled weakly.
Each left the throne room with strategy on their minds and a copy of the map, made by an industrious Mekkatorque and translated by Pug. The dozen or so symbols remained a mystery to all but the Moonkin, who could feel the responsibility weighing down on him. As the Tauren and the bear passed around the Great Forge, Iyotanka caught sight of the library, the stacks of books attracting him like a magnet. Dutifully, Leda followed, padding along slowly behind her brother, her claws making clicking noises on the stone floor.
“You really ought to get some rest Mixik,” he sighed, browsing the shelves, using a familiar nickname from the Furbolg word for ‘bear.’ Leaving Iyo to his books, where he would no doubt spend the entire hour attempting to read Dwarven, Leda ambles around the corner breathing heavily. Her whole body ached and it felt like a piece of Iyo’s goldthorn had burrowed into her chest.
“General Savagedawn!”
It was the priest-medic, who happened to be coming out of the First Aid shop as Leda rounded the corner. She settled herself down, leaning against the wall and steadfastly ignoring the blood elf, but it was in vain. Leesha approached the bear, her slight form burdened with bandages, various potions and salves. She looked angry, frustrated that their only leader wasn’t making her health a priority. “You should be resting General. I’ve seen how painful your shifts are and if you ever want to make it back to your birth form, you’ll have to rest up. We need you to lead – Asterius is - he’s gone and he left you in charge.” The bear was silent, the medic knew druids couldn’t speak in their beast forms, but her General wasn’t growling at her – it was a start. “At least let me examine you…”
With a heavy exhale, General Savagedawn hoisted herself off of the wall, managing to support her own weight whilst sitting upright. Taking this to be acquiescence, the blood elf quickly sets to work, her tiny hands burrowing into Leda’s fur. Trained by hours in medic tents across the continent, Leesha is quick and efficient, whispering under her breath in an attempt to diagnose the bear. She mumbled in Thalassian, the normally fluid, melodic language sounding angry to her animal senses. After poking and prodding the entirety of Leda’s left side and finding only a horribly set femur, broken long ago, she switches to the General’s right. Immediately, nearly as soon as her dexterous little fingers find skin, Leda tenses up. She presses lightly on the top rib eliciting a grunt, most likely unintentional, but her patient’s breathing becomes more labored. After a few more gentle pokes, the medic backs off and her gentle features are marred with worry.
“The 7th rib is fractured in 2 places, it hasn’t punctured your lung, which would have been horrible. Unfortunately, I think your lung has collapsed. It’s hard to say for certain without my listening tube, but after being buried under over 8 feet of snow, it’s likely to have happened to anyone. You’re lucky your injuries aren’t worse, General.” The medic purses her lips, unimpressed that their leader was taking such terrible care of herself. Still… it was good she finally got to examine her. “You’ll need lots of rest if you want to get back into your Tauren form for tomorrow’s trip to Stormwind. Normally I’d be able to brew an elixir for a collapsed lung, but I don’t have any of the correct ingredients with me. Just take it easy, lots of breaks – don’t overdo it and you’ll be good as new as soon as we return to Orgrimmar.” With a reassuring smile the impossibly slim elf picks up her pile of bandages and continues on her way to the Ironforge barracks, a determined look on her face.
With only one thing on her mind, Leda hauls herself to her feet again, biting her tongue to keep from crying out. The massive bear continues toward the shadow drenched alleyway where she had been heading before the elf so rudely had interrupted. Why did anyone need two lungs anyway? She’d be fine with just one. She uses her nose to rummage through an overturned crate, stuffing her jaw with discarded leather. With a deep, rattling breath, the bear bites down, squeezes her eyes shut and welcomes the familiar pain. Red flashes on the backs of her eyelids and the young Tauren struggles to keep the screams from surfacing as her muscles stretch, spin and realign themselves to the form she was born to. The fur which covers her skin shortens, her tail lengthens, and the bottoms of her once-softly padded feet burn as they harden into hooves.
Where once there lay a defeated tattooed bear, there now was a smaller Tauren with the same conquered attitude. Grimacing, she spits out the leather scraps, nearly gagging at the taste of motor oil and coffee grounds that coated her makeshift mouth guard. Leda attempts to stand, but can’t even manage to haul herself into a sitting position – her arms give out beneath her and she ends up laying on the cold slab floor of Ironforge. Her breathing is labored, her heart is racing and soon the world which had been swimming in front of her eyes turns to black.
“Leda! What in Elune’s name?”
“Iyo can you tell these dwarves to stop? I wanted the table over there, not in that little alcove. I’ll never fit.”
“Go’ahz,” he muttered, “Mogodune.” The dwarves dutifully stepped back a few paces and set the table down before leaving the first aid building entirely.
“I thought you would’ve picked up some of the language by now,” she smirked. “Help me with the chairs?” With a fake smile, she hoists herself up from leaning against the wall, but is immediately pinned back against it with the ferocity of her brother’s glare.
“What the hell Leda! You were supposed to wait until tomorrow morning to shift back! You’re seriously injured and that’s no time to be screwing around.” His voice drops to a whisper as he finishes setting the chairs up and stomps over to his twin. “Sit down.”
Moving stiffly, she gingerly sits down at the head of the table, shuffling the papers which had been set there for her. The map she recognized, but the labels for each looked foreign. Normally, Leda would just ask her brother for clarification, but the rest of her makeshift “council” was trickling in. In the end, her pride decided – she would not admit to all these highly trained and experienced people that she couldn’t read even her native language, let alone Orcish.
“LEDA!”
The Tauren woman cringed. Leesha had just walked in behind Vanfi, her smaller form nearly hidden by the tall slender Troll. The elf was furious. “We agreed you wouldn’t change back until tomorrow! What if– “
“I’m fine Leesha. You were right, Asterius left me to lead and to lead I need to be able to talk. So I’m here leading. Just – drop it ok?”
“Can I just…?” The medic reached out, ready to poke the General and ‘examine’ her again.
“No you cannot. Will you sit down so we can start the meeting? I think everyone is here.” And with that Leda dismissed the medic, choosing to shuffle her papers again. Set in front of her was a new map, with Iyo’s handwriting on it - he had thoughtfully added pictures to the labels. A crude rendering of Cenarius was drawn next to the Cathedral, a crown near the boy king, shackles near the prison and even a smirking gryphon were scribbled next to Pug’s Orcish translations.
With a shaky, rattling breath, Leda begins. “It appears Asterius has given us a route from the tram to the prison, I presume to rescue Bronzebeard.” When she looks up, the distinguished Horde (and one Gnome-king) are all nodding along. “However, I’m going to assume we will meet some resistance, so we’ll plan for the worst situation imagined and go from there. You’ve all had an hour to think strategy, let’s hear it. Lieutenant Vanfi, what did you come up with?”
“No’ much I’m afraid. If dese guards are human, we can use every scare tactic dat we ‘ave – your roar Leda, warlock deamons, priests of da shadowy persuasion, hell, we can even try throwin’ salt in der eyes. Once dey’re distracted, we make a run for da prison and barricade ourselves in dere.”
“And if the guards aren’t human? What if they’re those … personality-less drones we saw earlier?” Leesha pointed out.
“Well, Stormwind may be a city, but it still be outside ya? There still be ground underfoot an’ roots under dat,” the troll smirked at Iyotanka, who was cracking his knuckles.
“Outside I can do.” He rumbled. “But our forces are small compared to the human capital. Their guards alone outnumber us 5 to 1 and then you have to consider the standing army as well. The barracks will be inside the city as well as any soldiers on leave. Now we’re outnumbered,” he paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “probably 25 to 1.”
“So runnin’ in blindly might no’ be da best strategy after all.”
“It would be a slaughter, to put it in polite terms,” Iyo confirmed. There was silence around the table, weighing heavily on the shoulders of the leaders seated around the short Dwarven table, until Iyo’s deep voice interrupted, “How deep are these canals?”
Pug quickly translated, the Dwarven sounding like a rhythmic pulsing in the back of his throat, answered with Mekkatorque’s higher squeaking and flippant gestures. “Our little buddy here estimates 8 or 9 feet from top to bottom, but they usually only hold 5 feet of water. He says the overgrown rams could easily walk along it, but the skeleton-men and pasty-green-eyes would have to swim.”
In response, Iyotanka nods and studies his map, his large stubby forefinger running along various paths. “I’m sure you all know where I’m going with this. We could slip into the canal just after dusk. There should be a watch change in an hour and the guards will be at their most tired. If we could get a mage to polymorph the sentries into sheep or pigs, it could serve as a distraction to any passing guards or citizens. We could simply kill them, but I think Asterius would have wanted us to shed as little blood as possible.” When he glanced up, a mournful atmosphere had descended upon the small group. The death of their formidable leader was still too fresh in their minds. Even his sister’s usually one-track mind had instantly switched courses. She, like the medic Leesha, was looking at her map without seeing it.
“Yes, yes let’s do that,” Leda mumbled, seemingly forgetting to plot the course they would take, who would follow who et cetera.
“We do have an addition to our masses,” began Pug, interrupting the grieving, “An elite ops of Dwarven rogues have asked to join us. In the fight to defend their city, they found their skills essentially useless and wish now to put them to use. Perhaps they would be able to safely lead us through the canals, without the use of a map?”
“Hmm… that would be useful, indeed, give the gnome my thanks. You’ll be heading up that section of our forces as you are the only one who can understand them.”
“Sounds good Boss,” chimed in Pug, a grinning Mekkatorque at his side giving him a double thumbs-up.
“An’ da Kahna?”
“They pretty much read my mind anyway. I’m sure they’ll know where they’re best needed. Most likely to flank the medics and Feel free to let them know Vanfi, the less contact I have with them the better. Gooseflesh just doesn’t look attractive on a 1000lb bear.”
“Aye aye Leda.”
“So we move at dawn then? You need time to rest General.”
“Yes, rest…”
-------------------------------------------------
Leda hadn’t slept since Loch Modan and probably wouldn’t ever sleep again. She always slept on her side, but with her deflated or broken or whatever-Leesha-had-called-it lung, she couldn’t lay down except on her back. The Tauren woman lay counting the stitches on the roof of the tent, thinking the refugee camp outside was eerily quiet. No babies cried, no children screamed or laughed and no mothers called out to them to come inside. Mentally she tried counting the hours since she lay down, but was unable to track the passage of time. Reaching over, Leda lifted the tent side the tiniest bit to peek at the moon. It was 1 AM, in two hours the guards would switch shifts… if they struck right before the switch they would catch them at their most tired and least alert. Next to her, her twin’s response to the draft from the tent flap was to effortlessly shift into a bear. With a strangled sigh, she reaches over to wake him up.
They met in the Military Quarter. The entirety of Leda’s forces was amassed within the warm, smokey interior of Ironforge and awaited her command. The Warwalker’s – Asterius’ former troops, harden by battle and all the more experienced for it, sat in wait patiently. Cairne’s Horns, the Tauren Leda brought with her from Thunder Bluff, looked confused and whispered in groups of twos and threes. The Dwarven rogues were standing silently off to one side, glancing warily at the Tauren. Infront of all these men and women, Leda stood, in between Vanfi and Pug and infront of her twin Iyotanka.
“Our attack on Stormwind and rescue of the Dwarven King Bronzebeard will begin shortly,” the druid began, her good eye glaring at the inexperienced and undisciplined conduct of her troops. “Our main objective is to reach the prison, not – I repeat: Not to attack the guards, not to wound the guards, not to kill the guards. We need to reach the prison and from there we will defend our position. Iyo and I will lead you in and the Warwalker Tauren will follow up behind. The medics will be heavily guarded from their position in the middle of the pack and the Kahna will guard their sides. Under no circumstances are you to speak or deviate from the path chosen by our Dwarven friends. If you get lost, head back the way you came and stay in Ironforge. If you have any additional assignments, Vanfi will speak to you privately and explain your responsibilities. If you’re afraid of water or do not know how to swim, now is the time to speak up!”
No one responded.
“Now. Fall in!”
The Tram was quiet. From her spot in the first car, she could hear water dripping far off somewhere and the occasional echo of metal on metal and her own uneven breathing. The ride seemed like an eternity and thankfully the Stormwind Tram waiting area was empty, except for the rats. Five cars worth of Horde troops amassed on the platform, silently waiting for the command to launch their attack on the largest Alliance city. General Savagedawn fell to thinking. They would be sure to have at least a couple of guards somewhere in the Dwarven District. How was she to know if the guards were human or Syreen? If she went to check, they’d see her and cry out or warn their comrades before the rest of her troops could react.
“Wait”
“Here”
“General.”
Three of Kahna family fell back into the shadows and disappeared, a shiver went up Leda’s spine and she swore under her breath. They never failed to make her skin crawl.
“Normal fleshbags,” they confirmed, still invisible to the naked eye and speaking in unison.
“Uh... Thank you Sergeant Kahnas,” she replied. With a nod at the rogues, again standing off to the side, their guided tour of the enemy city began.
The Dwarven District, as it turned out, was guarded with a single human guard who didn’t protest at all at being turned into a sheep. Most of the inhabitants of this sector of the city were fast asleep, yet the dense smoke of the forges still hung in the air, obscuring their descent into the chilly canal.
The temperature of the water took Leda’s breath away (not that she had a whole lot to begin with) and the novice General had to bite her tongue to prevent a string of expletives from being uttered. Her leather armour was soaked, but the bundle of supplies she held at ear level was safe from the murky, questionably sanitary canal water. The trip was largely uneventful, the Dwarves scouting out ahead, leading them in what seemed like circles. They stumbled upon a total of two guards and one sentry atop a tower, all of which were successfully polymorphed before they could draw breath. Leda made a note to herself to find out which mage had been given the task and to thank him or her.
Upon approaching the prison, they found their first obstacle. Guarding Bronzebeard’s new “home” were a handful of human guards and 2 of the merciless, personalityless Syreen. The leader of the Dwarves, whom Leda had dubbed “Crazy Beard” due to the fact that his beard reached his knees and insisted on curling out in every direction possible, mimed an odd jabbing motion and pointed at the guards. Deciding to trust her new allies, the General simply nods, the rogues slipping into the shadows and up onto the street – followed closely by the Kahna.
It turned out that the jabbing motion actually meant the rogues were simply going to incapacitate the guards, not brutally kill them, which Leda assumed. Giving the signal to go “over the top” Leda follows her troops, running past the stunned guards (some who glared daggers at them, some who nearly wet themselves and the two Syreen who appeared to feel nothing at all) and into the prison.
Leda stumbles into the stone tower and manages to find an abandoned cooking stove to warm herself at. She glances first at Vanfi, who nods at the General . All of the troops the Troll was responsible for have made it in. Next her eye finds Pug, who nods as well. The Kahnas are sitting peacefully in a corner, as if they did this kind of thing daily – if one of them were to be missing then none of them would be here. The medics are already fussing over the troops who are shivering and soaking wet - Leda impatiently waves away Leesha, searching for Iyo in the crowd.
Hoisting herself up painfully, her eye frantically searches the low, enclosed space for the moose antlers Iyo wears as a joke, but they’re not there.
“Leesha?” She mumbles, barely able to breathe between spasms of shivering. “Leesha, where’s Iyo?”
