The druid could not be sure who had been more surprised; himself as he stared down the Tram at the rows of black armored soldiers whose visage brought to mind that of a scarab beetle's, or the enemy whose eyes widened in alarm and shock as they saw one of the Horde forces in their very midst.
Alarms began to blare. The rest of his troops, trapped behind Asterius within the narrow corridors of the underground city, must have been discovered by the city's citizens as well. When the first of the Syreen forces emerged from the tunnel of the Tram, he had ordered the Warwalkers to fall back into Ironforge, away from the Tram and out of sight, hoping to avoid detection but to no avail. He had been spotted as he dashed down the path to the disgustingly named gnome district of Tinker Town. The druid's quick reflexes and magical barrier had given them a moment of no pursuit, but it was only delaying the inevitable fight. The General's mind began racing, working out any other alternative. A battle in these confines would be like placing a chunk of steak into a meat grinder.
At his command, General Leda charged down the stone hallways of Ironforge with soldiers following in tight formation, heading up a steep stairwell before vanishing from sight. With any luck, they could escape the city without any major encounters, utilizing relatively out of the way passages in the higher depths of the city. Near the surface, there were open windows used normally for sharpshooters that, though small, could suffice for an escape route so the Warwalkers could retreat to the backup plan. His soldiers might find some relative safety outside the city, but that was only the first step. Asterius knew something had to be done. He had made an error in judgment and now it was his mistake to fix. But how could he have known that the very force he was seeking to destroy would be ready for his arrival? How could they have discovered his plans, seen past his decoys and distractions? How did they know he would attack from within?
The tauren's emerald green eyes lit up as he stumbled upon the realization, the pieces of the puzzle finally fitting together. His thorny makeshift wall shuddered as something massive impacted it from the other side, but the druid paid it no heed. His mind was working over this newest discovery, slowly taking it apart to inspect every detail. A plan slowly grew into being as Asterius delved through countless strategies and calculations. In a flash, he knew: He could work with this. He had to. No other option was left.
A second tremble from the straining roots brought him back to his senses, but he no longer panicked. Withdrawing the second to last seed from within his battered leather pouch, he drew from the magic within the tiny kernel of life, encouraging it to release its stored energy. Arm-width roots as hard as steel shot out explosively from it, digging deeply into the walls of the corridor, denying passage to all. He hoped that the barrier, now reinforced, would last long enough. He prayed to the power of the earth that it hold as long as possible. He would need every second. Taking one last, troubled look at the impenetrable vines and the death that awaited on the other side, the General ran back into the city of Ironforge. He had work to do.
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High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque was furious. The self-proclaimed King of the Gnomes raged on his steel throne, which was a little cold and uncomfortably unyielding for his tastes, as his guards gave their reports in apologetic, hushed tones. The little soldiers, hardly three feet tall, were arrayed with a vast amount of experimental weaponry, with guns and body armor that pushed the limits of the imagination. At the moment, however, they were less than fearsome as they stared at their oversized combat boots in shame.
"Are you telling me," the bald gnome king started, his moustache quivering with anger, "that an army, a HORDE army, marched straight through our city?"
"Yes, your majesty," Captain Derik Tinknuckle responded, his expression unreadable through the giant, sickly green glowing bug-eyed goggles that he wore, though he seemed to radiate embarrassment.
"And," Mekkatorque continued, his face growing tomato red, "unnoticed, they walked in and sabotaged the train, our lifeline, to Stormwind?"
"Yes, sire," the captain tried to appear even smaller, if such a thing were possible. His king continued as if the captain hadn't spoken, the tirade becoming even more scathing.
"But my favorite part is when THEY RAN RIGHT PAST US AND ESCAPED!" shouting now, the High Tinker pointed toward the south, toward the very exit that a wave of hundreds of the enemy had used not long ago.
"But High Tinker, we were not prepared for an invasion from within! Before we had mobilized our guards, they had escaped out the upper passages in the chaos! Had the dwarf guards in the Military Ward been present, we could have-" The captain made a futile effort to defend himself but was cut off.
"I don't care what we could have done, Tinknuckle. I want you to find them! Those hairy beasts were in my city, destroying my home! Find them and bring them to me, I want them to pay!"
"Stay where you are, Tinknuckle," a voice called in oddly accented dwarven from the ceiling high overhead. The passageways of Ironforge had been built tall to accomodate the endless amounts of smoke that poured out of the dwarven forges day and night. Though the stone roofs of Tinker Town rarely saw smoke anymore, unless an invention or gadget made by the district's new residents caught fire, the design had never been changed, leaving an enormous amount of open space above the High Tinker's hairless scalp. It was from these stone rafters that Asterius dropped, landing on the metallic throne of the King of the Gnomes. "I'll save you the trouble."
Before the guards had a chance to react, the druid General had their king in his massive grip, tightening threateningly as they aimed their small but deadly guns in Asterius' direction. The druid responded in dwarven once more, his tone a menacing growl though it was still understandable. "Try it and I break him in half." It seemed that the guards believed his words, since they looked to each other with worried glances. The High Tinker began to sputter helplessly.
"Put me down you overgrown entree!" he squealed. Asterius raised the gnome to eye level, greeting the miniature royalty with a cold stare.
"But you requested my presence, milord," the tauren said with a snort, still holding his captive in one hand and a battlemace over twice Mekkatorque's size and four times the king's weight in the other, pointing the massive hammer in the direction of the guards who had yet to lower their loaded weapons. "Here I am. Make me pay."
The gnome struggled helplessly for a moment in the tauren's iron grip but stopped when the druid began squeezing his ribs to the point of breaking. He ceased his fighting and considered his position. His fiendish little gnome brain was calculating his odds and, even faced with an opponent several times over his size, he glared back at the druid as if he was still in charge. It was almost admirable. "Stand down, Captain Tinknuckle! I'm not dead yet and neither are you, beast. You want something. What's your game?"
Asterius gave a slight smile as he considered his next words. "Not much, little king. I just need a moment of your time. I request an audience with your good friend Bronzebeard. We need to have a little chat, him and I, and I apologize that this is the only way."
Mekkatorque's bushy eyebrow raised at the tauren, as if genuinely unsure what sort of being he was facing. The druid continued on, sensing the barrier in the Tram begin to weaken. The next step of his plan was about to begin. He added, almost nonchalantly, "You're going to help me conquer Ironforge."
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"Thane Bronzebeard, High Tinker Mekkatorque is here from Tinker Town and he demands to see you."
The Thane of Ironforge was not quite the picture that Asterius had expected. His long, fiery orange beard was unkempt, lacking the proud and well-kept look so valued in dwarven culture; his face was pale and haggard, and his eyes held the weary look of one who hadn't seen a restful night's sleep in years. His magnificent silver ceremonial armor seemed to weigh heavily upon him, giving the dwarf the appearance of a mournful statue rather than a fearsome soldier. Asterius knew somewhat of what had happened to the dwarven King. It seemed that the loss or absence of so many dear family members had taken its toll. Nevertheless, Magni Bronzebeard was still a formidable sight sitting on the ancient stone throne in the High Seat of Ironforge, ancestral home of the dwarves, surrounded as he was by a retinue of guards whose cold steel armor and thickly muscled arms were both the product of the city's legendary forges. The dwarven king hadn't looked up from the papers that required his attention even as the High Tinker's presence was announced, though he did stop writing suddenly when he detected a tremble in the voice of the gnomish herald.
"What're ye aboot, Mekkatorque?" he asked curiously. It was not often that the gnomish leader left his district, and the kings of their respective races knew each other well enough not to stand on protocol. He set aside the royal decree he was signing, one that he had hardly read but seemed to involve cheese, and gave the High Tinker a piercing stare, trying to decide what seemed different. Gelbin Mekkatorque didn't look any different than normal, although his snowy white moustache seemed to curl in annoyance, perhaps he had been kept waiting outside, as he sat upon his shaggy steed, a rather dull looking ram. The mount seemed slightly out of character for the gnome, but Magni thought that it might have made the little ruler feel taller.
"I'm here," Mekkatorque replied with a sigh, still slightly skeptical that he was actually going through with this farce, "to deliver news of an imminent attack."
This got Bronzebeard's attention. He leaned forward in his throne, the cheese bill forgotten. "Ye dun say now? An where did ye git this wee bit'o information?"
"From me," the gnome's ram answered in clipped dwarven, its green eyes meeting Bronzebeard's. The dwarf coughed, leaning back in his ornate throne with a laugh.
"Ah, by Thoradin's beard, that be a neat li'l trick, Gelbin. If'n this be one of yer fancy..." he said, though his words trailed off as the ram began to mutate; heavy albino hair morphing into a softer, lighter brown while its spiraled horns lost their curves as if made of clay, molding into shorter, pointed tips. It stood up on its back two hooves, since its front ones split sickeningly into fingers and the bones of its body crunched into a new shape with wet cracking sounds. Within moments, a tauren stood before the throne of Ironforge, with the king of the gnomes still strapped to his back. Moments later, the amazed guards had sprung into action, surrounding the shapeshifter with blades drawn. By this time, Asterius had unhooked Mekkatorque from the saddle and held the increasingly peeved gnome by the cuff of his oil-stained overalls.
"We agree there, King Bronzebeard," the druid general said with a slight bow, hands still on his hostage. "This little trick has been a rather useful skill to know."
Looking at the menacing ring of bared steel encircling him, Asterius added, "I'm here to talk, not to fight."
"Ye can talk jes' as fine wit' a blade 'er three 'tween tha two of us, Hordie. Tha swords stay oot fer meh own peace'o mind," Magni's own hands were on his double battlehammers as he gave the druid a hostile stare, "Now are ye gonna tell me why, 'sides tha fact that ye got ol' Gelbin inna chokehold, that me an meh boys shouldn'a give ye a few more breathin' holes?"
Asterius returned the stare with his own scowl, his voice losing any semblance of polite conversation. "Because if you do, this city and its inhabitants will die with me. Every... last... one." The druid said these words with menacing finality.
"Ah, so ye got an' army outta tha gates, do ye?" Asterius nodded in response. "S'pose tha' wee attack on Kharanos be yer doin' too? An tha business at tha Tram? An 'ere ye are gonna tell me ta surrender tha city, mah city, 'er ye'll jes burn it t'tha ground?"
"Close, but not quite," The druid shook his head. "I want you to surrender your city to me, but it won't be my soldiers that destroy Ironforge if you refuse."
Bronzebeard chortled, holding his ample gut as if trying to keep his sides from splitting. "Yer a hoot, Hordie, tha' ye are! An wha' be yer Majesty's next desire, eh? Perhaps y'll want ah shiny golden crown t'loop throo yer nose? Mebbe ah gem encrusted cowbell?"
Asterius answered in perfect dwarven, his words a mournful mirror of Magni's own with all traces of foreign accent gone, and for a moment he looked and sounded exactly as weighed down with responsibility as the King. "Ah'm jes' looken fer t'same as ye, Bronzebeard. Ah hot forge, a cold pint, anna sweet dwarven lass carryin' ah platter of beer battered pork ribs, with ah lotta meat on'tha bones of each," He gestured to the sulking gnomish king, whose pride had taken a sore beating, "Ain't all of us're sad li'l kings of a sad li'l hill like that one, petty delusions of standin' they got, like tha world'll cheer 'em on win 'er lose. Some ain't 'ere cause they wanna be, but cause they hafta be."
The dwarven king's laughter faded and he regarded Asterius in a new light. The two seemed to have more in common than looks would lead one to believe. "Leadin' ain't all it's cracked up ta be, eh Hordie?"
"We do what we must because we can," the druid replied once again in his heavy accent. Bronzebeard paused for a moment, then nodded at the soldiers to lower their swords.
"Alrighty, Hordie, ye got meh attention. What're ye doin' in meh city?"
"Just passing through, originally, on our way to Stormwind. The plan changed when we met the Syreen forces packed into your ingenious Tram."
"MY ingenious Tram..." High Tinker Mekkatorque muttered, but nobody seemed to notice.
"Heh, so's they saw throo yer strategy, eh Hordie? Bloody Syreen creeps, cannae say ah want anythin' ta do wit' em, but if'n tha human buggers wanna dance wit' tha devil, ah'm not aboot t'say no."
Asterius shook his head with a sigh, "They weren't waiting for us in the Tram, sire... they were using it."
Bronzebeard's eyes narrowed and Mekkatorque seemed to choke on something as the druid continued, "They were coming here before I even passed through your gates. Your people might choose to sit back and stay out of the battle, but the Syreen aren't that kind."
"Ye be sayin'..." Bronzebeard started to answer in unison with Mekkatorque's startled wail. "But we're neutral!"
"There is no neutrality in this war. No middle ground or safety. It's either one side or the other. You know these Syreen far better than I do. You've met with them, spoke to them, know what they are capable of," The ground shuddered and a new sound reached their ears, echoing over the clangs and hissing steam of the Great Forge. It was the sound of boots marching, thousands of them, thumping against the stone floor like the earth's heartbeat. The barrier within the Tram had fallen; time was running out. "Whose side are you on?"
The dwarven and gnomish kings looked at one another, one grimly determined and the other quaking nervously. As one, they turned to the druid.
"What be yer plan?" "What did you have in mind?"
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"There's no way! It's unacceptable!" The High Tinker's shrill voice was beginning to get on the druid's nerves, as had his tendency to be so very negative. Asterius, too, knew the risks of his plan.
"There is no other way. We are gambling the fate of many at the cost of a few."
"Quiet, you...yo-you, you Bovine!" He hissed, his agitated mind unable to come up with a proper insult. "I'll not have the likes of my dinner be entrusted with the future of the city!"
With one hand, Asterius raised the jittering gnome up to eye level, a feral growl escaping, "I could say the same of you, but if you have an alternative, I would gladly hear it."
The gnome's fuming silence was his only answer as he placed Mekkatorque back on the ground. Bronzebeard patted the Tinker and shook his head, "Hordie's right, meh li'l friend. That army'll only give up if'n they have thar claws in me. Ah'll stay behind t' give tha rest'o tha citizens ah proper chance t' escape. This be tha only way we got so it'll hafta do. An after all, Hordie's takin' tha same gamble Ah am."
"...then I'm staying, too!" Asterius glanced at the gnome in surprise. He hadn't expected any sort of self-sacrifice from the tiny ruler. His estimation of Mekkatorque raised just the slightest bit.
"Ah, t'ain't an option, Mekkatorque. Ye've still gotta job t'do."
"With no disrespect, High Tinker, the Syreen won't miss you. They are here for the leader of Ironforge and that gives you an advantage. We need you to lead these people out of here." Asterius pulled off his battered Rend Fate tabard, memorizing every singed and stained detail of the black and red symbol that had become his life. After a moment, he handed the tabard to the gnome. It wasn't something he had ever imagined he would do. "The guards should hold back the Syreen long enough for you to escape. Use this as your battle standard as you lead the citizens out of the city. My soldiers will be waiting in ambush and that tabard will grant you safe passage. The Syreen pursuers won't have such a luxury."
"Ah, 'tis nice of ye t'be killin' our enemies fer us, Hordie," Bronzebeard chuckled and Asterius grinned wickedly in response.
"The plan originally called for your troops to be the target, sire. Be thankful I have a soft spot in my heart for dwarves." He turned to the gnome king, who clutched the tabard in his little hands with a determination beyond his short stature. "One of my soldiers speaks the dwarven language well. He can act as an interpreter for you and the commander in charge. Ask for... McGimli, son of Bloin."
He gave a slight chuckle recalling Pug's costume before kneeling to the High Tinker. "It's time for you to go. The enemy is too close for you to escape the way we came in, so you're going to have to take a little detour to avoid them."
"What deto-ack!" Mekkatorque's reply cut off suddenly as the druid grabbed him by his collar and flung him up into the air. Desperately trying not to screech with fear, the gnome flew through an opening near the roof that was built for gryphons to travel through. As he sailed out of sight, Asterius mumbled a quick prayer hoping that the High Tinker landed somewhere soft. Bronzebeard gave one of his signature hearty laughs.
"Thar was ah right int'restin' sight. Ye sure yer stayin' behind wit' me, then, are ye Hordie?" Asterius gave a deep sigh and nodded.
"The Syreen army saw a tauren in the Tram. If I don't give them a tauren, they're going to wonder. This is the only way to keep my troops safe and undiscovered." Outside the High Seat, the Syreen army drew closer. Asterius dropped to his knees and the dwarven king placed heavy shackles upon his hands.
"Got ah lotta troopers in that army of yers?"
"About three hundred." Asterius grinned at Bronzebeard, who eyed the druid hesitantly as he listened to the thousands of soldiers make their way toward the throne room.
"Anyone ev'r tell ya that yer a crazy son-of-a-ogre?"
"Quite often, surprisingly enough, but with General Savagedawn in command and an ambush working in their favor, I've no doubt that my men will emerge victorious."
"Ye'd better be right aboot this, Hordie..." the dwarven king grimaced from the taste of his next words, looking at his bound captive. "Ironforge surrenders to ye."
An ominous silence drew over the town of Ironforge as the marching of the obsidian black armored army stopped. The Syreen had arrived.
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Jerikkal Vertesium's nose wrinkled in disgust at the sight of the city around him. Ironforge had always sickened the human; the dingy walls, dim light, and omnipresent smog reminded him of a tavern from Stormwind but expanded to encompass an entire mountain. The general drunken revelry and good-natured brawling that frequently burst into the city streets only furthered the similarity. He felt somehow tainted by the debauchery, as if it would invade and overpower his sense of order and righteousness just as easily as the filth that covered the city stained his clothes. His pace quickened instinctively. This city couldn't burn fast enough for his liking, but he had one matter to settle first.
His army halted in unison as it reached the High Seat of Ironforge, each soldier as still as the stone they stood upon. Vertesium nodded in satisfaction. His troops were of the highest quality. Any trait that Jerikkal found unnecessary had long since been beaten out of them. That included any sense of humanity that the faceless soldiers once had.
The Grand Marshal of the Syreen army strode into the throne room of the dwarven city, a retinue of his personal guard following as quickly and quietly as shadows. Within the great hall stood the stone throne of the King of Ironforge, the seat of power of the entire dwarven nation, and upon it sat King Bronzebeard, with a shackled tauren in dark leathers bleeding at his feet. The captive had obviously been beaten, though his piercing green eyes had lost none of their rebellion or hatred.
"Hail, Vertesium!" The dwarven king shouted in the common tongue, giving the tauren another kick to the face. Jerikkal wished there was another way to communicate with the little brute that didn't involve the butchering of his people's language. "What be Stormwind's business wit' meh fair city?"
"Lord Vertesium," He corrected with barely contained distain, approaching the throne without so much as a nod of respect to the Ironforge royalty. He gestured idly toward the tauren, whose species was even lower in Jerikkal's eyes than the dwarves. "Exactly what is that?"
"This 'ere rubbish?" Bronzebeard asked, his armored boot once again finding the poor creature's ribs. "Ah, this be ah Hordie spy! Caught right in meh own city, 'e was! Meh guards be scourin' tha city lookin' fer more'a tha mangy beasts now."
The dwarven king was without his guards? This was going to be even easier than the Syreen commander could have expected. "We encountered him in the Tram. His... interference blocked our passage for some time." The delay had been aggravating to the human lord. It was yet another unacceptable obstacle to his carefully laid plans. "He was heading to our fair city of Stormwind, it seemed, possibly as an assassin. Has he told you what his objective was?"
The tauren's common was, if anything, even worse than the king's. He answered with a savage snarl. "I of your plan to ruin. Death meet your all men! Horde be for the win, have your army not breathe!"
"Ah think tha' means he dun like ye. Ah true shame, t'is."
"Mother earth is protect me. You no horn bleed me not. Mother earth true is power Azeroth. True is all goddess. Goddess mother power has me. You power has not." The tauren's eyes closed serenely, blackened and bruised though they were, without fear of death. It was obvious that they were dealing with a fanatic. His true purpose here would not easily be discovered and the human commander had no time and little interest in pulling it out of the tauren's sealed lips.
"You believe that this earth mother will save you?" Jerikkal kneeled down, despite his distaste in letting the filth of the floor touch his pristine black garments. He wanted to look the tauren in the eyes. "That this goddess of yours will spare your life? Let me show you what your goddess can do."
As he hissed those words, he drew his polished broadsword from its scabbard on his back, bringing it down with the full force of his two arms, stabbing through the Horde assassin's helpless body. Steel cut through flesh and organs, and the blood slick tip drove deep into the stone below, firmly imbedding itself within the rock.
The tauren gasped reflexively, though breath seemed denied to him. He reached toward the Syreen commander with his bound hands, fighting until his last breath for hope to take even one enemy to the grave with him, but Jerikkal had merely to lean out of range of the tauren's rapidly weakening arms, impaled as he was.
"Your faith is irrelevant. The Syreen are the only gods in Azeroth now." Lord Vertesium held his victim's gaze, wanting to experience that last moment of life as it left their eyes. It always held the victim's innermost desires, their true self that they hid from the world, and it was a ritual that the human murderer fed upon.
He expected fear. Terror, horror, maybe even panic. Instead, the tauren seemed to stare back just as intently, his determined expression never altering despite intense pain and inevitable death, as if trying to memorize his killer's every feature. As if promising some sort of retribution. He slowly sank to the floor, those emerald eyes never closing as his head rested against the unyielding stone of the throne room, a pool of his own blood spreading out in a halo around his still form, taking with it the tauren's life force. Oddly put off, Vertesium rose to his feet. The tauren's death had been most unsatisfactory.
"Ah wonder if'n he saw tha' comin'..." King Bronzebeard said, peering down at the assassin's corpse. "Ah dun s'pose yer gonna 'pologize fer tha mess ye dun t'meh floor, are ye now?"
"I disposed of a threat to the Alliance. I should expect gratitude from your ungrateful kind." Vertesium shot back. "How should Stormwind react, knowing that you are simply allowing agents of that wretched Horde into our city? And this, after you denied us your aid in our noble struggle against those beasts?"
Bronzebeard spat, his expression a wrinkled scowl, "Ain't no noble struggle Ah be seeing. 'Tis mass murder is what it be. Yer Syreen overlords have ye giblets in thar grip an' be playin' yer people fer fools! Ah've said it before an' Ah'll say it again. Ironforge wants nothin' t'do wit' yer nobleness or yer Syreen spooks."
"Rest assured, I am well aware of your nation's stance on this war." Lord Vertesium said, turning his back to the dwarf, as well as his now-profaned sword, and walking back to his retinue. "It is why I have been ordered to make an example of your city. An order that I will be all too happy to carry out."
"So... those li'l black metal tinkertoys of yers be here to wreck meh city?" the Thane of Ironforge chuckled. "An mehself as well, Ah'm s'posing? Go ahead, send yer shiny playthings to me. Ah'll knock 'em down one after t'other. Ahn when Ah be cold an dead on this floor, ye'll have jes made a martyr outta me."
Jerikkal stopped in his tracks. It's true, his orders were to slay the rebellious dwarven king, but Bronzebeard made sense.
"Every last dwarf in Azeroth'll march on ye. They be shoutin' meh name as they tear down yer walls, brick by brick. Ain't one less enemy ye'll be gettin' when Ah kick off; it'll be a million more." As much as the human hated to admit it, every word that Magni said rang true.
"Not unless we break you first, dwarf," Lord Vertesium said, gesturing to his guards. "When your spirit lies shattered, so shall the will of your entire race. Only then, when you see the futility of resistance, will you die. Seize him... alive."
The Syreen commander left the throne room to the battle howls of the dwarven king and the crunching sound of bones and steel breaking as twin battle hammers laid into the rushing soldiers. It was no matter if Bronzebeard killed a few of his troops before being overwhelmed; Jerikkal had the forces to spare and any member of his army that was slow enough to die to an aging old politician half their height deserved his fate. He ignored the scuffle and addressed his lieutenants. "Start the attack. Leave nothing undestroyed and no survivors."
"When the King is in chains, my forces will return to Stormwind to prepare for his immediate... training." The human lord commanded, his lieutenants blank gazes were his only answer. "You shall remain here with half of the men... more than enough to disperse this rabble. Chase them to the far corners of the mountains if you have to. I want these dwarves dead."
Vertesium smirked as his soldiers drew their blades in a single smooth movement. Everything was in order. Ironforge would fall and soon the Syreen would control this planet.
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"We be ready, High Tinker," the dwarven guard said, saluting Mekkatorque who had somehow managed to find a suit of chainmail small enough to fit him. He held a shortsword in one hand and a high powered rifle in the other and he was surrounded by a sea of thousands of others in makeshift gear just like himself.
"First legion, hold the line until the civilians are safely free! Second legion, take up positions at the fallback point to support the First's retreat! Third, you're on backup. Reinforce wherever the line is weakest! For the Alliance and for Ironforge!" cheers greeted Gelbin's tinny voice, who was surprisingly commanding respect despite his ridiculous stature. It was not often that the gnomes put down their tools and took up weapons, but they were fierce opponents when cornered. Never in his life had the High Tinker felt as cornered as he had now, trying without success to stop a nervous shudder that ran down his spine; not even when Gnomeregan had fallen. At least then, they had Ironforge to retreat to. Now, they were abandoning even this last bastion. He felt a huge sense of betrayal in running from the city, rather than standing to fight, but this was the best way to save as many citizens as they could. That druid had been right about that, at least.
For the seventh time in as many minutes, the little gnome king hoped that his dwarven counterpart and friend Magni was still alive. He did not consider himself a religious man, believing in science and magic rather than some benignly all-powerful sentience, but he found himself praying now to whoever would listen.
"High Tinker, the Syreen are attacking! It's begun!" came the sentry report, a gnome even smaller than Gelbin whose voice quaked with fear.
"Hold your position! The Royal army will distract their attention from the citizens as long as possible. When they fall back, we fight!" Behind them, the mass evacuation continued as dwarf and gnome alike ran frightened out into the bright, snowy mountains outside, the environment cheerful regardless of its inhabitants' dread. Families ran for safety, trying desperately to stay together, clutching whatever valuables they held dear in their hands. An hour, at most, before the city was empty. The guards only had to hold that long and then they could retreat. Surely they could hold that long.
The aging gnome looked over the mass of fleeing noncombatants, whose lives would be forfeit if they failed. They would have to hold that long. He only hoped that the druid's army would come through afterward.
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Asterius' shining emerald eyes held the glassy stare of the dead. Blood seeped into the stone beneath him, trailing down the sword that still impaled the druid's unmoving form, filling the jagged scar in the floor. Ever so slowly, his tauren eyes closed, embracing the darkness. Suddenly, they reopened, blazing with a verdant green fire.
In the druid's hand was a single seed. His very last. The air around it shimmered with a glowing aura as it pulled Asterius' spirit back into his body, fighting even the cold grasp of death. As the tauren's battered lungs took their first breath full of air in over an hour, the seed in his shuddering grasp sizzled and sparked, the shell blackening and crumbling into dust. It had worked its magic. Asterius lived.
The first thing he became aware of was the unimaginable pain lancing through his chest where the blade of the sword still pierced through him. With agonizing slowness, Asterius reached his hands up, shaking from the effort, and took hold of the hilt of the broadsword. Gritting his teeth, he tore the sword free, its edges torturing his body with another excruciating wave as they bit through his insides once again. The sword clattered on the ground beside him, slick with his own blood. Panting, he turned his head and looked at his own murder weapon that lay beside him, both druid and steel drenched in blood.
Though his vision was hazy, he saw a pile of black armored bodies not far away. Not one of the bodies seemed to be a dwarf. His plan had worked, then. Bronzebeard had been taken prisoner instead of being killed. Asterius smiled, but it faded quickly. Something was terribly wrong.
He tried to stand but his legs wouldn't support his weight and he fell upon the throne of Ironforge, leaving a crimson trail in his wake. He would have laughed if he wasn't positive that it would only bring more pain. The sounds of battle that reached his ears were dying down. If all went as planned, then that meant that the Syreen were even now chasing after the retreating dwarven/gnomish people. They were going to be in for a surprise. His strategy, up until now, had worked perfectly. He sat in an enemy stronghold, the capital of an entire people. All it had taken him was a single casualty.
He tried again in desperation to mend his wound, as he had done so often in the past. He reached deep into the earth, searching for the natural living energy that gave strength to his magical power. The land didn't answer his pleas. It was ancient stone and its power was locked away by time, an eternity spent unmoving within the depths of the land. He touched only unyielding, barren rock; devoid of anything that he could use. At his full strength, perhaps he could have utilized the odd magic of Ironforge, but in his weakened state, he could only sit helplessly on Bronzebeard's throne and bleed.
This time, he truly did laugh, despite the arcs of pain that shot through him. The irony was hilarious. Even though his plan had come through, in the end it was his own power that failed him. He was going to die here, alone, without being able to lead his Warwalkers into Stormwind. He wasn't going to be able to take the dwarven king back from the Syreen's hospitality. He wasn't going to be able to get his troops home safely. He had failed.
You will accept this? A voice called to him from his mind. With the mild disinterest of one who has lost too much blood to be alive, the druid turned his head to the side. Beside him stood a winged female form clothed in a simple dark dress, her features eerily beautiful but oddly unrecognizable, as if her body continually changed its appearance in an instant. The voice, however, Asterius placed instantly and he snorted.
"Y-Y...You're a hal...lucination. Lemme alone... and let me die in... peace." he begged of the ghost from his past. She ignored his request and caressed his bloody cheek with a palm. He flinched away from her touch and she disappeared. Her voice remained, though, echoing through his clouded mind, showing him glimpses of his past.
In his eyes, he saw the swamps of the Wetlands, a worn tent hidden away beneath the trees. Inside was himself, shouting orders inside the medical station, to wounded troops that cheered him on.
"I won't just allow a soldier the peace of death, not while they can serve the unit. No one dies here while they can still fight!
"T...T-That's not... fair, using my... own words... against me." The spirit reappeared, seemingly annoyed, but the druid shook his head. "It's not... that easy."In his mind, Asterius traveled again. This time, to the great lake of Loch Modan, where his commanders were seated around a map drawn crudely into the ground. It hadn't even been a week ago when they had made that planning session. The Asterius of his memories answered him again.
"It might just be."
"I can't! There's... t-there's nothing more... I c-c-can do for them. I... f... failed..." The apparition gave a sad smile, and Asterius saw himself once again, only hours before, talking to the gnomish and dwarven kings.
"We do what we must because we can."
And then the winged ghost was gone, leaving the druid in silence. Asterius stared at his hand, stained in his own blood. He didn't have much time left, but he knew now how to use it. He wouldn't just accept his failure. He would devote even his last moments of existence to his troops, to the mission. Even in death, he would see them home safely. With every ounce of strength he possessed, he wrote his last command, his epitaph, in his own blood.
From the gates of Ironforge, a victorious cheer rang out. The combined voice of orc, tauren, troll, undead, dwarven, and gnomish shouts were loud enough to reach even the heart of the ruined city, to the very throne room itself.
Asterius could no longer hear it.
