Christie Golden - Warcraft

The city was dim, and loud, and hot. Fire burned in its center, as it had for years. The sounds of hammer on iron and the hiss of quenching water, too, were ceaseless. The air smelled faintly of smoke, though the cavernous construction made sure it was always breathable. Its name reflected its people—to the point, descriptive, and active: Ironforge.

The king of the dwarven underground capital, fiercely red of beard and bulbous of nose, escorted his guest through the main forge area. He was shaking his head, as if still disbelieving something, even as his feet moved purposefully. He pointed a sausage-thick finger up at his companion.

“You’re the only man I’d make plough blades for, Anduin Lothar,” he grumbled in his deep, melodious voice. “You and your army of farmers can attack the turf with dwarven steel, eh? It sends a shiver down my spine just to say it. What will my wives think?”

Anduin Lothar, the only man King Magni Bronzebeard would make plough blades for, smiled down at his old friend. Tall, well built but not massive, the “Lion of Stormwind” was easy in royal company. He had spent most of his life fighting—and drinking—beside the man who currently sat on the throne of Stormwind, and knew Magni well.

“The military man’s curse, my lord,” he said. Affection made the wry words warm. “The better I do my job, the less I’m asked to do it.”

Magni harrumphed. “Well,” he said, resigning himself to the situation, “it’s still good to see you, old friend. We’ll have your wagons packed and on their way as soon as they’re ready.”

Lothar paused beside one of the crates and ran his hand longingly—and carefully—along the glinting surface of what surely had to be the finest plough blades in existence.

“Come,” Magni continued. “I’ve got something for you.”

He had placed the hammer he had been carrying on a narrow table next to a small wooden box. Lothar stepped beside him, curious. Magni opened the box, and Lothar peered at it with interest. Inside, nestled against creamy white fabric, was an item the likes of which he had never seen. Made of metal, it had a wide mouth on one end, almost like a horn instrument. The other end was curved, and connecting them was a narrow rod. In a separate section was a collection of thumbnail-sized metal spheres. Lothar was at a loss.

“What is it?” he inquired.

“A mechanical marvel,” Magni exclaimed, reaching for the thing with the same sort of doting expression some men reserved for their newborn children. “It’s a boomstick.” He lifted it out of the box, holding the curved end.

“Hold it like this,” Magni said. “Put a bit of powder in here, quick tap down with the rod, ball in after, another tap, the flint goes here—”

He lifted the weapon and pointed it, staring down its length like an archer taking aim. Puzzlement drew his unruly scarlet brows together, and he lowered the weapon. “Odd,” he murmured, absently returning Lothar’s gift to him.

Lothar, tucking the weapon in his belt, looked where Magni was staring and saw one of the king’s couriers running flat out toward them. He felt his spine straighten, his senses heighten, his whole body tensing—ready to spring into action as needed. Dwarves strode, stomped, ambled, and sometimes darted. They seldom ran—and certainly not like this. Something was very wrong.

The dwarf’s face was nearly as florid as his king’s beard as he charged up the steps, his pace never slowing until he dropped to his knees in front of Magni. He was too breathless for words, and gulped metal-tinged air as he extended a rolled-up parchment.

“Take water,” Magni instructed the courier. The king’s thick fingers were swift and nimble as he unrolled the missive. While Magni read, Lothar pointed the boomstick as the king had done, then peered curiously into the end of the metal cylinder, reaching for the small sphere inside and digging it out to examine it. Glancing back at Magni, Lothar saw his friend’s genial face harden. Slowly he looked up and met Lothar’s questioning gaze, and there was resolve and a hint of sorrow in his eyes.

“You might want to head home, big man. It seems someone has attacked one of your garrisons.”

Lothar crouched low over the king’s gryphon as she flew toward Stormwind. The creature, half-lion and half-eagle, was one of a handful that His Majesty King Llane possessed, and they were seldom ridden save for official business. His position on the gryphon’s back told her that her rider wanted her top speed, and she was giving it to him.

Lothar’s mind raced as fast as the gryphon’s rapidly beating wings. Attacked? By whom, or what? The missive had been lacking in detail. No mention of casualties or numbers—just the simple facts that there had been an attack. Surely it was not the trolls. He, Medivh, and Llane had sent the blue-skinned, tusked creatures packing the last time they had come sniffing around Stormwind. Light, there was even a statue to Medivh for his part in the victory.

The gryphon tucked in her wings for a sharp dive and Lothar clung tightly to the saddle. Below, outside the Stormwind barracks, two of his lieutenants—Karos, tall, sharp-featured, and rigidly at attention, and dark-skinned Varis, ever the more patient of the two—awaited him. They looked proper and professional, their faces composed, but Lothar had served with them and knew that he’d been right: something was terribly wrong here.

He vaulted off the gryphon as soon as she landed outside the royal barracks. She gave him a head-butt and he patted her neck, handing off her reins to an attendant. Lothar wasted no time, shoving the scroll in Karos’s chest.

“This missive tells me there was an attack. Start talking now.”

Varis nodded as they strode inside and hastened down the stairs into the infirmary. Chandeliers provided dim lighting, casting an eerie glow on the rows of white-shrouded, silent forms. “Yes, sir. We know about as much as you do, sir. The garrison sent a message asking for reinforcements. By the time we arrived, we—well… they were all dead, sir.”

“No survivors?” Lothar was aghast. “Not one?” He looked from Varis’s distinguished, dark face to Karos’s pale one.

“No, sir. We found only the dead at the site,” Karos replied. “We brought the bodies back here.”

“Two search parties are unaccounted for,” Varis said. “We’ve… the bodies are…” The two soldiers exchanged glances. Lothar had a reputation for inspiring men to follow him but right now, he wanted to knock their heads together. “You’d best come see, sir.”

Lothar strode down the corridors of the barracks trying desperately to wrap his mind around what he was being told. “An entire garrison ?” he demanded. “And no one who can tell us anything?”

Silence, broken only by the ring of booted feet on stone. Again, the two soldiers looked at one another.

“We did find someone,” Varis said.

“He was searching the bodies,” Karos said. Lothar glanced at him and saw that sweat was trickling down his temple.

“You found him at the site?”

“N—no, sir,” Karos said. “It was after we brought them back. We found him here. In the barracks.”

“ In the barracks?” Lothar’s voice carried in the hall, and he didn’t care. “By the Light, what idiot failed to notice someone looting soldiers’ bodies right here in the damned barracks ?”

“We think he’s a mage, sir!” Varis said quickly.

A mage. Someone who could make sure that he wouldn’t be seen. Lothar’s stride faltered, but he kept going. That would certainly answer the question he had just posed to his obviously rattled men, but it raised about a thousand others.