Borrowing a blade to kill... Orcs

Masley Bearhide ran excitedly, still not having calmed down from the slaughter. Although the Night Elves followed Elune's teachings and cherished every life, Druids never hesitated to kill when necessary. Sometimes they could even be utterly ruthless. When deer herds grew beyond what nature could sustain, these keepers of nature's balance would slaughter reindeer on a massive scale, and when wolf packs grew beyond what the deer herds could support, they would do the same to the wolves.

He carefully maintained his distance from the Dark Iron Dwarves pursuing him, staying outside musket range without letting them lose him. Even so, his pursuers complained bitterly. They had left in such a hurry that they had not had time to lead their great rams out of the pens. The Dark Iron Dwarves were not known for their running prowess; their short little legs had to churn several times to match a single light bound from the panther.

But whenever they grew exhausted and considered giving up, the panther would stop and look as though he was on his last legs, which usually revived their spirits at once. In truth, to the ordinary dwarven soldiers, catching the killer and avenging the dead were not the most important things. What mattered most was that, in the Badlands, a fine panther pelt could often fetch more than ten dwarven muskets-and the very best kind, at that. A panther's pelt might not be much better than that of the local mountain cats, but rarity made things valuable. Even the stupidest Dark Iron Dwarf understood that.

What infuriated the Dark Iron Dwarves even more and kept them doggedly on the chase was that the big cat would occasionally turn around and drop a Moonfire spell on their heads. The spell did little damage, but that damage was continuous. A creature marked as its target would keep suffering Moonfire burns. The pain was not intense, but it was like a toothache-it would not kill anyone, yet it was maddening.

So this is kiting? It really is amazing! As Masley Bearhide ran, he thought over what Diago had told him. He did not know what a "kite" was, but he had heard his clan's elders say that it was something invented in ancient times by a wondrous race covered in fur, and that it could fly through the sky. What was that race called again? Bear-men, or cat-men? Or Pandaren? That was probably it. Some sort of intelligent creature that looked much like a Furbolg.

Well, this young fellow was getting distracted again. Still, his panther instincts kept him from falling into a hole. During this race, the dwarven pursuers gradually stretched into a long line. Without the lieutenant leading them driving them on with blows and kicks, they might all have quit already.

After two and a half hours of pursuit, a bare forest of weathered stone pillars appeared before the dwarves.

The panther rounded an enormous pillar and disappeared from their sight.

"This is the place. Their lair might be in there!" the lieutenant shouted. The exhausted soldiers were overjoyed as well. Running for so long was more like torture to them. They took their muskets off their shoulders and held them ready.

"Sleepyhead, you take point!" The lieutenant turned to Sel Dulin and gave the order. It had to be said that hatred was a powerful thing. It was a miracle that this coward had lasted this long without falling behind halfway.

Sel Dulin looked miserable. He understood the power of those beasts better than anyone present. Running into them meant certain death, but judging by the lieutenant's vicious glare, refusing to go out might mean dying right now.

He muttered a few complaints, then walked to the front with his musket ready. The lieutenant did not flare up over his grumbling. Honestly, when a spineless fool stepped forward to act as a scout-even unwillingly-what more could anyone say? There was nothing more to ask of him.

Trembling, the Dark Iron Dwarf pressed against the stone pillar and peeked around it. If anything went wrong, he would immediately pull back. But a large foot prevented him from doing so-he was kicked out hard.

Sel Dulin landed on his backside with a yelp. He scrambled to his feet and tried to run back behind the pillar, but it was already too late. Atop a distant stone pillar, two alerted Orcs were nocking arrows and drawing their bows, aiming in his direction.

"Sleepyhead, what's out there?" the lieutenant asked urgently, pressed against the pillar. Behind him, the patrol's dwarves also hugged the rock in a line, looking like a row of cowering quail.

"Th-there are... two... Orcs..." Sel Dulin stammered. Honestly, anyone would tremble with arrows pointed at them. He hesitated over whether to raise his musket, but ultimately did not. He did not want to cause any misunderstanding.

"Are you sure they're Orcs?" the lieutenant pressed.

"Yes," Sel Dulin said firmly. During the Second War, the Orcish army had passed through dwarven territory. Although the Dark Iron Dwarves had not fought the Orcs as fiercely as the Bronzebeard Dwarves and Wildhammer Dwarves had, they were certainly no strangers to them. Besides, back at their stronghold of Shadowforge City, the Dark Iron Dwarves were still fighting the Blackrock Orc clans for control of Blackrock Spire.

"Only two?"

"Only two..." Sel Dulin confirmed again. The lieutenant breathed a sigh of relief. Just two Orcs. What's there to fear? There are more than thirty of us. He coughed and strode grandly out from behind the rock. His subordinates followed, their spirits restored. Their numerical advantage had evidently given Sel Dulin ample courage. He briskly raised his gun and, like the other musketeers, aimed at the enemies opposite them.

"Lasvska!" The two Orc sentries were startled by the sudden appearance of so many people, and one of them shouted.

"What does that mean?" The lieutenant turned to his subordinates. In truth, few Dark Iron Dwarves spoke Orcish. The proud dwarves had always disdained learning such a crude language.

"Probably asking who we are?" one Dark Iron Dwarf guessed.

"Oh, I see," the lieutenant said in realization. Although he did not know whether these Orcs kept those two beasts, that did not prevent him from demanding that they hand over whoever was behind this. He took several steps forward to the head of the formation. "Hand over those two beasts and their master-"

Before he could finish, a deafening gunshot cut him off. A bullet grazed past his ear and struck one of the two Orcs. The Orc clutched his chest and slowly fell.

"Which son of a bitch did that?!" the lieutenant cursed, clutching his ringing right ear. He turned around and saw Sel Dulin looking at him innocently, wisps of smoke still rising from the musket in his hands.

"It wasn't me. Someone pushed me just now, and the gun went off," he protested. He looked back and discovered that even the nearest dwarven soldier was three or four paces away. "What the hell?" he muttered.

"What the fuck do you mean, 'what the hell'?! Why were you aiming so damn well for no reason?" The lieutenant lashed out with a furious slap. In truth, he was not angry because Sel Dulin had lied or killed an Orc, but because the idiot had nearly shot him.

"How should I know..." Sleepyhead muttered, holding his cheek. He badly wanted to say that he had actually been aiming at the other Orc.

"I..." The lieutenant kicked at him again, but a shrieking signal arrow interrupted his outburst. It struck his helmet with a dull thunk. Had some dark iron not been mixed in when the helmet was cast, it would probably have been pierced.

The lieutenant ducked his head in fright and crouched down. Looking back, he saw the remaining Orc drawing another arrow from his quiver and setting it to his bowstring.

"Fire!" Terrified out of his wits, the patrol leader forgot all about negotiations and shouted the order.

The next moment, gunfire rang throughout the stone forest. The Orc swayed and fell, his arrow flying out of control over the dwarves' heads to land somewhere unknown. But something within the stone forest had clearly been alerted. The noise of the Orc's earlier signal arrow had rivaled the dwarves' gunfire. They heard roars and the sounds of men and horses moving inside the stone forest.

"All right, prepare for battle!" Knowing that some things could no longer be explained away, the lieutenant had no choice but to give the order. He turned toward Sel Dulin's aggrieved face. "This is all your doing, you bastard! Once this is over, I'll skin you alive. I promise!"

The Orcs inside the stone forest did not keep the dwarves waiting long. Soon, the first Orc in red armor rounded a pillar and came into view. Orc soldiers poured out behind him.

The dwarven soldiers formed two ranks, their guns loaded and ready. To be honest, these battle-hardened dwarven musketeers were not nervous in the slightest. A few particularly thick-skinned ones were even chatting and joking idly, despite facing more than four dozen enemies.

"First rank, fire!" the lieutenant ordered loudly as the Orcs entered the eighty-meter range.

At his command, a continuous series of bangs erupted, and drifting gunsmoke instantly shrouded the dwarven formation. Having fired, the first rank of musketeers withdrew through the gaps in the formation to the rear, taking ammunition from their leather pouches and loading their guns as they went. They looked well trained.

This impressive volley achieved little. The distance was too great, and the Orcs' crude but sufficiently thick plate armor offered ample protection. Apart from a few unlucky ones shot through gaps in their armor, most of the Orcs were unharmed. They charged even faster.

"Second rank, fire!" the lieutenant ordered again. By now, the Orcs had closed to thirty meters.

Gunfire rang across the battlefield once more. This time, the muskets displayed their full power. Amid the ringing clangs of bullets striking metal, more than twelve Orcs fell. At this range, even plate armor could not stop the musket balls from penetrating; a hit could wound or kill. Even an unreliable fellow like Sel Dulin hit one.

"Lok-tar ogar!" An enormous roar rose among the Orcs. Through the drifting smoke, the lieutenant saw the red-armored Orc raising his arm and roaring furiously. That conspicuous suit of plate was clearly exceptionally well made, able to stop bullets even at this distance. The lieutenant remembered distinctly firing at that Orc just now. He had great confidence in his marksmanship, especially at such close range.

"Switch weapons!" the Dark Iron lieutenant shouted. At his command, the dwarven soldiers took the warhammers from their backs. In truth, whether Bronzebeard, Wildhammer, or Dark Iron, most dwarves preferred warhammers as their melee weapons, from ordinary soldiers all the way up to the three clans' leaders, Magni Bronzebeard, Falstad Wildhammer, and Dagran Thaurissan. Perhaps it had something to do with their natural love of smithing-hammering iron in peacetime and people in wartime, useful for both military and civilian purposes, and absolutely familiar in the hand.

The next second, the Orcs crashed into the dwarven formation like a surging tide. The fighting grew fiercer.

People had always believed that the dwarves' height put them at a disadvantage in battle. In fact, their years at the forge meant that this rock-stubborn race lost nothing to other races in strength, while their finely forged armor offered excellent protection. In particular, when the dwarves crouched to attack their enemies' legs, the towering Orcs had to bend down to attack and defend, something they found very awkward. When Orc Warriors who knew Whirlwind used the skill, their axe blades could even sweep over the dwarves' heads without so much as touching their scalps.

For a time, therefore, the outnumbered dwarves fought the Orcs to a standstill.

While the Dark Iron Dwarves and Dragonmaw Orcs fought fiercely, Diago Asnar stood atop an enormous stone pillar less than a hundred meters from the battlefield, watching the fighting below with an indifferent gaze. The hot wind peculiar to the Badlands blew over from that direction, carrying wave after wave of the smell of blood.

He felt no guilt whatsoever about dragging the Dark Iron Dwarves into this undeserved disaster. Nothing about this evil race qualified as innocent. Willingly or otherwise, these Dark Iron Dwarves had become twisted and depraved under the enslavement of their fire-demon master. They were neither hearty and welcoming like the Bronzebeard Dwarves nor free-spirited like the Wildhammer Dwarves. Having lived in Blackrock Depths for years, this race was hostile to every intelligent creature outside its own kind. In these arrogant Dark Iron Dwarves' eyes, other races deserved only to be their slaves, even their distant Bronzebeard and Wildhammer cousins.

Before long, the fighting on the battlefield gradually eased, for both Orcs and dwarves were growing exhausted. But the initial misunderstanding had led to bloodshed, and bloodshed had bred more hatred. Even if the two sides wanted to stop now, they could not, unless one side was wiped out.

For a moment, Diago thought that perhaps the Orc problem could be solved without his having to act. To his disappointment, however, the Orcs won in the end. After becoming familiar with the dwarves' way of fighting, they finally turned the battle around. In this encounter, the muskets the dwarves excelled at using had not played much of a role. Perhaps that was why they had lost.

But the battle's outcome was not overwhelming. Though the Orcs had won this inexplicable fight, few survivors remained. Apart from the red-armored Orc, Diago could see only three Orc Warriors still standing. Their armor was shattered and their bodies covered in wounds. The dwarves had almost bled them dry, but they stubbornly supported one another and refused to fall.

Just as Gorfork Nuya wearily tossed aside his battle-axe and prepared to rest against a rock, he heard someone speaking from a nearby height.

"Hey, buddy!" Diago stood atop the stone pillar and called out mockingly, though he knew this Orc might not understand him.

"You!" the Dragonmaw Orc said in fluent human speech. His voice was low and hoarse, damaged by too many battle cries that day, but his pronunciation was surprisingly precise. Diago was struck speechless, his shock showing plainly on his face. The Orc's savage face twisted and twitched a few times. Diago guessed that it was a grin.

"Scheming is all you know, you despicable human worm," the Orc roared disdainfully, his eyes full of contempt. "You will never understand what a true Warrior is!"

"But you're about to die, aren't you?" Diago said mockingly. He had not intended to waste words on this Orc, but since the monster understood human speech, he found himself somewhat interested in continuing. "No matter how brave you are, you're still about to die. Before long, you'll be a feast for carrion birds or some other beast. A little later, you'll turn into a pile of dung, rotting in the wilderness and crawling with maggots until you become dust. Where will your honor be then?"

"Even death cannot strip me of my honor, human! My honor flows in my blood, and no one can take it away! The ancestral spirits are with me!" Enraged, the Orc roared furiously once more. "Blood and honor!"

"Strength and thunder!" The three Dragonmaw Orcs behind him answered with a mighty battle cry. Though gravely wounded, barely able to stand, and near death, these Orcs remained bold and utterly fearless.

Diago fell silent. Although the Orc Shamans who pursued power above all else had abandoned their noble shamanic faith under Gul'dan's temptation and fallen into becoming demon-worshipping Fel Warlocks, the original, simple shamanic teachings still spread spontaneously among ordinary Orcs. Under these circumstances, a handful of Shamans who still upheld the Orcs' ancient traditions had stepped forward. As spiritual leaders of the clans and the Horde, the Shamans guided their people through those dark times. They believed that all things had spirits and revered their ancestors' souls. Thus, the Orcs' traditions had endured with difficulty amid demonic corruption. As far as Diago knew, the Frostwolf Clan's elderly Shaman Drek'Thar was one of them. It was this old Orc who had taught Durotan's son, Warchief Thrall, how to become a true Shaman and a capable leader of the Horde.

Diago did not know whether the Dragonmaw Clan had anyone like that, but after seeing Gorfork Nuya today, he knew it certainly did. These Dragonmaw Orcs had lost everything, yet they still carried on the noble qualities of the ancient Orc clans.

Even with their eyes still full of hatred and madness, even with filthy demonic blood still flowing through their veins, there was no denying that these Orcs remained the bravest of Warriors. They pressed forward without ever shrinking back, tenacious as weeds and tough as steel.

"Trk'hsk!" the Orc roared. But he had used this skill too many times that day. The final trace of potential in his life had been squeezed dry, and he felt no increase in his strength. Yet he still charged toward that sturdy stone pillar, like Don Quixote charging a windmill. Behind him, the three Dragonmaw Orcs roared and followed, launching a fearless charge.

Diago sighed, then nocked an arrow and drew his bow. In truth, hitting the Orcs as they charged with their bodies bent forward was not difficult. These brave Orcs' armor was always thick in front and weak at the back. Diago pierced their armor and the Orcs inside without even imbuing his arrows with Arcane energy.

Watching the Orcs fall one after another, Diago suddenly felt dispirited. He mourned these Orcs who could not control their own fate. Enslaved and driven by demons, used as cannon fodder in the invasion of Azeroth, they had never managed to return to their distant homeland of Draenor, even in death. Perhaps death was, after all, a form of release for them.

Just then, a panther rounded a stone pillar and waved his paws excitedly at Diago.

"Hey, buddy, come see what I found!"

With that, the big cat turned and ran deeper into the stone forest, toward the place where the Orcs had camped.