Ambush

Dawn gradually broke, revealing the Searing Gorge's distinctive gray-black terrain, which looked as though it had been scorched by flames. Even in daylight, the sky here remained dark red, a color produced by airborne volcanic ash reflecting the glow of the lava below.

Diago felt as though his entire throat were smoking, the pain so fierce it seemed about to split open. In fact, he was not thirsty. The waterskins in his demoncloth bag would last them all the way to the Redridge Mountains without needing to find more water. His throat simply hurt because he had been running for five or six hours. They had not stopped since coming through the mountain trail. Beside him, the two panthers were also running wearily, their mouths frothing white, looking even more bedraggled than Diago.

Diago wondered whether all orcs were equally stubborn. The corrupted Dragonmaw Orcs had been like this, and now these New Horde orcs were the same. These single-minded pursuers had been chasing them for most of the night.

Although Aspect of the Cheetah let Diago run faster, he still could not compare with the orcs' worg mounts. These creatures possessed astonishing endurance and could often run for hours on end while tracking prey. Without the cover of darkness, the orcs might already have caught them.

"I swear I'm getting a mount, whether it's a nightsaber or a warhorse. Even one of those big dwarven goats would do!" the black panther said fiercely beside him. He stuck out his tongue to moisten his nostrils. "Running like this is torture."

"Are we still going to run? Why don't we stop and fight?" he asked eagerly.

"Keep running. We can't beat them," Diago said dejectedly. Their pursuers were no longer just the twelve orcs who had guarded the mountain trail, but more than fifty worg riders. Clearly, some of them were skilled trackers. Whenever they stopped for more than fifteen minutes, these riders would appear within sight right on schedule.

Masley wanted to say more, but just then Diago spotted a fallen tree trunk beside a distant bend in the road. It was so thick that two people would have needed to join their arms to encircle it, and it blocked most of the road. At its root end, a Dark Iron dwarf was waving to them.

"Hey, human! Over here!" the dwarf shouted.

Diago jumped in fright, thinking they had run into an ambush, but another possibility quickly occurred to him. He turned and ran that way. As he approached the dead tree, he leaped over the trunk.

To his surprise, more than twenty Dark Iron dwarves were crouched behind it, leaning against the wood. He nearly stepped on one as he jumped over. Every dwarf held a musket, and every musket was loaded and ready to fire.

Masley Bearhide, the black panther who arrived next, was also badly startled by the number of Dark Iron dwarves. He arched his back warily, a low growl rumbling in his throat, looking ready to attack at any moment. After all, he had fought these gray-skinned dwarves in earnest not long ago, and his wariness of them was not so easily dispelled. By comparison, Khanifa was much more composed. It followed Diago unhurriedly, like an elegant lady.

"All right, Masley, quiet down. They aren't enemies," Diago hurriedly soothed him. He did not want an accidental discharge. Dwarven muskets had no safety catches.

"Wow, are both these big cats your pets?" a dwarven musketeer asked enviously.

"No, one of them is." Diago pointed at Khanifa, then at the black panther. "This is my druid friend."

But the Dark Iron dwarves had never seen a druid and did not understand what the word meant. They took it to be the black panther's name.

"Hey, Druid Masley!" the dwarf greeted the black panther warmly. He reached out to stroke its head, but its fierce baring of teeth and growling stopped him from coming closer.

"Wow, that really is one fierce big cat," he said sheepishly.

"You're from the Thorium Brotherhood, aren't you?" Diago did not know whether to laugh or cry, but the night elf did not seem inclined to reveal his true form, so he let the matter drop.

"If you mean the finest dwarven blacksmiths, yes," a dwarf answered proudly.

"That's right."

"Exactly!" the dwarves chimed in.

"Want a drink, human?" Finally, Diago heard a voice like someone talking in his sleep cut in. He turned to see a drunken Dark Iron dwarf holding up a wineskin. His other arm cradled a musket, and wine spilled from the corner of his mouth, running down his beard and all over the stock.

"Well..." Diago very much wanted to refuse, but he wondered whether the dwarf might shoot him for turning him down, though that wine-soaked musket might not even fire. Just then, the Dark Iron dwarf who had waved him over came to his rescue.

"Shut up, Lolor! If you ever want to drink again, keep quiet!" the dwarf roared, spittle flying.

With that, he lay down and pressed his ear to the ground to listen. But the orcs were not riding warhorses, and Diago seriously doubted he could hear the worgs' soft paws striking the ground.

"Ready to fire!" The dwarf sprang up from the ground and gave the urgent order.

A series of clicks sounded behind the tree trunk as hammers were cocked.

"That's incredible!" Diago exclaimed in sincere admiration. He raised his head to look over the fallen tree and discovered, to his surprise, that the orc worg riders were already less than two hundred meters away.

Well, all right, that skill is useful for dwarves, Diago explained helplessly to himself. They aren't as tall as humans, so they can't see as far.

The dwarves rose from the ground and rested their muskets on the trunk. Diago also took the Catalpa Bow from his back and nocked an arrow, drawing the string. The dwarven commander was decidedly displeased by the sight. He grabbed a cocked musket beside him and tossed it over, leaving Diago fumbling frantically for fear it would go off.

"Use this, human. This is what a man should use," the dwarf said disdainfully. The dwarven musketeers behind the tree wholeheartedly agreed, nodding like chickens pecking grain. At the far end of the line, Lolor once again raised the wineskin in his left hand. Finally, the commander pointed at the Catalpa Bow in Diago's hands. "Put that aside. That's for scrawny folk and women."

With that, he casually tossed over a square wooden box.

Diago caught it somewhat helplessly, assuming it contained paper cartridges. He set it on the trunk, casually lifted the lid, and glanced inside.

Rows of neatly arranged, gleaming yellow cylinders met his eyes.

Cased Ammunition? Diago froze at the sight of those familiar objects!

He remembered that Cased Ammunition had first appeared during the era of The Burning Crusade. The Draenei from Outland had been the first to invent and use it. Although its primers and propellant might differ, its principles and construction were already no different from the cartridges he had seen before transmigrating.

"Fire!" the dwarven commander shouted just then. After a volley of bangs, a great swath of orcs fell together. Some worgs had been hit, while other shots had struck their riders. But whichever member of a pair fell, the survivor continued charging with the others without the slightest hesitation or pause.

On the other side of the road, Masley Bearhide and Khanifa were concealed, silently circling toward the orcs. At this point, neither dared rush in and engage the worg riders. To be honest, they did not have nearly as much faith in the dwarves' marksmanship as they did in Diago's.

The fighting grew fiercer, but none of it seemed to have anything to do with Diago. He was completely absorbed in his own world. Carefully, he took a cartridge from the ammunition box and examined it in his palm as though it were a priceless treasure.

He immediately noticed the differences between these brass cartridges and Cased Ammunition. Their casings were not narrower at the front and wider at the rear; both ends were the same width. Moreover, the bullet and casing were a single piece, with no base and therefore no primer. The cartridge's rear end was neatly cut and filled flush with some black solid substance. He carefully picked at it and discovered that it was densely packed gunpowder mixed with something like incendiary gel, then dried.

He lifted the musket and examined it. It was an ordinary dwarven musket, still fitted with a hammer and an anvil. A percussion cap covered the anvil. He guessed that the cartridge worked like this: when the shooter pulled the trigger, the released hammer struck the percussion cap, and the powerful powder inside the cap ignited the cartridge's propellant through a small hole in the anvil, launching the casing and bullet together.

What a brilliant design! Diago marveled inwardly.

He raised the gun and shot down a charging orc, then imitated the dwarves and pushed a cartridge down the muzzle. The cartridge was slightly narrower than the bore, allowing it to slide smoothly down the barrel. Finally, Diago heard a soft click as it caught somewhere. He reckoned there must be some sort of locking device at the back of the bore to hold the cartridge in place and prevent it from sliding around.

He raised the gun again and shot an empty-saddled worg leaping over his head, sending it tumbling to the ground. For him, this was as easy as eating or drinking.

By his rough estimate, loading and firing had taken no more than five seconds in total. That rate of fire was not much slower than a bow's, and it had cost him little strength. Archery was different: even the strongest archer's rate of fire would slow after several dozen shots as his arms grew sore and weak. A musket had no such problem. Given enough time, he could keep shooting indefinitely.

Still, Diago did not believe these cartridges could be quite so outrageously powerful. If they were, the Dark Iron Dwarves would already have ruled all of Azeroth. After a little thought, he quickly identified their flaw. The propellant was exposed to the air. When loaded into a barrel heated to scorching temperatures by repeated firing, it might fire on its own without even needing the powerful powder in the percussion cap to ignite it.

Sure enough, he saw the dwarven musketeers switch to spare guns after every three shots. For this reason, many dwarves had brought more than one spare, arranged in a fan across their backs like a peacock spreading its tail.

But compared with earlier dwarven muskets, this was already a tremendous improvement. It increased their rate of fire nearly fivefold. Of course, Diago knew this did not guarantee that hunters would far outstrip the other classes in power. Even during the expedition to Outland, when Cased Ammunition was standard equipment, hunters had not stood out among the nine major classes. By then, muskets had already reached a rate of twenty rounds per minute.

Since the Dark Iron dwarves' ammunition technology has already reached this stage, perhaps I could make Cased Ammunition ahead of time? Amid the drifting gunsmoke, a bold thought suddenly rose irrepressibly in his mind.

He gathered his thoughts and began concentrating on the fight against the orcs. Once he joined in, the worg riders were immediately suppressed. They had no answer to Diago's almost unerring shots.

Dwarven muskets were not as powerful as the rifles from before Diago's transmigration. Unless a vital spot was hit, the extraordinarily fierce orcs would continue attacking. To them, wounds were not suffering but an honor. Diago, however, always shot accurately. He could always hit an orc in the head or heart. Even when facing orcs in heavy armor-there were few of these, since worgs could not carry heavy loads like warhorses-he could shoot through gaps in their armor and bring them down.

To the rhythmic crack of gunfire, one orc after another fell on the way toward Diago. The fifty meters in front of him became a zone of death that no one could cross.

The dwarves noticed Diago's deadly marksmanship as well. Their commander even assigned two men specifically to swap his muskets and load his ammunition.

"Nine, ten, eleven..." Whenever Diago shot down an orc, his dwarven assistants gleefully called out the count. They, too, had contributed to his attacks, and a share of that glory belonged to them.

After leaving behind more than twenty-five worgs and an equal number of orc corpses, the worg riders, having lost over half their force, began to retreat. Unlike the Old Horde orcs, they could rationally decide whether to attack or withdraw. This had nothing to do with courage. Having endured so many wars, the orcs could no longer afford more casualties.

The dwarves did not pursue them. Their short legs were ill-suited to the task. Cheers erupted from the crowd, and Diago joined in. The Dark Iron dwarves did not exclude him, for his precise and deadly shooting during the battle had left a deep impression on them.

Before long, Masley and Khanifa returned from pursuing the orcs. Though rather than a pursuit, it had been more of a send-off: they had merely followed the orcs for a little over ten li before turning back. Diago did not want to add needless slaughter after shaking off their pursuers.

Before everyone's eyes, Masley Bearhide returned to humanoid form. Perhaps because of what had happened earlier, he was now neatly dressed and spotless, looking as though he had just enjoyed a pleasant outing.

This marvelous transformation between person and beast fascinated the Dark Iron dwarves, who immediately crowded around to watch. Some even reached out to feel Masley all over, leaving him so embarrassed that he nearly lashed out in anger. To be honest, if not for the restraints of basic courtesy, these wicked technology geeks would have wanted to slice the night elf up for study.

"Are you sure these Dark Iron dwarves are harmless?" Masley asked quietly, sheltering behind Diago from their burning gazes.

"Yes. Although they're Dark Iron dwarves, these Dark Iron dwarves are different from those Dark Iron dwarves," Diago explained somewhat awkwardly. "They're the Thorium Brotherhood!"

The night elf blinked in confusion. "What difference does that make?"

"Well..." Diago did not quite know how to explain. It was a long story.

The story of the Thorium Brotherhood began with the War of the Three Hammers, which had divided the dwarves. In the later stages of that war, the Dark Iron dwarves' leader, the sorcerer-prince Thaurissan, faced imminent defeat and recklessly summoned an ancient power sleeping beneath the earth. To his horror-and ultimately his destruction-the creature he summoned was far more terrifying than anything in his worst nightmares.

Ragnaros the Firelord was the lord of fire elementals, sealed away by the Titans in ancient times, and Thaurissan's summons brought him forth once more. Ragnaros's rebirth on Azeroth shattered the Redridge Mountains. His power raised a roaring volcano from the earth, forming Blackrock Mountain, with the Searing Gorge to its north and the Burning Steppes to its south. Although Thaurissan was killed by the power he unleashed, most of his surviving kin were enslaved by Ragnaros and his elemental servants. To this day, they remained in Blackrock Spire.

The Thorium Brotherhood arose under these circumstances. It consisted of a group of exceptionally gifted Dark Iron artisans and master smiths who refused to be enslaved by Ragnaros the Firelord and escaped from Shadowforge City. In fleeing, they took not only the Dark Iron dwarves' superb traditions of craftsmanship, but also some of the knowledge of forging equipment and weapons that the Firelord had taught his Dark Iron slaves.

Now, these Dark Iron dwarves, who had left everything behind, had established a camp at Thorium Point in the northwest, overlooking the entire Searing Gorge and constantly watching developments within it. The Dark Iron dwarves helping Diago and his companions were presumably members of the Thorium Brotherhood.

Just then, Diago noticed the dwarven commander approaching him. Having just finished clearing the battlefield, the Dark Iron dwarf carried several short wooden sticks as thick as an arm. These totems were painted with multicolored patterns, and some had winglike boards attached. Diago keenly sensed the powerful energy contained within them.

"We were lucky. That orc shaman went down in the first volley. Otherwise, he'd certainly have caused us a lot of trouble," the dwarven commander said cheerfully. He wore an earth-gray mail shirt, and his wrinkled face was covered in pockmarks, making him look like an old farmer who had brought in a good harvest. He raised a hand toward Diago, who knowingly clenched his fist and bumped it against the dwarf's twice, once above and once below. This was a common dwarven greeting, representing a hammer striking an anvil. "Hey, human. Glad we could help."

"Thank you very much. We really ought to drink to that. I've had enough of those wretched green-skinned monsters," Diago said with a laugh. After ten years, he knew very well how to deal with this land's natives.

"Exactly! You're the most likable human I've ever met!" the Dark Iron dwarf said, laughing as well. He pointed at himself. "Jack Rockleg, head of the Thorium Outpost."

His personality differed greatly from that of other Dark Iron dwarves. Instead, he was rather like the bold, warmhearted Bronzebeard dwarves. He had a typically dwarven appearance, but his skin was darker, a deep gray, and his eyes were red, like lava glowing with fire. Diago knew this was due to Ragnaros the Firelord's influence. Even after leaving Blackrock Depths, that influence continued to alter their bodies.

"Diago Asnar, hunter," Diago introduced himself. He turned and pulled the night elf beside him forward. "This is Masley Bearhide, a druid. I'm sure you'll find common ground over good wine."

"A scrawny fellow who likes drinking. That really is rare," the Dark Iron dwarf said with some surprise. He nodded to the night elf, then turned to the dwarven musketeers behind him.

"Fine work, lads! Time to head back to the outpost." He praised his dwarves. "We're having extra food today!"

The dwarves cheered again, even more excited than they had been upon winning the battle, much to Diago's surprise.

Note: Shamans are the spiritual leaders of clans and the Horde. They communicate with spirits, possess the ability to foresee the future, and guide their people through dark times. Many mistake their wisdom and serenity for an inherently pacifist nature. In fact, when challenged, shamans possess powerful abilities with which to confront those who disrupt the natural order.

Shamans believe that all things have spirits and can communicate with earth, fire, storms, water, plants, and animals. Many believe that shamans worship elemental powers, but in fact, they communicate with them as equals. To communicate better with their ancestors and the elements, shamans often use totems as auxiliary weapons.

Far Seers are ancient orcs who embody the greatest shamanic power. These mighty shamans are Thrall's most trusted advisers and often take part in devising the Horde's strategies-Thrall himself is also a powerful shaman, and few can match his strength. Far Seers do not merely wield the powers of earth and sky. They can also foresee the future. Their wisdom can only be expressed in battle through their courage and ruthlessness. When enemies approach, Far Seers ride their loyal worgs into battle, using their mighty shamanic powers to summon various elements to fight.

Shamans have been more controversial in Warcraft history. Some of them-those of weak will who blindly pursued power-were tempted by demons and fell to become lackeys of the Burning Legion: fel warlocks.