Prologue

I've been to the furthest corners of Azeroth, and I've seen the strange things that live there. Have you ever gone head to head with a raptor that had more arms than you had fingers? Have you ever seen an over-sized frog that spat venom which boiled your eyes away, and watched your battle brother suffer for five long minutes as the wicked substance ate his brain away? Have you ever seen so much death, and so pointless? I was born into war. I used to love it, I used to bathe in the glory of blood and sweat. Once I thought I could taste it, toss the sweet juice around in my mouth while I decapitated a nameless Kal'dorei. But it wasn't victory that flowed like wine in my taste buds; it was insanity. There is no glory in death, no guts in murder. The simplest of men have killed for far lesser causes. I was trained to kill for my people, and for my Warchief. But I don't pride myself over the throne of skulls I've collected in my years of service, and if you believe me a hero for the names I've taken and the families I've ruined, you are an imbecile. I've seen the ugliest and the prettiest things in life because of my occupation, a weapon of war. I understand that it's what I do, and because I'm good at it, I'm priceless. But I'm not here because I'm an arrogant mongrel, nor am I giving you this lecture simply because I like the sound of my voice. Death is all around you lad, and if you don't give, you're going to receive.

~~~~~~~

Northrend, where the sun had nearly reached its zenith in a cloud-covered sky. It was a forest wrapped in a blanket of thick snow, white banks of frost rolling into the distance for longer than an eye could see. The hills rolled along a jagged zig-zag of a path where the snow had been trampled underfoot by millions of feet, feet colder than the snow they traversed. Feet that blood no longer flowed through. Feet belonging to mindless automatons under the command of the Lich King and his domineering control over the restless dead of Azeroth. Shambling zombies, feverish ghouls, lumbering abominations. Behind the column of Undead foot soldiers, a train of meat wagons trailed, their angry, tooth-filled mouths filled with fresh bodies. Atop the meat wagons, the Lich King's necromancers surveyed their legion, strengthening their master's grip on his subjects. It was ironic that the necromancers thought they were any different than the ghoul and zombie.

The Undead were traveling along a part of the forest where, upon their right flank, a hill pocketed with trees hid them from view. On their left flank, the hills opened into a large, open plain that led to a large, frozen lake. Unseen to even the most trained of eyes, a pair of figures were concealed by a blanket of snow. One of the figures was eyeing the other, his tusks close enough to touch the other's face, who wasn't facing him, but had his full attention down the sights of a crossbow. Still, the first figure was talking to him in a whispered voice, and he was listening carefully.

"...If you don't wish to be on the receiving end this day, as I don't, then you must do it," spoke the first Troll, his silvering hair pulled up and behind his skull in a wind-blown fashion. "If you don't, you're going to send twelve other Trolls to their grave."

The second Troll took his eyes off the caravan and stared at his mentor for a moment, his expression melting from tense worry into confident understanding. "Presented with such an ultimatum gives me no other choice, sir."

"Good," replied the first. "Are you ready, then?"

The second Troll nodded, returning his attention to the crossbow. He re-settled himself, watching as the meat wagons settled into his crosshairs. With his trigger hand, he pulled back the pin, feeling the stretch of the bowstring under the tension. "Now."

In a flash the first Troll shook a tiny vial of glowing orange fluid, which began to bubble. In one fluid motion he stuck it to a green puddy that was wrapped around the shaft of the crossbow's bolt. "Fire."

The second Troll obeyed, squeezing the trigger and tensing his arm muscles as he felt the recoil of the weapon attempt to shake his aim. But he held firm, and watched the smoking trail of the bolt as the fluid in the vial came to a boil. The bolt lodged in the second meat wagon's body, catching the attention of the necromancers as a faint whistling sound began to rise in pitch. A moment later and the vial cracked and the intense cold set off the chemical reaction of the fluid within. An explosion engulfed the meat wagon in a fireball and caught the others afire, obliterating two necromancers immediately and killing another from the deadly shrapnel.

Everything was in disarray as the psychic scream of the necromancers momentarily stunned the surviving Undead. The ghouls ran away from the flames, skittering into the open plains for safety. The Trolls opened up with their crossbows, killing them without alerting the remaining host. Some of the zombies, too stupid to reason, came too close to the flames and caught on fire. Luckily for the Trolls, the zombies didn't die instantly, and trotted around like living torches to set their brethren aflame as well. An abomination, careful to avoid a pair of flaming zombies, trundled into the open snow field to escape their proximity. A trio of bolts lodged in its head, forcing the giant to topple over.

"So far so good," said the silver-haired Troll. He glanced to his companion, who let loose another bolt to skewer a stray ghoul in the head. He checked their immediate surroundings once again, to be sure more runners hadn't escaped their cordon. That was when he saw the abomination, staring right at him just three feet away. Its eyes were glowing a sickly green. Then the light was gone, and the fat head of the monster fell limply on the snow. He scanned the remaining two meat wagons, where one of the necromancers was looking directly at his position and pointing one if its slender, ugly fingers.

"Necromancer's found us out," said the silver-haired Troll. His companion nodded, reloading his crossbow before adjusting his prone position in the snow.

"We're going hot," said the second Troll. The first nodded.

They burst from cover, snow flying off the thick furs that protected them from the Northrend winter. As soon as they rose to a standing position, eleven other figures had emerged from the snow around them, garbed in a similar fashion of robes and crossbows. The silver-haired Troll barked a command, and the thirteen figures began to advance on the caravan. But the Undead had recovered from the ambush and the necromancers began to direct their army toward the Trolls.

"Take down the necromancers first!" shouted the silver-haired Troll. As his command was followed, one of the four casters fell from a bolt lodged in his throat. The Undead's advance faltered, but didn't cease. The first of the frenzied ghouls closed with the Troll line but was quickly subdued as a knife was brought across its throat, nearly severing its head. When one of the remaining necromancers took a hit in the shoulder, they ducked into cover, letting the bolts fly by them harmlessly.

"Cursed Undead...they aren't stupid!" yelled one of the Trolls as a zombie clawed at his face before being skewered by a spear.

The caravan began to assemble in a combat line, and advanced on the Trolls with focused purpose. With the necromancers behind cover, the Trolls were left to the mercy of the Scourge host. Their only choice was too obvious.

"Fall back to the lake! There's too many to hold our position!" shouted the silver-haired Troll. They began a slow retreat, firing their crossbows as they went. But where one fell, another was ready to take its place in the battle line.

"Sir! The lake!"

He looked to the Troll's sudden exclamation, his heart skipping a beat as he saw what was emerging from the frozen water. The necromancers had cut off their escape by a fresh horde from the unmarked graves of war. The Trolls slowed their retreat, forming a tight circle as the Undead began to close around them. There was nowhere to go. The silver-haired Troll drew the long bone dagger from his waist, taking down a ghoul as it attempted to break their defense. Soon everyone had dropped their crossbows for hand to hand weaponry, and the cold air was filled with shouts of anger and the unsettling groans of the Scourge host.

But a sudden, deafening roar shook the plains, and the Scourge's onslaught suddenly fell apart. Overhead, a cloud of smoke rose steadily into the air. A second later and there was another giant explosion, and the final meat wagon disappeared in a ball of fire. A staccato of tiny discharges rippled through the air, and then the silver-haired Troll had to move aside as an approaching abomination fell over, its back riddled with several holes. Seconds later, the entire Undead host lay dead at the Trolls' feet.

He almost couldn't believe what happened, and didn't raise his cheer with the others until he saw the steam tanks emerge from the road ahead. There were three of them, their hulls marked with Dwarfish runes and their cannons etched with kill scores. The Trolls waded through the snow and bodies toward the steam tanks' position, waving them down as the hatches popped open and the bearded earth children emerged from their machines of war.

"Greetings, tusked cousins! Saw ye' in a bit of a tussle with the Undead, thought you could use a little help," spoke up the Dwarf in the first tank. He pulled the goggles off his eyes, revealing a pair of vibrant, black pupils that almost smiled at the Trolls. "Kelar Fireward, Commander of the 26th Ironforge Armored, at your service."

The silver-haired Troll pulled the snow cover off his face, revealing a pair of fiery, glowing eyes surrounded by a tired, weathered face. Over his left eye, a single black line was tattooed vertically from his forehead to his cheek. The other Trolls around him revealed a similar marking over their left eyes, all thirteen of them.

When he spoke, the silver-haired Troll let all the pain, fatigue, and joy that was boiling within him for the last month flow out of his deep, tired voice. "Guro'jintal of the Dark Spear, First and Only."