-12- Glory in Death

It is inevitable. Each day brings us closer to the last. And yet we continue to fight against time, proving that mortality holds no power over us. There is no limit to our achievements, no restriction to our abilities. Each and every one of us was born for greatness, whether upon the battlefield or the home front. Each of us will find it on our own. But it is the greatest honor that your people could be there to witness your moment of absolute triumph. Our ancestors would have it be that this is your day. Embrace immortality as we embrace your memory, Darkspear. And wait for us. We're still standing.

Guro'jintal finished the prayer by pulling Jakazul's dead eyes shut and bowing his head. He stood up and stepped back, joining Alojin and Hirojata at the shoulder. Iyana stood off, watching sideways. As the honorary silence ended, they turned and joined Iyana in the far corner of the room. Several large metal barrels were piled against the wall. The numbers one, four and six were scrawled in shaky but legible writing. Guro'jintal looked to Hirojata and nodded. He withdrew a pair of vials from his fur coat. The liquid inside was dark green. Alojin pulled out a pair of shriveled leaves. Iyana recognized them as leaves of the rare Black Lotus, a particularly beautiful and enchanting plant. Even in their obvious state of aging, they shimmered and flickered with an uncanny essence. Hirojata pulled the corks free from the vials, and each leaf was carefully placed inside the green fluid. After re-sealing the vials, they were shaken until bubbles began to fill the empty space inside. The dark green liquid was paling. Soon, it would become a hue of blue.

"The combination of Black Lotus and Felweed juice is spectacular and obscenely destructive," said Guro'jintal as Alojin and Hirojata placed the two vials on the pile of Serum 146. "It is a perfect means to an end for such an atrocity as Fabrovus'. But I think we would be honoring him by doing this. Now come, we must leave. The mixture will take time to reach volatile levels, but it would be best not to taunt catastrophe."

Guro'jintal turned away from Iyana and directed his attention to Hirojata and Alojin. "Today we lost two more of our own. Their spirits shall live on with us, until our final breaths as well. We move, Darkspear. Our work here is finished."

The two Trolls nodded and grunted in reply. They jogged out of the room, leaving the corpses of the fallen as they had met their demise. There was no pity in war; only regret.

---

The elevator gears ground endlessly. No one spoke as the ride took them higher and higher toward the surface. Guro'jintal re-lived the moment when he had seen Fabrovus' hand come up to demolish his stance. And then he thought how that single mistake had cost the lives of two of his brethren. But it wasn't his fault. Fate had brought their end, and Fabrovus had dealt the final blow. Still, there was no getting around the dreadful feeling of guilt that made his shoulders sag and his heart weigh a thousand tons.

He snapped out of his mournful reverie as the cage shook to a deafening roar from below. Guro'jintal looked down to see a wall of flame envelope the bottom of the elevator shaft. The mixture had run its course.

"You weren't kidding," said Iyana, also looking down at the flames. They all did, lost in the brilliant orange sea that seemed to glow with more life than they could imagine. They envied it, how it writhed and bulged with intensity. Northrend had drained the life from them.

The elevator ground to a halt, and Alojin slid the cage door aside. Hesitantly, they got off the platform. But there was no rush of joy, no lifting of weight off their shoulders. They hadn't won a war. It was like pricking a Felboar in the rear. They unceremoniously approached the large blast doors, Guro'jintal knocking twice as the instructions came back to him. Gears ground and then they slowly crawled open. The white plains of snow immediately flooded the dark hallway with blinding light, so Guro'jintal had to squint momentarily as his eyes adjusted. He slid the goggles back over his eyes, handing a pair to Iyana. They had been Wotam's, and though the Troll wouldn't be needing them anymore, he felt a little ashamed.

The petty thoughts ended when he saw the other Trolls waiting outside, and the expressions upon their faces. It would have been cheerful greetings and hugs of welcome, but there was none of that. Their heads snapped back almost in fright, like they had forgotten Guro'jintal and the others had left that same way. Hijawath stood up and greeted them without a smile, but his acknowledgment was kind enough.

"Well met, Guro'jintal. There are complications," began the Troll. He paused and looked to the left and right of his leader, which was enough of a hint for the old Troll.

"Wotam and Jakazul didn't make it," he replied levelly. "What's the situation?"

Hijawath beckoned for them to follow, then returned to his position several paces ahead, behind a barricade a few feet outside the cave-like roof of the bunker. He pointed up the slope of the snowy plains ahead, to the forest's edge. That's when Guro'jintal realized the black masses lining the ridge were trees, but figures.

Undead. It looked like the entire Scourge of the Lich King was on their doorstep. Abominations stood alongside armored knights. Meatwagons protruded like towers of death, their catapult arms extended and poised to strike. But most unsettling of all was the column of short, broad-shouldered figures that stood in neat rows at the center of the host. Dwarves. At least, they had been Dwarves.

A lich floated out of the ranks of Undead, stopping just out of range of their crossbows. The wraith was garbed in glorious, flowing robes of purples and blacks, the colors of the dead and the unholy. His hollow, ghastly skull-visage stared through them, sending shivers up and down the spines of Iyana and the Trolls. Except Guro'jintal. He was immune to the lich's aura of fear, and strode out of cover to stand defiantly before him.

"You live and breath on your own accord," started the lich, its raspy voice carrying over the winds without effort. "That makes us enemies. And you stand between me and my prize. Kindly step aside, and I guarantee a swift and painless death."

"I do not take orders from a puppet who was too weak in life to resist the temptation of a demon," answered Guro'jintal.

"You've got a tongue, Troll. What is your name?"

"Guro'jintal of the Darkspear. What was your name, lich?"

"Dilian Greyvin, a humble servant of the Lich King. And I've come for Serum 146, as promised by Fabrovus Marx. If you wish you barter his life, I suggest you forget any possibility of compromise. The Scourge of Azeroth deals in death, only."

"Fabrovus Marx is dead. And Serum 146 is but a theory, lost along with him. We destroyed everything. There is nothing here for you, lich."

The lich remained silent, though the sneer wrought in his ugly countenance told enough. "If what you say is true, your death shall come wanting. If not, I'm calling your bluff. Prepare to meet your end, Guro'jintal of the Darkspear!"

The lich floated away, pointing a bony finger toward the bunker and shrieking in a voice unfit for any living being. The Dwarves did not move, but the abominations and ghouls descended the sloping ridge down to the bunker. Guro'jintal retreated into the safety of the barricades.

"Let battle be joined," he said to no one in particular.

---

As the first wave reached the halfway point, the Trolls unleashed their first line of defense. Hakamo withdrew a tiny flute instrument from his belt, and blew into the mouthpiece. A note, barely audible yet annoying enough to make one think his ears were ringing, rolled over the snow. The vials of liquid buried in the snow cracked as the pitch pierced the thin glass. The contact with severe temperature forced the liquid into a volatile chemical reaction. A semi-circle of explosions shook the earth as snow was ejected, along with the second wave of Undead. The first wave was shook by the shock of the moment, slowing their advance. By this time the third wave caught up with the first, and the Scourge had clumped into a single mass that was heading straight toward the bunker.

And there were so many. Too many, in fact. The Trolls' crossbows fell many a ghoul and abomination, but there were still more. Hijawath and Vilzujin retreated from the furthest barricade, coming up alongside Afawata and Hakamo. The Scourge horde rolled over the first barricade, some impaling themselves in the reckless advance. The four Trolls fell back to the third line of defense as the Undead closed further. As they neared the third barricade, the second trap was sprung. Lijawoto, who had been swishing a mouthful of liquid for the last minute, spat the orange-colored stuff in a spray on the ground in front of them. Prior to the Scourge's coming, the Trolls had poured the remains of their Fire Juice on the ground. The compound had fused with the ice, but not evaporated. When the accelerant spray came into contact with the frozen Fire Juice, the reaction was immediate. A wall of fire erupted, melting the rest of the fluid and rolling out of the bunker like a wall of fire. A large portion of the Scourge was sucked into the deadly trap, and only a few managed to crawl away for several seconds before silently falling over.

As the remnants of the Scourge closed with the Trolls, their patience was unleashed in a furious melee. In the end, the nearly limitless number of the Scourge host was no match for the Trolls' desperation. As the last abomination toppled over, half its body holding together by mere threads, the Trolls regrouped in the remainder of their position. Three barricades remained. They hadn't lost anyone. But the meatwagons were still there, and so was the column of Undead Dwarves. The guns clutched in their hands seemed more menacing than before. The lich's voice floated over the winds again.

"A brilliant show of might, Guro'jintal. But I grow impatient of games. Now, you will die. And I don't see a more fitting death than at the hands of those you might have once called allies. Meet the Fifteenth Guns of Ironforge. They were the first to charge the gates of Icecrown, and the first to fall. And now, you shall join them."

Another shriek rattled their eardrums. The Dwarven host began to move, in unison. The left foot first, and then the right. Step by step, they marched toward the bunker. Simultaneously the meat wagons began to unleash their payloads. Corpses and giant slabs of meat came hurtling down on the Troll position. Some splattered harmlessly off the bunker roof. But an armored corpse crushed the first of the barricades, catching Itmowath's leg beneath it. The weight crushed the lower portion of his limb and earned a scream of pain from the Troll. Lijawoto and Hakamo rushed to his assistance, and after several mighty tugs they were able to pull him free. His left leg dragged along in the snow, useless. A second wave of the payload hurtled down, impacting but not destroying a second barricade. And then the Dwarves raised their guns. A quick head count from Guro'jintal made his eyes widen, and he yelled for everyone to take cover. And then there was a staccato of loud discharges as the Undead earth children fired.

It was like a swarm of metallic wasps protecting their hive. The barricades erupted in a shower of debris and hot metal. Hijawath took a ball to the thigh. Afawata screamed as a round hit him in the shoulder. Itmowath cursed violently as a pellet ricocheted off the metal door and burned a groove across his cheek. Guro'jintal's ears were ringing from the outburst, but he hadn't been knocked senseless.

"Return fire!" he shouted. The Trolls took up their crossbows, using the long reload of the Dwarven guns to unleash three salvos of bolts at the oncoming enemy. Twelve fell as the Trolls found their marks. But that left more than forty Undead with reloaded guns. They took aim again, and fired. A wall of smoke erupted along the Dwarven line, and then a hail of hot metal descended upon the Trolls. Vilzujin peaked out for a shot, and threw his head back as if to dodge the oncoming pellets. He fell backwards into the snow, and didn't stir. Blood was pooling around his head and bubbling from a hole in his cheek.

"Nooo!" roared Hakamo. The Troll broke from cover, intent on meeting the Dwarves head on. But as he peeled around the barricade, a meatwagon corpse came out of the sky and plowed into him. He was thrown to the ground, where he didn't stir. Whiplash had snapped his neck.

"Hold fast and return fire! After the next salvo, we break them!"

The survivors roared their approval. Eight more Dwarves toppled over, bolts lodged in their throats and faces. Then the Dwarves had reloaded, and the Trolls retreated behind the swiss-cheese of their barricades. The salvo chewed through the thinned wood, and Itmowath hadn't the time to shift position. Three pellets ripped into his chest. In a last attempt he slid a bolt into his crossbow, then sagged. The crossbow slid out of his blood-slicked grip and clattered onto the snow. As Guro'jintal called for the charge, he picked up the fallen weapon and tossed it to Iyana, and together the broke from cover and charged through the snow.

Seven figures, six Trolls and a single Night Elf, faced the massive horde of Undead, outnumbered at least three to one. A single hail of bolts shot out from the advance, and seven Dwarves fell. Then they were on top of them, and their melee weapons were out and slashing. Hirojata chopped a Dwarf into three pieces with brutal swipes of his axes. Alojin gored a Dwarf through an eye socket with his spear, pulling the weapon free to lift another off its feet with a sweeping blow. Bone dagger in hand, Guro'jintal leapt over a Dwarf to skewer another through the throat, then turned to decapitate the first with the sharp edge of the dragon's canine. Afawata and Lijawoto cut across four Dwarves before they could react, closing a gap with Iyana as she blazed through a pair with her daggers.

And then there were none. But Guro'jintal knew there were more. That's when he realized what had happened. As the melee drew to a close around them and the battle vision faded, he saw the remnants of the Dwarven column standing off, their weapons reloaded and aimed toward them. And suddenly he knew they wouldn't reach them in time. He called his brethren's attention, and then began plowing his feet through the snow toward the Dwarven guns. He slid a bolt into the crossbow, and took aim one-handed. The shot went true and dropped a Dwarf, but then the line disappeared in a cloud of smoke and the guns roared with life.

And then he was on his back. Sound had been muffled, save for a quiet ringing at the edge of his hearing. He tried to move, but his right arm didn't respond. He slowly drew his eyes to the bloody ruin of his shoulder. He felt something grasp his harness, and looked up to see Alojin looking down at him with intense eyes. His mouth opened and he said something, but Guro'jintal couldn't really hear. The Troll looked ahead of them, where the Dwarves stood motionless in a fading cloud of gunpowder residue. He could feel Alojin dragging him away, and watched as he shot a crossbow with his free hand, landing a glancing hit on the shoulder of a Dwarf. Guro'jintal looked to the left past Alojin, and saw Lijawoto staring back at him with dead eyes. Close by, Afawata had his head toward the sky, his mouth gaping in what could have been a cry of pain, clutching at his stomach. Something touched his right leg. He looked and saw Iyana, crawling next to him. There was a nasty wound on her right shoulder blade. She looked at him pleadingly, her mouth moving in silent words. He looked back to Alojin, who said something inaudible to him again, and then pulled his spear free and gently let go of Guro'jintal. He took two steps forward, and then his torso erupted in a gout of black flames. The flaming corpse remained in stride for another step before collapsing. He looked up to see the lich approaching. Dark magic billowed from his left hand, while his right clutched Hirojata by the neck. Guro'jintal watched helplessly as the lich snapped his neck with the twitch of his wrist. He dropped the Troll's corpse into the snow and continued the slow advance over the snow.

Time began to speed up again. He groped around weakly with his useless right hand for Iyana's own, and squeezed it reassuringly before a bony, cold grip closed around his neck and lifted him into the air. Then he was staring into the visage of Dilian the lich. The monster could have been smiling.

"Fear not, Guro'jintal. Where one battle is lost, another is one. Soon you shall rise again, and bolster the ranks of the Lich King. Glory is inevitable, Troll."

Guro'jintal sneered at the lich. "What do you know about glory, Dilian? You were born a wretched coward. And now, even in immortality, you cannot escape your own faults. Glory in death, Dilian. And death to the Lich King."

He felt the lich's grip tighten. Then the world exploded. A thundering boom deafened him. The shock wave threw him violently. He landed under a heap of snow. The pain in his shoulder had numbed. With his good hand, he pushed the layer of snow off of him, and looked around. The Undead were looking at something, their guns raised. His hearing had gone, so he only felt the earth shake beneath him as two more explosions rocked the plains, and the Dwarves disappeared in a plume of snow. The remaining ones were also distracted with whatever had intervened. He silently thanked it, friend or foe, then began searching the ground around him.

The lich was lying in the snow as well, thrown and stunned by the explosion. The skull-like head was looking around, but hadn't seen Guro'jintal yet. It was now or never. He pulled himself free of the snow and ran toward the fallen lich on numb legs. He couldn't feel a thing. All he saw was the dark magic that was the lich's consciousness, buried away in the recesses of the malevolent skull. He wasn't sure how he could see it, but trusted his vision nonetheless. Then the lich turned to see Guro'jintal approaching, and the Troll could have sworn there was the slightest trace of fear glowing in his hateful eyes. He lashed out with his left fist, stunning the lich as he careened into him. He grappled with the wraith, feeling the slightest trace of pain in his right arm. He could feel the lich's clawed hands digging grooves into his back, but he didn't care. He felt around with his hands, finally feeling the cold face of the lich's skull. Guro'jintal clamped his left hand's fingers around the top row of his teeth, and his right fastened around the lich's bony neck. He felt the lich bite down, and gritted his teeth at the sudden pain. Despite it all, he pulled with all the might he could muster. And suddenly he was free, his hand flying back unbarred by any strain. The lich's hands withdrew and he was flung onto his back in the snow from the force of his wrenching.

He felt so weak he wanted to just lie in the snow, and finally die. He hadn't the strength to lift his head, and continued to stare at the sky. Something landed close by. He felt his way around the snow until his fingers felt the familiar grooves of the lich's head. The bone was cold, but a natural, peaceful cold. And then he knew it had worked. The lich died when Guro'jintal had severed the link from its conscious to the vessel of its body. He could finally rest.

He felt the ground tremble softly beneath him. Then it stopped. His vision had begun to fade. Shadowy figures emerged on the edges of his fading vision. The Undead had returned to finish him off. But he didn't care. Now would be as good as any time.

"...Wait! He's alive!"

He closed his eyes. The light hurt too much.

"...She is too! Someone..."

"...There's another one!..."

He blacked out.