Chronicles from The Second War - Part 2

[Movrak]

Hagrim had scowled at his plate with clear disgust but never the less he had kept eating just as he always did. He was constantly complaining. Not only about the food but everything. From the weather to the wildlife, from the landscape to his orders. The rest of the company considered him a whiner. Not the brightest sort either and certainly not one of the best fighters. But his heart was as stout as any dwarf and he was above all reliable. The rest of his faults could be forgiven for that alone. Not that it mattered now of course. He was dead...




The first days of the march south west towards Loch Modan had gone quiet and silent. The dwarves had jested and chatted the day away, as if the whole endeavour was just another field trip and the Orcs just target dummies in a courtyard.


People were laughing, sharing stories on the road, barely giving a care to the fact that they were marching to war. Scouts were sent out to see what went on ahead but little, if no observation was made by the main company itself. They were too busy focusing on anything but the impending conflict they would face sooner or later.


General Grimsteel was snorting to himself at the men's obvious lack of focus, but couldn't make himself blame them. He didn't take part in any of the conversations himself, instead keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings and on his men as well. They were his responsibility after all.



Grimsteel spat on the ground.



It was on the 6th day of their march south that the Infantry felt the first taste of the Second War.


Their primary mission was to reinforce and protect the border to the Badlands as this was the only way into the northern part of Azeroth short of sailing. Intelligence had named the Blackrock Spire base of the Orcs operations but they could not get north via the Searing Gorge to Dun Morogh as the Stonewrought Passage had been sealed off to prevent the maddened Dark Iron dwarves from invading centuries earlier, not to mention that is was easily defended and at the moment heavily fortified.


It was therefore safe to assume to what ever large forces pushing their way north would be encountered at the Badlands. It was there the Alliance dwarves would have to stop them.

[Movrak]

Out of 140 souls only 24 remained...




It was a rag tagged bunch that now wound its way slowly back into Dun Morogh. There was no jesting, no more laughing or merry conversations.


The horrible assault they had been the victim of less than a day earlier still hung heavy over the Khaz Modan Infantry, like a mixed blanket of shock and sorrow that quenched all thoughts even remotely positive. Heads hang low, either too weary to properly form an expression, some still caught in shock, and yet others crying silently, tears rolling down their faces.



Weapons hung disinterested from arms that were more often than not wounded and a good lot limbed their way forward, often with the support of a fellow comrade.Behind them the sky was bloodred as the sun was slowly descending to allow the passage of night. Trails of black and grey smoke rose from over the mountain range as a tragic testimony to the events from yesterday.



Upon arriving at the entrance to Loch Modan via the South Gate Pass the area was eerie silent.



No birds could be heard nor other sounds that were usually found in nature. Conversation among the dwarves had faded immediately, aware that something was clearly amiss, and slowly weapons were unsheathed and eyes directed towards the surroundings.

General Grimsteel didn't like the situation at all. It smelled of an ambush and he wondered where the forces of South Gate Station were as they usually watched over the passage. It could be nothing, the state of war having them drawn in all expendable sentries, but caution got the better of him and he ordered the company to a halt. The men stopped and arranged themselves in a defensive manner as they were trained to, but hushed talk of worry spread through the ranks like wildfire.


Grimsteel nodded to Dwalin, one of the dwarven scouts, to take point. The dwarf nodded back solemnly and trodded off but the grip on his axe showed he was nervous. Grimsteel didn't blame him.



Everyone held their breath as Dwalin slowly but steadily scouted his way forward.


Everything had gone deadly silent. Even the natural sound of birds was completely absent. Grimsteel strained his ears in an effort to capture any sounds but nothing recognizable reached him.



Suddenly the still air was broken by an inhuman roar as a greenskin burst through a bush just next to Dwalin. The dwarf was caught off guard and tumbled backwards to fall flat on his face, the metallic sound of an axe striking stone accompanying him. Shock went through the lines of dwarves watching as the mighty Orc, over double the size of a dwarf, loomed over poor Dwalin.
Bright, red glowing eyes regarding the tiny creature with intense hate and it sported two great swords hefted in each hands. Most of the front line was frozen in terror, while some shouted their warnings to the scout, but it was too late. Before he could reach his axe the towering Orc ran Dwalin through with the sickening sound of metal meeting flesh and bone. With a sadistic smile, the Orc displayed his impaled trophy to the company who stood there watching in silent horror at their friend who was still twitching, the last seeds of life slowly left his quivering body.



Grimsteel's eyebrows were knitted in infuriating anger and he slowly hefted his axes from their place at his hips. The Orc grinned, death staring out from below its heavy brows and with a quick swipe of his other sword decapited his victim for thereafter to toss the remains of Dwalin away like he was nothing but a ragdoll.


As his body hit the sides of the mountain pass with a dull thud, the forward line screamed in rage and charged, leaving only a few startled dwarves behind for a second, before they followed their brethren, sorrow and anger now fused into focused vengeance.
Only Grimsteel was left standing, shouting his lungs out in a vain attempt to stop the charge. They were playing right into the enemy's hands and he knew it. The lone Orc had merely been a lure and it had worked. The trap was sprung when the company had almost reached their prey. Crude arrows, axes, stones and even spears rained down from the mountain sides which were brimming with hateful Orcs. Dozens of dwarves went down during the first wave and even more were wounded. From behind the still grinning Orc a horn was blown and forth burst scores of Orcs who rammed into the weakened and disoriented company like a green tidal wave.



A futile effort was made to form lines but inexperience in fighting the towering monsters made the odds worse as more and more dwarves went down under the garguantuan greenskins.


Pull back! Retreat into the passage!. Grimsteel's voice finally broke through in the middle of the chaos. He leaped over the dead corpses and caught an Orc square in his bare chest with his axe who crumbled instantly from the blow. The elder dwarf grabbed hold of one of his Oathkeepers arm.


Grimm, get 'em outta here now!. The other dwarfs eyes found Grimsteel's and nodded quickly before he ran off, shouting orders into the fray.
A spear caught Grimsteel in the arm as he turned around and he howled with pain. Just as the beast raised his arm again to strike, a shield made contact with face, stunning him. Grimsteel wasted no time and with a quick swipe cut the Orc deeply in the ribs. Cursing but ignoring the wound he saw the shield belonged to Grimm who quickly dispatched the Orc. Grimsteel gave him a short nod and together they began fighting their way back toward the mouth of the pass.



The fight was gruesome and uneven. The tide of orcs seemed neverending and for each dwarf that got clear of the fight, 5 went down trying.


Dodging spears and axes, Grimsteel surveyed the chaos. The orcs were steadily pressing their advance towards the passage. If they reached it and succeeded in wiping out the Infantry, which was more than likely, they would gain entrance to Dun Morogh.


This could not be allowed to happen. Many of the outlying villages had not been evacuated yet.

Spitting on the stones he made his choice and ran back into the fray where he immediately found what he was seeking.


Cutting down an Orc from behind, he pulled one of the dwarf demolition experts to the side.

Blek, I want ya tae take yer satchel 'ere an blow up the entrance tae the pass. Tis the only way tae prevent 'em from comin' into Dun Morogh.


The weary dwarf, blood running down most of his face, gave Grimsteel a bewildered look as he stammered:


But sir... What aboot the rest o' the men? If ya blow it now they'll be left tae....


He got no further as Grimsteel seized his collar with an iron grip, hard eyes locking with his. Ya listen tae me good Blek. If 'em Orcs be allowed tae reach Dun Morogh whadda ya think happens? What aboot 'em villages not yet secured ? Blek merely stared at him with blank eyes, mouth opening and closing.


Go! Ya have yer orders !. Grimsteel released Blek and tossed him in the direction of the passage.


The sapper's face was a mix of sadness and disbelief before he turned away. With a curse and without looking back himself, Grimsteel began to run, the sound of battle fading behind him.



Halfway through the entrance, Grimsteel met several of those who had made it through, bloodied faces regarding him.


Keep runnin' lads an' dun look back!.


Few hesitated but soon they were all rushing through the mountain passage as quick as their wounds and limbs could carry them, the haunting echo of bloody battle resounding through the mountain. It was just before the entrance of the other side that a deafening explosion rocked the entire mountain and left in its wake an eerie silence.
Grimsteel and the dwarves following him came to a halt on the other side, panting and wearied. Most dropped to their knees or simply fell over immediately. A few were sobbing quitely, tears making silvery streaks down their bloody cheeks.


The General took a look at the survivors. One of his Oathkeepers was still alive. 2 Ironbreakers had made it too.


None from the frontline seemed to have made their way back.


2nd and 3rd company were non existant as well.


Near his right side, Brokk, their battle cleric was muttering silently to himself as he bent over another dwarf. It was Grimm and he would never move again.



All around them there was grief and sorrow. The older dwarf closed his eyes slowly, forcing his tears back.




Out of 140 souls only 24 remained...