The Guns of Khaz Modan: Red Snow
Posted: 06 Nov 2005 11:22 pm
At last, the fire was crackling merrily. The dead tree had caught in the branches of another as it fell, which had kept the dead wood off the snow, and allowed the limbs to dry out nicely.
And with that, Ringo Flinthammer tromped through the snow to the corpse, while the great white owl watched patiently. Ringo took an axe from his belt and, gripping a dead limb distastefully, brought it down. The desiccated flesh gave off little smell as it parted, which in a way made it worse.
The body was four years dead, struck down in the early days of the Third War, a peasant from the Kingdom of Lordaeron, killed by an infection hidden in grain which was then turned into bread. They were not allowed to rest easy, however: The Lich King's plague had jerked these corpses back onto their feet like hideous marionettes and marched off to war. Later, a faction of the damned had rebelled against the Lich King and joined the Horde, but at the end of the day, this was still an innocent victim of the cult whose body had been turned into a weapon.
Ringo chopped apart the body of the undead rogue, tossing each piece into the fire, one by one. The dwarf knew the shadow priests of the Horde could reanimate this corpse again, but he would make it as difficult as possible.
Finishing, he wiped his gloves with snow, cleaning the dead flesh from them, then wiped cold snow on his hot neck and cheeks. In addition to killing the rogue and burning him, Ringo had also had to bury two slain rams the rogue had gotten to before Ringo had caught him. The Horde was collecting these hides to create saddles for their wolf-rider cavalry. The rams deserved better than that, and Ringo's own mount, a ram with heavy horns and fur the color of smoke on snow, had balked at the smell of the blood, and had to be tethered to a stout branch. His mount had once been one of the rams that wandered this high valley, and seemed to have recognized his old herd mates.
Ringo walked back up the hill to where his ram had been tied, the great snow owl flying silently past him. The owl and the ram got on well. Both were natives of the Alterac Mountains, and although the great owls were known to prey on the rams in the wild, the ram had seen Ringo could keep the great bird of prey in line, and the two beasts worked together well as a result.
He climbed onto the back of the ram, the reins held loosely in one hand.
"Tch-tch." A noise and a gentle touch of his heels was all that it took to prod the ram forward, wide hooves crunching through the icy top layer of snow. He closed his eyes as he rode, letting his senses of hearing and scent and his instinct spread out, and attempted to detect more Horde scouts slipping behind Alliance lines. They were great when it came to slipping from shadow to shadow, but the undead foot soldiers always forgot the other senses, perhaps because their own had been dulled by decay and rot.
The storm had broken this morning and for the first time in a week, one could see their hand in front of their face instead of having it be obscured by snow. It wouldn't be long now.
In the days after the Battle of Mount Hyjal, when word had come of how the Horde had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Alliance against the Burning Legion, he had allowed himself to hope that peace had come at last. But as word was brought by the goblins of what was going on within the Horde, it became clear they had fought the Burning Legion only out of necessity, nothing more.
The Frostwolf Clan chief, Thrall, had declared all other clans to be dissolved and made himself Warchief of the Horde. The Bloodhoof tauren, Cairne, had similarly turned his back on his people's way of life, declaring his people to be nomads no more. The dissenters, even the hated Dragonmaw Clan, should not have their ways of life casually thrown aside on the whim of these two brutes. And, of course, they had welcomed the dead of Lordaeron -- or, rather, the things that inhabited their defiled corpses -- into the Horde as well. This was an enemy without honor, without compassion and a foe that performed cruel experiments on Alliance soldiers unlucky enough to survive their wounds and fall into the enemy's hands.
The ram climbed its way back onto the road, and Ringo opened his eyes and dug his heels in more firmly, spurring it to a rolling gallop. The massive ram was faster than he looked, and soon the icy wind was howling past Ringo's face, making his frozen beard rattle loudly.
He rode through a series of fortifications the Stormpike Guard had erected in the hills, following the massacre by the Frostwolf Clan when the dwarves had first ventured here in the north, seeking Titan ruins and more details of their ominous prophecy.
A guard outside Stonehearth Bunker saluted, her braids shining in the sun.
"Well met, Flinthammer."
Ringo saluted back. Although only a Knight of the Alliance, he had been awarded the highest of commendations by the Stormpike Guard. His purple-ribboned medal depicted an all-seeing eye atop a snow-capped mountain, the Eye of Command.
"Keep yer feet on the ground. I caught a Horde scout below Dun Baldar. The weather ..."
He paused. There was a sound like thunder in the distance.
"Ringo?"
"Shhh!" He held up a gloved hand.
The sound, he realized, was a rhythmic, pounding, frenzied chanting, spears and swords being banged against shields, totems being banged against one another.
"The Horde is coming."
And with that, Ringo Flinthammer tromped through the snow to the corpse, while the great white owl watched patiently. Ringo took an axe from his belt and, gripping a dead limb distastefully, brought it down. The desiccated flesh gave off little smell as it parted, which in a way made it worse.
The body was four years dead, struck down in the early days of the Third War, a peasant from the Kingdom of Lordaeron, killed by an infection hidden in grain which was then turned into bread. They were not allowed to rest easy, however: The Lich King's plague had jerked these corpses back onto their feet like hideous marionettes and marched off to war. Later, a faction of the damned had rebelled against the Lich King and joined the Horde, but at the end of the day, this was still an innocent victim of the cult whose body had been turned into a weapon.
Ringo chopped apart the body of the undead rogue, tossing each piece into the fire, one by one. The dwarf knew the shadow priests of the Horde could reanimate this corpse again, but he would make it as difficult as possible.
Finishing, he wiped his gloves with snow, cleaning the dead flesh from them, then wiped cold snow on his hot neck and cheeks. In addition to killing the rogue and burning him, Ringo had also had to bury two slain rams the rogue had gotten to before Ringo had caught him. The Horde was collecting these hides to create saddles for their wolf-rider cavalry. The rams deserved better than that, and Ringo's own mount, a ram with heavy horns and fur the color of smoke on snow, had balked at the smell of the blood, and had to be tethered to a stout branch. His mount had once been one of the rams that wandered this high valley, and seemed to have recognized his old herd mates.
Ringo walked back up the hill to where his ram had been tied, the great snow owl flying silently past him. The owl and the ram got on well. Both were natives of the Alterac Mountains, and although the great owls were known to prey on the rams in the wild, the ram had seen Ringo could keep the great bird of prey in line, and the two beasts worked together well as a result.
He climbed onto the back of the ram, the reins held loosely in one hand.
"Tch-tch." A noise and a gentle touch of his heels was all that it took to prod the ram forward, wide hooves crunching through the icy top layer of snow. He closed his eyes as he rode, letting his senses of hearing and scent and his instinct spread out, and attempted to detect more Horde scouts slipping behind Alliance lines. They were great when it came to slipping from shadow to shadow, but the undead foot soldiers always forgot the other senses, perhaps because their own had been dulled by decay and rot.
The storm had broken this morning and for the first time in a week, one could see their hand in front of their face instead of having it be obscured by snow. It wouldn't be long now.
In the days after the Battle of Mount Hyjal, when word had come of how the Horde had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Alliance against the Burning Legion, he had allowed himself to hope that peace had come at last. But as word was brought by the goblins of what was going on within the Horde, it became clear they had fought the Burning Legion only out of necessity, nothing more.
The Frostwolf Clan chief, Thrall, had declared all other clans to be dissolved and made himself Warchief of the Horde. The Bloodhoof tauren, Cairne, had similarly turned his back on his people's way of life, declaring his people to be nomads no more. The dissenters, even the hated Dragonmaw Clan, should not have their ways of life casually thrown aside on the whim of these two brutes. And, of course, they had welcomed the dead of Lordaeron -- or, rather, the things that inhabited their defiled corpses -- into the Horde as well. This was an enemy without honor, without compassion and a foe that performed cruel experiments on Alliance soldiers unlucky enough to survive their wounds and fall into the enemy's hands.
The ram climbed its way back onto the road, and Ringo opened his eyes and dug his heels in more firmly, spurring it to a rolling gallop. The massive ram was faster than he looked, and soon the icy wind was howling past Ringo's face, making his frozen beard rattle loudly.
He rode through a series of fortifications the Stormpike Guard had erected in the hills, following the massacre by the Frostwolf Clan when the dwarves had first ventured here in the north, seeking Titan ruins and more details of their ominous prophecy.
A guard outside Stonehearth Bunker saluted, her braids shining in the sun.
"Well met, Flinthammer."
Ringo saluted back. Although only a Knight of the Alliance, he had been awarded the highest of commendations by the Stormpike Guard. His purple-ribboned medal depicted an all-seeing eye atop a snow-capped mountain, the Eye of Command.
"Keep yer feet on the ground. I caught a Horde scout below Dun Baldar. The weather ..."
He paused. There was a sound like thunder in the distance.
"Ringo?"
"Shhh!" He held up a gloved hand.
The sound, he realized, was a rhythmic, pounding, frenzied chanting, spears and swords being banged against shields, totems being banged against one another.
"The Horde is coming."