"Kings and rulers do not welcome this ritual,
but no one will condemn you.
Gwyarbrauden is not just a blood oath,
like it is among your soft-bodied, beardless kin.
It is an acknowledgment of true kinship,
when you yourself choose a new family member by spirit and ideals.
You may have a blood brother,
but you do not choose him at birth, unlike Gwyarbrauden.
Therefore, if someone dared to kill your spiritual brother, you are obliged to avenge him...
With all cruelty and hatred, and let the ancestors be my witnesses, this is a righteous deed!"
It was too quiet. A winter evening on a mountain pass should be like that. The birds and beasts had long since fled far away, as the last glimpses of grass were covered in snow.
Behind me rose the high peaks of Khaz Modan, separating the kingdom of dwarves and gnomes from the rest of the world.
"My native and beloved land."
Shaking off one last time, I tied the drawstrings on my pants, wrapping myself in my sheepskin coat. Snow had packed into my beard and settled all over my body, causing unpleasant sensations.
"Damn this weather."
"Bääää."
"Yes, yes," running my broad palm over the ram's scruff, I felt my lips stretch into a kind grin, "we'll head home soon, just one last one left."
Lightly butting me with his head, Smetchik lazily closed his eyes, turning away and ignoring my existence.
The cheeky beast started chewing loudly in an exaggerated manner, making my eyes twitch, but I didn't take the bait. The beast, too smart for a ram, was just waiting for me to snap.
"You won't get it out of me, work first, then..."
Catching the skeptical gaze of the mount ram, who was looking at my handiwork in the snow, I couldn't hold back.
"Caragu Hrim, caragu Smetchik," muttering curses under my breath at the frost already gnawing at my guts and the stubborn ram, I trudged straight through the snowdrifts, "and it's dark as the ass of the filthiest unwashed troll."
Cursing the too-smart ram, the weather, and everyone involved, I pressed on, slowly but steadily reaching my goal.
Due to the winter winds, which on this side of the mountains were much more merciful, I still couldn't light my pipe to find any joy in life while following the tracks of those vile creatures.
"Just shitty footprints on bare rocks and a couple drops of blood," recalling all my finds in the search for the last fugitive, I climbed a small rise, scanning the sprawling valleys of Searing Gorge, "you won't get far."
The tracks were already decently dusted with snow, but here and there under the sparse trees, you could see characteristic footprints. Bloody handprints remained on the frozen bark, clearly marking my path ahead.
Descending, I ironically noted how the weather changed after just a few hundred meters. There was less and less snow, and dry sand and coal flashed more frequently around.
"Cursed place."
Spitting on the ground, I kicked a rotten helmet left here from ancient times, when traitors of our people gathered to wipe out the other clans.
A barren, scorched wasteland, in my opinion, was a perfect spot for those greedy bastards. It was a pity, as my grandfather used to say, the current generation has blood that's too thin and balls too small to finish what they started. They should have caught their breath back then, long ago, and returned to uproot the plague, but instead, we barricaded ourselves in these mountains, reveling in our own pride and imagined past glories.
Another spit flew straight into the helmet, flung a couple meters away.
"Caragu Dark Iron Dwarves," cursing our damned kin, I drew the blade from my back, advancing slowly while scanning the surroundings with a quick glance, "it's even quieter here than up there."
The wind no longer howled around, and the constant blizzard didn't hinder my view into the distance, but that only made it more unsettling.
"We tread on stones,
On roads and ditches
Pushing through storm and snow!
Our life is hard,
But don't whine about it.
You're a dwarf,
Not a fucking elf.
Ha-ha-ha."
Singing the simple ditty, I reached the foot of the hill, peering at the bloody trail. Squatting down, I ran my fingertips over new tracks that definitely didn't belong to rational beings.
Beast tracks, most likely wolf, and that was far from good...
"Though it'll be even more fun this way," picturing the scene in my head, I decided not to dismiss the idea of punishment and trudged on much more cheerfully and merrily, "it'll be a riot if wolves devour your Dark Iron carcass. Ha-ha-ha."
Confidently following the tracks, I rounded a small cluster of rocks, from where came growling laced with anticipation. Even I, a dwarf far from hunting matters, understood that the predators had found their prey and were about to tuck in.
Peeking from behind the rock, my beer-soaked heart beheld a wonderful sight: the last of the fugitives slowly torn apart by wolves, leaving ragged bloody wounds on his arms and legs as they tried to reach his throat.
The old bastard braced his back against a boulder, arms half-bent in pathetic attempts to fend off the wolves with fists and curses, but with each second his voice grew feebler and weaker. Until finally the scum whispered his last words, slumping back powerlessly.
His pitiful cowardly gaze shifted from one quadruped to another until he finally noticed me. His pupils dilated, and his lips twisted in a grimace of disappointment.
I didn't move from the spot. Not when the first wolf reached my enemy's throat, nor when the last, the youngest, tore a chunk of flesh from his face, trying to snag some meat. I stood until the end.
With sinister triumph, I watched his death, feeling the duty hanging over my soul and mind release me. Breathing became easier, and lightness filled my body.
"Menu shirumund," flashing a couple rude gestures, I called the Dark Iron a beardless one, one of the worst insults. "Your soul is unworthy of stone; stay here and let wolf shit be your new home."
Sending a few more curses at the last murderer of my sworn brother, I headed back, and the ascent was far easier despite the blizzard.
The snow and wind cooled my ardor, helping me gather my thoughts.
"Now we can head home."
Smetchik deftly leaped across the mountains; as soon as we passed the southern gates of Loch Modan province, separating Searing Gorge and its ash-covered lands from the beautiful, snow-capped peaks of Khaz Modan.
The ram jumped rifts, climbed at impossible angles as if ignoring the laws of the world, and pressed on, greatly shortening our way home.
Sometimes we had to descend to the roads and bridges between the mountains, but there we met many good dwarves and their rare companions—humans and gnomes.
Many familiar faces, many familiar names, and each wanted to chat, discuss the latest news, and slyly find out if I'd fulfilled my oath or returned in disgrace.
To all the probing questions, I replied with a smile, demanding they pay for my story with beer and meat, but only a few agreed, not wanting to be caught short if I'd truly failed.
"Ha, no, did you hear that, Smetchik? Me, Rodgirn Steel Barrel, return in disgrace!?" My broad palm came down on the ram's scruff, stroking my four-legged friend as I loudly fumed so the last oncoming travelers could hear. "Where's that ever been seen!"
The ram bleated melancholically at my questions, occasionally letting out especially loud sounds when I started raging in the saddle, drumming my heels into his sides.
Only upon reaching the gates of Ironforge, our splendid capital and birthplace of all dwarves, did I calm my wild temper and stop having fun at the expense of passersby.
"Ironforge Gates... As if I left just yesterday," reverently smoothing my beard, I slightly bowed my head before the embodiment of our people's greatness.
Massive gates that had withstood all trials. Adorned with runes and the names of fallen brothers. Majestic and monumental reliefs, faces of great and revered ancestors, sages, and kings...
But despite all this beauty gladdening a dwarven heart, it was first and foremost a defensive bulwark. Mighty and unyielding.
"Rodgirn?" A familiar guard's voice snapped me from my reverie. The dull fool ruined such a fine moment! "Is that you?"
"And who else do you think would come to see your ugly mug besides me and your mother?" Chuckling into my beard, I habitually reached for the flask at my belt, only remembering at the last moment that my treasure was empty. "Open up, before I freeze my balls off here! Your sister'll wear herself out warming them!"
"You troll belch, get over here, you ginger scoundrel, I'll tell you a thing or two!"
Jumping off Smetchik and unsaddling the ram, I strode briskly toward the hidden door through which guards could admit lone travelers without opening the massive steel gates protecting the city. A true work of art from ancient times, still standing strong.
Continuing on, I eyed the cliff looming over us, from which peeked the tops of defensive structures, embrasures, towers, and siege engines. Ironforge was a magnificent city that fully embodied its inhabitants.
"Sturdy, tough, and dumb. Ha-ha-ha."
Chuckling to myself, I crossed the staircase separating us from my friend in three strides and enveloped the graybeard dwarf in a bear hug, trying to squeeze the spirit out of him.
"You're still a bit short on strength, lad!"
In response, Dumtab showed his own power, as if playing and boasting, slowly crushing me in his vise until I finally slapped his arm.
The old dwarf released me, breathing heavily and flushing red-faced, as if overheated in the sun. His gray hair was disheveled, but oddly, his uniform and armor remained intact, undisturbed by our rough greeting.
"Live at least half my years..." Wagging a meaty finger more like a sausage admonishingly, my old friend plopped onto a garrison crate where surface dwellers' confiscated junk was stored. "So, no beating around the bush! How'd it go? Job done?"
Catching my breath and gratefully nodding at the proffered mug of mash, I stood opposite, settling onto a rickety-looking bench.
"Probably for detainees, to make 'em sweat a bit."
The piece of furniture nobly bore my bulk's weight, creaking desperately as it sagged slightly.
Deciding to marinate my interlocutor a bit, I took a hearty, glorious swig, downing half the mug at once, savoring the sharp warmth and bitterness.
"Pretty strong, just right." After mountain winds, it was truly perfect. Dumtab wore his gray beard for a reason, though his head was a proper bald patch. "Home-brewed?"
"What'd you think?" Puffing out his chest proudly, my old friend swelled like an overfilled barrel. Glinting sly, satisfied eyes from under bushy brows, Dumtab refilled the mugs. "We don't keep shit!"
Grinning crookedly, the dwarf nodded understandingly, pursing his lips and grimacing as he watched me greedily guzzle the mash.
"Alright, alright, all the details later," setting aside the now-empty mug, I smacked fist into palm, "they're all dead, to the last."
"No kidding!"
Jumping up, Dumtab boomed praises for me and all my kin, invoking ancestors, merciful mother, and honest father for raising such a worthy son and instilling fine traits—pity they skimped on brains... The old codger couldn't resist a jab, heh-heh.
Chuckling at the funnier tirades, I leaned on the bench, lying on my side to let my legs and ass rest after the long ride.
"We need to gather the clan." As if snapping to, Dumtab even set aside his mash mug. "The folk'll be glad you're back..."
"No need, the thane won't be pleased for sure," picking my ear as if it were some trifle, I got comfy on the cot, "and the king'll kick our asses."
"HA!" Slapping his knee loudly, Dumtab rose, waving arms and flushing even redder. His gray scraggly beard bristled fiercely, eyes flashing like lightning in a storm over Khaz Modan, "that ginger Menu shirumund can yap whatever! He should respect our traditions! If we spit on 'em and forget, we'll be no better than those upstarts!"
He yelled, jabbing a finger northward, meanwhile cursing our glorious red-bearded king Magni with all sorts of words, and I roughly knew what—or rather who—my old friend meant...
Many clans broke off during the War of the Three Hammers—the Great Dwarven Civil War. Most were long destroyed. But among the survivors were the strongest and most ambitious. Ready to change and learn new ways, they built new cities, settled other lands, and allied with various kingdoms while we sat locked in our mountains, enjoying peace and quiet.
One such was Wildhammer Clan, long ago abandoning Khaz Modan for the north, allying with humans—and rumors say they even chat with elves.
"Yeah, tickling pointy ears while they braid their pigtails, ptooey."
But besides them, Dumtab surely meant the leaders of northern human kingdoms who refused to believe in the green-skinned scum threat. Meanwhile, what was our esteemed king doing...
Unclear, but their inaction and skepticism led to Kingdom of Stormwind, our old allies and friends, being destroyed by the Horde—vile creatures from another world. Massive green-skinned bastards slaughtering everything in their path.
In their thirst for destruction, they ravaged southern lands with fire and sword, taking under their banners all sorts of scum. Ogres, trolls, goblins—a full set of freaks of every stripe.
It's been two years since the last survivors fled their ruined kingdom northward, and we're still hunkered in the mountains. Apparently waiting for hordes of fanged beasts to batter our borders.
"Enough of that," slapping my friend's shoulder, I cut off his verbal torrent on our leaders' stupidity, "you'll get us in trouble again, thrown in the dungeon or beaten black and blue."
"Pf, bunch of snot-nosed kids, like I'm scared of that red-bearded swine's wrath." Thrusting his fist toward the royal halls, Dumtab sighed wearily, gradually calming. The fire left the old dwarf, though a rebellious spark still burned deep in his eyes.
"Hey, I'm ginger too."
"Well," scratching his nose tip with a nail, he just shrugged and continued as if nothing, "I won't take back my words."
Standing silent a second, we burst into booming laughter, shaking the guardhouse walls. The noise drew other guards, tired of eavesdropping through the doors, and soon I sat surrounded by Ironforge's defenders, slowly sipping mash and recounting my adventures.
It was amusing to see the same emotions on young beardlings and graybeards wise with age.
Only late evening, at shift change, did they let me leave the gatekeepers on foot. Heading into the city under its majestic stone arches, I smirked at the drunken snores from behind.
But hazing took its toll.
Noisily inhaling air, occasionally slapping their cheeks, the young dwarves sighed mournfully—returning to posts while their elders relaxed in the guardhouse's cool shade.
"Years pass, but life stays the same..." Unwittingly, I laced the words with bitterness that threw me off for a moment. "Pf, whatever... Time for bed, too many boozy thoughts..."
It was nice to return home after a year of wandering—to native mountains with steep winding paths and green meadows dotted with stone trails.
After what I'd seen, home looked even more inviting...
Fulfilling my oath meant scouting southern lands and what the orcs and their allies had done to them. Death, devastation, and despair hung over plains where children's voices or flirting with busty lasses—who'd never seen a dwarf before—once rang easily.
"Vile beasts, how does the earth even bear you?!"
I wanted to spit, but defiling Ironforge's floors? No matter my foul temper, stooping that low is self-disrespect. And though no one was nearby, I held firm, not letting bad habits sour my mood.
Start once, and before you know it, you'll be an "orc," shitting where you eat and fucking where you shit.
"Khagam menu penu rukhs..." Unlike spitting, insults at the filthy orc spawn easily slipped off my tongue.
"Enough grumbling and cursing at thin air," a familiar voice sounded behind me, snapping me from the alcoholic haze, and before I could turn, I got a steel-gauntleted fist to the scruff, "Your greatness can't be put into words, you ginger lump! Hearing of your return, I headed straight to your house to hear it firsthand, but instead you're undermining our glorious city's defenses!"
Blinking, I dodged the next blow, landing a counter. Hearing my hand hit home, I gripped my comrade's palm hard—friendship with whom is dubious among my clan, especially the old guard.
"Muradin," embracing the tall interlocutor by the shoulder with my free arm, I eyed him head to toe. The middle Bronzebeard brother from our glorious kings' family was tall and mighty, the envy of many, "good to see you."
His light, almost golden beard swayed. Grinning amusedly into his mustache, he returned the firm handshake, squeezing my wrist to test my mettle. His keen gaze quickly scanned my frame, and only after this brief check did he exhale calmly, releasing me.
Showing no outward concern, the middle brother of the ruling family nodded toward a small tavern popular with guards and, without a word, headed inside.
No extra words or exclamations... The aura around him awed the few passersby, compelling involuntary respect...
Which brought a sad smile to my face.
He wasn't always like this.
A daredevil and true rake with a smile and eyes blazing with roguish fire, shirking duties...
But a kingdom's destruction—our chief neighbors', no less—brought myriad changes to this reveler's life, thoroughly altering his character and priorities.
The smile gave way to grimness, the fire to cold focus.
Trailing the stocky, broad-shouldered dwarf—like all his Bronzebeard kin—I noted Muradin was fully geared, lacking only a traveler's pack.
Polished-to-a-shine weapons, sturdy steel armor, a gray travel cloak not a pity to soil on the road.
"Off somewhere?" Sniffing, I rubbed my sweaty palms. "You look battle-ready."
My first question, once we sat at a free table and sipped foamy brew, threw my friend off.
Leaving most foam on his mustache, he coughed comically, eyes darting, but I didn't buy it. Keeping my ironic stare, I patiently waited for the calming prince of our people to compose himself and craft a reply.
"Urgent business came up," sipping from his mug, Muradin stared at the table, his face perfectly expressing a dwarf's take on it, "in Lordaeron..."
"With the humans?" Irony crept into my voice, but meeting my comrade's serious gaze fleetingly, I dropped the jokes.
Genuinely intrigued, leaning closer and speaking as quietly as possible, occasionally sipping from my mug.
"Exactly," following suit, Muradin leaned on the table. From outside, we looked like a pair of conspirators, "need to hash some things out with their king."
"Interesting."
Huddled in the tavern corner like thieves plotting a job, we traded insinuating glances until Muradin finally caved, spilling it all.
"Scouts bring shit news." The prince's voice echoed in our nook, but the din from other patrons kept anyone from eavesdropping. "Orcs are spreading across the region, building homes, fortifications... Their 'envoys,' stone forgive me, strut through Gurubashi troll lands like they own them. More goblins from the south joining their ranks, and the green-skinned freaks themselves multiply daily."
"How many more?"
I felt tension and a burn low on my back. How many words were said years ago when the war with those beasts began, but we only act now! Despite my anger, I held it together and let Muradin finish.
"Not critical yet," Muradin shrugged awkwardly. His steel pauldrons rustled softly, pleasing the ear and drawing a genuine tsk of admiration for the master's work. "A couple families a week, maybe a dozen. They're pouring from the Barrens in a steady stream, and no one knows when it'll end. Orcs are gathering strength, so my brother..." Correcting mid-sentence, the middle Bronzebeard coughed into his fist, beckoning the waitress for refills. "King Magni decided to send envoys to the humans' strongest kingdom."
"We had a strong kingdom right next door..."
"Don't start," wincing, Muradin rolled his eyes almost painfully, clearly not hearing this argument for the first time, "you know what I think about that."
"...Yeah, I know," clenching fists, furrowing brows, and biting my lower lip, I eyed the tavern anew, realizing it was full of battle-hardy dwarves geared for a long march, "better not yap here..."
"They're loyal warriors." At my indirect jab, Muradin scowled, glaring fiercely from under his brows. "I'd trust any with my life!"
"Fair enough," rising from the table, I approached, embracing the standing friend and smoothly changing topic—not wanting to end on a sour note, "be careful on the road. Dangerous to leave the mountains these days."
"I will," the prince replied gravely, without mockery or irony, gripping my forearm tightly; Muradin hmmed into his beard last, "you too, don't blab too much; don't want you exiled. That'd be the dumbest way to dodge the war."
Raising brows in surprise at my old friend's words, I bowed gratefully to his warning and left the tavern, eyed by five dozen steel-clad soldiers.
***
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