"Open your notebooks, we're taking notes...
...
When using flamethrowers
Remember a few basic rules.
Lessons our ancestors learned from the past.
Don't smoke near the tanks.
Don't light up from the flame source.
Don't throttle the valves to minimum,
There must always be some pressure in the gun.
And don't open the valve to maximum...
Lower your hands. The answer is simple. Because everything will burn with blue flame."
"Weapon, I need a proper weapon."
Holding the pistol in one hand, I shed the remnants of the protective suit, now reduced to rags.
"Or human clothes, heh-heh."
Bolstering myself with jokes and trying not to react to the surrounding noise and body-wide pain, I dropped the last bits of casing to the ground, enjoying the pleasant chill running down my back.
"Ooo, yeah. Beer would be nice too," finally deciding to look around, the first thing I saw was the huge carcass of the Loa battling Anduin, flailing tail, fangs, and claws to scatter the shooting soldiers "but apparently not this time. Menu shirumund."
Not rising from my knees, I began sifting through the weapons littering the ground from dead soldiers.
"Not this... No..." Sword shards, spear chunk, dented-in shield, charred pistol. Plenty of tools for close-quarters killing around, but sadly most were completely unusable. "Next time... This is totally broken... Not this..."
Shouts and explosions sounded behind me, and most importantly—the monster's displeased roar as it took heavy hits to the face from a massive runic two-hander. An ancient artifact whose power was undeniable; shame I forgot its name.
"Oh, now this is something," finally finding a good axe, I grimaced noticing the dwarven hand on the haft "ugh, what rotten luck. Sorry, kin, but you sure won't need this anymore."
Grimacing and joking to pep myself up, I avoided looking at the long swath in the ground, flooded with soldiers' blood and guts. Body chunks lay everywhere, scattered by the snake-rat-bird-dragon.
The beast thrashed about, trying to avoid meeting Lothar's blade face-first again, and a couple fresh wounds plus a missing eye spoke volumes about why.
"Pity the canister crapped out, or I'd have you—" my words were cut by flames and Tim and his buddies' war cries as they hosed the creature's flanks with fire-mixture "oh, you clever ones. Ha-ha-ha! Bodies may be scrawny, but souls of true dwarves!"
Struggling to my feet, leaning on my knees and grunting nonstop, I stood tall, surveying the battlefield. True hell was unfolding here.
While Anduin and the joined Trollbane sliced the Loa into shish kebab, paladins hastily erected a new barrier barely holding against the bloody deity's dark aura. Poor knights were dropping from exhaustion shielding our Light-wielders, but with each moment there were fewer of them.
Realizing my hairy ass wouldn't help against a troll god, hands on hips, I bolted toward the Light pillars stabbing the sky.
"I'll fight too, save your asses, then to the forge..." Breath caught, hands and chest burned from burns and minor wounds, wind-driven smoke from smoldering bodies kept trying to sting my eyes. "Or the lab. Or the tavern... Definitely the tavern, to dames and beer, so I never see troll mugs again."
Gasping and puffing, I ran past groups of fighting soldiers. The whole battle had mixed into chaos, giving trolls free rein, and now they rampaged freely everywhere.
Traces of their rampage were visible here and there. Corpses lay everywhere, and in spots the cannibal fucks hadn't refused fresh meat feasts.
Unable to stomach a fangy gourmand's smug mug, I shot the nearest bastard's head, splattering the meager contents of his green skull and toppling the tall, skinny body onto a couple other trolls who jerked their heads irritably seeking the intruder.
"Fucking bitch, your souls. Tim's paws sure are needed when he's not here," drawing the second pistol, I shot the nearest freak's chest, knocking him on his back, and gripped the axe "come on, you bald-ass ugly, I'll ram this axe's haft so deep up your ass you'll taste steel in your mouth!"
Ducking a blatantly shitty swing from the overfed troll, I slammed the axe under his knee with full force, bringing the giant closer to the ground.
Grabbing his fang, I gleefully headbutted the baffled mug, knocking out a handful of teeth and breaking both protruding tusks.
"You're not even worth an axe," another headbutt finally rolled the unwashed beast's eyes into a cluster "your fate is dying from your own filthy teeth."
Jamming the fang into the troll's eye, I shook the vile thick blood from my hands and continued on.
I had to wade into three more such scraps, but a pair of pistols always thinned the enemy numbers to manageable levels. But the fight behind me showed no signs of letting up. Full inspirational speeches echoed there now, and it seemed the lads couldn't put the beast down for good.
"Loa, fuckloa... What kinda weird-ass war is this. Can't eat proper, can't sleep. Mosquitoes bit my whole ass, no beer, no dames," grumbling under my breath, I clambered over a small hill of troll corpses the Alonsus Faol defenders had piled into barricades "what kinda army marches without girls and booze? And I'll tell you. A human army, damn it. They got jack shit, everything's ass-backwards. Without me and my babies here, how'd they down that crap? Crossbows? Sure, it'd have nothing to pick its teeth with after chowing down..."
Climbing to the top, I timely grabbed a spear shaft and deflected it aside. Glancing from the tip, I saw a fear-shaking kid staring at me wide-eyed, nearly grinding his teeth to dust. Mouth agape, making weird noises—like a murloc emerging from water for the first time.
"Rookie... Lost your mind?" The kid got an instant cuff from a neighbor. Though the neighbor himself stayed silent, peering intently around for new foes. "What if you'd skewered Master Rodgirn?"
Starting with a sinister whisper, it turned out this was one of the footmen's decurions; the man lunged at the soldier, snatching the spear and dumping him on the ground. Nudging the young one and bowing to me, the decurion pointed toward the main fighters on this sector, among whom I immediately spotted Turalyon and a couple of his pals.
Exhausted paladins were nearly collapsing under a heavy burden visible only to them. They'd all paled and sweated profusely, streams soaking their faces, tabards, and clothes. Each leaned on something—sword, spear, hammer, staff—but kept standing, giving their all against the trolls' dark magic.
At the head of the holy rite towered Alonsus Faol himself, gripping his staff tightly with both hands, leaning his full weight on it. His lips silently whispered prayers, beseeching the Light for aid not for himself, but for all who marched against darkness and true evil today.
"By 'evil,' I take it he means that gender- and race-unknown crap that crawled out of the portal..?"
Gathered around Alonsus were his "boys"—what else to call these hot-eyed youths—I didn't know; they were too young and naive, save one paladin.
Circling the clustered Silver Hand members, I caught a couple puzzled glances from the young paladins but said nothing, just marveled at the Holy Shield creation process.
Pretending to understand what was happening, I clapped Uther on the shoulder and headed where I'd actually be useful—the front line. Mysteries and guesses about Holy Light mechanics could wait: after victory, grill Alonsus and his team proper; my interest wasn't idle curiosity but true inventor's instinct...
Plus, I felt strange sensations interacting with this poorly documented force.
Just dozens of meters away, behind dense ranks of dead, wounded, and resting soldiers, a front had formed where they dragged everything at hand into barricades of corpses and armor.
By the time I reached my goal, several body piles had been toppled back by black energy shots or troll waves, but the human runts held the defense.
"Master Rodgirn!"
"Huh? Oh! Hey, Bill, how's it hanging?" Sturdy lad before the booze, like his brother. Whom I hadn't forgotten to mention, by the way. "Bro, still kicking?"
"Yeah, sure, thanks for asking," throwing the kid off, I instantly stripped away most of his worry and stress; poor guy was shaking, barely holding it together. Plain sergeant, senior-most rank in this mixed-up mess of units "Glad you're with us! News from Commander Lothar? What do we do?"
"Right, this. Simple. We'll hack troll heads till Anduin and the lads smack that crap down," something exploded nearby, but the blast was so weak and unimpressive I ignored it "better tell me this. Got any Fire-spitters? Mixture left? And what about booze? My head's splitting."
"Well, blood's pouring from your crown..."
Pointing at my wound, the kid finally scanned me head to toe, eyes bulging in shock.
"You alright at all?" Genuine fear for my health flashed in his voice, warming my heart. "All good, Master Rodgirn?"
"Good enough, now fetch beer..." Grabbing the sergeant by the shoulder before he issued the first order, I decided not to skimp. "Nah, haul everything that burns, and what's with weapons?"
"All flamethrower crews on this flank dead, tanks blown," Bill reported military-style, rummaging his belt pouch under my eager gaze "weapons ruined, field repairs impossible."
"Hands from ass, that's why impossible," grinning good-naturedly, I took the proffered flask and chugged most without thinking. Told ya—good lad "whew, hits right. So all my babies broken? Pity..."
"Uh, dunno about babies," awkwardly scratching his head, the sergeant reckoned and blurted something that lit me up with ancient curses "but we got that huge fucker they called the bird..."
"Pffft..."
Mid-sip, I joyfully spat it all over the poor sergeant, who now melancholically wiped his armor with his sleeve, scrubbing off troll blood too.
Grilling Bill for details, I issued orders to fetch the Firebird ASAP, while the stunned and relaxed sergeant sat beside me cleaning his armor and pauldrons to a shine.
For minutes I watched him polish amid falling arrows, spears, magic projectiles, and dying men and trolls. We sat near the barricade for breakthroughs, adding surreality.
"Looks like Bill's roof leaked. Shame. Good kid."
Verdict passed, I ignored the sergeant, who dove deeper into detachment, brazenly relaying messengers' questions without rising.
His face showed such fatal acceptance that even if I'd started beating him here before all the fighters, best case he'd shield his head, not wanting to splatter his armor with blood again.
But no harm without good, and they hauled the Firebird right to us amid the distant pained Loa roars. The battlefield stretched hundreds of meters, forming spontaneous human strongpoints and splitting trolls into uneven assault groups losing kin and magic.
Slapping my knees and dousing myself last with strong booze that washed off the stench, soot, and cauterized wounds, I hopped to my beauty, slowly removing the tarp and hacking ropes and fasteners. No time for care; needed the gun set quick before trolls counterattacked.
"Big bastard..."
Bill drawled; I sighed over his brains and demeanor. Lad followed orders easy but refused initiative, Tim-level.
"Though that's exactly why they make sergeants; no wonder the kid burned out."
Pondering human brain quirks that quit at first chance...
Unlike our splendid dwarven minds!!!
I cleared all fastenings and unleashed a true masterpiece.
Metal, stone, and wood wonder, it stood proudly gazing down at us... well, at me.
Huge barrel reeking fire-mixture, two heavy tanks flanking the barrel a bit offset.
Wide flare at barrel tip for broad fire spread...
"Pure dwarven dick! Which you bare-ass belches will soon taste!"
Grinning evilly, rubbing hands, I waved soldiers toward the most assaulted nearby barricade. Covering the gun with tarp to not tip our hand early...
"What plan, fuck? Hiding from who? Trolls? They've never seen anything but their own dicks and buddies' asses."
Forehead-slapping, I left the strained tarp and kept moving. Wasted enough time already.
Ten minutes passed with trolls idle, so time to worry...
"Fuck, jinxed it," spitting groundward, I drew pistol and sent the first climbing troll back. Bullet clean between eyes—splattering green skull's scant contents "battle stations! Cover me!"
Fanged beasts nimbly scaled, killing barricade defenders. One by one they fell, yielding to attackers till the corpse pile collapsed.
Scattering bodies, two huge metal-armored trolls burst in. Solid shields I'd never seen, excellently forged plate, long straight weapons—to boot!
Each bore the Amani troll emblem and that Loa's mug rasping in back. Schematic, but decent. Apprentice smith or goblin work...
"Motherfucker," thought hit instant, especially seeing more trolls pour in similarly armored "Toras and Magni'll love this."
Imagining the kings' faces on hearing, I grinned involuntarily. Hands working by feel activating the complex machine, eyes locked on approaching trolls.
"Feugo Zin..."
The hoarse bass voice chilled me with goosebumps. Nearby Bill snapped from apathy, gripping sword, ready to charge from the enemy's killing intent alone.
Tall, fresh wounds and that pre-battle stripe. Zul'jin raised his lone arm greeting me like a long-lost brother.
"What you mumbling, monkey? Cursing me with shit-talk?" Replying to troll insults—the only thing these scum capable of—I kept activating Firebird flawlessly. "Well know this, I'm good at that too; I'll sandblast your ugly mug with curses your descendants won't wash off!"
"Ha-ha, just like they say about you," killing some poor sod underfoot gasping from gut wound, the troll sniffed aromas around us, clearly savoring "Master Rodgirn."
"You know me?"
"How not? You forged flame into weapon, bending its mighty power." Kicking a broken tank nearby, Zul'jin smirked crookedly, veins bulging on forehead and neck showing rage. "Fire Destroyer—the name my people gave you."
"Caught scouts, I guess... Though why guess; every dog in Stromgarde knows me."
"Your meddling forced me here, abandoning eternal elf hunt," dragging blade before his face, Zul'jin peered into reflection, silently conversing with self seconds "but worth it. We found power where forbidden, behold result. Totally worth it. Brave all you want, but no army here—you must know you're... Doomed."
"That so?"
Provocatively glancing around, I nodded at troll corpse mountains strewn everywhere.
Smart troll getting me...
"Fuck, hilarious."
...Stepped forward. Kneeling one knee, he traced a dead kin's face, closing agony-wide eyes.
"Each life contributed, death brought more," savoring victory, Zul'jin slowly circled me. Sheathing blade, he swaggered before Firebird barrel, oblivious he'd die soon "battle's end, we'll grow stronger. Reclaim lost power, restore Empire..."
Preaching fervently, troll drew attention—not just minions, but humans too, mesmerized despite fear and readiness.
Zul'jin had insane charisma; this chief could've achieved greatness for self and race, but I saw madness and hate in his eyes. Not toward us. He dreamed other—and slips showed main life goal: elf slaughter. Brutal, agonizing massacre for pointy-ears—that's what Zul'jin craved. He studiously avoided topic, knowing his bloodlust strength.
"Crazy fuck, well, I'm done; sick of your ravings."
Sensing my mood shift, Amani troll chief narrowed eyes, freezing; his warriors tensed. Tension hung heavy; duel signal was dying Loa's death cry.
Yanking tarp, I felt pull aside as a Zul'jin guard's spear whizzed past. It pierced flesh hard; moments later clear Bill groaned in pain, but no time doubt or aid sergeant.
Slamming lever full, not caring if Firebird survived, I leaped down, roll-dodging axe swing and pistol-retaliating. No reload time, just kneed next troll's nuts, feeling bone crack on armor—but foe staggered clutching crotch.
Firebird hummed full; more trolls poured through breach. Without thinking, I shoved current foe under huge Fire-spitter barrel.
Blue flame wave engulfed dozens at once. Breathing-fire machine erupted fifteen seconds solid, drowning all sound.
Fire roared insanely, forcing ears cupped.
Peeking one eye, I saw a full-armored huge troll turn to ash-pile in seconds. Cursed fucks clawed eyes or frantically shed armor at fire-mixture drop touch. Heat so intense, bastards cooked in own plate before ungloving.
But all ends; silence returned, revealing vomit-inducing sight—several surviving soldiers puked.
Smoke stung eyes; ground crunched like sand underfoot. Clothes disintegrated, held by seamster's word. Second pistol fell from holster; no strength lift, so I squatted near.
Skin all red, stinging; needed some shitty priest's aid pronto for my madness aftermath, but pondering drew eye to surviving trolls who'd sheltered under bodies or dodged fire-line. Couple dozen vs. horde minute ago—but worst: him among survivors.
Zul'jin. Clutching pierced flank, he rose slow from black earth, hate-burning gaze on me, leisurely drawing belt blade. Shoulders shrugging off dirt and fallen cover remnants, chief crawled my way, burns and blood-spitting covered. Body crusted blisters. But iron will, hate—or more dark sorcery—hoisted him, shambling toward me, muttering native curses.
"Feugo Zin... Feugo Zin..."
His raspy dry voice sent unfamiliar shivers. Scooting back, palm hit object; smile bloomed on my face.
"Damn bearded shorty..." My nickname clearly repulsed Amani chief; he switched banal threats. "I'll eat all your kin and shit in your skull; you'll beg death..."
Swinging his blade, Zul'jin lunged forward with his last strength, but the ring pistol I'd grabbed didn't let me down—a bullet hit right between the eyes, ripping through the skull, deforming bones, and splattering what trolls never had.
The Amani chieftain's body staggered a couple more steps on inertia before collapsing at my feet.
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan