Baelan Grimaxe was down.

It would be funny under normal circumstances; he was always the first to fall in battle. It would still be funny if some of the healers were alive and if his body wasn’t turning that blue color and there wasn’t all that blood.

It wasn’t very funny now.

Ringo Flinthammer crouched down behind the body, hammering at his rifle with the heel of his hand, trying to knock off the thick supernatural frost that coated everything inside Icecrown Citadel, even braving the magical flames of the firing mechanism on the rifle Ringo had seized off a fallen foe in the Crimson Halls.

The frost gone for the moment, Ringo frantically unjammed the gun and chambered another round. He turned and, using the unmoving body of his fallen comrade to steady his rifle, took aim and waited for his shot.

The world went silent. Ringo once again heard the words that Tirion Fordring had used to rally the troops before the assault:

“This is our final stand. What happens here will echo through the ages. Regardless of outcome, they will know that we fought with honor. That we fought for the freedom and safety of our people.

“Remember, hero, fear is your greatest enemy in these befouled halls. Steel your heart and your soul will shine brighter than a thousand suns. The enemy will falter at the sight of you. They will fall as the light of righteousness envelops them!”

Fordring had been wrong about the enemy faltering. Ringo was covered with the spattered blood and gore of his own comrades. There were no cowardly necromancers here: These were implacable foes of life, driven by hatred of the living, and were untouched by fear.

“If Ah die in a combat zone,” Ringo sang quietly to himself, the tune coming to him across the years, back to listening to his father and the other soldiers drill in the snow fields of the Coldridge Valley. “Box me up and ship me home. Pin me medals on me chest. Tell me son Ah done me best.”

He took his shot.