Flinthammer Hall

For whatever reason, most Forsaken never spoke the Common tongue, as they had in life. Maybe it was a spell cast by their Dark Lady. Maybe it was an edict from the warchief. In any case, they tended to only speak a strange gibberish that sounded like Common, but wasn’t.

But this undead soldier, Ringo understood, which was just the way he wanted it.

The Horde was assaulting Lion’s Landing Tower — and, at the moment, they looked like they were going to take it. Ringo had arrived with other Shieldwall Riflemen, laying down cover fire and taking out scouts and observers. But now, they were nowhere to be found. Ringo had somehow ended up in a forward position alone, cut off, and surrounded. Even Frostmaw was nowhere to be found.

“Heh heh heh,” the undead soldier cackled as he approached, his black tongue waggling, his lower jaw rotting somewhere in a grave in Lordaeron. “Rumembuh Southshowah? Rumembuh Dun Gawok?”

“Did ye say ‘Dun Garok?'” Ringo snarled, raising his rifle and squeezing the trigger, only to be greeted with the click of an empty chamber.

The undead soldier waggled what remained of his eyebrows.

“Menethuh Hawbaw is necks. An then Thelshamuh!”

“LIKE HELL YE WILL!”

Ringo sprang forward, wielding his rifle like a club; if he couldn’t shoot his way out, he’d at least smash this Forsaken bastard’s skull in before they got him.

There was a loud thunk behind Ringo. In the fraction of a second before he sank into unconsciousness, he realized it was the sound of a Horde rogue — likely another damned undead — thwacking him with a blackjack. Then he fell forward into darkness, the sound of jawless laughter echoing all around him.

The Alliance has a saying about Ironforge, that it’s a city of dwarfish charm and gnomish efficiency. And normally that’s true: It’s a city of clanking gears and pounding hammers, drunken brawls and machines run amok.

But when it comes to the Alliance war machine, the sons and daughters of Khaz Modan were a wonder to behold. Within hours of the Alliance fleet landing, a blue-roofed barracks was constructed, a mine secured and producing and defensive towers well underway.

But the Alliance wasn’t alone on the southern coast. Gyrocopter patrols reported the Horde war machine was tearing through the forest, shredding trees, spilling oil into the waves and filling the air with smoke. Where the Alliance built, the Horde destroyed.

Ringo Flinthammer enjoyed the work, digging out rock suitable for the fortress city of Lion’s Landing. Sweat poured down his bare back and his hands were sore from swinging the pick, but it drove out all other thoughts. There was simply finding the rock, splitting it away and loading it onto Frostmaw’s saddle bags.

He had smelled the same scent wafting over the Krasarang Wilds years before, in Stranglethorn Vale. But what the goblins of the Venture Company had taken years to do, ruining vast sections of the wilderness, the goblins of the Bilgewater Cartel had accomplished in days.

For the good of Pandaria, the Horde had to go.

Beli Flinthammer stared out at the hills of Loch Modan, not quite ready to put the backpack on and depart Thelsamar.

“I’m getting too old fer this–”

“Mommy?”

Beli let out a breath, deflated, and turned to find her young son — not so young now, though; he was in school, learning his runes and minecraft — Bael, standing at the top of the stairs, her mother, Dorae, standing behind him, her lips pursed together with concern.

“He’s worried and wanted to hear it all from ye.”

Beli knelt.

“C’mere, baby. I’ll be coming back, just as soon as yer Uncle Widge and I find yer Daddy.”

Bael shuffled forward, then pulled an earthenware boar from behind his back.

“If ye need treasure, ye can have mine.” He rattled it, producing the jingling of coins: He was an enthusiastic saver, but also an enthusiastic spender, and had only a few silver pieces to his name.

“Nay, baby, we need more treasure than that. With yer father gone, we cannae afford Flinthammer Hall. So, we’ll get a bunch of treasure and come back. Uncle Widge will bring us back to Stormwind where ye’ll be having a grand adventure with yer grandparents, and we’ll all get back together and come back home to Loch Modan.”

“Is Daddy dead?”

Ever since Deathwing’s attack, the boy — normally a sweet and optimistic child — had possessed a morbid streak that stuck its head out when it was least welcome.

“Nay. Yer Uncle Widge went to Theramore after we found the letter and the Alliance troops there said yer dad was furious with the Horde and shipped out for Pandaria. Widge then went there and …”

“He found him?”

“Nay, but he asked if anyone’d seen a Khaz Modan mountaineer with a polar bear, and everyone remembered the dwarf with the white beard going on about Theramore and Dun Garok. Don’t worry: Frostmaw is taking care of Daddy and we’ll find them both, soon enough.”

“And get treasure?”

“Aye, we’ll get treasure and some toys and a big funny hat Widge says everyone there wears and we’ll come right. Back. Home. To. You.” She punctuated these last words with light taps of her fingertip on the tip of his nose.

Bael looked at her solmenly.

“Don’t die.”

“I won’t. I have ye to come home to, wee little monkey.”

“I’m Mommy’s baby and Daddy’s monkey.”

“Aye, ye are.”

“And promise ye won’t die.”

“I promise.”

Bael threw his arms around his mother, hugged her so hard she swore she could feel her ribs creak. It was only when she heard the hum of an arcane portal opening behind her that her son released her.

“Go on, Bael. This is Mommy and Widge’s adventure. Ye go with yer grandparents, and we’ll be home soon. I promise.”

Wiping her tears on her sleeve, Beli stepped through the portal, fading away in mid-wave to her son.

“Don’t die,” he repeated. “Ye promised.”