Flinthammer Hall

The Alliance’s “very best gnomes” were working at the base of the final wing of Icecrown Citadel. A blue wall of howling damned souls writhed silently before them, shielding Arthas’ remaining lieutenants behind it.

A small camp had been set up before the wall, with small groups huddled around campfires that illuminated less than they ought to and put out a miserly amount of heat.

“So,” Dazhbog began. The draenei knight clapped his hands together in an effort to keep the blood flowing to his fingers. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do after the war?”

“The first thing?” Ringo Flinthammer said, shaking his mug ruefully, frost already forming on the surface of his not-at-all-scalding morningbrew. “Ah am going to go home and have sex with me wife.”

Beside him, Baelan Grimaxe threw his frozen hunk of meat back into the fire and nodded.

“Aye. First thing Ah do is have sex with his wife, too.”

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There had been explosions on Deathbringer’s Rise for days now. The Ashen Verdict’s “top gnomes” had been slowly working on the door into the spire, after an initial brute force attack had gotten them nowhere. The gnomes had shifted from trying to crack the huge mass of stone and saronite to working on the hinges.

At last, there was a popping sound, and then another one, the distinctive almond smell of seaforium and then the two doors fell inward, landing with heavy thuds.

“We’re in! All right, sweethearts, ye’re a team and there’s nothin’ to worry about. We come here, and we gonna conquer, and we gonna kick some, is that understood? That’s what we gonna do, sweethearts: We are going to go and get some. All right, people! Are ye lean?”

“Yeah!”

“Are ye mean?”

“Yeah!”

“WHAT ARE YE?”

“LEAN AND MEAN!”

“Move it out! Move it out, Khaz damn it! Get hot! One, two, three, four! Go, go, go! Move in, move in, move in! Move in, move in, move in! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven! Arrrgh, absolute badasses! Let’s pack ’em in! Get in there!”

“Almighty and most merciful Hodir, we humbly beseech thee, of thy great goodness, to restrain these immoderate snows with which we have had to contend,” Muradin Bronzebeard prayed on bended knee, his invocation barely audible over the sound of the winds and the Skybreaker’s propellers. “Grant us fair weather for battle. Graciously hearken to us as soldiers who call upon thee that, armed with thy power, we may advance from victory to victory, and crush the oppression and wickedness of our enemies and establish thy justice among men and nations.”

“I wanna be an dwarven ranger!” roared Ringo Flinthammer.

“Live a life of sex and danger!” responded Baelan Grimaxe, equally loudly.

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The cloud of dust and ice crystals had not yet settled from the cave-in by the time that the Skybreaker was pulling away from Icecrown Citadel and into the stormy skies above the great glacier. There was no sign of Arthas Menethil below them on the mountainside.

“I can barely believe we’re still alive,” Lady Jaina Proudmoore panted to no one in particular, shivering as her sweat was wicked away by the frigid wind. “It was foolish of me to follow him. I’ve made that mistake too many times.”

A grumbling from the surviving troops from her expedition indicated agreement, although not so loudly that anyone could be singled out and written up by Master Nightsong, who would then have the report passed on to Field Marshal Snowfall, the Supreme Commander of Alliance Forces in Northrend. It was unlikely that Snowfall had time for any of the night elf’s officiousness, but no one wanted to take any unnecessary chances.

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