“There, you see?” the gnome warlock cackled, doing a triumphant dance on the outcropping overlooking Wrynnfall. “Ringo Flinthammer is dead!”
“You still don’t get it,” the human mage said, shaking his head. “Ringo’s not as brave as his brother Durkon, he’s not half the hunter that Bragh is, and he’s nowhere near the fighter that Mordun is, but he … oh, and you also forgot about that.”
The mage pointed.
“At long last, our plan comes to fruition,” the gnome warlock said, watching the battle from a nearby hill, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.
“Your masters wanted him dead before the Armies of Legionfall ever got inside the tomb, didn’t they?” the human mage replied.
The gnome turned and glared at him.
“No matter! Ringo Flinthammer will perish, his brothers’ resolve will break and they may even die themselves in their attempt to save him.”
Durkon Flinthammer was the tip of the spear.
As a member of the 7th Legion, he had fought in the Dragonblight, Gilneas and Krasarang Wilds, never faltering, even when all had seemed lost.
And, on the Broken Shore, specifically at “Wrynnfall,” where the human king, Varian Wrynn, had been cut down by the Burning Legion, the ashen soil stained with his blood.
The Armies of Legionfall had broken through here, getting a force into the Tomb of Sargeras. But Burning Legion reinforcements had arrived, cutting off the force’s escape route and preventing any reinforcements from getting through.
Unless the Flinthammer Boys had something to say about it, that is.
Durkon’s sword bit deep, spraying his shield with fel green blood as he jerked his blade free of one demon’s torso even as he whirled to face another, surrounded on all sides by them. He was focused and fearless, whether facing one demon or one hundred.
“Ringo?” Durkon’s head darted to the side, peeking around one of his advancing foes.
“I could just light something on fire,” Archmage Ikeya said. “There’s some dry leaves over there, and then that whole tree would go up pretty quickly.”
“For the last time, we’re not lighting any trees on fire,” Baelan Grimaxe grumbled. “Especially given your history with these fellers.”
“OK, sure,” Ikeya shrugged, closing his fist and extinguishing the flame that had been floating above his palm. “It’s just that every time we take a step further into the Dreamgrove, we all fall asleep and wake up back here on the trail.”
Ringo Flinthammer stroked Frostmaw’s head and sighed, turning back down the trail to where, somewhere among the towering trees of Val’sharah, the druids of the Cenarion Circle had their base.
Ringo unslung his Boarshot Cannon and fired three shots into the air, sending birds wheeling away in panic, squawking in outrage.
“Lesaris! Show yerself!”
Something dropped through the canopy, perhaps an enormous raven or maybe an owl. But when it rose up before Ringo a moment later, it was a towering night elf with burning golden eyes.
“Flinthammer,” Lesaris rumbled. “Last time we saw each other, you made it clear that you were uninterested in honoring the debt between your family and myself.”
“Aye,” Ringo shrugged. “It turns out Ah’m not interested in killin’ helpless elves, no matter what they might say about me back in Quel’Danas.”
“I have little patience for you, oathbreaker. Tell me why you disturb the peace of this forest.”
“It’s Frostmaw,” Ringo said, stepping aside to reveal the great white bear, unconscious and hovering on Ikeya’s flying carpet. “He’s dying. Some sort of poison from Pandaria, they say. He’s been dosed with it for months, and Ah had nae idea.”
Lesaris’ face softened.
“I see. Surely the huntmasters of the Unseen Path could save him, if anyone could.”
“Nae. They say he’s beyond hope.”
“So why bring him here?”
“Ye spent hundreds of years sleeping below Mount Hyjal with the other druids, aye?”
“The Druids of the Claw slept for roughly 7,000 years in the Barrow Deeps, yes.”
“Or, more properly, ye hibernated, did ye not?”
“In bear form, yes,” Lesaris said, nodding with sudden understanding. “Your hope is that the Druids of the Claw might have some way to bring your bear companion back from the brink of death that we learned in our centuries in bear form.”
“It’s th’ only hope Ah have left. Ah’ve raised him since he was a cub.”
Lesaris reached down and lifted up the unconscious Frostmaw, giving only the slightest grunt of exertion.
“There’s no telling how long a cure, if there is a cure, will take. It could be months or even years. And whether this works or not, Ringo Flinthammer, you now owe me a considerable debt. One that I will collect when the time comes.”
Ringo watched Lesaris carry his best friend into the woods, wondering if he’d even see him again.
High up in the peaks of Highmountain, Trueshot Lodge was a rustic hunting hall, the hidden base of the Unseen Path. The hall was surrounding by target ranges and animal pens and, inside, featured trophies and an armory of bows, guns and crossbows. Huntmasters of the order bellied up to the bar and shared stories of hunts and discussed gear.
Alliance and Horde allegiances were supposed to be left outside of the grounds of Trueshot Hall, but Ringo Flinthammer regularly caught Forsaken Huntmasters elbowing each other and muttering what sounded suspiciously like “Dun Garok” when they passed him. Fights were forbidden at Trueshot Lodge, but Ringo did his best to memorize the decayed faces in case they ran into each other out in the wilds after all of this was over.
But there was also something out of place in one corner of the hall, a disc of cobalt and titanium, forged within Ulduar itself.
Ignoring nearby troll and blood elf huntmasters, Ringo carefully approached the disc and cleared his throat.
“Are ye there, Mimiron? It’s me, Ringo Flinthammer.”
Above the disc, a translucent blue image of the Keeper flickered to life.
“Champion of Ulduar,” Mimiron’s voice crackled from a continent away. “Is there an issue with the Boarshot Cannon Mark 2?”
“Eh?” Ringo glanced back at the blunderbuss slung over his shoulder. “Nae, nae. It’s about the same as the Mark One.”
“Yes, the even-numbered releases are mostly refinements of the odd-numbered models. Slightly faster processor, a little better at keeping a charge. The Mark Three will be ready soon and you should see some more dramatic improvements.”
“Thank ye, Keeper Mimiron. That’s nae why Ah asked to speak with ye today.”
“This isn’t really a good time,” the keeper said, flickering in and out. “But tell me what the issue is.”
“There’s this naaru, ye see, or chunk of a naaru. It’s made certain claims about the Titans. Ah told me wife that it does nae matter whether or not the bloody windchime was telling the truth, but, well, she’s gone now and Ah’d be lyin’ if Ah said it did nae bother me when Ah’m tryin’ ta sleep at night.”
Widge and Vamen had tried to cheer Ringo up the other day. They said it was “aerial surveillance,” but there was no serious reason to closely monitor Stormheim this way, now that Helya had been slain. And the Armies of Legionfall seemed unlikely to conduct surveillance by hot air balloon. Still, it had almost worked, but Vamen had mentioned Beli by accident, and that had sent Ringo spiraling back down into the gloom he was in now.
“Hey!” Mimiron said sharply, looking back over his left shoulder at something. “Don’t you see the sign that says ‘DO NOT PUSH THIS BUTTON?’ Have you forgotten what happened last time?”
“Keeper?”
“I’m sorry, herald, I have to go …”
“But, Keeper, Ah just wanted to know …”
Mimiron’s image abruptly vanished.
Ringo bowed his head and sighed.