"It is not known exactly when the first **Fire-spitters** were created,
But in the work of Garth the Handless, it is clearly made understood
That they were already actively used in the Second War with the **Orcs**,
And glory to the **Holy**, only on the side of the **Systems Alliance**.
A terrifying weapon, truly inspiring a deep-seated horror,
Especially in all sorts of savages like **Orcs** and **Trolls**.
And although many scholars believe
That there may be outstanding minds among the representatives of **The Horde**...
I tell you that this **Human**, **High Elf**, **Dwarf**, or **Gnome**
Has simply never been to the ashes of villages and cities
That these beasts leave behind.
But let's get back to business; we have a lecture here, not a theological gathering.
Since the manifestation of intelligence in **Orcs** is a true miracle of God...
In my book, we will examine
How these terrifying engines of war were first used on the battlefield
And what contribution they made to victory."
"No, that question is not even up for discussion," I said, setting my mug aside and folding my hands on the table, interlacing my fingers. "I cannot reveal the secrets of my people to you. It is wrong, and there is no honor in it. If even a rumor appears that I am blabbing the secrets of **Khaz Modan**, the road back home will be closed to me."
"You see, Master," one of the guild masters whispered, leaning closer and frantically hissing into the King's representative's ear, "we can manage on our own; what use is this **Dwarf** to us if he can offer nothing!?"
Frowning, the King's representative—**Tagrian**—surveyed me sternly, as much as he could, and meeting my unyielding gaze, he tiredly let the air out of his lungs, curling his lips. Almost the namesake of my cousin, the human fop surprisingly resembled **Tagrin** a lot. Just as stubborn and pushy as a mountain ram, and as cunning as a sea eel.
Dressed to the nines by local standards—though I was certain that in Lordaeron he would have been taken for an unrefined barbarian soldier—the man displayed no small amount of restraint and tried to keep himself in check throughout the entire conversation.
"I am sorry to hear that, venerable Dwarf," he said, biting his cheek to keep from saying too much. This hulking wardrobe of a man began to rise from the table. "This conversation has already cost me a great deal of priceless time." Turning to his assistants, ignoring the smug faces of the guild masters just as I did, Tagrian gave his orders and prepared to leave. "See to it that our guest is fed and settled in a room worthy of him..."
"I haven't finished speaking," I said. My tone silenced most of those present; they were likely expecting the bearded shorty to have his legs shortened to the ankles for such insolence. "I cannot speak of what has already been created... But nothing prevents me from creating something new on your land."
The royal representative did not disappoint me; I saw a spark igniting in his eyes. Apparently, it was extremely important for him to get my consent in any form, and judging by the crooked faces of the masters, he would surely gain a mountain of privileges from this—as would I.
"I will need a Workshop, preferably steel or stone—no wood for the walls or ceiling," I began, listing my requirements, deciding to strike while the iron was hot. Businesslike, I ticked them off on my fingers, casting an ironic gaze over everyone gathered, lingering longest on the contorted faces of the masters. The old men were the first to realize I intended to get down to business in earnest. "Two dozen assistants skilled in carpentry, several blacksmiths, armorers, one architect, and fifty strong men to, you know, push the square things and carry the round ones... I'll tell you the rest once we've determined the scope of the work."
Tagrian's assistant scribbled frantically in his notebook while the king's representative and I stared unblinkingly into each other's eyes. The poor lad was so frightened he nearly dripped his own sweat onto the expensive paper, which made him even more nervous.
"I am a multi-talented inventor; I know much and can create much," I said, a fresh gulp of beer adding to my good mood. Without bothering to wipe the foam from my mustache, I slammed the container onto the table with a crash. "What exactly do you need?"
"It would be easier to list what we already have," he replied with a tired sigh, in which growing hope and despair were mixed in equal measure. It seemed the king had chosen a capable assistant, given how sincerely he cared for his homeland. "The Kingdom of Stormwind lacks so much."
"Hm?"
Understanding my look correctly, Tagrian smirked into his mustache.
"Strong and loyal soldiers," he said, folding his fingers into a fist one by one. "Willing peasants and masters. Loyal friends in Lordaeron... And hordes of man-eating trolls to the east."
Grunting into my beard, I choked on my beer. Looking pityingly at the spilled foamy drink, I shook the droplets from my red beard, grumbling under my breath.
"The last one is certainly a compelling argument."
"And it is the reason," Tagrian huffed, wiping his neatly trimmed mustache and folding his powerful arms across his chest, "why we are talking at all, Master Rodgirn."
*Look at that, called me 'Master.' Quite the dandy. Seems like a proud soldier, but he knows how to lick boots when he has to.*
"And what about your 'friends'?" I had already managed to find out quite a bit about the local customs and laws, but the situation with the distant kin from the breakaway clan remained unclear, so the question was not idle. "Are they not planning to help you with their developments?"
"Not with all of them, especially not the ones we would like," Tagrian answered evasively, trying to steer away from the topic. "Your kinsmen from Wildhammer Peak are not particularly welcoming and react far more aggressively than you do if someone encroaches on their designs."
"So, the Lordaeronians didn't come up with the flint for their pistols themselves?" An ironic chuckle escaped my mouth against my will. If my brother found out how things stood, he'd rip his whole beard out laughing. "I see. That was to be expected."
Shrugging at my comment as if to say there was nothing surprising in it, Tagrian decided to change tactics, pouring himself the same beer I was having.
"Stromgarde is a strong and influential country." I could have disagreed with that, of course, but saying such a thing aloud... I hadn't drunk away all my brains yet. Tagrian, having taken a sip of the decent Dwarven beer, could barely keep the grimace off his face. "We will reward you handsomely for your labors..."
"That much is clear," I said, cutting the representative off with a wave of my hand, ignoring the dissatisfied murmurs of the masters and the man's sycophants. Only the small boy adjutant was behaving normally... by my simple standards, of course. "But we'll settle that later. Tell me exactly what you need."
"Hmm," he feigned a frown, stalling for time, though I could already see that Tagrian was ready to agree to anything and was now choosing what would be most profitable to ask for. After all, I would put my all into the first order for the sake of reputation and speed. "Arms. We need Arms. Something that will help smoke the trolls out of the jungles, something with which we can banish them from this part of the continent forever."
"A bold request," I said, running my thick fingers through my beard, carefully smoothing my pride and joy. Unlike Tagrian, I didn't stall, for I myself was not against working for the "benefit" of the stooped filth. "Fine! I will create some kind of contraption for you that will kill trolls no worse—and perhaps even better—than a good old axe."
"I meant pistols or rifles." The royal representative's lips curled into a crooked smile. "Perhaps even cannons or..."
"Ah," I waved a hand dismissively and took a pull from my mug. "That will come in time, and besides, you can't make them exactly the same. I'll come up with something better for you! Something special! Ha-ha-ha!"
Without mentioning the reward again, I quickly wrapped up the conversation. If everything went well, the weapons—the blueprints for which were already stored in my shoulder bag—would be a success and help the humans win back their lands.
After centuries of confrontation with those stooped bastards, the locals would be ready to carry me in their arms and indulge my many requests and suggestions. The collapse of the great human empire had gone poorly for Stromgarde. Once the capital of the Arathi Empire, Stromgarde had tried several times to regain its former glory in failed conflicts with other fragments of the empire. Now, it was struggling through its age, constantly waging war against an implacable enemy in the form of trolls, which caused most of the treasury to go toward maintaining the army and upholding fortresses...
Meanwhile, their western neighbors grew rich on trade routes and selling food to Stromgarde. It wasn't that the locals didn't know how or couldn't grow food, it was just...
Even in peaceful times, one always had to expect an attack from the fanged freaks, whose warbands constantly prowled near the humans so their youth could catch the scent of human blood... in every sense of the word, however unpleasant and gruesome that was to realize.
Therefore, it was no burden for me to help the humans in their struggle, especially if, in addition to killing the Cursed creatures, it would be more than compensated by an excellent reward, heh-heh.
After all, I was hoping for a meeting with the King of Stromgarde—Thoras Trollbane.
*Oh, what a glorious surname he has. I like this man already.*
There were decent rumors about him, and I was sure that if I helped his people get rid of those vile creatures, he would reward me many times better.
Cunningly rubbing my hands together—which clearly broke the mental mold of the guild representatives—I plunged vigorously into the work, trying to be everywhere at once. With the help of the allocated resources, I created new workshops from which weapons would soon flow.
*I'm doing a good deed, perhaps with a not entirely selfless motive, but how else could it be? I am, after all, a poor and lonely inventor who needs resources, influence, and gold... and beer! One must not forget the beer! Stromgarde brewers are certainly no Bugman's with their ale, but they'll do.*
In just two months, the first workshops were opened, and soon steel and other necessary components began to flow in. The humans worked two shifts, cursing me behind my back, but when the first outlines of the new weapon began to appear, most of them shut their traps.
But even if I had cared about the humans' words, I still wouldn't have been able to tear myself away from my task; it was so fascinating to indulge in my favorite work once again over a mug of beer.
To create. To make something new and hitherto unknown. It is probably one of the best feelings in the world! I swear by my beard!
Belching alcoholic vapors into the forge to stoke the fire, keeping records in a small notebook covered from top to bottom in fine, dry handwriting. Waking up every day and heading to the Workshop to check new samples and shout at the slow-witted humans who couldn't assemble a damn thing correctly, even with precise blueprints and my detailed explanations in hand.
Day after day, mixing various substances, experimenting, failing, or achieving success...
In the end, I was able to come to a remarkable discovery that marked the end of our process.
Almost six months had passed since the start of construction, and all that time I had been occupied with the most important thing: creating "projectiles" for the new weapon. When my grasping hands finally got hold of a mixture of oil and saltpeter, this monstrous weapon was ready.
A total of three tested prototypes were created, each with its own purpose, which I was now explaining to Tagrian, who had come to visit me.
"There is no ultimate weapon that will simply help kill all the trolls," I began my explanation to a group of "important" people who had slipped into the delegation to evaluate the new toys from the "tamed" Dwarf, as some of the less intelligent workers called me behind my back. "At first, I thought about creating new alloys and assembly lines that would allow you to churn out your own Armor and Arms in large quantities. I had to question your dim-witted masters, and it became clear that they simply wouldn't be able to handle the pace of work, and there was no particular point in it. There are far too few people in your country who don't have muscles instead of brains."
The simple joke among the warriors elicited modest smiles, but their eyes remained just as attentive and cold—at least for most of them. I suspected they knew I was holding something back, but there was nothing to be done about that.
No need to tell them about the machines; better they live in happy ignorance, believing that every second Gnome and Dwarf works in the factories and does nothing but create rifles.
"Therefore, I designed something new," I said, and with a deft flick of my hand, I yanked the cloths off the first exhibit. Something incomprehensible appeared before the eyes of my guests; it was written in plain text on their intellectual faces, so I had to take the situation into my own hands. "Right, I see how it is. It's better if I just demonstrate it right now rather than explain it in words. Tim, get over here!"
Calling over the most loyal, desperate, and—let's be honest—dim-witted fellow, I fitted him with a protective casing in a few movements, dressing the poor soul under the interested gazes of those gathered. They walked in circles around us, but thank the ancestors, they didn't pester me with questions, and for that, I was grateful.
Tightening the last strap, I fitted Tim with a steel barrel and thrust the weapon into his hands—a weapon the lad had already tested himself more than once. The first experience had nearly ended in his untimely death, and at the time, I thought I'd have to find a new assistant... one as talented as Tim, yeah.
But like hell! The boy didn't just stay; on the contrary, he came back and demanded to be the tester for my contraptions again. Was it fanatical patriotism in the hope of helping his country in some significant way, or just plain stupidity? I didn't know the answer, but from that day on, it was Tim who became my right hand in the new workshops of Stromgarde.
*Actually, he's a good lad, both for a human and in general. When I move on from here, I'll take the boy with me; otherwise, they'll just bury such talent in the ground.*
What kind of talent I was talking about became clear to everyone present a few minutes later. Proceeding to the nearest testing ground, which was enclosed by high walls, I quickly pushed everyone back, waving them away with the words that they would soon understand for themselves.
And when a couple of trolls in chains were brought out opposite Tim, most of the Stromgardians surrounding me immediately reached for their swords. But as soon as the boy pulled the trigger, shock, delight, awe, and horror washed over them completely.
A thick stream of flame erupted from the sprayer for a good twenty meters, illuminating us and searing us with a wave of heat. The pair of fanged man-eaters burned in a few seconds, falling to the ground with hoarse cries of pain.
Heat radiated from their bodies; they were covered in a black crust, and Tim continued to douse them with fire, burning the corpses to ash.
The frighteningly effective incendiary mixture of oil, saltpeter, and resin settled on the ground, sticking to stones and bones, practically melting them under the pressure of the temperature. The stench was almost worse than the heat, causing many to hastily cover their noses and step back when the black smog from the bodies was carried by the wind toward us.
"BURN! BURN!"
The simple country bumpkin, whose family had been slaughtered by trolls, was now shouting joyfully, advancing with slow, heavy steps, destroying the last remnants of the corpses.
"That's enough, Tim! That's plenty!" I shouted, running up behind the boy and giving him a good smack on the back of the head. "You'll burn all the fuel!"
"Eh?" My commanding shout worked, and the boy quickly shut off the flow, pointing the nozzle toward the sky. I had hammered safety procedures into this lad first thing, and as you can see, it even worked. "Forgive me, Master Rodgirn. I got carried away again..."
I didn't listen to Tim's mumbling; I had grown far too used to this grim side of him, so the apologies had become stale months ago.
"Well? What do you say? A magnificent thing, isn't it? I knew you'd like it."
The opinions within the delegation varied wildly. While the soldiers watched the demonstration with burning eyes, the rest—the more civilized and aristocratic part—were currently vomiting up the contents of their stomachs, trying to breathe through their mouths so as not to smell the stench of burnt meat.
"And how long does the flame last? How far? How much does it weigh? How many can you make?"
The soldiers, hungry for troll blood, set upon me from all sides, blocking my path and demanding immediate answers. Hulking men clad in Armor marked with chips and the scars of dozens of battles jumped around like schoolboys, sharing their opinions and firing off questions one after another.
"Right, hold on! I'll tell you everything, but actually..." With the gesture of a charlatan magician, I pulled a small stack of papers from my tunic, on which the basic characteristics of my creation were written. "Here, please, everything is explained like clockwork! Familiarize yourselves, and I'll go grab a mug of something."
My departure went unnoticed as they all carefully read through the pamphlet where I had answered the most common questions. In simple and clear language so that any fool could understand. Personally verified by Tim, so I knew what I was talking about!
The "Fire-spitter" was a true masterpiece of warfare. Twenty-two meters of real Hellfire, sticking to everything and burning everything. Almost a minute of continuous fire... though after that, either the ammunition ran out or the tank blew up, but that was fixable. The Fire-spitter was magnificent, in my opinion.
Yes, it had several obvious problems. It was awkward, heavy, and had a small ammunition capacity. But! Pistols didn't become the pinnacle of firearms overnight either. And what can I say?! Every day, the children of the Khaz mountains, the greatest minds of the Khazad people, come up with more and more various devices for killing their neighbors near and far.
I am sure that one day, someone will create something far more dangerous and terrifying that will overturn the world of weaponry, and then perhaps everyone will forget about my little project... but they will never forget about me, damn it!
"And descendants will say: 'Look, son, Rodgirn Steel Barrel, he started a new page in the history of the world.'"
Proudly planting my hands on my hips, I struck a heroic pose, enjoying the moment and fantasizing about all sorts of nonsense. I was coming down from the heavy months of work, and that was considering that I had made and thought out the main blueprints back in Ironforge or during my travels before setting out on my quest for Vengeance-class light cruiser.
*That was a long time ago.*
My reflections were interrupted by the sound of clapping. Measured, loud, without a hint of mockery, filled with sincerity.
Turning around, I met the gaze of one of the soldiers who had come with Tagrian. A young man, a mere whelp compared to me. He had no beard, and his somewhat angular face betrayed a very young age, but he was dressed decently in good steel—a full suit of plate Armor that not everyone could afford.
Catching my eye, the young man nodded in greeting, extending a hand toward me. Not one to shy away, I squeezed it, testing the lad's strength, and he didn't disappoint. His eyes flashed with excitement, and the muscles under his Armor bulged. We struggled for a few seconds before the stranger relaxed his hand, conceding defeat.
"You have a firm grip, Master Rodgirn." Shaking his aching hand, the boy nevertheless smiled contentedly. "Both in life and in ambition."
"Ha, just call me Rodgirn, lad," I said, clapping the boy on the shoulder, nearly sending him flying. I had plenty of raw strength. "You have the hands of a good warrior, so there's no need to lick my backside with words; just speak your piece."
A kind and understanding smirk graced his face. Only now did I notice that my new acquaintance was of a completely different breed compared to Tagrian's other assistants. A strong-willed face, a noble gaze, a stubborn jaw, and many other aspects not found in common soldiers and peasants. And although Stromgarde is famous for its warriors, the pedigree was immediately apparent here!
"My name is Danath," he said with a light and confident nod, a relaxed posture, and a direct gaze—all of which only strengthened my suspicions. "A pleasure to meet you."
Nodding at the human's words, I began to act busily.
"So, what did you want, lad?" Hiding a smirk in my beard, I entered the Workshop, beckoning Danath to follow. "Don't you want to play with the Fire-spitter too?"
"I am impressed and glad that all the resources spent did not go to waste," the boy said, looking around with interest, carefully noting small details that did not escape me—it was likely his first time in the brand-new workshops. "But as for me, a good old sword is better."
Slapping the hilt of his sword, he moved closer, examining the other specimens covered by tarps.
"Does that mean something even more impressive awaits us ahead?"
"Not really... unless there are sailors and siege masters among you," I said, yanking the nearest cover off to reveal a Fire-spitter enlarged many times over, mounted on a special platform. "This one here is for ships, and the one next to it is for storming gates, though... neither will be of much use in the war against the trolls."
"Who knows what will await us in the depths of the jungles." With shock and delight, the boy examined the formidable war machines, trying to imagine the length of the flame and its spread. "Perhaps there is a real fortress on the river there? In any case, a use will be found for them, especially in light of recent events."
"Recent?" My ironic huff did not escape my companion. "If you mean Stormwind, lad, it's been almost three years already."
"No," the man said, not taking offense at the nickname that had stuck. He stood near the last invention, the largest of the three. "King Magni Bronzebeard has gathered his troops and captured Grim Batol, driving out an entire clan of orcs. Now battles are raging across the Twilight Highlands, and every day more Dwarves and green-skins flock there... and trolls, ogres, and goblins are hanging around nearby too."
"Well, I'll be damned!" Jumping up at the news, I slapped my hands against my belt and began to pace frantically around the Workshop. "And how long has this been going on?"
"About a month..."
"Why did no one tell me?"
"You were impossible to reach," the boy said, shrugging with an awkward smile that made me lose any desire to pick a fight. "So we decided to just wait until the work was done."
"Honest and pragmatic," I said, punching the human's shoulder and smiling to show that everything was fine. "But you needn't have worried; I wouldn't have left, as we have a contract... and it's a bit early for me to return anyway."
I whispered the last sentence under my breath, forgetting for a moment that someone else was standing beside me. Thank the ancestors, Danath, even if he heard, ignored my words, returning to the pressing conversation.
"One never knows; you never know what's in a sentient being's heart. In any case, I am glad that the investment in your business has paid off." Running a hand along the huge cannon of the siege Fire-spitter, Danath walked along the weapon, marveling at its size and visual power. His sincere face didn't even try to hide his emotions, the sight of which caused a warm, understanding smile to spread across my bearded mug. "If we enter the war with the orcs, these things will certainly prove themselves. I'm sure my uncle will be even more delighted when he sees these Fire-spitters of yours."
"You haven't even seen the last Little One in action; now that's a real miracle..." Already anticipating the humans' faces when I showed them my new weapon, I nevertheless didn't let the boy's words slip past my ears. "Wait, uncle? What's he got to do with it?"
"Hm? My uncle Thoras," Danath clarified with a wry smile, seeing the confusion on my face. "The King of Stromgarde."
***
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