Iomhar nodded, but before he could say anything Beathan burst in. "Trolls!" he shouted, collapsing onto a nearby stool. His left arm hung useless at his side, still bleeding from a deep cut near the shoulder. "We were diving on a party of those greenskins when a pack of forest trolls jumped us! Took out Moray and Seaghdh with their first blows and knocked Alpin and Lachtin from their gryphons." He indicated his wound. "I took a nasty cut from one's axe but managed to dodge the second blow, or it'd have taken me head off."
"Damn!" Kurdran growled. "They're teamed with the trolls then, greenskin and greenskin! And those trolls'll keep us from using the trees!" He tugged at his mustache in frustration. "We need something to even the odds, and fast, lads, or they'll be swarming us over like ants on a beetle."
As if to answer his statement a third dwarf appeared to report. But this one, a scout named Dermid, wasn't wounded. And he looked pleased rather than worried.
"Humans!" he announced happily. "A great mass o' them! They say they've come to help us fight off the orcs—that's what they call the greenskins."
"Ancestors be praised," Kurdran rumbled. "If they can keep these orcs busy enough to forget their new tactics, we can strike them down from above again." He grinned as he hefted his stormhammer. "Aye, and we'll be taking care of any trolls that get close, too. They may control the trees but we rule the skies, and our gryphons will tear them apart an' they come within reach." He turned and stalked toward the door, already whistling for Sky'ree. "Wildhammers, let's fly!" he shouted, and behind him the other dwarves cheered and hastened to obey.
"Now!" Lothar spurred his mount forward and charged across the clearing, bursting upon the pack of orcs. They whirled about, clearly surprised—they had been busy watching the skies, and many of them were holding spears instead of their usual axes and hammers. One thought to throw its spear at Lothar but the Champion was too close by then, and his massive sword swept out, shearing through spear and arm together, then looping back and removing the orc's head before its severed arm had even hit the ground.
Turalyon was right beside him, and his hammer struck an orc and shattered its chest. His second blow glanced off an orc's arm, which was enough to make the green—skinned creature drop its axe. He simply struck it in the head this time, and it crumpled without a sound.
But Turalyon did hear a strange noise, somewhere between a cough and a laugh, and glanced up. A tall figure, taller than an orc and more narrowly built, dropped from the trees in front of him, a spear held in its large, long—fingered hands. Its eyes were sharp and narrow, its features narrow as well, and it grinned at him as it jabbed with its spear, showing rows of pointed teeth. A troll!
Turalyon raised his shield, blocking the spear thrust even though it hammered his shield back against him hard enough to leave his arm weak. He responded with a fierce blow from his hammer, staggering the troll but not stopping it. The creature glided forward again, spear at the ready, and Turalyon spurred his horse forward, bracing his shield just before it smashed into the troll's face and chest. The troll had not expected that crude an attack and took the blow full—force, reeling back and shaking its head to clear it. Turalyon didn't give it time to recover, however. His hammer took it in the jaw and dropped the troll to the ground in a heap.
Pleased with himself, Turalyon glanced up just in time to see a second troll step out onto a nearby branch. Its eyes were narrowed in hate and its spear was pulled back to throw. Turalyon knew at once that the weapon was aimed at him, and that he was not strong enough to block it or fast enough to dodge it. He prepared himself for the worst, closing his eyes and listening for the sound of the flying spear against the rising wind.
Instead he heard a strange, shrill shriek, mingled with a deep bellow then a massive thunderclap, and behind that a cry of sudden pain. Opening his eyes again Turalyon saw an amazing sight. The troll was falling from its perch, hands still clutching at the side of its face, which appeared to be crushed. Above it hovered a majestic creature, one Turalyon had heard of but never seen before. It was built like a lion, with the same tawny fur, but instead of a feline head it had a fierce bird's visage, the beak wide and emitting the shriek he had already heard. Its front legs ended in deadly talons but its rear legs had thick cat—like pads and a long tail swayed behind it. Great wings were flared out along its sides, and feathers covered its head and trailed off along its shoulders. And a man rode it like a steed.
No, not a man, Turalyon saw, though of course he already knew. He had heard of the Wildhammer dwarves, though he had not met one before. Taller and leaner than their Bronzebeard cousins, the Wildhammers were still shorter and stouter than a man, with heavy chest and thick corded arms. They wielded stormhammers, like the massive weapon even now returning to this dwarf's hand, and clearly that had caused the troll's demise.
The dwarf saw Turalyon looking at him and grinned, raising his hammer in salute. Turalyon raised his own hammer in return, then spurred his horse forward and targeted another orc. With the dwarves circling overhead he no longer worried about an attack from above, leaving him free to concentrate on the Horde. The orcs, on the other hand, had to worry about attacks from every direction except beneath their feet, leaving them confused and unnerved. And as Lothar had hoped the trees forced the orcs to move in small groups instead of a single mass, allowing the Alliance soldiers to pick them off one cluster at a time.
Hours later, Kurdran welcomed the human leaders into his home. Their commander was a big man, even bigger than most, with a good dwarf—like beard and a long braid even if the top of his head was almost bare. He carried himself like a warrior born, and Kurdran could tell the man had seen more than his share of battles, yet those blue eyes remained alert and the golden lion head on his shield and breastplate still gleamed. The younger one, woefully unbearded, seemed less sure of himself, but Zoradan said he'd seen him use that big hammer almost as well as a dwarf. There was something else about the lad, a sense of calm, that reminded Kurdran of his shaman. Perhaps the lad was a shaman himself, or otherwise in touch with the elements or the spirits? Certainly the third one, the violet—robed man with the short, scruffy white beard but the young man's walk, he was a wizard, that was plain enough. And then there was the elven lass, lovely and strong and lithe, as they all were, with her green and her bow and her laughing eyes. Kurdran had rarely met such interesting people, and he would have been happy to do under any circumstances. Right now he was even more pleased to make their acquaintance.
"Greetings, laddies—and lass!" he told them, gesturing to the chairs and stools and cushions scattered around the room. "Ye are welcome indeed! We feared those greenskins—the ones you call orcs—would overrun our homes, they were so many! But your arrival put an end to that, and together we'll be driving them from the Hinterlands! I am in your debt."
The big warrior sat on a stool near Kurdran's own chair, idly adjusting the massive sword slung across his back. "You lead the Wildhammers?" he asked.
"I am Kurdran Wildhammer," Kurdran replied. "I am chief thane, so aye, they will go where I lead."
"Good." The warrior nodded. "I am Anduin Lothar, former Knight of Stormwind and now commander of the Alliance forces." He explained about the Horde, and about Stormwind's fate. "Will you join us?"