Meanwhile, in the distant north, a different battle was raging. Northrend was a harsh realm, where howling winds beat down upon endless wastes of pearly-white snow and jagged towers of ice. There was little or no life here, save for a few scattered species of suitably toughened beasts. To survive here was to survive in one of the toughest environments in all of Azeroth. The war had thus far spared this barren landscape, Northrend’s savage beauty untouched and serene from the destruction. Until now.

‘Incoming!’

Cannons thundered and explosions blossomed across the open plain, showering shrapnel and muddy snow over the jagged maze of trenches and stocky watch towers that made up the Alliance’s position. Orders were brusquely shouted down the line; soldiers bustling to and fro, armour clinking and weapons rattling as they sought to prepare for the enemy’s next attack. The Alliance positions were all but empty now, most of the men having fled hopelessly into the wilderness that lay away from the carnage. For the third day in a row, the few that had stayed were to be besieged.

Talim Mar swore violently as an arrow snapped past his head. He was already half frozen to death underneath his mail vest and furs, the last thing he needed was an arrow in the face from a Troll archer. Talim ducked lower into the shallow trench, his thoughts broiling in a mixture of hatred and disgust. His hatred came from at having been left to rot out here by their noble Prince, who had vanished along with three-quarters of the army a week ago, presumably dead like so many others. Talim felt disgusted at himself because he almost admired the enemy.

Ah yes, the trolls. Local mercenaries looking for a bit of payback, his superior officer had said they were, a day before he too had died. Many claimed that they were from the same tribe that Arthas had executed for torching the fleet’s ships, and had come for a little revenge. Little was known about Northrend, but for this abandoned unit of Alliance soldiers, these Trolls were the enemy. Talim didn’t care really; all he knew were that they were organised, well-disciplined and, judging from the amount of bodies that lined the base of the trench, skilled with a bow and arrow. The Alliance’s morale was almost broken, the result of three days of hunkering in a freezing trench combined with dwindling food supplies. Talim would kill for a bit of decent grub.

For the moment, the Trolls were merely probing the defensive line; scattered packs of mounted riders conducting hit and fade operations. Their numbers were larger than previously anticipated, and the main attack was yet to hit.

‘Take heart, friends, for if the enemy is close enough to hit you…’ a single gunshot rang out and a Troll wordlessly tumbled out of his saddle,’… then you are close enough to hit them back.’

Talim inclined his head to his right and gazed enviously at his companion for a moment, mystified at the man’s comfort with such a hazardous climate. Alpin Kalmore was in every sense an unknown entity; even his armour was hardly regulation Imperial issue. Sitting on his head was a battered mithril helm, adorned with two barbaric horns that curved forward menacingly. His snow-tanned lay skin hidden beneath the dark armour, a woolly yeti hide was draped over him, which was coated with a thin layer of foamy snow. What little Talim could see of Alpin’s body beneath the cloak implied a rippling physique, forged from a life-time of physical hardship. The cold didn’t seem to affect him at all.

‘You almost seem to be enjoying yourself!’ hollered Talim over the echoing blast of cannon fire.

‘Aye,’ grinned Alpin as he reloaded, ‘it reminds me of back home in Arathai; just with more targets!’

Alpin sighted again and snapped off a shot at a passing Troll mounted-archer. The bullet clipped the rider in the temple, killing him instantly. Alpin had noted that the Troll mounts, a light-footed species of leathery-skinned raptor, were skittish creatures, and without guidance broke ranks and darted for freedom. This, the warrior decided, could be used to their advantage. With its rider dead, the raptor squealed in fright and bolted to the left, colliding roughly with one of its fellows. The two beasts tumbled roughly to the ground, in an entangled heap of thrashing limbs. Alpin smirked.

And then suddenly his smirk faded, his features becoming lined and weathered once more. The enemy’s main attack force had arrived. In their dozens.

‘Prepare to engage, here they come!’

---

There were thirty of them, lining the edge of the ridge that swept down toward the Alliance’s ragged trench network. Clad in close-fitting, ebony carapace armour, only their dark, beady eyes and sharpened tusks were visible below the elongated face plate that swept down over their features. Their spear tips glinted hungrily in the blazing sun.

Zai’jin, Battle master of the Exiled Mounted Cavalry, narrowed his eyes as he absorbed the Alliance’s position with a practiced eye. His people had occupied the wastes of Northrend for years, eking out on an existence since their banishment by peacefully hunting the wildlife. Though they had carved out an existence of a sort, they were slowly dying out; the exiles were predominantly male, and every year their numbers continued to dwindle. Though extinction was inevitable, he resented the idea of fading away peacefully.

Perhaps the Alliance’s presence here is a blessing in disguise, Zai’jin mused to himself as he ran an absent minded-hand over his chipped left tusk. The Alliance’s arrival on Northrend had ended any chance of a peaceful end. Zai’jin’s tribesmen had gone off seeking glory and gold from the human Prince, only to find betrayal and death at their employer’s hands. And now here he was, forced to try and convert the Tribe’s lust for revenge into a structured military assault. To charge a fortified Alliance position was insane, suicidal even. Zai’jin had seen as much in the Second War. And yet he didn’t care, he decided; better to die with a spear in my hand and courage in my heart than fade away, forgotten.

The burly Troll twisted about in his saddle, the leather squeaking in protest at his immense size. His mount, a venerable raptor with light blue skin, snorted impatiently. Zai’jin patted it affectionately on its head as he cast a glance at his soldiers. Zai’jin’s men were the last surviving troops of the Exiles, disciplined from years of hunting and training. To fail here would mean the death of their cursed Tribe. With a nod of resignation, the Troll raised his hand, the men visibly tensing to charge. He would not die a coward, at least.

‘Warriors of the Exiled,’ his deep voice boomed,’ for years we have lived in isolation, brothers united by carrying the same burden of shame upon our shoulders. And it is with great pride that I carry such a burden, for it means I am part of a truly brave army of warriors. These Alliance dogs have disrupted our peaceful way of life, threatened our existence and murdered our kin in cold-blood. And now our day of retribution is upon us!’ The Trolls howled their approval, beating their spears against their shields noisily.

‘So now, I ask you this: are you with me brothers?’ Another roar resounded across the plain. Zai’jin smiled, tears welling in his eyes. ’Then let their spilled blood wash away your past’s shame, for Honour!’

‘For Honour!’

And so with that war-cry, the Exiles charged their final charge.

---

Alpin aimed, fired, and then aimed again. Accuracy wasn’t a problem: the Trolls were packed together tightly enough that even the cannon had an easy time of gouging into the oncoming enemy’s ranks. Alpin’s problem was that there were more targets than he had bullets. The raptors stumbled and fell as bullet after bullet cut into them, the occasional cannon ball contacting with an eruption of crimson flesh and powdered snow. One hapless Troll successfully managed to catch a cannon ball the chest, a clean hole torn through him as he fell. With a dry click his rifle was empty, and Alpin slung it over his back.

With practiced ease he drew a two-handed claymore that was slung across his back. Time to get messy. The first Troll leapt into the trench between Talim and Alpin, its rider splattered with the blood of his fallen comrades. The Troll roared a challenge and jabbed at Alpin with its spear. Alpin side-stepped the thrust and brought his sword down on the shaft, splintering it with a crack of shattered wood. Alpin darted forward and buried his claymore to the hilt directly through the raptor’s neck. With a screech the beast toppled, the talon on its thrashing foot slicing across Alpin’s chest as it went down. A searing wave of fire laced across Alpin’s torso as he was thrown backward by the force of the kick. The Troll rider lay still, crushed below the weight of his own mount. Alpin rolled onto his side and eased himself into a crouch.

‘Alpin, are you ok?!’ Talim asked helplessly as he knelt beside his winded friend. Alpin winced as he pulled himself to his feet. Blood flowed down from where his breastplate had been torn as though it were so much moistened tissue. The wound was messy, but not particularly deep. He’d survived worse.

‘I’ll live.’

Zai’jin’s heart soared in triumph as his mount leapt straight over a trench into the area where the enemy’s cannon lay. Sliding out of his mount, the Troll expertly flung a throwing knife at his nearest target. The dwarf barely murmured as he tried to tug the knife from out of his throat. Zai’jin scythed his way through the rear defensive line of the Alliance, if only he had known the humans had been so few in number, he would have charged days ago! Giddy excitement flowed through him as he put the final Alliance gunner to the sword. The Battle Master turned and remounted his steed, urging his raptor toward where the last remnants of resistance sounded from. This day would be his.

The enemy were adapting. The Trolls had peeled into two separate groups, in an effort to confuse the Alliance gunners. Both groups darted in opposite directions, hurling spears and firing arrows deep into the Alliance position with unnerving accuracy. Scream after scream punctuated throughout the human ranks as the Troll projectiles found their marks. The left group of Trolls, five riders in total, were turning back this way, toward Alpin and Talim. Alpin hastily dug his weapon out of the dead raptor and then crouched low, waiting for the right moment. Talim mimicked the larger man, confused but eager to do something that might prolong his chances of survival.

‘What are we doing?’ whispered Talim urgently as a cluster of Trolls steadily approached.

Alpin raised a finger to his lips, ‘Do you hear that?’ he asked.

Talim strained his ears, searching for a sound out of the ordinary. Aside from the thundering of the raptors’ feet and the wails of the wounded, he could hear nothing new. Then the realisation hit Talim like an iron mace. It wasn’t a new sound he was listening for, but rather for the absence of an old sound.

‘The cannons, they’ve stopped!’ exclaimed Talim.

Alpin nodded, ‘which means we’ve got about thirty seconds before they rush straight into our trench and finish us off, so we’ve got to make a move fast. Personally I don’t want to go toe-to-toe with those raptors on their terms. So we’ll have to improvise.’

‘Improvise?! I still have no idea what you’re on about Alpin!’ Talim was exasperated but the warrior clearly wasn’t listening anymore. The warrior’s lips were mouthing a single word over and over as he watched the beasts approach.

‘Almost…… almost…’ Alpin’s eyes were focused on the oncoming mounts almost obsessively, ‘…now!’

With a bellow Alpin exploded out of the trench, charging straight for the Troll riders. Alpin battered an incoming spear to one side with his sword then lodged a foot on the stirrup of a passing Troll rider. In a single motion Alpin swung himself up onto the raptor’s back behind the Troll. The rider twisted about, a strangled cry of shock escaping from his throat as Alpin wrapped his arms around the Troll’s neck and twisted it with a disembodied snap. Alpin shoved the Troll’s body from the saddle and swung his claymore at the adjacent rider, who was still trying to digest the fact that somebody would be stupid enough to charge at an Exile mount on foot. The blade slashed across the visor of the Troll, who raised his hands to his eyes and began to shriek in agony.

Talim could only look on incredulous as the Arathai mercenary unleashed hell amongst the Exile’s ranks. Jets of blood sliced through the air in the wake of the man’s blade as he urged his newly-acquired steed throughout the cluster of Trolls. The Trolls once again proved their responsiveness to changes in the battlefield, this time by breaking into a loose formation, neatly encircling Alpin in a wide circle. The second group of Trolls swarmed back into formation, blocking any chance of escape. There were twelve Trolls still alive and only one of him. Alpin leaned close to his mount’s saddle, using the raptor’s head as a shield: if they were going to try and hit him, they’d have to risk hurting their comrade’s mount.

Unfortunately for the warrior, Zai’jin was significantly more intelligent than Alpin gave him credit for. The Troll Battle Master flipped his helmet’s faceplate up and uttered a sharp, ear-splitting whistle. Alpin’s raptor bucked wildly, dumping Alpin roughly onto the churned up snow as it ran off. The Trolls laughed derisively, and then dismounted. The battle was over. All that remained was a final execution.

Talim hesitated from the safety of the trench. He seemed to be the only one left alive inside the Alliance camp; the cannons were silent, and the other trenches were littered with the bodies of both Trolls and humans, entwined in the grotesque embrace of death. Talim bit his lip as indecision coursed through his head; Alpin’s bravery may be an admirable quality to some, but it certainly wasn’t one Talim himself shared. To have a death wish was Alpin’s prerogative, not Talim’s responsibility; it wasn’t his fault the man rushed out to greet death with open arms. Even so, Talim couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding in front of him. Suddenly, Talim saw a single armoured figure climb out of a trench to his right, and stride purposefully into the centre of the Troll’s circle.

What in the name of…

---

Lying flat on his back, Alpin squinted as a shaft of light beamed straight through his helmet’s visor. He squeezed his eyes shut, fully expecting not to enjoy the sensation of being stabbed multiple times from multiple angles. The Trolls roared, and Alpin tried to close his eyes even tighter. At least he would die with the sun on his face.

Suddenly a shadow fell across him. Alpin’s eyes opened in surprise; a giant shield was held above him, eclipsing the blinding sun. Arrows clanged harmlessly against the armoured surface, splintering on impact. The shield was a jagged metallic cross, whose edges looked to be as vicious as any blade’s. What truly surprised Alpin, however, was the person holding the shield.

‘Good to see your still with me, Brother,’ greeted an unfamiliar, cheerful voice,’ I was beginning to think I’d have to kill them all on my own!’

Zai’jin watched as a single human stood over his fallen ally, sheltering him with the protection of an immense shield. The Troll raised his hand, stalling his archer’s attempts at killing the imposing newcomer. The human was high in rank, Zai’jin could tell as much from the quality of his armour. A flowing red cloak billowed out from the man’s back, the rest of his body encased in a shell of battle-scarred armour. A thin layer of Troll blood dulled the surface of his mace. Perhaps he would be a worthy opponent.

The Troll leader climbed out of his saddle slowly, eyeing his enemy cautiously.

Benedict Dalian nodded at the largest Troll he’d ever seen. Somebody’s ate his vegetables as a child, the young paladin noted sourly as he saw the Troll whirl a sword about in the air, the blade a dizzying blur. The Troll then sheathed the sword, and accepted a spear from a nearby trooper. Testing the weight of the spear with an appraising eye, the Troll nodded in satisfaction and then stepped forward, breaking rank with the rest of his men.

Typical, thought Dalian, it’s always the giant one with the over-sized arms that wants the duel. Taking a single step away from Alpin, the paladin inclined his head in wary respect at the Troll leader, and waited for him to make the next move. Dalian squeezed the handle of his mace reassuringly. He could do this.

Zai’jin closed a fist over his breastplate and nodded solemnly. Dalian nodded in acknowledgement, and then knelt into a bow. Both combatants rose, and regarded each other for a moment. There was a pause, the only sound being the snowflakes melting against the pearly white floor.

And then the duel began.

Zai’jin rushed to greet his opponent, spear raised eagerly. The Trolls began to cheer, urging their leader on. Dalian broke into a run, weapon ready. Their weapons clashed, echoing all over the valley. Without breaking stride Dalian caught the oncoming spear with his shield, knocking the weapon aside harmlessly. Zai’jin masterfully used the force of the rebounding impact to roll into a crouch, whereupon he drew a matching set of twin short-swords. Attack upon attack slashed toward Dalian, who caught each and every one of them with his shield. Despite the fact that he was holding against the physically overwhelming Troll, Alpin saw that Dalian was back-pedalling steadily, losing ground.

The Troll leader truly was a master swordsman, the blades flashing toward Dalian at unexpected angles. Dalian winced as Zai’jin somersaulted cleanly over the paladin. What the Troll lacked in armour, he made up for with agility and physical strength. His fighting style was more akin to a dance than anything else, even to the extent where his feet would lash out, taking swipes at Dalian’s legs. Dalian leapt backward away from the Troll’s wild strikes, waiting for the right moment to counter-attack.

And then the moment came. Zai’jin swung too heavily with one of his swords, his hand hovering outstretched for a second too long. Dalian’s mace caught the blade of the weapon, the force of the blow sending the blade hurtling out of the Troll’s hand. With a snarl of frustration, Zai’jin grabbed the paladin’s shield in one of the few places where it wasn’t serrated, and attempted to pull it away from its owner. Dalian’s mace struck again, this time it landed on the Troll’s thick knuckle, shattering it with a splintering of bone and cartilage. The Battle Master howled and rolled backwards, nursing his broken hand protectively with his other hand.

And so the fight continued, both combatants steadily inflicting minor damage on each other; Zai’jin successfully managed to slide a quick slash or two past Dalian’s shield, slicing jagged cuts deep into the paladin’s weapon-holding arm, but the duel continued to be a stalemate. The snow began to fall thicker upon the two warriors, whirling into a blizzard. Around and around they circled, trading blow after blow until at last, finally, the two opponents clashed for a final time.

Zai’jin smiled confidently as he ducked under a heavy swing of Dalian’s mace. Granted, the human was hard to hit, but his attacks were growing less and less fierce. It was only a matter of time. The Troll raised his hand to strike. Time to finish this, for the glory of the Exiles. His knife arced toward Dalian’s faceplate, slicing across the man’s right eye. The paladin cried out in agony and dropped to one knee, shield raised as blood flowed freely from the narrow eye-slit. Zai’jin snorted in contempt. Zai’jin was almost disappointed. And to think I thought him a worth opponent

Zai’jin stalked around the kneeling paladin, whose chest was heaving with exertion. The Troll tossed his remaining sword from hand to hand, relishing his impending victory.

‘Observe, Exiles: the death of yet another human.’ Zai’jin jeered.

The Troll’s sword lashed out. Dalian rolled, and swung his shield to bear. The moment the blade tipped the shield, a flaring blast of Holy fire exploded from the shield’s surface and washed over the Troll. Zai’jin howled, swatting at the flames as he stumbled back, blinded. Dalian surged to his feet, and grabbed the Troll leader by the tusk, cracking his helmet against Zai’jin’s face. The Troll’s tusk broke clean off with dull snap. Stepping in close to the Zai’jin, the paladin brought his blunt mace down against the side of his opponent’s skull. Zai’jin dropped without a sound.

Silence descended upon the Trolls, their cheers stifled in their throats.

‘Who is next?’ asked Dalian as he used the back of his gauntlet to wipe the blood that was pouring down from his wounded face.

With a wary grunt of challenge, two more Trolls cautiously took a step forward, and then charged from opposite directions. These Trolls don’t seem to understand the concept of a fair duel, thought Alpin. The wounded paladin turned just in time to catch an incoming sword with his mace. To Alpin’s amusement the human seemed fond of whirling his shield about as a weapon. And to noticeable effect. The shield’s rim impacted its jagged edges into the face of the nearest Troll with an eruption of blood and teeth. The Troll howled and sank to his knees, whereupon he caught a knee to the bridge of his nose. With a harsh crack a second Troll had fallen.

The manner in which the paladin engaged the charging Trolls was as simplistic as it was brutal; there was nothing elaborate or intricately rehearsed about it. There was just the whirling shield and the blunt mace, and the splintering of bones where both found their targets. Dalian’s silver helmet was flecked with the blood of his enemies as steadily tore them apart. More and more Trolls rushed at him. The battle had ended but, contrary to what the Trolls had once thought, they were not the ones going to survive it.

Alpin rose to his feet, scooping his claymore from the ground and planting it firmly in the skull of one of the paladin’s assailants. Alpin was caked with blood, aching and exhausted, but he would not surrender. Back to back, the warrior and the paladin faced their foes; the dying screams of the Trolls ringing out across what had once been a battlefield.