"I was there when the dwarves first showed the world their new weapon.
We thought then it would change the world forever.
Gurubashi trolls charged straight at us, screaming and spitting,
Those vile beasts brandished fists, danced, tossing dead bodies into the air.
True savages fit only for the world's edge, that shithole they call home.
But now the whole wave of hunched freaks ran right at us.
We stood at the formation's edge, covering the dwarves on the flanks.
Their confidence gave us hope,
And when they pulled strange tubes from their backs, I expected anything...
But this. This was horrific, unbelievably terrifying, and inspiring all at once.
Never in my life have I felt anything like it again.
A volley from hundreds of fire tubes unleashed a death wave on the advancing ranks.
The roar was like the sky crashing down, scaring horses and soldiers.
Panic screams and cries to the Light everywhere, and the dwarves...
They advanced from the smoke, grinning wide and reloading..."
The machine's piston cheekily dropped down, slowly grinding the part. Millimeter by millimeter shaved off repeatedly, gradually shaping the gear.
Inside the protective casing hummed a simple steam engine I'd chosen as an example and proof of cheapness. I could've bothered with a mana generator, but I think that would've backfired.
The lathe had run for hours without glitches. Several times the part was removed, meticulously measured for deviations, and checked with every tool known to our people.
Masters from Gnomeregan, our good gnome neighbors, had been summoned. A pair of tiny specialists now comically yelped and waved arms, managing to neatly flip through sketches and blueprints, tweaking their copies and doodling with pencil right on the notebook edges.
Suppressing another smile, I returned to the machine, my brainchild. With it, I'd climb higher, unlocking new secrets and knowledge hoarded by production heads.
Drizzling oil from a tube onto the quickly heating metal, I pursed my lips critically for the audience, though inside I was ready to jump and dance like a kid. The oil was even cheaper than planned. Sure, the workshop stank, and my clothes reeked of a weird mix of soot and chemicals, but when has that stopped a good master, let alone a dwarf!?
Right—never!
Everyone frankly didn't care. If I'd greased the lathe with troll shit and it worked, they'd just shake my hand, thanking me for giving those hunched louts purpose in life.
Four hours of machining now, and all this time I had to keep a stoic face, hiding sincerity from the finicky judges gathered from all clans and guilds.
Masters from every trade, united only by creation. Unblinking, they stared at the new lathe's work, which should greatly change our society. First of its kind, but not the last. A device to free vast manpower for other fields.
They grimaced, nitpicked, bombarded me with questions, but deep in their eyes, I saw the esteemed elders and masters agreed—it profited them first.
Hundreds of dwarves and gnomes could tackle vital tasks instead of wasting thousands of hours perfectly shaping a tiny gear.
Slapping the lathe's side with my broad palm, I drew a grumpy hiss from the machine. Puffing and clanking pistons, it coughed smoke twice and froze mid-process. Through the loupe, you could see the tiny cut, aborted in the center.
"Ah, poor thing, didn't make it a couple minutes," turning to the smiling audience, I just shrugged, puffing my pipe packed with pungent, strong tobacco, "no limit to perfection."
"Yeah, indeed..." Stepping forward from the group, Master Ludin smacked his lips judiciously, then dropped an old dwarven saying. "Lives in the woods, but knows an anvil."
The words of one of our most revered and eldest dwarves put the final period on deliberations. The graybeard trundled past me, winking last, stroking the lathe's side with his still-strong hand.
His fingers gently traced the machine, then he closed his eyes briefly, listening to the lingering heat from it.
Smiling into his beard, Ludin nodded to his thoughts and moved on, his assistants and apprentices trailing, expressing respect on the fly and struggling to keep up with the spry grandpa.
The rest circled the now-broken machine a couple more minutes, twisting and turning mechanisms, inspecting the failed piston, and checking the part against standards.
Not hindering each other, they sampled the gear until curiosity was sated. Quietly murmuring among themselves, the esteemed masters left the workshop, leaving me alone... Or so I thought.
"Congratulations," a familiar voice sounded behind me. I didn't need to turn to know the owner, "that was a stunning success."
"And you're saying that about a broken lathe?"
"I'm just surprised," ignoring my sarcasm, the dwarf approached, scrutinizing the cooled machine. Muttering softly to himself, he hmmed approvingly before continuing in his usual mocking tone, "that it lasted longer than a couple minutes."
"Sharp-tongued son of a bitch," a smile crept onto my face unbidden. No more holding back; spinning around, I no longer hid my joy at the reunion, "hello, Tagrin."
Two palms met with a clap before our faces. Flexing muscles, we tested strength, trying to overpower each other, but as always, it ended in a draw. Strengths equal, though this time Tagrin's hands seemed to tremble at the end, but I didn't say it aloud. No need to spoil the kin's mood...
Too soon.
"What brings you to my lair?" Patting my relative's shoulder, I beckoned him over invitingly. "Thought you were busy with something way more interesting."
Rummaging in the desk, I pulled out a pair of spotless mugs—polished from constant use—while my old comrade and cousin hauled a beer barrel from junk piles, hidden as any self-respecting dwarf would. Close to the work, and crucially, the body.
"Heard you were back and wanted to check on an old friend..."
"Oh," waving dismissively like a human granny, I grimaced, unwilling to hear this bullshit from the start, "get to the point already, or if you start rubbing your balls on the table, we'll sit till morning."
"How impatient you've become," smirking into his luxurious black mustache, which connected to the beard and trailed to his ears, practically reaching them, little brother downed half the mug in one gulp, then with a hawking sound slammed it on the table, "you've been hanging out with humans too much..."
"Magni does it too, and nothing happens." Tagrin's reproach was fair, of course, but I didn't feel like listening to it for the umpteenth time in the last few days. Stuffing his pipe at that moment, little brother rolled his eyes in the usual way he'd done since childhood whenever he thought someone was talking nonsense. "How am I any worse than our glorious king?"
Imitating my kin, I slammed my empty mug on the table with the same thud, fully living up to the nickname they'd given me.
"What the hell kind of comparison is that," choking on smoke, Tagrin burst into laughter, "though... You're ginger too. Maybe you're one of Magni's brothers? His glorious father was famous for his... ahem, ahem... ardor."
"Haven't gotten it in the beard in a while?" Without prompting, I poured us another round under my kin's satisfied smile, which didn't match what he'd just said. "I'll drag you by yours quick enough."
Threatening the joker with my pound-heavy fist, I finally sat down, having finished clearing the table of assorted tool trash and shards left from the gears I'd used in the lathe demo. Good thing none of the inspectors saw them, or there'd have been even more questions and grumbling than when I went off on my vengeful expedition...
"What'd you come for? Spit it out already..." A pouch of southern tobacco, once grown in Stormwind, appeared on the table, spreading a wonderful aroma... Eh, it was worth standing up for our allies just for this marvel! But the pungent sweetish scent didn't let me get distracted from the conversation. "Or you gonna keep dodging the topic?"
"Eh, hothead, just like in childhood..." Raising his palms placatingly, little brother puffed toward the ceiling, realizing that a bit more and I'd go from words to action. "Alright, alright. Stop glaring at me like that." Rummaging in his pocket, Tagrin pulled out a neat bundle tied with a silken cord onto the table. "Take a look at this instead, and don't scowl... This is important."
He added the last part in a much quieter and more serious voice, which rarely escaped his sarcastic and biting lips.
Deciding to trust my old friend, I still pulled the bundle closer, already having a rough idea of what was inside.
Untying the tiny bows, I pulled back the edges of the cloth with outstretched fingers, revealing a beautiful and menacing weapon. Predatory, smooth lines with even angles. A blend of steel and wood, the pinnacle of gunsmithing mastery. Neat engravings and small decorations to please the eye, but not hinder in battle.
"A pistol?" A ball of smoke burst from my mouth. Not even taking the pipe out, I scrutinized the item before my eyes, practically licking the weapon.
"A pistol." As succinct a question, so too a succinct answer—perfectly normal talk between long-acquainted dwarves.
"A pistol..." I repeated, peering even closer at the handiwork... And that it was handiwork left no doubt.
"Yeah, yeah, a pistol," the dwarf snorted smoke my way in annoyance, bristling and folding his arms across his chest, "look closer, you hick, this ain't for cutting teeth..."
'Can't resist a jab, the bastard. And he knows I won't yank his beard for it, heh-heh.'
No longer listening to the stream of insults, I finished needling Tagrin, fully focusing on the matter at hand. It was always easy to rile him up, which I often exploited, sometimes driving my comrade to the brink and making him blurt something interesting. In a fit of anger, he could spill a lot, but right now the weapon on the table interested me more.
Unlike typical dwarven specimens, this pistol was unusual. At the same time, it didn't resemble goblin contraptions, which the little freaks hammered together from shit and sticks.
And the first thing that caught the eye was the much narrower barrel. Thin, barely finger-thick, it stretched over the grip a good twenty centimeters, unlike the wide and thick walls in dwarven and gnomish handiwork.
"Strange weapon," fully immersed in my thoughts, I didn't hear my brother's reply—or maybe there wasn't one. He knew me since my early years and knew perfectly well it was useless to talk to me right now. "Unusual design."
Taking it in hand, I weighed the resulting marvel and discontentedly felt the balance off. The pistol nosed forward; the barrel overbalanced it heavily, and if my hands weren't pumped with strength from years of heavy, persistent labor, I definitely couldn't have aimed properly at a target.
"It's kinda..."
"The right word is 'shitty,'" my relative corrected me slyly, puffing on his pipe for all he was worth and guzzling my beer. Downing half the mug, Tagrin leaned in closer, jabbing a callused finger at the pistol. "Humans from Lordaeron made this."
"I'd never have believed it." The work, despite the oddities and shoddiness, was done elegantly, and even the decorations were noteworthy, even if useless. "I'd have figured Alterac or Gilneas first..."
And there were reasons for that. Just as dwarven clans differed from each other like different peoples, so too human kingdoms—dig a little deeper—were polar opposites.
Stromgarde—rough, honest, straightforward. They forge like they fight: no fancy patterns. All for battle and practicality, no fine work. That's why many dwarves regarded them quite favorably, even if they grumbled about the total lack of imagination in craftsmanship.
Gilneas—intricate, refined, mysterious. Their craft... Strange. Like the people, somewhat detached from the rest of the world. Talent's there, but aimed somewhere off.
Alterac—cunning, adaptable, fickle. Their craft's like the weather—you can't predict it. Sometimes decent, even solid; other times, sickening to look at.
Kul Tiras—maritime, sturdy, practical. In most crafts, they don't differ much from Stromgarde, but one thing worth learning from them is shipbuilding! Their ships ain't the rowboats and barges of other kingdoms! Everything for the job, for the sea, for survival.
And finally Lordaeron—all bright, solid, noble. Their work's often solid, but sometimes too flashy. They love showmanship, what can you do.
Twirling the pistol this way and that, I still concluded Tagrin's words were true. Strange and seemingly unfinished as the weapon was, it fit... At least outwardly, the Lordaeron style.
"Believe it, ginger. I was surprised myself when I found out." Already half through the keg, little brother had slightly flushed cheeks and was snorting harder, clearly tipsy... While I was sober as a gnomish lens! "Pretty toy, but you can't shoot it worth a damn..."
"That bad?" Not an idle question. Clearly, a lot of painstaking work went into the pistol, and its maker hardly wanted to produce crap... At least not willingly.
"Barrel bursts after every fifth shot, and takes the hands with it, ha-ha-ha."
Slapping his thigh, the dwarf laughed infectiously, and soon I joined in. Another couple minutes he regaled me with tales of how human masters conscripted volunteers wholesale, since most cocky buyers confident in the handiwork—ended up without hands, at least one.
"Human arrogance won't change for centuries." Tobacco and hops aromas spread through the room, easily displacing the stench of cheap oil. Smoke clouds gathered under the ceiling, creating a pleasant, whimsical atmosphere. "I remember some old-timer telling me they tried taming our rams back in their big empire days... Hilarious."
"Right you are, little bro." For a moment, picturing a Lordaeron knight wrestling such a stubborn, willful beast as Smetchik, my lips stretched into a grin. "Well, at least it was funnier than them maiming themselves firsthand!"
Clinking mugs and laughing our fill, we sat in silence for a bit, each lost in thought.
"So now the humans are gonna make their own weapons?" Not that the news particularly worried me, but a hefty chunk of kingdom revenue came from bulk buys of all sorts of tools for slaying one's neighbor... Especially with those unpleasant green-skinned neighbors showing up on the continent.
"Mmaaah," pulling salted meat from who-knows-where, little brother tore it in half without ceremony, offering me a piece, "not quite, just for rank-and-file infantry. Grunts, junior officers, sailors, and such. King Terenas and his ass-kissers want our handiwork for themselves, and I can't blame 'em."
While Tagrin briefed me on human affairs, I couldn't resist; rising from the table, I clamped the pistol in the vise, fixing it opposite the battered breastplate I often used for experiments. Old troll armor—a reminder of ancient eras when those apes could still act rational.
Huffing with effort, I tightened the vise carefully until the grip was locked tight between the two iron plates. Engravings cracked in spots, small decorations fallen off, but neither I nor Tagrin cared.
"Kinda flimsy..." The comment slipped out as I ran final checks. Thinking I was addressing him, little brother shot back instantly, as if just waiting for a chance to bash humans.
"You think?" Slamming his fist on the table defiantly, Tagrin puffed up like a fighting cock. "Ours can crack orc skulls, but theirs can only mash green-skinned clay."
Dwarven guffaws rolled through the workshop in bass tones.
"Loaded?"
"Of course," saluting me with his mug, the old soak downed another under the noise, greedily flooding himself with good beer, "fire away."
"Alright, let's see."
Sitting back at the table, I donned safety goggles, wiping soot from past work off them. Waiting for brother to follow suit, I yanked the cord without delay, firing. The roar hit my ears, and from the pistol flew what seemed a bag of dust—so much smoke billowed to the ceiling.
"What the fuck..."
Coughing and waving hands, I rushed to the breastplate and disappointedly extracted a tiny round bullet, not even dented from impact. Digging it out with a finger and rolling it in my palm now, I once again thought humans rushed too far ahead.
Properly, they'd need another century or so for tests, checks, quality work, but...
On the other hand, I understood their haste better than anyone.
"As expected," when the bullet hit the table, Tagrin rolled it with his pipe tip and quickly stuffed the metal ball, paying far more heed to the beer again. "Not surprised, any more than you are."
"Uh-huh." Scooping the metal ball from the table, under my brother's mocking gaze I twirled it between fingers a couple seconds, noting cracks and chips. "Shitty metal. Lots like this?" Nodding at the pistol, I got only a negative headshake. Brother's smile didn't fade, as if others' failure pleased him more than any success. "Good. Or the first battle wipes 'em all... For orcs, this crap's like a handful of stones against our walls..."
"Who cares," waving it off, Tagrin rose from the table, yanked the pistol from the vise, gripped it by the handle, and jabbed the side of the weapon at my face. "Let 'em all end up one-handed, not my problem! Look at this instead. This is why I dragged this junk to your workshop."
I wasn't expert in firearms, but knew the basics, so even seeing the weapon, I'd noted human trigger mechanisms differed greatly.
Dwarves and gnomes used wheellock in their products—a little wheel that sparked via friction and special rifling. Wound by a small key included with each pistol, and if the shooter lost it, no more reloads; weapon became useless.
We could mass-produce these complex, precision parts. Our masters, workshops, forges ready for hundreds daily, unlike humans, where such skilled folk were rare.
But this odd pistol used another principle. A small hammer with...
"What's this?" Taking the firearm from kin's hands, I sniffed along the barrel until stopping at a small stone. Through the strong powder scent, I caught something else; the spark left a faint but unmistakable smell. "Flint?"
"Right," puffing his pipe, Tagrin set the firearm on the table. "Flint strikes the frizzen, sparks fly, igniting the powder. Cheap and nasty, but easy to produce..."
"Downsides?"
"Might fail every other shot," thoughtfully scratching his beard, brother gazed ceilingward. "Less reliable, powder can get wet through that hole. Downsides aren't that many, but they're significant."
"Looks weak," twirling the pistol every which way, I handed it back to kin. Yeah, the principle was clear, and compared to wheellock—flintlock much faster, but maybe patriotism for our product spoke, yet our pieces seemed far more reliable and imposing to me. "How long to produce a flintlock?"
Roughly calculating figures in my head, comparing production costs and time, I was about to dismiss the human handiwork entirely when brother's words floored me so hard beer and smoke nearly flew from my mouth.
"Couple hours, probably."
"By my grandma's tits," wiping my beard, I gawked at my smug brother with wide eyes. "That's insanely short!"
"Exactly," grinning understandingly, Tagrin nodded at the pistol cradled in his paws. Twirling and fiddling with the weapon, the dwarf sighed tiredly and set it back on the table. "Keep it, play around, maybe ideas'll come."
"Just like that?"
"Bah!" Gesturing dramatically, little brother rolled his eyes again—giving me a strong urge to smack him upside the head. "You're not the only master I've shown this to. We bought a whole batch and are studying it hard, deciding whether to switch to flint or stick with wheellock."
"If war comes..."
"Not if, but when," grimacing, Tagrin corrected me and stood from the table, chugging beer on the move. I waited seconds till the tipsy relative downed his mug, then slammed it on the table with a thud. "Need to develop something new based on our and human tech. King's orders."
"Now that's a twist." Tagrin missed or ignored my sarcasm, knowing full well my opinion of Magni Bronzebeard.
"Don't remind me, still twitching my beard over it. Looks like that ginger ass," twinkling mischievously at me and drawing another pained groan from my lips, the relative staggered toward the workshop exit. "Dug up some brains in his hair and decided to peek out from the mountains."
"Hope his activity lasts longer than a couple months."
"Many hope so, but you know Magni as well as I do." Pausing by the door, little brother gripped the handle with his broad palm. "He thinks Khaz Modan impregnable, especially Ironforge... And till green-skins and other freaks knock at our door, our great king won't budge his bulk from the throne or start using his head."
"Dangerous words." A smirk crept onto my face. Though more from how brother's pained gaze followed the beer mug I raised to my lips.
"Pf, keep talking, you chief rabble-rouser."
Smiling one last time and leaving the final word, Tagrin waddled out of the workshop without bothering to close the door. Old fart surely did it on purpose, not to let me sit in peace even a couple minutes.
His grumbling and smoke trail lingered through the half-open door long after, and only when little brother reached the turn and vanished, did I rise from the table.
"Alright, enough slacking..."
Main work done, lathe demoed and well-received by gnomes and dwarves, now time to devote full attention to the new task—the human pistol, hoping to find other interesting solutions that could be implemented in this unusual, overall failed project.
The grip was small: barely fit my broad palm. Smooth wood, meticulously polished at edges, gave a sense of satisfaction, even respect. Human masters took this work seriously and tried squeezing max from the possible.
New barrel, new mechanism, new rounds, all packaged pretty and pleasing to the eye.
My hand mechanically found the little bullet I'd pried from the breastplate.
Calculations raced through my mind, and the longer I pondered, the more I grasped why humans bet on small, light projectiles. Orcs and trolls rarely wear armor nowadays, so no need for big firepower.
Wide barrel likely for range, to keep monsters at bay and thin ranks at max distance.
"Logical, even surprising humans thought of it." Weighing the weapon in my palm again, I hesitated seconds in thought before shaking my head disappointedly. "But with this execution, not much use... Grouping inaccurate, penetration nil... Even if it hits, orc won't scratch from it, troll just regenerates..."
Sniffing, I continued examining the weapon.
Flintlock simple to make and reload; after weeks' training, peasant mobs could wield it, hosing green-skins with bullet hail from safe range. And if they rebel, couple regiments in good armor easily restore order to uppity workers.
"Mm, brother nailed it: cheap and nasty."
But even slashed production costs won't make this pistol ubiquitous. Shamans, mages, sturdy enchanted armor—all easily stop such.
"Post-war, it'll spread to thieves, bandits, pirates." Aiming at the damaged armor, I smoothly squeezed the trigger, easily imagining the pistol spitting its deadly charge. "Robbing common folk with this—pure pleasure, no effort needed."
Fiddling a bit more with the human weapon, I stowed it in the table shelf, covering with cloth. Ought to try my own firearm variant in spare time. But first, brush up knowledge in the field.
Plans set, I sneakily glanced around, then simply topped my beer mug with some strong mash. Our society frowns on mixing drinks, but I couldn't deny myself the little pleasure human southern refugees taught me.
"Oh, goes down nice, now that's the stuff." Wiping my mouth, I softly exhaled into my cupped palm, feeling the exquisite mix of cold beer spiced with fiery mash roll down my gullet. "Now I can get to work."
In far better spirits, I left my abode, heading to the upper levels of the underground city, where new knowledge awaited.
***
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