“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.