The results are in, and we have a clear winner. Thanks to everyone who participated. We hope to read your entertaining stories again next year. Here's the World of Pwnage Video Game Fan Fiction Contest Winning Entry by Carlo-Jesse Miozzi, titled "The Death of the Lion". Enjoy.
The Death of the Lion
By C.J. Miozzi
“Shields up; hold steady!” commanded Lieutenant Turalyon as the ogre lumbered forward, a towering hulk of naked flesh that barrelled towards the soldiers with the elegance of a charging elephant. Turalyon and the men at his flanks hefted their shields and braced for the impact. All around them, the clatter of human swords against orcish armor, orcish axes against human shields, resounded off the dark slopes of Blackrock Spire.
The ground trembled as clumsy footfalls thundered towards the steel wall of shields. “May the Light protect us,” said the footman to Turalyon’s left as he glanced up to the grey sky.
The golden-haired paladin scowled. Now was not the time for prayer. “Trust in your shield. Faith will not save you,” he grumbled. Outnumbered five to one, little hope remained in Turalyon’s mind of surviving the orc ambush – but the paladin intended to die with honor, thinning the Horde’s numbers so the Alliance may win the Second War.
The ogre crashed into the steel wall with the force of a tidal wave, rocking the men like rowboats on high seas. Turalyon’s shield smashed against his own mouth, splitting his lip. The ogre’s nauseating stench struck nearly as hard. Anvil-sized fists hammered down on footmen’s shields as the men rallied and surrounded the behemoth.
Tasting copper, the paladin spat out a mouthful of blood. “Swords!” he ordered as he tore his blade from its scabbard with the ringing of metal, a ringing echoed by the blades of his men. “Attack!”
The soldiers skewered the plump flesh again and again, their blades soon drowned in blood, but the juggernaut did not falter. Shields warped and arms shattered under the devastating blows of the battering-ram-like fists.
A flash of blue caught the paladin’s eye – the battle standard of commander Lothar. The flag danced in the air as Lothar clashed with a titanic figure in black plate armor. Turalyon’s heart sank – the armoured figure was Orgrim Doomhammer, Warchief of the Horde. The green-skinned pig traded blows with the Lion of Azeroth, the spiked Doomhammer pitted against the massive Blade of Stormwind.
A crumpled footman fell at Turalyon’s feet, pounded into oblivion by the ogre, but the paladin could not tear his attention away from Lothar. He should have remained at his commander’s side, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with the wizened veteran as he had during the previous days’ skirmishes. Bathed in blood from their wounds, Orgrim and Lothar betrayed their fatigue in the sluggishness of their thrusts and swings.
A terrified yelp drew Turalyon’s attention back to the fight at hand. With one fist, the ogre held a footman in the air by the chest. With the other, he reached for the man’s shield arm – and with a sickening pop, tore the arm from its shoulder.
These men needed the paladin’s leadership – but he could not let Lothar fall to the Doomhammer. Nothing would break the Alliance soldiers’ spirit more than seeing their great leader slain. With a heavy heart, Turalyon shouted, “Keep at it, men. The beast cannot bleed forever,” then started across the battlefield for Lothar.
As the paladin marched forward, two orc grunts leapt at him, brandishing their jagged axes. Turalyon grit his teeth and brought up his shield in time to deflect a blow aimed for his neck, then pivoted on his heel and smashed his blade’s pommel into the other orc’s face.
The grunt’s nose exploded in a shower of blood, and as the orc reeled, Turalyon drove his sword into the green chest. While the body sank to the floor, the paladin’s gaze shifted back to Lothar. As long as the commander lived, there would still be a shred of hope in the hearts of the men fighting to their deaths.
An orcish axe whistled through the air, and Turalyon ducked just quick enough to avoid decapitation. Shavings of short, golden hair fluttered to the ground. The paladin rammed his shield into the three-hundred-pound orc with the full force of his body, stunning the grunt, before he swung his sword down in a wicked arc that split the orcish skull open.
The paladin turned back to Lothar at the sound of shattering steel – the Blade of Stormwind’s remains lay on the black rock at the Lion’s feet. Lothar, now weaponless, on one knee before Orgrim, stared up at the wicked Doomhammer, stared up at his impending death.
Turalyon scrambled across the uneven ground, heedless of the axes swung his way. He wrestled his way through the musky orcish masses, fighting desperately to save his commander, his hero.
The Doomhammer came down.
Lothar’s helmet caved at the blow. His body slumped to the ground.
The Lion of Azeroth lay dead.
Turalyon stood frozen, unable to breathe, transfixed by the sight of the greatest man to ever set foot upon Azeroth lying still on the battlefield. His gut felt as though he had been disembowelled.
Orgrim stepped back, a satisfied grin painting his ugly face.
Turalyon wrenched himself into motion. He dropped his sword and tossed away his shield as he fell to his knees at Lothar’s side. There was no mistake – Lothar was dead, his skull crushed. Turalyon’s breath came in shuddering gasps as his body trembled with rage – rage at the Horde for the ambush, rage at Orgrim for dealing the killing blow, and rage at himself for leaving Lothar’s side.
A churning in the paladin’s stomach worked its way up his chest, to his throat, erupting in a roar of primal fury that echoed across the battlefield, louder than any bloodlusted orc’s war cry.
Silence descended as both man and orc alike stopped fighting and took notice of the fallen Alliance commander. A chill wind blew across the ebon landscape.
All was lost. Turalyon clenched his teeth, fighting back tears. The Alliance soldiers’ morale would die with Lothar. Orgrim won this battle by taking down one man. There was nothing else to turn to for hope.
The world is much bigger than one lone soul; and while the world can change a soul in a day, it takes much more time for one soul to change the world.
Scripture from his studies at the Church filtered into Turalyon’s mind through the cloud of rage.
Only through tenacity can a servant of the Holy Light hope to affect the universe.
The veil clouding the paladin’s judgement was lifted. The Light had made his path clear.
Lothar would not die in vain.
Turalyon grabbed in one gauntleted hand the jewelled hilt of the shattered Blade of Stormwind and Lothar’s battle standard in the other. He climbed to his feet and raised the standard high in the air for all to see.
“For Sir Lothar!” the paladin bellowed, holding his mentor’s name on his tongue until the Alliance soldiers joined him in his war cry, a chorus that bore testimony to the soldiers’ devotion to their commander.
Orgrim’s grin melted away and his eyes grew sullen as Turalyon and his men charged forward with renewed vigor.
Orcs drew away from swirling human blades as their comrades fell before the vengeful Alliance soldiers by the drove.
Without a shield, with only a two-inch blade fragment remaining on the hilt of Lothar’s sword, Turalyon marched toward Orgim as grunts scattered at the sight of the battle standard waving to and fro with the paladin’s gait.
The Horde Warchief stumbled backward in an attempt to flee from the paladin, but Turalyon’s vengeance-fuelled strides caught up to the orc within moments. Orgrim raised the Doomhammer high in the air, and Turalyon dashed forward. With a swift thrust, the paladin stabbed the shattered blade into Orgrim’s exposed armpit.
The Warfchief howled in pain as he dropped the Doomhammer, which thunked against the black stone at his feet.
Turalyon piked the battle standard into the ground, then reached up and grabbed the collar of Orgrim’s breastplate. He pushed the crimson-stained stump of a sword against the Warchief’s throat.
Steel-mailed figures surrounded the two warriors, their swords directed at the Warchief. Orgrim glanced about – green figures fought off human footmen in the distance as they retreated up the slopes of Blackrock Spire, and a fleshy mountain lay with its entrails spilled in a bloody mess in the midst of dead soldiers – the remains of the ogre.
Shoulders sagging, Orgrim lowered his head with a sigh.
Turalyon could have easily slit the Warchief’s throat, repaying blood for blood. But having rediscovered his faith, he knew killing the orc now that he was defeated would only serve to darken the universe through anger and hatred.
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After Orgrim’s capture, Blackrock Spire fell to the Alliance, a victory against all odds. Lothar’s legacy lived on in the hearts of his men, and Turalyon found solace in the fact that the soul of one man, one great man, would shape the world of Azeroth for generations.
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