The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm wowct-1

by Christie Golden

  Garrosh's voice was as sharp as Cairne's and dripping sarcasm. Cairne turned, the Kor'kron forgotten, and fixed his gaze upon Garrosh Hellscream. The tauren's eyes widened slightly.

  "So," he said quietly, regarding Garrosh's tattoos, "you have adopted more than your father's weapon."

  "His weapon," said Garrosh, "and the markings on his face and body that struck fear into his enemies." He moved his mouth slowly, as if it still caused pain. The tattoos looked recent.

  "Your father did much ill, but he died doing a great good," Cairne said. "And he would be ashamed of you right now."

  "What?" growled Garrosh. "What are you talking about, tauren?"

  "I warned Thrall about you," Cairne said, his voice as quiet as it had been loud before, ignoring the question for the moment. "I told him he was being foolish to give you so much power. I thought that one day you might be ready for it, but you needed experience and tempering. I was wrong. You, Garrosh Hellscream, are not fit to lead a pack of hyenas, let alone this glorious Horde! You will ride us to ruin, screaming and beating your chest like one of the gorillas of Stranglethorn the entire way."

  Garrosh paled, then flushed with anger. 'You will regret those words, old bull," he hissed. "I will make you eat them, along with handfuls of dirt."

  "It was you who attacked the Sentinels in Ashenvale, wasn't it?" Cairne cried, moving forward to where the orc stood clenching his brown fists. "And it was you who authorized the mass slaughter of nearly a dozen druids of the Cenarion Circle, gathering together to achieve a peaceful solution to the needs of the Horde."

  Disbelief and then fury crossed Garrosh's face. "What in the names of the ancestors are you talking about? How dare you accuse me of such despicable acts?"

  Cairne snorted. "Garrosh, you have been open in your contempt of a treaty agreed to with honor and in good faith, and of Thrall's so - called appeasement of the Alliance."

  'Yes! I do despise this appeasement. But I would not sneak around the treaty! I would be proud of any attack on the Alliance I authorized! I would shout it from the rooftops to prove to the Horde that all is not lost! The honor of the Horde—"

  "How can you even utter that word?" growled Cairne. "Honor? Even now, you lie, Garrosh. You have not the honor of a centaur. At least admit what you have done. Own your foolish, selfish choices!"

  Garrosh suddenly grew cold. 'You are an idiot to think me a schemer. Age has addled your wits. Because of the esteem in which Thrall inexplicably holds you, I shall ignore your prattlings as that of a madman. Thrall put me in charge of the Horde, and I will always do what I believe is best for it. Go now, and spare yourself the indignity of being bodily tossed out on your tail."

  For answer, Cairne backhanded Garrosh right across the face, striking the fresh tattoo. So powerful was the blow that Garrosh staggered and nearly fell, crying out sharply in pain and flailing his arms in an attempt to keep his balance.

  "It is I who shall toss you out on your tail, impudent pup," Cairne said. "That blow has been long in coming."

  Blood was flowing freely down Garrosh's split and swelling lower lip. He reached automatically to touch his cheek, then hissed and pulled his hand away. The orc seemed almost confused for a moment, and then anger descended visibly upon him.

  'You challenge me then, old bull?"

  "Did I not make myself clear? Perhaps I ought to try again. I challenge you to a duel of honor, Garrosh. I challenge you to a mak'gora."

  Garrosh sneered. "The mak'gora has been weakened. Watered down. Since Thrall's decree, it has become nothing more than a show. You want to fight me? Then fight me truly. I am in charge of the Horde now, and I say I will accept your challenge of the mak'gora—the old mak'gora. The way it once was, with all the old rules. All of them."

  Cairne's eyes narrowed. "To the death, then?"

  Garrosh grinned. "To the death. Perhaps now you will apologize."

  Cairne stared for a moment longer, then threw back his head and laughed. That caught Garrosh by surprise.

  "If you ask me to fight under the old rules, son of Hellscream, then know that you have done nothing but unfetter my hands. I sought only to teach you a lesson. I will regret depriving the Horde of such a fine warrior, but you cannot be allowed to destroy everything Thrall has worked for. To undermine the sacrifices the honored dead have made. All in the name of your own personal glory. I will not have it, do you hear me? I repeat my challenge. The mak'gora—the traditional way. To the death!"

  "I accept," Garrosh snarled, but there was the briefest moment of hesitation. "With pleasure. I used to feel sorry for you, but not anymore. It is time that the Horde was rid of old parasites like you, hanging on by the grace of those who actually went and fought and died in battle."

  "It is time the Horde was rid of a young, arrogant fool like you, Garrosh," Cairne replied, unperturbed. "I regret the necessity of doing so. But I must. In truth, I am glad you have pushed for the traditional way. You have killed innocents, and you are planning nothing less than killing any hope for peace. I cannot permit this to continue."

  Garrosh was laughing now, dabbing gingerly at his chin, then bringing his bloodied fingers up to his mouth and licking at them gently. The movement had to have been exquisitely painful, but he had recovered and gave no sign of the torment he had to be enduring.

  'You know what you need, of course."

  Garrosh hesitated.

  "What weapon? What garb to wear? How many witnesses?" asked Cairne.

  When Garrosh, his cheeks darkening in embarrassment, shook his head, Cairne snorted. 'You call for a traditional fight, yet I, a tauren, understand your orcish traditions better than you!"

  'You are caught up in details," growled Garrosh. "Whatever you wish I will do. Only let us begin this fight!"

  Cairne regarded the orc with contempt, then shook his head and composed himself. "We each may select one weapon. A shaman of our own choosing is permitted to bless it. No armor—no clothing, indeed, save a loincloth.

  And we must each have at least one witness." He smiled bitterly. "I daresay we will have more than that."

  Garrosh nodded curtly, recovering. "I will follow all these rules."

  "In the arena. One hour." Cairne turned to go. At the doorway he paused. "Make what arrangements you may, Garrosh Hellscream. Do not fear that I will desecrate your body. In death, I will give you the honor you should have earned yourself in life." He inclined his head.

  Garrosh's laughter followed him as he marched out.

  One hour later the arena was packed. Torches and braziers were lit, providing light and stifling warmth. Word had spread just as the fires had before Thrall's departure, and it was clear that sides had been chosen. Some came to sit in support of Cairne; others—many others—came to cheer on Garrosh.

  Cairne looked up, straining to recognize faces with his aged eyes. Most of those on his side of the stands were tauren, not unexpectedly. There were a few of other races, too, but one thing tended to stand out about them—they were older. He could not see far enough to distinguish individuals on Garrosh's side, but he could see clearly in the orange light that, mixed among the green, purple, gray, and pink skins of orc, troll, Forsaken, and blood elf, were the black and brown and white coats of tauren.

  Cairne sighed. He believed he could win this fight, or else he would not have issued the mak'gora. Life was not so pale and devoid of delight for him that he was ready to relinquish his grasp upon it. Far from it. He had made the challenge—and accepted Garrosh's decision to return to the "old way"—because he needed to end Garrosh's arrogant, shortsighted, dangerous rule over the Horde Cairne loved so much. He planned to take Garrosh's place until Thrall returned to mete out whatever justice he saw fit. Cairne was ready to accept it.

  He was under no illusion, however, that this would be an easily won battle. Garrosh was one of the best warriors the Horde had. But one - on - one combat was a different thing from battle, and Garrosh was impetuous. Cairne would fight in his own manner, and that mann
er would give him victory.

  Over in his area of the huge arena, Garrosh was preparing. Per the ritual rules of the mak'gora, he was naked save for a loincloth, and his brown body had been oiled till it shone. He cut a striking figure of orcish power, muscular and proud, warming up for the fight with the mighty axe that had slain Mannoroth. It, too, had been oiled, and glinted darkly.

  Cairne would be fighting with the weapon of his lineage—the runespear. He, too, had stripped to a loincloth. If his fur was slightly gray with age, it was still sleek and thick, shiny with the anointing oil. Beneath his pelt was solid muscle. His joints might ache in the rain or snow from time to time, and his eyes might strain to see, but he had lost none of his strength and little of his speed. He now hefted the runespear, offering it to each of the four directions and elements, thumping his chest with the hand that clasped the spear to salute the Spirit of Life within himself and all other beings, and then turned to Beram Skychaser for his blessing.

  Just as the bodies of the warriors were anointed with oil for their battle, so, too, were the weapons. Beram murmured something softly, dipped a finger in the vial of holy oil, and then gently smeared the glistening liquid onto the spear tip.

  "I am saddened it has come to this," he said quietly, for Cairne's ears alone. "But as it has, I know that your cause is the just one, Cairne Bloodhoof. May your spear strike straight and true."

  Cairne bowed deeply, humbly, his thick, powerful fingers curled tightly around the shaft of the spear. Twenty generations of Bloodhoof chieftains had wielded this runespear in battle, as he was about to do. It had tasted the blood of many noble enemies, and indeed had always struck straight and true. For a moment he allowed his gaze to linger on the runes. He had carved most of his own story into it some time ago, as was the tradition. But there was still much left to tell. He promised himself that when this battle was over and things had settled down a bit, he would take the time to finish his story.

  "Old bull!" came Garrosh's taunting voice. "Are you going to stand there all night lost in thought? I thought you had come to kill me, not stare at an old spear."

  Cairne sighed. "Your words are borne upon the winds of fate, Garrosh Hellscream. They will be among your last. I would choose them with more care."

  "Pagh!" Garrosh spat. He picked up Gorehowl, bowing to the shaman who had blessed—

  Cairne's eyes narrowed as he strained to see at this distance. It was a tauren shaman who had blessed Garrosh's weapon with words of ritual and sacred oil. That surprised and pained Cairne, who had assumed another orc would perform that rite. It was a female, black - coated….

  "Magatha," he breathed. She was a powerful shaman, but so was Beram. While her blessing would help Garrosh, Beram Skychaser's blessing would help Cairne. She had to know that; it was a gesture, nothing more. All she had done was, finally, openly state where her loyalties lay.

  Cairne nodded to himself, confident now more than ever of the tightness of his path. This challenge really did need to happen, before more fell under Garrosh's spell. At least Magatha now had shown her true colors. He would have to address the disloyally; he had no choice now. The Grimtotem would need to be banished from Thunder Bluff, unless they finally chose to swear allegiance to the Horde. It had become a necessity, not a desire.

  Magatha looked up. Cairne could not see her expression, but he imagined she was smirking. He allowed himself a quiet smile. She had chosen the wrong combatant to support.

  He turned to regard his opponent.

  Garrosh balanced on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight lightly, hand wrapped around the hilt of the axe, his golden - brown eyes alight with excitement.

  Earth Mother, guide my blows. You know that I fight for more than myself.

  Cairne threw back his head, opened his mouth, and uttered the deep, wordless bellow of the challenge to the traditional mak'gora. For his part, Garrosh responded by uttering an earsplitting shriek that was almost as loud as the cry of his father, and, as Cairne had expected, charged at once.

  Cairne stood his ground, letting the youth run toward him, axe aloft. Garrosh whirled the mighty Gorehowl over his head. Cairne knew that the grooves in the axe head would cause it to make the shrieking sound that had given it its name. It was a sound that had struck fear into the hearts of Grom Hellscream's enemies, but Cairne was unmoved by it. At the last moment, with a grace that belied his bulk, the tauren moved aside and let Garrosh's own speed propel him harmlessly past. The orc tried to halt his forward movement and almost succeeded, but not before Cairne had brought up the spear and plunged it into Garrosh's right bicep.

  Garrosh cried out in surprise, affront, and pain. His grip on the weapon loosened. Cairne lowered his horned head and rammed it into the wound, knocking Garrosh off his feet and causing him to nearly lose his grip on Gorehowl. If he had, all would have been lost for the ore. Once a weapon was dropped, the rules clearly stated that it could not be retrieved by either party.

  Cairne raised the runespear and plunged it straight down. Garrosh rolled to the side at the last minute. The spear sliced a furrow down the orc’s side and embedded itself into the earth of the arena. Cairne lost a precious second wresting it free, and by then Garrosh was on his feet. Garrosh, the most highly acclaimed warrior of the Horde, had nearly lost his weapon, and Cairne had drawn first blood.

  "Well played, old bull," Garrosh said, panting just a little. "I admit, I underestimated your speed. It would seem that it's just your wits that are slow."

  "Your jeers were not that clever to begin with, and less so now, son of Hellscream," Cairne replied, never taking his eyes off his opponent. "Save your breath for battle, and I will save mine to speak well of you at your funeral.”

  It was almost too easy to enrage Garrosh, Cairne thought. The orc’s heavy brow furrowed in offense, and with a growl he charged. He swung Gorehowl skillfully, and Cairne felt the rush of air and heard the weapon's angry song as he barely dodged the blow. Garrosh was not a fool; he learned from his mistakes. He would not underestimate Cairne a second time.

  Cairne lowered his head, pawing the earth with his right hoof, and charged. Garrosh shrieked a war cry and lifted his axe to slice the bull in the throat. At the very last instant, however, Cairne halted, veered to the left, and thrust outward with his spear toward Garrosh's exposed torso. Garrosh's eyes widened. He had just enough time to turn slightly so that his right shoulder met the spear's bite instead of his chest. The blow was dangerous, but not the killing blow it would have been otherwise. Even so, with a wound to his right bicep and now to that same shoulder, Garrosh's arm was badly weakened.

  Garrosh cried out, in pain and in fury, his free hand clapping over the wound while his other hand clutched Gorehowl. Cairne pulled the spear free and felt the faintest twinge of pity. Garrosh's death would be a loss to the Horde—of a fine warrior, if nothing else. If only Thrall had not appointed the younger orc leader! This tragic necessity could have been so easily avoided.

  His brief hesitation enabled Garrosh to, almost impossibly, heft the two - handed axe with his badly wounded arm. Quickly Cairne grasped the runespear with both hands, holding it up to block the blow. Strong and sturdy, the ancient weapon had witnessed countless battles, and Cairne had used it to block in such a manner before.

  Gorehowl shrieked its eerie cry as it descended.

  The runespear—the weapon of twenty generations, the pride of the Bloodhoof, which had slain so many and defended the tauren people so well—shattered into pieces.

  Its force slowed but not stopped, Gorehowl bit into Cairne's chest, slicing a shallow groove in his fur and flesh, continuing onward to cut his arm. The strike was only a flesh wound; the spear had stayed the worst of the Cairne recovered from the horror of seeing the ancestral weapon destroyed. He was not yet done. His hand tightened around the lower third of the spear. Its single tooth could still bite. Garrosh was still fighting, but he was badly wounded. The blow that had shattered the runespear had drained him, and he would not las
t much longer. And one good thrust with the remnants of the spear would— Cairne blinked. His vision was blurring. Had he gotten dust or sweat or blood in his eyes? He took a precious second to wipe the back of his hand across his eyes, but it aided nothing. His hand shook as he lowered it. And his legs… they felt weak….

  Stunned, he stared at Garrosh. The orc was sweating profusely and breathing hard. As Cairne watched, Garrosh gripped the axe and met Cairne's gaze evenly. Cairne clutched his own weapon. It weaved in his hands. It felt so strangely heavy—

  And then he knew exactly what had happened to him.

  And so, I, who have lived my whole life with honor, die betrayed.

  He could not even cry out with his last breath to accuse his murderer. It was through an act of sheer will that he was able to even hold on to the shattered spear so that he would not be struck down unarmed.

  Garrosh's eyes narrowed as he beheld the furrow he had carved in Cairne's chest and the pieces of the runespear lying on the earth. For a moment surprise flitted across his features, then he set his jaw in determination. He began running toward his opponent, lifting Gorehowl in both hands and bringing it down. Unable to deflect the blow or move out of its path, his life fading with every heartbeat, Cairne Bloodhoof, high chieftain of the tauren, mutely watched it descend.

  Twenty two

  Magatha watched from a distance, her calm visage betraying nothing of her increasing excitement. The two warriors were well - matched, though very different in all aspects. Cairne had strength, wisdom, patience, and experience; Garrosh had energy, the fire of youth, and speed. The simmering cauldron of conflict between the old and the new had reached a boiling point tonight. Only one would walk away, and the victor would dictate the future of the Horde. All present knew that they were bearing witness to history, and Magatha observed as emotions ran the gamut from horror and shock to enthusiasm and delight.

  It was a fierce battle, closer than anyone had expected.