He tried to shift back to tauren, but the first attempt made him pass out a second time. When he came to what seemed like a few minutes later, he was able to make the change and heal his wounds, at least somewhat. It would take time for him to recover completely.
Grimacing, he got to his hooves and moved, wincing, to examine the grave, wondering if anyone else had managed to survive. It was night by this point, but he did not need the sun’s radiance to behold the tragedy.
Dead. All dead. Night elf and tauren alike. He had been the only one to survive. His great heart broke. His knees gave way, and for a moment he collapsed beside the hole in the earth that held his friends, weeping for the slain, weeping for the future wounds this would cause to any hope for peace.
He lifted his face, his muzzle streaked with tears, and beheld the sacred ritual items he and Renferal had brought with such high hopes. They had been broken, the beautiful pipe, the simple, ancient goblet. Trampled beneath careless feet and falling bodies. Shattered beyond repair, as his dream for peace had been.
Closing his eyes, Hamuul clambered unsteadily to his hooves again, raising his hands to the sky and asking for aid. It came in the form of an owl, hooting quietly as it perched on a branch nearby. Hamuul fumbled for a piece of parchment in his bags. In his own blood, for the ink bottle he had carried had been crushed in the conflict, he wrote a brief message. He bound it around the owl’s leg. It fidgeted, bobbing its head and fixing Hamuul with a glare from lambent eyes, but accepted the strange sensation.
Hamuul whispered Cairne’s name, and held an image of the old high chieftain in his mind’s eye. When he was satisfied that the owl would obey his request, he released it with a blessing. It headed southwest.
In the direction of Thunder Bluff.
He closed his eyes in relief and gratitude, and slumped quietly to the earth, letting its embrace take him, for the moment, or forever, he did not know.
TWENTY-ONE
The pain was so much more than Garrosh had anticipated, and he embraced it joyfully.
He was pleased with how his decisions to rebuild Orgrimmar had been received. While some seemed unhappy, like Cairne and Eitrigg, most seemed to revive at the idea of returning to old orcish ways. Garrosh was glad of it. Often he walked out to gaze at the skull of the enemy his father had slain, and one day he had rubbed his chin thoughtfully and decided to take yet another step to honor his late father.
The decision had been easy, but the reality was painfully red hot. He lay face up on the floor of his quarters, forcing his body to stay relaxed and calm and not tense. Hovering above him was an elderly orc whose powerful muscles and steady hands belied his wrinkles and snowy ponytail. In one hand he held a sharp, narrow blade, the tip of which he repeatedly dipped in black ink. In the other he held a small hammer. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the brazier which provided illumination and the tap-tap-tap of the hammer as the orc tattooist used it to slice into Garrosh’s face.
Most designs were simple. A family design, a word, the Horde insignia. Garrosh, however, wanted his entire jaw tattooed solid black—just to begin with. His desire was to eventually have his chest and back decorated with elaborate tattoos so that both friend and foe alike would see and know that he had willingly inflicted pain upon himself. At the rate of a single piercing of the flesh with each tap, this would take hours—hours when every puncture was like being jabbed with a white-hot needle.
At one point Garrosh swallowed. He also realized he was sweating—from the pain or the heat in the confined, firelit room, he did not know. The tattooist paused and glowered down at him. “Do not move,” he said. “And do not sweat so. Your father did not sweat.”
Garrosh wondered how it was that Grom was able to control sweating. He would strive to do so as well. He said nothing, as speaking would force him to move his mouth, but merely blinked to show he understood.
The tattooist, an apprentice to the orc who had ritually tattooed Grom Hellscream, stepped aside to let his own apprentice dab at the sweat on Garrosh’s brown forehead and wipe away the excess blood and ink from his chin. Garrosh breathed deeply during the reprieve. It had already been four hours, and only three fingers’ breadth of ink had been applied. The tattooist bent over him again. Garrosh willed himself still once more, and the torment—the sweet, honor-bought torment—resumed.
* * *
“Garrosh!”
Cairne’s bellow was loud and deep and echoed as he strode into Grommash Hold. The guards moved to him, allegedly to assist, not quite to intercept. He glared down at them balefully and snorted in derision, and they stepped aside.
“Garrosh!”
There was always somebody awake in Grommash Hold, tending the fires that never went out, making preparations for the following day, so it was not quite deserted, if still. Cairne’s shouting roused those who had been sleeping, and the rooms slowly filled with curious, still slightly drowsy onlookers rubbing their eyes and dressed in clothes that were obviously hastily donned.
“Garrosh, I demand to see you!”
“Nobody demands to see the leader of the Horde!” one of the Kor’kron spoke up, snarling.
Cairne whirled on him with a speed that belied his age. “I am High Chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof. I helped create this Horde that Garrosh is currently undermining. I will speak with him, and I will speak with him now!”
“Old bull, you will wake the dead with your angry snorting and pawing!”
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 manner 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, bowin
g 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 rightness 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 disloyalty; 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.
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