What he found—what Misha had scented—was the body of a full—blooded orc. Rexxar knew this because a considerable amount of its blood had been shed.
His hands falling to his side, Rexxar shook his head. "A fallen warrior. It is only a pity that he died alone, without comrades to aid him in battle."
Before the half—breed wanderer could contemplate putting the brave orc's soul to rest, he heard a whisper.
"Not…dead…yet…"
Misha made a yowling noise, as if surprised that the orc could speak. Peering down closely at what he had believed to be a corpse, Rexxar saw that the orc had lost an eye. The dead socket was healed over, so the wound had not been inflicted by the same hand—or hands—that had brought him to the brink now.
"Burning…Blade…must…get…to…Orgrimmar. Thrall…warned. Burning…Blade…"
Rexxar knew not what was so important about a blade that burned, but this warrior was obviously clinging to life only because he had yet to provide the necessary intelligence to Thrall. Recalling the oath he had sworn to the Warchief, Rexxar asked, "What is your name?"
"By—Byrok."
"Fear not, noble Byrok. I am Rexxar of the Mok'Nathal, and I swear to you that Misha and I will see you brought to Orgrimmar to deliver your warning to the Warchief."
"Rexxar…you…are known…to me…We…must…make haste…"
The half—breed could not say the same of this Byrok, but it mattered not. With a gentleness he rarely had cause to employ, he lifted Byrok's bleeding form and lay him across Misha's expansive back. The bear bore the weight with no protest—though they had sworn no actual oath, the bond between Rexxar and Misha was unbreakable. If Rexxar desired it, Misha would do it.
Without another word, they turned westward toward Orgrimmar.
The first time Rexxar came to Orgrimmar, it was still being built. Around him had been many dozens of orcs building structures, clearing pathways, and transforming the harsh wilderness of Kalimdor into a home.
Upon his return now, that work had been done, but there were still many dozens of orcs visible through the gates, engaged in the day—to—day business of life. Though he had little use for civilization, Rexxar did feel pride and joy in what he saw. Since coming to this world, his mother's people had either been cursed tools of Gul'dan's demonic masters or broken slaves of their human enemies. If orcs were to live in this world, better it be on their own terms.
Surrounded on three sides by hills, a massive stone wall had been built on the city's fourth side. Reinforced with giant wooden logs, the wall was broken only by a large wooden gate, currently open, and two wooden watchtowers. Atop the wall were more logs, sharpened to a point to discourage enemies from storming the gates, and poles with pointed ends. The crimson flag of the Horde hung from both towers and from some of the poles.
It was, Rexxar thought, a fearsome sight, fitting for the home of the mightiest warriors in the world.
A guard wielding a spear approached from the gate. "Who goes there?"
"I am Rexxar, last son of the Mok'Nathal. I bear Byrok, who has been injured, and carries a message for Warchief Thrall."
The guard scowled, then looked up at one of the watchtowers. The warrior stationed there yelled down, "It's all right, I remember that one—and his bear. Know that wolf's—head mask anywhere. He's a friend to the Warchief. Let him in!" Rexxar wore the hollowed—out head of a wolf he had slain on his crown. It served as protection for his head and an image of fear for his enemies.
Satisfied with that, the guard stepped aside, allowing Rexxar, Misha, and the bear's burden to enter Orgrimmar.
The orc city was built within a huge ravine, with traditional hexagonal structures built into the sides of the ravine as well as the recesses. As he walked through the Valley of Honor, where the gate was built, toward the Valley of Wisdom, where Thrall's throne room was housed, Rexxar was both fascinated and appalled. The former because the orcs had come so far in a mere three summers. The latter because it was yet another city in a world that had too many of them already.
When he was about halfway to the Valley of Wisdom, he was met by the familiar site of a medium—height orc: Nazgrel, the head of Thrall's security, along with four of his guards. "Greetings, last son of the Mok'Nathal. It has been far too long."
Out of respect, Rexxar removed his headgear. "Since seeing you, Nazgrel, yes—since being in the city, no. But I did swear an oath to Thrall, and I would not leave this noble warrior to die in the grass."
Nazgrel nodded. "We have come to escort you to him—and the shaman has been summoned as well, to tend to Byrok. We've also come to relieve Misha of her burden." At a gesture from Nazgrel, two of the guards lifted the bleeding form of Byrok from Misha's back. At first, the bear started a growl, but at a look from Rexxar, she backed down.
They proceeded through the long and winding roads of Orgrimmar to the large hexagonal building at the far side of the Valley of Wisdom. Thrall was waiting for him in the throne room, which Rexxar found to be as cold as Frostsaber Rock. Thrall sat on his throne, with the wizened shaman Kalthar standing on one side of the throne, and an orc Rexxar did not know on the other. When the guards had placed Byrok on the floor in front of the throne, Kalthar moved to kneel at the warrior's side.
Shivering slightly, Rexxar saluted the Warchief. "I bid you greetings, Warchief of the Horde."
Thrall smiled. "It is very good to see you again, my friend—I only wish it would not take one of my people being beaten to near—death to bring you back to Orgrimmar's gates."
"It is not my way to live among city—dwellers, Warchief—as you well know."
"Indeed, I do. Still, you have again done us a great service." He turned to the shaman. "How is he?"
"He will survive—he is a strong one. And he wishes to speak."
"Can he?" Thrall asked.
Kalthar sniffed. "Not well, but I doubt he will allow me to treat him properly until he does."
"I must…sit up…Help me, shaman." That was Byrok. He sounded stronger than he had in the grasses, but not by much.
With a huge sigh, the wizened orc gestured to Nazgrel's guards, who helped Byrok into a sitting position.
Hesitatingly, pausing many times for breath, Byrok spoke of what happened to him. Rexxar knew nothing of the Burning Blade, but the others did, apparently—it was an old orc clan.
"This can't be the same thing," the orc Rexxar did not know said.
"It does seem unlikely, it's true, Burx," Thrall said, "but if their symbol is the same—"
Burx shook his head. "It could be a coincidence, but I don't buy that. Besides, I've been hearing rumors about a human cult that's been building up in Theramore. They're called the Flaming Sword. It might be that one of them had some of our people as slaves, learned of the symbol that way, and took it for their own use."
Nazgrel nodded. "I've heard some of those rumors as well, Warchief."
"With respect," Kalthar said, "I must treat this man. He has discharged his duty, now I must take him from this ridiculously cold throne room and heal him."
"Of course." Thrall nodded, and, at the old shaman's direction, the guards took Byrok out of the throne room.
Thrall then got up from his animal—skin throne and started to pace. "What do you know of this Flaming Sword, Nazgrel?"
Nazgrel shrugged. "Very little—humans gathering in their homes to talk about things."
Burx sneered. "Sitting and talking are things the humans do quite well."
"But if they are brash enough to attack an orc within Durotar's borders," Nazgrel added, "then they've become a lot more powerful than we thought."
"We've got to respond," Burx said. "It's only a matter of time before the humans attack us."
Rexxar thought this extreme. "You would condemn an entire species on the actions of six of them?"
"They'd do the same to us in a heartbeat," Burx said. "And unless these are the same six who stole our trees, and who stood around and did nothing while orc trader
s were attacked, then it is very much more than six people."
Thrall turned to face Burx. "Theramore is our ally, Burx. Jaina would not allow such a thing to gain power."
"She may not have any control over this," Nazgrel said. "For all her power, for all she has earned our respect, she is but one human female."
Rexxar remembered Jaina Proudmoore as the only honorable human he'd ever met. When faced with a choice between siding with her father, her very flesh and blood, and honoring a promise to an orc, she chose the latter. That choice saved Durotar from being destroyed before it was finished. "The Lady Proudmoore," he said, "will do what is right."
Shaking his head, Burx said, "Your confidence is touching, Mok'Nathal, but misplaced. Do you really think that a woman can change decades of human evil? They fought us and killed us and enslaved us! Do you think that will change just because one person says so?"
"The orcs changed because one person said so," Rexxar said quietly. "That person stands before you now as Warchief. Do you doubt him?"
At that, Burx backed down. "Of course not. But—"
Thrall, however, had obviously made his decision. He sat back down on the throne, refusing to let Burx finish. "I know what Jaina is capable of, and I know her heart. She will not betray us, and if there are vipers in her midst, both the Horde and the most powerful wizard on the continent will deal with it together. When she has finished with the thunder lizards, I will speak to her of this Flaming Sword." He turned and looked right at Burx. "What we will not do is go back on our word to the humans and attack. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Warchief."
Ten
Strov had been sitting in a dark corner of the Demonsbane Inn and Tavern for an hour when his brother Manuel walked in with four of his fellow dockworkers.
At Colonel Lorena's direction, Strov had spoken with his brother about the Burning Blade. Manuel said he hadn't seen the person who tried to recruit him since that first time, but the last few times he'd gone to the Demonsbane, he'd overheard a weaselly little fisherman named Margoz mutter to himself about the Burning Blade, usually after consuming several corn whiskeys. Strov had been hoping for the original recruiter Manuel had told him of weeks earlier, but Manuel insisted that the man hadn't appeared at the Demonsbane since.
Manuel had never been any good at describing people; the best he could do regarding Margoz was "weaselly," and that word described half the Demonsbane's patronage. But Manuel insisted that he could find the man again if he saw him, and said he would come to the Demonsbane after his shift on the docks was done.
Strov arrived early, taking a seat in the corner, wanting to blend into the background of the tavern and people—watch. After a few hours, he decided that he had no desire to ever patronize this establishment again. The table was filthy, and the stool he sat on was uneven and rocked on the unswept floor. He got his first drink—a watery ale—at the bar, and no attempt had been made to refill it. It amazed Strov that the owner could stay in business.
On top of that, Strov found the demon skull behind the bar to be incredibly disturbing. It was as if the thing were staring right at him the entire time. Although, thinking on it, he could see how the presence of that skull looming over everyone in the tavern would drive people to drink more, so he supposed that, at least, was a sound business decision.
Manuel came in with a bunch of men who, like him, were burly and loud and wearing only sleeveless shirts and loose cotton pants. Strov's brother earned his daily bread loading and unloading ships docked in Theramore, and then spent most of it either at dice or in this tavern. It was work that challenged only the body, not the mind, which was why it had held no interest for Strov, but held plenty for the much less imaginative Manuel. Strov's older brother wasn't one to think overmuch on things. Even the soldier's training Strov had received when he enlisted would have been too taxing for him. He preferred the simplicity of being told to take a box from one place and put it in another place. Anything more than that—like the intricacies of fighting with a sword—gave him a headache.
As the dockworkers made their way inside the bar, Manuel said, "Find a table, fellas, I'll be orderin' the drinks."
"First round on you?" one of his coworkers asked with a grin.
"You wish—we'll divvy up later." Manuel laughed and walked up to the bar. Strov noted that his brother didn't move in a straight line to the bar, but instead took an odd angle so he had to squeeze in between two other people in order to stand at the bar. "Evenin', Erik," he said to the barkeep.
The barkeep just nodded.
"Two ales, one corn whiskey, one wine, and a boar's grog."
Strov smiled. Manuel always had a weakness for boar's grog, which was of course the most expensive item in the tavern. This was one of several reasons why he still lived with their parents while Strov had his own place.
"The usual," Erik said. "Comin' up."
As Erik went to put the order together, Manuel turned to look at the man seated next to him. He'd arrived after Strov did, but was already on his third corn whiskey. "Hey," Manuel said, "you're Margoz, right?"
The man just looked up and stared blankly at Manuel.
"You're with them Burning Blade folk, right? Had a fella in here awhile back, was lookin' for recruits. You're with 'em, yeah?"
"Dunno what you're talking about." Margoz's words were sufficiently slurred that his consonants barely qualified as such. " 'Scuse me."
Margoz then got off his stool, stumbled to the floor, got up while refusing assistance from Manuel, and then walked very slowly and unsteadily toward the door.
A moment later, after Manuel gave him a look and a nod, Strov abandoned his long—empty mug and also exited onto the streets of Theramore.
The cobblestone streets that formed a lattice amid the buildings of Theramore were designed to provide reinforced ground for people, mounts, and wheeled conveyances to travel without risking getting mired in the swampy ground the city had been built on. Most people walked on them rather than the muck and grass on either side, which meant the thoroughfares were so crowded that Strov could follow Margoz without fear of being noticed.
After Margoz bumped into four different people, two of whom actively tried to avoid him, Strov realized that they could have been alone on the street for all it mattered. Margoz was so drunk he wouldn't have noticed a dragon following him down the street.
Still, Strov refused to let his training go to waste, so he kept a good distance behind and rarely looked right at the target, though he kept him in his peripheral vision.
They soon arrived at a small adobe structure near the docks. This particular house was constructed of the cheaper material rather than wood or stone, indicating that very poor people indeed lived here. If this Margoz was a fisherman, as Manuel thought, he was obviously a bad one, as it took a true lack of skill to not succeed as a fisherman on an island on the coast of the Great Sea. The nearest cesspool was poorly concealed, and Strov almost gagged from the odor of waste in the air.
Margoz entered the building, which was probably originally constructed as a four—room house, but now had each room rented out to a different tenant. Strov took up position behind a tree across the way from it.
Three of the rooms already had lanterns burning. The fourth lit up about half a minute after Margoz entered. Strov casually walked across the way and then stood near Margoz's window, making as if to urinate on the wall. He made sure to stumble as he approached, so that any passersby would assume he was drunk. It wasn't all that unusual late at night to see drunks relieving themselves on whatever surface presented itself.
From Margoz's room, Strov heard the words: "Galtak Ered'nash. Ered'nash ban galar. Ered'nash havik yrthog. Galtak Ered'nash."
Strov started. He didn't recognize the rest of it, but the first and last part were things the orcs who attacked them at Northwatch had said.
Pleased with himself for having rightly made this connection, Strov continued listening.
Then his entire fa
ce scrunched up in revulsion at the sudden stink of sulfur. On the face of it, sulfur should have been more pleasant, or at least less revolting, than the cesspool's overwhelming odor. But there was something wrong—something evil—about this smell. Margoz's words had sounded like an incantation, and now this. Not only was magic afoot, but Strov was willing to bet his sword that it was demonic magic.
"'M sorry, sir, I didn' mean to—" Margoz paused. "Yeah, I realize y'don' wanna be bothered 'less it's important, but it's been months, sir, and 'm still in 'is same hole. I jus' wanna know—" Another pause. "Well, it's importan' t' me! And wha's more, people keep talkin' t'me, like I can help 'em or somethin'."
Strov couldn't hear the other half of the conversation, which meant that either Margoz was crazy and was talking to himself—which Strov had to admit was likely, especially given his inebriated state—or the other half of the conversation was meant for Margoz's ears only.
"I dunno whatcher talkin' 'bout. Nobody didn'—" Another pause. "Well, how's I s'posed t'know that? Huh? I ain't got eyes'n the back'a my head!"
What Strov knew about demons was mostly how to kill them, but this odd one—sided conversation definitely had the stink of demon to Strov—and not just because of the sulfur.
He did up his pants. At this point, he had enough to report to Colonel Lorena. Besides, he didn't much like the idea of being this close to a demon.
Turning around, he found himself facing absolute darkness.
"What the—?" He whirled around, but there was only darkness behind him as well. Theramore had completely disappeared.
I do not like spies.
Strov didn't so much hear the voice as feel it in his very bones. It was as if someone had sewn his eyes shut, only his eyes were open, but he couldn't see anything.
No, it wasn't just sight that had gone quiet. The darkness extended to his other senses. He could no longer hear the bustle of Theramore, nor taste the salty air, nor feel the breeze wafting in off the Great Sea.
Cycle of Hatred (world of warcraft) Page 8
