Cycle of Hatred (world of warcraft)

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  And the only thing he smelled now was sulfur.

  Why do you spy on my minion?

  Strov said nothing. He wasn't sure he was capable of speech, and even if he was, he would never give up information to a creature such as this.

  I do not have time to play these games. It seems you must simply die.

  The darkness caved in on Strov. His body grew cold, the blood freezing in his veins, his mind screaming in sudden, terrifying agony.

  The last thought Strov had was hope that Manuel wouldn't blow Strov's entire pension on boar's grog…

  Eleven

  Muzzlecrank used to like being a goblin bruiser. Truly, it had been easy work when he first signed up. Bruisers enforced the peace in Ratchet, and the pay was good. Muzzlecrank's shifts were spent wandering up and down his section of the pier at Ratchet, beating up the occasional drunk or vagabond, taking bribes from shipmasters moving contraband, arresting the ones who were too stupid or too cheap to pay bribes, and generally getting to meet all manner of people.

  Muzzlecrank had always thought of himself as a people person. Ratchet was a neutral port—goblins as a rule did not take sides in the numerous conflicts that ravaged the land—and as a result, pretty much every type of creature you were like to find in the world came through at some point or other. Elves, dwarves, humans, orcs, trolls, ogres, even the occasional gnome—it was the crossroads of Kalimdor. Muzzlecrank always liked seeing the different interactions, whether it was dwarves shipping construction materials to elves, elves shipping jewelry to humans, orcs shipping crops to elves, humans shipping fish to ogres, or trolls shipping weapons to pretty much anyone.

  Lately, though, things had gotten somewhat less pleasant. Especially between the humans and the orcs—which was problematic insofar as the most common patrons of Ratchet were those two races. Ratchet was right at Durotar's southernmost border, and was the nearest port to Theramore as well.

  Just last week, he had had to break up a fight between an orc sailor and a human merchant. The former had apparently stepped on the latter's toe and the human took umbrage. Muzzlecrank had been forced to break them up before the orc beat the human into a pulp, which hadn't been any fun at all. Muzzlecrank preferred to get into fights with vagabonds and drunks because they were kind enough not to fight back. Fighting—mad orcs were another kettle of grease entirely, and Muzzlecrank preferred to stay as far away from them as possible.

  Fights like that usually meant that he had to draw his net—gun, and every time he did that he ran the risk of someone figuring out that he was really bad at using the stupid thing. Oh sure, he could fire it easily enough—any idiot could do that; just point and pull the trigger, and a compressed air burst sent a net out to snare whatever you were shooting at—but his aim was lousy, and the net always missed the target and usually made a big mess. Luckily, the site of a bruiser pointing a gun with a giant muzzle at you was enough to stop most fights—or at least slow them down long enough for reinforcements to arrive.

  Since then, no more actual fights had broken out, but there were a lot more terse words and heated exchanges happening. It had gotten to the point where many of the merchant ships were now coming into Ratchet with armed escorts—the orc vessels with warriors from Orgrimmar, the human ships with soldiers from Northwatch.

  Muzzlecrank's beat was the northernmost section of the pier, a section that had twenty berths. As Muzzlecrank wandered down the wooden—planked pier, he saw that fifteen of the twenty docks were filled, but things were mostly quiet. This was a huge relief. The sun shone down on his face, warming him in his mail armor. Perhaps today would be a good day.

  After a few minutes, the sun went away. Muzzlecrank glanced up to see that several clouds had rolled in, and it looked likely to rain soon. Muzzlecrank sighed—he hated rain.

  As he neared the end of the dock, he saw a human and an orc having an animated conversation. Muzzlecrank didn't like the look of this. Animated conversations between humans and orcs these days tended to end in violence.

  He moved in closer. The human's boat was docked right next to the orc's, in the two northernmost berths. Muzzlecrank recognized the orc as Captain Klatt of the Raknor, a merchant who served as the dealer of crops from the farmers in the Razor Hill region. Though he could not remember the human's name, Muzzlecrank knew his ship was a fishing trawler called the Passion's Reward for some odd reason. Muzzlecrank had never understood human naming conventions. Klatt had named the Raknor after his brother, who died fighting the Burning Legion, but he hadn't the first clue what the name Passion's Reward had to do with anything, least of all fishing.

  The exchange was a common one. Farming was difficult in the Dustwallow Marshes where humans had settled on Kalimdor, but there was plenty of fishing. Razor Hill, meanwhile, was too far inland for fishing to be practical—so humans often traded their surplus catches for the orcs' surplus crops.

  "I will not trade you my finest salmon for this refuse!"

  Muzzlecrank sighed. Obviously today trade was not going to go well.

  Klatt stomped his foot. "Refuse? You lyin' little twerp—these are our best crops!"

  "A sad commentary on your farming," the human said dryly. "That fruit looks as though it was stepped on by an ogre—smells like it, too."

  "I ain't gonna stand here and be insulted by a human!"

  The human drew himself up to full height, which made him come up to the orc's shoulders. "You're not the one being insulted here. I've brought you my finest catch, and you offer me the bottom of the barrel in exchange."

  "Your salmon ain't fit for mulch!"

  Too late, Muzzlecrank noticed that the human was armed with what looked like a longsword—while Klatt was weaponless. Assuming the human was skilled in the blade's use, it negated whatever advantage Klatt's size gave him in a fight.

  "And your fruit isn't fit for dogs!"

  "Coward!"

  Muzzlecrank winced at Klatt's words. «Coward» was the biggest insult any orc could deliver.

  "Filthy greenskin! I've half a mind to—"

  Whatever the human had half a mind to do was lost as Klatt charged him. The human was unable to unsheathe his longsword in time, and the two of them rolled across the dock, Klatt pummeling the human.

  Wondering how, precisely, he was supposed to break this up, he was relieved of immediate action by the human's escort. Three guards wearing the plate armor that signified they were part of Lady Proudmoore's forces leapt out of the Passion's Reward and pried Klatt off the captain.

  However, Klatt would not be dissuaded by a mere three humans. He punched one in the stomach, grabbed the second, and threw him into the third.

  Now the orcs were starting to move off the Raknor to join in the fray. Muzzlecrank realized he had to do something before this got out of hand.

  Hefting his net—gun and hoping with all his heart and soul that he wouldn't be called upon to use it, he bellowed, "All right, that's it! Cut it out, and I mean now, or all'a ya are in deep, unnerstan'?"

  Klatt, who was about to jump on the human captain, stopped in his tracks. His target, blood gushing from his nose and mouth, cried, "He attacked me!" The human's voice had an odd twang to it that was probably the result of damage to his nose.

  "Yeah, well, you deserved it, goin' back on your word like that," Klatt said with a sneer.

  "That's no reason to kill a man!"

  "I said, cut it out!" Muzzlecrank spoke before Klatt could respond. "Both'a ya are under arrest. You either come peaceable—like or in pieces, makes me no never mind." He looked at both the orc warriors and the human soldiers. "This here's goblin country, an' that means I give the orders here, got it? So that gives ya two choices—help me put these two in the hoosegow till an arbiter can take the case, or get your keisters outta Ratchet. Your choice."

  Technically, Muzzlecrank's words were true. He had deliberately deepened his voice in the hope that it would give his words an air of authority. But he also knew that he had no way of stopping any o
f these people if they decided to ignore him and continue fighting. If he shot the net—gun, he'd just get one of the tether posts covered in a net or something.

  To his relief, one of the humans said, "We will do as you wish."

  Apparently, the orcs weren't about to be seen to be violating the goblins' sovereignty on Ratchet when the humans were, and so one of the orcs quickly said, "So will we."

  As he led Klatt and the bleeding human back to the mainland, Muzzlecrank tried to get his breathing under control before he hyperventilated. He wasn't meant for this kind of stress. He wondered what other job he'd be good at. Being a bruiser had definitely lost its appeal.

  Major Davin was so angry, he started pulling at his beard, and had to consciously force himself to stop. The last time he got that angry, he ripped tufts out, which not only was painful, but violated the dress code.

  The focus of his ire was the substance of Corporal Rych's report, given after his hasty return to Northwatch from Ratchet. "They actually arrested Captain Joq?"

  "Well, to be fair, sir," Rych said, "they done arrested that orc, there, too, sir. Soon as the argument het up, one of the goblin's bruisers done stepped in."

  "And you let them arrest Joq?"

  Rych blinked. "I didn't have no choice, sir. Goblins've got jurisdiction in Ratchet. We ain't got no—"

  Davin shook his head. "No authority, I know, I know." He got up from his chair and started pacing the office, walking toward the door at first. "It's ridiculous. We shouldn't be subject to this kind of idiocy."

  "Sir, I don't see what they'll be—"

  "The orcs have a nerve, trying to cheat us like that." He turned and paced toward the window.

  Nodding his head quickly, Rych said, "That's certainly true, sir. The fruits they done offered us, why, they was just vile, sir. An insult, it was. And then the orc, he done attacked the cap'n. For no reason, neither."

  The major stopped pacing when he reached the window. He stared out at the view of the Great Sea. Small waves lapped gently against the sandy beach. It painted a peaceful picture, one that Davin knew was deceptive. "This is out of control. If the orcs keep on like this, it's only a matter of time before we are at war once again."

  "I don't think that'll be happenin', sir." Rych sounded skeptical, but Davin knew better.

  "Oh, it will, Corporal, of that you can be absolutely sure. And with the tauren and the trolls on their side, they will overwhelm us—unless we are prepared." He turned to the door. "Private!"

  Private Oreil came in. As always when he saw his aide, Davin sighed. No matter how many times the young private was fitted, his armor was always too big on him. "Yes, sir?"

  "Send a message to Theramore right away. We need reinforcements as soon as possible."

  "Yes, sir, right away, sir." Oreil saluted and left the watch office to go find the scrying stone that Lady Proudmoore had provided to facilitate communication between Northwatch and Theramore. Detailed conversations couldn't be held through it, but messages could be sent.

  Rych scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "Uh, sir, with all due respect, and all—is this bein' such a good idea, sir?"

  "Very much so." Davin sat back down at his desk, no longer feeling the need to rip out his beard hairs now that he was taking action. "I'm not letting those greenskinned bastards catch us off guard."

  Twelve

  Aegwynn really wished the annoying young woman would just go away.

  That wasn't going to happen, of course. Aegwynn was too much of a realist to think otherwise. But it didn't stop her from wishing it with all her heart. She had been alone for two decades and had come to appreciate being by herself. Indeed, she'd been happier these past twenty years than the hundreds of years prior to her exile to Kalimdor.

  She had truly hoped that these highlands, surrounded as they were by impassable mountains, were remote enough, and that the wards were low—level enough, that no one would find her. In retrospect, that was a forlorn hope.

  "I can't believe you're still alive."

  This Proudmoore woman sounded like a teenager. Aegwynn knew it wasn't her standard mode only because she had modulated into it upon learning who Aegwynn was.

  Proudmoore went on: "You've always been one of my heroes. When I was an apprentice, I studied the records of your deeds—you were the greatest of the Guardians."

  Shuddering at the thought of what those doddering old fools at the Violet Citadel would have written about her, Aegwynn said, "Hardly." Unable to stand this anymore, she lifted the bucket of water and headed back to the hut. If she was lucky, Proudmoore would leave her be.

  But Aegwynn wasn't particularly lucky today.

  Proudmoore followed her. "It was because of you that I was able to become a wizard."

  "Reason enough for me to be sorry I became one," Aegwynn muttered.

  "I don't understand—why are you here? Why haven't you told anyone you're still alive? Honestly, we could've used your help against the Burning—"

  Dropping the bucket to the ground, Aegwynn whirled on Proudmoore. "I am here for my own reasons, and they are not yours to know. Now leave me in peace!"

  Unfortunately, all this served to do was cause Proudmoore to drop the teenager affect and go back to being the leader she apparently was. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Magna. You're too important to—"

  "I'm not important to anything! Don't you understand, you stupid little girl? I'm not fit for human company—or orc company, troll company, dwarf company, you name it."

  That got the infant's back up. Aegwynn could see the magic roiling within her and realized that, child though she may be, she was quite powerful. She had gotten through the wards without Aegwynn's even noticing, after all, and that bespoke a certain skill. "I'm not a ‘little girl. I'm a wizard of the Kirin Tor."

  "And I'm a thousand years old, so as far as I'm concerned, you've got a few centuries to go before I might consider calling you something other than a little girl, little girl. Now go away—I just want to be left alone."

  "Why?" Proudmoore sounded genuinely confused, which led Aegwynn to think that the young wizard hadn't really read her history—or it had been thoroughly bowdlerized by the time Proudmoore got to it. The girl continued: "You were the one who blazed the trail for women to become wizards. You're one of the unsung heroes of Azeroth. How can you turn your back—"

  "Like this." Aegwynn turned and walked into the house, abandoning the bucket. She'd get it later.

  Naturally, Proudmoore didn't give up, but followed her through the rickety wooden door. "Magna, you're—"

  Now standing in what she jokingly called the sitting room—it was the only room in the hut, so it served as bedroom, kitchen, and dining room as well—she cried, "Stop calling me that! I'm not a mage anymore, I'm not a hero at all, and I don't want you in my house. You say that I blazed the trail for women to become mages—if anything, I'm the best reason why women should never become mages."

  "You're wrong," Proudmoore said. "It's because of you—"

  Putting her hands to her ears, Aegwynn said, "For the love of all that is holy in this world, will you please stop that?"

  Quietly, Proudmoore said, "I'm not saying anything you shouldn't already be aware of. If not for your work, the demons would have come much sooner, and we—"

  "And what difference did that make, exactly?" Aegwynn sneered at the girl. "The demons still came, and Lordaeron was still destroyed, the Lich King still reigns, and Sargeras still won."

  Proudmoore winced at the mention of the Lich King for some reason, but Aegwynn didn't really care enough to inquire why. Then the girl said, "You can deny your accomplishments all you wish, but it changes nothing. You were an inspiration to all—" She smiled. "—to all the little girls who wanted to grow up to become mages. At the citadel, my favorite story was always the one about how you were chosen to be the first female Guardian by Scavell, who was the first mage to see the value of a female apprentice, and how the Guardians of Tirisfal applauded the choice and—"


  Aegwynn couldn't help it. She laughed. She laughed long and she laughed hard. In fact, she was having trouble breathing, she was laughing so hard. She started coughing, but managed to get it under control after a moment. Her body was finally, after a millennium, starting to age and break down, but she still had some vitality left, and she wouldn't be rendered helpless by a fit of laughter.

  It was, however, the best laugh she'd had in centuries.

  Proudmoore looked like someone had fed her a lemon, her face was so sour. "I fail to see what's so amusing."

  "Of course not." Aegwynn chuckled, and took a few deep breaths. "If you believe that garbage, you wouldn't." A final breath, which turned into a sigh. "Since you insist on invading my privacy, Lady Jaina Proudmoore of the oh—so—noble city of Theramore, then have a seat." She indicated the straw chair that she had spent the third year of her exile in this place putting together, but then refused to ever sit in. "I will tell you the real story of how I became a Guardian of Tirisfal, and why I am the last person you should consider to be any kind of hero…"

  Eight hundred and forty—seven years ago…

  For the first time in years, the Tirisfal Glades frightened Aegwynn. The forests that lay just north of the capital of Lordaeron had always been a place of beauty and of quiet, away from the hustle and the bustle. Her mother had first taken her here on a camping trip when she was a girl. Little Aegwynn had found it to be frightening and fascinating all at the same time. She had been surprised at the animals ranging freely, stunned by the incredible colors of the vegetation, and amazed at how many stars she could see in the night sky away from the torchlight and lanterns of the city.

  Over time, the fear fell away, replaced by joy and wonder and, at times, relief.

  Until today. Today the fear was back in full force.

  She had been apprentice to the wizard Scavell since before puberty, working alongside four others—all boys, of course. Aegwynn had always wanted to be a mage but had been told repeatedly by her parents that she would grow up to become someone's wife, and that was all there was to it, and her dallying about with herbs and such was fine for now, but soon she'd need to learn more important skills, like sewing and cooking…