Cycle of Hatred (world of warcraft) Page 5

  Yet here were humans wearing their symbol, and speaking of killing Thrall.

  His blood boiling, Byrok got to his feet and started running toward the sextet, twirling the morningstar over his head. Even with his bulk, the only noise he made as he approached was the whizzing sound of the morningstar's chain as it pivoted on the handle in Byrok's fingers and rotated along with the large spiked ball on the other end around the orc's head.

  That was, unfortunately, enough. Two of the humans—the two with the Burning Blade symbol—whirled around. So Byrok targeted the nearest of those two first, throwing the morningstar right at his shaved head. He wasn't concerned about losing his weapon—no human could lift the thing, so it would be safe until he could grab it again.

  "An orc!"

  " 'Bout time one showed up!"

  "Kill it!"

  Since the element of surprise was gone, he let out a huge roar—that always intimidated humans—and leapt at another, this one with a full beard. Byrok's massive fist collided with the bearded one's head.

  The one with the shaved head clutched his shoulder—he had managed to avoid being hit in the head, to Byrok's disappointment—and tried to lift the morningstar with his other hand. Had he time, Byrok would have laughed.

  However, he was too busy grabbing another human's head in his right hand and preparing to throw the invader into one of his comrades. That did not happen, however, as another human attacked from the right.

  Cursing himself for forgetting to account for the fact that he was now blind on that side, Byrok flailed out with his right arm, even as pain sliced into his side.

  Two more humans piled on top of him, one punching him, the other going at him with a blade. Byrok managed to step on one attacker's leg, breaking it instantly. The screams of his victim served to goad the orc, and he redoubled his attack. But there were simply too many of them. Even though two of them were badly injured, they continued to pile on him, and even Byrok could not defeat six humans while unarmed.

  Realizing that he needed his weapon, he inhaled deeply and then let out a huge roar even as he punched both fists outward with all his strength. It only knocked his foes off him for an instant, but an instant was all he needed. He dove for his weapon, his fingers closing around the handle.

  Before he could lift it, however, two of the humans pounded on his head, and another drove a dagger through his left thigh. Byrok flailed his arm outward, the morningstar's ball sailing through the air, just missing the humans.

  Then, much as he loathed himself for being forced to do it, Byrok ran.

  It was a hard thing for him, and not just because the dagger that was still protruding from his thigh slowed his gait. To run from battle was shameful. But Byrok knew he had a higher duty to perform—the Burning Blade had returned, only this time they were humans. And all the attackers, not just the two he'd noticed before, wore that flaming sword image somewhere on them: a necklace, a tattoo, something.

  This was information that needed to get back to Thrall.

  So Byrok ran.

  Or, rather, he hobbled. His wounds were taking their toll. It became a struggle even to breathe.

  But still he ran.

  Dimly, he registered that the six humans were giving chase, but he couldn't afford to pay attention to that. He had to get back to Orgrimmar and tell Thrall what was happening. Even with his injury, his strides were greater than those of the humans, and he could outrun them. Once he pulled far enough ahead, he would lose them in the underbrush of this land that he knew better than any outsider possibly could. Besides, they only seemed to want to beat up an orc. They probably did not realize that Byrok understood their gutter tongue, and therefore they did not know that Byrok knew who they were. They would not chase him past the point where it would be useful to them.

  Or so he hoped.

  No longer were there any thoughts in Byrok's mind. He cleared his head of all save the critical imperative of putting one foot down in front of the other, the ground slamming into his soles. He ignored the pain in his leg, and in all the other places they'd beat or cut him, ignored the fact that his one good eye was getting foggy, ignored the fatigue that drained the strength from his limbs.

  Still he ran.

  Then he stumbled. His left leg refused to lift as it was supposed to—but his right leg continued to run, and so he crashed to the ground, high grass and dirt getting in his nose and mouth and eye.

  "Must…get…up…"

  "You ain't goin' nowhere, monster." Byrok could hear the voice, hear the humans' footfalls, and then feel the pressure when two of them sat on his back, immobilizing him. " 'Cause, here's the thing—your time is over. Orcs don't belong in this world, and so we're gonna take you out of it. Got me?"

  Byrok managed the effort of lifting his head so he could see two of the humans. He spat at them.

  The humans just laughed. "Let's do it, boys. Galtak Ered'nash!"

  The other five all replied in kind: "Galtak Ered'nash!" Then they started beating the orc.

  Six

  An hour after she had finished questioning Davin and Avinal, Colonel Lorena gathered her detail at a clearing just outside Northwatch. Rocks and thick trees dotted the landscape, and sagebrush poked out through the uneven ground. The sun shone down on the ground and the flora, making everything seem to glow—and also keeping everyone quite warm in their plate mail.

  Most of the detail Lorena took were simply the top names on the duty roster, but she had hand—picked two of them. Though young, Strov was her most trusted soldier—he did his duty without question, could improvise when necessary, but when it wasn't, would follow orders to the letter. He could also follow anyone without losing them or letting his prey know he was there.

  The other was the opposite of Strov: Jalod was an old soldier who had fought against orcs back when nobody knew what an orc was. Rumor had it that he had trained Admiral Proudmoore, though Lorena put very little stock in that one. Either way, he'd seen everything, done everything, and lived to tell exaggerated stories about all of it.

  Strov said, "Like I said in the watch office, ma'am, the other crew corroborated what Captain Avinal said. They couldn't see a thing out there. I doubt they had any confirmation that either Orgath'ar or the pirates were even there."

  "And if they were," another soldier, a veteran named Paolo, added, "they weren't in no shape to be helpin' nobody. Sailors I talked to was scared when they spoke of it."

  Mal, who'd served in Azeroth's navy years ago, nodded. "Can't blame 'em. Fog's the worst. No way to get your bearings. Usually best to just drop anchor till it passes. Surprised they didn't, truth be told."

  "What does it matter?"

  That was Jalod. Lorena frowned. "What do you—?"

  "Them orcs decimated Admiral Proudmoore's fleet! Killed one of the finest men ever to draw breath! If it were me in charge of Avinal's boat, I'd'a been helpin' the pirates. It's shameful is what it is, Lady Proudmoore betraying her own to those savages—betraying her own father for such as they. It's shameful that she's got us doing this when we should be goin' after those monsters!"

  Everyone shifted uncomfortably on their feet at those words.

  That is, everyone except for Lorena, who unsheathed her sword and put the point right at Jalod's throat. The old man seemed surprised at that, and his blue eyes grew wide with fear, even under the folds of wrinkly flesh that covered his face.

  Speaking in a low and dangerous tone, Lorena said, "Never speak ill of Lady Proudmoore in my presence again, Sergeant. I don't care who you served with or how many trolls and demons you've killed, if you ever even think such thoughts about Lady Proudmoore, I will tear you open stem to stern and feed the pieces to the dogs. Do I make myself clear?"

  Strov stepped forward. "I'm sure the sergeant meant no disrespect to Lady Proudmoore, ma'am."

  "Course not." Jalod's voice was shakier now. "I ain't got nothin' but respect for her, ma'am, you know that. It's just—"

  "Just what?"


  Jalod swallowed, his Adam's apple butting up against Lorena's sword point. "Them orcs can't be trusted is all I'm sayin'."

  That wasn't all Jalod was saying, but Lorena lowered her sword anyhow. Jalod's decades of service earned him the benefit of several dozen doubts, and those words were very much out of character for a man who had eagerly served under Lady Proudmoore for years now, going back to the days before Arthas turned. Indeed, had it been anyone else, she would not have bothered with the warning and would have gone straight to the disemboweling.

  Sheathing her sword, Lorena said, "Let's head back to the dock. We've got a long trip home."

  As they marched back toward the docks where their transport ship was berthed, Lorena wondered what was going on. She'd been a soldier for all of her adult life. The youngest of ten children, and the only girl, she'd wanted to be a soldier just like her brothers and father. She had even convinced herself that she was a boy, right up until she reached her thirteenth summer and her body forced her to confront the reality that she was female. She was so skilled with a sword and shield that her father overcame his reluctance and sponsored her application to join the Kul Tiras City Guard. Over the years, she worked her way up the ranks, finally being promoted to colonel by Lady Proudmoore herself during the war against the Burning Legion.

  Over those years she had honed her instincts—the instincts of a soldier from a family of soldiers—and those instincts now told her that there was more to this than a military convoy not seeing a trading ship or the pirates attacking them in the fog. The suspicion had been in the back of her mind from the moment she arrived at Northwatch, but Jalod's words put it to the front.

  She wasn't sure what was wrong, precisely, but she intended to find out.

  As they marched toward the edge of the clearing, Private Strov made sure to keep Sergeant Jalod in his sight at all times. He wasn't sure what had gotten into the old buzzard, but Strov didn't like it, not one bit.

  It was one thing to complain about the orcs. That was to be expected, given the history, though Strov himself generally thought of the orcs as victims of demonic influence. Made as much sense to hate them as it did Medivh, and he was revered as a hero despite what the demons did to him. Still and all, he could see why some might view the orcs with animosity.

  But Lady Proudmoore? The only ones who had reason to think ill of her were the Burning Legion and those that were sympathetic to their cause.

  Jalod was never one to express such feelings in the past. Which led Strov to think that perhaps the sergeant was losing his marbles. Nothing wrong with that—it happened to the best of people—but it could endanger them. One of the things they drilled into you in training was that you had to rely on the people in your unit. Strov wasn't sure he could rely on Jalod anymore.

  So intent was he on keeping the sergeant in his sight line at all times, Strov was slow to pick up on something he should have noticed earlier. The trees and rocks, along with some storage sheds used for Northwatch, provided an almost circular border. As they neared the circle's edge, Strov saw four figures in cloaks hiding behind the storage sheds, the trees, or the rocks. They were well concealed, but Strov had a keener eye than most.

  "Ambush!"

  At Strov's cry, all seven of them got into a fighter's crouch and unsheathed their swords. Simultaneously, seven figures—Strov had missed three of them—leapt out from cover.

  The figures were massive, their cloaks doing an inadequate job of hiding the fact that they were orcs, though doing a fine job of hiding any distinguishing features they might have had.

  Strov noticed something else as he parried the club that was swinging toward his head: the cloaks had an emblem on the breast of a sword on fire. That was familiar to Strov, but he couldn't take the time to follow up on the thought just at the moment, as the becloaked orc was doing everything possible to end Strov's life.

  The orc swung the club thrice more, and all three times Strov parried, but on the third he also stepped in and kicked the orc in the stomach. Not expecting such an attack, the orc stumbled, and Strov thrust at it with his sword. However, the orc had the wherewithal to block the thrust with its club.

  Unfortunately for the orc, this put Strov on the offensive. He kept coming with different thrusts and strikes, hoping to catch the orc unawares, but his foe was well trained and had amazingly fast reflexes—and was now ready for additional kicks or punches Strov might deliver. Many humans, Strov knew, relied wholly on their weapons to fight, but Strov had always preferred to use his entire body.

  Strov thrust low, hoping that the orc would parry low enough to open up for a strike to the head. However, the orc anticipated, and only held the club with one hand, the other hand raised and protecting its face.

  So Strov kicked down at the orc's leg.

  The kick wasn't hard enough to break any bones, but the orc stumbled and waved both arms to keep its balance. That gave Strov the opening he needed to run the orc through the chest.

  Or so he thought. The sword managed to penetrate the cloak easily enough, about halfway up the blade, but Strov felt no penetration of flesh, and when he yanked his sword out—which took more effort than expected—there was no blood on the blade.

  Strov gritted his teeth, refusing to let his surprise at not scoring first blood distract him from his foe, who was now standing steady once more.

  Taking a deep breath, Strov moved in and refused to let up. He swung at the orc's neck, which was blocked, then immediately went for the stomach, then the neck again, then the legs. His arms were a blur as he pushed the orc back farther and farther, giving no quarter, barely giving his foe sufficient time to even parry—and hoping that sooner or later, that parry would not come.

  Suddenly, a sword blade seemingly came out of nowhere and slashed at the orc's head. The cloak was rent by the blade, and half of it fell off to reveal the angry green face of a male orc. His left tusk had that burning sword emblem engraved in it.

  The blade in question belonged to Colonel Lorena. Strov assumed that she had dispatched her own foe.

  As for the orc, he yelled out the word for retreat in the orcish tongue, and then they all yelled the phrase, "Galtak Ered'nash!" Strov knew many languages, including those of the orcs, trolls, goblins, and dwarves, as well as all four elven dialects. He'd never heard that phrase before.

  His foe now running away, Strov turned to see that Ian and Mal were down—the former dead with his throat ripped open, the latter alive but with a leg injury—but besides himself, Lorena, Jalod, Paolo, and Clai were uninjured. One of the orcs lay on the ground as well. The other six were retreating, two of them bleeding.

  "Strov, Clai, give chase," Lorena said as she ran toward Mal.

  Clai was the most brutal fighter in the detail. Strov noted that his fellow private had a great deal of orc blood on his sword. "You were able to strike flesh?" Strov asked as they ran in the same direction as the remaining six orcs.

  Nodding, Clai said, "Only when I got the head or the neck. It's like their bodies were made outta smoke or somethin'."

  The figures had all gone through one of the overhanging willow branches that almost served as a wall. Only a few paces behind, Clai and Strov ran through to find—nothing. Of the orcs, there was no sign. Even the blood trail of the two injured ones was gone. The ground was visible for half a league—it was impossible for the orcs to have gone from sight in the time available.

  Strov stopped short and took a deep breath. "You smell that?"

  Clai shook his head.

  "Sulfur. And spices—thyme, I think."

  Sounding confused, Clai asked, "So?"

  "Magic. Which also explains why they couldn't be stabbed."

  An almost manic gleam in his eye, Clai asked, "Demons?"

  "Pray not." Strov shuddered. Clai was but a youth, a recent recruit who had been too young to fight the Burning Legion. His eagerness to fight demons was that of one who had never had to fight any.

  Turning, Strov ran back through the le
aves toward Lorena, Clai on his heels.

  The colonel was kneeling by Mal, along with Paolo, the latter binding Mal's wounds. Upon seeing Strov and Clai, she got to her feet and angrily asked, "What happened?"

  "They disappeared, ma'am. Completely—even their blood trail. And there's the stink of magic."

  Lorena spat. "Dammit!" She let out a breath through her teeth, then pointed at the cloak on the ground. "But that figures. That one won't be questioned, it seems."

  Looking closely, Strov saw that the cloak was flat on the ground. Using his sword, he poked the garment, which disturbed some ashes. Then he looked back at the colonel.

  "Definitely magic," she said with a nod.

  "Ma'am, something's familiar about—" Then, finally, Strov placed it, recalling a recent conversation with his brother. "That's it!"

  "What's it, Private?"

  "When last I was home, my brother Manuel told me of a group that calls itself the Burning Blade. Someone tried to recruit him for it the last time he was in the Demonsbane. Said they're looking for people to come to their meetings who aren't happy with the way things are, but didn't say no more than that."

  Jalod snorted. "Ain't nobody happy with the way things are. Ain't no reason to be havin' meetin's about it."

  Strov thought this was odd, given what Jalod had been saying earlier, but did not respond directly, instead continuing his report to the colonel. "Ma'am, the orc I fought had a sword afire carved into his tusk."

  "A burning blade." Lorena shook her head. "The one I fought—the one that turned to ashes over there—had a burning blade of his own dangling from his nose ring."

  Clai raised a hand. "If I may, ma'am?" Lorena nodded. "One of my foes had one—it was like the one Private Strov fought, ma'am, on his tusk."