"Peon" by Forever Jake
Chapter One – The Valley of Trials
It was late in the afternoon when Deglash returned from the mine, the worn linen sack slung over his shoulder, full to bursting with another day's load of hard-mined silver, the harsh Durotar sun shining mercilessly on his neck and the top of his head. The peon had been all day in the mine, surrounded by his fellows as their pickaxes impacted again and again on the thick rock, while others scurried around like starved dogs, collecting from the debris of broken stone that littered the mine floors the glittering deposits of silver ore and collecting them into sacks. Outside, in the valley, others had pounded away at trees and stacks of wood, harvesting all the lumber that could be gathered for the glory and wealth of the Horde.
Deglash did not mind the labor, nor the long hours, nor the heat of sun nor the dark of the mine. The world was as it was, he had long ago decided, and as it had come to be that he had been gifted with the muscles and ethic to work all day mining and hauling silver in this valley, such was how he would spend his days. The world would continue to turn amicably, without any undue complaints from him, and each night there would be ale and meat and a reasonably soft cot waiting for him in the worker lodge. Such was the arrangement he had long known, and he found it enough to his liking.
So it was that at the end of one long afternoon, like so many long afternoons before, he crossed the narrow valley with his sack full of silver slung over his shoulder and the tired sun breathing its last rays of warmth onto his shaved head.
His sweat fell in droplets that hissed on the hot, dusty ground in rhythm with his footsteps – tss-tss, tss-tss. He passed the old sign that had once said Silver Valley in Orcish – the one that had fallen in that freak lightning storm last summer and never been fixed or replaced – and entered the work camp, nodding his head at the other peons who had already returned from their day's toil.
The camp was situated at the back of the valley, against a sheer rock wall that rose some twenty feet above the floor of the valley before leveling off into an uneven plateau. Along the base of this wall of stone, Deglash could see sacks full of silver, not unlike his own, placed by those miners that had returned before him. He approached the wall and deposited his sack with the others. In the morning, they would set about cleaning and storing the silver away in the treasury den – but for as long as the night would last, work was over.
Dinner was already being handed out in the form of thin boar steaks and tough hunks of bread. The boars, he knew, were raised, killed and cooked right here in the valley, by other peons. Peons provided food and water to their fellows. Peons built, fixed and replaced the tools they needed. Peons hunted the predators of the valley to keep the camp safe. The valley was as much a commune as a labor camp; its workers worked for their own benefit as well as for the profit of the Horde.
Deglash received his meal and a tankard of warm ale – one of the few products not made there in the valley, but imported from Orgrimmar or Thunder Bluff – and found a seat at the long table beside those who were already eating. He tore into his bread and meat, sipped his ale, and felt his muscles begin to relax.
The hot sun fell below the tops of the highest of the western hills, and at last cool shade descended upon the camp. The rasps and grunts of the workers had blossomed into talking, laughing and more. At the far end of the table, games of chance were suddenly in full swing. It always surprised him, the quickness of this transformation – the sudden disappearance of the sun at the end of the afternoon, a rush of cooler air, and all at once the solemn, tired atmosphere at the completion of a good day's work shifted to one of merriment, entertainment and relaxation.
A toothy smile cracked his worn face, and he raised his tankard to his lips. The taste seemed magnified tenfold; it was wonderful. Setting the drink down on the table, he placed his arms behind his head, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was the very image of comfort.
"Alright, you maggots! Listen up!"
The games, the laughter, the idle conversations were silenced as suddenly as they had erupted. Deglash's eyes flew open.
At the head of the camp stood a mountain of an orc – tall, broad of shoulder, and with all the forgiveness of a wall of stone. The Foreman held his favorite club in his right hand, a weapon which matched him in more than one characteristic. He opened his mouth and bellowed once more at the crowd of revelers.
"Which one of you dogs is Deglash?"
The peon could feel every eye in the camp turn slowly towards him, and he saw more than a few arms and fingers extended in his direction. Seeing the Foreman's gaze settle on him as well, Deglash took a breath and stood.
"I am Deglash, master," he said.
"You come with me, then," growled the Foreman.
As he crossed the common behind the titanic orc, he could hear the evening's festivities slowly building up again behind him. The pair made their way in silence towards a small tent on the edge of the camp. It was little more than a broad tarp, truly, stretched across the tops of poles in the ground and affixed to the rock wall behind; yet it served well enough as the Foreman's quarters when he was not belting orders at the peons under his charge.
Deglash did not think he was frightened of the Foreman – not really. It was more an understanding of his status, combined with the imperious tone the orc had used, as he so often did. They were in agreement that the Foreman gave the orders and the peon would follow, and so actual fear of the one on the part of the other was never necessary. The Foreman bellowed his commands, and Deglash, cowed, would comply.
They entered the tent, and the Foreman immediately sat on the narrow cot which rested along one wall of the cloth structure. The peon elected to stand.
"Deglash," the Foreman growled, gripping a piece of parchment, "do you have any idea what today is?"
The worker was forced to admit he did not. "Early summer?" he guessed.
"It was a little over three years ago that Orgrimmar's construction was completed. You were assigned to help with its building, is that correct?"
"Yes, master."
"And when it was finished, you were reassigned here to Silver Valley, where you've been since, yes?"
"That's right, master." So many questions!
"Do you recall, Deglash, how long it took to build Orgrimmar?"
Again he was forced to confess his ignorance, which he did with a small shrug.
"That project took just under two years. Two years to build, plus three more since it was finished. So I ask you again – do you know what today is?"
"No, master."
The Foreman looked up at him a long time, saying nothing, as though examining a newly-cleaned chunk of silver in search of faults. Finally he spoke again.
"Today, Deglash, it has been five years you have worked for the Horde. Do you know what that means?"
There was another shrug from the peon, and the Foreman, obviously irritated, thrust the parchment into his hand. Deglash looked down at the paper, uncomprehending.
The Foreman sighed. "I suppose you don't read, either?" Deglash shook his head. The Foreman sighed and pressed his face close to the worker's.
"Alright, listen – and listen close, because this conversation has already wasted enough of my time tonight! What this says – what it means – is that you've worked all you need to. Five years, that's what the laws say is required of peons. You can thank War Chief Thrall for that provision; five years is all you're allowed to work. I can't make you haul silver another day."
Deglash stared back at him, silent.
"Do you understand? You're done. Tomorrow morning you can leave this camp and this valley and never come back if you like. How does that sound?"
"I…" The peon searched for words. "This is my home," he managed.
"Tough jerky," boomed the larger orc's voice. "I'm glad to hear you like the place, but I'm afraid you just can't stay. The law says you're not allowed to work anymore now that your time's up. And I can't imagine you'd like to hang around here if you're not working, mm?"
Deglash considered. He pictured the morning ritual, his fellows lined up out in the commons, solemnly cleaning silver before trekking off back towards the mine for another hard day's work – and all the while, he himself sitting at the long table, sipping ale, watching them labor and doing nothing.
"No, I wouldn't like that at all," he whispered.
"So we agree, then," said the Foreman, turning back to look at him again. "You can stay the night, but tomorrow you leave? Yes?"
"Yes," he replied sadly. "Tomorrow I will leave." He paused, doubt crossing his face. "Where will I go?"
"Orgrimmar, I s'pose," said the Foreman. "They'll be able to tell you there where to go if you want to find you family or your clan or whatnot. What clan are you, anyways?"
"Blackrock," he said.
"Hmm, Blackrock… not sure I've seen anyone from Blackrock in quite awhile; not that I ask every orc I see what clan he's from, mind you. Some of the folks in the less kindly-remembered clans – the Stormreavers, the Burning Blades, the Shadowmoons – they don't like to associate with the clans they came from. Can't blame them, m'self. Would you want to be known as part of the clan that helped Ner'zhul destroy Draenor? It looks bad."
Deglash nodded, though he didn't fully understand.
"Blackrock, though, that's a good honored clan. Older clan, too – older than both of the Human Wars, if my reckoning's right. I'm Bleeding Hollow, myself. Anyhow, you go on to Orgrimmar, and see the War Chief or one of his officers. They'll tell you how to go about finding where the other Blackrocks have settled here in Kalimdor, if that's what you want.
"You should stop in Ratchet or Razor Hill along the way, too, and see a grunt about collecting your wages. Just show 'em that paper –" here he gestured to the mysterious document in Deglash's hands "– and tell 'em you want your payment. They shouldn't give you any trouble."
"Then what?" The question seemed to surprise the Foreman; Deglash wasn't sure he'd ever seen the orc surprised before.
"Then what?" the Foreman repeated. "You're a free orc, and there's a big old world out there! You go do whatever the hell you want!"
Apparently fed up with the conversation, the Foreman drew open the flap of the tent and vanished into the evening, leaving the peon alone in the tent to wonder what had just happened to make the world stop turning.