The Fall of Moonbrook, First War (Year 4 ADP*)

Dukhor scratched his nose, grimacing. He'd been in this world a few years, could barely remember when his own world still flowered. He was unable to shake the sneezing when the wind blew across the grassy fields. He shook his head sharply and snorted.

"Quiet," his captain growled low beside him. Ok'mal curled his lip in disgust. "Look at'em." He spat on the ground.

Below them lay yet another village, ripe for plunder. There was frenzied activity; the humans were loading carts, saddling horses, running pell-mell all over. Ok'mal grunted with amusement.

"Better tell Fogak," he observed. "Gonna have to hurry, looks like."

Letting his eyes follow first one distant form then another as they ran about in a panic, Dukhor frowned. He noted women and children, a few grey-whiskered men, but no warriors. His frown deepened.

Dukhor had wielded his hammer for the glory of the Bleeding Hollow clan, and the Horde, ever since the portal spilled them onto this challenging world of plenty. 'Azeroth,' it was called. An eager whelp too young to defend his folk from the deceitful Draenei, the decree of Ner'zhul hurried his om'riggor before his tenth summer would have normally allowed it. Donning his new armor and hefting the warhammer inherited from his late father, he'd run screaming through the gateway with his clan, eager to prove himself in battle at last. He'd believed the words spoken, that the folk of this world, the 'humans,' were weak and soft, easily defeated. Like all of his people, he believed victory would be swiftly claimed, and a new homeland for Orcs was only one more battle away.

Four years later, he wasn't nearly as confident. Those early engagements were against villages like this one, not armed warriors. Dukhor did his duty, slaying any human that crossed his path, no matter how small. They all seemed small to him then. Small and weak. A nuisance, an obstacle to be swept out of the way. Then the Horde attacked Stormwind.

It was a name that inspired furious arguments and bloodshed whenever it was mentioned. None accepted responsibility for the humiliating defeat. Rather, Bleeding Hollow fingers pointed in all directions, shifting the blame elsewhere. The Twilight's Hammer clan was too weak and failed to hold the line, the Warsong clan came too late, the Bonechewer clan's warriors may as well not have been there at all, so bent were they on consuming the fallen. The Horde might have descended into civil war had Gul'dan not placed Blackhand the Destroyer over them all.

Dukhor growled under his breath, recalling the time under Blackhand's boot. He was not the only one pleased when Orgrim Doomhammer relieved the Warchief of his position, no matter how it was done. Yet whether under Blackhand or Doomhammer, the prey they hunted remained the same. He followed Ok'mal from their place of concealment back to the main camp, where a full company of Orcs awaited news from the scouting party.

Ok'mal usually did the talking, for Dukhor was still too young to be counted as a warrior most of the time. He stood silently by, unable to dismiss the nagging doubt that had crawled into his mind and seemed content to fester in the shadows there.

"Looks like they're buggin' out, sir," Ok'mal reported. "Word must've got to'em."

"Then we move now," Fogak growled. "To arms! We'll catch the cowards before they can run!"

Resigned to another day of uncertainty, Dukhor shouldered his hammer and took his place among the ranks forming for the attack.


"I'll take'em all on, I'm not afraid!" Daren cried, brandishing a toy sword wildly. Miona made another vain attempt to disarm the six-year-old and hurry him into the cart.

"Such a brave lad, you are!" she praised, though her voice shook nervously. "But you must get in the cart. Your sisters need your protection, now that you're the man of the house."

Daren's shoulders slumped and his sword arm lowered. He cast a baleful gaze at his elder sisters, Betty and Mabel, sitting huddle together in the cart holding one another in fear. Sighing heavily, he nodded.

Looking toward the barn, Miona fidgeted anxiously. The grain stores were all but depleted; there likely wouldn't be a single kernel missed by the frantic farmers. After a few moments, the children's mother emerged, lugging a hefty sack. Miona sprang to her aid, grabbing one end of the bag and helping load it onto the cart.

"Where did you find it?" she gasped incredulously.

"Near the back, under a tarp." Leaning on the cart to catch her breath, Agatha gave her young nanny a sheepish look. "I might've covered it the other day by accident."

Miona's laugh was brief, for screams erupted not far away. Whirling toward the sound, she saw at least a half dozen Orcs descending upon the Marshall family and their pack pony not ten yards distant. The great ugly brutes were giants to her eyes: standing a head taller than any human, with green skin stretched over bulging muscles, they wielded axes and hammers, swords and halbards. The shining metal common among Stormwind soldiers was disdained by these creatures, who favored mere harnesses of leather reinforced with bone. Their ugly faces, wide of jaw with large and vicious tusks more powerful than any wild boar's, were etched with cruelty and malice.

The widow Marshall fell beneath a hammer to her head; her eldest daughter followed with the Orc's second strike. Five years old and stricken with terror, Billy Marshall stood motionless, and was cloven in twain by another Orc's sword.

"Into the cart, quickly!" Agatha screamed, shoving Miona ahead of her. Betty and Mabel wailed in terror, and Daren scrambled into the cart without further protest. Miona had just turned around to give Agatha a hand up, when she saw a mountainous green form behind the woman.

"Agatha!" she cried in warning, just as a sword thrust through the widow's back, erupting between her breasts in a splash of crimson. Horrified, Miona scooted back towards the children. The Orc shoved Agatha's corpse aside and leered as it made to climb into the cart after its prey.

The cart's bed was dusty from many deliveries. The children's screams loud in her ears, Miona grabbed a fistful of the hay dust and threw it into the Orc's small red eyes. It bellowed furiously and stumbled back, grinding knuckles into its blinded eyes. Miona whirled about and grabbed at the children's clothing, urging them out of the cart.

Putting herself between them and the twitching corpse of their mother, Miona pushed all three into a nearby hay stack, concealing them inside. Leaving a bit of a hole to peer through, she watched as the Orc regained its feet and, squinting, began to search for them.

"Hush," she breathed, "and be still."

Her worst fear was that their hysteria would renew, but shock had stilled them to near catatonia. Miona forced herself to focus on the Orc, and not see the broken form of kindly Agatha, splayed on the ground at its feet. Whether by luck or some blessing of the Light, it looked briefly in the barn, then moved away, never thinking to investigate the hay. But in the distance, amidst the panicking villagers, she could see flames. The haystack would be their tomb if they didn't leave it soon.

Turning to the children, she said in a low, hurried voice, "We must go to the barn, and hide there."

"Mum... mum... mum...," Betty whispered, her tear-dampened face contorting.

"Don't think on it now," Miona urged desperately. "We have to move. Quickly. Before they see us." Eyes widened all around her in the close, musty space. "I'm frightened, too," she confessed. "Come along. Follow me."

Checking once more through the chink, Miona saw that there were far fewer villagers on the move. Most were lying motionless, their murderers bellowing triumphantly over them. Dust and smoke clouded the air; she hoped it would keep them hidden long enough to reach the relative safety of the barn.

Miona led the children out of the haystack and ran for the open barn door. She made sure they were all in before ducking inside herself, and pulling the door closed.


A flash of movement in the corner of Dukhor's eye caught his attention. Perhaps thirty yards away stood a barn with an abandoned cart in front of it. Sighing with resignation, he turned and loped toward the structure.

He'd seen death many times; had dealt it to the humans so often he could not keep count. They became a worthy enemy, a challenging foe, and battles against them were eagerly anticipated. This, however, was not to his liking. His heavy footfalls took him past the crumpled and mutilated remains of the old, the weak, the inexcusably young. Few held what would pass for a weapon amounting to a threat to an Orc. A familar discomfort stole over him as he neared the barn.

I should go elsewhere, he told himself. It was my imagination. A trick of the smoke. Nothing more. After all, the torch bearers were moving from building to building; soon enough, his uncertainty could be forgotten.

Looking down, he saw a human female's corpse, beheaded and hacked to pieces. He recognized the rage of a warrior denied a prize; perhaps it eluded him, taking refuge in the barn? Steeling his waning will, Dukhor strode to the door and kicked it open.

A startled scream greeted him, and he beheld four humans at the far end. Three were very young children, cowering in a hay-filled stall. The fourth was only a bit older, and held a pitchfork in both hands, her breaths coming in gasps. She stood at the stall's opening, her feet apart in a fighting stance, brow pinched with grief and fear. Yet she held her ground, and shouted at him, brandishing the makeshift weapon in challenge.

Dukhor stared at the girl for several seconds, unsure what to do. His weapon lowered of its own accord.

"Get away from here!" Miona shouted again, her voice breaking. She shook the pitchfork threateningly, determined to make the beast bleed before it killed her. To her shock, it suddenly turned and looked outside for a moment. Did it think it required a fellow's aid to take her down? Emboldened by the ridiculous thought, Miona straightened her shoulders and tried to appear more formidable than she felt. Then it turned toward her again, and she held her breath.

It didn't try to speak to her in its incomprehensible tongue, but rather held a finger to its lips. She blinked in confusion.

"What's it doin'?" Mabel whispered, clinging now to Miona's skirts.

"I've no idea," the nanny replied. The monstrous Orc began to slowly approach, and Miona raised her pitchfork higher. "Get back, all of you."

To further confound the girl, the Orc held up his huge, thick-fingered hand, palm outward. If she didn't know better, she would suspect it of trying to convey calm. How could she be calm, when she'd witnessed such horrors only minutes before? Gripping the handle tightly, she refused to back up when the Orc approached.

Again, a placating hand was raised briefly, then it hefted its oversized warhammer, and Miona braced herself for the blow. A long-held breath whooshed out of her in surprise when the beast's hammer fell against the back wall of the barn with a thunderous crash.

First one slat of weathered oak burst asunder, then a second blow took another. It left a wide hole in the wall, then stepped back. Sighing, it jerked its chin toward the exit it just made.

Miona hesitated, her thoughts torn. Could it be trusted?

It raised its head and its large, pointed ears pricked to some sound, though how it could hear anything over the cacophany outside, she had no idea. Then it gave her an agitated look, and waved toward the hole.

"Kagh!" it hissed urgently.

Miona started at the creature's snarling voice. Death at this one's hands or another's was certain. She chose this one; perhaps its strange actions might mean a swift death.

"Come," she said shakily, shifting the pitchfork to one hand and using the other to push the children toward the hole. "Go through, and run."

"Is it gonna kill us?" Daren whimpered, clinging to her arm tightly.

"Never you mind," she told him evenly. "Just take your sisters into the hills. I'll be right behind."

"You promise?" Betty begged. Miona nodded wordlessly.

Seeing the children safely out, she paused before leaving herself, and looked boldly into the eyes of the Orc. Unlike the malevolently glowing red of its fellows, this one's eyes were dark brown and human-like. Its broad face was unreadable to her, yet she had the sense that it would do them no harm. It only nodded, its thick lips grimly tight around its great tusks. She nodded in return, unsure what else to do, then ducked out of the barn after the children.

Dukhor closed his eyes and sagged against the wall. He rubbed his face tiredly. What had he done? Would Kilrogg Deadeye, his clan chieftain, approve of his actions, or condemn him as weak? Were the Warchief to know of it, would Dukhor be branded a traitor and slain? He fretted for several moments, uncertain. Yet in spite of the worries, Dukhor's tension loosened with relief. He'd stained his honor many times that day, and every day since coming to this land. He would likely sully it further in the coming days. But today, he'd followed the teachings of his father, gone to the ancestors in battle before Dukhor reached his seventh summer, but remembered still. Today, he'd obeyed his conscience. This moment he could hold in his heart, this one moment where his honor was not blackened and made shameful to him.


References:

ADP = After the Dark Portal's first opening, when the Orcs invaded Azeroth

Kagh! = Run!