Chapter One
Warhorns
The sun was already blistering when Drazgh pushed through the last of the crowded streets separating his home from Grommash Hold. Barely midmorning and already promising to be a brutal day. Deneth would be out in the training grounds in this, as she often was.
Nothing like the heat to strengthen a young orc.
On the subject of young orcs, a dozen orc children under the age of ten rushed past him, laughing and calling as they made for the cool shade beneath the cliffs on the seaward side. Children with no purpose and no direction, getting into mischief. Where were their parents to rein them in and set them to worthwhile tasks?
The sobering fact that they might be orphans was not reassuring. But who could tell in Orgrimmar these last weeks?
Gather, Hellscream's edict had declared to all orcs. Abandon fields, leave farms, walk away from prosperous lives to become refugees in the city dedicated to Orgrim Doomhammer.
And they'd come. Crowding the streets, filling every guest house to bursting, sleeping in alleys and shitting on thoroughfares. All hoping for honor, all waiting for glory.
Some had been waiting for weeks, now. How much longer would they wait before Hellscream acknowledged his own actions and addressed the issue? Admitting to a mistake was probably beyond the Warchief, but it would be nice to hack this problem off at the feet before it grew into a catastrophe.
Grommash Hold had been built in the center of the Valley of Strength, near the main gates to the city and smack dab in the middle of the city's commerce. Drazgh could see the strategic value of the location, but having the center of leadership in the same place as the market and other commerce areas meant the Valley of Strength was usually clogged with orcs going about their business even before the refugees started pouring in.
Now, this close to the hold, he had to shove for every foot. Kodos pulling wagons lurged in the chaos, children darted underfoot, and tempers flared as no one was able to move.
"Mind your place, old one," a shabbily dressed young male snarled as Drazgh shoved past him. Likely one of the newly arrived refugees. Drazgh barely gave him a second thought as he turned and slammed his forehead into the young orc's nose. No room for any better blow, the other orc reeled away and didn't come back, so good enough.
Grommash Hold shouldn't have been rebuilt here after the Cataclysm. The decision was poorly thought out and played hell with the city's ability to function properly.
Then again, there was a certain amusing irony to the new Warchief moving his base of operations out of the Valley of Wisdom. And the irony was furthered by Hellscream settling down in the middle of the Valley of Strength. But to be truly ludicrous he would've had to have built his new seat of power in the Valley of Honor.
Ah, the old called the young fools while the young called the old weak. Sad that all too often it was true.
Kor'kron sentries held the entrance to the hold. In this case it wasn't just a ceremonial or honorary position, since the big grunts had to constantly shove the teeming crowd of orcs back and tear down the shelters refugees kept trying to build along the half-finished walls of the hold.
They nodded in respect as Drazgh pushed out of the crowd and into the cleared pocket in front of the entrance, letting him walk through. Someone behind must've gotten the wrong idea and tried to follow, because a moment later one of the warriors rushed forward and he heard several meaty thuds. The Kor'kron were becoming more and more insistent in their warnings.
Hellscream better start his war soon, or he'd get it right on his doorstep.
Inside the hold was comfortably cool. Hallways circled around to either side, his way forward blocked by the vissing wall to keep the Warchief's chamber private from outside eyes. Most of the hallway's inner walls were open to the chamber, but they kept their form enough all the way around that slaves and attendants could follow them around to get to the rooms along the outer circle without disturbing their Warchief.
An old design. As old as the orcs themselves. But not terribly practical for the spot where the Warchief of the Horde received visitors. Thrall's old chamber with its antechamber and side rooms had been more suitable.
Almost as soon as he entered the Warchief's chamber his way forward was blocked by a hulking shape that towered over him by almost a foot.
Malkorok, of the Blackrock clan. The monstrous orc could almost have been a fel orc if his coloring was red. His eyes were small and burned with hatred to a disturbing degree no matter what he was doing.
To Drazgh, the mere presence of that "bodyguard" was an insult in multiple ways. First of all was the fact that Hellscream had taken a bodyguard at all. All orcs of the Horde were sworn to serve and protect their warchief. The only danger Hellscream would be in while among his own people would be from a formal challenge. And he'd already won a duel against a dangerous foe in defeating Cairne Bloodhoof. In spite of the duel's suspicious circumstances and dishonorable ending.
For Hellscream to have a bodyguard was as good as their Warchief saying he suspected his warriors of being dishonorable cowards who might try to kill him in some way besides an honorable challenge. Drazgh new from personal experience that those who feared dishonor in others were usually less than honorable themselves.
So he shouldn't have a bodyguard to protect against internal threats. And if it was to protect against threat from without he may as well say he feared the Alliance.
Then was the insult of choosing a Blackrock orc to protect him. Aside from the fact that it was similar to putting a rabid wolf to guarding your house, couldn't Hellscream find any good, loyal orcs from among the ranks of the Kor'kron for the task?
And a Blackrock. Those really were rabid wolves, kicked out of the Old Horde by Doomhammer after he personally beheaded Blackhand. They'd been sunk deepest into the Blood Oath, the most twisted and demonic, and after Grom slew Mannoroth and freed the orcs the Blackrocks had spent the next decade and more trying to summon demons and regain the blood corruption.
Hellscream had one of those as his bodyguard. Even worse, an orc that even Blackrocks had driven out from among them.
Aside from that this Malkorok was unsavory in numerous other ways. He visited the goblin pleasure houses and drank hard liquor. He bedded half-draenei slaves and even paid to mate with females. There were sinister rumors going around about him, like that he'd killed a female during mating, and while drinking in a bar he'd stabbed a troll in the back after the troll insulted him.
And perhaps most disturbing of all Hellscream listened to him. They were often closeted away behind closed doors, laughing and making merry.
Foolishness heaped upon foolishness. That was Hellscream having Malkorok as a bodyguard.
The Blackrock orc turned those disconcerting eyes his way, and Drazgh found he had trouble meeting them. They reminded him of too many orcs of the Old Horde he'd known, for whom matching gazes was seen as a challenge. More than once he'd found himself abruptly under attack by a crazed companion, simply because he'd looked at him.
Drazgh met that gaze calmly. If Malkorok wished to attack him here in Grommash Hold he would reveal himself for the rabid dog he was. Hellscream would have no choice but to put him down. Assuming Drazgh couldn't do it personally; fel orcs could be horribly brutal enemies, but they were direct in their attacks and easy to outmaneuver.
Then again, he wasn't as strong as he'd once been. And Malkorok was rumored to have broken a kodo's neck with one hand. Besides, he'd made his point in meeting the orc's gaze.
Drazgh looked away and continued on into the hold's central chamber, where other advisors of the Warchief had gathered. Along with a few Horde petitioners.
The goblin was there, Overseer Blitwhistle. Head of the Manufactory that produced so many of Hellscream's toys. Drazgh had spoken to the goblin on more than one occasion about matters of timing and finances, and he'd found the creature to have a prodigious brain for such a diminutive body.
Blitwhistle was able to juggle schedules, rosters, finances, payments received and delivered, and dozens of other fields of information in that mind of his. Ready to be spewed out at a moment's demand. Sometimes Drazgh wondered how a goblin who had a hand in everything and who everyone went to for coordination and direction couldn't be considered a leader in his own right.
"Drazgh," the little creature said with a solemn nod. Most goblins tended towards manic grins and wild eyes, but Blitwhistle seemed almost frightfully calm most of the time.
"The manufactory report isn't due for two more days, is it?" he asked. Blitwhistle was spending more and more time in this chamber of late, and the hell of it was he was useful here.
The goblin shrugged. "The Warchief called for all leaders and advisors in the city to meet at noon. This room is going to be filling up soon."
Drazgh grunted. "Perhaps he's finally decided what to do with all the refugees. It would've been nice if he'd had that planned before calling every orc on Azeroth to drop everything and gather in Orgrimmar."
The goblin blinked lazily. "My dear Elder, is that criticism of our Warchief I'm hearing?"
Insufferable goblin. "Since when is making an observation criticism?"
"I've found that most criticisms do tend to take the form of observations, actually." The goblin sidled away towards a little pedestal that hadn't been there last time Drazgh was in the chamber. It had a thick cushion atop it. Blitwhistle really was putting down roots. Maybe he was maneuvering to take control of Bilgewater Cartel out from under Trade Prince Gallywix.
Not hard, considering the absent goblin wasn't here to defend it. Drazgh hadn't even heard rumor of Gallywix in a long while, so it was possible the spot was open after all.
Why had Thrall selected such an dishonorable little fiend to represent the newly recruited goblins in the Horde?
With a sigh Drazgh moved over to the bench where Hellscream's other advisors were gathered. He'd never thought when he was young that he'd grow old and become one of those miserable orcs who complained about everything. But then again when he was young there'd been nothing to complain about.
Aside from the food. And sleeping on rock. And no females. And waiting around for the chieftains to find victims for a raid so he could get some excitement.
Time dragged by. Drazgh did his best to attend to his duties, finding those he needed to speak with about various Horde business among the increasing crowd in the chamber. Before too long it was almost as packed as the streets outside had been, although with a higher caliber of people.
Powerful orc warriors, Orgrimmar administrators, heroes and leaders from among the vassal races. Along the inside curve of the vissing wall a handful of tauren loomed above the throng, representatives from Baine Bloodhoof. He caught the brief, wrong scent of undeath in the crowd, the Banshee Queen's emissary, although he didn't see any undead among the taller orcs. The blood elf emissary was likely with the undead, also out of sight.
Trolls were noticeably absent from the hall. It was odd not to see them, since in Thrall's Horde many of the creatures had attended him, one of them being Vol'jin himself. The implications of Hellscream's falling out with the troll chieftain were starting to rear their ugly head as trolls gradually disappeared from Orgrimmar and returned to their newly reclaimed home in the Echo Isles. Hellscream still demanded soldiers from Vol'jin, and trolls could be seen in the various barracks and training grounds, and more commonly out on the front lines fighting the Alliance.
But not in Orgrimmar. When your leader threatens to shoot the new Warchief in the back from the shadows it's usually a good idea to keep away. Not even an open challenge but as good as a promise of assassination. Maybe that's why Hellscream had taken on Malkorok's services.
The chamber had grown uncomfortably hot, the air close and stifling. Goblin engineering had contributed to the hold's construction, providing hidden ventilation and cooling architecture, but even they couldn't battle a hot day outside and nearly a hundred Horde dignitaries clumped inside an enclosed space.
Drazgh sighed and glanced over at Blitwhistle, envying his cushion. Still hours to noon, yet, and he was already longing for the coolness of his home and a few mugs of ale.
Ah well, at least he wasn't outside.
.
Sweat streamed down her back and between her breasts, torn free by the merciless sun pounding down. Her familiar armor didn't feel any heavier than usual, but the day was hot enough she felt like she was broiling in it. Heat waves shivered in the air all around, produced by the baked stone of the training grounds. The air was almost blurry enough to make it difficult to see the blows of her two attackers.
If they'd been faster it probably would be.
Deneth slapped aside an enthusiastic but poorly aimed hammer blow with her practice axe, twisting the haft in midair to send it screaming back at her opponent. The young orc barely had time to gape as the padded head slammed into his borrowed armor and knocked him to the ground for the second time in as many minutes.
Without pausing she sidestepped and yanked her head sideways, not even needing to see the blow to know it was coming. This one had commendable ruthlessness, striking at her unprotected head whenever she wasn't looking, but it made him awfully predictable.
If he'd been better she probably would've suffered having her head baked inside her helmet.
The padded club stirred her hair as it whooshed by, barely missing her ear. Her second opponent stumbled slightly as his weapon pulled him off-balance, and she whirled and helped him in the direction he was going with a two-handed slash that crushed the head of her axe into his unprotected armpit and knocked him sprawling.
It would've taken his arm off at the shoulder if she'd been wielding Render, helping her live up to her name and reputation.
Deneth twirled the axe in her hands in a mockingly flashy gesture and stepped back, taking a solid stance and ending the weapon's twirl by slamming the head down against the baked stone. "Get up," she growled. "Come at me together this time."
The first orc to go down was picking himself up, awkwardly pulling his two-handed mallet into a guard position. "We did attack at the same time," he protested.
"I engaged each of your attacks individually, so you couldn't have."
The second orc, the older of the two siblings, painfully pulled himself to his knees, groaning as he massaged his armpit. A massive greenish-red bruise was already forming there, visible spreading down beneath his armor and up his arm. The head of Deneth's two-handed axe had been carefully padded, the weight slightly reduced and the metal it was made out of blunted and made of a softer alloy. But even so she'd hit him there hard. He was lucky she hadn't dislocated his shoulder.
"Even if we came at you at the exact same time you'd still be able to engage us individually," he grumbled, finally pushing to his feet and stooping to pick up his mace and shield. For all the good the small buckler had done he might as well have left it off entirely. He hadn't even known to use it enough to block any of her blows.
Deneth laughed. "Are you giving up, then? Where's all your big talk about fighting the Alliance and returning home heroes?"
"Rather fight the Alliance than you," the younger orc muttered. Deneth liked his attitude, even if he hadn't figured out the difference between a smart mouth and a whiny one.
"We're not learning anything fighting you," the older one continued. "You're too experienced."
Deneth paused in the middle of an insult, grudgingly admitting it was probably true. She'd forgotten that most farmers were barely better than peons when it came to fierceness and strength. These two might learn it, they had the potential, but it wouldn't be fast.
A quick glance to the nearby pavilion showed a half dozen orcs and a tauren lounging in the shade, tongues lolling out in the heat. She had to give it to these two recruits, being willing to practice in this heat. A pity they wouldn't be able to find a less skilled opponent to test themselves against who was willing to leave the shade.
"All right," she said sharply. "Drop the club and just focus on the buckler. This time around your only job is to get close enough to touch me, and block whatever attack I send your way on that shield. Think you can manage that?" The orc nodded dubiously.
"What about me?" his brother asked.
Deneth cut short a laugh. He was already humiliating himself enough without her help. "Keep back with that hammer. You're swinging from too close, getting barely any power behind it. This time around focus on swinging from far enough away that just the end of it touches me."
He frowned, tusks peeking up around his upper lip. "What if I miss?"
"You will. That's your second task. Keep swinging as hard as you can, and when you miss figure out how to reset without losing balance."
With dubious nods the two brothers maneuvered out in front of her again, coming from either side.
The half hour or so that followed couldn't fairly be called sparring. More like training two very young children who didn't even know how to hold or use their weapons, let alone attack or defend reliably with them. But inexperienced as the two were they weren't slow, and at least they were learning some things.
Still, the longer the practicing went on the more frustrated she was getting at their lack of competence, and her blows were starting to land harder and harder, and they were starting to show real reluctance in getting back up to continue. She was going to seriously injure one of them if she didn't stop now.
Deneth stepped back, letting the padded practice axe drop to the ground. Her arms sang with the sweet ache of a day spent hurling herself and the meager weapon against practice dummies, then hauling the heavy logs across her shoulders to increase her strength, and finally ending with this laughable excuse for a fight.
The two recruits certainly couldn't have beaten her, even working together, but as exhausted as she was she hoped they would've provided more of a challenge. They were young, but that was no excuse for their puny muscles and hesitant fighting. She'd seen peons more fierce.
"Where are you from?" she asked the older male as he helped his brother to his feet.
The young orc straightened painfully. "Spine Ridge, in the Southern Barrens," he said. "I killed my first quillboar when I had eleven summers."
Deneth nodded, impressed in spite of herself. The porcine humanoids of the barrens were diminutive, but they could be fierce fighters. They'd stubbornly resisted Orcish intrusion into their lands and had fought tooth and nail. As they should.
Not unworthy enemies, but they'd proven too weak to hold their own. The last major attacks the quillboars had attempted ended years ago, and since then they'd gone into deep hiding.
"Spine Ridge," she said slowly. "Is that part of the Overgrowth now?"
The young orc shook his head. "We're farther south. Although the Overgrowth gives our village better hunting opportunities."
Deneth nodded. Yes, many areas the orcs lived had been improved by the Cataclysm when Deathwing tore himself from the earth, strange as that sounded.
In Durotar the Southfury River had burst free of its banks, flooding the low regions of the land, the clefts and ravines, and making the area much greener. In the Barrens many areas had inexplicably greened, even though they didn't have much more water than before. Plants simply began shooting up from the ground, growing faster than seemed natural. Some were definitely unnatural, vines that wrapped around unwary travelers and whipped them around frantically until they either crushed the life from their victim or were chopped through.
Because the land was richer and less harsh now many more orcs were free to leave off scraping in the dirt for food and become warriors. Those orcs made their way to Orgrimmar looking for glory.
And more still since Hellscream's call for all orcs to gather for war.
"Have the humans been making trouble in your area?" she asked.
He looked away. "No, that's farther north as well. By the time we heard about Camp Taurajo and sent orcs to help the cowards had already been pushed back."
She nodded slowly. It was about what she'd expected since returning from her mission to investigate the aftermath of the Cataclysm to the north. Garrosh was ramping up hostilities, and especially the undead in the Eastern Kingdoms were doing their part to put the Alliance on their back foot. And instead of standing up and fighting the Alliance was cowering down like a peon holding a shield overhead in a shower of arrows. The single real counterattack the Alliance had made was Camp Taurajo, and even then they'd come in timid and fled quickly. They hadn't even slaughtered the tauren there, just driven them away to let quillboars of all things do the dirty work.
The Alliance was weak. Their hearts weren't in this war. Which meant Garrosh's Horde would have to keep hitting them until they finally hit back.
Wiping the asses of these two whelps wasn't the most satisfying way to end her training, but the day was hot and it didn't look like she'd be finding any other challenges. She'd worked her weapon routines, she'd done her weights, it was time to call it a day.
Damn this inaction. Her force of grunts under her father's command were being held in Orgrimmar for longer than usual. As if waiting for something big. She could only hope it happened soon, because if she had to spend a few more days up on this hellish stone plateau holding herself back so she didn't seriously injure striplings she was going to have to kill someone.
"Get water," she said. "Keep drinking past the point you stop being thirsty, on a day like this."
The two males followed her over to the water barrel, which stood out in the sun growing unpleasantly tepid. But then, the sludge from the Southfury River since the goblins had begun their operations up north was nasty however you drank it.
Deneth tossed the ladle back into the barrel and made her way over to the trough beneath the pavilion, shucking off her sweaty armor and clothes as she went. The heavy plates were easy enough to untie, and she'd had plenty of practice with them, but the soaked linen and leather clung to her skin, making the process more annoying. In any case she was soon stripped and in the shade.
She spent a moment there with her arms outstretched and legs slightly spread, enjoying the delightful cooling sensation of a strong wind off the sea whisking the sweat from her skin. Then she drew a bucket from the trough and tossed her sweaty clothes into it. Her armor would stay in the shade and cool down, more bearable when she was finally ready to put it back on.
The few other warriors occupying the pavilion nodded her way. Not as respectfully as they might have, but then that pathetic sparring she'd suffered through wasn't anything to earn respect.
A lot of these warriors would've been kicked from the pavilion on a day when the training grounds were more crowded. And even now none of them dared use the trough like she was doing; it was a long ways to bring water from the Southfury River or the sea, and Orgrimmar peons had to be tasked with keeping the training grounds well watered.
Because of that most warriors who trained here could get water only for drinking. Deneth's rising prominence in Garrosh's Horde, and perhaps less prestigiously but more importantly, her father's role as an advisor to the Warchief, had afforded her the welcome luxury of water for washing after a long day's training in the punishing sun.
Before anything else Deneth beat her clothes against the outside of the trough, working the sweat stains from them and trying to get them as clean as possible. It had been a long day so she wasn't too fussy. When she was satisfied she tossed them out flat onto the hot rocks baking in the brutal Durotar sun, where they immediately began drying out. Then she used her bucket of water and a mostly clean rag to begin wiping herself down.
As she washed her two sparring companions finished up at the water barrel, and seeing her washing they came over to clean themselves as well, the younger one tugging off his borrowed armor as he approached.
"Nuh uh," Deneth said, shaking her head in warning. "You want to wash, the sea's a fifteen minute walk that way to dunk yourself in. Or you can go a half hour the other direction and draw water from the river."
The two orcs stopped, and the younger one pulled his shirt back down. "We've been working hard," he complained.
Deneth nodded, although a bit doubtfully. If they had she sure hadn't seen it. "And you've grown stronger, and perhaps learned a few useful things too. You can use the wash water when you're worthy."
The older male looked her over speculatively. He'd looked like he was working up the nerve to make a move since well before they'd first begun sparring, although he didn't have a hope on Azeroth or Draenor. "Maybe I'll prove my worthiness right now," he said.
The prospect didn't even excite her. The fool wanted to try for her now, after a morning of hard training? Sure, the sweat and sun got some orcs in the mood, and if both had tired themselves out equally it could be a good way to finish the day. But this male had barely been here an hour and was still mostly fresh.
Call Deneth old-fashioned, but she liked to be on equal footing when a male tried to pin her to the ground, rip off her clothes, and take her like a real orc should.
Even so her exhaustion wouldn't help this hayseed clod from a Barrens settlement find any better success. Didn't he remember just getting pummeled into the ground in a 1v2 that could only jokingly be called a match? She laughed in his face, turning away contemptuously. "Don't embarrass yourself, recruit."
After she finished washing she lounged in the shade among the other orcs, waiting for her clothes to dry. A few were telling stories of engagements with the Alliance on the western side of the Barren's Rift, and as she listened to their boasting she wondered if she shouldn't wait for it to cool down a little before continuing with the day's activities.
It was still barely noon, and probably wouldn't cool down for another few hours. Added to that her father thrashing in his bed across the room from her had made it hard to sleep the last few nights. With that in mind Deneth retrieved her clothes and laid on them in the shade to get some padding with her breastplate as a pillow, shifted around for the most comfortable position she could find on the hard stone, and settled down for a nap.
.
The Warchief's chamber quickly went silent when Garrosh Hellscream finally arrived, making Drazgh aware of the younger Mag'har's arrival from his seat on the bench. He stood with the others, more to see than in a show of respect.
Drazgh was surprised to see many of Hellscream's warlords accompanying him, called back from their positions on the front lines of engagements all over Kalimdor. Was that the explanation for Hellscream's inaction these last few weeks? If the Warchief had been waiting for all the pieces to fall into place Drazgh was willing to begrudge him the delay.
"Silence!" Hellscream snapped, quelling the last few murmured conversations. He strode through a crowd that quickly parted to let him pass, Gorehowl slung across his back even though there'd be little call to use it among allies in the center of Orgrimmar.
But then Hellscream got more use for the weapon as a symbol of his power these days than for any other purpose. The legendary axe of his father, Grom Hellscream, chieftain of the Warsong Clan and one of the fiercest fighters Drazgh had ever known. It served to remind his detractors of who his father was.
A pathetic claim to honor, riding on the shoulders of another. Almost like the blood rights humans bowed to. The son of a chieftain was a warrior just like any other until he earned his place at the head of his clan. Even the taurens understood that.
Hellscream took the two steps up to his Warchief's chair, pulled Gorehowl free and set it to the side, and slumped down into the cushioned seat. Though he did not sit still, fidgeting slightly like a naughty child. He always seemed so full of pent-up energy these days, shoulders slightly bowed under the weight of the horns of the demon Mannoroth that his father had killed, formed into elaborate shoulderguards.
Drazgh would be the first to revere Grom for his achievements, not the least of which being trying to maintain the glory of the new Horde. His single failing had been bringing the Horde too close to the precipice of demon worship that had dominated the Old Horde. When he and his Warsong Clan drank Mannoroth's blood to defeat Cenarius he stepped over that precipice entirely.
And now here stood his son, laying claim to a victory in Northrend won by in large part by Dranosh Saurfang in death, and by Varok Saurfang in silent service. Neither challenged Hellscream's claim to all the glory of defeating the Lich King and the Scourge. And now, as if he could not be secure in that glory, he flaunted the horns of Mannoroth and his father's axe to remind the Horde of his heritage.
Laying full claim to successes he had a hand in was one thing, but trying to usurp the glory of his father to cement his power left a bad taste in Drazgh's mouth.
Hellscream abruptly stood, as if deciding his words would have more impact if he towered over the group. The image was lessened by Malkorok standing just behind the chair as still as a statue, towering over his Warchief the way Hellscream towered over the others.
"The time has come," the Warchief said simply. At these words a hundred lungs expelled air in a collective sigh. Drazgh felt his heart begin to pound in anticipation.
Finally.
"The peace talks fell through. The Alliance dogs tried to murder us at the parlay they called, although Thrall was willing to accept their claim of Twilight's Hammer betrayal. Even so no concessions were made. The war is ours to begin.
"It already threatens. The conflicts at our borders heat up. My warlords have led selective raids to probe Alliance defenses and determine the best places to strike. Three weeks ago the humans attempted one weak retaliation, slaughtering a village full of tauren hunters, and fled congratulating themselves on a mighty victory.
"It will be their last."
Hellscream looked around, eyes narrowing. "I have prepared, my warriors. We all have. Setting plans into motion, marshaling forces, gathering supplies. When I took the mantle of Warchief I swore to do what Thrall never could, and that is take the Horde from the point of licking our wounds and rebuilding to something strong, to when we finally take that strength and show it to the world!"
Hellscream bounded down off his dais and motioned, and near the vissing wall orcs were pushed aside as a group of warriors carried in a table with a detailed map of Kalimdor painted on it. As they set it up Hellscream paced in the small space in front of it, eyes gleaming.
"Thrall led too timidly. All half measures and appeasement. Trying to keep the humans happy while he kept us crouched in this miserable rock burrow. Every time he showed a spine he immediately turned around and hastened to reassure his precious humans that all was well.
"But no more. Thrall has stepped down, seeing fit to put his confidence in me as is my due. And now that I have command I mean to prosecute this war in full. No more half measures. We will attack on every contested border, gather every scrap of supplies, every weapon, every recruit we can lay hands on and throw them into the meat grinder. We will catch the Alliance sleeping, focused on a mad dragon and a handful of nihilistic fools when the real threat, the threat they've ignored thanks to Thrall's lulling words, finally rises against them!"
With an impatient growl the Warchief abruptly shoved aside one of the warriors and shooed the others away from the table, its position still slightly skewed. "While we reinforce all our borders, the first strike will fall on the enemy my father first set us against, and enemy worthy of us and who we would've crushed had not circumstances taken the opportunity from our hands."
Hellscream thrust a blunt brown finger down, to the west of Orgrimmar. "The night elves. A worthy foe to test ourselves against as we continue to build strength for what's coming. Their forces are currently divided, far too many to the north at their World Tree, facing the threat of the Twilight's Hammer cult. Their lands are open to us if we strike quickly, and I mean to make that strike a hammer blow that will drive them all the way back to Darkshore! My brothers, I declare the start of the Ashenvale Offensive!"
A few spontaneous cheers rose from the gathered orcs, and Drazgh joined them. Whatever he felt for Hellscream, he was eager to get back into battle again. Being an advisor was a dull thing when your Warchief sat in Orgrimmar and the battle went on without you.
As if Hellscream heard his cheer specifically the son of Grom turned and looked directly at Drazgh. "Elder, come forward," he commanded.
Surprised, Drazgh stepped into the cleared space and saluted.
"Time is of the essence, Elder," the Warchief said, eyes gleaming. "I mean to move quickly, but it will still be close to a week before I can finish mustering, training, and equipping our forces. When those preparations are complete I mean to push my army hard and fast into Ashenvale. I don't want to be slowed by minor resistance."
Drazgh nodded. A thousand orcs or a hundred thousand could be equally slowed by a handful of enemies who knew the terrain.
"Drazgh the Terror. You served me well in Northrend, setting your warriors against the vrykul and laughing at their size and ferocity. I call upon you again, to take a small force of my best warriors and drive the night elves before you. Clear the rabble away so my army can pass through with no distractions."
Drazgh straightened, saluting once more. "I accept this honor, my Warchief. I will push the elves in blood and fear all the way back to Astranaar itself."
"Good." Hellscream nodded in dismissal and Drazgh stepped back among the other advisors. More than a few gave him looks of envy for the role he would be playing. First blood was a great honor for any warrior.
Also a chance at first pick of any loot. Drazgh suspected that was one of the main reasons Hellscream had selected him. In the Northrend campaign loot had had a tendency of not reaching the Warchief's coffers the way it should. The fault didn't lie with any one race, and even the orcs hadn't been as forthcoming as they should. It set a problematic trend in any campaign, and said more about the honor of the warriors who were withholding loot.
Drazgh and his Dek'Terror, the Bringers of Terror, had been one of the few exceptions. The Warchief had gotten his full share of the vrykul loot when Drazgh's own share in the campaign had been finished, and as reward his warriors had received extra shares and Drazgh himself had been afforded his new home on the rise above Orgrimmar.
Hellscream had produced models from somewhere, little cleverly worked and painted representations of orcs and other races, which he was setting across the map to mark troop movements. "My warleaders and generals, your orders will come more specifically once I have conferred with my warlords. But for now go forth and gather your men. Gather your weapons, your armor, your blacksmiths and camp followers. See to your beasts of war. And recruit generously from the refugees. At my summons the might of the Orcish nation has gathered here to war, and I leave it to any of you who can shape that raw strength into a worthy blade to take as many new recruits as you can manage. Now begone to your duties."
Drazgh immediately began pushing for the door, and acknowledging his need most of the other orcs cleared the way for him. He hurried along the crowded streets of the Drag, a cleft in deep shadow with cliffs rising on both sides, to the west barracks in the Valley of Honor. His veterans had been quartered there for the last month while they waited his pleasure.
If they were anything like his daughter, they hadn't waited patiently.
In the kennels near the ponds at the bottom of the valley the wolves were howling, sensing a sudden excitement in the orcs moving purposefully at their tasks. Drazgh had hurried, but other, younger orcs had still arrived quicker. The barracks were already in turmoil when he pushed inside, through the recruits filling the front sleeping rooms, and to where his veterans slept in the places of honor.
Ursug, one of his blood guards, hurried over as soon as he spotted Drazgh. "Lok-Regar, General," he growled. He put extra emphasis on the first word: he'd been ready for orders for a long time, now.
Drazgh let a rare smile show itself. "Lok-Narash, Blood Guard."
Ursug stiffened with surprise. "It's about damn time," he growled. "What are we readying weapons for?"
With his officer trailing behind Drazgh continued into the veterans quarters. He pitched his voice so all his warriors could hear. "The Warchief has given the Dek'Terror a singular honor. He aims to strike at the night elves and utterly defeat them. We will have the pleasure of striking first and clearing away their scouts and sentinels before the arrival of the main army."
Ursug immediately roared, inciting the other warriors to join in. "How many orcs, General?"
Drazgh frowned thoughtfully. "Not too many. For this task orcs of skill we can trust will each be worth a dozen warriors. Two hundred. Draw from Garrosh's Northrend veterans and any of the troll hunters and spearthrowers still quartered here."
Ursug nodded. "Sentinels. They'll be up in trees. Poor targets."
Drazgh grimaced. "Pick out orcs who are good with throwing weapons. Also requisition some goblin munitions, anything that can be chucked up to force the elves down. We'll also want firestarting and logging gear for any entrenched night elf positions."
"With any luck we'll surprise them and catch them on the ground," Ursug said.
Drazgh shook his head. "They live in the trees where they can so we'll have to deal with them. But at least their outposts and villages are on the ground. We'll be doing most of the fighting there anyway."
"Aye, General." Ursug's enthusiasm had barely waned at hearing they were going against archers up in trees. His orcs were itching for action. "Permission to broach a barrel so the warriors can celebrate."
Drazgh sighed. "Granted. But I want them ready to go in the morning, all gear in passable shape and provisions distributed and packed."
"Zug zug."
For a moment he frowned, thinking, then sighed. "And Hellscream has given his orders. Go through the refugees and find any that aren't worthless, up to a hundred. We'll quarter them here while we're gone. And start putting them to work on our return. Keep Kagaz and Loghir behind to herd them and get them started on their training."
His blood guard scowled. "A hundred dirt stabbers and pig farmers? We might as well recruit peons."
Drazgh shook his head and continued on to the little nook he kept out for doing work at the barracks. It was stacked with a depressing amount of reports and orders. "They'll be veterans by the time I'm done with them. It's going to be a long war."
"Is it, General?" Ursug seemed pleased by the thought.
He snorted. "Hellscream means to battle the world. It'll either be a long war or a terribly short one." He settled in his chair and picked up a letter sealed with Hellscream's eye. "If you can spare anyone, find Deneth and get her out here."
The blood guard showed his tusks in amusement. "Maybe I'll go give her the news myself. The way she's been climbing the walls and starting trouble she'll probably leap ten feet at the news we're finally getting out of this pit."
Drazgh had been reading the set of orders as his officer talked, and when he finished he scowled. "Not you." He shoved the paper at the veteran orc.
Ursug caught it and squinted it over doubtfully. He could read some, but it was an effort for him. "What's it say?"
"That you're heading to the laundry."
"New uniforms? Some of the lads could use them."
"I wish." Drazgh shook his head. What a waste of time and resources. "New tabards. Hellscream wants us in his colors."
.
Deneth scowled at the hunk of dried meat and loaf of pasty seget bread. "This is a civilian's ration. For a single person. What part of two warrior's rations was hard to understand?"
The peon's eyes darted to the nearest Kor'kron guard watching over the distribution of food stores. Smart to look for help from a real warrior; Deneth could snap his scrawny neck like a twig if she wanted. "Warchief's orders. Just passed down. Starting today rations go to officers in the Warchief's army. Only civilians collect rations here anymore, and you only get a week to either sign up or leave before your rations get cut off."
"So what is this, a measure to clear out the refugees? He called them here in the first place!"
The peon swallowed. Warriors could get away with talking about the decisions of the Warchief, but peons would get the rod for saying the same types of things. "You'll have to go to your barracks to claim your share." The scrawny orc cringed slightly and took a breath. "And I'll need what I just gave you back."
Deneth closed her fist around the worthless bread, crushing it to fragments. "I haven't eaten since morning, and I've spent the day doing something useful. You can have the bread but I'm keeping the meat." As she spoke she eyed the Kor'kron, daring him to step in. she was wearing her full armor, helmet included, and Render was strapped comfortably across her back.
But aside from sharing a smirk with her at the discomfiture of the peon the elite warrior didn't seem to care.
Deneth gnawed on the meat as she pushed her way through the crowd towards Grommash Hold. Her father attended the Warchief as little as possible, but he sometimes had to stay late managing Horde business. Deneth didn't understand exactly what it was he did that took so much organizing, but all the papers he shuffled around gave her a headache just looking at them.
The crowds were more restless than usual as she made her way through. And the closer she got to the hold the thicker they became.
Was it time to read the Warchief's decrees already? How much of her time was she wasting trying to get from one place to another these days?
It looked as if that was exactly what was happening, though. In the massive cleared space between the hold, the merchant houses, and the inns the crowd was crushing, impossible to move through without throwing elbows and shoulders. But the orcs around her were mostly silent, watching an older orc climb his way up to the small platform just over the entrance to the hold.
For some reason he was flanked by two Kor'kron. Actually, now that Deneth looked around she saw a lot of Kor'kron circling the crowd and massing at the entrance to the hold. Was there a special decree to be read today?
The Elder stepped out to the edge of the platform and held out his arms for quiet, silencing the last of the murmurs. "Soldiers of the Horde and members, remember today in the tales you tell your children! For on this day we go to war!"
Deneth raised her voice with the others in a deafening roar. The Elder looked somewhat impatient, but even if he'd wanted to keep going no one would've heard him.
When the noise finally died down somewhat he tried to speak over it. "Our Warchief intends a full attack upon our enemies, without hesitation and without quarter. It will not end until the armies of the humans and their pet races in the so-called Alliance are crushed beneath our feet!"
Another roar. This decree might take a while to read.
As if someone else had had the same thought a deafening set of thrums rolled over the noise as warriors rang half a dozen kodo horns. The sound continued on and on, forcing the shouters into silence, and when they stopped the air seemed to hang empty.
"In order to fight this war total commitment is demanded of all members of the Horde! By order of Garrosh Hellscream, Chieftain of the Orc Clans and Warchief of the Horde, all members of the Horde are to take part in the war effort, from the oldest crone to the youngest child. You will work, you will fight, and you will bleed at our Warchief's pleasure. Any who have not yet taken the oath to become soldiers of the Horde must do so within the week.
"Any excess resources are demanded to aid in this effort, and those found stockpiling will be viewed as traitors. We will win this war through the courage, strength, and sacrifice of every member." The Elder took a deep breath, looked around, and then bellowed. "For the Horde!"
"FOR THE HORDE!" The assembled crowd roared back, the noise deafening for nearly a minute as the roar went on and on.
The horns rang again, shivering excitedly, triumphantly, through the air. "Go to your homes now," the Elder called. "Think hard on what you can do for the war. And in the morning go where you are needed and speak to the Warchief's agents to set yourself to work. Lok'tar ogar, my brothers!"
The crowd thinned surprisingly fast, but even so it was almost fifteen minutes before Deneth could push her way clear of it. Her armor and Render strapped to her back were intimidating enough to keep most people in the crowd docile, but a few of the braver males growled at her. Their noses didn't fare well against a gauntleted fist thrown by someone who knew how.
The Drag was surprisingly crowded, and she wasn't the only orc making for the Valley of Honor. After that decree she'd be surprised if there was a single foot of spare sleeping space in the barracks come morning.
Who wouldn't want to be part of the war, now that it had arrived? Refugees had been swearing themselves into the army this entire time, but some had held back, maybe wanting to return to their farms if the Warchief allowed it. Now all would be joining.
And those who'd waited to long, especially the younger, older, or weaker orcs, would be turned away and pressed into less honorable work for the war.
At the entrance to the Valley of Honor several officers were blocking the way, filtering through those who had a purpose there and directing those who didn't to where they should go to find one. Ursug was there as well, and he immediately made for her.
"Limbrender," the grizzled veteran growled. "I've had orcs out looking for you, but small surprise they didn't find you in this chaos."
Deneth quickly saluted. "Blood Guard," she said respectfully. "I just heard the news."
"Oh just barely?" Ursug replied sarcastically. "Glad you're keeping your ear to the ground." He chucked a square of cloth at her, hitting her in the chest. He held half a dozen more in his arms, and behind the assembled officers several more stacks were piled up. Deneth unfolded it to find a tabard blazoned with a bloodred eye. "Put it on."
Deneth complied, looking down at the symbol across her chest and belly. The eye of Hellscream was upon her? "What does this tabard signify?"
"It signifies you're part of Garrosh's Horde!" the officer barked. He shook another one out and flipped it over to show the Horde symbol on the back. "Our Warchief wants it clear to the recruits who they fight for. Problem?"
Deneth shook her head. It didn't seem necessary to show any orc who they were fighting for . . . even the thickest peon could figure it out. But maybe the eye would be intimidating in combat.
"The word's out that the Warchief has been planning a major offensive push through night elf lands and he's finally ready to carry it out. Your father will be leading the first foray into Ashenvale. You have the honor of joining him, of course." The Blood Guard cuffed her sharply, even that punishing blow nearly unfelt in her armor. "Get your gear, grunt! The Dek'Terror are gathering in the west barracks. We move out in the morning."
"Lok'tar ogar!" Deneth yelled, sprinting past him and back out towards her father's home.
Her excitement was shared by the rest of the city as she made her way along crowded streets. Orcs cheered and sang, children wrestled and fought with their fists, and the push through the throng was more vigorous than usual. She even saw two orcs mating in the clear area between two buildings, although it took a few moments to realize they weren't simply wrestling. They were fairly evenly matched in strength, and in their excitement their struggles were frantic and they weren't getting anywhere.
War! No more scouting, no more minor skirmishes that brought no real honor because they weren't allowed to acknowledge they'd happened. No more fighting alongside the Alliance for "the greater good" and watching half those joint efforts end in pitched battles when one side or the other lost control of their troops and attacked their allies.
She would set Render against Ashenvale night elves and show why it had been given the name. She'd paint her armor with blood, and taste the strength of a dozen fallen foes. She'd show her strength so no one could deny it, and step out from beneath her father's famous name to rise on the shoulders of her own deeds.
At home she immediately stripped out of her armor and went to work repairing and cleaning it. She changed her city clothes for the sturdy leathers she wore on campaigns, put on and fitted her armor for longterm wear, and belted her axes at her waist and double-checked Render's ties along her back, making sure it hung comfortably and could be quickly and easily drawn.
Then she drew it, settled down on her bed with a whetstone and oil, and began sharpening its wickedly curved single blade, first one side then the other. Weeks of long inactivity had given her plenty of time to tend to the weapon, and it was already sharp enough to split hairs. But she spent a little more time on it, wanting to make sure it was in perfect condition.
Her father came in as she was making her final preparations, gave a brief and improving inspection of her weapons and armor, and set about his own preparations. "Just what should we expect in Ashenvale?" she asked him. "Not another minor raid then return, right?" The decree had said all-out war, but decrees had said that before.
Especially under the previous Warchief.
Drazgh glanced her way, still running his hands along Terror's haft to check for flaws or weaknesses. The warhammer was almost as old as he was, and had seen nearly all his battles. Even so its broad, heavy rectangular head and long haft were attentively repaired and maintained, and in truth the weapon was far less dented and scarred than its owner. "A full assault," he said quietly. "We'll push until the night elves manage to stop us or we reach the western sea."
She grinned, showing her tusks. "I'll wash the blood off there, then. A nice dip to cool me down from the fighting."
He nodded, seeming intent on his task.
Seeing it Deneth lost a bit of her enthusiasm. "What's wrong, father? This is what we've waited for."
Drazgh finally looked up, eyes flashing. "Yes, it is. Enthusiasm is for the young, daughter, don't let my lack dampen yours. My anticipation shows itself in other ways."
"Then I'll go find some peers to share it. See you at the west barracks." Deneth gathered up her pack and a final few necessary possessions and provisions, slung it across her shoulder opposite where Render rose ready to be freed, and stepped out into the cooling afternoon air, the sun golden over the cliffs, shadows inching along to engulf the city as it set.
Deneth made her way back to the Valley of Honor and through the screening officers to the west barracks, which was far more crowded than she'd ever seen it with the surge of recruits Garrosh's decree today had brought in. It took her a few moments to push through the throng to the more prestigious-and less crowded-rooms where the Dek'Terror veterans bunked. Here the familiar faces were equally excited but more reserved. They were checking their gear, engaging in less disruptive contests of strength, or speaking of past battles and glory. A cask of ale had been broached in celebration of the day, and more than a few were guzzling mugs as they spoke.
She settled down among them, welcome and comfortable in their company. They all knew her reputation, and almost all had fought beside her as she'd built it. She belonged here as surely as warriors twice her age.
But she'd risen above too few of them. Deneth had proven herself in dozens of conflicts, countless brawls and challenges, but had never really had the chance to truly test herself in battle and rise as a leader. Where she belonged.
Now was the time.