Part 7

Ferruk and Nerissa, once more in a strange and perfect partnership, rushed across the bridge to aid him. His massive hoof at last shoved the corpse aside, and he turned back to the man on his right, a blond blood elf who seemed to be a paladin. It was the one who had slashed at her earlier.

Whitecrow was leaving the most formidable foe to the end. In the meantime, he intended to dispatch the others as quickly as he could. Ferruk's maces swung with brutal efficiency, slamming into the blonde's plate armor, making it clang loudly against the background of grunts and thumps from the general melee.

Whitecrow swung the monstrous shield again, this time impacting the elf's side so hard that it bent armor. The squeal of metal on metal shrieked through the air the moment before the man's dying wail joined it as Nerissa landed a brutal blow to his side. Her sword bit through his armor and deeply into his abdomen until the sword ground up against bone.

Yanking it free, Nerissa helped to dispatch the two leather-clad rogues and the other paladin. There remained one more paladin, and Malthos.

Nantu Healed them as they continued, and Nerissa found that when fatigue or pain started to overwhelm her, Nantu's Heals were there. Whitecrow was there taking the worst of the damage from beatings. Ferruk and Malovici seemed to simply destroy anything in their path.

Malovici's daggers danced and leaped in the air, invisible in their speed and cunning in their strikes. The latent magic inherent to all people of Azeroth caused even his deadly strikes to completely miss those attuned to him as he unleashed wide arcs of spinning, dancing, deadly darts.

Or perhaps it was just immense skill.

Even now, as Nerissa swung again, Malovici's daggers danced a brilliant and blazing crescendo across the paladin's upper torso, seeking and finding every chink and vulnerability in the man's plate armor. There was something very terrifying about him, as he bobbed and weaved and tucked in, around, and under the man's defenses. Yet something also astoundingly dazzling and sublime about it.

It was he who took the final toll on the last remaining paladin, leaving only Malthos to be dealt with. Malthos himself was barely injured, but was clearly enraged by the death of his fellows. He and Whitecrow grappled briefly, twisting and turning as their weapons were rendered useless for a moment by their nearly matched strength. Despite being less than half the tauren's weight, Malthos was very powerful, his muscles puissant despite their comparatively diminutive stature.

As Malthos bore his weight against Whitecrow, his hooves skittered on the stone, the boots covering his shins and protecting his delicate hocks doing nothing to aid him in gaining traction. Slowly, he was forced backwards into the tunnel. Nerissa, Ferruk, and Malovici took great glee in utilizing his distraction with Whitecrow in order to begin inflicting serious damage on him.

Indeed, so intent were they on the business of dispatching him that they were lost to the danger imposed upon Whitecrow until the last moment. He tried to lurch to the side, in order to back up against the wall, but Malthos managed to keep him going on a direct path… towards the end of the lift.

The three redoubled their efforts, while even Nantu began to throw powerful lightning bolts at him. Now, not only was the air alive with the terrible sounds of battle, but the snapping spat of lightning also danced through the air. Distant booms from the cannons below seemed like thunder as the six fighters grappled in a strange tableau of dancing, slow motion death.

Whitecrow inched closer to the end of the platform. The gate was effective against mounts, but a person could easily be forced through it… and it was obvious that this was Malthos' intent. With inexorable persistence, Malthos pushed Whitecrow closer and closer to the brink of death.

Nerissa found that the fear she felt for Whitecrow outstripped even the fear she'd felt when she'd thought she was going to die and be eaten. The affection she felt for him blossomed within her, burning across her emotions and clearing her mind in way she'd never felt before. Suddenly, she wanted Malthos to die with unfamiliar intensity.

Her desperate desire to save Whitecrow from the horrific death Malthos intended for him caused her to meld with the weapon she held. Fatigue was forgotten. Pain was forgotten. Now, she simply swayed, twisting and twirling and dipping and slicing to the unheard beat of the rhythm of her budding friendship with Whitecrow.

At last, they reached the edge. Malthos was staggering now, swaying himself, though to the music of Death's own symphony. He seemed determined to take Whitecrow with him, and when they reached the edge, he lurched to throw himself off the edge, and indeed took Whitecrow over the edge, entwined in a murderous embrace.

Nerissa watched as Whitecrow and Malthos toppled, and all of reality narrowed to that instant. As they fell, she leaped forward, abandoning her sword. His leg tangled in the straps that blocked the lift, and she caught it, entangling her own arm in the strap to keep it wrapped around him. Malthos dangled from Whitecrow's breastplate, and Nerissa felt reality bulge outwards with the straining straps.

She realized that she couldn't hold on much longer. She felt Ferruk holding onto her leg, but he was helpless to come out onto the straps and help them any further, else all four plunge to the rocky ground further below them than she could even guess at.

Time stood still then as her hand finally slipped free, and she shrieked with a soul-wrenching scream of pure, undiluted emotional torment. She was dragged back onto the lift landing, and something inside of her broke free. She screamed again and again, "No! No! No!"

The lift platform arrived moments later, and Whitecrow's broken form lay upon it. With a sickening 'crunch,' Malthos was split in half by the unstoppable power of the lift engine as it drew the platform flush with the landing. Nantu leaped up and jumped on the platform. Before Nerissa could even react, it was gone again, just like that.

The cage slammed back into place as Nantu's head vanished down the lift.

Nerissa collapsed to the ground and wept.

Ferruk took Nerissa into his lap and held her while she cried. He was shocked at the immensity of her response. His own pain and loss was tremendous, but he'd known Whitecrow for many, many years. Whitecrow was, to put it simply, an extremely good man. But from what he could see, Nerissa's pain had every earmark of genuine suffering at the loss of a dear friend, despite only knowing him a short time.

So he held her, and suffered his own poignant sorrow in silence for a moment. "He died one of the most honorable deaths I've ever seen," Ferruk finally said, hearing his voice betray him with thick emotion.

"'E ain't dead," Nantu said as the lift crested the platform. "Gurlie held out til da platform were close 'nuff what he only falled a few yards. Hep me git 'im offa 'ere next time we up 'ere."

And the platform was gone again, just like that.

In its wake, it left three shocked faces. Nerissa, ignoring her injuries (and his, thanks for nothing) scrambled roughly off of Ferruk and started to pace impatiently beside the straps of the cage that prevented (not very well) people from falling off the end of it. Malovici moved towards it, as well, and Ferruk stood up and clomped his way over, too.

Though he had barely any power left at all, Ferruk Healed himself. He would need his strength to help swiftly pull the bulk of Whitecrow off of the lift and onto the platform. He was somewhat surprised to see Nerissa lay down and stick her head over the side of the lift platform, obviously watching for the lift to come up again.

Although Whitecrow apparently hadn't fallen far enough to die, given that he'd been nearly restored fully by Nantu just before his fall, it was obviously a long enough fall that it had been such a close call that he couldn't move of his own accord. And Nantu, Ferruk could sense, had no Power available to Heal him with.

He and Nerissa were both tapped as well. He could have saved the Heal he just gave himself, but it was far too small to allow Whitecrow to be able to get up and move on his own power, severely damaged as he was. Ferruk noticed that Nantu's power reserves had built up enough for a Heal, and saw it drop immediately.

Nantu was making Whitecrow as comfortable as she could for them to move him—and making sure that they didn't snuff out the precious life remaining in him when they pulled him off of the lift.

He fought his own urge to pace as the three waited for the lift. Behind him, Nerissa was practically dodging back and forth. Malovici squatted stoically next to the lift cage.

Finally, after an unremitting wait, the lift finally crested again. With practically a lunge, Ferruk grabbed Whitecrow and started to pull. Six hands joined his two, and they yanked him from the platform. So heavy was he, though, that the work was slow, thus terrifying. An instant after they pulled him free, the cage slammed down, missing his hoof by the barest margin.

To Ferruk's surprise, Nerissa began to bandage Whitecrow with incredible expertise. He hadn't expected such from her, as a paladin, it seemed an odd skill for her to have. Most of those with the ability to Heal themselves ignored this skill. He had, Nantu had. But not Nerissa.

Swiftly, she staunched what bleeding Nantu's Heal hadn't. Then, when she had done what she could reach, she began to divest him of his armor, now twisted and wrecked by the severe fall. Ferruk realized that it was a very wise move, and rushed to help. Soon, Whitecrow lay, still unconscious, in breeches and tunic.

In the meantime, Nantu sat down and began to drink some restorative drink. Soon, her power reserves began to surge upwards. At last, she stood and began to Heal Whitecrow, the magic surging once, twice, three, and then four times. With a gasp and then a roar, Whitecrow began to flail around, attempting perhaps to right himself, or possibly thinking for an instant that he was still falling.

His movements took him in the general direction of the lift's end again, and in a universal over-reaction, all four of them shouted, "No!" and started towards him. He stopped, his eyes wild and unfocused for a moment. Then to everyone else's surprise, Nerissa ran to him and threw her arms around his middle.

At this unexpected act, it was as if he were pulled fully back to reality. He closed his arms around her and held her tight. His slow, deep 'heh heh heh' laugh rolled out of him. "I'm okay, tiny girl, just took a pretty serious scare there."

She was crying again, "I thought you were dead!" muffled into the fur of his chest.

He laid his big head (well, part of it) against the side of hers. "You held onto me long enough to save my life, tiny girl. I thank you for that." He patted her and she continued to cry.

Ferruk watched them, and was surprised to feel a fearsome, overwhelming, bewildering shock of raging jealousy flash through him. He suddenly wanted to push Whitecrow back off the ledge and take Nerissa right then and there. He struggled with the feeling, battling himself to stay in control as a new, yet somehow familiar feeling rose in him.

He turned away, still struggling. He clomped to the stone that bridged the gap between the lift and the land. He started searching the bodies, just in case there might be a clue or a missive of some sort on them. This did little to take his mind off of the vision of Nerissa held tightly in Whitecrow's arms, however.

He acknowledged the sense of self-loathing that rolled over him. How could he have nearly lost one of his closest friends, and now be sitting and wanting to do heinous murder to the same friend whom he had nearly spilt tears over but a few moments ago? What kind of man harbored such towering jealousy over someone he'd only just met? What kind of man harbored such rage towards a good friend over a woman he'd just met?

He remembered the words of his mentor so long ago, "Our people are hot-headed. Prone to leaping without stopping to look either before or after. Your job as a shaman is to temper that. To be the calm to the maelstrom of orc emotion. You must master yourself so that you can perform this important function for the clan. It means that you must give up such pleasures as drama and revenge and other forms of vendettas. The path of the shaman is very different from the others.

"The legacy of the shaman is self-discipline and self-mastery. This is our gift to our clan."

So he fought the inward battle, reminding himself that while some orcs mated for life, most didn't. Reminding himself that in her culture, multiple sexual partners were almost expected. Reminding himself that a kiss was just a kiss, not a commitment.

To some degree, he won the battle with himself, but painful feelings still boiled through him as he concluded the messy business of searching the corpses. Nothing. Not that he was surprised. Malthos had already tipped his hand, so there was little need to find out where they were from.

Finally, he was able to face the others, carefully keeping his eyes averted from Nerissa. He clomped up to Whitecrow and grasped him with the characteristic left-handed grip of orc brotherhood. "I also feared you were gone, old friend. It would be a devastating loss."

Whitecrow gripped his hand, "I'm glad to still be here," he said.

The group then spoke for a while, deciding in the end that Whitecrow should fly down to Vengeance Landing and repair his badly distorted armor. Once done, he would fly back up and rejoin them.

Following the road, the rest of the group rode the better part of the hour, until they reached the horde encampment. They, besieged by the Vrykul, greeted the group curtly and returned to the business of protecting the lift. Ferruk decided to camp across the road and up the embankment a ways.

It was late already, and in some ways, he felt vaguely vulnerable after the near loss of Whitecrow. His friend. His friend towards whom he was feeling unjust anger.

When the camp was settled, he sat on the ground and stared at the fire as twilight covered the land in a cold gray veil.


In the distant city of Silvermoon, through the attunement crystals that linked him to all of the ambushes that he'd sent out, Quardis felt one after another of the men die. He paused in beating the slave who had angered him that day as he took stock of who was dying and where they were.

So the orc was going through Howling Fjord, was he?

Quardis was disappointed and irritated by the death of the men, but thought little of it. They had probably allowed the pair to get off of the lift and up the road to the horde soldiers. The two would probably get help next time, so he'd send more next time. He broadcasted to the ambushers at large to stand down, as the path was now marked.

When even Malthos died, he then felt a genuine anger. Malthos had been a loyal and capable mercenary for him for years. This was actually a loss, and when Quardis returned his attention to the slave, he beat the man to death before he realized he'd done it.

Sighing, he told the men at the door to get him a new one. It would take some breaking and some training, but oh well. He had other, more important issues on his mind.


Some time after setting up the camp, there was a flapping of wings, and Whitecrow landed a few feet from them. He was garbed once more in his armor, its dark plating glimmering slightly in the light from the fire. His black form bulked into camp and he sat down. "Thank you all for your help," he said. "I thought I was a goner for sure."

"So did we," Malovici said. "Can say I prefer you alive," he told Whitecrow, and the three who knew him were surprised at this unaccustomed sign of what could almost be considered affection from the man.

They ate and prepared to bed down for the night. Nerissa now had her own bedroll, which she'd bought in Vengeance Landing. She laid it down and pulled her armor off, leaving on a tunic and breeches. She began cleaning it, and everyone else followed suit with their own armor, except Whitecrow, whose was clean already, as well as repaired.

They chatted for a while in companionable comfort, close enough to the guards across the road to feel comfortable out of their armor, but not so close that the battle was intrusive. When they were done, Nerissa stood up and stepped over towards Ferruk. "I'd like to go for a walk. I suspect you prefer I not go by myself?"

"Malovici can accompany you," he said, not trusting himself to be alone with her.

"I'd prefer you did, I have something to discuss," she said, but she said it politely, as a request.

Regardless, he felt cornered. In some ways, her courtesy was worse than her demanding had been. It left him no real avenue of getting out of it without appearing churlish. So he stood and walked with her, considering stopping to put his armor back on first. He decided against it, swayed more by the fact that he didn't want to be bothered, than anything else.

They walked for a few minutes in silence, and Ferruk tried not to focus on her proximity. Or her scent. Or the glow of her eyes. Or…

"When I thought that Whitecrow had died, it made me realize how fragile life really is," Nerissa said. Ferruk nodded.

"It made me realize that if there's something that must be said, or something that must be done, the time is now," she said. She stopped and turned towards him.

Hesitating, he stopped and looked back at her. He tried not to notice how enticing she looked in the light tunic she was wearing. Not to notice the way the moonlight adorned her golden face with ornamental bits of silver gilding. Not to notice that her nipples, straining slightly against the tunic, were pertly standing at attention.

She continued while he struggled with the line of thinking that his mind was relentlessly pursuing. "That, if there's someone that I care for, the time to tell him isn't when it's convenient, or when it's comfortable, or…" She paused and he watched with detached fascination as she took her lip into her teeth, their whiteness stark against the red of her lips in the darkness. "…or when I'm sure I won't be rejected—"

He turned away and cut her off. "I don't want to talk about this, Nerissa," he said. He felt an ache in the center of his chest, a crushing weight pressing down on his heart. He'd seen her response to Whitecrow, and couldn't even pretend that he didn't know what she meant. For a moment, he'd considered deluding himself into believing she might be talking about him.

"If not now, Ferruk, then when? Life can be brief, we just saw that today! You think I'm dumb because I'm young for an elf. And I know I can be really naïve, but I'm almost 60 years old. Some things I understand perfectly well, and—" she was once more cut off, this time from the camp.

"Hold it right there," Whitecrow said, and they heard the cocking of the shotgun he carried. "We'll need to know who you are and what your business is before we'll allow you to enter the camp," he continued.

Ferruk started to head back, and felt her soft, cool hand on his forearm. "Ferruk, promise me that you'll make time for this conversation soon," she said, her green eyes entreating him. She stepped closer to him, her chest brushing against his arm. He felt his penis respond to the touch, however innocent it was.

"Fine," he snapped, and stomped towards the camp to see what was going on.

"I'm Jin'Kora," the man said, "I've brought some things for Nerissa. I apologize if I've stumbled into—"

"Jin!" Nerissa shrieked, and ran across the camp, barely avoiding the fire. She struck the other elf and they embraced warmly. He sat her down then, and held her away from himself, "My, you're looking lovely," he said.

She laughed, and said, "Of course I am, it's in the rulebook." The pair laughed, and came back to the fire. Whitecrow had lowered the gun and made no protest as they came and sat down, still chattering random pleasantries.

For the second time that day, Ferruk felt like killing someone out of sheer jealousy.

Nantu stepped up beside him, and said, "Ya cud allays eats 'im. Werked fer us fer years."

He glowered at her, and stomped back out into the woods away from the camp. To his surprise, she followed him. "Ya ought ta talk wit' 'er about it," she told him. "Mebbe ya be s'prised what she has ta say."

"She made her feelings clear today," Ferruk said.

"Shore she did," Nantu said. "But mebbe ya seein' da wrong feelins. Maybe she 'spressin one ting, and you seein da othah." She left him then and rejoined the others.

Ferruk really hated the way that woman would throw riddles at him all the time. Why didn't she just spell it out in plain ol' orcish for him?