Well, the holidays are over and I finally finished a chapter. The next chapter is fairly far along as well, and I anticipate that it'll be out this Friday, as usual.
Merry Christmas, and thanks for your patience over the long delay in updating.
NT
Chapter Eleven
Double Bladed
The artifact was a dodecahedron, twelve connected pentagons of flat gray stone, unexceptional aside from its clean lines and perfect smoothness. And indeed, even some of those who knew the properties of this object, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, would consider it fairly unimpressive.
When one saw magical artifacts capable of destroying several acres of land, one began to view a little stone, capable of allowing any magic user to heal minor wounds, as something of small value. But obviously Lokiv was not so shortsighted or foolish, for he'd been very loathe to part with the Ankh, the ancient Highborne artifact that allowed those incapable of using nature magic to put their own power through its complex spell matrix and heal wounds.
Two days into the swamps the frog-creature calling itself Vurgil had named the Zangar Marshes, her feet had begun sprouting a horrible creeping fungus that quickly spread over the injuries she'd suffered from the red orc warlock's corruption spell. The spread had slowed when it reached her whole flesh, but with it afflicting her feet she could barely stand without intense agony driving her to the ground. She'd suffered it for another day, and then finally swallowed her pride and gone to Lokiv, asking that he heal her as he had before.
Instead, surprisingly, he had shown her how to manipulate the incredibly complex spell matrix that governed the Ankh's healing energy. He'd likely realized that her condition would require multiple uses of the Ankh, each after an hour's wait for the matrix to restabilize. Then, even more surprisingly, he'd told her to hold onto it until her wounds were fully healed or he had need of it. He had also promised her that if she lost or damaged the artifact he'd toss her off the edge of the continent, and she had a feeling he'd meant it.
What he hadn't told her, what she thought he might not even be aware of, was that the Ankh possessed some sort of passive healing effect. He'd made mention that his demon skin spell provided a similar effect, perhaps more powerful than the Ankh's aura, so it was possible he'd never felt it. Either way, it was amusing to her to finally find something the human didn't seem to know; he was a walking compendium in every other situation.
The result of that passive healing was that the pain was lessened whenever the Ankh was touching her skin, and the wounds seemed to heal on their own about twice as fast as with her body's own recuperative abilities alone. Since the Ankh's healing matrix required a large amount of power to use, it meant that following the times she'd used it the first couple hours to cure the worst of the fungal infection and the damage it and the corruption had done, after that she was able to make do with simply the passive effects and a healing every evening before sleep, to ease her rest. A good thing, too, or her reserves would have been completely drained after the first five or so heals, and her mana pool didn't fill nearly fast enough to use it every hour.
At the moment she was preparing for her evening healing. Her reserves were near full, and should regenerate by the time she woke in the morning. With a bit of concentration she worked her way through the Ankh's confusing spell matrix, making the changes she thought, or at least hoped, would have the most effect on her feet. Then, closing her eyes with a small smile on her lips, she fed energy into it and felt the soothing nature energy wash over her, tickling deep beneath the healing flesh of her feet, almost to the bone. The sensation was not unlike a cross between a warm bath with fizz bubbles and a kitten's rough, dry tongue.
When it was done she sighed and tucked the stone down into her bodice, close against her flesh. It seemed almost warm. Then she slipped into her pallet, pulling the blankets over her, and quickly but steadily drifted into a deep, restful sleep. Another benefit of the Ankh, she believed.
She didn't know how long she slept, but abruptly her dreams were shattered by a clangor like a dozen bells ringing in her tent. She stumbled to her feet with a curse, still mostly asleep, and then staggered to the entrance flaps and half fell into the mud outside.
Something had set off her wards.
The tent next to her was silent, and a ways down the camp she saw Ilinar's dark form huddled against the entrance to Lokiv's tent, asleep. Either only her wards had been set off, or her apprentices were completely incompetent. Either way it was up to her to sound the alarm.
She gathered her power and began to cast a simple spell. Simple when one was awake, that was. In her half-asleep state it took twice as long to cast, and she failed once before managing to make the proper phrases and gestures, molding the spellform. When she finally felt it taking effect she thrust her fingers into the air and sparks shot from them, rising dozens of feet before exploding in miniature balls like goblin fireworks. The sparks made a harsh shrieking noise as they rose into the air, and dull whump noises as they exploded. She heard cries of surprise and alarm from the tents around her.
But before any of her people could rush out into the night she saw half a dozen dark figures fleeing from the tents farthest out. The light of her spell let her see their hunched backs and muddy brown clothing.
She swore. Murktreaders. It looked like Vurgil hadn't convinced the aggressive bastards to make peace after all. But how had they managed to get past the scouts and into the camp? Lokiv had doubled the night patrols and set everyone to sleeping fully dressed and by their weapons, prepared for just this sort of betrayal. She broke into a sprint towards the edge of the camp, having the presence of mind to prepare the spell matrix for a fireball as she went.
Before the shadowy shapes of the Broken had gone more than a dozen paces blood elves began streaming out of the tents in pursuit. It was good to see that even though she and her apprentices had messed up their part of it, the others hadn't. The Broken raiders joined up with more of their kind fleeing from the tents and the surrounding area, bringing the number up nearly two dozen, but though they had a lead on the soldiers streaming from the tents in pursuit, they hadn't gone more than twenty or so yards before they skidded to a halt, then cried out as the twang of bowstrings filled the air. Several went down, and the others milled wildly. Hardal and half a dozen of his scouts melted into view out of the mist, blocking their way. The raiders wavered for a moment, and then the largest of them shouted and charged the elf bowmen. Hardal called out an order, and his men dropped their bows and drew kukri knives, fanning out in preparation to engage. More arrows hissed out of the night, but hampered by the dark and the mist only one of the Broken went down.
Just before the two forces clashed a dozen more shapes melted out of the gloom directly behind Hardal and his men. Saire shouted out a warning, releasing her fireball at the nearest of the new arrivals. It went down with a screech, bathing the area in flickering light and illuminating the new threat clearly. But despite her efforts the elves only became aware of the danger and spun to meet it just in time to be smashed between the two Broken forces. They fought desperately, their agility hampered by the thick mud and slick water, but only one of them managed to break away as the Broken hacked the others down.
More bowstrings twanged, and the elves in pursuit got to within a dozen paces, and then the Broken's leader shouted a command and his forces fled.
A shape appeared from nowhere at the forefront of the pursuing elves. "Fan out and surround them!" Lokiv shouted. "Don't let the miserable rats slink away!"
As the raiders fled other Broken who had been waiting in ambush rose up and joined their fellows, all in full flight. They likely hadn't anticipated such a swift and focused response.
Saire Blinked forward, into the middle of the area where the brief but brutal fighting had taken place. Three of her people were obviously dead, while one was holding his arm and cursing while blood streamed from between his fingers. Hardal was on the ground, curled around a gut wound with both hands pressed to the area, trying to staunch the flow. He looked up as she approached, face twisted in pain, and somehow managed a wry smile that looked more like a grimace. "Looks like we both messed up, ma'am. They slipped right by me, and you were slow with the warning. I saw your signal of enemies in the camp and rushed in just to be caught in an ambush."
Saire knelt beside the stricken woodsman, gently but firmly peeling his hands away from the wound. Blood and mud caked the area, his rough brown garb clinging, and he hissed softly in pain as she peeled it away to get a better look at what she was dealing with. When she saw it she hissed too. One of the Broken had landed a solid slash right across his abdomen, the weapon dull enough to tear the flesh in jagged lines. She saw parts of his intestines peeking through the opening, but thankfully they hadn't spilled out when Hardal was all but disemboweled.
"That leader," the woodsman explained. "Not such a wretch and coward as I'd expected. I was nine kinds of fool to assume they'd break and flee, just because they had before. Let that be a lesson to you: you can only be caught by surprise when you think you know what the enemy will do." He was rambling, face ashen, and the blood continued to flow, mud seeping into the wound and fouling it. "Sure wish we had a healer. Gut wound is a terrible way to die. Slow, too."
"Shh," Saire said, drawing out the Ankh. A brief inspection of the artifact showed that its spell matrix had stabilized again; however long she'd slept, it had been more than an hour. She concentrated deeply, trying to work its complex spell matrix to provide the necessary healing. When she finally had what she hoped was the correct configuration she bled her reserves into it, and Hardal gave a surprised and relieved sigh, visibly relaxing. She saw the skin closest to his intestines beginning to close and smooth over, the color of the torn flesh fading from an angry purple to a more healthy red. The Ankh's spell matrix destabilized, but it was enough to change a mortal wound to one that was merely severe.
Hardal coughed slightly. "Didn't know you'd become a healer when I wasn't looking."
"I didn't," she said, tucking the Ankh into his fingers. "This will provide passive healing. Don't tell Lokiv I gave it to you, and you sure as hell better make sure not to lose it."
Hardal hesitated, then closed his fingers around the artifact. "I'd wondered how you were healing so fast. So this is the secret behind our fearless leader's unnaturally swift recovery as well. Takes away from the mystique when you know, doesn't it?" Hardal sighed softly, leaning back. "Damn little wretches. We kill a dozen when they attack without warning, then spare the rest and try to make peace, and this is how they thank us. And with the edge of the continent in sight, too. I'd hoped we could get out of this damn swamp without being forced into another battle."
"These Broken seem more fit to be called "lokiv" than even the humans," Saire agreed. "Speaking of whom, I wonder if the human will let them go like he did last time."
. . . . .
"Tell them," Nex said coldly.
Vurgil flinched. "I beg you reconsider, Chieftain. Is the death of a few reason to exterminate a tribe?"
The Broken had fled well, their knowledge of the marshes giving them an edge. But Velansar and his mounted Spell Breakers had moved faster, and few races on Azeroth or Outland could outrun agile elves in any environ. While Velansar had herded the two dozen or so remaining raiders, the elves in pursuit had caught up and fanned out, until finally the Broken were surrounded, cornered. They'd tried to break free, and four of them had gone down to a dozen arrows as a result, their leader one of the fallen. Now they huddled in the muck, defeated, realizing there was no way out. At that point, the pitiful creatures had begun begging for mercy.
It was, in truth, much the way things had gone yesterday as well. "I see no young, no females, no sickly," Nex replied. "The Murktreaders aren't a tribe, they're a war party. And they went against the agreement. Tell them."
Vurgil's anguish was so pronounced that it could be recognized even on his ugly, froglike face. "They are my people even so. I do not argue with you, Chieftain, for I know your actions are justified. But mercy can sometimes bring more peace than justice."
Nex fixed the Broken with an unyielding stare. "You come dangerously close to breaking the terms of our own agreement, Druid. It is not too late for me to send a missive to my master ordering this swamp purged of your kind. After the reception the Broken Draenei have given us, it would perhaps even be wise to take no chances in dealing with you further."
The Broken druid flinched again, then reluctantly turned to the cornered raiders and raised his voice. Vurgil's words were halting, hesitant, and Nex had no way of knowing if the creature was correctly translating the message he had been given.
There was always that risk when using a translator. Any method of negotiation had its pros and cons, but giving another his words to speak seemed to have far more drawbacks then benefits. On the one hand there was a certain amount of exotic mystique to a foreign warlord, unknowable and fearsome, giving mysterious words to a cowering messenger to relay. Especially if that messenger was influential among them. But on the other hand there was no guarantee the messenger would be any kind of skilled orator, or that the power and impact of the speech wouldn't be lost in translation. With Vurgil, the latter was almost certain, unfamiliar with Orcish as the druid was. And since Nex was translating his words from the language he was most familiar with, Common, to Orcish, then having a messenger further translate those words to the Draenic tongue, there was double the chance of his meaning being lost in translation.
Perhaps that was the reason the Murktreaders had misunderstood his ultimatum when he had given it to them, yesterday. That or they were complete fools. Assuming Vurgil was at least getting the intent of his message across, it should sound something like this:
"Cowards and Betrayers,
I gave you an opportunity you did not deserve, when last we met. You attacked us without provocation, giving us no chance to explain our presence on your lands. After we repelled your attack we could have pressed our advantage, but instead we raised the flag of truce and offered peace. Enemies greater than either of us threaten to destroy us both, and I offered you the chance to avoid bloodshed on both sides so Murktreader and blood elf could be strong to fight a common foe, be it the orcs or the demons.
"Instead you came at us in the night as cowards and murderers, trying to sneak into our tents and slay us as we slept. You thought us fools, lulled by our truce into unwariness. Sound tactics dictate that even after murdering our people, it would be best to let you live so that you could fight our foes. Diplomatically it would be sound as well, for the others of your kind would see we mean peace with them, even after provocation." Nex could tell when Vurgil spoke these words, because the two dozen cowering Broken straightened somewhat, looking hopeful. Vurgil turned a beseeching look his way, and Nex nodded sharply. With a sigh the druid continued.
"Perhaps peace would be the most noble course. But we come not as ambassadors, but conquerors. Outland is ours, and we will offer no mercy to the weak who will not stand aside." Vurgil ceased speaking, then switched to his broken Orcish. "It is said."
Nex nodded, and even as the Broken began whimpering and mewling piteously, obviously begging once more, he raised his arm and his voice both. "Wipe them out," he called, dropping his arm.
Almost as one, three dozen bowstrings snapped, dark shafts shooting through the misty night. Broken screamed as they were pierced, falling like a stand of young saplings under the blades of a goblin shredder. The few that escaped the first volley tried to flee in all directions, and swordsmen burst through the lines of archers and ran them down, hacking them apart mercilessly. Nex watched it all in silence. There was surprising ferocity in the blood elves, an anger that seemed to await only the excuse to set it free. The hardships they had suffered seemed to have filled them with bitterness, rather than resolve.
It didn't make them as strong, but it did make them easier to control.
When it was done Velansar called an order and the blood elves turned from the field of slaughter, leaving the dead Broken where they lay. Nex walked at their head, not in haste but not dawdling either. Vurgil remained behind, weeping over the dead, with two elves remaining behind to guard the druid and prevent any trickery.
Theril moved up to walk beside him. "A grim business," he said. "I lament its necessity."
Nex wasn't sure whether or not there was accusation in those words. The Elder had proven adept at speaking smoothly, hidden insults and ironies concealed in his polite tone. "I never claimed to be a hero."
"No," the blood elf replied, inclining his head. "I doubt anyone who had cause to know you ever claimed it, either."
Nex turned a cold look at the Elder. "Is Nova's foolish habit of spouting whatever idiocy pops into his head spreading, Eldre'Theril?"
Theril stopped and bowed formally. "My apologies, my Lord."
"Then tell me this; Vurgil may have admitted to seeing the justice of slaughtering his people, but will he forgive it? If we set him free he might run straight to the leaders of the other tribes and prepare them for war against us. I may have bluffed that we have endless numbers of soldiers to put to the task of slaughtering the Broken, but in reality they could prove a threat if they united against us and our Masters."
"That is always a risk in diplomacy," Theril admitted warily.
"Or would it be better to kill him once his usefulness is done, so that none of the Broken know of this slaughter?"
The Elder hesitated, looking pained. "Although I could never endorse such an action, I can see the necessity of it."
Nex let a small smile touch his lips. "In other words you wouldn't kill him yourself or give the order, but you would secretly approve?" Theril's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak, then let it slowly shut. "Vurgil has aided us because we made promises to him. Thus far his aid has been invaluable. Nine days we've moved through this swamp, and the Murktreaders are the first enemy we've been forced to fight. Because of him, we've managed to avoid bleeding our army in unnecessary conflict. But all that aside, if this slaughter has made the druid our enemy and his continued existence proves a risk to Prince Kael'thas and my master's bid for Outland, is it better to slay him?"
Theril's lips pressed together tightly. "I bow to necessity. Though my conscience pricks at it. Better one man dies than two forces destroy each other in war."
Nex smiled grimly. "I disagree. I gave my word to Vurgil, and I cannot break it. No matter what his actions might be after we part, he will leave us unscathed, free to do as he will." Theril again seemed at a loss for words, and his smile widened. "Well. It looks as if you're no hero either." Nex turned and strode away, leaving his Quartermaster behind.
. . . . .
The continent boundary was much different than the other ones Nex had seen.
Which was to say, it was exactly the same in that the obviously massive collision of the two continents had raised an enormous mountain range. But unlike the pass he had seen leading down towards the forests, or the pass that connected Hellfire Peninsula and the Zangar Marshes, it was readily apparent that you'd have to be able to fly to cross this boundary and reach the Bladed Mountains.
Knowing this, Vurgil had led them to a cave. Partly a natural formation where a crack had formed that nearly connected the two continents, the Broken claimed that ogres and gronn had dug for months to make a tunnel of it, allowing access between the marshes and the mountains. Aside from this, only one other place connected the two continents, much farther to the west where a ramp rose up through the mountains, opening out onto a broad plateau on the other continent. It was, unfortunately, the main thoroughfare for ogres traveling between the Nagrand Plains and the mountains, and they would have to fight their way through hundreds of ogres.
Which wasn't to say that Vurgil hadn't warned them to expect a fight passing through this tunnel, as well. But seeing as it opened up into Broken territory, and in fact the Murktreaders had long guarded it, the ogres tended to go with the easier route to the west.
Now the misshapen druid craned his neck forward, peering at the tunnel's opening, which was a jagged hole surrounded by spiny rocks like the maw of some great worm. "I don't like this," he muttered. "Ogres always guard this opening. They destroyed the Murktreader's village not a month ago issuing from this very mouth with half a dozen gronns bolstering their ranks."
Nex frowned. So that was what had happened to the females and young of that tribe. He wondered if he should feel guilty about exterminating them, whatever the provocation. He imagined other humans would have. He motioned Varnil forward.
Kevan Varnil was a stocky elf who moved with surprising grace. With Dor'ane laid low by his wound Varnil had taken over leadership of the scouts. "Investigate the tunnel, but return at the first sign of an enemy presence. Don't engage unless forced to, even if it means full retreat." The elf scowled at him with pure loathing, but moved to carry out his orders without a word. A far cry from Dor'ane's amiable nature. As half a dozen scouts approached the tunnel from either side, moving as stealthily as possible, Nex settled back to wait. A pity he couldn't learn the Broken shadowstalkers' trick of hiding in the shadows, or he could have investigated the tunnel himself.
Behind him the elves had gathered into tight military formation around the wagons. Seated in the back of the lead wagon Dor'ane watched it all with an amused expression. Nex wondered what the cheeky bastard thought was so funny. Oddly enough, the leader of his scouts was being tended by none other than Saire Firedge. It made for an odd picture, since he would have thought the redheaded mage had the nurturing instinct of a tin viper.
"Chieftain, I would speak to you," Vurgil abruptly said. Nex turned to where the Broken druid crouched in the muck, looking equal parts determined and uneasy.
"I wasn't aware we'd stopped speaking," Nex replied.
Vurgil ignored that. "I've done as promised, and led you with all possible haste and safety to the boundary of the Bladed Mountains. It is time for you to honor your word and let me return to my people."
Nex carefully inspected that alien face, from the muddy brown eyes to the spiky teeth jutting from his mouth in every direction. "Of course you may go," he said carefully. "I would speak of the future with you before you leave."
The druid's lips pulled back awkwardly into a smile. "I wasn't aware we'd stopped speaking."
Nex allowed a smile to cross his own features. "I know you cannot forgive me for the death of the Murktreaders, justified as my actions were. I see in your eyes that you condemn me for it."
Vurgil hesitated, then nodded slowly. "The Murktreaders were uncontrollably violent and full of hatred. They had preyed on their own people long before they ever met you. I lament their loss, but I will not let it threaten the peace we have managed."
"Then you will go to your people and encourage them to swear allegiance to my master? Unappealing as the choice may be, I fear there are few other ways to ensure the peace."
The druid paused, obviously searching for words. "I will urge them to keep the peace. I can do no more than that." The Broken shifted uneasily. "May I go?"
Nex nodded. "Winds be at your back, druid."
"Nature's blessing upon you, stranger," Vurgil replied. With a last hesitation, as if he would say more, the druid turned and loped away.
. . . . .
There were those who said that magic couldn't solve every problem. For the most part, these people tended to not be mages. So, in a sense, what did they know about what magic could or couldn't do?
Theril waited at the edge of the camp, watching as the human Lokiv formally released the creature Vurgil from servitude and let him go on his way.
For a long while Theril had wondered at the purpose of the conversation they had had following the slaughter of the Murktreaders. He might have simply dismissed it as a simple one-up contest, since humans seemed so fond of having the last word, except that Lokiv had never seemed to care before what anyone thought. He'd certainly never tried to change anyone's opinion of him.
Since that was the case, why had he condescended to debate morality? That necessity overruled morals was a fact any leader or educated man knew well. The elf that allowed himself to be ruled by his conscience became victim to any who preyed on such standards.
At the same time Lokiv had seemed to talk in circles, justifying the slaughter of those who could have been spared, suggesting that murdering a single druid might spare further slaughter, then saying in no uncertain terms that he was not going to do so. The human had already shown that he was not one to put morals over necessity, so why now was he suddenly playing the part of a paladin?
An odd conundrum, and odder still since Theril had spent much of his time pondering just such situations. He'd long ago come to conclude that peace was not possible on the world they lived on. He had understood this even before the Dark Portal had opened and orcs had come to ravage their homes. Excluding orcs entirely from the equation changed nothing; still with so many races living together in uneasy prejudice, unable or unwilling to understand one another or assume anything but the worst about the other's intents, there was no hope for anything but constant war and turmoil. Fools spoke of peace, freedom, and prosperity, as if simply by believing hard enough they could bring those things to the world. But the only freedom one could find on Azeroth came from having an unassailable position of power, likely one that stripped away the freedoms of those who were weaker. Prosperity came only from taking that which others sought to hoard, hardening yourself to the pitiable wails of starving younglings of another race.
And peace? That most elusive of goals. It came only when your race stood atop the corpses of every other member of every other race. True peace would never be known on Azeroth until the wars had played out and only one race remained, victorious, as overlords.
He had tested Lokiv through careful accusations and subtle prying, and was certain the human understood this as well. Why, then, had Lokiv concluded that Vurgil must be allowed to leave and rally the Broken to whatever mischief the wretched creature had planned? This was the question which had kept Theril awake all night, and in the end the answer had been almost laughably simple.
Demonologists and those who tapped dark magics began to take on many of the aspects of the corrupt creatures they idolized. Their power came with strings, as any power was bound to. One such string was that their oaths were binding, no matter how ludicrous, poorly thought out, or impossible to fulfill that oath might be. Lokiv refused to kill the druid because he couldn't. He had given an oath to let the druid be, and unless Vurgil directly threatened him that oath would remain absolute.
That was the point of the conversation they had had. Theril was certain of it. Lokiv had been indirectly ordering him to murder the Broken as soon as he was released from the human's protection. Theril was no hero, as the human had said, and he understood necessity. That was his hint that the task of silencing the Broken had fallen on his shoulders. What the human was by oath unable to imply, Theril could still infer.
At the entrance to the cave Vurgil bowed to the human and turned, scuttling away in that disgusting, hunchbacked shamble his kind adopted. Miserable wretches, as violent as they were ungainly. Their race should be one of the first to perish when the elves claimed Outland. Theril called upon his highest ability to manipulate arcane energies, altering the spacetime around him so light and sound would pass through the area he occupied as if he were not there, affording complete invisibility. He was proud of his daughter, and indeed in raw power she surpassed him, but he had been master of the arcane for a long, long time, and could do things she could not.
In perfect silence he followed the Broken as it fled, its direction taking it straight towards one of the collections of crude hovels they had passed three days back. Vurgil had led them around that "village" undetected, but now obviously he had business there. Theril could guess what that was.
For ten minutes they passed through the swamps, the druid moving in haste, with the invisible elf following close behind. At that point Theril judged that they were away from even the farthest of Dor'ane's scout patrols, and none would know what he did. With a deep breath he summoned arcane energy, subtly shifting the direction he was facing to bring him in line with his victim. Then he Blinked, his invisibility spell shattering, and appeared directly behind the unwary creature.
Vurgil gave a squeak and started to whirl, already beginning to shapeshift, but Theril gave the druid no time. He summoned a wave of fire energy to blast out in all directions, washing over his victim. Vurgil burst into flames, shrieking in a horrible, gurgling way as his wits abandoned him, leaving him to rush this way and that, beating helplessly at the flames. It didn't even occur to the creature in its dazed state to drop to the ground and roll in the mud. Perhaps the flames might have done the job for him, but Theril wanted no evidence left behind of his deed. No suspicion that could fall upon him. He began the slow, lengthy process of casting a pyroblast spell, in no hurry as the seconds slipped by. When it was complete, as powerful as he could make it, he unleashed it on the Broken that still wandered aimlessly. The fires engulfed it, consuming it down to the bone and beyond as Theril continued to pour heat into the spell. Finally only ash was left to drift away.
Exhausted, his reserves spent, Theril turned and walked back to camp. If Lokiv learned of this deed he might think Theril had done it for him, or at least at his unspoken behest. But Theril knew better.
No Broken army would gather to assail his people. When it came time to eliminate the frog-creatures they would fall upon them piecemeal, unawares in their little hovels, unable to provide even token resistance to the complete annihilation of their kind. The blood elves would conquer this world, as they must. After all the hardships they had suffered, his people would know peace in the only way possible.
Standing atop the corpses of every other race on Outland.
. . . . .
The scouts had long since returned from the tunnel, reporting that it was empty of anything but old signs of habitation. Just in case, a few of the scouts had set up at the far end of the tunnel to make sure it remained clear.
And, showing that irritating lack of responsibility that suggested he could at any time and without remorse walk away from his duties as leader, Lokiv had ordered the army to begin making their way through the tunnel, then had disappeared up it, leaving Velansar and her father to chivvy the troops into motion.
Though it had been days since her injuries and infection had been severe enough to confine her to the wagons, Saire once again found herself riding in one, doing her best to minister to wounded Hardal. She didn't know what had prompted her to take such an interest. Probably some twisted version of the finder's keepers principle: nobody else was going to help Hardal unless ordered to do so, and she was the one who'd first assisted him.
Which wasn't to say the rangy woodsman wasn't an amiable companion. He was sleeping at the moment, lying peacefully with clean bandages across his midsection, the Ankh held loosely in one hand. Saire had used it a couple times since the first to ease his wounds, but he'd gotten to the point where the passive healing was enough to keep him out of danger, and he seemed fairly resilient. With any luck he'd be on his feet in another week or so.
Which left her in relative isolation, driving the wagon through the dim tunnel, with only a few guttering torches the elves had improvised to light the way. Aside from a few spiders the tunnel seemed unoccupied, although at one point they passed a grotto to the left which was filled with signs of a long-term camp, long since abandoned. By the filth and refuse, it had either been occupied by ogres or orcs that were particularly slovenly even for their kind.
After what seemed like an eternity of driving, navigating rough patches on the cave floor and at a few points requiring lifting and pushing to get the wagon past even rougher spots, she finally guided the team through the other entrance and out onto a fairly large flat area. The oxen seemed relieved to be out of the dark, willingly moving where she guided them with the goad. In the weeks she'd been laid up in the wagon she'd actually become fairly skilled at driving the beasts.
But if the beasts were relieved, few of her companions were. The flat area they'd come out into rose into steep cliffs on every side, and the cliffs were like nothing she'd ever seen. Not content with smooth faces with the occasional outcrop, it seemed every square foot of the steep surfaces were covered with long, razor spines, like a zhevra's horn, some as small as her little finger and some larger than a small hill. There were even spines growing on spines!
"Daughter!"
She turned at her father's call to see that he and the other officers were clustered at the base of a perilously narrow path directly beside the entrance to the tunnel on this side. Though there were less spines on that mountain face, the path was still treacherous enough to make a goat wince, with constant switchbacks and jags and areas where there was no path at all, just a steep slope to manage with the help of a few pathetic handholds and footholds. The path rose up, up, up, to a dizzying height before ending out on a narrow ledge. But even high as that ledge was, it still jutted out only halfway up the jagged mountain face.
As Saire joined the others at the base of this path, Hiezal motioned to it with a curse. "Lokiv's already gone up. He bids us to join him up there."
Saire stared at the narrow track with renewed dismay. "No fucking way."
"I know, right?" Hiezal sighed, shedding his pack, cloak, sword belt, and shirt, and then began to climb. "See you at the top."
Saire stared at her father plaintively. "I can't climb that," she protested.
Her father shrugged, already kicking out of his robes to reveal short breeches and a sleeveless tunic underneath, his body surprisingly muscled for one of his age. "You were not asked for personally. The only thing compelling you up the cliff is your curiosity." He, too, began to climb, having the foresight to bring a line of rope tied about his waist.
One by one the other officers made their preparations and began the ascent, leaving Saire alone at the bottom. Nothing compelling her but her curiosity, eh? Saire glared at the backs of the climbing elves, then up at the impossibly high ledge above.
"Damn it," she said. Then she began to climb.
. . . . .
After over an hour, easily one of the worst hours of her life to date, Saire finally managed to pull herself up onto the ledge, Hiezal standing above loudly encouraging her but offering not a lick of help. Her muscles felt like water, and the thought of going back down made her want to vomit off the edge.
"Well done," Hiezal said. Now that she was finally up he nobly lifted her to her feet and put an arm about her to support her. She wanted to kick him in the crotch. On the far side of the ledge Lokiv crouched staring silently out at the view before them, not even acknowledging their presence. The blood elf officers were a short distance away, also staring out at the view before them. Most of them wore expressions of stunned disbelief. Saire's whole concentration had been on the cliff face in front of her, above her or, during the worst moments, beneath her, and she hadn't had a chance to see the view. She took that chance now, Hiezal joining her in staring at the sight before them, and for once even her erstwhile lover was momentarily silent. Then that moment passed. "Sun's wrath," the handsome elf muttered.
Saire had no reply. How did they even begin to navigate the area before them? The Bladed Mountains, the Broken Vurgil had called them. It was woefully inadequate as a descriptor.
Their vantage was dizzying, but even it wasn't the highest point in view. And if the path up to this vantage had been rocky and treacherous, with jags and outcroppings waiting to batter to death any unwary enough to fall, it seemed smooth as glass compared to the hills, cliffs, and ridges before them. Like the cliffs surrounding the flat space down below, the stone seemed almost alive, the living shell of some enormous prickly porcupine. Endless ridges rose, dropping to endless valleys, and on every vertical surface rocky spines jutted like crystalline formations, some as small as a lance's tip and some larger than a small mountain. Every surface was pointed, save for the few small trails that snaked through the impassible terrain. To make these spines even more daunting, along the tallest ridge to the northeast the massive spines speared the carcasses of dozens of black dragons.
"Black dragons," she whispered. "From whence did they come?"
Her voice drew the attention of Lokiv, who shook his head slowly. He still hadn't moved from his spot overlooking the daunting view, or turned to acknowledge their arrival. "I have heard Deathwing assailed the Dark Portal and broke through, shortly after Turalyon's expedition set out in pursuit of Ner'zhul and Teron Gorefiend. Rumor has it he left behind clutches of precious eggs spawned by his own broodmothers, hoping to gain a foothold on Draenor. It seems we now know the reception he received. As well as why this gronn Vurgil spoke of is called the Dragonkiller."
"How is it you know so much of the lore of Draenor?" Theril asked, seeming genuinely curious.
"I had reason to know." Saire had to nod at that, thinking of her enchanted map and the faint lines tracing a small area in Deadwind Pass, so close to the Dark Portal and the blasted lands around it. As a native of that area, and a scion of Medivh the Traitor's own house, it stood to reason the human would be versed in such matters.
Her father nodded thoughtfully, though the answer hadn't really been an answer at all. "I could see why the Black Terror would wish to hide eggs here. Flight seems the only swift and safe way to traverse this impassible land. I'm impressed the denizens of this land dared to challenge the dragons where the terrain so obviously favors them. To say nothing of braving such inhospitable terrain in the first place."
"I wouldn't so hastily speak of them in the past tense," Lokiv said tersely. He pointed down, past where the tunnel they'd fought their way through opened up in this daunting continent, to the narrow trail that led to a deep ravine, flat on the bottom. It was the only flat place in sight, near enough.
And as such, it was swarming with ogres and larger, viler creatures she assumed were the gronn. Ogre mounds and strongholds filled the flat area like fungus spreading over a wet stone, few patches untouched by the blight.
"Sun above," Theril breathed. "We could not hope to challenge such numbers. That they thrive in this barren wasteland is nothing short of a miracle."
Lokiv nodded, staring down at the ogre civilization. "Ogres are hardy creatures," he whispered. "They seem to thrive wherever they end up. Surprisingly fecund for such large monsters."
"What are we going to do?" Hiezal demanded. "We can't climb these spiny mountains, and we can't follow the flatlands."
His question hung in the air for a time, the officers staring down at the ogres and gronn in dismay. Then Lokiv nodded. "I believe the appropriate term is "fuck it". We're not spending a moment longer in this zone than we have to... without flying mounts it's far too great a hassle. The Creators must believe in a good joke, that this place exists in the first place."
"We can't very well go around it," her father protested.
"Can't we?" The human pointed to their right, towards a narrow trail that led from the mouth of the tunnel towards the edge of the continent. "I've scouted that area. There is a shelf along the continent's edge which provides a direct route between here and the continent we seek. It is actually shorter than trying to navigate that flat canyon where the ogres congregate."
"And you waited until now to tell us of it?" Velansar said with a scowl.
Lokiv shrugged with one shoulder. "The way is very narrow in places, enough so that the wagons' wheels will be hanging out over an endless drop. I thought it would lessen the complaints if you were afforded a glimpse of the alternative."
"Very well," Velansar said, sounding even more displeased. "We'll go your route. I suppose since you have all the answers you can tell us how we're getting off this damn ledge without breaking our necks?"
The human shrugged. "The same way you got on it, I would assume. I know how I'm getting off it." Without hesitation the human burst from his crouch, leaping directly off the ledge and out into the open air. Saire gasped in shock, and she wasn't the only one.
The human plummeted directly towards the wagons waiting below, and it looked certain that he would dash himself to a pulp right on top of their supplies. But some forty yards above the ground he abruptly vanished, and when she saw him again he was on the ground, perfectly at ease.
Saire stared at the tiny figure in shock. How was he managing such controlled Blinks, that not only took him where he wished but also apparently toyed with his momentum? He had to have an artifact, and a powerful one.
"If possible," Hiezal said quietly beside her, "I hate that man even more than I hate most humans."
Her father sighed. "Those of us who brought rope, I suggest we use it."
. . . . .
Between the tunnel and the continent's edge there was a path of sorts through the jagged spines of several hills. It was wide enough for wagons, barely.
Nex wasn't uneasy, but he was well aware that such paths didn't just appear out of nowhere. There was also the fact that Vurgil had seemed certain the tunnel would be guarded by ogres. That there was not an ogre in sight, and yet a path existed on this side of the tunnel, was highly suspicious.
Behind him he could hear the officers murmuring. There was no sign that this path had been worked by intelligent hands, but the elves were obviously coming to the same conclusion he had. They were even looking nervously up at the spiny ridges to either side of the narrow ravine they passed through, as if expecting enemies to appear atop those impassible spiny slopes. Which was absurd, since even flying creatures would have trouble finding a perch... on...
He'd just come to the realization that a force that could clear an open trail through this impassible terrain could easily do the same for the ridges above, when he heard a scream from behind him, and atop the ridges to either side massive figures began popping into view.
"Ogres!" Velansar cried, kicking his hawkstrider away from the press and lifting his warglaive into his free hand. The Spell Breaker yanked his mount into a tight circle, staring up at the heights to either side of the ravine. Nex spun a slow circle as well, cursing himself for a blind fool as he did. Enemies looked down upon them from every vantage, holding crude bows or spears or other throwing weapons. A few simply held massive rocks in their huge hands.
False gods be damned. It was a perfect bottleneck, and any fight they engaged in would be hopelessly one-sided. There was a distinct possibility he was about to lose his army.
Nex stared up at the creatures. Ogres they might be, but they resembled no ogres he had ever seen. Certainly they were too large to be orcs, and colored wrong for it as well, more a grayish-green rather than green or brown. Unlike ogres, however, they were massively muscled, making them far more impressive and imposing than even the large red orcs they'd fought.
From the ravine ahead more of the creatures appeared, these wielding brutish mauls and axes, or simply giant stone clubs. At their side moved spiny boars, odd white lizards with spiny tails, and brown-green basilisks, moving with the discipline and grace of trained battle companions. Nex had seen men on Azeroth with an uncanny affinity for animals, allowing them to tame and train the beasts to fight beside them. Whoever these creatures were, they had obviously done the same.
Behind him Velansar was shouting orders, trying to get the army organized in the tight confines and under whatever shelter they could find, in the hopes that the enemy would at least be forced to come down to and meet them face-to-face. One of the creatures ahead, with a massive dire wolf stalking at its side, raised its hand to halt its companions and came on alone with only its pet, a massive greatsword held easily in one hand. Seeing it, Nex walked away from his frantic soldiers and went to meet the enemy leader halfway.
The creature hailed him in Orcish, speaking it with a familiarity that suggest it was its native language. "You are brave to come away from the safety of your troops and treat with me alone. Your actions show great honor."
Nex fought back a derisive laugh as he continued forward, walking until he was roughly ten feet away. It wasn't often anyone called his actions honorable. "I will not die in this ravine," he said calmly.
"Death comes to us all, eventually," the leader replied. "I am Braagor, Chieftain of the Mok'Nathal." The Sons of Nath, in Orcish. Nex had never heard of them. Braagor continued resolutely. "You are neither orc nor draenei nor one of the hapless corrupted draenei. In truth, I would have expected the last to come sneaking through this tunnel, after we cleared it of Gruul's forces. But though I've not seen your kind before I recognize you as human."
Nex nodded. "I cannot say the same. I thought I knew much of orcs and ogres, but of the Sons of Nath I have heard nothing."
Braagor smiled grimly. "We are the descendants of orc and ogre both. As such both sides of our parentage despise us. The orcs consider ogres and their offspring to be stupid and primitive, while the ogres consider orcs and their offspring to be puny and weak."
"I am no stranger to the unjust hatred of my own race. But the question remains. Both ogre and orc despise humans, and would kill them where they may. You have us trapped in this ravine, and we are ill-prepared to defend ourselves."
"We do not hold this pass to waylay travelers like common brigands. Our village lies ahead. Perhaps the last remaining village of our kind."
Nex canted his head slightly. Was it possible these half-ogres were peaceful? He'd never seen an orc or ogre that didn't delight in bloodshed. "We do not travel this pass seeking conflict with any who live in these lands. Our goal lies north and east, the continent which connects to this one. We spied a pathway that can accommodate our wagons, following the edge of this continent and safe from attack by the ogres who hold this land."
Braagor nodded. "You speak of the Razor's Edge, which no man may walk without facing death on either side. We cleared that pass, and the tunnel you've just come through, so that we might have a means of fleeing in either direction when Gruul's forces come for us. If you speak truly about having no desire to fight, then cast away your weapons and submit to my blade."
There was an orc ritual similar to this that Nex was aware of. When the leader of an enemy faction came before the Warchief in defeat, he came in rags, submitting himself to the Warchief's weapon. Then the Warchief had to weigh the risks of keeping such a dangerous enemy alive with the cost of killing him and earning the enmity of the enemy faction.
Assuming this half-ogre lived by a comparable code of honor, there was no risk in doing as he asked. If not, there was still a chance he might be able to get away alive. Or he would die. Only favorable outcomes. Without hesitation Nex drew his Blinkstrike and dropped it to the ground, then reached behind his back to where he had a kukri strapped hilt-down between his shoulder blades and dropped that. Last of all he dropped his belt, which held a few throwing knives.
Then he walked forward calmly. Braagor held his sword out in front of him, and Nex moved right up to it, pressing its razor edge to his neck. With a short, swift movement he pressed harder and sideways, and the blade cut into his neck just enough to draw blood.
The half-ogre looked surprised, but then he nodded and let his sword lower until the tip rested against the ground. "My blade has tasted your blood. If you bring treachery, it will drink of it again."
"My only enemy is demons," Nex replied, backing away to where his weapons rested and returning them to their places.
"Then we share a common foe, human. I have seen my world destroyed by hatred and war, the demons standing in the background. I will not fight any foe save demons if I can flee. The Mok'Nathal will free ourselves from the cycle of hatred, no matter the price." Braagor raised his hand in a sharp gesture, and along the tops of the ravine the Mok'Nathal backed away until they were out of sight. "You wish to travel lands which we cleared with our own hands, and keep clear with our weapons. What price will you pay?"
Nex shrugged. "I know not what the Mok'Nathal need. Though we come in peace, we travel through dangerous lands, and will not part with our weapons. The wagons we need, and the beasts which pull them. But we will do without, if it means peace."
Braagor nodded slowly. "Draenor as it was is no more. Many creatures perished in the cataclysm, and we have worked long to restore the balance and bring life back to our home. Though the beasts you bring are not of our world, they can become so. Give us a male and two females of the creatures pulling your wagons, and a male and two females of the creatures your soldiers ride upon."
Nex hesitated. "My people sometimes remove the manhoods of our beasts of burden to make them more docile. But if such is not the case then your price is fair. I will see it done."
. . . . .
"There's no way in hell I'm giving up three hawkstriders," Velansar insisted, face red. "They're mine, given to me personally by Prince Kael'thas. You're a fool to even make that bargain. Go back and demand another price."
Lokiv smiled tightly, one of those characteristic expressions that obviously had no emotion behind it. "These half-ogres feel very strongly about honor. People with such views do not look kindly upon haggling, especially after an agreement is made. Of course, you could refuse, since they're yours. I imagine the two dozen or so enemies standing above us would be delighted at the opportunity to drop rocks on our heads."
In spite of herself Saire found herself holding back a giggle at the visual. It wasn't really funny, but then she'd just spent the last ten minutes certain she was going to die, so a little giddiness was understandable. Velansar turned a disgusted look her way, then huffed and turned away. "Kovel, Mellinel, Haldir. Best resign yourself to walking. If you have a problem with it, feel free to bring it up with our generous leader."
"To be fair, Captain," her father said mildly. "These brutes could have just as easily killed us all and stolen the mounts. Personally, I'm more concerned with how we're going to pull the wagons without three of our oxen."
Lokiv nodded. "It may be we'll have to abandon one of them. Until then redistribute the load so that two of them are light, and single-harness an ox to each of them."
Theril nodded and saw it done, while half a dozen of the large brutes, led by the monster who called himself Braagor, came forward and led the six promised beasts away. At first the hawkstriders hissed and screeched at the enormous half-ogres, but the creatures showed remarkable ability with animals, catching them firmly by their beaks and whispering to them for a long while. When finally the Mok'Nathal departed with their payment, the hawkstriders and oxen followed docilely behind.
As soon as the wagons were ready to move out Nex nodded in satisfaction. "We'll be passing through their village to get to this Razor's Edge road. Keep in line, and don't do anything to antagonize our hosts." With that they set out, half-ogres in front and behind their lines, with more shadowing them from up above. After almost a half hour of travel along the ravine it opened up into a large hollow beneath an enormous spike that jutted up into the sky, a young black dragon speared at its tip.
Within this hollow the village rose, tier by tier, to a large open hall at the top of the hill. Though she was no expert on orc or ogre architecture, the village seemed to incorporate both in its buildings. She saw the large, domed structures favored by ogres, and the smaller spiked pavilions orcs often raised in their main camps. There was even an opening in the spike that likely led into a small cave, such as many ogres favored for sleeping.
In fact, now that they were in the village she saw orcs and ogres both, if not pureblooded than at least heavily favoring their distinct ancestry. Obviously the Mok'Nathal village was open to any who sought peace. It was surprising to see such an attitude from those with orc and ogre blood, since she would never have expected either race to be anything but violently aggressive. Brutish faces glared at them suspiciously as they moved along the eastern side of the village towards another break in the spines, likely the beginning of this Razor's Edge Lokiv had spoken of. But while none who watched them seemed friendly, there were no attacks nor even spoken threats. Saire wondered if an army of orcs could have been escorted through a human or blood elf city without heckling, refuse and rocks thrown, and even riots.
It held a disconcertingly honest mirror up to her own people. She had heard her father say on many occasions that orcs were irredeemable savages, and it would be far better to slaughter them all rather than hold them in internment camps and hope for some sort of rehabilitation. It was a common sentiment in Quel'thalas, and in Dalaran. Perhaps Terenas Menethil hadn't been such a fool to hope that in time the orcs could be tamed, and some peace managed.
"Doesn't it make you sick, having to depend on the mercy of these things?"
Saire pressed her lips into a thin line as Hiezal moved to walk beside her. "Since it appears that we can depend on that mercy, no, it doesn't make me sick. Although here I was thinking how wrong I was to assume that orcs and ogres were little better than animals, and you come around and reinforce the notion that civilization is just a veneer over our own poorly controlled savagery."
Hiezal blinked. "Rrrreeeerrr. I didn't realize it was your time of month, Miss Catty."
Saire swatted at him. "Go away, you oaf! I'm not in the mood for your antics." He burst into laughter, and she swatted at him again and again, raining blows down on his arrogant, disrespectful, stupid head until he was forced to flee, still laughing.
She turned to see one of their half-ogre escorts watching her with an expression of befuddlement on his face, and felt her cheeks heating in embarrassment.
Yes, civilized indeed.
