The feathered raptor shifted uncomfortably in the stable, clearly not enjoying the harness and tether that bound it to a thick wooden post that seemed far too large for the purpose it served.
But then again, Gallek reconsidered, it was undoubtedly designed to withstand even an unruly kodo. Orcs, if nothing else, knew how to control mounts.
The raptor turned its head towards Gallek and stared, its head swaying back and forth, evaluating him. Mounts often shared the temperament of their owners, and Gallek could see the aggressive imprint Zeenjen had left on the raptor as it a low growl - almost like a purr - rumbled from its throat. Despite the late hour, and the fact it had traveled all the way to Ashenvale from Durotar in the space of a week, it did not seem tired or even weary.
Raptors were keen animals, and this one was no exception. It almost seemed to sense Gallek's intentions as it snorted and bared the very tips of its fangs. It shook, fluffing the feathers that lined its neck and trailed down its spine in an empty attempt at intimidation.
Gallek considered his next move. He had tracked Zeenjen all the way north to Ashenvale, and while the Troll's abrupt movements were suspicious, they had yet to yield anything enlightening. He wondered if he should have searching and pursued some other lead.
Still, his instinct warned him that Zeenjen had lied to him at least once in their meeting last week. He severely doubted that a Horde officer knew nothing of a murder that two of his underlings were involved in - one of which being his own brother. Indeed, a brother's involvement is all the more reason to lie.
Gallek sighed, his eyes wandering to the nearby inn. A welcoming light glowed from the doorway, and he felt himself drawn to it though he knew it would not be worth the risk of running into Zeenjen. It was already night, however, and he would need to sleep soon.
It was likely that Zeenjen's sudden trek north would take Gallek to either Edward or Valzul - and from there he would gain the key to unraveling the case. This all presuming, of course, that either of them weren't hiding and were willing to talk. Or alive, for that matter - Gallek was keenly aware of the death sentence he had set on Valzul once he had mailed his reports to Orgrimmar.
Gallek groaned and rubbed his forward. He suddenly yearned for the simple, boring tavern murders that were so common on the frontier. At least then there were at least five other witnesses.
A woman's voice shook Gallek from his reverie. "Your raptor?"
Gallek turned to see a young Orc woman standing next to him, her dark hair casually thrown behind her shoulders, wearing one of the simple leather tunics that were so common among the frontier Horde settlements. There was a small scar along her chin, and her nose had been broken at least a few times.
Gallek found himself smiling. It had been a while since he had seen an attractive woman. "No."
"Didn't think so," she replied, crossing her arms. "For one, only Trolls are usually crazy enough to ride a raptor, and for two, that raptor hates you."
As in affirmation, the raptor snorted and snapped its jaws in the air.
"Then why'd you ask?"
She shrugged. "Don't know. Just the way you were looking at it, I suppose."
"Just thought it was interesting," Gallek said vaguely. His eyes wandered to her legs, and then back to her face.
"Right," she said with a laugh that told him she did not believe him at all. "Either way, whoever rides that raptor is an ass."
Despite himself, Gallek found his interest in her words being piqued. "What do you mean?"
"Look at its back, near the tail," she said, pointing a stubby finger. As though sensing the sudden attention on it, The raptor snarled and retreated under the shadow of the stable. Soon, all he could see was flashes of glistening scales and a roving pair of yellow eyes.
Gallek frowned, not seeing what she was referencing.
"You can't see it now, but the scales are darkened here and there," she continued, her lips pursed. "Whoever rides it, also beats it regularly, and badly. I hate seeing mounts getting abused."
The revelation did not particularly surprise Gallek. Zeenjen had a reputation of having a cruel streak, and the brief meeting they had only served to reinforce this impression. But then, what Troll didn't have a cruel streak?
"Me too," said Gallek, not meaning it. While he did not see the need for hitting his riding wolf, it did not disturb him. Some animals, he knew, only respected a baton. "The raptor will turn on him, one day."
She shook her head, smiling a crooked smile. "Not likely. If anything, the owner will be the last one that raptor bites. You, me, or anyone else it would not even have to think twice."
She touched the scar along her chin, then, as though realizing what she was doing, pulled her hand away.
"But that's not the worst I've seen," she said. Gallek could see her shiver though there was no chill in the air. "A few nights ago, a Forsaken stops by here and buys one of the wolves. Of course, it's damn near impossible to get an animal to let a Forsaken on its back."
Gallek nodded, his breath hitching in his throat. He was on the right trail - he had to be. After all, how many Forsaken could there possibly be wandering through Kalimdor?
"So anyway, I sit out to watch," she continues, not noticing Gallek's suddenly intense gaze. "Not really interested, but more to see him struggle with a wolf. But he doesn't even try to mount it. He just pulls something out of his cloak, and wafts it in front of the wolf's face. The wolf goes wild, jerking its tether and stretching its hardness, and I'm expecting it to rip that post right out of the ground." She gestured towards the massive post that Gallek had noticed earlier.
"What was it?" Gallek had a few guesses, none of which were pleasant. He heard rumors, and knew of secondhand stories of how the Forsaken find riding mounts when they don't have the time or inclination to dig them out of the ground.
"I don't know," Her mouth became thin, almost like a line. "Animals don't react like that for no reason. I don't know what he pulled out of his cloak, but next time I saw him, the Forsaken was riding that wolf without a problem."
Gallek tilted his head. "And the wolf?"
"Looked like a zombie, with glazed eyes," she said quietly. "Like it was dead. And after all, aren't the only things that willingly bear the Forsaken are dead steeds?"
Gallek frowned at that, not liking the news. If Edward had acquired a mount, he could be anywhere from Stonetalon to Winterspring by now. Where would he be going?
Those thoughts left his mind as he noticed that she was still staring at the raptor, her face suddenly expressionless. He would track Zeenjen in the morning, and let the Troll worry about where they were going. Now more than ever he was certain that Zeenjen's path was the path to the truth.
"What brings you to Splintertree?" she asked, as though wanting to leave the topic of the wolf. "Haven't seen you around here before."
"I'm an Inspector from Orgrimmar," Gallek replied, pleased when he saw her face lighten. "Just traveling."
"An Inspector?" she said, smiling and touching his arm. "Haven't seen one from Orgrimmar in a month or so now. You don't look the part."
"I try not to be obvious."
"Can't say it's not good to get that sort of attention to Splintertree," she said. "It's been getting worse in the Barrens and Ashenvale. There's a new post searching for a Troll who committed cannibalism…on an Orc! Even in these parts, that's unheard of."
"I've heard of the case," said Gallek evasively. While he knew that eventually that postings would be released, he was surprised that it had happened so quickly. He supposed that the nature of the crime had expedited Orgrimmar's response.
Gallek sighed. He would need to move quickly. He had less time than he thought.
"What's your name?" Gallek asked, wanting to get her mind - and his - off darkening thoughts and more into where he wanted them to be.
"Orra," she said with another smile. "You?"
"Gallek."
"Going to be here long?"
He liked the turn of the conversation. "Maybe," he said, knowing well that he would be leaving the next day.
Gallek glanced towards the tavern, seeing once more the welcoming light spilling from the door. Previously, he had deemed the risk of encountering Zeenjen too high to be worth going, but now he was having second thoughts. Already he was trying to rationalize what he knew to be his final decision.
After all, I don't plan to be drinking for too long…
Not to mention, it had been a very long time, and Orgrimmar was very far away - the distance seeming to become greater with every passing second.
"You want to have a drink? Gallek asked, and Orra smiled.
OOO
When the Darkspear Trolls first arrived in Durotar, they found that it was not as different from Stranglethorn Vale as they had anticipated. Certainly, now they were more concerned with the centaur than they were with murlocs, but they were not as unused to the oppressive heat as the Orcs were.
The most difficult problem they had to overcome was the freezing Durotar nights. While the Trolls appreciated the lack of humidity, the sand and barren rock did not hold the heat after the sun died like the jungles on the Broken Isles, and after their first night many of the Darkspear wondered if the land was cursed. Furs and prepared fires made them comfortable, but even then the Trolls had trouble adjusting to the cold.
Winterspring was nothing like the nights in Durotar. It was far, far worse than anything Valzul had ever before experienced.
The wind and snow swirled around him, snapping at his ears and fingers with sharp, icy teeth. The furs provided by the Furbolgs - furs that he at first thought were excessive - he now wrapped tightly around himself, wishing he had brought more.
Staring out from behind a strap of fur he had covered his face with, Valzul stared across the landscape of snow. The only breaks in the wall of whiteness were dark rivets of slush and mud, which acted as the only markers they had to Everlook, and stunted evergreens that tried vainly to resist the brutal weather.
While the snow and cold were not entirely unexpected, Valzul had not expected such an extreme opposite from Durotar - or even Ashenvale. It was as if they were on another a continent - a land where living things were not welcome, and either scavenged to survive or withered and died.
Tribes of Furbolgs lived somewhere nearby, Valzul knew, but he had yet to see any signs of them.
All for da better, he thought, adjusting the wooden box of firewater he carried under his arm. The Timbermaw had warned him that the Winterfall tribe possessed an exceptionally keen sense of smell for the drug, and that he should exercise great care while handling it.
Valzul, taking no risks, obliged by stuffing the case full of their excess cloth with the idea that it would prevent damage during their journey. The last thing he wanted was for a vial to shatter mid-trip. It would take no time at all for the wind to carry the scent to the nearest tribe and bring ravenous Winterfall Furbolgs charging down on them.
"This can't be right," said Azshana - or Valzul thought she said. It was difficult to tell, with her voice muffled by the fur covering her mouth and howling wind.
Valzul turned to her, hoping he had misheard. Her heavy eyes, however, confirmed what he suspected. He had not misheard.
Shaking her head, Azshana removed the fur from her face. The cold had added a shade of red to her skin tone, her hair catching flakes of snow. "The trail is wandering south - and Deephoof told us the town was due east."
"Where else could we be going?"
Azshana shrugged, though with the mass of fur covering her it was barely noticeable. "Maybe we confused the road somewhere back. This isn't just goblin territory - the native Furbolgs are sure to have their own traveling paths."
Valzul looked back the way they came - seeing their own footprints beginning to fill and vanish from the tumbling snow and wind.
"We can't go back," Valzul said, a chill running through him not entirely due to the weather. "We're not even sure where we went wrong, or if we went wrong, and dere's not enough food to last for more dan a day. We gotta hope dis trail turns east again and find Everlook before night comes."
Azshana nodded, covering her face once more with the fur. Valzul tried the same but found that, despite his best efforts, he could not stay warm. His main worry were his ears - as he had lost feeling in them some time ago.
Trying to distract himself, Valzul asked, "Does Teldrassil get cold like dis? Or have snow?"
"No," said Azshana. "There are trees, and it's warm. Like Ashenvale." She paused for a moment. "Did you ask that before?"
Valzul's mind wander backwards, into Feralas. "Maybe." It was hard to remember, like the wind was pervading his very thoughts.
"Valzul?"
He turned to her, hearing an odd tone in her voice. Her pace had slowed, but the steam in her breath made it difficult for Valzul to read her expression.
"In Ashenvale," Azshana began, her voice sounding flat, detached. "I don't regret killing the sentry."
Valzul regarded her steadily, taking a moment to register her words. It was not what he had expected her to say - indeed, everything he had seen had led him to the opposite conclusion.
As though sensing his thoughts, Azshana continued, "It's strange feeling a certain way when you know you should be feeling a different way."
He would not say it, but Valzul heard a double-meaning in her words. He was suddenly reminded of something Deephoof had told him in what seemed like an age ago in Camp Mojache. "Guilt, but not regret?"
"Yes," Azshana agreed. "Guilt over a death that could have been avoided." She paused, looking at him thoughtfully. "You seem to know what I mean. Have you…"
Azshana did not finish the question, but she did not have to. Valzul knew precisely what he was being asked.
"Yeah," he answered, and did not elaborate.
Azshana, as though sensing his discomfort, did not ask further.
Valzul pressed on through the snow, trying to ignore the cold that was seeping into his feet and extremities. He began wondering if coming here had been a mistake, and whether Deephoof's advice had been foul.
Winterspring was nothing like Durotar, and that was what made Valzul more afraid than anything else. All of the experience he had gained in survival and movement across the land was irrelevant here. If they were lost in Durotar, he could name a dozen ways that they could scavenge for food and find shelter. In Winterspring, the snow and wind rendered an entirely different environment, and Valzul was lost in it.
The Darkspear held their ancestors to high regard, yet rarely had Valzul ever called upon them, or asked for their blessing. Spirits, even benevolent ones, disturbed him, and he would rather work problems through by himself than meddle in the spirit world. Yet now he found himself hoping beyond anything that they were present and guiding him.
Every bit of magic or voodoo was aided by an ancestor, and Valzul could use some of that aid - though perhaps in a different fashion. He had nothing that the Darkspear witch doctors had used in their worship, and knew less of the ritual dances.
Valzul hoped that his own personal calling would suffice. His eyes glanced to Azshana.
Hopefully da ancestors won' ask any questions about my company, he thought wryly.
For a while, it almost seemed as though they were on the right path. The falling snow had slowed significantly, and the clearing air allowed Valzul to see farther across the terrain. Ahead, past a thicket of trees and around a drift, the trail seemed to curve eastward. The trail itself was only barely visible - marked only by darkened slush and rivets.
"If we can reach Everlook, we'll be safe," said Azshana, her voice sounding confident, though her expression could not be read. "Deephoof said he would speak with the druids in Moonglade and allow us to gain sanctuary."
"Yeah, but we don't know how long dat will take," Valzul said. While their fortunes were finally seeming to turn, he was not confident the change would hold. "An' remember, Edwed is still somewhere behind us, and I don't think he's the type to give up."
Valzul, despite his words, was not exceptionally concerned with Edward, however. If there was one advantage of the swirling snow, it made tracking him and Azshana difficult. Even Valzul was having trouble navigating through the weather, and he was looking for a damned city complete with directions.
"Look!" Azshana's voice was pitched with excitement, and Valzul quickly followed her line of sight to see the outline of some sort of structure. She removed the fur covering her face. "That has to be it - has to be Everlook!"
Valzul squinted, snow stinging his eyes as he tried to get a better look. It was difficult to see through the haze, but he could soon tell without a doubt that it was a building. Whether it was alone, or part of a larger complex, Valzul could not yet determine.
Despite himself, Valzul found himself grinning. Their fortune was indeed holding, and maybe even his ancestors had answered his call.
A moment later, however, and it became clear that Azshana did not share his elation. Her smile faded as they approached, and soon her mouth began to sag open. Lightly, with a touch so gentle he barely noticed it, she put her hand on Valzul's shoulder. He stopped after she grabbed her arm.
"What-?"
Azshana directed his questioning gaze forward, to the left side of the trail. A hut sat half-hidden behind a gangly tree, a small fire burning in front of it. Valzul grasped the meaning immediately, and he turned back to Azshana with wide eyes.
Goblins never lived in huts of leather and timber unless they were absolutely desperate, and would not build a town this far north without some sort of wall or fortification. Valzul peered forward again, towards the outline they had first seen. It had taken the shape of another hut, and another and another…
"We need to leave," Azshana said simply, but Valzul did not move.
They had not been following the main road, they had been following a Winterfell hunting trail. They had not been heading towards Everlook, but to a Winterfell tribe encampment. Though he could see none of the furbolgs yet, Valzul was certain that they had retreated into their huts, waiting for the blizzard to pass. The box of firewater under his arm suddenly felt very, very heavy.
Valzul's ancestors had abandoned him. He and Azshana were alone in Winterspring, he realized, and they were now quite lost.
No, not abandoned, Valzul decided. In this cold, brutal land, so far from Durotar and Stranglethorn, his ancestors were never here to begin with.
OOO
At least it doesn't smell, Edward decided, looking over the dying forest one last time.
When the demons invaded, Felwood was the hardest hit, and neither the land or the creatures inhabiting it have managed to recover from the demonic taint that had stained the land. It was as if the earth itself was dying, its skin turning a mottled brown with dried leaves, bleeding a thick slime down rivulets to form small cesspools of corruption here and there on the landscape.
But, Edward repeated. At least it doesn't stink.
Edward finished tying his wolf to the decaying stump of a tree, though in truth it was a wolf no more. Its eyes had a dull sheen to them, and the fur had a reek of decaying flesh. While it still retained much of its flesh and hair, it would not be much longer before the mask of life slid away from it. The wolf walked, though it lived no longer.
The wolf had also served its only purpose, and it was unlikely Edward would use it any further. The Timbermaw would never let such a creature into their hold. The appearance and stench of rot reminded them too much of the undead beasts that roamed through Felwood - another side effect of the demonic corruption.
Nothing was untouched - everything from the animals to the local furbolg tribes were feral from the foreign influence.
The lone exception were the Timbermaw, who had hid in their tunnels during the demonic invasion, and managed to ride out the worst of the damage done to the land. As Edward stood before the furbolg sentry guarding the tunnel entrance, he found himself suddenly wishing that the demons had been more thorough in their scourging of Felwood.
"I need to pass through these tunnels," Edward said, and presented the writ of travel that had been signed by Zeenjen. He offered it to the furbolg, but the sentry simply stared. "This writ grants me permission to travel freely though Horde lands. While I realize most would hesitate to claim this…place…as their own, the Horde maintains an encampment at Splintertree, marking this territory as under Thrall's authority."
The furbolg tilted its head every so slightly, as though regarding Edward as something less than an annoying insect. He felt his patience beginning to thin.
"I know who went through here," Edward said, knowing that the furbolg probably didn't understand a word he was saying. He partially drew his sword, revealing the first few inches of blade. "But I will be coming through one way or another. I will be coming through here unmolested, or I will be coming through here with a set of fur pelts to take the chill off the Winterspring wind."
Whether it was the sight of Edward's blade, or his tone of voice, the sentry did not react well. The furbolg bared its teeth, the fur along its back and arms beginning to stiffen in a show of aggression.
Edward was not deterred, or even displeased. He had not eaten since the Elf in Ashenvale, and he was yearning for more. It was just not any meat that satisfied him, but the flesh from another conscious creature - be it Elf, Orc, or Timbermaw. Having fresh warm blood coursing through his body was a feeling he had become addicted to, and he wanted more.
The furbolg extended its yellowed claws, its eyes darkening as it watched Edward release his sword from the scabbard. There was intelligence in the furbolg's eyes, Edward knew, and that knowledge gave him a bit of a thrill. How would an animal with a mind of a man fight its battles?
An excited voice in his head urged him on, and his sword began to shake in his hand.
"The Troll came this way, I know it," said Edward in a low voice, more to himself than anything. "Valzul is somewhere in Winterspring, bottled in there. There is no where left for him."
Edward felt a thumping in his chest - a foreign feeling that had left him long ago. His heart vainly pumped cold blood through his veins, and even now he could feel his clothes begin to moisten as it leaked in places where he was cut and the veins severed. Why it beat now he did not understand, and he was not concerned. The beating of a dead heart was low on the list of unusual things he had recently experienced.
"Troll?"
Edward heard the guttural voice come from the darkness of the tunnel. He took his eyes off the guard and turned to see a furbolg emerge - leaning heavily on a feathered staff, ritual beats around its neck and down its arms.
The furbolg shaman spoke again. "Troll?"
Edward felt the thumping in his chest begin to slow, then finally stop, as aggression left him. The furbolg's voice could barely be understood, but the question was clear all the same.
Edward turned his attention back to the guard, who appeared somewhat disturbed by the turn of events. His eyes were now lowered to Edward's leg, its nose snuffing the thick air. He just realized that his heart had caused blood to trickle from an old wound on his hip, and it was now drooling down his leg like molasses. Disliking the furbolg guard's gaze, Edward wiped the blood away.
The furbolg with the staff tapped the ground twice, as though to get Edward's attention. For a moment, it simply stared expectantly.
It was becoming clear to him that a Troll had come through the Timbermaw tunnels. The true question was whether the Troll was Valzul.
"Elf?" Edward asked, hoping that the furbolg at least knew a few more words.
"Elf," the shaman echoed, seeming satisfied. The furbolg tapped its staff again, then motioned with a clawed hand.
It took much for Edward to suppress a thrilled grin. He was on the right track. A Troll and Elf traveling together - it could not have been a coincidence.
Edward stepped forward into the tunnel, almost stopped by the guard. The furbolg had crossed his path with a spear, and it took a curt growl from the shaman for him to remove it.
Cool shadows passed over his face as Edward followed the shaman through the belly of Timbermaw hold. Dim torches lit the sparse corridors, the light so low that he had trouble walking with confidence. Furbolg eyesight would have to be very keen to use such passages, Edward realized. He felt suddenly glad he had not been forced to fight his way through the hold.
Furbolgs peered at him from dark crevices and chambers as he passed by, some issuing a low growl, others just staring. The occasional rush of air, heavy with stench, was the only sign that he was actually passing by other corridors. More than once Edward was certain that he had passed under a hole that was dug into the ceiling - seemingly acting as some sort of ventilation. Timbermaw Hold was built like a maze, and it was not long before Edward realized he would not be able to find his way out on his own.
The smell was the worst part, however. The entire hold reeked of furbolg - of their sweat and fur and breath like spoiled meat. It reminded him vaguely of the Crossroads, though worse. He already felt himself begin to grow impatient with this walk. The air had few places to escape, and was therefore stagnant, carrying last week's stench.
After another few minutes, Edward noticed the corridor become wider, with the dirt walls beginning to turn into stone. Smaller, almost natural holes in the ceiling dripped water above them, and when he saw the slightest spec of sunlight through one he knew that he was not far below ground. The pale walls, patched with moss, carried the light from the torches far better than the earth, and he was able to see that the were entering a chamber, empty of everything except two makeshift bedrolls.
The shaman stopped at the center, then turned to Edward, as though waiting.
"What?" Edward said, his tone carrying a biting edge that he knew the furbolg would not notice. He hated being led blind through the endless tunnels, and moreso hated the riddles in communication. "What is this?"
The shaman glanced towards the bedrolls, and then Edward knew. He walked towards them, kneeling by first. It was composed almost entirely of fur resting on a bed of feathers, and already Edward could recognize the smell of its former occupant. His mind flashed with Valzul's face - a vision of the Troll's mocking expression - and he felt his heart thump once, and then grow still. The shaman had taken him to where the Troll and Elf had slept.
Edward straightened and regarded the shaman coldly. "Where?"
The shaman tilted its head. "You."
"Me?" Edward could not decide what the shaman meant. Did it think that he was the Troll's friend? The irony would be delicious. "Winterspring?"
"Ev-" The shaman seemed to hesitate, as though having trouble pronouncing the word. It tried again, snorted, then simply shook its head.
Edward needed to be sure. "Everlook?" He waiting, searching for any recognition in the furbolg's eyes.
Finally, the furbolg nodded. "Yes." The acknowledgement was barely audible, little more than a grunt, but Edward understood.
Edward grinned, and this time did not bother to hide it. He felt the corners of his mouth begin to tear from the strain, but did not care. Cold blood began to leak into his mouth. He was close - so close. Valzul could not have been more than a couple days ahead.
The chilled blood on his tongue was making him hunger for something warm, and he turned a predatory gaze onto the furbolg. For an instant, his fingers brushed his sword hilt, and he considered chopping the shaman up and having a short repast before continuing. But, unfortunately, there was the matter of finding the Winterspring exit to consider.
"Show me," said Edward, knowing his expression must be hideous. The shaman hesitated, staring at Edward curiously, before once again leading him into a tunnel.