Chapter 25 - Transition

Dalrus had hoped at some point during their journey, the orcs would stop and use the supplies in the wagon he was currently trapped inside, thus giving him a chance to escape. He very soon learned that was a vain hope. Apparently, his particular wagon was the one with the long term meals, with the most perishible ones being kept closer to the middle of the caravan, and thus, his would probably be the last one to be opened up, if at all, before they reached their destination.

For what it was worth, however, the orcs were pretty damn good when it came to travelling. They did not take a single break on their first day of travel, with rations being distributed among the warriors and peons to eat while they walked along the day. Dalrus came to realize they truly were a hardened, brutal species, who were well adjusted to harsh conditions and long trips. On that very first day, they were targeted by more than one group of locals; centaurs, the savage quillbeasts - humanoid pig men - and, of course, the ever present harpies. Watching the orcs fight was almost a spectacle. Down to the very last man, they were all fierce and fearless. No wonder their majority didn't wear any armor. For such brave fighters, that would just be dead weight. Dalrus even saw one crush a centaur's head with his bare hands.

The grunts didn't talk much among themselves. They all appeared to have a grim determination to them, one that didn't require words. Dalrus was left with nothing to do but create a makeshift bed with the animal hides inside the wagon and take the time to rest himself. There was no way to pick the lock; it was out of his reach. Nor could he cut his way through the planks inside the wagon, as not only would that take too long, there was a very real chance anyone could decide to check on the wagon or take notice of all the sawdust.

Most of all, however, Dalrus hadn't realized just how tired he was until he had this time to truly lay back and rest. The moment his back touched the furs underneath, he never wanted to stand up again. He almost passed out like he had the other day, but he forced himself to remain awake, lest someone walk in on the stowaway taking a nap inside their food cart.

And so, for that time, he decided to spend some time to collect his thoughts, gather some information and mourn the loss of his beloved daggers. He spent a long time simply holding the blades in his arms, trying to think of a way he could revert them to their original state... But he did not know the first thing about blacksmithing. With his back against the wagon's wall, he hoisted one wapon up in his right arm. It was definitely much heavier than before, and in total, it was almost twice it's original length. His daggers were just a couple fingers short of being oficially swords. Sure, he could hold and swing them around, but not nearly as deftly as he could before. He gave it a couple swings in front of him, then sighed and laid them over his lap. This would take some getting used to... But maybe he could make it work. He was reminded of his training all those years ago, when his master presented the boy with a pair of short swords for training that day. Dalrus was eight then.

"What am I supposed to do with these?" The boy had inquired as he struggled to hold both the blunt training weapons up.

"Defend yourself or die, boy. Whichever you think more convenient." Master Silvious had said before he brought his own weapon - which was a wooden variant of Dalrus' iron ones - down against the boy's scalp. "Come on! Dodge, or block!"

"I can't, these are too bloody heavy!" Dalrus complained as he tried to hold the weapons up in front of him. HIs master easily landed another blow, to his leg this time.

"Stop complaining and get to work! You'll think you'll always have daggers dangling on your belt for your convenience? Let me teach you something, boy. You know what is one of the cheapest and most common weapons for a soldier to carry around?"

"Spears?"

"You'd think, but no. A short, one handed sword is the most common thing to find hanging from a soldier's belt. In a real battle, I guarantee the majority of fighters will be waving a slab of iron with a sharpened edge like they are desperate to chop wood. And that's why you need to learn to hold and swing one of these around. Odds are if you are ever in a need to pick a random weapon off the ground, it will be one of these."

And for years to come, Dalrus always wondered why common soldiers weren't taught to use a tiny piece of sharp iron attached to a long stick instead of waving a sword around. It always seemed to be far more cost effective to him. For one, spears were perfect for defending or attacking, as they could keep an enemy at a distace. They were very cheap and easy to manufacture, too. And anyone could learn how to use one; just keep the pointy end pointed at your enemy and poke them if they come too close. What's so complicated about that? No, instead, his master forced him to endure weekly, rigorous training sessions to hold short swords, not just with his right hand, but his left one too. In fact, making the boy ambidextrious had been one of the very first things his master had focused on.

As he reminisced, Dalrus lifted his 'daggers' once again. He had often compared the weapons to short swords now, given their new feel... Maybe he wasn't off the mark with his metaphor. Perhaps he really should see them under this light instead.

Standing up, he held one of the blades above his shoulder, then brought it down in an arc in front of him. There was almost no whistle as the dark blade weaved through the air. The weight was decent enough that he could change the trajectory should he need to, while being heavy enough to cut through some lighter armour his daggers previously couldn't.

He was never a fan of dueling or fencing. He had made the mistake of sparring with his brother once, and even though Felrus had only one sword in hand, Dalrus was the one with his face on the floor three times in a row. Blocking, slashing, hacking... Such confusing, needless concepts. Better to wait for the opportunity to unleash a devastating blow from the darkness instead of facing someone head-on. That had been what had gotten him in that situation in the first place; trying to joust against Grommash godsdamned Hellscream.

Still... It was better than nothing, at his present condition. For the next few hours, as the wagon was carried onwards and the sun began to set in the horizon, Dalrus continued to practice his combat skills, training against invisible foes within the confined space of his improvised prision. By the time the moon was high on the sky, his arms were sore from having to wave that unfamiliar weight around, but at least he was growing more accostumed to it. Satisfied, he strapped the weapons to his waist and fished for another apple from the sack. That was when he heard a couple familiar voices outside.

..."Nothing but pigmen, bird women and those blasted centaurs. My axe is going to rust like this."

"Yes, at least the humans stood a chance of making you bleed before being cut down. Remember that boy the other day? The one who was fighting the chieftain? I heard after being taken prisioner, he managed to escape the warchief's camp."

Even though most orcs had very similar voices - all weighed down by a gutural-like growling, a trait particularly noticeable amongst the Warsong orcs - he thought these two were the same he heard complaining about Thrall earlier. Leaning against that side of the cart, he closed his eyes to pay better attention.

"Yes. First he denies the chieftain his kill, and then he manages to lose a prisioner. As if that weren't enough, he said it was Hellscream's fault that the humans attacked us in the first place, and that allowed the prisioner to escape! And worst of all, he even ordered us to go to these damned forests in the north and swing our axes at trees instead of foes."

Dalrus heard someone spitting. "Pah! The chieftain can only tolerate so much. I want to see how long it will take before he decides to take the mantle of Warchief himself. If he asked me, I'd gladly murder that blue-eyed, soft skinned traitor mysel-"

His next words were muffled as Dalrus heard something big and heavy swinging through the air. The next thing he heard was a loud splatter against the wagon he was trapped inside of, and something big and round falling against the floor, soon followed by something much bigger and heavier.

"Is anyone else dissatisfied with our Warchief?" He heard Grommash's unmistakeable voice booming. "By all means, step up now and voice yout concerns! Gorehowl will gladly show you what happens to traitors of the Horde!"

"Ch-chieftain!" He heard the first orc's voice trembling with fear. "No, you got it all wrong! We would never disobbey you! A-any one of us down to the last man will follow your orders! W-we just thought you were a greater leader..."

Dalrus didn't need his ears to know what would happen next. He could almost picture it in his head as the leader of the Warsong brought his weapon down another time. "I will not hear any more of this treacherous talk! Thrall is our Warchief! You mongrels know damned well why I could not take the seat! He... Thrall was right, and I'll be a damned fool if I try to deny it. The ancient demon blood than ran through our veins stirrs once more... And that is a liability. Once, we allowed ourselves to be the slaves of the demons. We allowed ourselves to succumb to their will, and that cost us our world, and our home. But then we fought for our freedom from that crazed bloodlust, and I refuse to allow it to control my thoughts again! Thrall saved us from that emptiness that is worse than death itself! Listen to me, orcs! We are free from the demon's corruption! We are our own masters! And the Warchief will make our Horde greater than it ever was! For he has something even I lack. Thrall knows compassion... And he has shown me that is no weakness. He has shown me that can be a powerfull tool in the hands of a leader. So I will trust him with my life, and the whole sorry lot of you better do the same! Understood?"

The rest of the Warsong clan let out cheers for their chieftain, and Dalrus was left alone with his thoughts, and the knowledge that despite this little speech about compassion, the fact was that Grommash Hellscream hadn't even hesitated when executing these two subordinates of his.

"Feeling better, dear?"

..."Well, at least your voice is better than the other guy. Our relationship has been a little complicated lately. Between you and me, at first I thought he was interested in my personality, but now I'm starting to think he only wants me for my body."

"I did warn you about delving to deep into the Void, my poor, clueless student. I can help hold the Shadow at bay for a while, but if you continue using it like you have, you'll consume yourself, like a flame burning a candle. And I'm afraid that's all the help I can give you now. The rest is up to you."

"Yeah, that's fine and all... But none of that will matter if the Burning Legion kills everyone and salts the ground afterwards."

There was no response this time.

Only darkness.

Only silence.

He wondered how his brother was doing.

During that night, the Warsong made a quick, brief stop to allow their kodos to rest and eat. Marching resumed as soon as the sun began to rise over Stonetalon peaks, now way far in the distance.

They travelled all day long uninterrupted. The caravan didn't even stop when they were attacked again. Dalrus could hear Hellscream's battle cries as he hacked anything foolish enough to come close to them to pieces.

Overnight, Dalrus' soreness and exhausting were almost completely cured. Rest, shade and good food had many perks, it would seem. During this time he continued to practice his dual swordsmanship, and tried to pay attention to what the orcs would chat amongst themselves.

After the little display the previous night, no one dared to speak against Thrall's decision. Even so, Dalrus heard enough to deduce the story. It would seem Grommash, against Thrall's orders, continued to attack not one, but eventually, all of the human settlements on the way to Stonetalon peaks. With little alternative, Thrall devised a plan to hire local goblin zepellins to transport them to the mountain peaks. He had berated Grommash on his foolish behavior, and as punishment, the Warsong were to travel north to Ashenvale forest, where they were tasked with building a settlement for the Horde.

Not only that, but he was also able to piece together a little bit more about the orcs themselves. Apparently, they came from a place called 'Draenor' (no idea where that was) and had arrived by crossing 'the dark portal' (no idea where that was either). Also apparently, their home world had been almost completely destroyed by the warlocks and their fel magic, and thus the Horde was forced find a new home upon Azeroth.

Dalrus wasn't sure what to make with that information. That was certainly a good enough excuse to try and find a new home, but it definitely was no justification to that senseless slaughter that the two previous wars had originated. The orcs hadn't come simply to flee from certain death; they had also brought it with them. They never even attempted diplomacy, but instead, had gone straight to murdering everyone in their wake as they began to spread throughout the Eastern Kingdoms. Only now did the Horde seem to have a leader more keen on talking rather than fighting, but even so, Thrall had been quick to fight when the battle began. The Warchief desired peace, yes, but he did not hesitate to take arms when the moment needed it.

All that left Dalrus a little sad. These Warsong orcs appeared to be the very depiction of the orc stereorype he had heard about his entire life; brute, savage and murderous. Thrall had given him hope that maybe that endless cycle of war could end. But maybe he was wrong. Old hatreds didn't just up and vanish like that. Those wounds would take a long time to heal.

The second day ended on a gloom note, as Dalrus was left alone with his thoughts and his personal weapons practice. When the third day came, however... As Dalrus opened his eyes and took in his first breath, he was surprised. What he inhaled was not that hot, dusty air he had grown accostumed to... This one felt so much more... Fresh. Pure. Clean. He opened his eyes, stood up and peered over the grates of his unintended cage.

Before the caravan was a huge extension of the tallest and most beautiful trees Dalrus had ever laid eyes upon. But that wasn't all... There was something almost... Mystic about this forest. Ancient. Far more ancient he could wrap his mind around. He could sense... A presence. Something primal. Similar to what he felt when he was alone with Thrall the other night. Like nature itself was a living creature laying in front of him, it's breath washing over his entire being. It was a little overwhelming, at first. He could only imagine what the orcs must be thinking before this gorgeous sight.

"Finally! Unload the axes, it's time to chop some wood!"

It would take a long time for Dalrus' palmprint to leave his face after hearing that.