Many leagues to the north, a similar conversation was occurring underneath the Ruins of Lordaeron. This was almost entirely a coincidence, for the Horde had taken a longer and much more well-informed interest in events at Razorfen Downs.
In the dark and isolated nook where the Undercity's queen had erected her throne, the dreadlord Varimathras was still showing himself to be an active lieutenant of his captors. It was he who addressed two mouldy and grey-fleshed figures upon the solution that was necessary in the southern Barrens, and perhaps he was almost as eager as they to strike a blow against the hated power of the Scourge.
"It is time to root out this infestation," he told them. "Other agents have already settled the Crone of the Kraul and Ambassador Malcin. There remains only the lich who now rules in Razorfen Downs. You will fly to the town of Crossroads and recruit some of our 'friends' among the orcs and their allies. Drive them against this enslaver, and make sure to bring back his head. Do not fail me."
What retribution the lone demon might actually be authorized to levy against two unindentured citizens was not questioned by them, for the Forsaken as a general rule were not afraid of punishment—they had already endured the worst. The pair only muttered assent, as was their habit, and trudged from the room without much hurry or any other comment. In the lead was a hunched and stringy-haired corpse attired in the rotted robes of a Kirin Tor wizard. Behind shambled a soldier in ill-assorted armour, taller but more unnaturally stooped, who creaked and rattled with rusty chain links, and whose iron-nailed boots produced echoes in the narrow hallway.
The mage went more easily on the pale claws that were his feet, and halted outside the royal entrance until his tardier comrade had dragged up alongside him. The steady golden light in his sockets and the grim line of his mouth suggested a viscous patience, typical of his kind. His companion had no eyes at all, but only a studded X that seemed to hold together the crumpled front of his face or skull; he appeared to perceive his way, regardless. The jaw had been skewed inward and to one side, though it remained functional, and perforce he spoke in a slightly slurred and lethargic tone incongruous with his expressed sentiments.
"I don't care much for orcs," said the dead mage, once they had left the vicinity of the Dreadguards. "My father died fighting them. My aunt, too, though I didn't know her well."
There was no immediate platitude from the soldier. Forsaken society had made it a norm to hold little regard for those who complained aloud, save in the universal cause of grief, as it was felt that any listeners were as likely to be suppressing even more gruesome sources of resentment. Nevertheless, after a moment or two of digestion, the decaying man-at-arms rasped out: "My father also served against the orcs."
"With whom?" asked the mage.
"Darrowshire Battalion."
"Mhmm. I suppose you inherited his position, and perhaps that's his axe?"
"No. I had his sword, but it broke. As for the position, I was enlisted, but I never fought in earnest til the day I died."
They made their way over the bridges in silence, until the mage said, "Well, my father was a Dalaran guard. He lived through the Second War, but the orc Death Knights killed him when they made their raid on the Stormwind library where he was stationed. The aunt was a sorceress; she died earlier." He spoke in the half-yearning, half-callous tone so often adopted by his people when discussing their former existences.
"And what do you think about this business?" the soldier asked. They were nearing the elevator shaft. The hulking guardians of flesh and stitching caused them not a second's hesitation.
"I've only been to the Barrens once before. Don't tell the demon I said that. Seems to me if these pig-men are causing trouble on the orcs' territory, then the orcs should be happy enough to get rid of them. We'll be doing them a favour, more or less."
"I've never been there." They were now standing in the elevator. The mage shouted upward and there was a gurgling response, then a hideous clattering and grinding of rusted chains and corroded winches and the platform began to rise. The soldier raised his voice above the noise with difficulty. "What's it like?"
The mage had to lean nearer and splay a hand behind the hole where his ear had been before he understood, or pretended to. "Oh, arid plains. Lots of open ground, and the sun shines all the time. I gather that the pig-men and the other locals aren't generally much trouble, but there are plenty of them."
The decisive jolt which announced the elevator's arrival interrupted any further conversation. The two Forsaken hurried from the platform as the amiable abomination on duty released the lock on its winch and began to lower the elevator again. Together, the newly-designated agents skulked through the haunted corridors of the palace and over the ancient drawbridge. The zeppelin to Orgrimmar had been held back, they had been told earlier, and now awaited their coming outside the city walls.
In those days there was little that could be considered industrial above the Undercity. The ramshackle fortifications of the Forsaken were often no more than stakes and barricades, and their weapons axes, bows, claws and teeth. The purpose-built tower which overlooked the drear remains of Brill had docks for only two airships at a time, and one of them was generally empty. Sometimes the great bats used by the locals for transport would swoop through the poisonous gloom roundabout, but the goblin technicians took little notice. A small and very mixed group of passengers awaited transport with the anxiety which always accompanied a reliance on the diminutive merchants, whose reputation was so legendarily linked to all things combustible.
The two latecomers mounted the rickety steps and, stepping aboard, presented themselves before the goblin steward who stood sentry beside the forward hatch. "Your names?" asked this individual, examining the manifest.
"Ernst Clackheart," said the mage.
"Calwin Cleves," said the soldier.
The steward swept a bow with his huge bicorne hat. "Welcome aboard, gentlemen. Your berth is in Number Five stateroom, below. We start the engines in two hours."
The zeppelin completed its passage of the northern seas in enviable time and fair weather, notwithstanding one minor squall. The goblin crew was in fact greatly experienced and well-supplied, so that the incidents which often seemed exciting to the passengers were really the results of a kind of bombastic competence and never actually very dangerous to the vessel. Two weeks after lift-off from the Brill tower, the occupants had the satisfaction of gathering on deck to see blue waves and rocky shoals transform into the red sands of Durotar.
What a contrast to the country they had left! Here the sun was unchallenged in heaven, and the weight of its glare a constant heat and brilliance that rendered one quarter of the horizon almost blinding to look towards. Everything became hot: the tarred seams in the deck were wet and bubbling with the heat; the metal cladding and rigging was boiling to the touch. Every reflective surface flashed, as it were, without mercy. Instead of low glades and twisted pine groves, the travellers received a great, broken wasteland of scarlet dust, cliffs, canyons, buttes and mesas. To the north were high ridges and the distant gloom of Azshara; to the west a steady glitter from the great river and an impression of yellow grasslands upon the farther shore. South was a ruined white castle along the beach, and inland a great chasm or canyon maze among overhanging rocks. The zeppelin's course took it northwest, and before long to the waiting tower.
Ernst, the mage, did not wait for the lengthy docking procedures to be completed as the zeppelin was cranked down toward its sky-quay, but leaped jovially over the side and floated to the sand a hundred yards below. It was some minutes before Calwin was able to join him there, on the busy path toward Orgrimmar.
"Missed your last chance to be blown up. D'you regret it?" asked the mage, who was in good humour following such long confinement.
"Not at all," said the soldier, seriously. "I would mind that very much."
"A good attitude to take. Probably reassuring," said Ernst, inanely. "Is it better for the company if an axeman holds fast to his existence, or if he is keen to part with it?"
"That depends," replied Calwin, not taking offence. "A reckless berserker might be more use in a single encounter, possibly, but if there's a long campaign you'll want someone who can survive to keep fighting in it."
"So long as he's not a coward, a shirker, a drag, or inclined to surrender to the enemy?"
"Provided all that, yes."
This kind of needling conversation was quite typical to the pair, but it was actually a matter of uncertainty to Calwin if it meant anything. Such was the common malaise of his society, that he seriously wondered if his positive attitude toward continued un-life might have offended Ernst. He did not ask, for fear of drawing attention to the issue.
In the meantime they were clearing a path through the usual progress of orcs, loaded kodo beasts, goblin aeronauts, tauren hunters, Darkspear merchants, and other sundry people. The blazing sun raised quite a stink from the perpetually-rotting flesh of the Forsaken, and after wrinkling their nostrils many commuters preferred to drop back or step aside rather than continue in the midst of such an odour. Ahead appeared the walls and bone-studded gates of Orgrimmar, not yet sheathed in the iron of later years.
"We're going on to this Crossroads, aren't we?" Calwin had to pitch his voice above the hubbub which arose closer to the main road.
"Certainly. We'll hire wyverns inside the city—that's the place to find a cheap beastiary."
"Couldn't you open a portal?" inquired the soldier, feeling he was returning one of the darts that had been thrown his way earlier.
"Not in the least!" shouted the mage, cheerfully. "Even more expensive! Terribly arrogant! My old teachers would turn me into a mole if they knew I had even considered it!"
This effusiveness had the effect of blowing away the previous atmosphere, whatever it had been, and the two adventurers naturally drew a bit closer as they went on among the masses of local traffic. Calwin's emotions may well be imagined after he had crossed under the gigantic gate and stood looking for the first time upon the Valley of Strength, where the wind was howling among the upper cliffs and carried with it the resounding cries of a whole city engaged in commerce. Ernst had no patience for any touristic urges on the part of his companion, however, and chivied him along toward the wooden platform and tower near the valley's central expanse.
They were, of course, surrounded by orcs of every possible description. Calwin had never actually encountered an orc while alive, for he had lived far from any internment camp, save some heads on pikes that he had seen at Tyr's Hand as a child. Since the Forsaken's admission to the Horde he had become familiar with the occasional adventurer or group of merchants, and at the Bulwark witnessed the martial prowess of his people's newfound allies, but that was poor preparation for an entire metropolis built and inhabited mainly by the greenskinned species.
The taurens, jungle-trolls and goblins, more rarely spotted, simply did not have the same effect upon the psyche, for they had never composed the nightmares of boyhood or a bleeding rent through recent history. Even the trolls were merely relatives of those who had been said to pose some minor threat to the far east and south of Lordaeron, and appeared more curiosity than monstrosity. Calwin could not shake the impression that he had somehow tricked his way into the heart of foreign danger, and here beheld his ancestral foes in all their barbaric vitality and splendour. It was thrilling to him. Nor did the orcish citizens at all jostle the two Forsaken, despite their stench, but treated the undead visitors with a careful respect wholly separate from the popular attitude toward humans.
Gazing upon the numerous crowds, the proud and heavily-geared warriors, the crimson banners flying, and the profusion of red-walled structures climbing even to the stony heights where the razorwinds raged, the soldier compared them to the bubbly quiet of the Undercity and the miserable shuffling of Brill. As the pair turned uphill beside the spring, he thought to himself: if they do not turn on us, we have made an excellent alliance unprecedented in history. Calwin was more impressed than ever by the vision of his Dark Lady.
The present angle of that vision, if angle it was, would have to wait, however. So crowded was the wyvern tower that an unmoving line extended for some distance below the edge of its lower platform. The waiting customers were not inclined to give way merely due to the reek of the Forsaken, for the environs were inundated by a thick animal stench sometimes blown back by gusts of wind and more often mixed indescribably with the million contrasting odours of the adjoining markets. Calwin and Ernst were not prepared for delay: at home, those of the great duskbats not requisitioned for military purposes were very rarely hired for pleasure or ordinary business, so that it was generally easy to purchase a flight for those in possession of sufficient money and the required documents.
"Is this usual?" Calwin asked almost into his companion's ear-cavity, after they had waited a few minutes.
"How should I know?" Ernst peered at the upper tower with difficulty, given the tall figures pressing by within inches on all sides. "See any wyverns up there?"
"No."
The mage stared at the backs of the troll couple ahead a little longer, then swivelled back to address the soldier. "Bad time of day, perhaps. How is your orcish?"
"Very poor," said Calwin, surprised.
"Come along. We may as well do something useful."
They squeezed from the still-expanding line and, stepping on toes and dodging between swinging elbows and bobbing luggage, departed sideways up the slope. The larger thoroughfare ascending toward the head of the valley was joined by many little tributary avenues, and the adventurers turned up a narrow spiral of bare stone between small dwellings. The strong winds had raised heaps of sand and garbage in the corners. Near the top of the byway they stopped before a low hut which, like its neighbours, appeared to be composed of scarlet cloth, or some dyed leather, draped over a structure of long white bones. Ernst ducked into the doorway.
Almost at once, a cheerful voice erupted. "So you have come back! You said you never would."
At the sound of this deep, scratchy, androgynous voice speaking in his own language, Calwin was immediately more interested. He insinuated himself under the flap and beheld a small, dust-floored chamber half-shadowed and half-lit by the single aperture he stood blocking. The uneven illumination fell across little tables, stools and chests cluttered with the kind of alchemical apparatus that is typical of a mage's workbench, but which a warrior's eyes are inclined to slide over. There seemed to be no domestic arrangements visible. Standing in one corner was a short Forsaken woman dressed in a brown robe and hood. It was she who had spoken.
"I said I'd never come again if I could help it, and now I can't," said Ernst, in a more agreeable tone than he generally used with Calwin. "How is your business?"
"It's thriving. People here back away if you try to sell them a peacebloom, but poisons? Acids? Enchanted darts? Rat-traps? They're sure we make the best, even if it's something I bought down the street and drew some scratches on. Who's that with you?"
"This is Calwin Cleves," said Ernst.
"Pleased to meet you! I'm Priscilla." Closer, he saw that the grey skin clinging to her skull was so thin as to be transparent, and there were dark cracks around her lips. She shook hands with verve.
Calwin said that he was charmed, and asked, "You live in Orgrimmar?"
"All year round, excepting vacations. I like the bustle. Everyone's got a thousand opinions here, and they're never shy about expressing themselves."
"Your orcish must be excellent," said Calwin, remembering Ernst's question.
"I have made a study of the languages," said Priscilla, happily. "That's rather my specialty, in fact."
"It's also why we're here," Ernst interjected. "Priscilla's a gifted enchantress as well as a linguist. It's partly due to her work that our alliance with the Horde has become as important as it is."
"Hardly my work alone! I have collaborators, and it's all old spellcraft in theory."
"You're truly modest. But here, I see you have some in stock." Ernst picked up something from one of the tables and showed it Calwin: two small crystalline studs were joined to the double heads of a sharp spike about an inch in length. "Pound one of these into your skull and you'll be able to understand what the orcs and their friends are saying, and talk back to them as well."
The warrior was impressed to the point of mild distrust. "How extraordinary. How does it work?"
With a glance at Priscilla, the mage explained: "By imparting specific memories into your mind. Our enchantress has created a compendium of the languages used here, with all the grammar, all the colloquialisms and loan words in fashion, and imbued it into this crystal. You'll learn no more than that, and lose the knowledge if you remove the spike. There's no cause for fear: the memories aren't even apparent until you start listening to an orc."
Calwin was not particularly pleased at the idea of altering his own consciousness, as might be expected, and he was silent. The cause of his objection was also the reason for his susceptibility, however, for the undead existed in such a grotesquely esoteric state that the necessity of new esoteric adjustments was widely agreed upon. Furthermore, this unbalanced condition was conducive, in a word, to recklessness.
Ernst displayed the side of his own cranium. "See here? I've had one in for months and it hasn't done me harm. I didn't love the idea either, but there's no helping that."
"My experiments have had setbacks, it's true, but never very harmful ones," said Priscilla, more cautiously. "You may ask around, if you like: most of our people here are implanted, but not all, and some of those who are not are mages themselves and can tell you their opinions. I will say that the spell was devised long ago among the Kirin Tor, for the same purpose, and I have only modified it for our unique condition."
"Oh, all right then," said Calwin, after he had wrestled down both his principles and an unjustified but persistent distrust of his companion. "Smash away! I see it's in a good cause."
"Please sit down," said Priscilla, clearing the top of a stool with rapid motions.
As he handed her the stud and a little steel hammer, Ernst said, "Priscilla, do you know what the best time is to hire a wyvern here? The tower's jam-packed now, and I didn't see a single beast in flight."
"That depends," she replied, peering minutely along the curve of Calwin's temple. "Where are you going?"
"Crossroads, in theory."
The enchantress gave a thoughtful hum, but did not pause in holding up the stud. She placed the sharp tip against Calwin's grey flesh, gripping it between thumb and forefinger, and hefted the hammer. "If this becomes really unpleasant, stop me," she said to the soldier, then, to Ernst: "The trouble with wyverns is that they're in very high demand, I'm afraid. The flights are spread all over the continent now, but distant places like Desolace and Thousand Needles take priority because there are military outposts in hostile territory. A town like Crossroads probably doesn't see many wyverns except if there's an emergency, unless they're ridden by messengers stopping off. You might have to pay a great deal to fly there, as a result, or you might just wait a long time."
"That's no good. We're here about a sort of emergency."
Priscilla gave the spike a few experimental turns into Calwin's skin; closed one eye to adjudge the angle. "Do you have some document you could show to prove it?"
"Afraid not."
"Then my advice is to consider going overland. Crossroads isn't misnamed, so there are constant kodo caravans which stop there. I'm sure nobody would mind a couple more fighters tagging along." Raising her hammer, Priscilla delivered a short but precise blow.
Author's Note:
My interpretation of the zones in World of Warcraft has always been that they represent condensed versions of the geography of Azeroth, rather than being the literal extent of it (otherwise we would have to conclude that three pumpkin farms in Elwynn are feeding all of the towns there as well as the entire city of Stormwind, etc.). That said, I'm less interested in plausibility than in creating the sense of scale I think will be most atmospheric—if the world doesn't feel large, there's less excitement in a low-technology, low-magic adventure. Thus, I've tried to fudge the descriptions only so far as seems convenient to the particular scenes in question without really worrying about broader issues.
While I know that the Horde quest to kill Amnennar was in fact provided by Andrew Brownell, rather than Varimathras, the text seems to be almost the same as the Alliance version so I preferred to alter the circumstances for variety's sake.
The issue of language barriers was, as far as I know, never addressed in Warcraft lore and only existed in World of Warcraft insofar as it was technically useful to divide the factions during gameplay. It's easy to conclude that magic would provide a solution, so my inclusion of the question is again less a general theory than a bit of fun and tone-setting. My ideal Warcraft is one where small delays and difficulties such as translation add to the sense of distance and of wonder: the night elves aren't popping over to a Stormwind they understand as easily as Darnassus, they're on a long journey, and the Forsaken aren't without prejudice and difficulty in getting around Orgrimmar. I always felt a bit alienated by the growing multiplicity of technologies and powers in the setting, and thought Warcraft was at its weakest when everyone seemed to be teleporting around, saying hello to Dragon Aspects and so on.