PROLOGUE
THE RIDE TO SAURFANG'S WARHOST was not an easy one; nay, Nazkura could not calm her restless mind. She had been unsure of this coming secret campaign, but having her two closest Fangwardens and comrades, Gro'kar and Drem'lok, alongide her put her a bit more at ease... though they all looked up to Saurfang. Why wasn't that enough to be confident?
Her fears were confirmed when the Warchief's messenger arrived and Saurfang lifted his ax, his voice booming over the soldiers: "Soldiers of the Horde, ready your blades! Today, we march on the Kaldorei!" As the warhost marched, Nazkura's heart ached, anxiety itched at her skin… she could not bring herself to believe in this campaign. She hung back from out of the way of the warhost as they began to march - trying to reconcile with herself.
Scarcely an hour had passed before Drem'lok closed some of the distance between him and Nazkura, announcing his presence with a grunt before speaking with a hushed tone. "You bear the look of one nervous about the fight ahead - I had seen it plenty of faces before, but not on yours since we fought Nahmentok's cultists. What troubles you, Warlord?"
Nazkura did not respond right away; her mind still distant and preoccupied. Gro'kar rode just as tightly as she began to speak her mind. "This aggression concerns me," she said, motioning to the warhost. "I've heard others speak on it; they can only be excited at the prospect of whatever resistance we'll face. But I had hoped the Horde's wars were over," she looked between her two warriors, hoping for justification or equal concerns.
Gro'kar was the first to speak, ever his personality. "I believe in Saurfang," he said, confidence and admiration dripping from his voice. "He won't lead us astray… his words to Garrosh in Northrend still echo among those who were among them. He would not let the Horde fall into the depravity he experienced in the First and Second War… not again."
Drem'lok kept quiet as he let Nazkura and Gro'kar voice their thoughts, a slow nod offered in response as he looked about the surrounding savannah. "The Horde was born into war, and for one reason or another, has never been without it. But this campaign..." He trailed off for a moment, looking back to the other two. "The Night Elves keep their army in Silithus, leaving their forests open. We have the chance to push them out of the war and ensure they are no longer a threat since they've been within spitting distance of Orgrimmar since Garrosh's reign."
The strategic logic was sound, Nazkura knew; perhaps there was merit in Drem'lok's words. Gro'kar's confidence in Saurfang renewed her vigor, somewhat, but still, she could not shake her uneasiness. "Let us hope that Saurfang's appointed lieutenants keep the reins tight; despite the tactical advantage to pressing against a weakened front so close to Orgrimmar, I... worry about what will happen if we unleash ourselves." She took in a long breath.
"Come," she said after another moment of silence. "Let us push with the other outriders and show these Hordelings how the Darkwolves ride wargs."
"Saurfang knows the horrors wrought by war - by the Horde. He will keep the younger warriors in line." Drem'lok grunted, offering what he likely hoped would be a reassuring nod before joining Nazkura and Gro'kar in pushing ahead
By the time Saurfang's Warhost arrived at Astranaar, it was burning. The buildings were naught, but blackened, charred ruins and corpses littered the ground. Nazkura had seen conquest before; she'd seen the results of a devastating siege. This battlefield was neither of those.
It was a slaughterhouse.
The Horde saboteurs had not distinguished from soldier or civilian; they had butchered their way through this outpost. They had run of these lanes with no commanding officer to stop them and no real opposition among the Kaldorei to keep them occupied; thus, their wanton lust for blood starved until everyone had been dying or fleeing.
The Darkwolves joined the rearguard as the warhost moved on, much to Drem'lok's displeasure. Nazkura, however, needed to take the carnage in and ensure both Drem'lok and Gro'kar took it in all the same. "What say you to this?" Nazkura asked her Fangwardens.
There was no response from either of them at first; they stayed atop their wargs: Gro'kar overlooked the carnage, giving death glares to nearby soldiers, though Drem'lok saved his glare for Nazkura - as if her question had more sting than she intended.
"Are you sure of our campaign now, Reaver-Captain? Of Saurfang?" Nazkura snarled out, her tone apoplectic, her crimson gaze blurring from anger, but she was just as unsure as before; doubt gripped her, and she saw uncertainty gripping Gro'kar. "We fought against this before - when Garrosh ruled. These crimes…" she said, looking down at one of the dead Elves, "... they're the same as before."
Gro'kar turned away - shame clear on his face. He shook his head, denying to himself the grief he felt, the disgrace that Gro'kar had felt before returning; Drem'lok looked just as uneasy, but he gave voice to his mind:
Drem'lok's glare remained upon Nazkura as she pointed out the crimes of the past, but rather than raise his voice to protest, he instead dismounted his warg and approached one of the fallen elves, his piercing gaze falling to their crumpled form. "I was in Ashenvale when the Night Elves first ambushed the Warsong Clan and witnessed firsthand the savagery of their warriors as they slaughtered countless of our number at the command of Cenarius."
Drem'lok turned back to Nazkura, that glare once again focusing on her as he spoke. "They spared us none of their wrath then, nor have they since. They do not deserve to be spared ours." He said, a low growl escaping him as he walked back over to his warg and climbed atop it. "We must go - the warhost will not hesitate to leave us behind."
Nazkura did not argue with Drem'lok - instead, she turned away from him as she ushered Eyota, her warg, towards the edge of the burning town. Every fiber of her being tore at her, her loyalty to the Horde shattered, she battled within herself.
"They suffered in the end," a raspy voice spoke, breaking her mile-long trance. She turned toward where the sound came from: a Forsaken, clad in leathers, and bearing the weeping mask of the Banshee Queen. The Forsaken drew a wicked dagger, curved and positively dripping with poison. She spun it casually in her hand. "As they all will, Warlord. As long as our Queen demands it."
A loud snarl came from her lips, gnashing of her teeth in warning to the Deathstalker. "Leave me be, corpse," she sneered as she pushed Eyota towards the path to follow the warhost. Drem'lok and Gro'kar kept their distance but followed just behind, yet the Deathstalker kept up with her.
"Your words are tantamount to treason," she spoke in a hushed tone. "You're emotional, I understand, but I would be wary of your words around… certain company." She returned Nazkura's glare, dim yellow eyes narrowing. "No one will hear anything past this point… but some might be watching you from here on out."
The threat was not lost on Nazkura, but she flicked her gaze forward. "And who might be watching me, corpse? My loyalty to the Horde is…" she trailed off for just a moment before giving a firm if feigned, nod, "... absolute." It was a struggle even to say the word - it had nearly stuck in her throat.
"Velariene Plaguefang," the Deathstalker responded. "But corpse will be fine if you'd like. But do take my warning seriously… otherwise, who might know what will happen to your people, hm?" Velariene let her words linger a moment in silence before kicked her horse forward - riding off.
The fighting was thick after they broke through the wisp barrier; Saurfang's warhost took meter by bloody meter away from the Kaldorei at the Darkshore. Nazkura and the Darkwolves finally found themselves on the frontlines despite their doubts or perhaps in spite of them. Each of them worked in conjunction with each other, near-perfect harmony of attack and defense as the three comrades fought together.
They went days without rest, drinking deeply into the Duskwitches' dark concoctions that let them stay fighting under such duress and allowed for an increased vigor in combat. None of them were timorous despite the horror they had seen at Astranaar, each of them put it in the back of their minds. Each of them believed in their self-control, now.
They had to.
The Darkwolves were assigned to a cohort of outriders to mop up scattered groups of Elves and Gilneans. Alongside them rode a coterie of dastardly, cruel warriors - including Velariene and several of her ill-born ilk of Deathstalkers. Each time they rode down fleeing warriors, Nazkura's stomach would turn - a disgusting knot roiling within her.
It wasn't until they found refugee camps that she had done something; that the genuinely twisted vision of this campaign was coming to fruition. As the Darkwolves fought against Gilnean footguard and Kaldorei sentinels desperately attempting to hold them back while civilians fled, the Coterie struck; they rode down men, women, and children innocent from this conflict.
Nazkura broke away from her brethren as she saw two riders hone in on a family of five. The two outriders raised their wicked swords high as they closed in, laughing fiendishly until the lead rider felt the air around him heat up. It was only a second after he looked in Nazkura's direction that he felt a burst of lava hit his chest, burning him and sending him off balance from his warg. He fell, his ribbing cracking as he hit the ground - still alive, but hurt.
The second rider, a Troll, wheeled his warg around and charged at Nazkura intent on doing to her what he intended for the Elves. As he drew closer, she slammed her feet on the ground and twisted them; the earth beneath the rider and his warg responded in kind, lifting them both off the soil suddenly, flinging them into the air. The warg slammed against a tree, its spine snapping and killing it while the Troll hit the ground, not too far away.
The warshaman returned her attention to the first rider, gripping her axes tightly. He had recovered, somewhat, from being thrown from his warg. He was still stunned - attempting to process what had happened and only barely managed to react to the first of Nazkura's furious assault on him. The Orc felt a heated fury in her axes, emblazoned with fire as she struck again and again. The first attack he managed to glance away, but the second and third attack hit secure spots on his armor. He reached for his shield in desperation, but soon found himself without a hand - and then a head. He fell to the ground, unable to withstand her assault.
Behind her, she heard a wild battle cry - she turned, seeing that the Troll rose far quicker than she had anticipated. With wicked sword and dagger in his hand, he shoulder-checked her and sent her backward, managing to find chinks in her armor. He cut through it, exploiting such weakness with his blade. She cried out in pain, roaring as she covered, earth covering her feet and ankles to provide a solid anchor. She bent down at her knees, letting her axes such the ground and sent it to the awaiting Troll, shocking him earthen magics.
He fell to the ground from such a force, and an ax was found in his belly soon after. He lay there, bleeding and crying in agony. It wasn't Nazkura's ax, however - it was Gro'kar's. Nazkura acknowledged and gave thanks to Gro'kar with a nod, to which he returned the same.
Soon after, Drem'lok burst through the treeline - he had been separated from the rest of the Darkwolves earlier in the fight by a group of Kaldorei Sentinels. He was without his wolf and had gained two arrows embedded in his flesh and a spattering of blood across his form, though the warrior paid little mind to his wounds as he beheld the sight before him. "Nazkura, wha-" He trailed off for a moment, flicking his gaze down toward the fallen Horde warriors, then to the bloodied weapons of those who had slain them.
"These were Horde soldiers! Have you both gone mad?" He shouted, grip tightening on his weapon as he approached the two other Darkwolves.
She stood staunch in her decision like a mountain withstanding a wave. "These two were riding down civilians, Drem," she said, all pretense of title wilting away. "And other outriders among us have done the same. We're killing refugees!" She said, spitting out some black blood. "I've had enough. Our dream of the Horde, Thrall's dream... it's gone. We," she pointed to herself then Drem'lok then Gro'kar, "... have been betrayed. This is the Horde's legacy we're creating, and it's all that it's ever been." She moved between the fallen, soldier and civilian alike.
She huffed, sheathing her axes on her hips. "I'm leaving the warhost. I can't be an accomplice his this... slaughter." She whistled sharply - Eyota coming up to her.
A huff was all that Drem'lok responded with initially, the mention of the slain soldiers riding down civilians drawing his attention down to their corpses for a short time as if weighing the claim against what he saw of them. Though as Nazkura stated her intention aloud, Drem'lok shot his gaze back to her. Silence followed for a short time, the sound of distant battle echoing in the forest around them.
That is until Drem'lok spoke. "It is no betrayal. You said it yourself - this is our legacy." He said, a heavy grunt following as he took a step closer to the Warshaman, then another. "If this is your path, know that you'll be hunted every step of the way - both of you." He gestured to Gro'kar, then back to Nazkura. "You've my silence, rest assured. But the Banshee Queen has agents everywhere."
Nazkura swung her leg over Eyota, mounting her and gripping the reins - Gro'kar did the same. The Fangwarden gave a nod towards Drem'lok before looking to Nazkura. "Come, before the Coterie finds us."
She gave a last look to Drem'lok, bowing her head in respect. "Lok'tar Ogar, Overlord. We shall see each other again - take care of the Darkwolves in my absence." She turned, the request clear - both Gro'kar and Nazkura riding off before the Coterie could find them.
Drem'lok offered a nod in return to both of the Darkwolves as they climbed atop their wolves, the warrior watching the forest beyond them intently in case the Coterie spotted them.
Still, as Nazkura addressed him, Drem'lok regarded her with a single, final nod. "Lok'tar Ogar, Darkwolves. Watch your backs." He said, a pained grunt escaping him as he reached up to snap the arrows piercing his flesh and return to the battle for Kalimdor.
An hour later, Gro'kar and Nazkura were racing through the thick forests of the Darkshore. They managed to find some Highborne ruins from yesteryear, allowing their mounts to drink from the waters there. As their mounts watered, Gro'kar spoke:
"We're being followed," he said confidently, looking back. "Velariene and her Coterie. They must know we've gone." He had his ax unsheathed already as if they were already on them. "I picked up the scent not ten minutes ago when the wind shifted.
Nazkura knelt at the water's edge, dipping her drinking skin into it. "Are you sure it's not Elves?"
Gro'kar shook his head. "Smells of death. Ichor. You can't smell Elves while they're in their forest." He moved toward the edge of the ruins, peering out into the forest.
"Do you think Drem'lok…?" She trailed off, capping her drinking skin.
"No. He wouldn't. He would never betray us."
Not like we did him, Nazkura thought. She dipped her axes into the water, cleaning off the gore that stained them - black and red blood both dissipating into the water. "Can we outride them?"
Gro'kar took a long moment to consider her words before nodding. "One of us can," he said, approaching Nazkura. He picked her up and put his Warlord onto Eyota. "I will stay behind and face them. Slow them down. You must disappear."
Nazkura's heart felt heavy as she was lifted onto her mount. "You can't - I won't let you stand alone."
He gave her a half-hearted laugh. "You'll allow me this death. I cannot live with this shame - I cannot make up for it. But you might be able to… You'll be able to avenge me and those who fought fruitlessly for our dream. Think of your daughter..." He turned back to Nazkura. "This is a good death, fighting for a loved one. Better than… better than fighting for the Horde."
"You were a good friend, Gro'kar," she said, fighting back tears as she gripped Eyota's reins. "I shall not forget you." She kicked Eyota's hind - whisking her away before Gro'kar could respond.
As she disappeared into the forest, Gro'kar turned in the other direction. He unstrapped his plate armor, baring himself to his oncoming attackers. He gripped a vial of viscous fluid, one of Mazawa's tinctures, and coated his ax with it. He then sat and reflected, channeling his ancestors before him.
The Coterie arrived a half-hour later; they had extra outriders with them. They stood ten meters in front of him, a dozen outriders all staring him down. Gro'kar glared at the smirking Velariene before looking at the rest of her compatriots and found one Warsong Orc he recognized.
"You," he said, pointing his ax at the Orc. "You were among the Warsong, once - you drank from the poison well… and joined Garrosh's Kor'kron after you were purged." Anger swelled within his stomach as he remembered this Orc's life among the Horde. His gaze flicked to Velariene. "I'll wipe that smirk off your face. Come then; let's see this done."
There were no other words - several warriors charged at him. Each was shouting their battle-cries, but Gro'kar did not yet have words. He met the first attacker's blade with his ax, glancing it off to the side before flicking the edge of his ax at the attacker's exposed neck. As he nicked the Troll's throat, he turned and side-stepped an oncoming spear - he brought his fist down on the head of it, breaking and spinning the spearhead, catching it. He made several sweeping steps backward, spearhead and ax in hand.
Three more came at him, and three more fell to his onslaught. One misstepped, and Gro'kar buried an ax into his side. The ax slipped from his fingers, but he unsheathed his knife and managed to parry the next blow, but felt cold steel in his back from the third attacker. He spun around, sending his dagger into the attacker's throat and throwing his broken spearhead at the remaining attacker - piercing his eye.
He breathed heavily, turning back towards the remaining Coterie and what enemies he had felled. Five lay on the ground, at least three of them dead. He spits up black blood, feeling it gush on his back. "I haven't got all day," he said, his vision blurring somewhat. "I'll be dying soon, and I intend to bring more of you with me." He found his ax, picking it up and finishing off the Warsong Orc he had felled.
The Coterie of Deathstalkers approached him from all angles - six of them in total with Velariene staying behind, bow in hand. They closed in like sharks, circling him, but when they struck, it was blazingly fast.
The first moved in from the front, sprinting forward and feigned an attack - which Gro'kar did not fall for; no, it was the second attacker that had the real attack - right behind him. He swiveled on his feet, bringing his ax down hard before those daggers reached for him, cleaving the Forsaken's skull in two.
Two more approached him from either side; he managed to swing his ax wildly to ward off one, but he felt a poisoned dagger slide between his ribs. He brought his elbow down hard on the attacker's wrist, snapping it, and then sent his fist into the attacker's jaw. He heard bones creak and crack, teeth flying out and hitting the stone ruins that surrounded them.
He was beginning to slow as he narrowly dodged another dagger aimed at his neck; it hit his face instead. He snarled out a curse as he threw the gripped the Forsaken's body, slamming it onto the ground and burying his ax into the newly made corpse.
As he rose, he felt several quick stabs into his back - one of the rogues managed to sneak up behind him. After the seventh or so stab, he reached back, finding purchase on the Forsaken's arm and threw him toward Velariene. He fell to his hands and knees, beginning to bleed out.
His vision was starting to fail - the blackness was taking him. He crawled forward, chest heaving as black blood fell from his mouth; he heard a confident, raspy voice above him. "She'll suffer in the end," Velariene said, her voice dripping with satisfaction; he could hear the smirk on her face.
As his vision clouded, his hands found a blade - the broken spearhead from before. He gripped it and, with one final gasp of life left, stood. He swiped upwards, roaring his defiance, and swept the spearhead across Velariene's face. She cried out in pain, her wicked dagger sweeping across Gro'kar's throat.
He fell onto his back, satisfied - dying moments later in a pool of his black blood. He was unsure how many fell to him, but he knew it was enough; in his final moment, he heard Velariene telling her remaining Coterie to fall back to the Horde camp, hours away from here.