Chapter Four: Mo(u)rning News

"How are you feeling, Wulf?"

Raynar had never been a smart one, but I gave the boy a weak, patient smile.

"I feel, like I've been kicked in the head, perforated with a pitchfork, and set on fire."

Raynar gave me a look that told me my sarcasm had flown straight over his head. I shook my head and lay back in the straw that filled the wagon I'd been laying it for days. My weapons and armor were gone, and it felt strange to wear plain peasant's clothes. Cuthbert had assured me that all my gear was safe, and was being repaired as best as it could be by a smith traveling with the caravan.

"I'm fine boy, I'm fine. You don't look too banged up."

The boy smiled, though the expression looked hollow. I call him boy, but in truth, he was only a couple of years younger than me. It was his recent recruitment into Aelfric's household troop that had earned him the moniker.

"A few bruises, here and there. Took a sword blow to my calf." He indicated the linen wrapping around his left leg. "Nothing too bad though."

"So we made it after all. By the Light, I thought we were doomed back there." Back there was long gone, and by now, we were well clear of what was once the Kingdom of Lordaeron. I took stock of our surroundings.

Boulders and rolling green hills, under a dreary gray sky. The Arathi Highlands. I had been out for a long time indeed. But we were away from Lordaeron, and much safer for it. Though nowhere would be truly safe until we reached Stormwind, which was still quite a ways south.

"So, where's Beornoth?" I said, suddenly brightened by the prospect of reaching safety.

Raynar fidgeted, and looked away from me, looking at something far off in the distance.

"Beornoth's dead, Wulf."

I frowned, sitting up against the back of the wagon. "What do you mean, dead? What killed him?"

"You mean, you really don't remember?" He asked me.

"No, I don't know. I was submerged in the madness boy. Tell me."

After a moment's hesitation, Raynar told me the tale of what had happened after I had taken the mushroom. I listened eagerly, trying to piece together to the events from what the boy was telling me, and what fragments I could recall. I had little success.

The story stretched on for a couple hours, mostly because the boy was exaggerating his feats of strength, as a warrior always does. And when he was finished, I stared at him for a long time. I couldn't make up my mind as to whether or not I believed him.

"So that's it?"

"Wulf?"

"Well, I mean, we killed the beast and then we made a run for it? That's it? Seems a little too easy, boy."

Raynar squirmed under my gaze. He was hiding something. I have heard many men tell tales around a campfire, or in a crowded inn, and there is one consistent element in every story. When in a dire situation, nothing is ever described as easy. Sure, exaggerations are bound to happen, especially when a man speaks of himself, but that was exactly it. There was no exaggeration. No epic fight to breach the final line, no heroic duels, nothing. Apparently, we just strolled out, without a care.

"Where's Aelfric?" Now I was suspicious. Aelfric was a good man, and a better lord. He would have been the first to see me when I opened my eyes. And for that matter, I hadn't seen many Housecarls around.

"Wulf...take it easy. You're in no condition to get worked up."

"Oh shut the bloody hell up boy, and answer the damned question!" I snarled.

Looking back at that fateful day, I regret getting so mad with Raynar. I did not envy his position, or his job of breaking the news of Aelfric's death to me. But, hindsight is an orc with bowel problems, as my father used to say.

"Aelfric is…dead." It took the boy all his willpower to say the words.

I just stared. To me, Aelfric had been invincible, a god of battle. To know that he had been killed was a huge blow, and as painful as watching my family and kingdom die. To make matters worse, I had not been there to fulfill my duty as his retainer. He had died, and I had not been there to protect him.

"Where was I?" I finally managed to say, and I am not ashamed to admit that my voice had grown feeble.

Raynar didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the floor of the wagon.

"Where was I!" I growled, slamming my fist on the wooden planks beneath me. The boy jumped, startled, and started stammering. After a moment, I shook my head, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Listen, Raynar. I apologize for my anger, I just wish to know why I am here, and Aelfric isn't. What happened?"

And so, with a deep breath, and guilt-tinged words, Raynar filled in the ending of the story. I listened, not wanting to hear the truth, but knowing as a good servant must, that I needed to hear of Aelfric's fate.

When he was finished, I was unable to speak. I was angry, I was saddened, I was frustrated. Some of that anger was directed at Aelfric himself, for ordering me to consume the rage-mushroom. Had I been clear of mind, perhaps I would have been there at the end. I knew, logically, that there had been no other way. But logic and emotions are two very different things.

"And…he released us from our oaths?"

"Yes."

At least I didn't feel like a coward or traitor, with that knowledge. That was something else I was trying to wrap my head around. I was a free man, beholden to no one. There were no more oaths to fulfill, nothing. My life was my own once more. It felt, strange. I felt, lost. Most of my life had been spent in the servitude of someone. As a soldier during the second war, and later, under the command of Aelfric as his Housecarl. To be free…

These days, I am used to such freedom. I have spent much of my time searching for a new lord worth serving. Clearly, I have had poor luck in that endeavor. And so, I am used to doing what I wish, when I wish it, with no obligations or orders other than my own. Back then, that kind of freedom was incomprehensible to me. Granted, I was never a slave of any kind. It was willing servitude, a position in life that had brought me great pride and honor.

"What will I do now?"

"What?"

I had mentioned that thought out loud, without meaning to. I looked at Raynar, confused.

"I suppose we go our separate ways if we make it out of here alive. Maybe I'll put my axe down when all this ends. Find a wife, buy a farm, raise a family. What about you, Wulf?"

It took my a while to answer him. Truthfully, I didn't know the answer. Part of me longed for his dream of settling down and leaving war behind. My romantic view of war had died long ago on the fields of real battle, along with many orcs and good men. But what else was there. Azeroth is not a world of peace, and so peaceful lives are often short and cruel.

"Probably search for a new lord. Or take my axe back to the military, and take revenge for Aelfric."

"You don't want to settle down? Start a new life?"

"And what, Raynar? I do not know how to farm. This—" I grabbed his axe, which had been laying against the side of the wagon, and brandished it. "—Is all I know. I've been killing since before I had hair on my chest." That was somewhat true, actually.

"You can learn, you know."

I waved my hand dismissively. "I don't want any of it, boy. The plow isn't meant for me, at least not now. Maybe some day, far in the future. But not now. I will find a new lord, or take payment for the wrongs done to me, and Lordaeron."

Later that day, my war gear was returned to me. Most all of it was well-repaired, given the lack of proper supplies or a smithy. I emptied my coin purse and sent a boy to find the smith, and pay him his due. Later on, the smith turned up at my wagon. He dropped the coin purse in front of me.

"I can't accept this." He told me. The smith was a grizzled man, his hair graying, and lines beginning to creep their face across his dark skin.

"You repaired my weapons and armor, did you not?" I asked, a frown creasing my face.

The smith nodded, and glanced at the pile of mail and weaponry. "I did lord."

"I am no lord, just a warrior. Wulf, please."

"I did, Wulf."

I smiled, and gestured to the coin purse. "Then the coin is yours."

Once more, the smith shook his head, and raised his hands. "No, you've already paid. I can't accept this."

Puzzled, I leaned forward and grabbed the purse. It seemed heavier than when I had first sent it to the smith. "What do you mean?"

"Lord—Wulf, what you and your comrades did back…there." He meant the battle we had narrowly escaped from days ago. "That…was more than payment enough. My wife and children have a chance to live because of the blood you and your men shed for us. Otherwise we'd all be dead." I could sense the man was close to tears. I am not comfortable when tears are shed. So I sent the man away with my thanks, and the few coins I could convince him to take.

Before he left, he picked up my shield, and showed it to me. "I'm sorry I couldn't repair this for you. I didn't have the tools to shape new planks, or the leather hide to cover it. When we reach our destination, I can get what I need to re—"

I raised a hand to cut him off. I smiled, my expression, as always lopsided. I took an orc axe to the face a long time ago, and since, I've lost a lot of feeling or control of the left side of my face, as well as a nice scar to go along with it.

"No need, friend. I'll look after it myself. You've done more than enough."

The smith nodded, and turned to go, when an idea hit me. "Smith, wait a moment."

He turned, and regarded me with a curious look on his face. I raised my shield. "Do you have any black paint, or ink by chance?"

Confused, the smith looked around him, chewing his bottom lip in thought. "There is a woman here in the caravan who can make black dye. What for?"

I just smiled, and paid the man a handful of coins, enough for himself and to acquire the necessary amount of dye.

The next morning, the smith returned, the honest man that he was. He gave me a bowl of black die, some large leaves to use as brushes, and a sharp rock should I need to write. I thanked the man, sent him off, and found my shield. After several hours, I finished. The crest of Lordaeron, which had once been blue, was now black. Several names were written against the white background, names of those who meant much to me, who were now dead. I made an oath to myself as I finished my work.

I would never change the color of the crest until Lordaeron rose to glory once more. And though these days, I know that will never happen—Certainly not in my lifetime, if ever—I have continued to uphold that oath. To this day, worn though the black dye is, the crest remains black.

I have also never repaired the shield. I keep it as a reminder to everything I've lost, and everything I still fight for.