9

She found Thrall involved in the sobering task of collecting the bodies of fallen warriors to place on funeral pyres. After carefully laying one body on the ground, Thrall stopped to brush his waist-length hair out of his face. As he flipped the hair behind his shoulder, a tangle snagged on his spiked shoulder plate. Fitfully he jerked his hair loose. Sync regarded him somewhat petulantly.

"Sit," she commanded.

"What?"

"Can't even wear armor decently. I swear. Sit." Sync pointed at the ground. "The ancestors may not speak to us anymore, but I know they still watch over us, and I know your parents are with them. Your mother would kill me if I let her son go around looking like a half-witted peon. Now sit."

"There is much work to be done," Thrall protested.

She pointed again. "I said sit."

Thrall sat down heavily.

"I helped deliver you when you were born, you know. I cleaned you up then - looks like I'll have to do it again now." Sync took a comb from a small bag tied to her belt. With her agile rogue's fingers, Sync parted Thrall's black hair down the middle and began undoing the mess.

"If I may ask, why did Hellscream dislike you mentioning Garadar?" Thrall asked.

"It was a careless thing for me to say." Sync yanked the comb relentlessly through a snarl. "Grom's son was one of the ones who got ill. He was left behind when Grom and the Warsong finally joined us on Azeroth. Then the portal was destroyed, and we had no way back."

"I see."

"The red pox can be a vicious disease. The boy's mother did not survive it." Sync's lips drew into a thin line. All six of her children were here with her, safe, but Grom was separated, perhaps forever, from his only child. "We do not know if his son still lives or not. Best not to say any more about it."

Perhaps more tightly than necessary, Sync wove Thrall's hair into two braids, binding each with a strip of cloth. She stood back and studied him critically in the moonlight. "That should help, since you do not have a helm."

"I was not allowed armor as a gladiator," Thrall said, gingerly examining the braids, "but I will learn."

She tucked the comb back into her bag. "And just what is it you plan to learn? How fast the humans can kill us? We are on a planet where we don't belong, where we have already killed thousands of humans. What do you think will happen, Thrall? That the humans will just let us free all the imprisoned orcs and walk away?"

"I believe when we destroy Durnholde Keep - the seat of power for these internment camps - the humans will realize our intentions and release the rest of the orcs to avoid more bloodshed. I do not believe the humans want more deaths any more than we do."

"You are dreaming, child. They will not let us go so easily."

"Do you wish to see your brothers and sisters suffer and die in these camps?"

Her golden-brown eyes narrowed, but she had no reply. Instead she took a kerchief from her bag, spit on it, and scrubbed the dirt off of the young warchief's face. She shook her head. "You look like a child who's been playing in the mud."

Thrall rubbed the spit off his face. "If we ignore this wrong that is happening right before our eyes - innocent children locked away, adults enslaved and beaten for sport - while we shut ourselves away in exile, then we are no better than we were on Draenor, when we allied with demons to kill the Draenei," Thrall said.

"I second that idea," a familiar voice spoke.

Sync did not turn her head. "Stay out of this, Grom. The boy must be able to speak for himself or he has no right to call himself warchief."

Grom came up behind Sync, draping his long arms around her shoulders and leaning down to rest his chin atop her head. "Is she causing trouble again?" he asked Thrall.

"If you were warchief, at least we'd go kill all the humans and be done with it," Sync said dourly. "I have watched this child since he joined us last winter. He sympathizes with humans. He seems to think they will just let us walk away and forget the past and everyone will live in peace."

"Then what is it you want?" Thrall asked. "To hide by ourselves in exile and hope the humans leave us alone?"

Sync grunted. "On Draenor, the ancestors guided us in what to do. They showed us what was right. I knew through them that being a rogue - even though some think rogues are worthless - was right. Marrying my husband - even though he was a Frostwolf - was right. Going through the portal… by then, the ancestors no longer spoke to us. It felt wrong. But without the ancestors to guide us, we didn't know. And how can we know what to do now? Without the ancestors, we don't know what's right anymore."

Thrall stood up. "Without their guidance, we must follow what we know in our hearts is right. In my heart I know it is wrong to stand by and watch children being beaten."

"Do you realize your parents would have beaten you to make sure you behaved?" she asked sharply.

Thrall's eyes lit up with a sudden understanding. "And it would have been from love, not from hatred. The same reason you just braided my hair."

She grunted again. "You've got a smart mouth for one so young."

"As warchief, I have decided we will destroy Durnholde Keep and put an end to these camps with as little bloodshed as possible. Are you with us, or not?"

Sync felt a sudden urge to hit Thrall, but every inch of his body within her reach was covered by Doomhammer's black plate armor. Instead she grabbed one of his braids and pulled as hard as she could. Thrall barely kept himself upright.

At that moment, a male in ragged armor came up to Thrall and saluted. "My lord. Drek'Thar is asking for you. The funeral pyres are almost ready."

Thrall nodded. "Tell him I am on my way."

The orc saluted again and left. Thrall looked at Grom. He opened his mouth as if to speak but then closed it again.

Grom raised his chin off of Sync's head. "We lost a lot of good warriors, along with Doomhammer. Now we must bid them farewell. Not a pleasant task, is it? But I will be there with you."

"Thank you," Thrall said softly.

"You coming, too, Sync?"

"Of course I am. I would not turn my back on our fine, brave warriors."

As they started forward, a small boy limped up to them. Like all the children rescued from the internment camps, he was filthy, haggard, and threadbare. A stained bandage bound one bare foot. "Have you seen my father?"

Grom paused, stooping to the boy's level. "What does he look like?"

"He's wearing a red shirt," the boy said. "He's got a big bandage on his arm."

"I will help you find him." Straightening up, Grom took the boy's hand. He glanced at Thrall. "You go on, I will catch up in a minute."

As Grom walked away with the boy, Thrall turned to the rogue beside him. "I should thank you for providing enough food for everyone. I heard you supervised the young ones in cooking while we freed the camp."

"We have plenty of warriors now. We no longer need the young ones to fight." She shook her head. "But you will not deter me, warchief. I will come with you, as will my husband and my children if they so choose. But remember. Every story you ever heard about Grom Hellscream is true. He is strong and wild and fearless. There is no one braver. I do not know why he holds such faith in you, but he does. And I promise you this. If you disappoint Grom, I will tear you limb from limb."

"If I disappoint him, I will tear myself limb from limb," the young warchief assured her. But even in the darkness, his blue eyes showed a trace of doubt.

"Good," she said. "Then at least we agree on one thing."

"Maybe one thing is enough." Thrall extended one gauntleted hand toward her but stopped short of touching her.

After a moment Sync gave a quick nod and let Thrall's hand rest on her shoulder. "If it's strong enough, it is."

end