FIVE

Garrosh gulped the night air gratefully. It was dry and warm even after nightfall, so unlike the cold, damp air of Northrend. But this was his home now, not the Borean Tundra, not Nagrand back in Draenor. This arid, inhospitable land, the city named for Orgrim Doomhammer, the land for Durotan, Thrall’s father. He reflected on that a moment, nostrils flaring with irritation. The only thing named after him was a tiny strip of shoreline constantly hammered at by false ghosts.

He came to a stop beneath the skull and armor of Mannoroth and felt his agitated spirit calm somewhat. He did feel a swell of pride at looking at what his father had done. It was good to have learned he could be proud of his heritage, but he wanted to make his own path, not ride along in the wake of his father’s deeds. Gorehowl, so newly his, was strapped to his back. He reached for it and held the weapon that had killed the great foe of his people, brown hands closing over the shaft.

“Your father was just what the Horde needed, when it needed it,” came a gravelly, deep, feminine voice behind him. Garrosh turned to see an elderly tauren. It took him a moment—her fur was dark, and in the night only the glitter of starlight on her intent eyes and the four stripes of white paint on her muzzle were immediately visible. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that she wore formal robes that marked her as a shaman.

“Thank you, um … ?” He waited for her to identify herself. She smiled.

“I am Elder Crone Magatha of the Grimtotem tribe,” she said.

Grimtotem. He had heard the name. “Interesting that you speak of what the Horde needs when yours is the only tauren tribe that has refused to officially join it.”

She chuckled softly, her rough voice oddly musical. “The Grimtotem does what it will, as it will. Perhaps we have not yet joined the Horde because we do not have sufficient reason to.”

Garrosh took umbrage. “What? This is not sufficient?” He stabbed a thick brown finger at the skull and armor of a pit lord. “Our war against the Burning Legion was not? The Warsong offensive was not enough to impress the mighty Grimtotem?”

She regarded him steadily, not in the least put out by his ranting. “No,” she said mildly. “It did not impress me. But the tales of what you did in Northrend … well, those are the deeds of a hero indeed. We Grimtotem watch. And wait. We know strength and cunning and honor when we see it. It could be that you, Garrosh Hellscream, like your father, are just what the Horde needs, when it needs it. And when the Horde figures this out as well, I think you may count on Grimtotem support.”

Garrosh wasn’t sure what she was getting at, but one thing was clear. She’d liked what she’d heard inside the keep. Which could mean that she approved of how he wanted to see things happen. That could be good. Maybe somebody could finally start getting something done around here.

“Thank you, Elder Crone. I appreciate your words now, and I hope that shortly I’ll be worthy of more than words of support.”

His mind was already awhirl with ways to bypass the pacifistic Thrall and the crotchety old Cairne and get the Horde what it needed. The trick was to do so without overstepping his bounds.

It was not a time to be cautious. It was a time to be bold. They would understand once he gave them results.

*   *   *

Cairne and his entourage were up and packed before dawn, despite the fact that the celebration had run well into the early hours and he, as a guest of honor, had been required to stay the entire time. He was anxious to return home. The troops he had sent to Northrend when Thrall had issued the call to arms were fierce fighters indeed, and had conducted themselves well. But they, too, were weary of bloodshed and endless nights and days of endurance. Once a nomadic people, the tauren now had a home, Mulgore, and it was dear to them. Today, finally, they began the last leg of the journey to its gentle, rolling hills, proud buttes, and the loved ones there they had left behind.

They had chosen to walk so they could keep the fellowship together for a little longer, but that was no hardship. As dawn was just breaking and other Horde fighters were either sleeping off the revelry or perhaps clutching their heads in payment for said revelry, the tauren were already out of Durotar and heading into the Barrens. Cairne sent ahead Perith Stormhoof to notify Baine that they would be arriving. Perith was one of a select few scouts and messengers called the Longwalkers. They were Cairne’s only to command, and were trusted with the most important of messages and information. Not even Thrall knew everything Cairne shared with the Longwalkers. This was hardly a mission of great import. Lives did not depend on it. But Perith’s eyes gleamed happily at this particular task, and he departed with his usual steady swiftness.

Late afternoon stretched its thick, golden light on the plains of Mulgore. Perith met them as they neared the turnoff for Camp Narache and Bloodhoof Village, falling into step beside Cairne as they moved slowly toward home.

“I have informed Baine, as you requested,” Perith said. “He assures you that all will be ready.”

“Good,” approved Cairne. “The shops in all the villages should be aware that several travelers will be descending upon them. I would see none of my people go hungry tonight.”

“I think you will find what Baine has in mind … acceptable.”

Curious, Cairne turned to regard Perith. At that moment there was a blast of horns. Several kodos were lumbering toward them. Cairne’s aging eyes could not discern who was atop the great beasts, but even his ears could hear the cheering of the little ones. They tumbled pell-mell off the kodos, shouting and laughing, throwing flowers and bundles of herbs at the approaching heroes.

“Welcome home, Father,” said Baine Bloodhoof. Cairne turned at the sound of the familiar voice, squinted, and smiled as he made out the shape of his son, riding easily atop one of the great kodos.

Tears stung the old bull’s eyes for a moment. This was how one should be welcomed home. With the happy cries of children and family, with the blessings of the natural world. Simpler, better … more tauren.

“Well done, my son,” Cairne said, keeping the emotion out of his voice with an effort. “Well done.”

Baine, calm and steady as his father, nonetheless radiated joy at Cairne’s arrival. He dropped easily to the ground and approached his father. They clasped arms warmly, then fell into step, separating out a bit from the cluster of others joyfully welcoming family.

“There are more,” Baine said, watching with a smile as several of the warriors took the road to the southwest. These lucky few had already reached their home. “The road home will be lined with those ready to welcome you.”

“A sight for sore eyes,” Cairne said. “Is all well with them?”

“It will be better once the veterans of the war are home,” Baine said. “How was the celebration in Orgrimmar?”

“It did what it was supposed to,” Cairne said. “It was very orcish. Much weaponry and feasting and shouting. Our people were not overlooked, though.”

Baine nodded. “Thrall would never do so.”

Cairne craned his neck over his shoulder, looking about for a moment, then continued in a lower voice. “He would not. He is too wise and too greathearted. I return home with a task that only we can perform to aid the Horde.”

He spoke quietly to Baine of Hamuul’s suggestion. Baine listened attentively, nodding at times, his ears twitching as he listened. “This is well,” he said. “I am a warrior myself, but I tell you, our people have had enough of it. If Hamuul thinks these talks can help, then I am with you, Father. I fully support it.”

Not for the first time, Cairne counted his blessings that the Earth Mother and his lifemate, Tamaala, had given him such a gift in his son. Although Tamaala had left to walk with the spirits many years ago, she lived on in their son. Baine was such a comfort to his father. He had his mother’s spirituality, perception, and great heart, and his father’s calmness and—Cairne was forced to admit—stubbornness. Cairne had not had to think twice about leaving Mulgore in his son’s capable hands. He wondered how Thrall bore it, with no mate and no progeny. Even Grom had had a son, for the Earth Mother’s sake. Perhaps now that the war had ended, Thrall might turn his thoughts to such things as a mate and an heir.

“How did our favorite shaman conduct herself in my absence?”

“Well enough,” Baine replied. They were speaking of Magatha. “I watched her closely. It would have been an opportune time to stir up trouble, but there was none.”

Cairne grunted. “There may be. Young Garrosh Hellscream is a hothead, and I saw her slip out to speak with him.”

“I have heard he is a magnificent warrior,” Baine said slowly, “but …” and here he grinned, “also a hothead.”

The two Bloodhoof grinned at each other. Cairne clapped his hand on Baine’s shoulder and squeezed hard. Baine swiftly covered his father’s hand with his own.

Just ahead, Thunder Bluff rose majestically into the late afternoon sky.

“Welcome home, Father. Welcome home.”