TWENTY-TWO

Magatha watched from a distance, her calm visage betraying nothing of her increasing excitement. The two warriors were well-matched, though very different in all aspects. Cairne had strength, wisdom, patience, and experience; Garrosh had energy, the fire of youth, and speed. The simmering cauldron of conflict between the old and the new had reached a boiling point tonight. Only one would walk away, and the victor would dictate the future of the Horde. All present knew that they were bearing witness to history, and Magatha observed as emotions ran the gamut from horror and shock to enthusiasm and delight.

It was a fierce battle, closer than anyone had expected.

Anyone, of course, except Magatha.

She had been waiting for the opportunity for years, and like a leaf that had slowly and unexpectedly drifted down from the tree into her lap, it had finally come. Her spies in Orgrimmar had been able to reach her in time for her to travel from Thunder Bluff to the arena, and it had been ease itself to offer her services as shaman for the ritual blessing of the weapon.

Earlier, when Garrosh and several of the Kor’kron were in a private area below the main seating level, she had requested and been given permission to see him. “I told you once before, Garrosh Hellscream, that I suspected you were just what the Horde needed when it needed it. And that if the time was right, I would give you my support and that of the Grimtotem tribe. Let me bless your weapon in preparation for its trials today.”

Garrosh had eyed her. “You would turn against Cairne? A fellow tauren?”

Magatha had shrugged. “I want to do what is best for my people. I believe that is following you, Garrosh Hellscream.”

He nodded. “That makes sense, and marks you as a wise leader of your tribe. The future lies with me, not with an old bull, hero though he might have been once.” His brows had knotted for a moment. “I … do respect him. I would rather not be the instrument of his death, but he was the one who called for the challenge, and he has insulted my honor.”

“Indeed he has,” said Magatha. “That blow that staggered you so … Everyone is speaking of it. Shameful. It cannot stand unavenged.”

Garrosh had growled softly, and his face, where it was not tattooed black, flushed with anger and embarrassment. Magatha kept her expression neutral, but inwardly she smiled. This was almost too easy.

“So, will you accept my blessing of your blade and the support of my Grimtotem?”

He eyed her up and down for a moment, then nodded. “Let all who see know of your decision, then, Elder Crone. You may bless my blade before the fight begins.”

Shortly afterward, in full view of the crowd, he had offered up Gorehowl. Magatha could barely suppress her excitement as she intoned the ritual blessing, removed the stopper from the vial that had been prepared for her scant minutes earlier, and dropped three drops of oil on the blade. Tradition demanded that she use her hands to apply the oil. She did not. Garrosh did not know the difference.

Nor did he know how he was being used by her. Which was good—the orc would have slain her on the spot had he known what she had planned. Had he known his oh-so-precious Gorehowl was slicked with poison.

Yes, she mused as she watched Cairne suddenly stumble and blink a few seconds after Gorehowl shattered the ancient runespear into bits and sliced into the tauren’s chest and arm. Almost too easy. But so much else I have striven for has been too hard. It is the balance.

Garrosh seized the opportunity. Gorehowl shrieked as the orc whirled it over his head before bringing it down for the final blow. The blade bit deep at the juncture between head and shoulder, cutting through muscle and flesh. Blood spurted from the severed artery, and the mighty Cairne Bloodhoof’s legs buckled, then collapsed. He was dead by the time his torso struck the floor. Thunderous applause mixed with gasps and sobs filled the arena.

Thus ends one era. With his death, a new one is birthed.

Cairne’s loyal followers rushed into the ring, grieving. They lifted the body of their fallen leader. Magatha knew what everyone expected would happen now. They would ritually bathe it, washing away the dirt and blood and sweat and oil, then prepare it for cremation by wrapping it in a ceremonial blanket. There would be a long, mournful walk back to Thunder Bluff from Orgrimmar, so that all could pay their respects before the body was burned, the ashes offered to the winds and rivers, to become one with the Earth Mother and Sky Father.

And those expectations, however false they would prove to be, would give her the opportunity for which she had hungered so long.

She turned to one of her apprentices and whispered in Taur-ahe, “Now. Send the word now. Cairne has finally fallen. Tonight the reign of the Grimtotem begins.”

The moon was full over Thunder Bluff, the night clear and cloudless. The tauren were mostly diurnal, and while some activity of some sort was going on at all times, day or night, at this hour of the early morning it was mostly still. The wind wafted the smoke of a few fires upward to the star-filled skies. In their tents, the tauren drowsed.

The Grimtotem moved, shadowlike and stealthy, black blots of ink against the moon-silvered night. Some of them arrived in Thunder Bluff on wyvern back, the beasts’ wings almost as silent as the still night air. Some of them walked, avoiding the lifts and instead climbing the sheer bluff with deadly intent and a grace that belied their bulk. They had been in position for years awaiting this call and had leaped into action within seconds of their notification.

They all carried weapons—garrotes, knives, swords, axes, bows. No guns, nothing that would make noise. Sound meant discovery; discovery meant resistance; and that was not what their matriarch wanted. Their mission was to kill in silence and move to the next victim.

They kept to the shadows, taking their time, moving behind the tents of the first, lowest level of the mesa until they were all in position. Soft hooting sounds then gently punctuated the night; sounds that, even if they were heard, would be disregarded. And then, coordinated, they struck.

Swiftly the Grimtotem assassins moved into the tents. Some targets were known to them—those who were experts in weapons, or were particularly powerful druids or shaman. What good was the power of the bear when one never awoke in time to transform? What did it aid one to be lethal with a sword when one’s chest was already pierced by it? How easily throats were slit when no resistance was offered.

They moved into the center by the small pool, checking their numbers, giving hand signals. They split into two groups. One darted off to Spirit Rise, the other to Hunter Rise. Elder Rise they ignored. That was where Magatha had made her home until this night of nights, and she had left behind loyal subjects who had doubtless already executed every one of the hapless druids unlucky enough to have been present. The old boards of the bridges creaked slightly under the attackers’ weight as they crossed, but these bridges creaked even in the wind, and they had no worries of discovery.

Straight to their victims they ran, leaping atop the shaman who awakened only long enough to gasp and then die. Skychasers they were, a family—dead, down to the last one. There was no need to worry about the Forsaken in the Pools of Vision just below the main level of Spirit Rise. Most of them tacitly supported Magatha, and those who did not had no particular attachment to the tauren or who led them.

On to Hunter Rise.

These were more physically brutal battles. Quick to awaken and extremely strong and fit, the hunters put up a good fight. But they were no match for the Grimtotem, who had the element of surprise on their side, or, eventually, the poison on their blades. Soon enough, the rise was silent, and the assassins moved back to the heart of Thunder Bluff.

Those who posed the greatest threats to Elder Crone Magatha had been slain. It was now time to kill without specific need, to strike fear into the hearts of what tauren still remained. They needed to know that the rule of the Grimtotem would have no margin for error and no place for the gentler notions of forgiveness or compassion.

Thunder Bluff, like a child, would be rebirthed in blood.

“Wait,” said a Grimtotem shaman, holding up a hand. Although his given name was Jevan, others had taken to calling him Stormsong due to his affinity with the elements of air and water. While he led the party that had surrounded Bloodhoof Village, he had told those under his command that he would not utilize his formidable powers until the last moment. Now his second-in-command, Tarakor, was awaiting the signal to attack.

“Wait?” replied Tarakor, confused. “We have been given our orders, Stormsong. We attack!”

The shaman sniffed the air, his black ears twitching. “Something is not right. It is possible they have been alerted to our presence.”

Tarakor snorted. “Unlikely. We have trained for years for this night.”

Stormsong eyed him. “If we have our spies and ways of delivering messages, you may rest assured that Cairne did, too.”

The mission to Thunder Bluff had been extensive—to slaughter everyone who posed a threat to the matriarch. It was a long list, and many who embarked on that mission would not complete it. But there was only one goal here in Bloodhoof Village—only one who needed to die. But that one must die, or else the entire blood-soaked night would have been for nothing.

Baine Bloodhoof, Cairne Bloodhoof’s son and only heir, lived here, not with his father on Thunder Bluff.

The tauren now sleeping securely in their tents, or even on the earth underneath the moons’ light, were in peaceful ignorance of the fact that that their beloved chieftain had joined the ancestors. The Longwalkers who had witnessed the fight in Orgrimmar and planned to report to Baine had all been quickly, quietly dispatched ere they could do so. Magi and others who could get word to Thunder Bluff swiftly had been silently followed, watched carefully—or otherwise taken care of. The roads had been blocked. Magatha had planned well and left absolutely nothing to chance.

The village had been the first tauren settlement to be established on an open plain rather than on a protected mesa. It was evidence of how the tauren had become secure in a land that had once been so new to them.

It was indeed secure, from predators and attacks from other races.

It was not secure from the Grimtotem.

“If anyone was alerted as to Cairne’s untimely death in the arena, surely it would be his son,” said Stormsong. “A single messenger might have escaped our net. I will go ahead, quietly, and scout out the area to make sure we are not walking into a trap. If it is not safe, we will need to adjust our tactics. Do nothing until you hear from me, do you understand?”

Stormsong was of an age with Cairne, and like that late bull was still strong and sharp despite the gray starting to dot his black pelt. Tarakor shifted uneasily. He was younger, and hot-blooded, and had been dreaming of this night for a long, long time. He did not want to wait another minute, but finally he nodded.

“You are the leader of the mission, Stormsong,” he said in a voice that clearly revealed his wish that it were otherwise. “I will obey. But make haste, eh? My blade is thirsty for Baine’s blood.”

“As is mine, friend, but I’d like to not shed my own if I can help it,” Stormsong said. The group of two dozen who had been assembled for tonight’s task chuckled quietly. “I will be back as soon as I can.”

Tarakor watched him go, moving quietly, his black hide swallowed by the shadows.

He waited.

And waited. And waited, shifting uneasily from one hoof to the next, his ears twitching with ever-increasing anxiety. Beside him his warriors also fidgeted impatiently. They were all hungry for battle, and this sudden imposed pause did not sit well with any of them. Tarakor did not know how long he stood, eyes straining to see in the dark, when finally something inside him snapped.

“He should have been back before now,” Tarakor growled. “Something has gone wrong. We can wait no longer. Grimtotem, attack! For the elder crone!”

Something had woken Baine Bloodhoof. He lay restless in his sleeping furs, an odd chill racing along his spine. A dream had come to him, one he could not recall, but that had unsettled him greatly. And so when he heard voices outside, he rose, threw on some clothing, and stepped out to find out what the problem was.

Two of the braves held another tauren between them. Even in the dim moonlight Baine recognized him.

“I know you,” he said. “You are one of Magatha’s people. What are you doing here this time of night?”

The other tauren was elderly, but there was nothing frail about him. He made no effort to resist the firm grip the braves had on him. Instead, he gave Baine a compassionate yet concerned look.

“I come to warn you, Baine Bloodhoof. Your father is dead, and you are to be next. You must leave, quickly and quietly.”

Pain shot through Baine, but he tamped it down. This was a Grimtotem. This had to be a trick.

“You lie,” he rumbled. “And I do not take kindly to jests about my father’s well-being. Tell me why you are really here, and perhaps I will overlook your poor taste in jokes.”

“No lie, Chieftain,” the Grimtotem insisted. “He fell in the arena against Garrosh Hellscream, whom he challenged in the mak’gora.”

“Now I know you lie. Thrall has forbidden such things. The mak’gora is no longer a duel to the death.”

“What was old is new again,” said Stormsong. “Cairne made the challenge, and Garrosh agreed—providing they fought under the old rules. It was indeed to the death.”

Baine froze. It was all indeed possible, from what he knew, both of his father and of Garrosh. He knew that his father had not approved of Thrall’s appointment of Garrosh—nor, truth be told, had Baine. He knew that both Hamuul Runetotem and Cairne thought it likely that Garrosh was behind the attacks on the Sentinels in Ashenvale. It was entirely like Cairne to have challenged Garrosh if he felt that the orc was a true danger to the well-being of the Horde. And entirely like Cairne to not back down if Garrosh decided to change the rules.

“My father would have won such a battle,” he said, his voice shaking slightly.

“He might well have,” the shaman agreed, “had not Magatha poisoned Garrosh’s weapon. She used her position as shaman to bless Gorehowl and coated its blade with poisoned oil. A single strike was all that was needed.” He said the words bitterly, angrily. “My pack—open it. There is sad proof within.”

Baine nodded at one of the braves. The tauren opened the pack they had taken from the Grimtotem, and his eyes widened. Baine felt a deep chill within. Slowly, the brave reached inside—and produced a small fragment of what looked to be little more than a broken stick.

Baine extended a hand, and the brave placed the splinter of the legendary runespear in Baine Bloodhoof’s palm. Trembling, he closed his fingers about it, feeling the runes, known and familiar, against his skin. He staggered. His powerful yet gentle father—whom he had envisioned either passing gloriously in battle or peacefully in his sleep—murdered by treachery …

Anger began to swell inside him as the Grimtotem continued. “Two dozen Grimtotem warriors are waiting just beyond the firelight to attack. I was to lead the mission myself. Instead, I come to warn you. Your father was a great tauren, even if I disagreed with some of his decisions. He did not deserve such a death, nor do you. Long have I served the matriarch, but this time …” He shook his head. “This time she has gone too far. She has disgraced what it means to be a shaman. I will not participate in her plans any longer.”

Baine closed the distance between him and the Grimtotem in two strides and jerked the other tauren’s head up by his beard. The Grimtotem grunted slightly but met Baine’s gaze evenly.

The strange dream … the sense of unease …

A great pain filled Baine’s chest, lancing his heart, and he could hardly breathe. “Father,” he whispered, and even as he said the word, he realized that the Grimtotem defector had spoken the truth. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them back. There would be time to properly mourn his father later. If what the defector said was true—

“What is your name?”

“I am known as Stormsong, Chieftain.”

Chieftain. He supposed he was chieftain of the Bloodhoof now. … “I will stand and fight,” Baine declared. “I will not run from danger. I will not abandon the people of the village that bears my family’s name.”

“You are outnumbered,” said Stormsong, “and yours is more than simply another life to be thrown away in battle. You are the last Bloodhoof, and, too, you would be the obvious choice to lead your people as well as your tribe. You have a responsibility to the tauren to stay safe and reclaim what has been stolen from you. Do you think Bloodhoof Village is the only tauren settlement under attack tonight?”

Baine’s eyes widened in growing horror as Stormsong continued. “Even now, slaughter goes on in Thunder Bluff! Magatha will rule the tauren by the time the sun peeks its head over the horizon to regard the bloody aftermath of this shameful night. You must survive. You do not have the luxury of dying to avenge your father! Come, please!”

Baine snorted angrily, gripping Stormsong by the front of his leather vest, then releasing him. The shaman was right.

“This could be a trick, a trap!” one of the braves said. “He could be leading you into an ambush!”

Baine shook his head sadly. “No,” he said. “No trick. I can feel it. The shaman speaks the truth.” He opened his hand, which he had clenched hard around the runespear fragment, and regarded it for a moment before tenderly placing it in a pouch. “My father is slain, and I must survive tonight if I am to take care of our people as he would have wanted me to. Stormsong Grimtotem, you risk much, coming to warn me. And so I risk much in trusting you. Know that if you betray me, you will die within seconds.”

“Well do I know that,” Stormsong agreed. “I am one and you are many. Now … the Grimtotem are on three sides, but I think I know a way to scatter them. Follow me.”

The Grimtotem charged the village. They were met not by sleeping, unaware tauren, but by warriors in training, fully armed and ready for them. Tarakor was not altogether surprised; he had assumed that Stormsong had been captured and Baine had been alerted to the attack. Still, they were Grimtotem, and they would fight to their deaths.

Many fell beneath Tarakor’s axe, but there was one he did not see—Baine Bloodhoof. Every Grimtotem present knew that killing Baine was the sole objective, and as the moments ticked by and Baine did not appear, Tarakor began to panic.

There was only one explanation.

“Grimtotem!” he cried, brandishing his axe over the body of a druid he had sliced almost in two as she attempted to transform into cat form. “We are betrayed! Baine has escaped! Find him! Find him!”

Now the battling villagers were not a target, but a nuisance, as the Grimtotem tried to move past the boundaries of Bloodhoof Village. And then suddenly the earth began to shake. Tarakor whirled, axe at the ready, and stared for a split second in horror.

Nearly a dozen kodos were charging directly at him and his men. Some of them were being ridden by Bloodhoof villagers, but others only had saddles and harnesses. Some, not even broken for riding yet, did not have that much. They bellowed, eyes rolling, frightened out of their wits, and gave no indication that they were even considering slowing down.

There was only one option. “Run!” cried Tarakor.

They did. The kodos followed, seeming to pick up speed, and the Grimtotem literally ran for their lives. Up ahead was Stonebull Lake, and potential safety. Tarakor did not slow as he plunged into the cold water, sinking beneath the weight of his armor. The kodos followed, but their stampede slowed as they hit the water. Tarakor swam as strongly as he could, struggling to the surface, his armor, donned to protect him, threatening to drag him down. The kodos were straggling back to the land now, still snorting, shaking water off their coats. The Grimtotem treaded water as Tarakor counted heads. Some had not emerged from the depths of the lake, and some had not even made it that far this night. They would be grieved later. For now the ones who had survived struck out to the far side of the lake.

It was slow going. They emerged, drenched and shivering and disheartened.

They had failed. Baine had escaped. Stormsong had betrayed them. Tarakor was not looking forward to telling Magatha the news.

Baine watched the stampede, nodding to himself. It had been a good plan, to agitate the herd, and it had bought them the opportunity to escape. While generally placid even in the wild, agitated, frightened kodos were a force that could not be stopped. The kodos were driving the enemy westward, trapping them against the mountains. They had nowhere to go. Some would be killed, but others would escape and come after them; it was a delay, but even a brief delay would help Baine and his followers.

“Camp Taurajo has not fallen to the Grimtotem, has it, Stormsong?”

The Grimtotem shook his head. “No. Our main targets were Thunder Bluff, Bloodhoof Village, Sun Rock Retreat, and Camp Mojache.”

“Then we head for Camp Taurajo and hope it has not become a secondary target. We can arrange transportation from there.”

“Transportation where?” Stormsong asked.

Baine’s eyes were hard as he urged the kodo he rode to greater speed. His heart was full with the missing of his father and the anger he bore toward the Grimtotem for the bloodshed this night.

“I do not know,” he said honestly. “But I know this. My father will be avenged, and I will not rest until the Grimtotem have been revealed for the traitors they are. My father permitted them to live with us, though they refused to join the Horde. Now I will expel them from every aspect of tauren society. This, I vow.”

Baine had not traveled much outside of Mulgore in the last few years, and he had forgotten just how open and exposed the aptly named Barrens were. Jorn Skyseer greeted them and brought them into the camp, making sure the orc guards were not alerted. Baine did not know yet whom he could trust. They gathered together in the back of one of the great lodges: Baine; the four braves who had come with him from Bloodhoof Village; the recovering Hamuul Runetotem, who had a bitter tale to tell of an attack on a peaceful druidic gathering; and the defector, Stormsong. Jorn joined them, carrying a tray of food—apples, watermelon, Mulgore spice bread, and chunks of cooked meat.

Baine nodded his thanks to the hunter. He took a bite of fruit and regarded Hamuul. “I trust your word, Hamuul, and that of Stormsong, Grimtotem though he is. It is cruel that our leader betrays us so, whereas my trust must fall to an old enemy.”

Stormsong lowered his muzzle. It was awkward for him to be here, but he was gradually winning the respect and trust of Baine and those around him.

“I do not know what Garrosh knew of the attack, but I do know that it was an oversight that I survived,” Hamuul said. “They left me for dead, and I nearly was. As for the challenge,” and he eyed Stormsong, “Garrosh may have consented to the use of the poison, he may not. It does not matter. Magatha has what she wanted—control of Thunder Bluff, Bloodhoof Village, probably Camp Mojache, and unless we stop her soon, all the tauren.”

“But not Sun Rock,” Jorn said quietly. “They have sent a runner. They were able to repel the attack.”

Baine nodded. It was good news, but far from sufficient. Baine growled softly and forced himself to eat. He needed to keep his strength up, although his stomach did not wish the food.

“Archdruid, my father ever trusted your advice. I have never been in more need of it than now. What do we do now? How do we fight her?”

Hamuul sighed, thinking. A long silence fell. “From what we can learn, most of the tauren are now controlled by Magatha—willingly or not. Garrosh might be innocent of treachery, but he is most certainly a hothead, and one way or another he wished your father dead.” Baine took a deep breath, and Hamuul gave him a compassionate look before continuing. “The Undercity is not safe for you, not patrolled as it is by orcs likely loyal to Garrosh. The Darkspear trolls are likely trustworthy, but they are not many. And as for the blood elves, they are much too far away to offer any aid. Garrosh will likely reach them before we could.”

Baine laughed without humor and gestured at Stormsong. “So it seems that our enemies are more trustworthy than our friends,” he said drily.

Hamuul was forced to agree, nodding. “Or at least more accessible.”

A thought struck Baine, daring and dangerous. As his father had taught him, he sat with the thought for a long moment, turning it over in his head rather than simply blurting it out. Finally he spoke.

“I will take an honorable enemy over a dishonorable friend every time,” he said quietly. “So let us go to an honorable enemy. We will seek out the woman Thrall trusted.”

He looked at them each in turn, seeing dawning comprehension on the long-muzzled faces.

“We will go to Lady Jaina Proudmoore.”