TWENTY-EIGHT

The Grimtotem were powerful and uniquely trained. From early childhood, while others their age were learning to be in harmony with nature and learning the rites of the Great Hunt, the Grimtotem were taught how to fight one another. They learned to kill, quickly, cleanly, with hands, horns, and whatever weapon was at hand. In any given conflict, the odds were with a Grimtotem to win a fight. They did not fight honorably; they fought to win. But their numbers were not inexhaustible. Magatha was able to target only certain places, and she had chosen to focus primarily on seizing the main city from which Cairne had led, the heart of Mulgore, which was the first real “home” the tauren had ever known, and on slaying the son he had fathered. The first victory had been obtained. Dawn had shone light on hundreds of corpses in and around Thunder Bluff. Their goal had been twofold: to eliminate those most highly positioned to oppose them, and to strike utter, crippling terror into the tauren population by slaughtering anyone who lifted a weapon to them.

Their enemies lay stiffening in congealing pools of blood, as did many who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. But those deaths, too, were a powerful propaganda tool. Magatha and the Grimtotem held Thunder Bluff. They held all of that city’s resources and hostages with which to negotiate. The recent attacks combined with the loss of Cairne and the disappearance of his son had left the tauren people unsettled. She felt certain that, in a desperate attempt to find normalcy again, the tauren would acknowledge her as their leader.

Baine, however, had slipped through their fingers. A spy had informed her that one of her own, Stormsong, had turned traitor. As Magatha sat in the lodge that had once been Cairne Bloodhoof’s seat of power, she fumed quietly. She had, of course, marked Stormsong for assassination but did not entertain any notions that he would be easily located. Doubtless he was with the pretender, as she had taken to calling (and encouraging others to call) Baine since the Grimtotem uprising. Stormsong would die with him, once Baine was found, but likely not until that anxiously awaited hour.

And as she had expected, for Magatha was no fool, the tauren in more far-flung places such as Feralas and of course the druidic stronghold Moonglade had already begun their rebellion. Couriers from other tribes brought word of their defiance, facing the expected immediate execution after bearing such bad news with a stoicism that irritated Magatha.

Other rumors were flying as well. That the pretender was in hiding in the Moonglade. That he had struck a deal with the Alliance in exchange for free trade with a recaptured Thunder Bluff. That he had the power of the Earth Mother behind him, and that his shaman and druids were able to harness trees to march and fight alongside them.

Of all these, there was one thing of which Magatha was certain: Baine was gathering reinforcements, and when he was strong enough, he would challenge her.

So lost in thought was she that it took Rahauro two tries to get her attention. She snorted, angry at woolgathering, knowing that among the younger ones it would appear as senility. She started to direct her anger not at her faithful servant but at the young orc courier who stood before her. Then her ears lifted as realization struck her. An orc meant …

She waved a hand. “Speak.”

“Elder Crone Magatha, I come from the acting warchief of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream.”

Her eyes widened. Two days ago she had sent out a plea to Garrosh for assistance, knowing that at some point—and probably sooner than later—Baine would come, and many would come with him. The letter had been full of sincere-sounding compliments and praise for how he had managed the Horde. She had also dangled the lure of a formal alliance between the Grimtotem and the Horde if Garrosh lent his support in this venture. Surely Garrosh could use the Grimtotem’s unique … methods. Magatha had hoped that a response would come in the form of troops marching to assist her in defending Thunder Bluff, but apparently Garrosh had some questions, or else he wanted to apprise her of his thoughts.

Either way, she was pleased at the swift response. She smiled kindly at the orc.

“You are welcome here, courier. Please—take a moment to refresh yourself. Then read what your master has to say to me.”

She settled back in the chair, folding her arms across her belly, and waited as the orc gratefully took a long pull on the waterskin but declined food. Then, with a bow, he retrieved a leather tube from his pack, withdrew a scroll, and read in a strong, clear voice:

“Unto Elder Crone Magatha of the Grimtotem,

Acting warchief of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream,

Sends his most sincere wishes for a slow and painful death.”

A gasp rippled around the room. Magatha went very still, then with a speed that belied her age she bolted from the chair, backhanded the courier, and held the scroll at arm’s length to accommodate her increasingly poor vision to read it for herself.

It has come to my attention that you have deprived me of a rightful kill. Cairne Bloodhoof was a hero to the Horde, and an honorable member of a usually honorable race. It is with disgust and anger that I discover you have caused me to bring about his death through accidental treachery.

Such tactics may work well for your renegade, honorless tribe and Alliance scum, but I despise them. It was my wish to fight Cairne fairly, and win or lose by my own skill or lack of it. Now I shall never know, and the cry of traitor will dog my steps until such time as I can sport your head on a pike and point to you as the real traitor.

So … no. I will not be sending any truehearted orcs to fight alongside your treacherous, belly-crawling tribe. Your victory or your defeat is in the hands of your Earth Mother now. Either way, I look forward to hearing of your demise.

You are on your own, Magatha, as friendless and disliked as you have ever been. Perhaps more. Enjoy your loneliness.

Her hand had begun to shake halfway through the reading, crushing part of the letter. When she had finished, she threw her head back in an angry bellow and thrust her hand in front of her. A single bolt of lightning speared down from the sky, blasting through the thatched roof to strike the courier dead.

The acrid smell of burning flesh filled the room. Everyone stared for a moment at the green body with the charred, black chest, then two Bluffwatchers moved, without needing to be told, to pick up the corpse and bear it out.

Magatha was breathing heavily, snorting in fury, her fists clenched.

“Elder Crone?” Rahauro’s voice was tentative, cautious. Seldom had he seen his mistress so angry.

With an effort, Magatha composed herself. “It seems that Garrosh Hellscream refuses the Grimtotem any aid whatsoever.” She would not shame her tribemates with the blistering insults with which Garrosh had freely peppered his missive.

“We are on our own, then?” Rahauro looked slightly worried.

“We are, as we always have been. And always we have endured. Do not worry, Rahauro. I planned for this eventuality as well.”

In actuality, she had not. She had been convinced that the young Hellscream would continue to be easy to play. This stupid “honor” thing that the orcs—and, truth be told, her own race—were so obsessed with had been a serpent lurking in the grass, ready to bite her when she least suspected it. It was unfortunate that the Kor’kron had been swift to recover Gorehowl before she had had a chance to clean the poison off herself.

Still, all that was needed was to destroy Baine Bloodhoof and reestablish order in Mulgore. The tauren would quiet down and accept her as their new leader. And then, from a place of strength, she would see if Garrosh Hellscream might be willing to change his mind.

In the meantime, she would need to prepare for the pretender’s inevitable attack.

There was a cool marine breeze circulating through the room at the top of Jazzik’s General Goods. The tauren who paced there nervously, his black coat and white markings clearly identifying him as a Grimtotem, was glad of it, although the openness bothered him. Still, this was where he had been told to come.

“Heya, you made it, good,” came a voice behind him. The tauren turned and nodded as Gazlowe, the goblin leader of Ratchet, climbed the stairs and gave him a wave. “Don’t worry. This is my town. Long as you’re here, you’re safe. I understand your boss has a proposition for me.”

The Grimtotem nodded. “Indeed.”

Gazlowe indicated a table and two chairs. The tauren sat down, carefully at first, then a little bit more confidently as he realized the chair would support his much greater weight.

“We need several items.”

Gazlowe fished out a pipe from his jacket pocket and a small pouch of herbs. He filled it as they spoke. “I can get you most anything, but not for free. Nothing personal, just business, you know?”

The tauren nodded. “I am prepared to pay for your services. Here is our list.” He shoved a small, rolled-up parchment across the table at the goblin. Gazlowe wasn’t about to be rushed, though, and finished tamping down the herbs and lighting the pipe before he reached out a green hand and accepted the list. His eyes widened.

“How many bombs?”

“You can read, friend goblin.”

“I thought there was an extra zero. Or maybe two.” His mouth curled around the stem of the pipe. “My, my. Looks like I might be able to buy myself an additional vessel. Maybe an additional town.” His eyes flitted to the Grimtotem’s. “You’re sure you can pay?”

For answer, the tauren untied a sack from his belt. It was larger than his mammoth fist and made a pleasant clinking sound as it landed on the table. “Count it all, if you like. I was told you charged a fair rate.”

“Even a fair rate would be a small fortune,” Gazlowe said. He opened the pouch. The afternoon sunlight caught the glint of gold. “Holy smoke.”

“Can you get me all the items on the list?”

Gazlowe scratched his head, clearly torn between an honest response and the one he wanted to give. “Maybe,” he said after a moment. He took a pull on his pipe and let the smoke trickle out of his large, hooked nose. “Maybe.”

“Within a few days.”

Gazlowe coughed, smoke coming from his mouth in short billows. “What?”

The Grimtotem pulled out a second pouch, not as large as the first, but still quite respectable. “My … boss understands that one needs to pay extra for rush jobs.”

The goblin whistled softly. “Your boss is smart,” he said. He eyed the list again and sighed. “It’s going to be tough, but—yeah. Yeah, I can get all this for you.” He hesitated. The Grimtotem sat patiently. A private war was clearly going on inside the goblin’s head.

With a sigh that was low and pained, Gazlowe pulled out a fistful of coins from the second pouch, then shoved the rest back at the tauren. The Grimtotem looked up at him, confused. A goblin, not taking money freely offered?

“Listen,” Gazlowe said. “Don’t spread this around, but … I, uh … support what you are trying to do.”

The tauren blinked. “I … am glad.”

Gazlowe nodded, then rose. “I’ll have them for you in four days. No sooner.”

“That is acceptable.” The tauren rose, too, and turned to leave.

“Hey, Grandpa?”

The Grimtotem turned.

“Tell Baine I always liked his dad.”

Stormsong Grimtotem smiled softly. “I will.”

The army was on the move.

Although Baine was secure in his decision to not seek revenge against Garrosh Hellscream, he was not about to ask that rash orc for aid. That meant that he was on his own. Fortunately, the story of Magatha’s treachery was beginning to spread. Camp Mojache had not fallen to the Grimtotem yet, but everyone there was desperately fighting. They could spare no reinforcements. But Freewind Post had managed to rebuff an assault and stayed loyal to the Bloodhoof line. Everyone there who could fight had volunteered the first night that Baine had asked for sanctuary. He had two dozen healthy, fit warriors, and others who were desperately in need of training but whose enthusiasm and passion could not be denied. Cairne had been well loved and his son respected and honored. There was no question that any tauren who was not a Grimtotem—or living in fear of them—would rally to Baine’s side.

He wore Fearbreaker proudly, although he did not explain who had given it to him. He had no wish to jeopardize Anduin in any way. The weapon had not seen the light of day for decades, perhaps centuries. It would not be noted as a distinctively dwarven weapon although it was small. Nearly every weapon was small to a tauren. When asked, he merely replied, “This was given to me by a friend, as a gesture of faith in me and my cause.” That explanation seemed enough to satisfy most.

They were marching up the Gold Road toward Camp Taurajo. Word had come from Sun Rock Retreat. They had repulsed an attack and were sending troops to meet him there. Baine marched openly, sending a strong message to any Grimtotem spies that might be observing that he and his supporters were not afraid. Indeed, their numbers swelled as they left the stagnant marshes of Dustwallow behind and entered the dry lands of the Barrens.

More than tauren had come to join their cause. There were several trolls among the ranks, a few orcs, and even one or two Forsaken or sin’dorei. The Forsaken who had come had expressed owing a debt to the tauren who were, after all, the ones who had pushed to allow them into the Horde at all. Most of the rest were mercenaries; however, thanks to Jaina, who had given him a considerable amount in untraceable gold, he was able to hire them. Their skills would, Baine was certain, prove vital.

The shape of a kodo appeared on the road, a small dot, and as it drew closer, Baine recognized its passenger as Stormsong. He drew his large mount alongside Baine, who went on hoof.

“Good news?” asked Baine.

“As good as possible,” Stormsong said. “Gazlowe agreed to provide all we need in four days. And he did not even accept the full amount. He said to tell you he always admired Cairne and supported our cause.”

“Really?” Baine glanced up at him, surprised. “A true declaration of loyalty from a goblin. I am pleased.”

Hamuul had been talking with his fellow druids. Now he stepped forward. “As you predicted, they know we are coming. We have spies who inform us that Thunder Bluff is preparing for a siege. The good news is, they are gathering all their resources and warriors there and not attacking us on the road.”

Baine nodded. “They think Thunder Bluff impossible to claim and that any challenge on the road will be a waste of Grimtotem lives.”

Stormsong snorted. “You should have seen Gazlowe’s face when he read the list. The matriarch and her followers will be in for a very great surprise.”

The reinforcements from Sun Rock Retreat were not numerous, but they were apparently very swift. They were already waiting for Baine when he approached the path that led westward from the Southern Gold Road toward Mulgore. His heart lifted as a cry of welcome went up, and he could make out the chanting: “Baine! Baine! Baine!”

“Listen to them,” Hamuul said to him quietly. “You bring them hope. Your plan is audacious and risky,” he admitted, “but that is precisely why I believe it will succeed. You have your father’s steadiness and your own imagination, Baine Bloodhoof, and you will be victorious in this battle.”

“I pray you are right,” Baine said. “If we fail, I tremble for the fate of our people.”

Thunder Bluff, once filled with the sounds of raucous celebration, was now silent. The first victory, won by stealth in the night, had been fairly easy, but the Grimtotem now were preparing to fend off an army headed by a very popular leader, not slaughtering slumbering victims. Thunder Bluff was an excellent place for defense, and they could handle a long siege. Still, Magatha was not looking forward to it.

It had been foolish for Baine to be so open about his approach. Perhaps it had won him a few more followers, but it had also given his enemy time to prepare. And Magatha had not wasted the opportunity.

Scaling Thunder Bluff was not impossible, but it was very difficult, especially for tauren and even more so if said climbers were expected. The lifts were key—and if they were rigged to explode at the push of a button, as the engineers of the tribe were working on doing, it would be a challenge for Baine’s troops to do anything other than camp at the base and wait it out. And if things were timed correctly, the explosion might also take several of Baine’s followers with it. Magical methods of infiltration, such as portals, were already warded against.

And it would be a long wait. The several days’ notice that Baine had given them had enabled the Grimtotem to bring in a great quantity of food and other supplies. She had recalled all her people from Bloodhoof Village and the unsuccessful Sun Rock Retreat attack to defend this, the capital. Yes, the more Magatha thought about it, the calmer she grew. Baine would be defeated, as his father had been, and her stranglehold on the tauren would be certain.

She drifted to sleep in the lodge that had belonged to Cairne Bloodhoof. Her pleasant dreams were interrupted by a sudden flash of brilliant light and a roll of answering thunder that shook the very earth. Rain sluiced down on the lodge as Magatha bolted upright, snorting. Another blinding flash of lighting. A shaman and a tauren, Magatha was no stranger to storms. But this one had a powerful fierceness to it. She sniffed and listened, senses alert. Perhaps she was imagining things. Still, she had not lived this long by ignoring her instincts, and so she threw on some robes and a cape to guard against the torrential downpour.

Magatha squinted as rain pelted her face, peering upward. The sky was black and gray, with thunderclouds blotting out the stars. Nothing unusual. This place was called Thunder Bluff, after all. Satisfied that it was nothing more than a particularly violent storm, she reached to slip the hood further down over her face.

And then she saw it. It emerged from its cover, as garishly colored as the concealing thundercloud had been subdued, an airborne ship with a bright purple balloon hovering over it. Then came another … and another. She gasped with the crash of recognition.

“Zeppelins!” Magatha cried.