Prelude

The sounds, as he would later reflect on, were the worst part of waiting. The humans and their fortified encampment to the south were well out of sight, but the hue and cry of battle echoed in the lonely silence of the Hyjal wilderness. Screams-some of rage, and some of terror-rose above the general thunder of arms and armor, and the first wisps of smoke had finally wound their way to the entrenched Horde.

Kazimierz was young, very young-he was of the first generation who had not known the plains of Garadar, being born in the internment camps. But his youth was no impediment to the thrill of the drums of war, and though his role was to be minor, he reveled in the thought of a real battle. No more scattered horse-men and pig-men and bird-women! he thought, shifting his heavy bag impatiently on his shoulder. A battle worthy of remembrance at last.
Beside him, others hefted similar bags-the very young, the very old, and those wounded that could still walk, orc and troll and tauren. Inside each satchel, the very finest of the goblin’s lethal toys waited, ready to shear flesh and shatter bone: landmines. The ragged line of mine-bearers stood perilously undefended a hundred yards ahead of the line, awaiting whatever survivors of Archimonde’s assault on the Alliance remained. Kazimierz’s team was headed by Marzena Brightaxe, another Arathi-born, and she gave him an uncertain grin as they stood ready. “Stand by! Set your mines at my command!”

A horn sounded in the distance, thin and desperate against the roar of death. The stench of burning wood and flesh was thick now, cloying as it mixed with the delicate scent of pine and moss. The sounds of fighting lightened, then ceased-only the distant rumble of hooves on grass broke the unnatural stillness of the mountains. Then, the call: a horn, rough and exultant, heralding a wolf-borne raider and the ragged remnants of the Alliance fortress. Their faces were dull with fear and shock, and most dripped blood from gouges, but the warriors of the Horde did not notice, for the outrider’s war-horn was answered with the drums of the Warchief’s own guard. Battle would soon be at hand! As last of the fleeing humans rode by, Marzena raised a fist. “Set mines!”

Goblin land mines were finicky things to place and ready, or at least, they were if you wished to retain use of all your limbs and digits, and with battlerage burning in their veins no few of the mine-bearers succumbed to misfires. Kazimierz was beyond caring-the drums pounded, the Warchief roared, and the lifeless tramp of corpse-boots filled his mind and heart with flame. Three, four, five mines down, and Marzana yelled wordlessly, waving them back to the line. As they scrambled for the burrows, Kazimierz had a glimpse of the unholy vanguard behind him, and the faintest touch of something unfamiliar and troubling inside. Even Marzana-nearly grown enough to have taken up arms-seemed a touch uncertain, but as she noticed his gaze she rapidly composed her features into something resembling a commanding presence. “Refill your bags! Prepare to sally at my order!” she said, pitching her voice over the chaos of preparations around them.

The sharp pops of landmines sounded, and the gnarled, rotting press of bodies faltered, the frontrunners blown apart. Even now, within spearthrow of the line, the Scourge made no sound but the thud of boots and the clack of armor. The silence seemed to pull the cries of the defenders into it, and soon the undead legion was quick-marching through the dwindling mines as the Horde line wavered. Kazimierz huddled back behind the first line with the rest of his team, and felt the contagion of fear now, the icy tendrils of doubt that wove their way through the fortifications. The warriors of the line began to inch back, their battlecries caught in their throats as the dark legion closed the final yards, until a fearsome voice behind them roared “LOK’TAR OGAR!”

The Warchief and his guard thundered into the vanguard of the corpse army, and it seemed to Kazimierz that molten steel had flooded his spine, burning away the impurity of fear. A moment later, the battlecry was echoed by a thousand voices, filled with an eagerness and hunger that resonated all too well with the youngling orc. The clash of axe and shield mingled with the screams of those killing and dying, and through the chaos of battle Kazimierz could see the Warchief’s honor-guard driving deep into the mass of skeletons and ghouls. A flash of light dazzled him, and a thunderclap pealed, bringing with it the sharp, clean smell of lightning-the shamans had called down spirits of the storm to repel the vile invaders. The fighting ceased after a few seemingly eternal minutes, and a chorus of shouts along the line signaled a return to preparations.

Following Marzena, Kazimierz picked his way across the battlefield. The once-green earth was littered with bodies on grisly display-here a troll with his head smashed apart by a great abomination, there a tauren, pierced by dozens of spears, lying on the broken bodies of a dozen Scourge. Eyes wide, Marzena waved her squad onward. “Push the bodies aside! We need more mines down!” she said, and her voice barely faltered. “Leave the wounded to the shamans…”

The thrill of battle gone, Kazimierz gritted his teeth and rolled the body of a grunt aside to plant his next explosive. The shamans were rushing in behind them, seizing the wounded and calling on the gentle spirits of life to restore them, bringing a cool, soothing mist to gently dust the ground and mend rent flesh. A few scouts went for the dead, taking badges or weapons, something to identify the fallen. All too soon, the next wave of Scourge swarmed up the path, and they withdrew to the fortifications once more.

The Scourge seemed endless, and even the legendary morale of the Horde began to suffer. Each wave pushed a little deeper in than the last, and a treacherous voice in Kazimierz’s head noted that each wave seemed a little stronger as the defenders weakened. The minefield was awash in gore now, piled with shredded remains both new and old. The blood of the fallen stained Kazimierz’s boots to the calf, and he had no thoughts to spare anymore as Marzena ordered his squad-merely ran, laid mines, ran again. It had been hours since the first assault, and the soldiers on the line no longer shouted defiance as their foes closed; they fought like Scourge themselves, with grim, efficient silence. Even the Warchief seemed to tire, resting his great hammer on the ground, his commands growing less frequent.

The end came. The final push, bristling with the burning fiends of the Legion, plowed through the paltry remains of the minefield without slowing. The Warchief’s drums sounded a retreat, and the last soldiers torched their towers-a futile attempt to deny their use to the Scourge. Kazimierz was with them now-himself and Marzena the only two of their squad not slain from misplaced mines or flung corpses. The main force itself had suffered terrible losses-a mere quarter remained to suffer the smug glances of the kal’dorei garrison as they were led to a safe zone some ways from the path to the World Tree. The simple clearing was half-occupied by the remnants of the Theramore contingent, lying listlessly on the ground or sitting huddled next to campfires. Kazimierz noted the presence of kal’dorei watchers with dull surprise-even with the knowledge of a battle at hand, they spared a score of archers to watch their ‘allies’ as they rested.

“Hah. Maybe the elflings want to finish us off, now that we’ve broken up the blight-damned Legion for them?” said Marzena sardonically, glaring at their watchers. She fingered the axe she had recovered from a fallen grunt, testing the notched edge with a practiced thumb. Kazimierz grunted vaguely by way of reply, too wearied to be concerned. Even now, the shamans had begun the funeral rites, collecting the recovered tokens of the dead and chanting the rituals to ease their path through the Twisting Nether.

With a start, Kazimierz recognized a name in their litany, and dropped to a knee in shock. So. You walk the last road now, father. His breath caught in his throat, and an unseemly wave of grief bubbled up inside him. Those nearby were looking at him now, and someone clapped a scarred hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

“Mourn lightly, little one. To die in such a battle is as honorable a death as can be wished…no doubt Wolfseye and the rest of our comrades will dine with the great ancestors tonight,” said the towering grunt softly. From the corner of his blurred eyes, Kazimierz saw Marzena bow respectfully to his comforter, who continued to speak in even tones. “If you desire, you may stay with my household…I have lost a son this day, as you have a father.”
Kazimierz grasped the proffered hand, and rose from his knees, nodding silently. Beside him, Marzena stood still, eyes downcast. The warrior patted her shoulder with the same compassion he had shown Kazimierz, and gazed into the shining spirit-pyres that danced and flickered over bloodsoaked weapons and armor. “I am Radzimierz Ironfang, young one, and this is my daughter Marzena Brightaxe. I know of you, Kazimierz…I’ve no doubt you will do my household proud.”

Kazimierz bowed deeply, composed again. “Throm-ka, Stone Guard. I accept.” He forced the sorrow to ebb, to be distant; laying maudlin was not something a proper orc should be caught doing. Radzimierz nodded, and turned to walk towards a small patch of ground marked with stakes. Kazimierz turned his back on the rituals of the dead, and stepped towards the future...