A Heart for Battle

Kazimierz slipped under the ropes into the arming ring, intercepting Tojarra as he walked off the field. The warrior was still glowing with the thrill of victory, and Kazimierz hoped that would make him slightly more approachable. Holding the axe in both hands, blade downwards, he approached Tojarra as the fighter finished stripping off the arena armor, kneeling a few feet away.

“Ambassador, I bring a gift to you from Farseer Shrikha Stormeye, in congratulations upon your new appointment,” Kazimierz said, eyes on the ground as he hefted the axe for the warrior to inspect.

Tojarra lifted the shining weapon out of Kazimierz’s hands with careless ease, inspecting it with eyes and careful swings. Finally, he grunted approvingly.

“This is a fine weapon, messenger. I will not ask how the Farseer knew of my new position, and you will in turn not spread the news of it until it is officially announced. Is this understood?” he intoned, paying no apparent heed to the still-kneeling orc beside him.

Kazimierz bowed his head. “As you command, Am-Bloodguard,” he hastily corrected himself, and Tojarra nodded.

“Very good, messenger. Relay my thanks to your mistress. Dismissed!”

Kazimierz stood and nearly fled the ring, the sheer presence of the warrior overpowering. It was perhaps a factor of his reputation, but merely standing next to Tojarra Limbsunder felt as though there was a battle brewing. It was not necessarily a bad thing-Kazimierz had heard of the awing might of other great heroes before, and how they could inspire a band of soldiers. Everywhere Tojarra went, those who had heard of his deeds and skill gave way to him, showed great respect. To Kazimierz, it was a moment of inspiration.

Someday…someday I will have that honor. The crowds will part for me, and I will give my Warchief the stacked trophies of a thousand victories…

The thought gave him a new, strange energy, one that demanded immediate action. Kazimierz set out towards the Valley and the Farseer, moving with determination and no small amount of haste.

An irresistible hand caught him before he could make it to the next district, and Kazimierz whirled to see the staid face of Vargrim Emberhammer standing over him.

“Hold on. I have something for you,” the smith said, and handed Kazimierz a cloth-wrapped item, long and heavy.

“The Farseer told me you’d need proper arms before you left the city.”

Kazimierz unwrapped the axe-a plain axe, built on the Warsong pattern: a heavy, symmetrical crescent of steel for the blade, capped at both end with steel. It felt right in his hands, and he called the earth into the weapon with a flicker of will.It seemed to take well to its new home-a valid concern, for the spirits were on occasion picky sorts.

“Thank you, master smith,” Kazimierz said, bowing before his benefactor. “This axe suits me well-it will help me do my part for the Horde.”

Vargrim merely grunted and walked back to his shop, leaving Kazimierz to begin his journey southward again.

No longer injured and possessing a waraxe in place of a walking-staff, Kazimierz regarded the harpy-infested canyon very differently indeed. He practically invited attack, eager to test his skills against those who would threaten his people. This time, there was no sound of battle to draw him, however. The harpies were not interested in one who sought glory at the edge of a blade, and they kept to their dark corners as he ran steadily through the gloom.

The brightness at the edge of the canyons was as overwhelming as it had been before, and it took a few moments for Kazimierz to adjust as he broke into the glare of daylight once again. The town of Razor Hill loomed above him, bristling with the spiked barricades so emblematic of Horde military architecture. Still restless with ambition, Kazimierz threw himself into a sprint towards the gates, kicking up a trail of red dust behind him. A glint of metal to the east caught his eye, and he slid to a stop, eyeing the desert warily.

There seemed to be nothing there, which was troubling-there must be something for the sun to flare from, after all. The field was as typical as any other open region of Durotar-red sand, the occasional broken boulder, cactus, scrubby brush. A particular clump of brush near a fallen boulder seemed out of place, and Kazimierz stalked up to it, axe held in eager hands.

He had approached to within perhaps a dozen yards when a figure swathed in dust-colored rags rolled to its feet and began to sprint eastward, away from the road. The figure’s slim, short body marked it as human, even beneath its concealing robes, and that was enough-Kazimierz took chase, bellowing a wordless cry.

Most of the fragile treaties made up before the great battle at Mount Hyjal had long since been dissolved or ignored-Kazimierz was not sure which. Regardless, only the humans under Jaina Proudmoore’s banners retained privileges in Durotar, and only while under watch at that. The rest…they had proven untrustworthy. The dusky elves of the northern forests were as xenocidal as ever, and with the threat to their world defeated they had reverted to their ceaseless feinting attacks. The greater alliance of humans, dwarves, and the highborne elves of the east refused to recognize the fledgling nation, declaring them raiders and bandits, outside the law. The Warchief took their scorn in stride-perhaps too well, from the rumbles of some-but he would not tolerate spies or assassins operating inside his people’s borders. Kazimierz knew this, and so he made no attempt to squelch the whispers of bloodlust that smoldered like ancient embers in his soul. Far from it-he embraced it, truly glorying in the thought of battle in a way few not born of orcish blood could understand. The thought of cleaving flesh, of spilling hot blood over his axe enthralled him, drove him further from what a sensible person would call his ‘right mind’.

It was thus enormously frustrating when the human, relatively fresh and rested compared to the already half-winded shaman, ran like a jackrabbit and vanished into a warren of broken stone. After an hour of fruitless searching, Kazimierz’s incoherent rage had cooled sufficiently for him to think, and for the sun to dip close to the horizon.

The human is gone now, but he was watching. He must have left some trail that a tracker might follow…I must report this to the garrison.

To say Stoneguard Har’kel was skeptical would be a severe understatement. The breathless tale of a youth barely into adulthood, influenced by a profession which revolved around things no-one else could see and no doubt a dash of wishful thinking, was not terribly persuasive. Even if it had been, there were other issues to deal with-issues that came with corpses and burnt buildings, not half-seen memories. Still, his demeanor was one of restraint-it did not do well to offend one who had the ear of the spirit world, after all, even if it had been for so short a time as this youngster had been alive.

“Shaman, I understand. You believe a you have seen a threat, and reporting it reflects well on you. However, I have only so many warriors. See here!” he growled, and he tapped a map savagely. “North of us, harpies, always willing to take a chance on attacking a caravan. West of us, quillboar, ready to purge anything with green skin from their ‘promised land’. South of us, centaur tribes ready to move against our allies in the Echo Isles. And all of it is delegated to my battalion. I’ve barely enough soldiers left inside the walls to call it manned, and I will not leave Razor Hill any more vulnerable than I must.”

Kazimierz bit back an angry response-what good would it do to argue? The stoneguard had his duties to the Horde, and pushing him would only serve to hurt Kazimierz’s position.

“Then with your permission, I will seek aid amongst the civilians. I am sure there are trackers that might aid me,” he said, arms folded irritably across his chest.

The Stoneguard nodded, mail jingling softly as he moved. “Do what you will. I cannot spare soldiers to assist you,” he said, and laughed coarsely. “Of course, if we can find a proper solution to some of our problems, I could send some aid. Doubtful, though. These creatures, the centaur and the quillboar, they are determined enemies, always ready to catch a blade with their gut if they think it’ll help their cause.”

Bowing perfunctorily, Kazimierz left the map-bedecked command hall and the Stoneguard’s personal troop behind him, winding his way through the warrenlike keep that was the center of the Horde’s military presence on Razor Hill.

I’ve no time to pursue this now…the farseer will be furious if I delay any more¸ he thought agitatedly. A runner…hah! Perhaps I will have a better assignment when I return hale and hearty, axe in hand. I will be her petty servant no more.

It was a comforting thought, and when mixed with the more certain threat of Shrikha’s displeasure drove him back to the road, where the first stars of evening began to shine.

I’ll take my rest on the roadside, then. Let her watch my dedication, so ‘well-informed’ as she is. I’ll not be seen slacking!

Determined and proud, Kazimierz set his feet to walk the lonely southern road once more.