Travels

The fierce heat of the Durotar sun faded almost immediately as Kazimierz walked between the shear canyon walls. So too did the steady wind of the desert, leaving the silence undisturbed save for the steady crunch of boots on gravel. The shadowed trail was stark contrast to the blazing light outside, and for a few paralyzing moments the new shaman stood blindly in the gloom.

Little comfort this axe is, Kazimierz silently complained, waiting for shapes to appear from the darkness. Just bandit-bait with all this silverwork, and I’m no hero fit to swing this beast one-handed.

At last, his eyes had adapted well enough to see his footing, and Kazimierz began to walk again. He chose a swaggering, cocky gait, the axe resting on his shoulder as he’d seen the camp guards do on their patrols.

Best to at least look like I know what I’m about, he decided. No fear…

Despite his worry, there was little to disturb Kazimierz as he made his way through the canyon. The ubiquitous scorpions were content to leave him be, and there was little sign of the bird-women beyond empty, scorched nests.

Perhaps we have defeated them, he thought hopefully. Perhaps the Kor’kron have finally rooted out their leader and left their bones to bleach in the sun.

Emboldened, Kazimierz put on a faster pace, thinking to reach the north end of the canyons by sunset. The path in the canyon network wasn’t difficult to follow; the many forks and side trails were clearly less traveled than the slightly rutted main road. It was fairly easy going, and Kazimierz marched with little distraction until the stench of burning wood and a chorus of distant shouts filtered out of one of the winding trails away from the path. He slowed uncertainly.

Damn it. This is a bad idea…

His doubts were washed away by the rising thrill of an imminent fight, however, and he carefully tucked the tarnished axe beneath a fallen of sandstone. With his now-freed left hand, he drew the fire-polished club from its place on his belt and began to quickly, quietly move towards the commotion.

As he rounded the last bend, Kazimierz beheld a tableau of battle: a trio of trolls, knives and swords working furiously against a great fluttering mass of harpies, who screeched and clawed bloody furrows into the troll’s teal flesh with their filthy talons. One of the harpies held her arms aloft, and shafts of flame began darting towards the besieged and now-scattering trolls, filling the air with the choking stench of sulfur. The two with swords broke ranks to run, leaving the last troll, a youthful female bearing a bow, vulnerable to the onrushing press of reeking feathers and claws.

A flamecaller! Better and better.

Now totally oblivious to the pain of his previous wounds, Kazimierz rushed the last ten yards towards the melee, the strands of earthern power twisting to his will as he ran. His spirit-imbued club caught a harpy square in the back a moment after the reassuring glow of the totem appeared beside him. It was a satisfying hit-he could feel bones shatter, and a moment later the harpy dropped writhing to the ground. The tallest of the trolls gave Kazimierz a wolfish smile in welcome as he spun around to protect the bowman once more.

“Lok’tar ogar, friends! Fight on!” Kazimierz roared, adrenaline and bloodlust surging through his veins. A talon caught the shoulder of his injured arm, prompting a retaliatory strike that crushed one of the harpy’s wings. It fell shrieking to the ground, allowing one of the trolls to lithely dart in and put a dagger through its eye.

An abrupt searing pain erupted in Kazimierz’s back as one of the flamecaller’s bolts found its mark. The orc wheeled about, flinging his club up to strike down the airborne harpy. The bird-women dodged the ineffective projectile, but it was enough to break her focus and end the fiery barrage. The troll with the bow shouted something Kazimierz couldn’t understand, followed by a well-aimed shot to the throat that silenced the flamecaller for good.

A deafening explosion rocked the narrow cleft as Kazimierz threw the first of Vicks’ blasting charges into the midst of the remaining harpies. Confused and demoralized, most of them leaped skywards, trying in vain to escape the wrath of their onetime prey before they too were picked off by the troll’s marksmanship. The shortest troll, who wielded bloody knives, casually began finishing off the wounded harpies as the archer and swordsman picked their way through the bodies to Kazimierz.

“Throm-ka, orc,” the archer said, saluting as to an equal. “You are a welcome surprise in this unwelcoming place.”

Kazimierz returned the gesture left-handed, his breaths coming shorter again as the thrill of battle left him. The archer smiled lopsidedly, unstringing her bow with lazy ease. “I’m Ra’kil, and these are my good-for-nothing brothers Rha’zin and Kel’raz. What business brings wounded into this rough country, eh?”

Kazimierz shrugged lightly. “I’m running a delivery to Orgrimmar from the valley. I do what I am able,” he said, then started as he remembered his manners. “Kazimierz, son of Ro’al,” he stated, then bowed formally. Ra’kil chuckled at the gesture.

“Oh, I’m not someone ta be bowin’ to, orc. Nothing but greed took us here, though it had a bit ‘a help from these idiots,” she said lightly, and the sword-wielding troll snorted indignantly. “Thought we’d find a bit of treasure hidden away here, but aside from a couple of cheap copper medallions there’s nothing of value in this blight-damned place.”

She tossed Kazimierz what was presumably one of the medallions they had taken, then started winding bandages over some of the deeper gashes in her arms and shoulders.

“S’all yours, orc. Thanks for the hand…think we might even have been overmatched without ya. We’ll buy you a drink if we see you around again, eh?”

Somewhat confused by the troll’s nonchalant attitude, Kazimierz inspected the medallion as they finished binding their wounds and began heading back to the path. It was, as Ra’kil had said, a simple copper piece, made none too finely and engraved roughly with a pair of flaming swords or long knives. Bemused, he pocketed the piece, scanning the body-strewn ground for his club. Rha’zin and his brother had been thorough-every fallen harpy now sported a bloody wound through their skull, and it was difficult to locate his weapon in the carnage.

No chance these wretches will live to fight another day. Not so tough after all-couldn’t even take a hit or two without dropping.

On closer inspection, the battlefield had once been an old camp-there were blackened spots on the stone where fires had burned, and the rotting ruins of tents scattered here and there.

Aside from the emblem in his hand, there was no hint as to the identity or purpose of the ones who had once lived here.

Probably bandits, trying to prey on supply caravans. Lots of places to hide in this stretch of road…suppose there’s nothing more to be done here.

Kazimierz walked stiffly back to the road, turning north again once he had retrieved the axe from beneath the rubble, breathing silent thanks that the treasure-hunters had not found and claimed it as they passed. Now that the almost euphoric thrill of fighting was gone, he could feel his injuries complaining loudly and at length about the troubles they had gone through. He ignored it, as best he could-there was nothing he could do on the road except pray for a clean closure. That was unlikely, given the filth harpies seemed to accumulate on their claws. Kazimierz had once seen a warrior gouged by a harpy lay in a sickroom for almost a week, burning with fever and swelling with infection. Though he had no desire to share a similar fate, he would have to deal with the injuries until he arrived in Orgrimmar-he had no supplies of herbs to stave off infection, nor the skill to find substitutes on the road. Of more concern to the young shaman was his mental state.

By the Honored Ancestors, it felt good to fight. Too good, I think…it sounds like the way some of the old ones described the demon’s affliction, only soothed by spilling blood. Perhaps we are not so free as we thought, he reflected. Perhaps Stormeye or one of the shaman in Orgrimmar can tell me why we still revel so in battle.

Distracted, Kazimierz did not notice he had come to the end of the winding canyons until he stepped into blinding daylight again, though it was now a deep crimson-the last rays of the sun breaking through the clouds and silhouetting the great cacti black against its glory. Only a few miles ahead, the gates and banners of Orgrimmar were visible, and Kazimierz felt a surge of pride at the sight of the great city.

Only a few years we have been here, and already we have made such a settlement. What wonders will we build in the years to come?

He jogged the last stretch, trying not to notice the steadily-increasing burning in his gashed shoulders, or the aching of his chest. His fit of temper could scarcely have come at a worse time-here he was expected to be productive and useful, and the only skill he could reliably demonstrate at the moment was walking.

Still…I did get wounded in the field. They’ll not ask questions about the break, surely. Perhaps I’ll find a healer there?

Kazimierz’s thoughts slammed to a halt as he reached the gates. Ahead of him was a scene out of his nightmares: a column of Scourge, their rotting bodies reeking and armored, marching into Orgrimmar. Wildly, he looked for defenders, but there were none-had the Plague come here as well?

Gritting his teeth, Kazimierz reached for his club…