Immediately, it became apparent that these were a different grade of warrior altogether, for they reacted almost instantly to the appearance of foes. There were nine of them all together, grim-looking, bearing heavy armor and two-handed swords, the blue anchor of the Proodmoore fleet emblazoned on their tabards. One of them, older by Kazimierz’s unfamiliar eye, raised a hand to the air. A rush of alien power tingled and shivered in the air, and Marzena yelped in pain and surprise as searing light bathed her armor. The young warrior leaped across the table, swinging her blood-drenched glaive.
Kazimierz couldn’t tell exactly what happened next, as another of the armor-clad humans had picked him out as a threat and began swinging his oversized sword with arm-jarring vigor. It was a little unnerving to feel such a powerful hit from a foe so small and weak-looking, and Kazimierz struck back with all the speed and strength he was able to muster. The human parried it forcefully, and the shaman began to have a sinking feeling that he might have found his match. The human shouted something in his incomprehensible language, and with a single stroke broke Kazimierz’s axehaft into kindling. The sheer outrage of being disarmed in such a way was like a blow, infuriating beyond measure, and the shaman roared deafeningly as he batted away another strike with the remnant of his blade. Reaching savagely for the power of the spirits, Kazimierz’s vision flooded red, the screams and percussion of battle drowned out by a howling wind in his ears.
The spirits twisted and sang, and the shaman knew only glory for a moment of eternity.
The rush of air receded, his sight cleared. A sudden intense wave of pain and fatigue washed over him, and Kazimierz stumbled to his kness, dully noting the wash of blood over the flagstones. Around the room lay bodies, crumpled and unmoving-one of the trolls whose name Kazimierz had never caught, his body seared and scorched by the unnatural radiance; the humans, some nearly hacked apart, some pierced with arrows, and a number that appeared have had their throats torn out; slumped down on top of the human commander was Marzna, leaning on the glaive embedded in his heart. In a corner Meshak was wrapping bandages around another of the orc’s leg, sporting his own bloody rags over his stomach. The last few of the squad were nowhere to be seen.
Steadying himself with a hand, Kazimierz almost slipped and fell, his sight registering at last his own hands: fingers broken, and covered in gore nearly to the elbow. He started a catalogue of his hurts, and abandoned it quickly-‘battered’ was too mild a word to describe the shaman’s condition, but he was alive. Stumbling, he made it to Marzena’s still form. She, too, had suffered many wounds-a deep stab to the chest, perhaps half a dozen cuts through her bracers on her forearms, and a terrible burn on her cheek-but still she breathed, if shallowly and irregularly. Blood flowed weakly even as Kazimierz watched, and he rummaged with shaking hands for a skin, a bucket, any sort of water.
Finally, his hands closed painfully on the remnants of a pitcher, broken but still holding a half-cup or so of the precious fluid. Holding it gently over Marzena’s paling form, he slid his mind through the slippery calling of the water spirits, and the pale soothing mists flowed gently from the vessel. The stench of blood and bile in the room cleared, and the warrior inhaled deeply, jerking upright again as Kazimierz’s world slowly went black.
He awoke swathed in bandages-clean bandages, smelling of soothing peacebloom and silverleaf. The blood was gone from him, and what was left of his clothing had been replaced. Turning his head, Kazimierz could see other wounded on similar rough beds to either side of him, still sleeping soundly. He rolled upright, feeling unexpectedly hale, and a troll’s voice broke the silence.
“Easy there, boyo. You were more’n half dead when they brought you in here, hey?” Kadir admonished. “That shaman woman came in here and called some spirits up to help, but you can’t go expecting the spirits to do all the work themselves.”
Nodding, Kazimierz merely shifted to lean his back against the wall rather than try his luck with his feet.
“Who came back?” he asked bluntly, and the troll waved his hand to the other filled beds in the infirmary as he recited the names.
“Sergeant Marzena. Meshak. Rakul. Sha’val. No one else,” Kadir said, frowning slightly. “Way they were talking, you’ve been seein’ some nasty fights, boyo. Was it worth it?”
In his mind’s eye, Kazimierz saw once again the human captain, staring glassily at the ceiling. He chuckled darkly. “I have done my part for the Horde, and earned the scars to prove it. What more can I ask of life?”
Kadir’s laughter was interrupted by the sound of a staff thudding against the wooden floorboards, and he bowed respectfully as Farseer Shrikha came into the room. She cocked her head, looking approvingly upon Kazimierz’s bandages.
"You lived. Very good,” she said, moving in close to inspect the closing scars on his chest and face. “Your squad has spoken glowingly of your deeds, Kazimierz, foolhardy as your venture was.”
He nodded, and she seemed to hesitate for a moment.
“They said they could almost feel your fury as you fought. That you fought three paladins of Lordaeron and tore open their necks with your bare hands. Is this true?” Shrikha asked, peering into his eyes.
Kazimierz shrugged, hissing a little at the pain the movement caused him. “There is much of the fight I cannot recall, Farseer. I do not know the truth.”
Shrikha nodded absently, stepping back to the foot of the bed. “There is little doubt you did, Kazimierz, and I agree with those I have discussed the matter with that it is a deed worthy of remembrance.” The shaman held an arm out in front of her, slowly tapping her chest in salute. “Rise up, Bloodhand. Your deeds have brought victory and honor to the Horde. Let all who speak your name recall them.”
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