There were dozens of the festering undead, some mounted on skeletal steeds, most following behind on foot. They marched in mechanical synchronization under the banner of a broken mask, arms held at port with rigid precision. Even from his position a hundred yards away, Kazimierz could smell the reek of rotting flesh, hear the scrape of metal against bone as they walked unhindered through the gates of Ogrimmar. That there was no hue and cry or smoke to speak of was disturbing-had their vile necromancers used some horrific spell to silence the might of the Horde? The thought was inconceivable, but all the evidence Kazimierz needed was before him.
The city has fallen. I must bring word of this back to Razor Hill! he thought, but hesitated. Still…perhaps there is information to be gained first? Knowledge is power, as Vicks says…
He watched and waited until the line of corpses vanished behind the gates, then dashed as quickly as he was able for the gates, feeling the gouges on his shoulder . Creeping along the wall, Kazimierz made his way towards through the switchback turns of the city’s gate, edging along until he reached the last edge. From there, he could hear the marching suddenly diminish, as if most of the corps had halted. Summoning a burst of courage, Kazimierz peeked around the corner.
The red armor of a Kor’kron guard filled his vision, and the great battle-scarred orc that wore it swung his head around to stare at him in surprise.
“What’re you doing there, boy?” the guard demanded irately, flashing a quick look towards the center of the city and snapping back to attention. “Put that weapon away, you’re going to spook them!”
Shocked, Kazimierz complied with the hissed command. He could see now the undead company standing at attention in the great open plaza of Orgrimmar, surrounded by Kor’kron who held their weapons as if they were an escort, not a standoff. Even now, a small delegation of the undead came to a halt in front of a towering black-armored figure, and Kazimierz watched in astonishment as his warchief traded respectful bows with a reanimated high elf.
“Wha-what’s happening?” he stuttered, and the guardsman grunted, sounding a little less perturbed with his intrusion.
“Word is the scourge has some defectors. Looks like the Warchief believes them,” he growled in reply, head and eyes unmoving. “Call themselves the Forsaken, got some line about how they ‘broke free’ from the Lich King’s control. We’d have all their heads on pikes by now, but we were ordered to stand and watch instead.” He didn’t exactly spit the words, but there was an unpleasant edge to them all the same, underscored by the orc’s twitching fingers on his axe.
Eyes wide, Kazimierz watched as the undead elf and the warchief began walking through the city, each with only a pair of honor guards moving with them. There were ugly murmurs echoing from the shops and buildings, but the presence of the Warchief’s Own damped the rising anger of the populace. The Forsaken still stood in formation, paying no apparent heed to the movement around them. The Kor’kron did not make to yield them the field, however, and the two groups watched each other in wary concentration.
The guard next to Kazimierz snorted and dropped to parade rest, jerking his head sidewise.
“You need in, get moving. Doesn’t look like this lot is going anywhere soon,” he grumbled. Kazimierz slipped by him, axe held as non-aggressively as a bare blade could. He gave the Forsaken contingent a wide berth, but he was still close enough to pick out the individual details in their decaying faces-scars, birthmarks, stitches, and the occasional jaw replaced with an iron replica. They were in every detail save their banner and attitude the brethren of the scourge invaders that Kazimierz had helped fight on Hyjal, their shriveled eyes or empty sockets glowing with a cold light. There was something distinctly unnatural about them-they stood absolutely still, never fidgeting or adjusting their balance. That, combined with the reek of dead flesh, made them as abhorrent as any creature Kazimierz had heard of, and he all but scurried past them towards the forges in the rear of the city.
Abominations…why does the Warchief wish to talk to them? Surely we must slay them, and bring peace to their twisted spirits.
Orgrimmar was abuzz with talk of the strange visitors, and theories on their intent were thrown around nearly as often as statements detailing the speaker’s desire to crush them. Kazimierz remained mostly silent, partially out of shyness and partially due to the rapidly worsening sick heat around the gashes in his shoulder. However, he was almost upon the forges now, and completing the Farseer’s task was first and foremost in his mind.
The forges were positioned in the valley of Honor, where the warriors trained and the armories were kept. While not as grand as those tended by the dwarves in their mountain homes, they were sufficient to keep the Horde’s soldiers in steel and iron. They were unfortunately unorganized; there were perhaps a half-dozen forges scattered around the area, each operated by one or two master smiths and their apprentices. It was thus well past dusk that Kazimierz found Valgrim Emberhammer-not that this was an unusual time for a blacksmith to be about his business, for the work of the forge was often undertaken in darkness. Kazimierz had asked Vicks about this habit once, and through the rambling, chattering lecture that followed he had learned that the dim light allowed a skilled eye to determine the temperature of the metal, often very precisely. At the moment, though, Emberhammer was grinding, the constant labor of his two apprentices at the grindstone sending faint showers of sparks from the forming blade of a long dagger. Valgrim was big, even for an orc, and his skin was a curious dark hue that Kazimierz had not seen amongst his kin. The thick braids of the smith’s hair were tied back for his work, and his great hands moved the blade across the stone with gentle smoothness.
“Hail, Emberhammer-I have work for you,” Kazimierz stated, and he inclined his head towards the tarnished silver axe across his shoulders. “Farseer Stormeye sends this weapon for you to refurbish…a gift for the new ambassador?”
Valgrim did not answer, and indeed did not flinch at the voice behind him until he finished the last pass of the knife against the stone. He inspected it carefully in the light of the torches before turning to Kazimierz, oblivious to the stinging smoke of the charcoal nearby.
“Yes. She sent word of her request,” he said in a slow, rumbling voice. “Give me the axe.”
Kazimierz unslung the axe with a wince, handing it haft-first to the ashenskinned orc. Vargrim looked it over critically, then nodded slightly.
“It will be done. Stay in the city. I will have it ready to deliver by morning,” he half-grunted, lightly kicking one of his apprentices and pointing meaningfully at a crate underneath a nearby awning. His apprentice scrambled for it, returning with a half-juggled armload of clay jars and stained rags.
Vargrim waved dismissively at Kazimierz.“You should go.”
Kazimierz nodded. “Dabu. I will return,” he said, the taciturn blacksmith’s speech habits beginning to affect his own. The burning sensation around his shoulder wound had gotten worse, and he could feel the swelling even with the minimal movements of his sling-bound arm. A quick survey of the guards indicated the shaman of Orgrimmar tended to keep to a small valley off the highly populated areas, around a shallow lake of sorts. Dodging around a kodo team bearing a cart of ore, Kazimierz set off to find them.
The Forsaken and Kor’kron were no longer glaring covertly at each other in the central valley-the undead had set up a double row of tents on the periphery, where only a few still stood silent watch. The Kor’kron, meanwhile, had left the job of guarding them to the regular grunts, returning to their vigil over the Warchief and his staff. Kazimierz took little notice-the infection had gotten worse with astonishing speed during his trek, and his body began to shiver with fever. A climb up a spiral ramp, a right turn near the capitol fortress, and he was finally there. The buildings were of troll design, which surprised Kazimierz-Orgrimmar was first and foremost the new home of the orcs. The lake was smooth and still, reflecting the brilliant stars above, and a lone, white-furred tauren sat in silent contemplation outside. At Kazimierz’s stumbling approach, he turned his great horned head.
“Ish’ne alo, stranger…are you in need of help?” the tauren asked, ponderously rising to his feet. Kazimierz all but gawked at the shaman’s stature-he was literally head and shoulders above the orc, and built like one of the great bluffs themselves. Wordlessly, he presented his shoulder, swollen and turning an ugly yellow-orange around the edges of the torn skin.
The tauren frowned, running his odd two-fingered hand lightly over the wound. “What caused this? It is badly infected.”
Kazimierz hissed in pain, trying not to jump as the shaman poked and prodded. “A harpy. Wretched bird-thing came upon me in the canyons south of here.”
“They are unclean creatures,” the taruen rumbled. “And they have little respect for the life or land of others. You 'rre lucky, I think, to have escaped so relatively unscathed as you are. A little burn and a gash are light payment for your life, to be sure.”
He inspected Kazimierz’s broken arm and chuckled softly. “You are twice lucky today, it seems. The spirits will not distinguish one hurt from another, and so I think you will miss out on the greater part of your punishment.”
Kazimierz grinned wryly. “Some good came of this journey, then. It’s been difficult to do my duties one-handed.” He bowed as well as he could while his arm was being held. “Kazimierz, son of Ro’al. May I ask your name?”
T
he tauren nodded calmly. “Kun Sunfur, I am called. Be still now-I must cleanse the disease before the wound will heal properly.”
Kazimierz felt a soothing wind swirl lazily up around him, and sensed a peaceful presence within it…
No comments:
Post a Comment