The Travels of Gazkra, Orc

[Acherontia]

Gazkra woke to what sounded like birdsong--high-pitched chirps of some kind. Blinking, she sat up and checked her wounds; they were sore, but not infected. In fact, considering the age of the injuries, they were coming along well--the ones on her leg and arm seemed to be closing already. She had no idea what time it was; she planned to check on Uden, the black worg, and--

There was a horrible squeal from outside. Gazkra jerked in surprise, then grabbed her bow and quiver and rushed down the creaking stairs, intending to find the source of the sound. Her first horrified thought was that perhaps the worg she'd dragged into town with her had gotten loose--mauled a child, or a chicken or cat. Two Forsaken men, looking distinctly temperamental--perhaps disturbed from their routine by this brash green newcomer--favored her with sour glares.

"Don't break the damn door down," one snarled as she rushed out. A quick glance left and right, oddly enough, showed her nothing out of the ordinary--whatever the sound had been, the few townspeople weren't concerned. The place was shrouded in fog, cool and muddy--it had been raining.

Another squeal sounded, but this one was far quieter--and it faded into a croak as she tramped through the mud to the building of its origin. There came a deep, coarse laughter from within--and as she poked her head into the half-open door, she could see an undead man standing in the shadows beyond. He was swathed in the black robes of the Forsaken apothecaries, and he was looking down at a frog--probably the source of the cries. The poor creature was on its back, kicking out weakly; after a moment, it fell still.

"Ahh, Umpi," the man grinned, leering at the horrified orc, while somehow still focusing his words at the frog. "I'll reanimate you in an hour or so, and then we can test the second batch!" He lurched into what sounded like a cross between a cackle and a cough, fixing Gazkra again with a bare-toothed, menacing smile; she backed quickly away with a shudder.

These people were not her people: the sooner she was gone from here, the better. And she could see that the other orc here--Krusk--agreed; as she approached the stables, she spotted him shaking his head near a water well, looking distinctly disgusted.

Gazkra made her way to the stables; she found the worg, Uden, still snoozing quietly in the hay. She opened the door to his roomy stall and called him out; blinking at her through bleary, tired eyes, he slowly rose and stretched.

It occurred to her now that she hadn't thought to check the worg's wounds. During their fight in the trees--and later, in the snowy mountains--she'd lashed and even stabbed him with her dagger. There was every possibility the wounds could become infected. She began to speak to him, soothing with her voice, as she knelt beside him and had a good look at his legs, chest and ribs; he had lacerations and a couple punctures hidden beneath the thick fur. But by the looks of things, he'd done a pretty good job of licking the wounds clean; all were free of dirt and other debris, and none were still bleeding. Satisfied--but making a mental note to keep checking them--Gazkra turned and led the wolf outside.

At the inn, she bought a large ham; this she shredded, splitting it. She took a third for herself--and even this was a good-sized meal. The rest she tossed to Uden, who'd been eyeing it intently. He seized it in his jaws and moved off a few paces, pinning it with his massive forepaws in order to better tear it to pieces. Gazkra ate more slowly--but only barely; she was terribly hungry, weak from the previous days' travel and battle.

As soon as she'd eaten, she went back to find Krusk. A friendly enough Forsaken woman pointed her beyond the orchard. Gazkra thanked the woman and made her way through the eerie trees; the fog twisted through their dead, clawed forms, making the tilled earth look bare and menacing. Beyond, there was an old caravan; here, a couple of orcs sat around an anvil, laughing heartily.

"Krusk," Gazkra nodded. He grunted back, tipping his head in greeting. "I'm heading off toward Durnholde now. You want me to do what, just look for your orcs?" She shifted, the wound in her leg bothering her slightly; her travel would not be swift.

"If you can find 'em, find 'em; otherwise, I want numbers--see how much iron they got." He spat on the ground, and Gazkra eyed him.

"I'm injured," she growled. "I'm gonna to be slow, and I'm gonna be weak. You want to tell me why exactly you're leaving this to an injured orc, while you stay here and rest?"

"Two reasons," he replied at once. "First off, I'm a warrior--I'm no good at sneaking," he sneered. "Second, if they DO catch you, you're a stranger; if they catch me, they'll know I'd tailed them. They'll know we know where our warriors are, and they'll know to move them or expect a fight."

"Humans don't know one orc from another," Gazkra replied disdainfully. "If they find me, they'll move them or be ready for an assault. But," and here she held up her hand to stop Krusk from interrupting, "I'll do it. You're right, they'll see you coming--and these wounds will keep me from doing anything stupid, like running across an open field."

Krusk muttered something, but then nodded sharply. "I'm serious when I say I'm just not cut out for scouting. Good luck, sister."

Gazkra nodded back and turned; she was not one to dawdle. Instead, she quickly checked her bow, quiver and dagger; then she turned and made her way to the edge of the orchard, so that she could peer down into the valley below.

Durnholde Keep was faintly visible at the foothills opposite, the sheer gray stone jutting broken and worn into the sky. Gazkra took a deep breath and turned, eyeing Uden, who had come up beside her and was following her gaze.

"Going that way, wolf. If you want to come, come; otherwise, now is the time to go home to Silverpine." She raised an eyebrow; the worg looked at her, seemed to almost consider her words and then simply looked down into the valley.

With a grunt, Gazkra hoisted herself onto the boulder before her and lowered herself down the other side, dropping to the grass and making her way into the field below. The worg picked his way carefully along the stone and trotted up behind her, clearly intending to come with her. She shrugged to herself; she'd fed the beast twice now--or three times, even? Now he probably saw her as a source of food, if not a pack leader. That was fine; she was an orc. They lived like worgs anyway--hell, they lived with them, back home. She could deal with one lone tagalong.

Half an hour later, they passed through a stand of towering pine. Beyond, the valley dipped below them, stretching out far into the distance; a shadow fell here and sank the place in a brown gloom. Dusk would soon fall; Gazkra tried to speed her steps.

It took nearly an hour to cross the valley and to climb the hills at the far side. Her leg was truly beginning to ache. Let a human try this--trekking through the wilderness after being gored by a worg's tusklike fangs! She grinned at the thought, and this spurred her on, her orc determination pushing her forward.

The stone walls of the keep loomed closer now, and she got her first good look at them. Durnholde was heavily fortified, even if it was in a state of disrepair--the encroaching wilderness had taken its toll. Throngs of vines wrapped their way along the great gray blocks; bushes and trees crowded the battered walls. But the walls were still far too tall to climb, and too thick to break through with anything bar a ballista; Gazkra would need to find an entrance somewhere, preferably unguarded. She certainly didn't feel up to the task of fighting, let alone disposing of corpses...

Ahead, she found an overgrown trail worn alongside the wall. It didn't look frequented; the track was covered in weeds and leaves. But it was free of heavy brush, and it allowed her to move pressed up against the stone--in other words, it provided cover from prying eyes.

Moving into a crouch, she slipped onto the path. She kept a close eye on the ground before her--looking for traps or signs of passage--and to the south, watching for guards or human passersby. Behind her, the great black worg moved just as stealthily--perhaps sensing her caution--and sniffed the ground warily as they went. Gazkra crept up to the side of the wall.

Ahead, she could hear voices; they were faint, but clearly speaking in Common. She couldn't make out the words from here--wouldn't understand them anyway, if she could--but she could tell that there were two people talking.

She took a cautious step, and then another, careful not to break a twig with her feet or do anything equally stupid. Finally, drawing close to the edge of the trees, she could see the light of torches in the distance. They glowed brightly in the failing light, and gave her a point of reference as she slipped closer.

Finally she crouched, and held a restraining hand out to stop the worg.

Ahead, she could pick a large, empty gateway from the darkness--there were no doors, simply a wide gap in the stone. And on either side stood an armed guard--speaking, but still cautious, throwing darting glances at the darkening trees around them.

Gazkra took a deep breath. One entrance, two guards. This wasn't going to be easy...

[Acherontia]

Chapter 5

Gazkra stared from her perch in the shadows, willing the human guards to leave. She'd been crouched for around an hour, waiting, one hand resting lightly on the hulking shoulders of the black worg waiting beside her. And he, thankfully, seemed to have enough sense not to make noise or wander about before the pinkskins--or attack them outright.

She had crept around the entire outer wall of the keep, and found no other entry point--and the walls, though battered, were sheer and steep. There were no other points of entry that she could find, bar perhaps one particularly well-guarded area in the rear. She was fairly certain she'd seen a flash of green flesh past that point--one of the orc prisoners, no doubt--but she hadn't been able to get close enough to be sure. If she HAD gotten close enough, she was sure the orc inside would have thought her mad--wanting to break into an orc internment camp, rather than out? Hell, she thought, she probably was crazy.

In any case, she was now simply waiting, hoping that eventually the humans would leave the gate empty, even for a moment. A change of guard, perhaps, or retiring to sleep as morning came? But so far, the same two humans had been waiting there, talking now and then, clearly displaying large torches and long, thin swords. In her current state, there was little chance of taking them on--even alongside the worg currently resting beside her.

Eventually, Uden--"Help" in Common, and what Gazkra had laughingly named the worg who the humans had screamed the word upon seeing--seemed to grow bored with it all. Shaking his thick ruff and grunting in what sounded like a distinctly irritated growl, the worg turned and slipped off into the shadows. Gazkra tried to stop him at first, hissing a warning--but he wasn't her pet, only a creature she'd fed a few times, and she had no control over the beast. She watched him vanish into the darkness, wondering if he was heading home, back to Silverpine Forest--and found herself hoping that he made the journey safely and without incident.

"Incident" being attacking Tarren Mill on the way past, landing her in serious trouble.

Lights suddenly flared; the humans were moving. Gazkra turned her attention back to them. One was simply walking away, away from her position and from his post, torch held high. Perhaps he was in need of... relief? In any case, the other human seemed loathe to leave him alone, and followed him closely, sword drawn.

Gazkra did not wait. She leapt to her feet, grimacing at the pain shooting along her legs--she hadn't moved in an hour or more, and the pain of cramped muscles bit at her. She pushed it away and ran low to the ground as quietly as possible, keeping behind the cover of the bushes, and leapt into the keep in a blur of shadow. There were no other humans in sight--no need to fight straightaway, then. Good. She glanced quickly about, casting for cover, and spotted a low bridge ahead. It would have to do; she raced to this and dropped into a crouch behind the supports at the far end.

There was a scuffling sound, and suddenly Uden was beside her, panting and looking rather pleased with himself. Gazkra had no time to react, to accidentally attack him--instead she simply sat there for a moment, staring blankly at the worg. And it clicked at once--he was the reason the humans had moved. He'd probably rustled the brush on the far side of the road, attracting their attention long enough for the orc and worg to both slip into the keep unnoticed. Once again, despite having been raised around the creatures, Gazkra found herself awed by the worg's intelligence.

"Well, then," she murmured, ruffling the fur between his ears. He turned and glanced at her, expression neither affectionate nor annoyed, but rather businesslike and calm. "Let's see what we can find." She stood and peered about, moving with silent caution. The sky was a dark, stormy blue-gray--the roiling shade which one only saw at dawn or dusk. Gazkra scowled and peered skyward, then ahead; there were no sentinels on the outer walls or the hill above, and no sound drifted to her through the cold, still air.

A few ruined buildings, rotting wooden guard towers and a couple long-dead trees stood here. Broken, crumbling stone and filthy gravel filled the keep from wall to wall; there was no greenery, and no sign of life whatsoever. Taking a deep breath, she turned and made her way along the path, paved with broken cobblestones eaten through by half-trampled brown weeds. This place was old, and somehow eerie; perhaps it was only the sky, the silence and the chill, but she felt as if a thousand ghosts of orcs long dead roamed the ruins in search of peace--or revenge. Saying a silent prayer to the spirits under her breath, she made her way toward the edge of what looked like a large, square pit.

She knelt at the edge of a slab of stone overlooking the pit from high above, taking care not to get too close to the edge. It was indeed a pit; rusted metal fencing, more cracked stone and rotting wood... It looked like this was the part of the camp that the orcs had been kept in. With any luck, this was where she'd find them. At the far end, she could see the light from a guard's torch casting a flickering glow on the stone wall; the guard himself was just out of sight around the corner of a building. Another was patrolling slowly along the road between her and the pit itself, and she pulled back as he passed by.

There were several of these buildings--long, low-slung barracks--perched in the sunken area of the keep. Perhaps--

Uden suddenly spun, growling deep in his throat; a frantic shout, incomprehensible to Gazkra, came from behind. She whipped around, drawing her bow as quickly as she could: a human, a female with leather armor, was racing toward her with a sword drawn in one hand and a torch in the other. Her face was covered with a red cloth--the sign the rogues of the area wore. The human was a close-combat specialist, and Gazkra realized at once that her bow would be nigh on useless.

Before she could even consider her approach, though, Uden had leapt forward with a guttural snarl. The massive black worg collided with the human heavily--had he not been lunging uphill, she would have been thrown clear. As it was, though, she was simply knocked away, and Uden's jaws and huge, powerful tusklike fangs were quickly jammed around her sword-arm.

With a cry of fear the human tried to break loose, the weapon dropped at once; she waved her torch menacingly and shouted an alarm.

"GET DOWN," hissed Gazkra--and somehow, by some miracle, the worg obeyed. The instant he dropped, so did the woman; with a clear shot and an immobilized target, the orc huntress's aim was dead-on. She did not even cry out.

Gazkra quickly pulled the pinkskin's body under cover, hauling it against a nearby wall and covering it with a rotting plank. As fast as she could move, she raced up the hill, heading in the direction from which the woman had come--if she had been a patrol, it meant that the area ahead was, with any luck, no longer guarded. Grunting, the orc hauled herself over a fence, and Uden followed; she pressed herself against the next building and slid to the edge.

An opening--it couldn't quite be called a door, but perhaps a big hole was accurate--ahead blazed with sudden light. A man's cry came from the inside, calling out--so someone had heard the rogue's cry, and was coming to her aid.

A bit late, thought Gazkra grimly. She waited until the man tore through the door; he had a staff in his hand and wore nothing more than a thin robe. Her first thought was that it was not a fair fight--she was an orc, and honor was more important than anything. Killing an unarmed--

A painful shock jarred her entire body and she found herself flung back, strange sounds and dark images flooding her mind. When she was finally able to blink this nightmare away, she found the man fighting Uden--he was a sorcerer of some kind, and strong. Twice he knocked the worg away, and twice Uden leapt back into the fight; Gazkra didn't feel anywhere near as sorry for the man as she grimly took aim and let loose two arrows in quick succession.

The man collapsed, gasping, and quickly fell still; Uden went to him at once, biting at the staff and sniffing over the man's body. Gazkra pulled the robe aside, casting about in the man's tunic and quickly finding a key on a thin silver chain. There were some papers, too, and although she didn't recognize the writing on them, she took them anyway. They could be orders of some kind, or a report--something useful to that useless warrior of an orc back in Tarren Mill.

[Acherontia]

Gazkra turned and crept into the broken building, wary of more guards, be they rogues or wizards. But she found no opposition left--merely a wounded orc male, unarmed and dressed only in his leather battle harness and gear. He had no traveling cloak to keep him warm, nor fire nearby; for a creature so suited for hot climates, he must be freezing.

Gazkra made as if to pull off her own cloak, but before she could take a step, the orc stopped her.

"Well, hurry up then," he said shortly. "I don't need that--the key, just give me the key, sister!"

She hastened to hand him the silver chain. He grunted his thanks and turned to work on the heavy iron ball chained to his ankle, speaking quickly as he did so.

"Gol'dir finally worked up the guff to get us out, then, I take it. Or did the Warchief come down here himself?" he added, favoring Gazkra with a glance of dark humor.

"Krusk sent me, Gol'dir is still missing--where are the others?"

"I'll get Drull out myself--bottom hut, I think. Rest, don't know. Six years," he added, and without explanation, strode from the building.

"Distract them," he said suddenly, pointing; his sweeping arm took in several guards making their way--rather quickly--up the road toward them. "They've been alarmed." With that, he turned and dropped over the edge of the pit and out of sight.

Gazkra blinked, but had no time to consider; with a warning cry and a battle whoop, she leapt into clear view of the humans. They would otherwise quickly find their escaped prisoner, and her infiltration would have been for nothing.

They saw her at once and immediately gave chase, racing up toward her little overlook. She waited until they had rounded the corner and slowed, approaching with some caution; when they were almost near enough to fire upon, she simply turned and leapt over the fence, dropping down onto the very path up which they'd just raced. Then she sprinted--as fast as her wounded leg would allow, anyway, if it could be called sprinting--along the stone.

"You'd better not screw up, brother!" she yelled as she went, hoping fervently that the prisoner--Tog'thar, if she remembered right--didn't get himself killed or caught.

The guards pursued, and alarm cries rang out; within a few seconds, more torches were appearing from towers and doorways around the keep. Uden ran right beside her, and for a second she was tempted to leap onto his back--but he was still injured, and still half-wild, and if she did that she might find herself fighting him as well as the pinkskins.

"Go, wolf, go," she hissed, panting. She was urging herself on as much as him; arrows whistled past her head, lodging themselves with firm THWACKS into the wood on either side of the gate. With a bellowed challenge to them all, she raced out the front of the keep and into the darkness, feet pounding the dirt heavily. She ran clear across the road and into the treeline beyond, and then dropped into a sudden, skidding crouch in the deep blackness beneath some particularly thick brush. She managed to haul the startled worg down with her; with a growl of protest he dropped beside her.

From her vantage point she could see them pouring from the keep, spreading like burning water--the light from their torches moving into the trees and along the path before the gate. She would need to wait here, and to provide an extra distraction should they pull back--she needed to keep a clear opening for the orcs to get out.

As it turned out, it wasn't necessary; she noticed the two shadows slip across the brightly-lit keep entrance and into the darkness along the walls. Gazkra quickly stood and made her way around the clearly-visible and rather foolish human guards, their torches blazing beacons to avoid, and fell in behind the two prisoners a few minutes later.

"Are you okay to travel?" she said softly. They turned, the strange one more startled than the one whom she had freed, and both replied with a simple "Yes."

"This way, then," the she-orc told them with a nod, and moved ahead--Uden at her side--to lead the way to freedom.

[Mozag]

Ache, this is fantastic! Your story is very well written and entertaining, but I have to say that at times those amazing screenies pretty much steal the show. Just wow, I'm so glad you've updated this, since I'd missed it before!

[Acherontia]

Thanks! It's been FOREVER in updating, but I still have the plot clear in my mind. Of course, I didn't think it had actually been this long... I almost feel like I'm necroing my own thread. Well, I guess I am. BUT STILL...


(I have no actual point to make.)

[Pawtrack]

This is so cool! Can't wait to read more!

[Lupis]

O.O
Mind = blown. Why did I never see this?
I adore how you write. You have the specific skill I lack - the ability to add details that are entertaining instead of boring. I actually read through the entire thing without skipping paragraphs, like many books have me doing.
And, of course, I really, really want to make a hunter just to tame a black worg now. Uden is amazing, such an interesting beast.

I'll point out that you're using a whole lot of semicolons, but I don't have any real opinion on that myself. Many people dislike it when authors use lots of semicolons, but they seem to help the flow here.

[Acherontia]

Thank you! And the semicolon overuse has been pointed out to me before, that's how TERRIBLE I am with it. Sometimes when I'm writing something "for real," I need to go back and remove about 3/4 of them and rewrite their sentences entirely

It's possible it wasn't seen because it's massively old, by the way--I seem to have necroed my own story

[Lupis]

Well good, because I love it! Want moar.

You're making me want to write more again. Argh. xD
Maybe I'll write about... ...Uh...
And THAT'S why I don't write much WoW Fanfiction!

[Snowwalker]

Count me in as loyal reader!
Beautifully done!

[Saturo]

Well-written as usual. Makes me want to post the story I wrote about my deathknight. :D

[Acherontia]

Thanks guys (Saturo, I'd love to read that, you should definitely post it!) New chapter inc...

Chapter 6

They struggled on through the thick fog, sweating even in the chill of the night air. The humans had long since abandoned chase or, perhaps, lost the trail. They were not well-known as creatures close to the land, and it was unlikely they would be able to follow the sign left in the wilderness by orcs, even tired, atrophied prisoners.

They crept on through the wet underbrush, flicking away the clinging, sickly mist. Rest stops were frequent and long; the orcs that had broken out of Durnholde were not in good physical shape. But Gazkra patiently urged them on, sometimes aided by her black worg's irritated growl--and that, if not her voice, always got the others to their feet, glancing warily at Uden's long fangs.

Long before dawn's rays caressed the hillsides, the orcs were safely tucked into the rotted buildings of Tarren Mill. Gazkra spoke at length to Krusk--he would debrief his exhausted, long-missing men in the morning. Meanwhile, though, he had had news--and a reward for the orc.

"New set of armor," he grunted. "Full Orgrimmar kit--and there's a reason. You're gonna be doing a real specific mission for us. They want you to look the part."

Gazkra hauled on the boots and the spiked shoulders, grimacing; they were a tight fit, but with wear, the leather would become comfortable enough. As she adjusted the heavy gloves, Krusk leaned back and took a breath, and then spoke at length of strange attacks on the supply lines running all the way from Tirisfal to the foothills of Hillsbrad.

"They seem to be hitting in two places, mainly, and that's right around Hillsbrad entrance, after the guard towers--and here," he said, pointing to a crude, worn map in his right hand, "as the road curves around past Gilnean territory. Well," he added with a cough, glancing uneasily about at the stern gazes of the Forsaken guards, "contested--erm, Sylvanas's new lands." He shot Gazkra a look that brimmed with meaning. The Forsaken considered Gilneas theirs, and Krusk had probably just stepped on a couple toes with his thoughtless words.

"Never mind it," Gazkra snapped, eager to rest. "What's the point, brother?!"

"Well, my scouts have picked up a few hints of who it could be--nothing major, mind you. In fact, the enemy seems to be covering their steps... very well. Very well." He cast another wary glance at the Forsaken, who seemed to be wholly ignoring him, but Gazkra knew that one could never be sure. "It could be those Grom-damned Worgen--coming out of Gilneas. I doubt it. We'll see." He grunted and thrust several rolled parchments, sealed with black ribbons, into Gazkra's hands.

She thrust them right back. "I intend to SLEEP now, Krusk," she snarled.

He scowled, struggling to keep the reports from falling to the ground. "Fine," he sighed, "no point travelling on no sleep. Get a few hours' shuteye. Then I want you on the road. Sepulcher," he said, shoving one of the reports back at her. "Forsaken High Command," and then came the second report, "and this one..." He held the last one up, waving it before her with a look of warning in his eyes. She caught a glimpse of writing scrawled on the outer ribbon in a spidery scrawl; this one read "Lady" something. "This one goes to the Undercity. To the Dark Lady," Krusk said, his voice now subdued. "You want to be careful talkin' to her. She isn't known for... being much of a laugh," he finished quietly, glancing at the guards once more.

"I'm going to sleep; I'll deal with these first thing in the morning. And see if you can get me some water for a bath or something; I stink like a pig in a closet."

* * * * *

First thing in the morning, as promised, Gazkra rose. The few hours of sleep had been enough. She found a basin of tepid water waiting, and washed without complaint, making sure to dry her skin thoroughly before trying to pull on the new armor. Leather and wet skin was never a good combination.

She glanced over the scrolls--they had small tags attached, each one listing their destination. She found a piece of cloth in the corner, ragged and dirty, and wrapped the reports in it, tying it and slinging it around the back of her quiver.

Outside the inn, her worg Uden awaited; he'd been cared for overnight by the stable master and looked refreshed.

"If you please, Ma'am," said a soft-spoken Forsaken at her shoulder. "Theodore Mont-Claire." He held out one bony hand and she took it; with a polite, brief shake, he turned to Uden. "Your gentleman friend--er, your superior? Krusk. He said you would be requiring some speed on your journey. I have taken the liberty of fitting you a saddle--we have several spare, you see, and your worg was amenable enough to handling. I believe he would be willing to carry you. Alternatively we have several Forsaken horses in the stable, but ours are draught animals, not built for speed. The bat handler isn't expecting a bat in for a few hours, either. Krusk was rather insistent that you make some haste." He eyed her inquisitively, and she smiled, disarmed by his grace and class. He seemed to insist on being professional and friendly, and she answered in kind.

"If you think he will carry me, I'm willing to try it, Mister Mont-Claire."

"Oh, Theodore, please," he replied, sweeping himself into a low bow. He led Uden into the stables, and Gazkra followed; he showed her how to latch the saddle to the worg and how exactly to mount.

"Krusk told me that you use the harness laces here--and here," he said, pulling Gazkra's hands lightly onto two leather straps behind Uden's shoulders, "to guide the worg. They don't use reins liks horses do, not exactly."

Gazkra nodded. "I rode a bit when I was quite young. I appreciate the help, Theodore."

The mild-mannered Forsaken bowed again, and Gazkra carefully shifted her weight about on Uden's back. The worg seemed to wholly ignore her, unperturbed by her presence on his back. He felt solid and warm, and Gazkra knew he'd be able to carry her weight without issue.

"Right then, let's go," she grunted, and gently kicked the worg's sides. He lurched into a fast lope, turning toward the road, paws scratching heavily at the rough stone as he went.

For a time, all she could hear was the heaving of the wolf's breath and the eerie rush of wind through the towering trees. The land went by in a slow, green blur, the blue mist fading as the road slipped down toward Silverpine. Crumbled towers, long-since forgotten by man or orc, stood sentry on the roadside. Wild horses raced into the meadows at her approach, and once she heard the distant roar of a bear echoing over the hillside. As the trees thinned out, the sounds of fighting became apparent; the Forsaken dark rangers were busy thinning out the Worgen infiltrators in the area. Gazkra shuddered at the sounds of snarls and yelps breaking into screams, the hissing of spiders and shot arrows ripping the silence apart. Uden slowed and turned, pricking up his ears, but (luckily) obeyed Gazkra's urging to move on.

They broke through the Southpoint Gate not long after, and the otherworldly sounds of southern Silverpine Forest soon surrounded them. The cries of unknown birds, the howling of distant wolves and a strange melodic sound like far-off wind chimes drifted to their ears. The road was dark and wet, and Uden had to slow his steps for fear of slipping. At a slow trot, they made their way down toward the Forsaken front.

[Acherontia]

Gazkra paused on a whim, turning Uden toward the Greymane Wall: this was something she had never seen in person. In fact, on her travel toward Alterac, she'd been pursuing Uden through the forests--she had entirely avoided the brewing battle.

Clusters of purple tents were set up at the edge of the battlefield. Great plague machines--catapults and the tanks of green fluid and some other vehicles whose purpose she could not determine--perched around the edges of the encampment. Abominations and guards strode to and fro, and grim-faced Forsaken workers unloaded barrels and crates from wagons at the roadside. Nearer the front, great tattered blue banners drifted to and fro in the wind, weighted by the damp and stained with blood.

And then, through the clinging fog, Gazkra spotted the Greymane Wall itself: a great, splintered silhouette shrouded in the fog on the horizon. Gazkra slipped off of Uden's back and took a step or two forward, eyes widened in awe.

"They know how to build a defense," she said softly to her worg. He grumbled as if in agreement.

For several long moments she simply stood, looking up at the wall and wondering about the ingenuity and tenacity of the Gilneans--of a people besieged.

Then Uden was nudging her wrist, growling quietly. They had best move on. Her mission was important, and stalling wouldn't do.

For a time they rode on in silence, the encampments and sounds of war slipping past and growing distant. Gazkra's thoughts turned to the task at hand, and she found herself wondering what it was which attacked the Horde supply lines by night, leaving neither survivors nor any trace of the ravagers at the scene. Krusk had explained it all in detail before handing her the reports, telling her about how sometimes the supplies were completely untouched, sometimes strewn about as if searched through.

"It's like someone made a mess of things just to make it look like the caravans were attacked for the supplies themselves, when that's not what they're after," he'd said.

Gazkra was broken suddenly out of her thoughts once more by Uden, who stopped so suddenly that she was nearly thrown to the rock path. He was staring intently into the bushes to their left, ears pricked, a low growl quickly dying into silence in his throat. Gazkra slipped from his back and drew her bow at once, edging toward the treeline.

There was nothing visible, at first; she crept forward and pushed through the brush, peering toward a grassy meadow beyond. Uden abruptly shouldered her aside and stook a few steps forward, staring fixedly at a point at the far end. Gazkra followed his gaze and spotted it: another wolf, one of the slender plains-running types, limping through the brush. The animal was clearly diseased, and probably by the Forsaken: a plague-cloud twisted about its head and shoulders, drifting from myriad rotting wounds and bone-exposed limbs.

The wounds were beyond the orc's power to heal, and the creature seemed to be in no pain. Its senses were likely dulled from disease, and it hadn't yet noticed them, and so she pulled Uden back and slipped away from the trees.

Soon, old wooden signs pegged into the roadside began announcing their approach to the Sepulcher. This was the first of the drop-off points for the reports; accordingly Gazkra turned Uden toward the road which split away into the hills. Ahead, the land sloped upward; as Uden picked up speed, hauling them up the steep incline, the trees gave way to tombstones which jutted like rotting teeth from the earth. They made their way between them, Gazkra nodding to the Forsaken Dreadguards stationed along the road.

As they entered the Sepulcher--aptly named, she thought: a dreary, silent grave of a town--a Forsaken guard on horseback suddenly barred their way. His steed was large and well-armored in indigo tones, eye sockets devoid of any spark of life or intelligence; the rider was much the same.

"Are you the messenger, Orc?" he growled, his voice like rocks crumbling together.

"I am," Gazkra replied, fetching the Sepulcher's report from her back. This she handed him; he flicked away the black ribbon and unrolled the parchment to read. For a moment he simply muttered to himself, half reading aloud, and then his words broke into an angry shout.

"Not Worgen, not Human, well what the hell is it then? What good is an intelligence report with NO INTELLIGENCE?"

The Dreadguard threw the parchment down and his horse, as if in one mind with his rider, stamped upon it, shredding the paper. His eyes now glowed with malevolence, which he fixed upon Gazkra in a glare.

"What good is this, then?" he hissed.

Gazkra eyed the long, silver sword dangling at the guard's hip, unafraid but readying herself for a fight; Uden growled a deep-throated warning. The Forsaken, as if only just noticing her wolf, pulled back somewhat, eyeing him with distrust.

"Control your pet."

"Ahh, control," Gazkra said, her voice as easy as leaves on a breeze. The breeze turned into a gale when next she spoke, eyeing the Dreadguard with a steely gaze. "Something you may want to learn, Forsaken. Or did you forget that I am a messenger for the Dark Lady? A soldier of Garrosh Hellscream? I don't know if you've ever heard the phrase 'don't kill the messenger,' my friend, but it's something you might want to avoid trying. My worg is under complete control, and I will not hesitate to use him to end you should you push me to it." Her eyes flashed, and she wheeled Uden away without waiting for a response from the dumbstruck guard.

"They get put in charge of a few skeletons for a week and they think that they're Generals," she laughed to the black worg as they ran. The wolf almost seemed to shake with mirth in response, and Gazkra gently patted his maned neck. "Well, on to the High Command post, then."

They stood aside to let a carriage pass--a heavy, well-armored thing, drawn by a subdued Ettin. Gazkra looked after it in some wonder as it passed.

There were no creatures like it in Durotar, and no wheeled vehicles quite so large. Even the taurens' kodo-drawn caravans couldn't rival these for size! Only perhaps the war machines of new Orgrimmar--

Uden was wheezing, and Gazkra dismounted at once. The worg was mostly healed from his previous wounds, but mostly was not completely and the orc did not wish to push him past the limits of his strength. She walked alongside him, pulling the saddle onto her own back to further rest him. Ahead, strange violet lantern glow shone upon the road, signifying their passage into northern Silverpine.

As they walked, the eerie howling of the plagued wolves began to be answered by the rougher, heartier sound of healthy worgs. The latter replied in kind, howling and snarling into the evening air, challenging their smaller, sicklier brethren to dare cross the territorial line they'd drawn. Gazkra's mouth drew into a grim smile: the idea of the worgs holding off the plague by nature of their sheer tenacity amused her, and the situation made her think of the line of healthy, fierce orcs holding off the strange sickness that was the Forsaken. She didn't mind the undead individually, but as a race... She thought of their plans, the strange way their minds worked, the sad hatred that seemed to grip their people. She feared for the future of the orcs, the tauren, the trolls, and even the pompous elves, if the Forsaken continued to aim for undeath as a final goal.

Hell, she thought to herself, perhaps it was the Undead themselves attacking the supply lines. Perhaps they had some strange ulterior motive...

[Acherontia]

They crested a hill, and Gazkra had to stop to look. The view was breathtaking... and chilling. Bats swarmed the air as evening fell into dusk. The violet lights glowed upon the stone path toward the High Command, leaving it in an eerie sort of half-light. The Forsaken had taken their abandoned, diseased land and changed it into something magnificent, if frightening.

Uden turned, clearly unimpressed with the view, and made his way off the road to sniff about in the bushes. Gazkra suddenly realized that they weren't at all far from the place where she'd originally found the worg--that he might decide to simply wander off then and there.

But to her relief, he seemed uninterested in leaving her. Instead he wandered back, glancing at her to see where she was heading, and moved in front to lead the way slowly toward the Forsaken High Command outpost.

Here she quickly found the leader of operations. He was swathed in brown and golden robes, his face masked; he was overseeing a pit of corpses which weren't yet smelling too strongly. He barked orders at Forsaken workers as he walked around the edge, shouting at the undead closest to him.

"And WHEN is the next cart due, did you say? ...What do you mean it only just left? The Dark Lady will NOT be pleased with our speed. We need... twenty, thirty more corpses in the next hour if we're to keep this up!" He leaned toward the man, listening to the mumbled reply intently, then nodded and began once more shouting far too loudly. Perhaps his hearing was impaired by undeath, Gazkra thought to herself--or his listener's was.

"Good, good, have them bring them here, then. YES, the pit, you fool!" He began to grumble to himself, turning away, and found Gazkra standing there waiting, Uden at her side.

She handed him the report. "News from Tarren Mill," she explained curtly. He nodded, clearly appreciative of her brevity, and like the last guard, quickly unrolled the scroll to read.

"Yes, yes... to be expected. Ahh, well, I suppose it doesn't help any, but a hint is a hint... we'll see down the road..." He thanked her bluntly, then turned back to his workers. "NO, you idiot! I have no time to call in extra healers, don't go breaking their damn arms to get them in! They are resurrected how they ARE, don't break any more." His walk broke into a stumbling run as he tried to head off his bumbling assistants, and Gazkra (shaking her head) turned and made her way back to the road.

"Well then, Uden," she said to her worg softly, patting him on the neck. "The Dark Lady herself last, right? Sylvanas Windrunner." She led the worg down the long road into Tirisfal, night falling like a death shroud over the tainted land. "I'll be glad to get some grub--oh, and I bet you will too," she added with a grin. An orc could travel for days with no food, but they ate a lot, and she was already damn hungry. "Right then, I think it's this way..."

The glittering lake of Lordaeron slipped past in a stretch of shining silver. The thick pine forests gave way to meadows broken by decrepit stone walls, derelict guard towers staring blindly into the night. In no time at all the outer walls of the Ruins of Lordaeron jutted from the treeline, jagged grey-white stone glowing like old bones in the moonlight.

They reached the gate of the Ruins around, appropriately enough, midnight. The city front was lit by the lanterns on the roadside, and the glow of the rotting wooden zeppelin towers nearby, but it still gave off an air of abandoned darkness. For the first time since joining her, Uden seemed hesitant, and when Gazkra soothed the worg, she felt almost as if she were reassuring herself, as well.

"Everything will be fine, wolf, you'll see. At least I hope so. One way to find out--and this orc was raised no coward."

[Acherontia]

Chapter 7

The mist hung heavy and pale, a wet shroud over the night. It dampened all sound, oppressive and clinging.

Gazkra shivered. She could not think of any place more forlorn, any abode more suited to the miserable race which dwelled here beneath the earth. She picked her way carefully through the dimly-lit ruins that marked the entrance to the Undercity, grimacing at the rotten stink that wafted up from the dirt despite the smothering wet.

For a capital city, she thought--for the cultural center (if it could be called that) of a race which endeavored to become the major power in this world, the Forsaken certainly did not care to clean up their welcome mat. Or perhaps they believed that unmarked ruins were the best representation of their society--or the best way of hiding it, for safety's sake. Whatever the case, the place felt empty and yet full of sad history, as if ghosts were watching, haunting the crumbling city. Tales of horror, and many lives long lost, lurked just beneath the surface here.

And then, a good many of those lives had begun again, albeit not exactly in an ideal way.

Gazkra entered a tall, broad room, domed and sparkling with misty starlight. Gilded golden metalwork laced the dulled stone, marble which once glittered now shining dully from the floor. It was breathtaking, despite the covering of dust and grime, and she looked about herself in wonder. Uden padded along behind, somewhat less impressed, and nudged her into motion again abruptly.

"Yes, I know, important mission," Gazkra grumbled at the worg. She shot him an annoyed glance; the beast's shaggy black coat was but a shadow in the darkness, and his eyes seemed to glow with silver light.

The orc trudged on ahead, brushing her own shaggy black hair out of her face and peering into the blackness of the long hall ahead. The flicker of torchlight was barely visible at the end, a shifting gold-orange glow. She scowled--why the mystery? Why couldn't these fools just light up their damn hallways? Her straightforward orc sensibility clashed with these Forsaken, who seemed to want even their architecture to wallow in self-pity--

"Halt," came a strong, clear voice. It was female, and echoed with self-confidence and strength.

Gazkra's face split into a grin, and she quickened her pace rather than stop. "Orc! About time I see someone other than a skeleton," she growled.

She rounded the corner and found two Kor'kron orcs--brown-skinned and wary--waiting for her. Both were female, and clad heavily in plate battle armor. Both wielded menacing, spiked maces.

"But I forgot--Hellscream doesn't trust them to police themselves anymore, does he?" Gazkra remembered aloud, peering at each guard in turn. She saw bright brown eyes blink behind the face plates, and hearty laughter echoed from the right side of the hall.

"That's right, sister. These snivelling... Hrmph. Well, they're not all bad," the guard said, stopping herself and seeming lost in thought for a moment. "But some of them are, and we're here to make sure they don't do anything stupid."

"Right," Gazkra nodded. "Well, I'm here with a message from Krusk in the south, down at Tarren Mill. I've been sent to see Lady Sylvanas, to deliver this to her." Gazkra retrieved the rolled-up report from her pack, waving the scroll vaguely in the air before replacing it.

"The place is a bit of a maze, fair warning. Don't go into any of the dark alleys. They'll try to convince you to partake in one of their 'experiments' as soon as look at you. Stick to the main roads, and if you get lost, look for one of us--we have Hellscream's guard stationed pretty evenly throughout. You want the Apothecarium. Head down here--the elevator, see--and..."

Gazkra listened carefully, noting in her mind which turns to take and which hallways to follow.

"And any advice about speaking to the Lady?"

But the orcs both shook their heads. "She's reasonable, in any case--level-headed. On the surface, anyway." And with that mysterious comment, the orcs saluted and waved Gazkra into the elevator, whose doors had just snapped open with a menacing clang.

Uden followed her with hesitation, glancing around and growling softly at the strange, traplike room. When the elevator began to drop--with frightening speed--he dropped into a crouch and stared, wide-eyed, at the rapidly-receding ceiling. Gazkra reassured the worg with a pat and a word or two, and then the elevator was lurching to a stop.

They stepped out--both a bit wobbly--and found themselves passing more Kor'kron orc guards. In fact, there seemed to be a pair stationed at almost every doorway, passage, and hall. Hellscream sure as hell didn't trust these people, Gazkra thought to herself.

Uden stuck close to her side, his fur brushing her hip more often than not--although whether for his own reassurance or because he was feeling protective, Gazkra couldn't tell. In any case, she was too busy trying to navigate the maze she now found herself in.

Twisted, spidery signposts were everywhere, more confusing than helpful. Stone walkways and rotting wooden stairs perched precariously over bubbling rivers of green slime. She supposed that these were the Forsaken's idea of a nice water feature, of rivers in a park, but all they did for her was stink.

Tattered cloth banners of a variety of colors hung limp and stained over the gaping mouths of dark hallways. And over it all was the oddly hushed din of Forsaken speech--strange, almost obscene language flitting in and out of earshot. Skeletal men and women in various stages of halted decomposition were going about their business, sometimes shooting her wary glances. She turned and tried to get her bearings, picking her way over a bridge and into a large, dark, cavernous hall. This led to another, and this to another; eventually she swung onto Uden's back and urged him into a trot to speed up their travel.

The looks that the Forsaken flashed her as she reached deeper into the Undercity varied; apparently orcs weren't particularly welcome, or at least common, here. And it was no wonder, she thought; their military had pretty much stormed the place. Then again, it was the orcs who had liberated these, those loyal to Sylvanas, from the rebellion, probably saving a good number of them from death. In any case, the glances shot her way varied from mild curiosity to guarded to outright dislike. She found herself avoiding eye contact, simply going her way and ignoring those around her.

Once she reached the Apothecarium--where the sounds of bubbling cauldrons and the sickly-sweet smell of rotting flowers pervaded--she slowed. She was looking for another hallway from here, now, a great entrance to the Royal Quarter. And she soon found it: a wide stair, covered by well-armed Forsaken guards. She saluted them as she passed--a good number of them had been slaughtered by the previous uprising, meeting their deaths defending their dark queen to the last, fiercely loyal to the end. And loyalty was something the orc could appreciate, whatever else these people might be. They nodded, solemn-eyed, as she passed; she was in full Orgrimmar uniform and they did not challenge her presence. They could kill her in an instant, in any case, if she started trouble.

[Acherontia]

As Gazkra wound her way down the long hall, she caught a glimpse of the true "throne room" beyond. A huge raised dias, round and smooth, held the Dark Lady's assistants and ambassadors--but there was no queen to be seen. Instead, a harried-looking gray-haired orc in full Northrend battle armor was arguing with an irritated blood elf. Gazkra came forward, blinking, and waited for them to stop.

At length, they did, both noticing her presence and falling silent; the old orc cleared his throat and apologized.

"Did you have business here, orc? I am sorry, we have a few too many things going on at once. Ahh," he added, saluting, "I'm Bragor Bloodfist, Kor'kron Captain. I help the Dark Lady where I can, and I keep an eye on the whole of the Undercity--and command our forces here."

Gazkra looked him over briefly. His skin was green, like hers, and his face weathered. He was a warrior of her own blood. "My name is Gazkra. I have a report from Tarren Mill that I'm meant to take directly to Lady Windrunner," she replied, saluting in kind.

"She'll be back tomorrow--first thing in the morning, I imagine. Sleeping, I guess. Or hunting." Bloodfist glanced over Gazkra only briefly. "I suppose you'll need somewhere to stay the night--food, lodging." He turned and snapped his fingers, calling out, and a young brown-skinned orc was at his side a moment later. "Korgan, see if you can find a spare room for the scout. Be back at dawn," he added, flashing Gazkra a look of warning. "The Lady doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Gazkra nodded, and bowed to the young Kor'kron guard. He bowed back and turned, walking quickly, leading the way back out of the Royal quarter.

Twenty minutes' worth of walking and unpacking found her falling quickly into a deep sleep in a somewhat less foul-smelling room, a small stone cubicle with a hard bed and hay strewn on the floor. But the hay suited her worg, and they'd been left with a couple haunches of meat, which both she and Uden had devoured with relish.

The rest of the night passed with Gazkra and her worg both fast asleep, forgetting for awhile that they were in a filthy city beneath surface ruins. Instead, the orc dreamt of the glorious battles of Durotar, battleaxes flashing over red dust; the worg twitched and snarled in his own dreams, chasing some beast or another through the trees.

Dawn broke to find Gazkra packed and dressed, leading Uden back through the Apothecarium and down the long, dark hall toward the royal chamber. She found the room far busier now, with messengers and official-looking members of various Horde races coming and going. Some were speaking directly to Sylvanas Windrunner herself, but many with various aides and assistants around the room, and others with ambassadors and other officials stationed at the outer edges around the dias.

Gazkra stood uncertainly, glancing about through the small crowd and wondering if there was some queue that she should know of. But then a voice cut through the din, and she heard her own name called.

"Gazkra, here, orc." It was the gray-haired warrior--Bragor Bloodfist--from the night before, and his gruff voice grew somewhat quieter as he turned to address the Dark Lady. "This is the scout from Tarren Mill."

Gazkra approached, looking up as she did so, and found herself meeting the gaze of the Dark Queen of the Forsaken. She was not a decomposing human, like the rest of her people, but rather a hauntingly beautiful wraithlike woman, yet solid in substance. Her expression was intelligent and unreadable, as if she were sizing up the orc while patiently awaiting her report.

Unsure of the correct way to address Sylvanas, and immediately thrusting the thought aside (like many proud orcs, she considered getting to the point far more important than the etiquette of getting there), she simply gave a half-bowing nod and spoke.

"I have the report here from Krusk; the others have been delivered along the way."

Sylvanas held her eyes a brief moment longer, and then, without a word, took the scroll. She unrolled it and scanned it briefly, and then, still expressionless, rolled it back up. She looked at Gazkra, silent and considering, and Gazkra found herself fighting back a twinge of fear. Fierce orc pride battled the power of the banshee queen's dark stare. Uden stalked up beside her, and gave the Forsaken's leader a brief, uninterested glance before sniffing about the left side of the dias. Gazkra managed to hold back her smile.

"This says," Sylvanas began, her voice echoing and mysterious, "that the attacks on our supply lines are still unexplained? There is no evidence of any group's involvement?" She made it into a question, showing no emotion whatsoever.

Gazkra considered briefly--the queen clearly wanted an explanation. Her cold mask worried the orc a little, if she was honest with herself--she didn't know if the queen would calmly take this in stride, or explode with anger. The orc replied as simply and honestly as she could.

"I haven't investigated any of the attack sites myself--I am only carrying the message. I know that the supplies were sometimes scattered but not taken, which I assume was in the reports."

The Queen nodded after a moment. "Very well," she answered. She turned and gestured to a woman behind her, who came forward at once, obedient and silent. "Thestra, please take down the following on a scroll." The woman nodded and pulled out a blank scroll, and the moment she had ink ready at paper, Sylvanas continued, in a voice quiet enough that only Thestra and the orc could hear.

"'Krusk, your swift reports are appreciated--as always. I hereby authorize you to conscript whatever forces you deem necessary to uncover the source of the attackers on our supply lines. These routes will be necessary to our longterm goals for the region, and we cannot have unreliable support coming in from the Undercity. I suggest a trap. Windrunner.'"

The Forsaken woman, bony fingers scratching parchment with quill, finished and handed the scroll to Sylvanas. The Dark Lady eyed it critically, then shook it briefly to dry the thin ink and rolled it up. She handed it back to the woman with a nod; it was sealed a moment later with a drip of blue wax, punched with the symbol of the Forsaken--a half-face dripping with tears--and handed to Gazkra.

"Take it to Krusk quickly, orc--your animal looks like it can manage a quick enough speed," she added, eyeing Uden. The worg met her gaze fearlessly, his expression identically blank and intense. Sylvanas seemed to find something of worth in the worg; her expression seemed to appraise him and find him worthy. She turned back to Gazkra. "Two of our bats sent out to Tarren Mill never made it. I am guessing that those responsible for the disruption of our land routes have found a perch to shoot down our air support; I suggest you move quickly, and by daylight."

With that, the banshee queen turned back to Thestra, pointing at the woman's stack of scrolls and speaking quickly about another topic.

Gazkra was hereby dismissed. She caught the eye of Bragor and nodded in thanks and respect; he nodded back without breaking his conversation with the blood elf beside him.

"Back to Hillsbrad then, Uden," Gazkra sighed to the worg. "I came here to hunt a few pests for coin, but work is work," she grunted, hauling herself onto the worg's shaggy black back. He lurched into a rough trot--a worg's (admittedly many) good qualities would never include a smooth ride--and they moved quickly into the Undercity main.

[Acherontia]

A few minutes of riding found them at the surface, Gazkra blinking up at the gray morning sky. She turned her worg toward Silverpine, the shadows of the Forsaken banners drifting past like ghosts; she was glad to be in the open air again.

They rode at a decent pace, sometimes galloping down the straight road and at other times carefully picking their way down rotted steps or over rickety bridges. Silverpine glided past, dark and dreary as ever, the trees looming with menace. A slow, cold rain began as they moved toward Hillsbrad, the clouds coming in and covering the land with fog as they passed. By the time they reached the guard gates, the world was thick with mist and eerily silent.

Gazkra found herself glancing left and right in the gray, her sharp instincts warning her, alarm thrumming along every nerve--this was a far too perfect situation for an ambush. The unseen enemy attacking the supply lines was no doubt nearby, lurking--and a lone messenger coming from the Undercity, shrouded in thick fog, would never be seen. The attack would go unpunished.

A strange, echoing roar--muffled by the mist--ripped through the silence to her left. Uden wheeled with a snarl, Gazkra drawing her bow without a thought--and she found herself unseated by Uden's sudden leap in the other direction. He had jumped to avoid the onslaught of a massive dark shape tearing toward them through the fog--terrifyingly close--and Gazkra fell to the dusty stone, hard.

Her breath knocked from her chest, she struggled to stand--but it wasn't a group, wasn't an ambush. Instead a bear was lumbering toward them, a huge shaggy shape snarling with fury--but it was wrong, it wasn't a bear. The eyes were glowing, and spiked armor glinted with dew, tusklike fangs longer than Uden's set in snapping jaws.

"What the--" Gazkra hissed, pulling away--but the bear was upon her, mere inches away, jaws gaping as it came in for the kill. She didn't have enough room to take aim with the bow, and didn't have time to roll away; she thrust an arm up before her, scooting backward across the path.

Another dark shape shot in from her left--it was Uden, his voice a gutteral, coughing roar. He was putting himself in front of the bear! He bristled, growling a stiff-legged warning, blocking the bear's attempts to bite at Gazkra's legs. She stood, shaking with the adrenaline rush, her own teeth bared in primal reflex. She drew her bow quickly and took aim; the bear stood on its hind legs, roaring a frustrated warning which shook the grass beneath it.

Just as suddenly, it turned and lumbered off, moving at a bear's clumsy gallop into the dark trees. Gazkra dropped her bow--she wouldn't hit it now, and there was no point in angering the beast again.

Her eyes fell upon her worg--standing before her, his hackles on end, still staring after the bear. He turned back toward her a moment later, and she recognized the expression in the beast's wide eyes, recognized the source of the shaking in his legs. He was scared! And on the heels of that, she felt a flood of gratitude. The worg, despite his own fear of the unnatural bear, had put himself in the path of its claws to protect her. She went into the grass, fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around his shaggy neck, reassuring him and thanking him. The worg stood stiffly, stoic, but he didn't pull away; he seemed to merely acknowledge her thanks.

She herself pulled away at last, but quietly thanked him again before moving from the grass back to the stone road. He stood quietly while the orc mounted again, and he resumed his slow rolling gallop into the rainy hills ahead.

Gazkra's mistake came in believing that the end of the attack by the unnatural bear--a worgen druid, as it turned out--meant the rest of her journey would be safe.

As they passed a thick clump of trees on the road near Tarren Mill--the town nearly in sight, in fact--the real attack came. Gazkra should have known better--she was an orc, a tracker, a huntress of the wild, and she should never have passed so close to an obvious ambush point in the rain. Uden scented the lurking enemy just before the trees, and tried to leap clear, a startled snarl in his throat. But the attack was too swift.

A sudden rush of dark shapes and sounds surrounded them; Gazkra had mere seconds in which to react, and she had time enough to do nothing in her defense. She leapt off the worg and threw herself toward the enemy, trying to protect Uden as much as he'd protected her, without thought. But the attackers swarmed her, and a sharp, powerful, heavy something slammed into the back of her skull... and all went dark.

She had only those few seconds in which to see her attackers, to size up the warriors coming at her--and the impression that she got, the fleeting images that would remain with her forever, were those of snarling faces. Tusks, cracked battle armor, ropes and a net thrown at her worg, a war mace and a sword thrust at her--and faces. Bloodthirsty faces. Battle-hardened faces.

Warriors' faces.

Orc faces.

[Sarayana]

How did I miss this post?? I only read the first paragraph of your first post, and man! Beautiful! I can't wait to read the rest.

I've bookmarked this so I can sit n' read it in peace once my toddler's napping!

[Acherontia]

Chapter 8

Echoes of whispers drifted in the dark, murmured words fading into silence. People came and went--this she knew; beyond that, all she felt was shadow and pain.

It was the scent of dust that woke her at last--the choking air of the room settling into her lungs and clogging her nostrils. Her eyes opened slowly, gummed shut at first. The light--dim as it was--was piercing, and at first she considered simply going back to sleep. But her orc sensibilities rebelled, and a moment later she was upright--and regretting it, groaning into her hands as blinding pain swept through her.

Someone heard her--footsteps sounded on hollow wood. She glanced about, and knew at once she was safe; this was definitely not an orc camp. She hadn't been captured. Rather, judging by the cobwebs and dusty books, this was one of the rotting inn rooms of Tarren Mill.

Sure enough, the face that greeted her a moment later--sickly yellow eyes peering into her own wincing ones--was that of a concerned, friendly-enough looking Forsaken woman.

"You're awake, then," came the woman's relieved voice. "We weren't sure you would make it--they hit you pretty hard." Her eyes glinted then, curiosity overwhelming her hospitality. "Who was it that attacked you?" And then, less certain, "...Do you remember?"

Gazkra blinked slowly, and opened her mouth to speak--her throat was dry, and she had to cough before words would come.

"It was orcs," she managed, hoarse. "I don't know who they were, but I don't think they were Horde--not our Horde. Did they take the message I was carrying?"

The Forsaken woman bit her lip and thought for a moment. "Perhaps Cromush will know," she said at last, and was gone from the room in a faint rustle of cloth.

Gazkra sat quietly, cradling her throbbing head, for several moments; the heavy thumping of boots on wood alerted her to Cromush's approach. She tried to stand, and found herself too unsteady; the orc was there before she could react, and she found a supportive arm beneath her own.

"Easy, sister--you took one hell of a blow," Warlord Cromush warned her--and there was a hint of admiration in his voice. "You kept the scroll--we got your message. The seal wasn't broken."

"She said they were orcs," came the almost indecently eager voice of the Forsaken woman behind him. Cromush glanced back, and then turned to Gazkra, eyes narrowed.

"Is that true?" he asked after a moment, looking confused and concerned.

"Yes--yes," Gazkra began, clearing her throat again when the first word came out as merely a croak. "They were stocky--short, muscular. Thick cloth clothes, not much armor--they were travelling light--and their skin--" She gestured, waving her hands vaguely over her own body. "Some of them looked... grayish? Dark, swarthy. Not green--or brown," she added, eyeing Cromush's own untainted skin.

"I don't understand," Cromush said shortly. "Why would orcs be attacking our supply lines?"

Gazkra stared at him, annoyance flooding her. Why wouldn't he understand?! Was he stupid?

"Damned if I know," she growled. "But it was orcs, and they took Uden. They took my worg," she said, voice softer now. A surge of worry had welled up in her at this memory--she remembered ropes being thrown over him just as her last bit of consciousness had faded.

"Scarshield, maybe," Cromush ventured, scratching absentmindedly at his plate belt. "Worg-breeders," he added by way of explanation. "We killed some of their worgs awhile back--it may be that your fellow was a replacement. Or from their blood." He frowned, thinking.

Gazkra was also frowning, but her mind--groggy as it was--was racing. "I need to see the reports," she told the brown orc bluntly. He blinked at her, about to protest, and she held up a warning hand.

"I got smashed in the skull hard enough to knock me out for--how long have I been out for...?" She glanced up at the Forsaken woman.

"Two days," the woman replied at once.

Gazkra nodded. "Two days, then. And as much as I thank you for your rescue, I have to know why they did it. Why they're attacking the lines, sure, but why the hell did they attack me? I think there has to be something your people missed."

Cromush looked like he wanted to protest, and even opened his mouth to do so. Then he glanced at Gazkra, saw the stubborn fire in her eyes, and his mouth closed. He nodded.

"I'll get you the reports on the attacks. But there's nothing there," he added, frowning.

An hour later, Gazkra was sitting in one of the upper rooms of Tarren Mill's town hall, poring over a stack of books and papers. The shelves beside her were dust-covered and lined with scrolls, the cobwebs shrouding the lantern making it that much harder to read. She squinted, leaning close; she couldn't read very well--most orcs couldn't--but she could sound out the words if she tried.

"Fifty spools of thread... Stack of heavy leather... fresh water..." She frowned, running her finger down the scroll that listed all of the items recovered from the most recently attacked caravan. Cromush was right; it was just lists of items, of inventory. There was no information of use here. And yet...

She frowned. Something wasn't right; she started again, looking at the items at the top of the list and reading down.

"Six fresh battle-axes, food rations for ten men for a week, three sets of plate armor and one red dragonscale belt, five--"

She blinked. Red dragonscale? That was a bit odd, to say the least. Frowning, she turned to the report of the next-oldest caravan attack, running her finger down the list and silently mouthing the words as she struggled to read them.

"Boots, swords, arrows, alchemy flasks, ten Horde tabards and one Dragonmaw tabard?"

Her scowl deepened, and she found herself standing, shuffling through several books. She found what she was looking for at once--a book with copies of orders placed to the Undercity for supplies. It took her nearly an hour, but by the time she was done comparing the orders to the actual inventory recovered from the ravaged supply lines, she had a definite list of oddities that had cropped up.

She took the papers out to High Warlord Cromush, nearly falling into him as she stared down at the sheaf of parchment in her hands.

"I don't read," he said shortly, stopping her as she began.

"You don't need to," she snapped. "I can read well enough for both of us." She paused then, glancing up at him, the implications suddenly clear. "You didn't look these over yourself?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "They were looked over," he replied, deliberately vague.

"Not well enough. There's been things found at every attack site that weren't in the caravans to start with."

"What do you mean?" Cromush said, frowning.

"I mean that there are things that were in the wreckage that were never ordered. One odd object in every caravan--almost like it was planted deliberately. Look. Red dragonscale belt, here--and a Dragonmaw tabard, stained with blood, ripped. Almost like it was torn off someone who was injured--"

"But the Dragonmaw are our allies!" Cromush roared. "They wouldn't dare--"

Gazkra sighed. "Of course they didn't," she interrupted him. "It's far too obvious to be real. I mean--nothing was taken. These attacks weren't made to steal things, or to stop us. We didn't know what they were up to, right? Look. Aged sword with the Dragonmaw signet etched into the hilt, found jammed into the caravan wheels. Dragonmaw riding whip. Why would they leave exactly one thing behind, every single time?"

"Why wasn't this noticed?" Cromush cried, eyes wide with horror.

"Because your men are inept--and because whoever did this screwed it up. The Dragonmaw are our allies now--nobody thought twice about a trinket from them here and there in the supplies. Why wouldn't we have a few items trickling down from trade with them?" Gazkra frowned, and then there was a Forsaken guard at her side, his words echoing her thoughts.

"Pardon me for interrupting--I couldn't help but overhear. I was one of the investigators--do you have any idea why anyone would plant Dragonmaw goods into the destroyed caravans? Why frame them for the attacks?"

"I don't know," Gazkra answered simply.

"If you were attacked by orcs--gray orcs--and they left Dragonmaw things behind..." Cromush shook his head. "I think, sister, you may be wrong. Orc is orc, we don't plan things like this. It had to be them. And... they were orcs! Why would some Dragonmaw attack if it wasn't..." He looked confused.

The Forsaken guard was looking at Cromush with incredulous disgust. "Of course it's a setup," he hissed. "Give me those," he added, snatching the scrolls from Gazkra's hands. His eyes flicked quickly down the list, and he handed them back a mere few seconds later.

[Acherontia]

"I don't know what's going on, but we're going to need to find out. I'm going to send a bat to the Dark Lady. We need to find out what the hell is going on here." The undead man turned to storm off, but Gazkra stopped him at once.

"I need to go after them," she said bluntly. "They took my worg." The Forsaken began to protest, and she shook her head vehemently. "I'm going. He put himself in front of a bear for me, and I'm not going to leave him captive."

She found herself distinctly uncomfortable a moment later; the Forsaken had stopped, staring at her keenly, and was circling her and eyeing her up and down.

"Actually," he said at length, "I believe that is the best idea. I will send a bat to Sylvanas, but you are just about dark enough..." He frowned, running one finger down her arm, and she slapped his hand away.

"Enough," she snarled. "Explain."

He stared at her, his blank expression showing no anger whatsoever. "I think we can disguise you as a Dragonmaw orc and send you on their trail. Make up some story--anything--about being one of whoever they are once you catch up. Find out what the hell they're up to. You're an orc; they won't know any better." He looked as if he wanted to say more--perhaps to suggest that orcs wouldn't be able to tell one from another--and thought better of it.

Gazkra shrugged, and he nodded smartly. "See the armorer. Ask him to get something nondescript; your Orgrimmar armor won't do, and your old clothing would never be taken seriously. I'm going to send that bat."

Gazkra obeyed at once, moving off to the forge and anvil at the far end of the town. The smith there--a burly orc with an easy smile--went to work at once, pulling items from a chest at his feet and hammering them over his forge to better fit Gazkra's frame.

He worked for nearly an hour; Gazkra retrieved a sack of food and a canteen of water to bring with her, and packed her bow and quiver carefully. Meanwhile, the gentle-voiced stablemaster, Theodore, who had helped her in the past came to her, explaining that the Dark Lady's priorities indicated that Gazkra should be lent a fine warhorse.

"We had three come in this evening," he explained, bony fingers twining together eagerly. "The Dark Lady expressed in the letter that you carried her wishes that all resources necessary be diverted to exposing the attackers--and so I offer you one of these creatures. I warn you, if you are intending to approach them unseen, you will need to release the animal before you come in sight. No Dragonmaw orcs would be seen on a skeletal horse." He led her outside and showed her the animal she was to ride--not so much a horse as an animated equine skeleton, oddly graceful and eerily silent. A strange glowing dust drifted from what remained of its hide--as if the magic of reanimation hadn't entirely left it.

"They are spirited beasts, and stubborn," Theodore warned her. "They will throw an uncertain rider. Keep a firm hand."

Several minutes later, she was presented with the plain black armor she was to wear on her ride. "Leather, mainly--good for trackin', the orc armorer explained. "Dark stuff, looks wicked 'nough that they may think you're one of them. It's not our standard gear--they shouldn't expect Durotar orcs to be wearing this."

Indeed, it wasn't standard--in fact, Gazkra noted with some distaste, it exposed her body in many places. She wasn't bothered by this in an aesthetic sense; she just preferred not to leave flesh exposed in a fight. It would have to do, though--and judging by the approving smirks of the Forsaken woman, the gear looked impressive enough that she wouldn't get much trouble.

The Forsaken women at the alchemy lab helped her pull her gear on, and showed her how to mount the Forsaken horse; they chanted a spell or two over her, which she uneasily endured. Cromush explained--his eyes distrustful, however--that the women were trying to enchant Gazkra to be less obvious a Durotar orc. She felt no different when they were done, and simply shrugged and moved on.

Gazkra explained one last time--clearly--to both the Forsaken guards and Cromush exactly what had happened; a scribe took down her words. She knew without having to be told that there was a large chance she would die, and that they wanted her exact account of the attack in case it became important later on--and in case she was no longer there to tell of it.

After that, she wasted no more time--a single gulp of Cromush's own cherry grog to dull the pain in her head, and she was off. The horse tolerated her in silence, and she urged it with gentle kicks to ride back to the site of her attack.

She found it without much trouble; a scattering of blood had dried over the path, and the bushes and grass on either side were flattened or crushed. She turned the horse into the brush; it was quiet now, and empty, but evidence of the enemy orcs was there nonetheless. They hadn't bothered to move with care--instead, their footprints were easily visible, even obvious. Gazkra followed it first with her eyes, staring warily into the trees--the raiders had flattened a rather wide swath of brush in their path, and it was clear from the bits of fur and twisted branches that Uden hadn't been cooperative in the slightest. She found more blood on the trail, some of it matted with bits of torn fur, and she found herself fervently hoping that the worg hadn't been injured--or worse.

The orc took a deep breath and pressed on, careful not to miss any part of the enemy's trail. The raiding party had curved through the forest toward the Arathi Highlands--a land where Gazkra had never ventured. She knew little of it. The trail was straight and fast, the footprints widely-spaced; they'd been rushing, then. Oddly, even when they took to the main road--perhaps they'd travelled by night?--they often left easily-discernable signs of their passage along the edges of the stone. Bits of brush were torn here and there; twigs and grass flattened. Gazkra soon got the impression that the orcs almost wanted to be followed.

Why would a single faction of Dragonmaw orcs have repeatedly attacked Horde supply lines, stealing nothing but leaving hints, and then made off in a very followable, unconcealed fashion? Gazkra found herself frowning, thinking over this again and again, unable to come up with any answer.

Late afternoon found her passing beneath the crumbling arch of the Thoradin's Wall gate. Her horse did not tire, did not stumble, and made no complaint; its passage was as swift and silent as a fleeting shadow. Gazkra made her way to the small Forsaken outpost near the Arathi border, the horse picking his path carefully over loose stones.

"Hail," she called to a guard there; the guard, a skeptical-looking Forsaken man, looked at her and the horse with confusion. "Ignore the gear and the horse," she said shortly as she drew closer. "I need to know if you've seen any orcs pass this way. Gray orcs--raiding party?"

The man shook his head; his answer was blunt. "Saw tracks--that way," he added, pointing down the road toward the rolling hills fading into the dusk light. "No orcs, though."

She nodded and thanked the man, and urged the horse back to the road. The trail continued--still quite obvious; it wove on and off the road as if the orcs were ensuring that their path wouldn't be lost.

The road went on, straight and smooth; the evening air was crisp, and the wind carried on it a hint of the sea.

As darkness fell, she found that her tireless mount was fast approaching a great bridge. She crossed without hesitating, but found herself staring wide-eyed in all directions. The setting sun flashed and gleamed, throwing crimson light over the stone bridge--and the surging sea far below. They were over an inlet of sorts--an inland seawater river--and the bridge crossed high above. There were two sides to the bridge--the other, perhaps a long-derelict original bridge, was crumbled and collapsed, with huge chunks of stone jutting from the water far below and creating a sort of rapids.

Past the bridge, the land sloped down; the fresh scent of the sea ripened into the stench of long-stagnant swamp water. It was warm here--uncomfortably so--even in the evening, and Gazkra found her new armor sticking to her skin, slick with sweat. She gritted her teeth and pushed on.

The trail here was fresh. She stopped the horse at once, dismounting and kneeling by the roadside; the prints still swam with marsh water, the mud quite wet. She went to the horse, turned him back and pointed; he understood, and without a glance back at her, charged back the way he had come.

Gazkra frowned and looked into the swamp.

Somewhere close ahead--in the darkness of this marsh--there was a large group of enemy orcs. There was a worg she would need to find--and hope that he did not give her away. She had to infiltrate them, or fight the lot--find out what they wanted from the Horde, and why.