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She slipped through the sharp grass poking up from the mud, wrinkling her nose at the smell which drifted to her nostrils every time her feet slurped out of the wet earth. Uden's prints were clear here, too; he was fighting them now and again, throwing himself backwards and struggling, but it was clear from the marks in the mud that no less than three of the raiders had him bound.

Gazkra made camp shortly after sending the horse away; she was exhausted beyond belief, and her head ached. The trail was fresh, but she was not. She drifted off in a few moments to the deafening chorus of crickets and frogs. A few hours' rest--her sleep dreamless--and she was back on her feet. She stretched and rose from the small patch of dry land she'd found, stepping without a second thought back into the rank mud.

Daybreak would come soon; the light of dawn shone faintly through the thick clouds. She found the orcs' trail again quickly enough, and followed it; the scent of fires just beyond dropped her at once into a crouch.

So they'd made camp, too. And not far from her--she was lucky they hadn't stumbled upon her in the night. She crept over the next hill, low to the ground and silent, and spotted at once the campfires beyond.

Something odd struck her at once--this was no temporary encampment. This was a proper clan village--the tents and huts were long-standing, their wood stained with the mud of the swamp, the leather black with dampness. The thick poles strung heavily with Dragonmaw banners--the coal-and-crimson sigils glinting in the morning light--were firmly entrenched in the dirt. This was no overnight camp.

So that's how they staged the attacks, she mused; they moved from their wetlands encampments with raiding parties right over into Hillsbrad. But then...

Her scowl, which had drifted onto her face upon spotting the fires, deepened. There was no sign of weaponry here--no raiders to be seen. And Uden was not in sight. The orcs sleeping beneath the tent flaps, or stoking the fires, were no warriors. A couple of what could be shaman strode to and fro, muttering quietly to one another and adjusting leather kilts, but other than that, the scene was quite domestic. Some of them were likely hunters and warriors--hell, some might even be raiders--but there was nothing of the feel of a freshly-returned raid about the place.

Gazkra stood and, holding tight to her instinct and ignoring the roar of fear which threatened to drown out all thought, strode directly into the camp.

Eyes flicked to her, wary; several orcs stood, and a few slowly lifted weapons. But the eyes upon her were hesitant, not angry, not violent.

One of the shaman moved toward her at length; a good twenty orcs now had their eyes on her.

"Orc... You are not one of ours." The shaman looked at her, his eyes filled with something very like fear.

"No," she replied at once, her strong gaze locking with his. "There have been attacks on my people--Hellscream's Horde, friend." The orc's relief was visible--his shoulders sagged. These were not the raiders, then.

"I have been tracking the raiders--in disguise," she added, gesturing at her ridiculous armor. "The tracks led here."

The shaman's face grew worried again, and he motioned her over. "Our chief is not here. But he is not on a raid--we have no reason to attack the new Horde. Warlord Zaela told us--"

"Are these the tracks?" came another voice behind her. She whirled; one of the Dragonmaw orcs was kneeling, face intent, looking down at the stomping tracks leading into the camp.

"They are," she agreed, wary.

"They're... careless." He frowned, and pushed aside some leaves. "Deliberate," he added. Then he pointed forward, into the untouched moss that lined the small hillock beyond. "They went there."

Gazkra blinked and went to him at once, kneeling beside him. Sure enough, there were tracks--tracks she would normally barely see, and which she had completely overlooked after becoming used to the raiding party's tramping steps.

"I wondered what the drake was hissing at," the orc added, scratching his head.

Gazkra looked sharply at him. "Drake?" she asked.

He grinned crookedly at her. "We have a young black drake--a gift from one of the clan chiefs in the Highlands. Nuk raised it himself."

The shaman shifted, stirring beside her. "Stay here for a moment, sister," he requested; without waiting for a response, he'd moved down into the encampment.

Gazkra, for her part, inspected the tracks a bit more thoroughly. Had she been paying attention, she mused, she'd have noticed--they hadn't led Uden anywhere near here. There was no sign of the worg's tracks--not until a good twenty yards down the hill in the other direction. The three raiders must have split off from the rest, wary of alerting the camp of their presence--they had been worried, perhaps, that Uden would fight them or howl, waking the Dragonmaw and raising an alarm.

The shaman returned a moment later, a sturdy-looking orc by his side. "This is Nuk," he said by way of introduction.

"Gazkra," she replied, favoring him with a slight bow.

"Saw a party heading out last night. Didn't think to follow; Blackrocks been coming and going for weeks."

Gazkra started, shocked. "Blackrock?"

"Yup," he replied bluntly. "You said they been raiding you?"

"Yes."

"'N they led a trail here," he added, turning to scan the more obvious tracks with his eyes.

"If it was them--then yes, they did."

The shaman spoke then, voice trembling with anger. "They want to make the Horde distrust our people. They want to break our partnership!"

Nuk just nodded. "You goin' find out why?"

"I'd like to," Gazkra answered, frowning. "I'm not sure how to go about it, though. I can't well just walk into them and demand to know. And how far are the Blackrock clan?"

"They got drakes," Nuk said, scowling. "They pro'ly got picked up, flew home, you'll lose the tracks. Any idea which lot?"

"Which lot?" Gazkra repeated blankly.

"Which faction. They Bloodaxe, or...?"

She frowned, remembering something that Cromush had said. "They stole my worg. One of our soldiers thinks they might be Scarshield."

"Inside the mountain," Nuk spat--Gazkra didn't have a clue what this meant, and the orc didn't elaborate. Instead, he stared into the swamp, clearly deep in thought.

"I'ma send a runner to your people 'n tell 'em what happened. You--you're gonna free Coalwing."

"...What?" Gazkra asked, blinking in utter confusion.

"Go to my drake when we're not near. We'll stay away, go chanting 'round the fire and whatnot. You go free my drake. Tell 'im you're on the way to Blackrock mountain to talk to the Scarshield orcs. If you free him he might fly you."

"Might?"

The orc shrugged. "Might kill you. Never know with these black drakes. His jaws are bound," he added. "Have a knife ready."

"Wait," Gazkra argued, shaking her head. "You want me to fly to Blackrock on your black dragon, and--"

"He won't listen to us anyway," Nuk interrupted with a shrug.

"That's not--I mean, when I get there. What do I say?!"

"You said you had a worg?"

"Yes..." Gazkra had no idea where the strange orc was going with this. His brown eyes peered patiently at her as he explained, and she tried not to panic as his words fell into place.

"So, you know 'bout worgs--tell 'em you're a worg handler. Breeder, raiding-party, whatever. There's a few clans up in uhh, what was it--Redridge. Red place," he added unecessarily. "Lots of pine trees, lakes, that sort 'o thing. Tell 'em you're bein' sent straight to the Scarshield Legion to learn your craft. Redridge orcs, they got drakes too, tell 'em you learned to fly there."

"I don't know how to fly!" she protested.

"Just hang on tight," the orc replied, grinning wryly at her.

She stared at him.

"Look," the shaman beside Nuk sighed. "You want to find out why they're framing us? Why they want to break up Horde relations with the Dragonmaw? Go straight to them. See if you can get some gossip on their plans, and then leave. That simple. If you turn up on the back of a black drake who flew you there of his own accord, nobody is going to question you."

She began to protest again, and then one of the orcs tending the nearby fire snickered. "Looks like Horde blood got weak with--"

That's as far as he got; Gazkra's withering glare silenced him.

"Where's this drake, then? Coalwing?"

Nuk's face split into a grin.

Two hours later, the Dragonmaw orcs had all moved off to the northern end of their camp, downhill and a good distance away from the main village. They were building up a large bonfire, chanting and shouting, and Gazkra slipped into the camp, heart pounding. The orcs had told her all they knew about the Blackrock clan--about the Redridge encampments, about drakes and about Blackrock Mountain and the Scarshield worg-riders. There was no reason now to delay.

She tried to look furtive; she stayed hidden, keeping to the shadows behind the tents until she caught a glimpse of dragon's wing. She edged around the corner, adrenaline pumping, a Dragonmaw dagger's hilt in her fist.

The drake was young indeed--his ebony scales were still bright and clean, and his wings and underbelly shone with health, their sheen glowing orange in the morning light. The thin horns on his head had begun to grow, and his eyes glinted with malevolence.

"You," hissed Gazkra; the drake, his wings and legs tethered and his jaws muzzled with rope, flicked his gaze to her at once. The speed with which he moved--even bound--was frightening; his entire massive head and neck were facing her within a split second. There was a quiet, melodic growl--she knew that the creature was trying to communicate, but jaws tied, could not.

She moved forward, dagger exposed, and he drew back with a guttural warning.

"Stop that," she ordered, voice gruff despite the terror she felt. She moved closer, within striking distance had he been untied--she spoke as she reached out, heart racing, moving into the shadow of the dragon.

She began to introduce herself, and then realized she needed a name--her eyes fell upon the tethers holding Coalwing down, and the word twisted itself in her mouth.

"I'm Tethra--Blackrock," she added with a wry grin. The drake blinked down at her, his gaze distrustful, full of hate. "I'm on my way to Blackrock Mountain. If you want free, I'll let you free. I ask that you fly me there--and don't let them see you," she added. "I have my reasons." The dragon balked, his eyes clouded with fury. He wanted to wipe the orcs out, that much was clear.

"I know they've kept you a long time," she added. "But they're doing some kind of magic ritual--all their shamans are there." This was true--Nuk had already organized a magical defense should the dragon attack. "They'd kill you if you tried, and I don't want to be seen."

The dragon finally acquiesed, lowering his head in a slight nod, and with a swift stroke Gazkra sheared away the rope holding his snout closed. She went to work on his forelegs right away, and then his hind legs; soon the ropes holding his tail down and wings closed were gone.

"They let me move my wings sometimes," he snarled, his snout frighteningly close to her ear. "I keep them strong, so I can fly away. Get on, and do not tempt my fury." The drake was young, but his hatred--and his mind--were ripe.

Gazkra climbed on without a second glance, knowing that if she hesitated she would become too frightened to move. Her throat went dry--and then the drake was rumbling forward, clumsily running through the swamp--and then his wings were spread, and he was thrusting himself off the hill, and then they were airborne.

They were flying.

Gazkra held back a gasp; she leaned forward, legs clasped around the dragon's sun-warmed scales, holding tightly to the spines along his neck. He lifted quickly, gaining altitude, and circled once over the Dragonmaw camp--high. His shadow did not fall over them; he was too careful. Instead, he soared just to one side, eyeing them to be sure that they were out of bounds for him. Sure enough, the sparks of magic flying over the bonfire were visible to the eye, and with a snarl of fury and an angry flap of the wings, the drake turned and made off to the south.

Gazkra had never flown before--not on the back of a wind rider, nor a bat. The experience was as shocking as it was new--the ground was far below, the few creatures she could pick out were tiny. The air rushed past her, pushing her back, and she had to lean down against the drake's neck to avoid being tossed away by the wind. The swamp fell away and slipped by below, a brown-green smear in the distance; instead, they traveled along clouds, moving through streams of warm and cold air in turn. The drake at one point made a noise very like a sigh, and Gazkra smiled a little--as evil as this creature probably was, being tied down for nearly the entirety of one's life was not a pleasant prospect.

The wetlands were gone within the hour, replaced by rolling brown hills of dead grass; the drake swept low over these, claws sometimes touching the ground, leaving long parallel marks in the dry earth. The air became more arid by degrees until it was downright scorching; even the dirt fell away, until only red rock was left below. Here the drake lifted higher, peering to and fro, circling sometimes.

"I do not know the way," he told her at one point, growling voice carrying to her through the hot wind. "I know that it is the tallest of the mountains." Soon, though, a great dark shape coalesced in the distance; the drake took notice and changed course, arrowing straight toward it.

"The air here is good," he said, satisfied, and lifted his head as they flew, revelling in the blistering sun and silent, choking sky.

"I heard the Dragonmaw talking about you. Your name is Coalwing?"

"That is the orcs' name for me," he growled. "I have no name." The rest of their short journey, the drake was silent.

Blackrock Mountain grew closer, although at times it seemed barely, despite their flying for hours. Gazkra glanced down at the landscape below; nothing but rock, dusty and lifeless, as far as she could see. She didn't think she'd have survived this journey on foot--but then, Durotar wasn't much better, in places.

The drake moved closer to the ground, sometimes so close that his outstretched wings swept between rock formations or just over a cactus on the ground; they flew through the ruins of some ancient town, timeworn statues standing shapeless around them. In the distance, now, Gazkra could see tents--and buildings--of Orcish design. Great battlements, sharp-tipped log structures, red-stained tents--these things were orc, and warlike, and she knew at once that this was the land of the Blackrock.

The mountain loomed close now, the dark shape blocking out the morning light. The drake swept toward the base, muttering to himself in a tongue Gazkra could not comprehend. He circled a moment near the bottom, as if searching for something, while his rider looked about in wonder. The mountain was unfathomable--the height was almost taller than she could see, sloping back into the sky at an unbelievable distance. Even a brief glance made her dizzy. The sheer sides were hewn of a rough, dark stone, perhaps worn into a mountain with time, or thrust rudely out through magic or other forces. The whole of it looked somehow violent--or cruel, and as the drake finally spotted the entrance and flew in, it seemed fitting that the whole great black fang of a mountain should vanish into coal-darkness as they entered.

The entrance was a huge, wide tunnel, wide enough here for the drake to fly. He moved slowly, carefully, dropping down to run sometimes; eventually the tunnel opened, and Gazkra found herself gaping, filled with awe at the sight that awaited.

The interior of the mountain was vast--a great magma-lit chasm, with immense stone figures on three sides. Massive chains were stretched taut from these, and suspended between them hung a gigantic chunk of black stone. Atop this was some sort of stone structure--dwarven, by looks; it was upon this that the drake landed, roaring triumphantly into the steaming, hissing air.

Other drakes took wing nearby, flitting past without a glance toward the newcomers. One, however, took notice; this one landed, snarling a challenge at Coalwing and Gazkra.

"You are not one of ours," he growled, voice guttural.

Coalwing--made large and healthy with an easy life and free food--spread his wings and growled. "I was captive. I AM NOW FREE. If you want to try and stop me--" he snapped, taking a great swipe with his front claws.

The strange drake, recognizing the viciousness of his own flight in this creature, took a step backward. "Where do you need to go?"

"I need the Scarshield orcs," Gazkra spoke up, voice strong despite her fear.

"This way, then; no use taking up space out here," the drake snarled. With that, he turned and drifted down, gliding through the hot air (lava boiling and churning beneath them) to a ledge on the far end of the cavern.

"I will show you where we hunt," said the strange drake to Coalwing as Gazkra dismounted. They did not wait for her thanks, but rather took off, one hotly pursuing the other as if in competition rather than as a guest.

Gazkra turned forward. Before her, a small doorway was carved from the black rock; behind it, the smell of meat roasting on fires drifted forth. She straightened up and strode in, looking about her with authority.

There were five or six groups of orcs standing and sitting in a large room beyond; fires burned, and boar roasted on spits. At the far end, two great red-golden worgs stood, green eyes staring at Gazkra impassively. Between them stood a muscular orc--her skin the same green-gray hue as Gazkra's own. Gazkra strode to her without hesitation, ignoring the bristling of the worgs; the female orc watched her approach, one eyebrow raised.

Gazkra bowed, ignoring the stares of some of the orcs in the room, hoping fervently that this plan worked--that they didn't question her too closely.

"My name is Tethra," she told the woman, her gaze level and her voice steady. "I have come a great distance to meet with the Scarshield worg handlers. I am to learn your ways to better serve my own clan."

The woman looked at her, appraising and considering, for a long moment.

"And which clan is that?" she said at last.

"I come from Redridge--"

"Ha!" the woman snorted. "We have sent ten trainers that way. Are they so inept that an eleventh is needed?"

Gazkra looked at her for a moment, then smirked. "In a word, yes. I'm hoping to break that cycle. Some of us were sent to the humans' lands to wreak havoc. The fools lost a good many warriors--and worgs. I aim to prevent such ... accidents... in the future."

The orc woman and her two worgs watched the stranger before them for a long moment. At last, she spoke again.

"Very well, then, Tethra. I will teach you our ways--and perhaps you will learn them with a little more diligence than your clansmen."

And with that, she turned away, leading Gazkra deeper into Blackrock Mountain.

Chapter 9

"This is the feasting hall--a place where we hang our meat, in other words." Her laughter was rough and weathered, a crow's hacking caw, and her eye as she went to the next room was every bit as sharp and beady.

"The City," she grunted.

Gazkra gazed down in awe. The corridor which stretched out below was broad and long, disappearing into the darkness despite the glow of dozens of flickering fires. The acrid cloud of smoke drifted up into the unseen darkness above: such was the size of the place. It was a crevasse of some kind deep within the mountain, and here, the Scarshield Legion had seen fit to make their home. Rows of hide-and-bone tents clustered along the stone, some edging right up to the ledge which dropped sheer down to the boiling magma. Rugs and worn leather lined the floor, old welcome mats of a kind, and crates and supplies were piled up right alongside the makeshift beds. The place felt long-inhabited but still somehow transitory, as if a camp of vagabonds had made a home here but was ready to pick up and move at any time.

The colors already hurt her eyes, too; all shone orange in the firelight, and the hides and banners which had hung unstirred by fresh air for decades were all dyed crimson. It was a hellish monochrome, all blood and fire and hate, and she had to squint to pick one shape out from another.

"Glorious, isn't it?" the old orc demanded, her eyes blazing with triumph.

"It is," Gazkra agreed--and her sentiments were sincere. It was an awesome sight, even if it was loathesome.

The orc matron, who'd introduced herself as Kog'zela, led the way with a sure step. She moved down the crumbling halls of the underground citadel, her two great red worgs trailing behind, never missing her footing and never hesitating. She had been down here for years, that much was certain; Gazkra hoped the woman's knowledge would give her what she needed.

"And this--Bloodaxe," she sniffed, waving vaguely into another narrow and somewhat dark hallway. "Hoarg!" she called. Then, after a moment, more loudly: "HOARG."

A muffled shout came by way of reply, and a few moments later a burly orc in chainmail appeared, flanked by two dark worgs. Gazkra started--these were strikingly similar to the worgs of Silverpine, bearing an uncanny resemblance to her own missing Uden. Had they been a great deal larger--and more noble of bearing--she could have mistaken either of them for her worg. They were the same twilight black, with the same icy gray-blue eyes and the same keen, intelligent stares.

"Beautiful, eh?" the male orc was saying, grinning as he caught her eye.

"They are," she replied fervently.

"This way," he said abruptly, and turned on his heel, vanishing down the dark tunnel. Gazkra hurried to follow, Kog'zela close behind.

"Don't get too close, now," he warned. "She don't know you, 'n she got a litter on the ground. She'll kill if you if you make a stir, so just stay out." The orc lifted his weapon and led the way to the edge of a doorway without further explanation. Bewildered and a little afraid, Gazkra followed, remaining silent for now.

The room ahead was littered with long-bleached bones and scattered armor, with twists of meat here and there. Most of what was fresh was gone, though, and she could see why: a litter of worg pups, each fully as large as a mastiff dog, lived in this room. They were wrestling, snarling and yipping as they tumbled to and fro, and some still gnawed on the remains of their most recent meal. At the far end of the room, beneath a low, sloping ceiling of natural stone, their dam watched alertly. She was... well, there was no word to describe her bar "massive;" she was bigger even than Uden, and her gaze was golden-green and malevolent. Her fur cascaded down, shaggy and thick and in hues of red and gray, deeply-colored and very rich.

She caught sight then of the two black worgs with Hoarg, and she growled--a deep, rumbling, guttural thing that echoed and rang from the stones. She made a quick shuffling charge, and Hoarg leapt back with his axe at the ready.

"Back," he ordered bluntly, swinging the dull end of the axe at the brood mother's snout. But he wasn't talking to her--he was talking to Gazkra, and to his worgs, and a moment later he'd managed to shove them all back out of the room.

"She's called Halycon," he said, turning back to Gazkra with a glowing grin. "Beautiful beast, eh?"

Gazkra could only nod.

"Ha! Yeah, she's scary all right. Big brute. Her mate's the only one we got that's bigger. An' he's BIG," the orc added, raising one hand well over the height of his own head. "Pale silver 'un. Gizrul, the Slavener, we call 'im. Take your head off soon as look at you, sometimes, but usually okay with handlin'."

"Enough to make the humans think these guys are spawned from demons," Gazkra snorted, waving a hand at the puppies across the hall.

Both the orcs beside her burst into hearty laughter. "That, we'd heard," Hoarg chuckled at last. "One time--"

"In any case," interrupted Kog'zela, "These are the breeding grounds. We have a few more pens, but this is what you need to know: you don't go near the pups, and you don't go near the dams. Not for now. I'll show you some of the rest of the city, and then you're going to learn how we feed and care for the worgs. After that, if you're still alive, you'll probably go out to learn to train."

Without another word, the orc had turned on her heels and was making her way up a narrow flight of stone stairs. Hoarg grunted a goodbye and went back to his patrol, and Gazkra turned away.

This whole place reeked, she thought to herself; the stench of a hundred worgs and their mess, of rotting and drying meat, of hundreds of unwashed orcs living clustered together, and something else, something downright putrid. All in all it was overpowering, and soon she was fairly certain she'd completely lost her sense of smell altogether.

Now they were passing through a wide, low, long room littered with beds and mats; orcs slept here, or sat resting, and here and there a worg slept too. All of the worgs she'd seen thus far, bar the few in Hoarg's hall, had been a bright red-brown with a creamy underside. She'd not had a single sight of Uden, and she thought now would be a good time to try and get some information.

"Do you breed all of your worgs?" she asked at last, after a moment of puzzling over how best to phrase the question. Kog'zela grunted a question--she hadn't heard--and Gazkra had to repeat herself, more loudly this time.

"Yes," Kog'zela replied bluntly.

"You don't ever get any from other sources?" she pressed after a moment.

"No," the old orc answered, sounding a bit annoyed now. She had just answered this question once, after all.

"What do you do if you find some on a raid, then?"

The old orc turned and flashed her an odd look, something like appraisal, or perhaps, Gazkra thought, suspicion. "We don't normally raid orcs, sister. If we run across one of Hellscream's fool patrols, their worgs either die in the fight, or break 'n run. Usually the latter. They don't breed like we do. Their worgs is cowards."

Back to square one, then. Gazkra suppressed a sigh and pushed back the rising, choking worry, and continued on in silence. Kog'zela's worgs moved up beside her as she followed, their thick fur brushing up against her as they passed.

"So. This is where the Legionnaires and the Grunts sleep. The Raiders get their own place up top, usually, but some stay down here with their old comrades. 'N we got an Acolyte 'n Warlock coven sort 'o place over there," she added, pointing over a massive crack in the stone: on the far side, a group of orcs clad in filthy robes were talking quietly together, their expressions intent. "Sentries 'n others--that's you--'ll be sleeping over here," she added, leading the way around a corner and into another long, low room lined with sleeping mats.

"Here," she grunted, unfurling a clean mat and slapping it down under an unoccupied hide lean-to. "Remember how to get here," she added bluntly.

The weathered orc, her two worgs pressing in close beside her, carefully made her way up a slope rattling with loose stones. Ahead, Gazkra could smell the scent of roasting meat.

"Feast hall's back this way," Kog'zela grunted. "Do me a favor, grab a dagger from one of the supply carts next to the quartermaster's supply room, then cut a few flanks for the worgs. I'll show you how to feed 'em without losing hands. You remember the way?" she added, turning to Gazkra with one eyebrow raised.

"I do," she replied simply, knowing that her reply one way or another would leave an impression on her new trainer.

"Good," she replied bluntly, turning away. Gazkra went as if to make her way upstairs, but was stopped a second later by Kog'zela's voice once more. "Oh, and Tethra," she called. Remembering a split-second later that this was her own false name, she turned back, a question in her gaze.

"Get good cuts, nothing too fatty. Leave the fat to the 'locks," she added, grinning wryly. Gazkra flashed her a grin of her own, and made her way up to the supply room.

Here she found a supply cart sitting just outside the supplies room. She found a good dagger quick enough--one with a long, sharp blade. She began to wedge open a crate marked "MEAT," growling to herself with the effort, when one of the orcs around a fire behind her took notice.

"Hey! You, orc," one addressed her, scowling. She looked about, wiping her hair from her eyes.

"What?" she spat with authority.

He raised one eyebrow--as did the others around him--but didn't rise. "Meat's already been hung. Go down 'n take it off the racks--it's for Kog'zela, right? You her new pup?"

"Yes," Gazkra replied through gritted teeth. Something about these orcs set her on edge, and she wasn't sure what it was, but she didn't like them one bit.

"Go on, then," he laughed, and it wasn't friendly. He muttered something to his companions and they burst into raucous laughter; Gazkra left, clenching her jaw and trying to avoid going back to them. She wasn't sure how well they could fight, but she was sure that she was better, and it really wasn't a good time to start killing, or even making a scene.

Two levels down she found the meat racks--large metal drying racks meant to preserve large pieces of meat. Dagger in hand, she stripped off several long, thick slabs of meat--leaving the bits that were thickly marbled with white fat--and, hands dripping red, turned and made her way back up through the smoke-clouded stone city.

The enormity of the place almost overwhelmed her. She could pick her way back, but barely--so many little alleys ran into cracks in the stone, so many slopes vanished into the darkness above, that it was very hard to keep a sense of direction. Add to that the complete lack of natural light--there were no sun, or stars, to guide her...

Eventually, though, she found her way back to Kog'zela. The woman was heaving with a pitchfork, mucking out the pen of a particularly large red worg. She was sweating with the effort and swearing at the worg, who simply looked on with a placid gaze.

"Got the meat," Gazkra called from behind her.

Kog'zela turned, planting the pitchfork points-down in the wet hay. "Good, good," she replied. "Here, now watch."

The worg had taken a distinct interest in the smell, and his wide eyes were tracking her every move. He suddenly lunged, jaws agape, his huge tusklike fangs snapping at the air--but Kog'zela, snarling an oath, stepped neatly aside and cuffed the beast upside the head. He growled a vicious warning and came for her, but then she had her pitchfork up, and was swatting him neatly again and again.

He gave a strangled, barking yelp of protest and backed up. Muttering her approval, Kog'zela slammed the pitchfork down and stalked at the worg, a single slab of meat in her hand. "BACK," she snarled, and with her blazing eyes and stiff-legged gait she looked for all the world like a worg herself. The creature took a hesitant step backward, averting his eyes from this madwoman's glare, and with another approving grunt, the orc tossed the worg the meat. He caught it midair and began tearing it apart, wolfing it down with a blinding speed.

"There," Kog'zela said, turning back with a self-satisfied expression. "Now, your turn." She handed Gazkra back another slab of meat and opened the door to the next pen.

Gazkra's breath caught in her throat. In the pen stood a great, shaggy black worg, his expression intelligent and cautious, and for a split second she knew it was Uden. Then he shifted, glancing past her at Kog'zela, and she knew it wasn't her worg at all. Hiding her disappointment, she came toward him, letting him smell the meat; the worg sniffed, but did not lunge like the last one had.

"Order him back. We get to reward 'em once per day, this is the time to teach them to listen."

"Back," Gazkra said, loudly and firmly. The worg obeyed, eyes on the meat, tongue licking at his jaws hungrily. She waited a moment, and he waited too, obedient and silent, and with a smile of approval, the orc tossed him the food.

"Good," Kog'zela said. "You've handled them before, you have the confidence. Good," she repeated.

For the rest of the day, Gazkra toiled under the old orc matron's watchful eye. She cleaned out pens, fed the worgs and brought them water, and even ventured to attempt to brush the matts out of the coat of an old bitch. She didn't get far before being chased from the pen by snapping wolf jaws, but it was a start, and even Kog'zela approved. The midday meal was a thin slice of meat on a hunk of hard bread--but the orc was hungry, and it served her well enough.

Gazkra found that a handful of worgs wandered at will--not following the sentries, but simply making their own way about.

"They don't start trouble, so we let them be," Kog'zela offered by way of explanation. Gazkra found a black worg--another who reminded her of Uden, but somewhat smaller and more lithe--following her about. The worg, a female, sniffed her fingers and wagged her tail, and simply trailed along in the shadows as she explored for a time.

When it came time for Gazkra to bed down for the night--exhausted and slicked with sweat--the worg was nowhere to be found. For the best, she thought to herself; not even she, who'd been living with a worg, could imagine trying to fit one into this cramped sleeping space.

She didn't bother removing her armor that night; it was leather, and comfortable enough. Instead, the moment her head touched the ground, she was fast asleep--her body aching, and her mind dreaming of soaring on the backs of dragons.

* * * * *

This was a pretty brief chapter, I know--sorry!