Rebellion 10.1 (Patreon)

"Warchief, we've been trudging through this wasteland for a week with nothing to fight but centaurs and pig-men!" Grunt Coraz argued loudly as he marched beside Thrall. "We should have sought out the tauren's humans to test their mettle! Driven them back the sea and secured our claim on this land!"

Thrall shook his head lightly. "No. We do not know if the pink-skins Cairne's people encountered were humans and we will not court new enemies in this land." In his mind he could not imagine the humans he knew, save brave Taretha, acting as the pink-skins who saved many of the tauren from centaurs and sent them onward safely did. "Boredom and the beating sun may have put us all on edge but we must push on! All will be made clear when we reach–"

He paused as Snowsong tilted her head to the side, an ear quirking quizzically.

"What is it, Warchief?" Grunt Gormar asked, hefting his axe. "A threat?"

In the distance a bell tolled faintly, a sound strange to these lands, yet more than that alone. "Do you hear that?" Asking his honour guard as much as he asked the elements to tell him of what lay ahead, what left his mount so curious.

The ground trembled, hundreds, thousands, of feet pounded in rhythm, the hills echoed with the sound of drums carried on the wind, and a roar of challenge mingled with the bell.

Coraz cupped a hand to his ear, teeth flashing as a great grin spread across his face. "I do, Warchief! The Warsong are embattled!"

"And we must aid them!" Thrall raised the Doomhammer high over his head. "Forward, warriors! Hellscream needs help!" Snowsong leapt forward at his words, speeding towards the raging battle. Whatever enemy Grom had found would be swiftly dealt with, and he would be reunited with his brother at last.

The bellowing battle cries of his orcs followed him as he crested the ridge, but though they kept going on ahead he and Snowsong stopped.

Looking down at the throng of Warsong below, a churning distaste built in his gut. The tower, the damnable tower, made clear that the humans had followed them here to this land, the solid plate glistening in the sun showed that their warriors and paladins were amongst them.

But this was no battle.

It was a spectacle.

A one-armed paladin, his hammer shining brightly with the Light the humans wielded so freely. Each blow of his hammer struck hard and true, breaking bones and knocking orcs flying with strength no man nor orc could forge of their own bodies.

Within a minute of watching the last of the assaulting orcs were beaten back, left to be dragged away by their fellows to have their wounds mended – and be mocked for taking them when they outnumbered their foes.

"Hah! I thought the Bleeding Hollow could do better!" Grom roared with laughter from the edge of the great circle of orcs surrounding the gate. "Who will challenge them next?! Who will blood themselves in battle?! There is no better time! Show your fury to the Warsong!"

Within moments a new wave charged forward, giving the paladin no time for respite. But Thrall's attention drifted elsewhere; the walls were marred and battered but not broken, and the catapults lay dormant and unused which could easily tear them down. Grom was treating this battle like it was a game. Toying with the lives of those trapped within.

In looking about for new challengers, though they had been swift to come, Grom had turned, and sighted Thrall atop the hill. "Little brother, you're here!" He sounded overjoyed. "Come, join me for a drink!"

"Grom, I think there are more pressing matters than a drink." Thrall called back, urging Snowsong to approach. To hold in his anger, his frustration, he breathed deep and slowly; expelling a great breath through his nose in a gust. "What is this about? Where did they come from?"

"The same place we did." Grom said dismissively, ignoring the more important of his questions. "Some girl named Proudmoore leads them and has entered the passes, these ones were set to watch for us."

So the humans were not merely here, had not merely followed them, they had followed them by choice and gotten ahead. Sought to bar their passage. What reason did they have to follow them as they fled their lands? Why would they make for Stonetalon Peak? Were they doomed to forever be at war? Would his people never know the peace they deserved?

Too many questions rang in his head that he could not answer. But at least this he could put an end to.

Dropping from Snowsong's back he planted his feet firmly, feeling the bones of the Earth deep beneath him, and raised his arms. Blood had been spilled and could not be unspilled but at least he could grant these humans a clean death.

They would not bar his path to the prophet where he would have his–

Before the Earth could heed his call it groaned, something swelling up from below, and the Air whirled with a storm brewed but not of his making. "What?" He uttered in confusion, seeking the source of these actions and finding no shaman amongst his people wielding the Elements.

Then the surge came, a wall of water spilling out of the tower and parting around the paladin to wash away the orcs who had engaged him in battle anew. Yet though he had witnessed the bound elementals of the mages...

This was not that. The water moved at the will of a shaman, spitting its defiance and anger at his people whom it washed away – cursing them for their actions.

And behind came forth two figures; the first a dwarf glowering and glaring with bandages covering an eye while the other held the fury of a storm within. The second was a tauren, tall and imposing, with fur as black as night and a great totem like those carried by Cairne's guards.

The humans had aided the tauren, and now he faced one of Cairne's people as a foe. That was a regrettable affair but not what dominated his thoughts.

When did the Alliance, the dwarves, have shamans amongst their number?!

"I wonder," the paladin said through panting breaths as he slammed his hammer into the stones at his feet, "will these newcomers be as honourless as to ignore a flag of parley also, proving the prophet's faith misplaced, or will they prove me wrong for exiling my brother all those years ago?"

"Honourless?" Grom laughs, but it quickly lowers to a growl as he grips Gorehowl. "The time for games is over!"

Before Grom could charge forward Thrall's arm lashed out, catching his brother and holding him in place. "Grom, hold." Thrall ordered firmly as he watched the paladin carefully.

"Brother, let me go." Grom growled.

"No." Thrall said, tightening his grip and pulling his brother back as he stepped into the circle. "I am Thrall, Warchief of the Horde," he said in his clear Common, "and you will tell me why what your intentions are in these lands and all that you know of the prophet."

"Little brother, these are the humans who oppressed our people!" Grom protested furiously, inciting a furore amongst the rest of the orcs. "Who caged us and denied our kin their freedom! Let me fight him and end this."

"We fled to these lands to end our battles with the humans, Grom." Thrall returned in Orcish, turning to his brother with disappointment. "Would you have us return to those days so soon? To an endless war and our children never knowing the meaning of peace?"

"One does not flee stealing a clan's livelihood and leaving its people destitute." The paladin criticised darkly, his imperfect understanding of their tongue showing through in his words and accent, yet it was clear enough. Returning to his own language he continued. "I am Uther, Lord Paladin of the Silver Hand and a Knight of Lordaeron. My purpose here, in this place, was to wait for you Thrall; so that, as spoken by the young prophet, you would seek Stonetalon Peak and," his eyes turned to Grom balefully, "to avoid conflict, I was to join you on your journey to the meeting there."

The dwarf glowered fiercely. "Aye. An' yer Hizakh friends killed me gryphon so we cannae even send word yer finally here!" The hammer at his waist crackled with lightning as he fingered it. "Shouldnae ever agreed to trust an orc." He spat on the floor, narrowly missing the tauren's hooves who looked at him reproachfully.

"Yet here we stand!" Uther yelled furiously, his sole hand gesturing at the tower. "Besieged by your kind as the demon masters you served seek to invade our world once again! How many lives will you claim? How many–"

From somewhere amongst the onlooking orcs a stone flew out, clanging hard against the paladin's armour. "We no serve demons!" Came the defiant roar that followed.

Not all of those here understood the human tongue, yet enough did that what was said spread quickly. More stones were thrown, chests were pounded, and his people bayed for blood while spears and axes rattled against shields. Few felt any reason to back down against the challenge inherent to the paladin and dwarf's words.

Weathering the storm the paladin met Thrall's eyes, his gaze was piercing and dominated Thrall's vision as he thought.

If, as the paladin claimed, he had sought to avoid conflict, there could be a chance for peace.

If, as the paladin said, the humans had been invited to Stonetalon Peak also, then he needed to speak with them and the prophet.

If, as the paladin implied, the humans were here to fight against the demons who had once enslaved his people and their return, then they would be allies in the battles to come.

If the paladin and the other humans could be trusted. Releasing his clenching fist Thrall looked down at his palm, for a moment imaging Tari's hand there offering comfort and support, reminding him that though so many humans were the very monsters they claimed his people to be, not all were. There was kindness and goodness amongst their kind.

"Find whoever threw that rock." Thrall ground out, his rumbling voice carrying over the heckling roar of his orcs. "Perhaps digging the latrines for the next month will teach him to restrain his foolishness."

There was a dull murmur of discontent amongst his people even as they obeyed, so many rallying against the injustice they had suffered. But it would be enough for now.

"Paladin, you have my apologies for the actions of my kin." He said, turning to the paladin and stepping towards him alone. "Much bad blood exists between us and I would rather see it settled than more spilled."

"Little brother!" Grom hissed as he followed after him protectively. "Humans lie, you know this. Let us hunt down the rest of them–"

"It was not we who attacked those under a flag of parley, Orc!" Uther spat over Grom, his voice burning with anger and his eyes flashing with something dark. "But you are hardly the first orc to refuse a chance a peace when it is offered. Nor will you be the last, too many are savage beasts like you."

Grom's neck bulged in anger at the insult and he hefted Gorehowl before him. "I will show you what savage means, Human."

"Brother, stop!" Thrall ordered, catching Grom's arm and holding it firm.

Yet the furious Hellscream struggled against his grip, his eyes all but glowed with fury, and without the aid of the elements Grom was stronger.

"Come then, fight me and prove your honour." Uther chuckled darkly. "What great honour there is in fighting a one-armed man after spending days tiring him day and night as he defends those you would slaughter in their sleep if you could!"

"Abou' time we got to clobber yer bloomin' 'ead in!" The dwarf growled. "Gonna avenge Skythorn an' put yer head on me mantle!"

As the paladin and dwarf hefted their hammers all around hollers and whoops began, chants calling for Grom to break the paladin's resolve, to end the battle. To put down the ones who insulted their honour.

Thrall despaired that he would have to strike them down, his own brother, to achieve peace.

Then the black-furred hand of a tauren landed on the shoulder of the paladin. "I know not your conflict." He said in the soft tongue Cairne had used, but just like Cairne, the spirits of Air translated the meaning to something Thrall could understand. "Yet the curse is clear to me. The path of the conqueror offers peace only when all foes lie defeated. When none remain to challenge your rule." He snorted, his nose ring rattling from the breath. "I know this as one who was Grimtotem. Heed not the hatred in your heart. Heed the heart of the Earth Mother who cares for all living things."

The paladin tightened his grip on his hammer, but he stepped back. "MacGraff, hold."

With a grunt of anger, the dwarf pulled back also. "Fine. Listen tae the bull-man we cannae understand over me an' mine." He pointed a single finger at Grom. "Ye'll die by me hammer one day, I promise ye that."

"You'll try." Grom growled as the dwarf retreated into the tower, straining to break free of Thrall's grasp. "Little brother, let me end this! I can wait no longer!"

"No." The tauren was right, there would be no peace if they allowed hatred to blind them. "Grommash Hellscream, Chief of the Warsong Clan, as Warchief of the Horde I order you to stand down."

The use of their titles seemed to snap Grom out of it, but he still needed a task, a duty for Grom to perform. Something important enough to see him leave and take his bloodthirsty clan elsewhere. This rage, this hatred, was a liability he couldn't afford.

"Take your clan into the northern forests and–"

"And there he would find the kaldorei, the rulers of the forests who hold them sacred, and begin a new war." Uther spoke authoritatively, shaking his head in disgust. "Just as the girl said, and by doing so you would cost us all a great ally."

"Who are these kaldorei?" Thrall demanded, irritated by the interruption.

"Those who walk beneath the stars," the tauren answered, "rule over the forests of the land. As they have done since before the world split open and waters flooded the land. The forests themselves move at their command, both dragons and living mountains walk alongside them, and such is their strength that none, no centaur, harpy, quillboar, or other may oppose them." His ears flicked. "Save perhaps those who scarred the Earth Mother. I do not know."

Uther looked to the tauren for a moment before shaking his head. "The kaldorei are the night elves, an empire and our allies to be against the demons. If," he turned to look at Grom grimly, "of course, those efforts are not sabotaged from the beginning."

Why had the prophet favoured these humans so greatly? Hah, of course. Despite his claim of abandoning his humanity, the prophet had been a human after all.

"Grommash Hellscream, take the Warsong Clan and gather those remaining tribes who wander the barrens." Thrall ordered, meeting his brother's red gaze with his own blue. "Find a suitable place for our people to settle and clear out any beasts that dwell there. Quillboar, centaur, and harpies, but not the tauren or the humans."

Grunting harshly, Grom ripped his arm away from Thrall. "Whatever you say, Warchief." He grumbled darkly, turning to his clan and marching away.

"Now, Paladin, tell me what the prophet has told you."

If the prophet chose to favour the humans over his people, then he would force the humans to give him what they knew in exchange for a chance to talk.

-oOoOo-

Drek'Thar held his hands out to the crackling fire before him, feeling the flow of the spirits rising up and into the great sky above. Air and Fire mixed together, speaking in their whispering and searing voices of what was to come.

A great burning shadow that loomed over the world, one foul and familiar, great and distant yet drawing nearer. A curse that had consumed him before, severed his connection with the spirits and damned him and his people with a crime that could never be forgiven.

What little honour he still carried demanded he ready himself to fight against them, to gather his clan and find Thrall so that the Horde could rally against the demons they had served.

Yet, the spirits bid him to wait.

And he would heed their wisdom.

Hours passed, the fire dwindling slowly as the heat of day faded into the cold of night, and two of those that insisted upon guarding him approached. "Farseer, let us tend your fire."

He shook his head. "No, young Gura. The fire is as it should be." Burning, burning away its fuel in a blaze of glory and joy until it faded and dwindled in its elder years. Reaching down he collected ashes from the edges of the diminished fire. "I ask you once again, go. Find Thrall and aid him in his journey. Tell him of what I have seen."

Atop the highest mountain would the price be at last paid for their crimes. The least of, the beginning of an atonement that may only end when all those that remember them have died.

The young held no guilt, born without choice, born after their defeat, holding true to what they should be. What he could never be again.

"We will guard you till the end of our days, Farseer." Palkar said resolutely, the earth stirring as he and Gura knelt beside him. "You are Chieftain of the Frostwolves! To even consider abandoning you besmirches our honour!"

Once again, he shook his head, but did not answer him. There was little he could do to convince them.

In silence he began to comb Wise-ear's fur, with the gift from little Kasha he enjoyed so much, and waited.

The flames dwindled to nothing and at last the wind stirred alone – storms rumbling in the sky where no clouds loomed, a trail of lightning reaching far and wide, great wings beating down.

Wise-ear followed him as he stood, letting out a howling cry which every wolf of his clan answered. A grand chorus asking for their guests to descend and meet them. Raising the hand which had gathered the ashes from the dwindling fire he cast them out, upon where only embers remained.

A great blaze burst skyward. A beacon none with sight could ignore – nor could any with the sight as the flames roared their last gasp, before dying at last.

Storms turned and lightning bent, coming closer with each beat of the beast’s wings.

"Gura, Palkar, take the clan and depart." He ordered the siblings, his voice brooking no disobedience. "I will greet my guests alone. Do not wait for me."

"Farseer! That is a human gryphon!" Palkar protested. "We can see them!"

"No more clearly than I." He said, and returned to sitting upon his rock. It would not be long now. "Go, Gura, daughter of Grem, Palkar, son of Grem, Shamans of the Frostwolves; lead our clan in my absence. "

"As you will, Farseer." Gura said waveringly, taking her brother and departing reluctantly.

Powerful wings stirred the soil, mixing Air and Earth together and marking their passage. The great flying beast lingered only for a moment before taking to the air, the storm following him. Yet two things remained behind. The first, an animal, small and simple yet heeded by Earth and the spirits, and the other a spirit itself.

One older than he, one older than the clan perhaps. And one that was... kin to his wolves, yet also not a wolf. He bowed his head towards the spirit and the beast that accompanied him.

"Greetings, cousin." The spirit speaks, his words that of a young boy in contradiction to his age. And not to Drek'Thar, but to Wise-ear.

Wise-ear rumbled in answer, his ears intent upon their guests, but not fearful nor worried. They smelled different to him and, as Drek'Thar tasted the wind, he placed it. A fox, a creature of this world not present on Draenor.

"This humble shaman greets the great spirit." He spoke deferentially. The two had joined his fire, sitting atop the stones he had placed for them days ago. "What do the spirits of the world wish of me this day?"

Then, something changed. The mundane fox was no longer a fox. Instead a man, the world bending around him as his very essence changed. "Do you have a story to tell us, old shaman?" He asked curiously.

Chuckling at the surprise, something that even in his old age he had never seen before, Drek'Thar wonders on what story to tell.

Ah, of course. A story old and yet telling of his people – One the elders in front of him would undoubtedly appreciate. "Let me tell you of the last Chieftain of the Frostwolves, of Durotan and Stormfang as they guarded Greatmother Geyeh..."

So he spoke, of the price of losing control, of the nobility their people could achieve and lose in a single moment. Of the purpose of memory and reminders.

The night was long and many more stories were shared. He learned of the ancients of this world, of the great spirits like no others, of the titans who would battle against the darkness were they but roused.

Without hesitation he knelt, pledging himself to the spirits’ cause.

Nothing could atone for what he had done. Nothing could end the regrets he felt. Yet, in defending this world as he failed his own, a beginning could be made.