The Torrents of War: Part 2 - (Patreon)

Xex’Mon stared out at the snow-capped mountain peaks surroundings his forces as across the vast expanse of flat white valley, Orcs of the “Horde” gathered. Their numbers bleeding out of crevasse, tunnels and pathways, flooding the flats and flat stone with tents and blooming fire light. 

“They must have Shamans helping them, or demon dabblers,” an advisor, Kal’tin, whispered.

“Maybe, though I imagine they know the land well,” He mused, toying with his tusk tip, “Some have hidden here a long time, I am thinking.” Curse it all, they had wandered in thinking the mountains empty, but such a thought was absurd! 

Even the Storm Peaks held varied and vibrant life, to think Alterac would somehow be left abandoned…‘They cannot have been here all the while though; it is a rallying point or else the Rageclaw and our native allies would have told us.’

He shook his head, mind turning over what he knew again and again, ‘I heard tell from the Winter Axe a clan had settled here and that they wanted the Orcs gone. So has something happened, or did the Orcs take a different path here? Could this even be their full force? It cannot be, but if not, then where are the rest?' 

He scanned the fields of snow, his ears twitched as the Horde sung war ballads and chanted. His own forces were arrayed behind him, some few had raced to rejoin their kin, but the rest held their lines or stayed close to the camps.

“Some of the Peons and…” Nazgrel struggled to find the word, “Caretaker, types are cowering in fear or want to leave this place.”

Xex’Mon nodded, “No surprise given what some of them told us of their time in the Old Horde,” The scars alone told stories of the warriors and warlocks brutality. “Kal’Tin, have some of our Drakkari Legionaries escort them to some safe caves or take up guard around their camps. No one will force them out so long as I draw breath enough to command.”

“As you say, Chieftain,” The War Priest answered, striding away from the front of their forces, while Xex’Mon and his orcish lieutenants maintained their vigil.

“Have either of you heard of this lot? I see three flags but recognize only one,” Xex’Mon murmured.

Burx was first to speak, “Older warriors have told me of those sigils, one is of the Warsong who are undefeated raiders and never captured.”

“Nor did they seek to free us,” Nazgrel spat before waving his hand. “The other is apparently of the Frostwolves, I heard the older soldiers speaking of it. They were thought banished and dead, it seems they have just been hiding though.”

“And we gave them the chance to step into the light,” Xex’Mon scoffed, “Some show of gratitude.”

Burx looked to him warily, “They may not have helped us, but they have clearly saved other Orcs and we are still one people… Do you mean for us to fight them?” The warrior looked near physically sick at the prospect.

Xex’Mon leaned down and clapped him on the shoulder. “Worry not Burx, the Frost King is no tyrant and while you did swear allegiance to us, I’ve no mind to let this turn to bloodshed just to force your or anyone’s hand.”

“One should tell them that,” Nazgrel said, glaring at the glinting axes and waving spears.

“You think they will attack us, their kin? The Drakkari who helped us?” Burx asked, some blend of shock and offence melded in his tone.

“Should it surprise you, Burx? They said they would, and if Dalaran showed you anything it-”

“Enough,” Xex’Mon groaned, “Let us go over and be neighborly, ey?”

“Is that safe, Chieftain?” Nazgrel asked. 

Xex’Mon forced a dry laugh, “If they are honorable sorts, we shall be fine.” If they were not, then everyone would see them be the first to strike, either sparking a fight before the Old Horde was ready or at least putting his own forces off the new arrivals.

Or so he hoped.

_______________________________________________________

Nazgrel was relieved if when their trek across the expanse of snow between the gathering armies was cut short by their counterparts marching out to meet them. They were barely ten feet apart, letting Nazgrel once again take in the self-proclaimed leaders of the Orcish Horde.

They looked well fed, proud and pleased with themselves.

‘Doomhammer who escaped, Hellscream who hid,’ those words, those deeds rolled over in his mind as the pair came to a stop before them along with some cloaked old Orc with no eyes.

Xex’Mon offered a curt bow and made to speak, only to be cut off.

“So, you finally approach? Its been hours,” Grom chided.

Nazgrel and Burx grunted as one, but Xex’Mon looked merely amused as he answered, “I wanted to give you time to get your camp in order. But as my Legionaries and I are on a schedule, even manners can only hold for so long.”

Orgrim huffed, his gaze not meeting the chieftains and instead drifting across himself and Burx, "Did you come about our message? For there is little else yet for us to discuss with pretty words if not." 

Xex’Mon’s tone remained light as he chuckled, “Yes, my apologies, your message was rather… scant on details. Please forgive my ignorance of your culture, I felt there may have been some subtleties I was missing.”

“You think to mock us with your words, or merely waste our time?” Grom spat.

“Neither” The Chieftain answered, clicking his tongue.

Grom waved his axe at them, “Then why patronize us by bringing these pups, did you have no veterans to serve as your seconds?”

Xex’Mon smiled fondly, “Commanders Burx and Nazgrel have shown ferocity, grit and discipline on the field of battle. It is for those reasons I appointed them as my lieutenants. I would trust them with my life.”

Orgrim looked displeased, still not looking at or even addressing the Chieftain. "You two are young and bold, but far from ready to command, your honored elders." 

Burx was bristling, “We have done well for ourselves on the field of battle, Lordaeron, Dalaran, camp after camp, all fallen to us.”

Grom scoffed, “Felled by the hands of the masters you cling to perhaps, true Orcs are independent!”

“Is that what you said when your Warlocks conjured demons? What of the Ogres, Troll and Goblins in your armies?” Nazgrel spat.

“Listen here, pup, we led them, we were not led,” Grom snarled, crimson light burning bright.

“The light in yours eyes says…” he grew quiet as Xex’Mon motioned for quiet.

“We can trade barbs all day if we wish and gain nothing for it. Tell me, what is it you genuinely want?” asked the chieftain.

Orgrim’s gaze remained locked on Nazgrel as he spoke, “We want only all among you to return to your people.”

Grom’s rough tones drifted on the winds, “Return to where you belong and together we can rebuild and reclaim what is rightfully ours.”

Nazgrel ignored his words, looking to his chieftain who mournfully spoke, “So you’ve no intention of negotiating with the Drakkari Empire then?”

“Negotiate what?” Grom bristled. “They are our people, you’ve no right to rule them.”

“Return our fellow orcs and we shall be open to diplomacy with your king, but,” Orgrim stressed, “These mountains, the Uplands, the Lowlands of Hillsbrad and Arathi. They are all ours.”

“By what right?” Burx asked, thumping a foot against the snow.

Grom lazily swung his axe, “Do you even need to ask pup?”

Xex’mon toyed with his tusk and sighed, “Much of that land has already been secured by the Empire and it seems you’ve no desire for discourse on this or any other matter. Such a shame.”

Orgrim finally looked at him, “Do you intend to order them to fight us?”

Xex’Mon blanched, “Order my Legionaries to attack their kin? Never. But nor shall I order them to join you if they do not wish it and I most certainly will not forbid them from defending themselves or others if you attack.”

His tone grew jocular, even biting in subtle mockery, “But that would be a mad and foolish decision, we are dug in and have more time to prepare than you, as well as reinforcements waiting in the wings. Why, even if you attacked now and won your armies would be broken and exhausted, so much so you would be unable to hold these mountains."

All the while the amused smile did not fall from Xex'Mon's face as he bowed grandly and finished with, "So, I suppose we are at an impasse, lest you wish to talk.”

Grom’s axe thrust towards the troll's head. 

Nazgrel found himself crashing against Burx to stand in the way of the blade, hand grasping for weapons their chieftain had ordered left behind.

The axe stopped short and Grom merely muttered, "You carry yourselves like servile curs." 

Ogrims hand clapped down on the taller Orcs shoulder, “They will come to us, in time, and these mountains will be ours in short order. All you do by refusing to return them to us is ensure we are your enemy in the future.”

“I believe I will let my people,” Xex’Mon stressed, “as fellow members of the Drakkari Empire, choose their own fate.”

“You attacked us under a banner of diplomacy!” Burx snapped.

“He attacked a troll, not you,” Orgrim said, looking to Xex’mon, “It is a shame you would not acknowledge my ranks as Warchief of the Orcs. Even more that you would deny my people the right to join us again, but it will not last I assure you.” With that he began to march away.

A shut tore from Burx's throat, "On my honor, I shall never betray the Drakkari Empire!" 

Grom turned and growled over his shoulder, “Trained and whipped dogs, nothing more, unworthy to be called orcs.”

“The humans whipped us, you left us, only the Drakkari freed us,” Nazgrel said.

Both Orcs froze, shoulders stiff, muscles throbbing as Grom whirled around. “What did you say!?”

Nazgrel stepped forward, “I said Orgrim ran away and left us to languish in the camps while you cowered in cave! Only the Drakkari helped us, and now you want to claim their good work as your own. Pathetic,” he spat.

Grom howled and lurched forward, Nazgrel felt himself gag as he was yanked back by Xex’Mon and Orgrim grappled to restrain his partner who gnashed his fangs and seethed, “You know nothing brat! Nothing of what it means to be an Orc!”

“I know enough!" Nazgrel howled, "I challenge Orgrim Doomhammer to a Mak'gora for the title of Warchief!”

The winds grew silent, both camps stilled and everyone stared at Nazgrel.

_____________________________________________________

Orgrim hadn't even rejoined the camp before the grizzled voice of Drek'Thar was in his ear. 

"Was such malignance necessary, Warchief?" The aged Shaman still carried himself with ferocity, bedecked in layers of fur and marching out to meet him with an axe-cane in hand. 

Orgrim huffed, "Listening to others conversations is hardly well mannered, Honored Shaman." 

The stooped Drek'Thar, shrugged, "And yet, the Spirits carried unto me your words."

It was Grom who spoke up next, cracking his neck, "I did come off more fierce than intended..." He scowled, "I think whatever those Blackrock traitors left behind is affecting the mood of the camp." 

"Maybe," Orgrim conceded, "But I've no such excuse and yet, I maintain it was the right decision." He cast a glance over his shoulder and grinned. "They're brave young Orcs, but not yet aware of how dangerous the world is, no yet true warriors. By defeating this Nazgrel, I secure our people's support and with it the mountains." 

"Then," Grom rumbled, "We can deal with these Drakkari on even terms." 

"Exactly," Orgrim grinned at the taller warrior. 

Drek'Thar thumped his cane against the ground, "They seem open to that already." 

The Warchief just shook his head, "Yes, they seem an honorable sort, but you heard as well as I do from our agents their plans and methods. They would seek to change us, to rule us, and no matter how gentle a master, I refuse to let our people's fate be decided by another." 

Grim nodded, "If we joined them or even let them dictate terms, our voices would be smothered by their kings crowded court. We have all sacrificed and lost too much to let ourselves be anything but free." 

Drek'Thar sighed but nodded, "So by forcing their hand we secure our people and our destiny... Still, I am wary. They are no weaklings and all I have heard from the Valley tells me they have plans for these lands."

"Let them plan," Orgrim intoned, "Their army is growing ever more exhausted and these mountains are a fortress. If they try to make a fight of our claims here and in the fields below, they will only weaken themselves for the Alliance." 

He clapped Drak'Thar on the shoulder, "This victory shall give us all the leverage we need Elder. Freedom, lands to call our own and a future brighter than any summer day." 

At the Elder Shamans wane smile, Orgrim smiled and welcomed Grom's encouraging slap across the back, "All you have to do now is win the duel." 

"Trust me old friend, that will be the simplest part of all this." 

_____________________________________________________

The time of battle fast approached, some had argued to wait so that everyone’s forces could be gathered; others argued against the legitimacy of the battle. All while the Shamans, led by Drek’Thar insisted every right and prayer to the spirits and ancestors must be made that they would look fondly upon an honorable duel.

But the hours passed by quickly, the longer the challenge was left unanswered the weaker Doomhammer would look, and so while Nazgrel did not welcome the duels coming he did not fear it either.

His mind was calm, even surrounded in a vast field of flattened snow by his kin and by the enemy Horde, with ancestors he did not know the names of and spirits he could not hear apparently judging his every act.

‘Mother, are you here?’

He heard no answer in prayer and looked to his chieftain who, for any worries he may have had, stood firm, gaze like steel and an unwavering resolve in his voice as he led their Legionaries in a chant, “Nazgrel! Nazgrel! Nazgrel!”

Drinking in the frozen air, Nazgrel’s heart grew faint and distant, the winds were quiet and the chants faint to his mind as he and Doomhammer circled one another. Orgim his signature weapon and Nazgrel with an ornate axe he had grown fond of.

Orgim spoke, “There is no shame in surrendering, you merely wanted to defend one you hold in high regard,” The Warchief said. “He may be no Orc, but I am no stranger to odd allies. Stand own pup, and know I shall not shame you for it.”

Nazgrel snorted, “If you were to shame me, I would take it as a compliment, backstabber.”

The Orcs gaze sharpened, “You use that name in ignorance of what I did, of why I did it.”

“No, I do not speak of the humans general, or your own Warchief, or even the long dead warriors whose blood is on your hands. No, I speak of how you betrayed us!”

The chanting grew incensed on the Horde’s side, heavy thumping and roars making the mountains quake.

“I led our people, I return to lead them now, to freedom, not as subjects but as free Orcs!”

“You speak off returning? Bah! It is for that reason you are a traitor, you Orgrim Doomhammer led us to defeat, you ran away and left us to rot in the camps, you return only now when the Drakkari have done your work for you!”

He leveled his axe at the hulking Orc whose grasp on his weapon made the handle screech, “You are a fool, a coward and unworthy to be Warchief!”

The howling was like a hurricane and few bellows matched that Orgrim let loose as he charged forward, hammer drawn back.

Nazgrel raced to meet him, the snow not slipping beneath his boots, he had grown used to fighting on snow fields after all. Drawing his axe back mere inches before they met, he let it loose and saw Orgrim slash it away, too fast to even blink.

Nazgrel slammed his feet into the ground as the Horde cheered on their Warchief; he lashed out with a fist that in a single, violent crunch was ripped asunder by the black blur of the Doomhammer.

Nazgrel’s speed carried him forward, he stopped bracing, instead kicking off from the ground and lurching forward like a viper . Pouncing on Doomhammer before the Orc could draw his weapon back again.

“W-”

Nazgrel buried his fangs in the Warchiefs neck, bloody copper and bitter bile flooded his mouth as sinew and meat was torn free. He grasped the warrior’s hair and yanked his head back and with a violent snap of his jaws, tore out his throat and sent them crashing to the ground.

The snow crunched beneath them as they fell, Ogrim’s body lurching for a moment before going limp in his grasp.

The mountains were deathly silent save for the howling of the wind, as if none could believe Doomhammer would die.

Maybe he was still alive but knowing his spine was utterly broken, Nazgrel spat the sinew from his mouth, coloring the snow red as he forced himself to stand on shaking legs, left side going numb.

With a gagging gasp, he raised his surviving arm up and made to roar, when a scream cut through the air and drove its way into his skull as well as any axe. Nazgrel couldn’t even see Hellscream, just a flash of green and- blue?

Hellscream’s charge and shout was cut short, his axe embedded in the armored side of Xex’Mon whose mighty frame encompassed Nazgrel's; his shoulders quaking as he grasped the weapon and held it in place.

“You will need to strike me down before I will let your hurt even one of my Legionaries,” he spat.

With a howl, Grom tore his weapon free, the Shaman from before was shouting something but Nazgrel could not hear, barely even see as he began to fall, collapsing into the robed form of a priest.

“He lost, show some honor!” He thought he heard Burx bellow, leaping into the fray and tackling Hellscream away from Xex’Mon.

Pleasant and soothing magic flowed over his arm, calming the seething pain running throughout as another Troll hastily bandaged it. Nazgrel tried to watch what came next, flashes of blurred strikes and shouting rang out.

Xex’Mon was dragging Burx back, a wall of ice between them and a livid Hellscream.

Drakkari Legionaries held their ranks, shields high and the distant sound of Shamans chanting as the earth rumbled and the winds grew loud, but it soothed rather than terrified him.

Calls for calm from the blind Shaman went unheeded, the Horde’s shining red eyes lit up the mountainside as shouting and shoving turned to roaring and furious fighting and yet.

"Do we... March?" Nazgrel groaned as he was pulled further back into the throng. 

“That is not an advance,” Xex’Mon muttered as his side.

Walls of ice began to rise between the Horde and the Legionaries.

Orcish Shamans looked on helplessly as the warriors on the other side brawled with one another, while others charged the Drakkari lines while mourning roars echoed across the lands.

“It is a riot.”