Christie Golden: The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm

The mist was still present but seemed to thin the further inland they went. They trudged past broken, abandoned siege engines and discarded weaponry and armor, past the remains of a long - abandoned farm with pig skeletons that had been bleached white by the sun. They continued up the slight incline, the tundra soil covered with some sort of red plant that stubbornly persisted in existing despite the harshness of this place. Cairne respected that.

Warsong Hold loomed ahead, clearly and proudly visible. It appeared to be located in the center of a quarry, the hollow providing a practical barrier. Nerubians, an ancient race of spiderybeings, many of whose corpses had been raised by necromantic magic, had attempted attacks at various times, but no longer. What had once been strong, sticky webbing had now been cut or worn down to nothing more than a few ropy strands that danced harmlessly in the wind. Along with the Scourge, they, too, had retreated before the dedicated efforts of the Horde.

Up ahead, Cairne caught a blur of movement as a scout caught sight of the Horde standard at the front of Cairne's entourage and dashed away. Cairne and his group followed along the line of the quarry until they encountered a path that descended into it. It was not an impressive entrance, but a workmanlike one, and Cairne found himself in what had been the forge area.

Now, though, no rivers of yellow molten metal flooded the channels; there was no "tink tink" sound of hammer on anvil. His nose, keener than his eyesight these days, caught the faint, stale scent of wolf. The beasts had been gone for some time, sent home even before their masters. What weapons and ammunition there were seemed to have been gathering dust for a while. Once Cairne could make a proper assessment of what was going on, the several kodos who had also made the sea voyage, excellent beasts of burden, would help transport the cargo back to the ships.

Cairne felt the chill of the place. With the forges running, there would be more than enough heat generated to warm the cavernous, open area, but with them still and silent, the cold of Northrend had permeated. Cairne, seasoned veteran though he was, was almost overwhelmed by the size of the place. Larger certainly than Grommash Hold, probably even larger than some Horde cities, it was massive, open, and empty feeling. Their hooffalls echoed as he and his people moved toward the center of the first level.

Two orcs engaged in deep discussion turned as he approached. Cairne knew them both and nodded respectfully at them. The older one with green skin was Varok Saurfang, younger brother to the great hero Broxigar and father to the late, deeply grieved Dranosh Saurfang. Many had lost a great deal in this conflict; Varok more than anyone's fair share.

His son had fallen, along with thousands of others, at Angrathar the Wrath Gate. On that dark day, Horde and Alliance had fought side by side against the best the Lich King could throw at them — even prompting that monster himself to appear. Young Saurfang fell, his soul consumed by Frostmourne. Moments later, a Forsaken known as Putress unleashed a plague that would destroy both the living and the undead.

More torment lay in store for the Saurfang line. The corpse of the young warrior was raised by the Lich King, then turned loose to destroy those he had loved in life. A blow more of mercy than of battle had ended his unnatural existence. Only with the fall of the Lich King had High Overlord Varok Saurfang been able to finally bring home the body of his boy — a corpse, now, and nothing more.

Grizzled, strong, Saurfang was everything that Cairne felt was best about the ores. He had wisdom and honor, a powerful arm in battle, and a cool head for strategy. Cairne had not seen Saurfang since his son had fallen at the Wrath Gate, and he silently took in the aging such a deep pain had wrought. Cairne did not know if he, faced with such a horrific violation of all the tauren held dear in the shape of his child, could have borne the double loss half as well as Saurfang did.

"High Overlord," Cairne rumbled, bowing. "As a father myself, I grieve for what you have had to endure. But know that your son died a hero, and what you have wrought here honors his memory. Anything else is borne away on the winds."

Saurfang grunted acknowledgment. "It is good to see you again, High Chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof. And… I know what you say is true. I am not ashamed to say, though, that I am glad this campaign has finally come to an end. We have lost too much."

The younger orc standing beside Saurfang grimaced, as if the words were distasteful to him, and it was clearly an effort for him to hold his tongue. His skin was not green, as was that of most orcs Cairne had met, but rather a shade of rich loam brown, marking him as a Mag'har from Outland. His pate was bald save for a long ponytail of brown hair. This, of course, was Garrosh Hellscream. No doubt to him it was dishonorable to admit that one was glad that battle had come to a close. The tauren chieftain knew that the passing years would teach him that while it was good to fight for a worthy cause and to earn victory, peace was also a good thing. But for now, despite the long, hard - fought war, Garrosh clearly had not had enough of combat, and this bothered Cairne.

"Garrosh," Cairne said. "Word of your deeds has penetrated to all corners of Azeroth. I am sure you are veryproud of your accomplishments here, as Saurfang is of his."

The compliment was genuine, and Garrosh's tense posture eased slightly. "How many of your troops will be returning with us?" continued Cairn.

"Nearly all of them," Garrosh replied. "I leave a skeleton crew with Saurfang, and a few others at outposts here and there. I do not anticipate he will have need even of that. The Warsong offensive has crushed the Scourge and taken the fighting spirit out of the rest of our enemies, as we came here to do. It is my belief that my former advisor will sit and watch spiders spin cobwebs and fully enjoy the peace he so obviously craves."

The words might have stung another. Cairne bridled on Saurfang's behalf — after what the older orc had endured, Garrosh's words were particularly harsh. Saurfang, however, clearly had grown used to Garrosh's attitude and merely grunted.

"We have both done our duties. We serve the Horde. If I serve by watching little spiders instead of fighting large ones, then I am well content."

"And I must serve the Horde by bringing its victorious soldiers safely home," Cairne said. "Garrosh, which of your soldiers is assigned the task of directing the withdrawal?"

"I," Garrosh said, surprising Cairne. "Such as it is. We all have shoulders to carry items." Once downtrodden and ashamed of his heritage, Garrosh had struck the old tauren as a youth who would require a specially shaped doorway to accommodate his swollen head. And yet he did not hesitate to do the basest task right alongside his soldiers. Cairne smiled, pleased. He suddenly understood a bit better why the orcs Garrosh led admired him so deeply.

"My shoulders are more stooped than they once were, but I daresay they can bear what they need to," Cairne said. "Let us get to work."

It was the work of less than two days to finish packing the supplies that would accompany the troops, load them onto kodos, and transport them to the ship. As they worked, many of the orcs and trolls sang songs in their harsh, guttural tongues. Cairne understood Orcish and Zandali, and smiled at the discrepancies between the actions of the songs and what was actually transpiring. Trolls and orcs blithely sang of chopping off arms and legs and heads while tying boxes onto the backs of the mellow pack kodos. Still, their spirits were high, and Garrosh sang as loudly as any of them.

At one point, as they were walking side by side earning crates to the ship, Cairne asked, "Why did you leave your landing site, Garrosh?"