Keith DeCandido: Cycle of Hatred

The blade in question belonged to Colonel Lorena. Strov assumed that she had dispatched her own foe.

As for the orc, he yelled out the word for retreat in the orcish tongue, and then they all yelled the phrase, "Galtak Ered'nash!" Strov knew many languages, including those of the orcs, trolls, goblins, and dwarves, as well as all four elven dialects. He'd never heard that phrase before.

His foe now running away, Strov turned to see that Ian and Mal were down—the former dead with his throat ripped open, the latter alive but with a leg injury—but besides himself, Lorena, Jalod, Paolo, and Clai were uninjured. One of the orcs lay on the ground as well. The other six were retreating, two of them bleeding.

"Strov, Clai, give chase," Lorena said as she ran toward Mal.

Clai was the most brutal fighter in the detail. Strov noted that his fellow private had a great deal of orc blood on his sword. "You were able to strike flesh?" Strov asked as they ran in the same direction as the remaining six orcs.

Nodding, Clai said, "Only when I got the head or the neck. It's like their bodies were made outta smoke or somethin'."

The figures had all gone through one of the overhanging willow branches that almost served as a wall. Only a few paces behind, Clai and Strov ran through to find—nothing. Of the orcs, there was no sign. Even the blood trail of the two injured ones was gone. The ground was visible for half a league—it was impossible for the orcs to have gone from sight in the time available.

Strov stopped short and took a deep breath. "You smell that?"

Clai shook his head.

"Sulfur. And spices—thyme, I think."

Sounding confused, Clai asked, "So?"

"Magic. Which also explains why they couldn't be stabbed."

An almost manic gleam in his eye, Clai asked, "Demons?"

"Pray not." Strov shuddered. Clai was but a youth, a recent recruit who had been too young to fight the Burning Legion. His eagerness to fight demons was that of one who had never had to fight any.

Turning, Strov ran back through the leaves toward Lorena, Clai on his heels.

The colonel was kneeling by Mal, along with Paolo, the latter binding Mal's wounds. Upon seeing Strov and Clai, she got to her feet and angrily asked, "What happened?"

"They disappeared, ma'am. Completely—even their blood trail. And there's the stink of magic."

Lorena spat. "Dammit!" She let out a breath through her teeth, then pointed at the cloak on the ground. "But that figures. That one won't be questioned, it seems."

Looking closely, Strov saw that the cloak was flat on the ground. Using his sword, he poked the garment, which disturbed some ashes. Then he looked back at the colonel.

"Definitely magic," she said with a nod.

"Ma'am, something's familiar about—" Then, finally, Strov placed it, recalling a recent conversation with his brother. "That's it!"

"What's it, Private?"

"When last I was home, my brother Manuel told me of a group that calls itself the Burning Blade. Someone tried to recruit him for it the last time he was in the Demonsbane. Said they're looking for people to come to their meetings who aren't happy with the way things are, but didn't say no more than that."

Jalod snorted. "Ain't nobody happy with the way things are. Ain't no reason to be havin' meetin's about it."

Strov thought this was odd, given what Jalod had been saying earlier, but did not respond directly, instead continuing his report to the colonel. "Ma'am, the orc I fought had a sword afire carved into his tusk."

"A burning blade." Lorena shook her head. "The one I fought—the one that turned to ashes over there—had a burning blade of his own dangling from his nose ring."

Clai raised a hand. "If I may, ma'am?" Lorena nodded. "One of my foes had one—it was like the one Private Strov fought, ma'am, on his tusk."

"Dammit." She looked over at Paolo, who was now standing over Mal. "How is he?"

"Needs a real healer, but it'll keep till we get back to Theramore." He looked past Lorena toward the main part of Northwatch. "I wouldn't trust no infirmary in this place, ma'am."

Through gritted teeth, Mal said, "Second that, ma'am."

"Fine." Sheathing her sword without wiping it down—Strov assumed she'd do it once they were under way in the boat—Lorena started toward the docks. "Let's get to the ship and give him some of my whiskey to ease the pain when we board."

Smiling raggedly, Mal said, "The colonel's a generous woman."

Giving the corporal a half smile in return, Lorena said, "Not that generous—just two fingers, and no more. That stuff's expensive."

Paolo signaled to Clai, and the two of them picked Mal up, keeping his wounded leg steady while they carried him, each on a side, toward the docks. Strov, meanwhile, picked up Ian's bloodied corpse.

Lorena said to him as they walked, "Private, as soon as we're back in Theramore, I want you to talk to your brother. I want to know everything possible about this Burning Blade."

"Yes, ma'am."

The stone—walled room that housed Thrall's seat of power as Warchief of the Horde was chilly. Thrall liked it that way—orcs were not creatures of cold, so they were uncomfortable here. He found that it was best for people not to be comfortable while in the presence of their leader. So when the place was constructed, he had made sure the stonework was thick and there were no windows. Illumination was provided only by lanterns, rather than torches, since they gave off less heat.

Not that it was ever so cold as to be truly unpleasant. He did not want his people to suffer when they were petitioning him, but nor did he want them to be entirely at ease. It had been a difficult road that Thrall had traveled, and he knew how precious—and precarious—his current position was. He would therefore take advantage of every opportunity he could, even so minor a one as keeping his throne room a bit on the cold side.

He met now with Kalthar, his shaman, and Burx, his strongest warrior. Both stood before Thrall, who sat on the leather chair made from the hides of creatures Thrall himself had slain.

"The humans are still in Northwatch Keep. Last we heard, a ship with more troops was showing up. Sounds to me like they're reinforcing."

"Hardly." Thrall leaned back in his chair. "Lady Proudmoore informed me that she was sending one of her warriors to investigate Captain Bolik's report."

Burx drew himself up. "They don't trust a warrior's word?"

Kalthar, whose green skin had grown pale and wrinkled with age, laughed throatily. "I am sure, Burx, that they trust the word of an orc as much as you would trust the word of a human."

"Humans are cowardly and despicable," Burx said dismissively.

"The humans of Theramore are no such thing." Thrall leaned forward. "And I will not hear them being spoken ill of in my presence again."

Burx stamped his foot. Thrall had to restrain a laugh at the warrior's expense. The gesture reminded Thrall of a human child throwing a temper tantrum; however, among orcs, the action was a legitimate sign of displeasure. For all he was lord of the clans, there were times when Thrall had to forcibly remind himself that he had not been raised among his own kind.

"This is our land, Thrall! Ours! The humans don't have any claim to it. Let them go back across the Great Sea where they belong and let us get back to what life was like before the demons cursed us—away from all foul influences, mortal or not."

Thrall shook his head. He'd thought these arguments had ended two years ago. "The humans occupy the harshest land on Kalimdor, and precious little of it. We didn't even take the Dustwallow Marshes. Jaina's people—"

" ‘Jaina'?" Burx sneered the name.

Now Thrall stood. "Be very careful, Burx. Lady Proudmoore—Jaina—has earned my respect. You, on the other hand, are rapidly losing it."