Keith DeCandido - Cycle of Hatred

Primary thanks must go to Blizzard Games guru Chris Metzen, whose contributions to everything Warcraft cannot be understated. Our phone conversations and e-mail exchanges were tremendously fruitful and full of an amazing creative energy.

Secondary thanks go to Marco Palmieri, my editor at Pocket Books, and his boss Scott Shannon, who both thought this would be a good idea; and to Lucienne Diver, my magnificent agent.

Tertiary thanks to the other Warcraft novelists, Richard Knaak, Jeff Grubb, and Christie Golden. In particular, Jeff's The Last Guardian and Christie's Lord of the Clans were very helpful with the characterizations of Aegwynn and Thrall, respectively.

Gratitude also to: the Malibu Gang, the Elitist Bastards, Novelscribes, Inkwell, and all the other mailing lists that keep my sanity by making me insane; CITH and CGAG; the folks at Palombo who put up with me; Kyoshi Paul and the rest of the good folks at the dojo; and, as ever, the forebearance of those that live with me, both human and feline, for all the continued support.

This novel takes place one year prior to World of Warcraft. It is three years after the invasion by the Burning Legion and their defeat by the combined forces of the orcs, humans, and night elves (Warcraft 3: Reign of Chaos and Warcraft 3X: The Frozen Throne).

Erik had been cleaning ale off the demon skull mounted behind the bar when the stranger walked in.

The Demonsbane Inn and Tavern didn't usually get much by way of tourists. Rare was the day when Erik didn't know the face of one of his patrons. More common was when he didn't know their names—he only remembered their faces due to repeated exposure. Erik didn't much care who came into his tavern, as long as they had coin and a thirst.

Sitting down at a table, the stranger seemed to be either waiting for something or looking for something. He wasn't looking at the dark wooden walls—though you could barely see them, seeing as how the Demonsbane had no windows and illumination only from a couple of torches—or at the small round wooden tables and stools that festooned the floor. Erik never bothered to arrange the tables in any particular pattern, since folks would just go and move them around to suit themselves anyhow.

After a minute, the stranger got up and walked up to the wooden bar. "I'm trying to get some table service."

"Don't have none," Erik said. He never saw the sense in paying good money for waiters. If folks wanted a drink, they could walk up to the bar. If they were too drunk to walk up to the bar, he didn't want them to drink anymore anyhow, since folks who were that drunk were like to start fights. Erik ran a quiet tavern.

The stranger plunked a silver piece on the bar and asked, "What's the most expensive drink you have there?"

"That'd be the boar's grog from the north. Orcs make it, ferment it in—"

The stranger's nose wrinkled. "No—no orc drink."

Erik shrugged. People had weird considerations when it came to alcohol. He'd seen folks argue about the relative merits of beer versus corn whiskey with more intensity than they brought to political or religious disagreements. If this gentleman didn't like orc drinks, that wasn't Erik's lookout. "Got corn whiskey—fresh batch made last month."

"Sold." The stranger smacked his hand on the wooden bar, disturbing some of the nut shells, berry seeds, and other detritus that had gathered there. Erik only cleaned the bar about once a year or so—unlike the demon skull, no one could really see the bar, and he never saw the need to clean a surface that wasn't visible.

One of the regulars, a soldier who always drank the grog, turned to look at the stranger. "Mind tellin' me what you got against orc booze?"

The stranger shrugged while Erik pulled the glass bottle of corn whiskey off the shelf and poured some of its contents into a mug that was mostly clean.

"I have nothing against orc drink, good sir—it's orcs themselves I have issue with." The stranger held out a hand. "My name is Margoz. I'm a fisherman by trade, and I have to say that I'm not well pleased with how my nets have filled up this season."

Not bothering to shake the hand or introduce himself, the soldier said, "All that tells me is you ain't no good as a fisherman."

Lowering his hand upon realizing that the soldier wasn't feeling friendly, Margoz took his corn whiskey instead. "I'm a fine fisherman, sir—I thrived in Kul Tiras, before circumstances forced me to move here."

On the other side of Margoz sat a merchant who sputtered into his ale. "Circumstances. Right. Got conscripted to fight the Burning Legion, did you?"

Margoz nodded. "As I'm sure many were. I tried to make a new life for myself here in Theramore—but how can I, with the damned greenskins taking all the good fishing waters for themselves?"

Erik found himself nodding in agreement with the first half of Margoz's statement, if not the second. He himself had come to Theramore after the Burning Legion was driven off—not to fight, as the fighting was over by the time he made the journey, but to claim his inheritance. Erik's brother Olaf had fought against the Legion and died, leaving Erik enough coin to build the tavern Olaf had dreamed of opening after he finished his service. In addition to the money, Erik was bequeathed the skull of a demon that Olaf had slain in combat. Erik had never particularly wanted to run a tavern, but he'd never particularly wanted to do anything else, so he opened the Demonsbane in honor of his brother. He figured, rightly, that the community of humans in Theramore would gravitate toward a place with a name that symbolized the driving off of demons that led to the city—state's formation.

"I ain't standin' for this," the soldier said. "You fought in the war, fisherman—you know what the orcs did for us."

"What they did for us is not what distresses me, good sir," Margoz said, "but rather what they are doing to us now."

"They get the best of everything." This was the boat captain at one of the tables behind the soldier. "Up Ratchet way, them goblins always favor orcs for repairs or dock space. Last month, I had to wait half a day 'fore they'd let me dock my skiff, but some orc boat come by two hour after me, and got a spot right off."

Turning to face the captain, the soldier said, "Then go somewhere other than Ratchet."

"T' ain't always an option," the captain said with a sneer.

"'S not like they always need the repairin', neither," the man with the captain—Erik thought it might have been his first mate, since they dressed similarly—said. "They got oaks up in mountains above Orgrimmar, be makin' their ships from them. What we got? Weak spruce is all. They hoard 'em, they do, keepin' all the good wood. Our boats'll be leakin' all over thanks to the marshy garbage we gotta work with."

Several other voices muttered in agreement with this sentiment.

"So you'd all like it better if the orcs weren't around?" The soldier slammed his fist on the bar. "Without them, we'd be demon—food, and that's a fact."

"I don't think anyone's denying that." Margoz sipped from his whiskey mug. "Still, there does seem to be an unequal distribution of resources."

"Orcs used to be slaves, you know." This was someone else at the bar whom Erik couldn't see from where he was standing. "To humans, and to the Burning Legion, if you think about it. Can't blame 'em for wanting to take everything they can now."