Chapter B-2: Ear of the Warchief
(3,258 Words)
“And what of you, Eitrigg? You spoke of news from afar,” Thrall inquired, his gaze drifting towards the venerated warrior who’d been seated mere feet to the right of the warchief’s throne.
Eitrigg grit his teeth, both sets of molars working to grind out his anxieties, as if that were even possible, while he collected his thoughts. After a moment he finally rose to his feet. From beneath one of the armor straps which sat snug across his torso the warrior withdrew a rolled up stretch of leather so thin that light passed through it. Once Eitrigg settled into place before the warchief’s seat he reached out his arm and offered up the scroll.
Thrall took it with a small nod of thanks, and let the parchment fall open.
Even viewing it from the backside, Eitrigg could easily make out the painted brand which had been printed; a mountain peak encircled by jagged spikes, and around that - the smaller sigils of each clan from Draenor. Thrall’s reaction was both instantly visible and largely uncensored; it was not a pleasant reaction by any measure.
“The false Warchief, Dal’rend Blackhand, has dispatched a herald. He once again offers a place for us in what he calls the “True” Horde,” Eitrigg explained, a clear lilt in his tone making clear the unspoken feelings he bore towards the issue.
“I know Rend and the bloody legacy he is born of,” Nazgrel interjected. An advisor of equal rank and repute, Eitrigg didn’t refuse him a moment to speak. “What that herald truly means is that you are commanded to submit to him, Warchief; to surrender this Horde and serve him till death.”
“SHAME,” a particularly outraged voice shouted over the growls and grumbles of irritation which had been drawn out from the other attendees. “Traitor; usurper,” another called out. “Dal’rend refused to join us - he hid in his mountain while we fought for this new hom-”
Thrall raised his hand for silence, cutting off the voices immediately. Eitrigg glanced around to measure the visible irritation seen on the many faces within the great hall; the Blackrock clan had been the foundation upon which the old Horde had been raised. His own clan. But that age was long past, and Rend was little more than a symbol of the savagery that had consumed the orcs once before. Eitrigg turned his focus on Thrall once again and composed himself before continuing once again.
“Dal’rend Blackhand is a cunning warrior, Warchief, but I need not speak again to the chaos that any affiliation with him, or his Horde, would bring. He is dangerous, and he will take any refusal as an act that must be punished. There are rumors that he consorts with monsters born of shadow, and even that he himself has become a puppet of some new, dark master.”
“Dal’rend Blackhand,” Thrall replied with barely restrained anger, crushing the parchment in hand for effect, “is trapped on the other side of the world with no true allies, and no means to threaten us here.” The warchief tossed the parchment into the nearby brazier and permitted himself a short moment to watch it be devoured by the flames; there was something soothing in watching the sigil of that false warchief burn.
“Perhaps this is so, Warchief, but that can change. Leaving Rend with time to gather his forces leaves us at a disadvantage perhaps not now, but in the future. I give my counsel here and now to send a force to strike and remove this would-be warchief. Let it be finished,” Eitrigg replied. More rumbles and foot stomping from the crowd, this time signaling their approval.
Silence followed, and when Thrall spoke again a moment later the previously held strain was absent from his voice.
“He is a thorn in all our sides, Eitrigg; that I cannot dispute. But he is not here, and there is much else for us to focus our minds on. He is not the first to believe he has the right to lead the Horde, and he will certainly not be the last. But he is not Warchief, and he has not fought beside the people of this Horde that I have. There is no rush to confront someone who has no possible chance of claiming control of this Horde, not when we have other concerns to worry over. He has no understanding of the respect earned by the trolls, the shu’halo, or even the goblins, and I would not trust him to uphold their place here amongst us, or to act wisely for the betterment of all.”
“Or the Forsaken,” a waterlogged voice croaked from the edge of the circle of advisors and ambassadors, off to Thrall’s left; the words had come late, but their place in the Warchief’s answer was strikingly apparent.
Thrall turned his focus towards the Forsaken delegation which had been standing silent for the whole of the meeting thus far. Three sets of yellow, hazy eyes turned in unison to meet the Warchief’s gaze, showing no signs of intimidation, and yet not daring outward defiance of the warchief. Not overtly, anyways.
“Ambassador,” Thrall managed to say, words somehow harder to drum up when staring into a face that was mostly rotted - a face where the nearly skinless jaw was kept only thanks to a screw on one side and bits of wire. The spikes of stiff hair atop his head gave the figure a crazed look. “Have you counsel to give on this matter?”
Thrall had no genuine interest in hearing anything from the man, if a rotting corpse could even be called that, but the Forsaken had spoken and in Grommash Hold during Thrall’s assembly of advisors, and honor dictated that he too be given the opportunity to speak.
The Forsaken delegate, seeming to be a soldier of some standing - at least judged based on the armor he wore, stepped forward and straightened up.
“The Forsaken have considerable knowledge of the orcish warlord hiding away in Blackrock Mountain, a product of our… shared history,” the delegate said, the rather indiscrete reference to humanity’s long wars against the orcs a rather curious twist given where the man was standing right now. “He is not a threat worthy of your attention; the conflict in the north, however, is.”
“Who are you to judge what is worthy of a Warchief’s attention, corpse?” Nazgrel had hastily risen to his feet, a fist clenched tight at his side.
Once again, the eyes of the Forsaken delegates turned in unison, all of them peering directly back at the orc.
“Deathguard,” Thrall said before anyone else could elevate the tension further. “You were sent by your queen to represent the needs and affairs of the Forsaken, but remember your place here. You dictate to no one.”
The Deathguard kept his gaze fixed on Nazgrel a moment longer, but finally relented and turned a nod up towards the Warchief.
“Of course, Warchief. I mean only to convey that the humans pose a greater threat than any would-be usurper cowering in a mountain. They ravage our lands and hunt us without pause; the Scourge, too. Without the aid of the Horde, these threats could drive us out, and overwhelm the Sin’dorei to the north. With that, the Horde would lose any foothold across the sea.”
“The Sin’dorei are strong,” one of the elven delegates announced as they stepped forward, crimson and gold tabard swaying with each subtle movement of their figure. “We will defend our borders to our last dying breath, but… admittedly we do see the continued menace of the Scourge as a considerable threat.” The elf’s orcish was crude and ill practiced, but clear enough to be understood. “Without the Horde’s aid and intervention, much of Lordaeron and Quel’thalas could be lost, eliminating a strategic foothold for your forces, Warchief.”
“The Horde needs no land in the east,” Nazgrel countered forcefully. “Kalimdor is our home now; only death and defeat lingers in that wasteland.”
“The dead do linger there, yes,” the Forsaken Deathguard replied. “But while the defeat may have been your own in years past, it will not be our future.”
The comment earned a low growl from the back of Nazgrel’s throat, but the heavy crash of Thrall’s fist upon the arm of his seat forbade any retort.
Sensing the nearly palpable distaste for one another, Baine, son of the tauren high chieftain, stepped forward and spoke.
“Warchief, I hear the plight of the Forsaken and the elves across the sea, much as I understand the history the orcs have with this… Blackhand. But the need for our attention and our combined focus here is of grave importance. Food is scarce throughout the barren savannah, and while Mulgore offers a bounty of game, our caravans struggle to reach all of the Horde’s settlements. And with less and less lumber coming from the Kaldorei in the north…”
“And dis bein added to de already long list ah threats we be facin here,” Vol’jin added, stepping out from the relative comfort of his fellow trolls to speak.
Rokhan, another Darkspear shadow-hunter who had been standing just beside the chieftain, kept a stony expression and left his gaze fixed directly upon the Forsaken. “Quilboar, harpies, de filthy humans comin in der ships, cultists and demons-”
Eitrigg loudly hucked spit upon the ground at the mere mention of the last two.
Thrall’s eyes closed and his head tipped back. The sheer number of problems, and the ever-multiplying assembly of people raising new issues every day, was finally reaching the point of absurdity.
“Warchief,” yet another voice called out. This time it was from one of the Hold’s sentries, one of the Kor’kron - Thrall’s elite guard. The Warchief’s eyes opened and he looked out past the circle of advisors, his gaze settling on the face which had appeared through the hanging furs which served as a barrier between rooms. “A runner has come with an urgent message of an attack.”
A heavy breath escaped Thrall’s lips, and he waved his approach with the curl of his fingers.
A troll bearing white face paint, and adorned in leather and wood plate armor, emerged through the furs and came to stand in the center of the chamber. She offered the reverent bow of her head first towards Thrall, and then to Vol’jin and Rokhan who were standing off to her side - both wearing impassive expressions despite their earnest focus.
“Warchief - annuda attack in da barrens; harpies. Dey was swoopin by dah dozens, snatchin everytin an settin fire on da big caravan. Dere ain’t many of us bein alive left; I was one of dah few who made it out. De whole caravan be gone.”
“The whole caravan,” Baine inquired.
The runner offered a slow bob of her head in acknowledgement.
“That caravan brings vital food and supplies to support the city and the outlying settlements from Mulgore with each new moon; without it, Warchief, we-”
“I KNOW,” Thrall bellowed, his fist once again slamming down on the arm of his seat. Baine’s ear twitched, and his gaze shifted to the corner of his eyes - glancing back to the entryway through which he could have sworn he heard the crack of distant thunder.
Quiet ruled in the subsequent moments, the only sound heard coming from a water skin being uncorked and passed to the runner by Rokhan.
“I know,” Thrall repeated softly. “Spirits help me. There is only so much I can do, and even then, it is never going to be enough. Not on my own.” The Warchief’s gaze shifted to meet the faces of each of the delegates who stood in attendance, each listening, watching, and waiting. “We are strong, and resilient, but nothing about our path has been, or will be, easy. We face enemies all around us, and no shortage of troubles of our own making, not to mention fate itself which seems to laugh in our faces. But any one of us can only tackle a single obstacle at a time.”
Soft hums and grunts of acknowledgement rippled through the assembly.
“Together, though, we share the burdens upon our shoulders. No one problem is any less important than another, and I hear all of your problems; I do. We are stronger when we’re united and focused, but we don’t have that luxury right now. We need to make progress where we can or we’ll be overwhelmed. Vol’jin,” Thrall continued, his gaze turning towards the chieftain of the Darkspears.
“Warchief,” the tusked witch-doctor replied.
“I need you to coordinate the food shortage in Orgrimmar and the outlying settlements; your mind is keen and I can count on you to find a solution. In your place, Rokhan, I’m tasking you with leading a war band to hunt these harpies; see that they’re put to death - every last one of them. Recover what cargo you can.”
The trolls snapped their right handed closed fists against their breast, both of them standing a bit taller.
“Baine. The harpies aren’t the only ones harassing our caravans in the barrens, and we can’t address other threats if we can’t feed and supply our forces. Return to Thunder Bluff and assemble another war band; I want you to drive the quilboar back, as far as you can manage. From Taurajo all the way to the South Fury River. Clear the way for our caravans.”
The tauren matched the salute that the trolls had issued.
“Nazgrel,” Thrall continued, his gaze turning now towards the loose tongued advisor standing off to his left whose face was partially obscured by the head of a wolf pelt which he wore as a cowl. “You’ve been on the verge of drawing your axe against anyone who breathes this whole time; I need you to put that energy to use. Take a handful of our best trackers and start searching for where the humans are striking from now. They have a settlement somewhere here in Durotar that we’ve yet to uncover. If we drive back the harpies and quilboar only to lose ground elsewhere to the humans, we’ll be no better off than we were before.”
“As you command, Warchief.” Another salute, this time from the orc.
“Deathstalker Belmont,” Thrall finally said, this time managing to hold back his unease and disgust as he spoke.
“What would you ask of death, Warchief,” the Forsaken replied.
“Return east across the sea and bring with you this: my word and my command. Those loyal to the Horde there are to join with the forces of the Forsaken and the blood elves,” Thrall said, his gaze darting towards the elven ambassadors at the mention of their inclusion, “and to secure those lands against any enemy that would threaten our people, living or dead.”
Mutters rippled through the assembly.
“My orders are to establish bulwarks along the borders of those territories, and to drive back anyone who would intrude past those boundaries. Though we have not known them as allies for long, any who suffer the merciless pursuit of an enemy who wishes them eradicated are welcome in our Horde. The Forsaken and blood elves will not walk this path alone,” Thrall added, finally rising from the throne upon which he’d been seated.
The Deathguard stiffened properly and swiftly mimicked the trending salute.
“As you command, Warchief.”
“Eitrigg,” Thrall continued on, slowly descending the small handful of shallow steps to join the delegates and advisors on the sunken floor of the chamber. “The Horde of old is a thing of the past now, and the worst parts of it shall never hold sway over our people again, no matter what shadows Rend strikes bargains with. I hear your concern, and in time we will deal with it, but there are more immediate threats we must contend with.”
“As you say, Warchief,” Eitrigg replied, his head dipping to nod his understanding. “My focus is here; command me.”
“Stay a while,” Thrall replied, one hand rising to clasp at Eitrigg’s shoulder pauldron. The Warchief’s head turned towards the assembly of advisors and delegates who were watching on and waiting. “Strength and honor; dismissed.”
The clap of fists striking chests in near unison rippled throughout the chamber, followed promptly by the shuffling of leather and fur and the clinking of armor as the host of bodies migrated away from the back hall of the Hold. Thrall eyed Eitrigg closely, giving the others a moment to shift further away before he spoke once again.
“The Kul Tirans aren’t going to stop harassing our people here in Durotar, not until we find their base and drive them back to the seas once again. I want you to ride south, to Theramore, and meet with Jaina Proudmoore; see what information she will pass on. The humans here in Durotar are not loyal to her, and we need to remember that.”
A soft rumble of unease sounded from the back of Eitrigg’s throat.
“Warchief, I hear and obey.” He hesitated for a moment, but the steady hold of Thrall’s eyes encouraged the old orc to speak his part. “You have heard the whispers of people here in Orgrimmar, Warchief; favor and trust in that human is slipping. Many see no difference between her and the others who pursue us relentlessly.”
“Jaina is not like them,” Thrall answered firmly. “But the humans cannot help their nature; after decades of war with trolls and orcs and the undead alike, I wonder if they’ll ever be able to trust us, and even then… They’re not united, old friend. Much like Rend and his followers, the humans are ruled by many different leaders - many hands with many different minds that all wear similar faces. Jaina is the one human I promise you we can trust.”
Eitrigg kept a steady gaze fixed on the Warchief, his eyes searching the young leader’s face, looking deep into the soul which resided just beyond those orbs.
“You are not like the others, Warchief; but then again, that is why we followed you.” The old orc’s own hands rose to clasp each of Thrall’s upper arms on the outside. “You are the first to lead after having learned from the histories before; you are wise, steady, and not too swift to battle, and that is something which has been sorely needed.”
“I have good advisors to temper my impulses,” Thrall answered with a teasing lilt entering his tone.
“You listen to your good advisors,” Eitrigg corrected. “You understand the many perspectives shared with you, and treat each as a valued voice; that has not been seen in a long, long time. There are many burdens upon your shoulders young Warchief, but you have the strength to persevere and the wisdom to know when you must delegate, and it is because of this that I know that you are the only Warchief we will follow. You’ve learned that leading is not all glory.”
“No, it’s a mix of headaches and overwhelming pride,” Thrall chuckled. “You speak truth more often than I thought capable of a warrior; perhaps you’re destined to be a sage, old friend.”
Eitrigg cast a broad smile and stepped back to slap his fist to his breast in salute.
“Bring me a robe and I shall be the most grizzled sage under your command, Warchief.”
Thrall’s laugh echoed throughout the hall.
“Someday, Eitrigg; someday when we no longer have any need for your brilliant tactical mind. Until then, you have a sorceress to speak with.”
“By your leave, Warchief. For the Horde.”