The Torrests of War: Part 5 - Clearing the Board

The heart of the Valley Dwellers camp lay at its center, in the maw of the great cave that would carry any who walked its path towards the hidden peaks. Around it one could see tents of hide and feather, wood and thatched roof; despite long standing rivalries, all walked, scurried and flew across the great camp to the cooking pts and blazing fires.

One could hear weapons being sharpened as Shaman and Priest chanted, while at the edge of the camp stacked bags, stuffed with some strange powders. Laid alongside them were stones and raised wall of ice that created large, curved barricades, along which three black iron cannons of Drakkari make, overseen by Wolvar sat.

Nazgrel was somewhat out of sorts among the Valley Dwellers. They were fine enough hosts to be sure, and his Drakkari escort ensured he had no reason to fear tempers flaring.

But this was also the first time he had been left bereft of his Chieftain.

Xex’Mon and Nazgrel had taken bats back to the Legions to and once rallied they would encompass the Frostwolves and their allies from the West, ensuring a final victory.

Thus, he left Nazgrel behind, “In case the clan wished to barter and as the empires representative.”

It was a respectable position; one he was proud to bear. But as he meandered through vague strategic discussions and territorial trading over meals amid the hustle and bustle of the war camp, he couldn’t help but feel he was lacking in some way.

Nazgrel was drawn from the peppering questions of the Wolvar Speaker when a white plumed Harpy flew into he cavern and folders her wings over her chest.

“Honored Mother, I come to you with word.”

“Then speaking, mine dear daughter, so all of us.”

The Harpy bobbed her head, jewels glinting in the smokeless fire light. “A flagbearer of Drak’Thar’s comes to us with a Speaking Stone, wishing to treat.”

The Gnoll snorted, or maybe growled, “For years they ignore our traditions, years, now this insult!”

The gargantuan, orange skinned troll leaning against the cavern wall arched his brow, “To whom did this Speaker wish to talk?”

The harpy’s feathers fluffed up in what looked to anger, “He came unto us with two messages. The first, a request through the stone to be allowed to pass and return to the valley in peace and the other.” Her white eyes drifted to Nazgrel. “To speak with him, if that would be disallowed.”

All eyes were now on Nazgrel and he repressed the urge to swallow his nerves and instead spoke as he often heard Xex’Mon speak.

“I would not think to treat with a rival of our empires people when not on lands given to us by our Huay Drakanni, Malakk and so I yield the floor to you, my noble allies.”

There were several noises he could not place, but they seemed to be grinning among themselves and Nazgrel did not think it tinged with mockery.

Finally, the Kobold Speaker, said, “You speak well, Warchief of the Drakkari Orcs.”

“I concur,” intoned the troll, “But as we cannot grant Drek’Thar’s request I am thinking…”

There was a silent exchange before the Harpy spoke, “We shall send you with an escort to treat with him, they shall guard you and tell you anything you wish to know.”

Nazgrel stood to his full height and offered a respectful salute, “I shall not disappoint you, noble allies.”

_____________________________________________________

Nazgrel marched alongside his escort across the snowy fields, the crunch beneath their steps not loud enough to drown out the approaching orcs and his own guards.

Drek’Thar was an ancient looking figure and yet unbowed by age, with a long grey bear, and dark black, draped over a still sturdy frame and robe of white and dyed wool. His eyes were marked by a strip of black cloth and at his back were two great wolves, as well as two orcs, each bearing a great blade upon their backs.

One of his guards snorted, “Did you have no orcs-”

“Quiet, Captain Galvangar,” Snapped Drek’Thar, driving a wooden cane he hardly seemed to need into the ground, he made to speak, but Nazgrel had no patience.

“I am of the Drakkari Empire, I am here speaking to you only as a courtesy and on behalf of my ally’s native to this land. If you cannot stomach that reality, then we have nothing to discuss.”

The bald orc reared back, looking offended, while Drek’Thar’s blank stared never quite erred from Nazgre’s own. “You speak with more confidence now, I suppose the victory did you well, for all it cos your people.”

“It cost ‘my people’ little, if you called me to here to reproach me then you are wasting both our time, Shaman.”

The guard snarled, “That’s no way to speak to an Elder!”

“Elder to who? I know him not from any other Orcs old or young, he has not taught me, not offered me mercy or guidance, he is nothing more than a stranger who cannot control his followers.”

There was a subtle jeer echoing from behind him and the captain reached for his blade only to still at Drek’Thar’s stare, and the warrior murmured, “Forgive me, Elder, I spoke out of turn.”

Drek’Thar’s attention returned to Nazgrel, as if to say ‘See, I can control him’, but Nazgrel merely folded his arms and said, “You and yours left the valley to join hands with the Horde, who made themselves enemies of the Drakkari. You have no claim to these lands any longer.”

Drek’Thar did not rise to the bait, “Your words make me sad, warrior. I know that those of us who were banished and consigned to the backwoods by the Alliances strength could not be called our saviors, but we are still kin.”

“You and yours had a funny way of showing that.”

“I counselled against such a stern stance, and whatever else, the matter is resolved now,” Drek’Thar sighed. “We merely wish to return to the valley that has been so good to us for many years. Maybe, in time, we can become friends and we can share with those among you the fading ways of our people, the clans, the ancestors and more.”

“You need not return to the valley for that,” Nazgrel intoned more gently. “The Drakkari are willing to accept you into the empire and have readied fine lands for us in the North, it should suit you Frostwolves.”

“As subjects, not as free Orcs,” Drek’Thar countered, “I see their gods touch in your healed hand, we Orcs did not have gods such as the Trolls, they are not of us.”

“Nor are you of me and mine,” Nazgrel countered, “The Loa blessed me for my service to the empire to which I have sworn my loyalty. I was free to not do so, and I remain free to chart my own course, more, free I think, than I would be under a Warchief.”

“You and your kind of the camps are free to choose your fate if you so wish it, but we wish to choose our own as well, rather than be dictated to by our neighbors or your new ruler.”

“Right now, elder, you have but three choices,” Nazgrel turned his gaze South, “To leave the lands of the Drakkari Empire in peace.” He turned ha gaze back to the elder, “To fight us here and die,” And he held out his hand, “Or to join hands with us, become a part of the Drakkari Empire & travel North towards a new home.”

Drek’Thar’s shoulders sagged, his voice like dust, “that hardly seems a fair-minded offer, we-”

“My mother died in the camps,” he stepped forward and ignore the growling of Drek’Thar’s guards. “I held her body in my weak little arms and I cursed the unfairness of it all; but it changed nothing. Only when the Drakkari came for us did things change, only then did fairness even become a possibility.”

He leveled an accusing digit, “You and your clan, you and your Horde have had chance after chance, opportunity after possibility and you have squandered them all. You did not need to refuse the kinship of your neighbors, you did not need to reject us, you did not need to fight us.”

“They!-” One of the guards began to shout.

Nazgrel’s foot slammed against the snow, and he roared, “Hear me you fool! It no longer matters what you say, it will not change where we stand!” His gaze locked to Drek’Thar’s, “Make the decision elder. Decide now whether you wish your clan and our people’s culture to live on only in accursed memory or if you will accept this bargain and save your followers, damn your pride.”

________________________________________________________

Don Adams leaned on his freshly varnished desk before Lady Ashvane. The towering woman was staring down at him imperiously and making his Lil’Friend skulk behind his shoulder, paws digging into his shirt.

Rolling a gold coin in his fingers, he said, “I had to call in a lot of debts, chits and favors to make this work.”

Huffing she answered, “I was told you called in all of them, Adams, it would be a shame if penny pinching cost you your reward.”

“Don, Adams,” he stressed, voice growing rough, “and don’t forget where you are, milady, Boralus is mine in fact if not in name. So long as your Privateersand peg legged pets do their job, my crew will do mine.”

“No need to fret, Don,” she said, tone laced with contempt. “I have sent someone reliable to convene with our reinforcements, and the rest await their time off the coasts and within Proudmoore_Barracks.

That brought a smile to Don Adam’s face, “I would love to see the look on Chief Jailor Smithson’s face when he sees what is to come, but ah, I imagine he’ll be well gone by then.”

“I will save you his skull if it pleases you,” she said dismissively, gaze slipping out the window to look towards Proudmoore Keep. “You are sure this mob you’re stirring up cannot go to the Keep?”

“For the last time, yes! You may hate those wretches’ guts and this embargo is causing no end of pain for us street dwellers, but even the average skulker here doesn’t loathe the Proudmoore’s as they should. And unlike you, the families too even tempered to slaughter their own citizens for being unruly.” Ashvane scoffed at that, making him smirk, “Well, so long as none are stupid enough to challenge them to a duel- urk”

She yanked him from the table, his legs dangled in the air, guards on both sides drawing guns and steel, only for Ashvane to freeze as his furry friend scarped over his shoulder and held a dagger near her eye. Scowling she spat, “Never, insult my husband again,” before pushing him back to the table.

Slapping his Knee, Don Adams rolled his shoulders, patting his little companion as he said, “If you like, but the point stands. The poor and the crooked may not love them but they don’t hate them enough to risk a mob at their doorstep, but the Barracks, the damned Jailor, right in town with plenty of alleyways to scarper down?”

He threw back his head in a laugh, “I had people lining up to cause trouble there, and with my Underbosses and Enforcers keeping-em safe and motivated they’ll make the noise you need, and then the real show can begin.”

“I look forward to that, this was quite an investment on my part as well you understand,” she said, already turning to leave.

“Yes, the oil will come in well handy I assure you, have a safe trip now. Wouldn’t want our queen to topple off her throne before she’s even sat upon it,” He chuckled.

Ashvane glanced over her shoulder, gaze cold and hard, “I am not the one who should be wary, commoner.”

Rolling his eyes, he waved, “Escort her out the secret way.”

“Yes Don,” His guards answered briskly, following the noble woman as she snapped about knowing the way.

Lil’Friend scarpered back up on his shoulder, “This smart?”

“Too late to back out now, besides,” He pushed himself off the table and strode to the window, looking down at the crowded streets below. “I’ve got a chance to go higher than any loan shark ever has, I’d be a fool not to take it.”

His pet nodded, looking to the sea longingly.

_______________________________________________________

The streets of Drustvar were subdued and tense, rain battering down on any unfortunate enough to be stuck outside working. The foul weather did little to dampen the mood of one Roland_the_Knife, whose leather sneaking suits, and loose jacket repelled the rain as he slipped across roof and through alleyways, his chosen second trailing just behind.

“What’s wrong chum, I would have thought you’d like to be working again; knock the rust off and all that,” he said.

Samson shrugged, “Got hurt in weather like this last time, I always take it as an ill omen like the job isn’t worth the risk.”

“Superstition is good in small doses son, but not when it gets in the way of the action,” Roland chuckled as they slipped around a pair of garrison guards, edging closer to the barracks itself.

Samson the Feather slid up to his side as they pressed against the slick wet brick, shadows nearly engulfing them as they lay in wait. “Maybe I just dislike the job then, not good business I think.”

Roland clapped him on the back, “Money is money, and the Red Hand never refuses a job, we must be professional about this you see.”

“That’s for killing old widows and what’s it,” Samson argued, “This is betraying humanity.”

The next rotation passed by unaware of their presence and Roland pointed upwards. Samson nodded, each drawing their climbing claws and burying their bladed boot tips into the wall they began to scale swiftly.

“Way, I see it is we’re just doing a job, humanity will sort itself out, we aren’t exactly divine you know,” Roland said amicably.

“Still, we didn’t care for this when Alterac pulled a similar trick,” the younger assassin argued.

“The orcs wanted us all dead I hear, Lordaeron just has a new king and a few less soldiers,” Roland said.

They pressed themselves to the walls as a pair of guards strode passed a nearby window, only pushing forward once sure they passed.

“Yes, but it’s a troll king, bloody despicable that is, I might be an assassin Roland, but I don’t like this kind of treason,” Samson said.

“Is it treason when one of Kul’Tiras’s own hired us, or just cutthroat politics?” Roland tittered.

“Semantics,” Samson groused.

“You could have stayed home, I need little help with this,” Roland sighed.

“You said captain Blackwood is meant to be a fierce fighter and I’ve my duty,” Samson said urgently.

Roland hummed, “I did, but really I just wanted a signal,” He saw the younger man’s quizzical look turning to fright as Roland ripped one foot from the wall and drove it into Samson’s side. With a gagged cry of pain, the younger assassin lurched off the wall hands scrabbling for a hold on slick stone as he fell to his death with a cry so suddenly silenced by a distant snap.

Hearing guards racing to act and word spreading, Roland sped up the wall thrice as fast. Before one could even see his silhouette on the walls, he was over the balcony’s ledge and well hidden from those below.

He leaned against the stone, forcing air into his lungs, and was pleased by the sound of the door opening with a click, revealing a dark-haired man with broad shoulders and square jaw, who nodded. “I’ve heard a body hit the pavement, you Samson then?”

Roland rose to his feet and tipped his hat, “I am sir.”

Blackwood left the door open for him and strode into his office, Roland following close behind.

“I don’t like assassins, Samson, but it was a brave thing you’ve done, turning on your cabal for the greater good of humanity.” The man snatched up some papers from his desk and waved them, “I am confident you will find yourself cleared of any crimes, once you tell us the Red Hands hide away and who hired you.”

Roland grinned behind his mask, “Thank you sir, that’s all I needed to hear,” and he drove a dagger right through Captain Blackwood’s throat and up into his brain.

As the light in his eyes dimmed, Roland snatched the papers from the man’s hands, lowering him to the ground. “Sorry old chap, turns out Samson was right to fear we’d been tracking his messages, but that’s just business in our line of work.”

Captain Blackwood hit the floor with a gentle thud, no louder than a foot fall, and Roland tucked the papers away into a waterproof satchel on his hips before unslinging a weighty, water sealed box that had been banging against his hip all night.

Flicking it open, the assassin took up one of the captains reading candles and dabbed it against the fuse, the sudden burst of sparkling, burning light glinting beautifully in his eyes. Pulling himself away from the sight, Roland counted off the seconds.

One two three four, he locked the door.

Five, six, seven eight, he heard guards knock in haste.

Nine, ten eleven twelve, he loosed a grappling hook across the way.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen sixteen, he swung away and won the day as the bomb burnt his problems away.

_____________________________________________________

A hand clapped against his back, and Nazgrel was drawn from his musing atop a large, outcropping stone by the arrival of his Chieftain. 

"A prayer for your thoughts, my young friend?" 

Nazgrel turned his gaze back to the lands below. Sullen Frostwolves and their remaining allies were collecting the last of their possessions brought out from the valley. The war camps had not yet dispersed, but with the arrival of Burx and his Legion, alongside a Trollish Legion and a host of Batriders. 

"They do not seem happy, which I expected, but still, it worries me." 

Xex'Mon's tongue clicked in thought, "Yes, I imagine it must be irksome for such a proud people to be moved. Still, this was not a land long known to most among them, and if it helps, I think you will find the Fjord more to your liking." 

Nazgrel turned back, his brow arched at what was not said, making the troll chuckle and drop down at his side, legs dangling over the edge and still taller than Nazgrel. 

"You worry, this is good, especially given your position; but do not let it consume you. This Drek'Thar seems a moderate sort and they will not be in a better position to cause mischief North than they would anywhere else." 

Mist escaped his maw, and Nazgrel continued to watch the Frostwolves. "It was his generation that led us to this place, is it not a danger they will do so again?" 

"It is a good thing then that they are not the leaders of the Orcish-Drakkari." Xex'Mon's grin softened and he patted Nazgrel's back, "You have done the right and honorable thing this day, Nazgrel. You respected our allies, spoke wisely and decisively and resolved a battle that needn't be fought." 

He wanted to speak but Xex'Mon continued, "Yes, there are elders and the the former leaders, who will have their own games and their own goals. They will tell you thinks this one is sure, and some of those things may be bad, but others may well be good." 

The troll was beaming, "Take the good, leave the bad, and forge your own path Nazgrel. You have greatness in you, I have seen it, you have shown it and we will be there all the while to help along the way." 

He was smiling, relief dancing in his heart and yet he still asked, like a child, "So you will be there, Chieftain?" 

"I'm not going anywhere for sometime Nazgrel, count on that." 

_____________________________________________________

Galen felt his gut clench at the farcical nature of it all. 

Stromgarde still in sight and his escort at his back did not diminish the fact he was in a position of weakness. Did not change that he was going to negotiate with a troll for the fate of his kingdom!

The Circle of Inner Binding was in sight and the troll was waiting in the nearby field, he and his retinue already comfortably seated in elegant wicker chairs with a matching set sitting across from them, still empty.

“Does he expect us to have a picnic?” Valorcall muttered.

“Perhaps a game of backgammon too?” Galen said, briefly considering ordering a charge but stopping himself. The gargantuan mounts the trolls had brought still stood at attention, as did the soldiers.

‘If they breached Dalaran and Lordaeron they surely know their way around defensive spells too,’ he thought, tugging on his horse’s reigns, and guiding it down the gentle slope.

The gargantuan beast of a troll rose from his stone throne, “I Frost King Malakk welcome you to this meeting, Steward-King Galen Trollbane of Stromgarde.” His voice was tinged with something like cocky humor in Galen’s mind.

Letting Valorcall helping him from his horse, Galen answered, “Welcome to my kingdom, shall we get this meeting under way?”

The troll rolled his robed shoulders, “I am in no hurry,” the troll answered striding halfway across the field and offering his hand.

Biting down his offence, Galen marched forward, Valorcall at his back and he took in the troll’s entourage. As expected, there was a number of trolls and some other creatures, likely a servant caste, but what mattered more to him was the human presence.

He did not recognize all of the gentry in the troll’s company, but he knew Beve from his younger years when there had been negotiations between their fathers, and one could not forget the sight of Lianne Menethil, let alone her daughter. They were lovely, poised and if nothing else looked better than he might have imagined given their captors.

‘Is he parading them around as trophies, war brides, or maybe pets?’ Galen wondered, as he awkwardly clasped hands with the troll, his own arm engulfed ever so briefly in a strangely gentle motion while his fingers could not even halfway encircle the troll’s arms.

“We should begin,” Galen said stiffly as they parted.

“You are pressed for time I take it?” The troll asked, orange eyes meeting Galen’s brown.

Motioning to the East he said, “I do not trust the… Witherbark or their Ogres not to violate our agreement.”

The troll tisked, “Such a shame to be on poor terms with one’s neighbors, but far from unheard of.” He glanced over his shoulder and added, “If you wish to skip the pleasantries we may. Though I insist we at least get introductions out of the way, you may know my Royal Councilors, but what of my Grand Prophet? And while I have been informed by my allies of your noble’s council, I’d not wish to presume anything given all that transpired recently.”

‘Councilors…’ He rolled the word over in his head, as he nodded, “I suppose it behooves one to know with whom they are speaking.”

The troll grinned, and said, “I must extend my thanks.”

Galen could tell he did not speak of the meeting, but still said, “It is nothing.”

“Not of this, or of that,” The troll said gamely. “I speak of your recent actions; it must have been hard, King Galen, but if done for the sake of the kingdoms people it be applauded. What is more, you have spared me the need to march my armies South, it is for this and a desire to end meaningless deaths that I have chosen to meet with you.”

“And may I ask how far this gratitude extends?” Galen asked, tersely.

“It has gotten us this far,” The troll hummed, “But come let us make with the introductions, that we might move on.”

Galen nodded, the taste of copped flooding his mouth, hand twitching for Trol’Akar ever so briefly at how easily the troll had taken command of the meeting.

‘I have to find a way to turn this around!’