Of Blood and Honor (12 page)

The soothing energies subsided and Tirion dropped to the ground in exhaustion. He lay there for a few moments panting, attempting to keep his head from spinning. With a snort, Eitrigg sat up and looked around frantically. The old orc was pale and obviously weak, but his eyes were bright and alert. Eitrigg quickly sprung up in a defensive crouch and sniffed the air. He scanned the immediate tree line for any signs of danger and seemed to find none. Eitrigg looked down and saw Tirion lying near him. He shifted back on his haunches doubtfully and stared at the exhausted human with surprise.

“Human?” Eitrigg asked. “What’s happened? How did we get here?” Tirion got to his knees and patted the orc reassuringly on the shoulder.

“We’re outside the city, Eitrigg,” Tirion said evenly. “You’re safe for the time being. If we’re both very lucky, there’ll be no more hangings in our immediate future.” Eitrigg grunted and looked at Tirion doubtfully. He glanced down at his big green hands and traced his fingers over where his wounds had been.

“This power you have, human,” the orc began, “did it heal my wounds?”

Tirion nodded. “Yes. You told me before that pain is a good teacher. Well, you were about to have your final lesson. It would have been a rough one, I think,” Tirion said jokingly.

Eitrigg grinned and slapped Tirion on the back. “Perhaps I’ve studied enough, after all,” the orc replied wryly. The old orc coughed a few times and eased himself back down to a sitting position. The strain of the past few days proved to be too much for his tired old body, and he passed out in a heap. Although he was healed, Tirion knew from experience that the orc would be weak for days.

He was surprised to hear a sudden rustling in the dense branches and undergrowth all around him. Looking around frantically, he braced himself for danger. Slowly—ominously—the shadows of the trees began to move and shift in every direction. Huge, dark shapes took form and moved forward, encircling the sleeping orc and the nervous human.

Twelve in all, the creatures wore loose armor plates and tattered leathers that covered only the most vital areas of their muscular, green-skinned bodies. Feathers, multiple tribal trinkets and bone necklaces adorned the mighty orcish warriors who emerged with catlike grace from the shadowy tree line. Their bulging arms and bestial, tusked faces were marked by jagged, primitive tattoos that augmented their already feral appearance. They carried broad-bladed axes and heavy warblades with such practiced ease that the weapons appeared to be natural extensions of their bodies. Tirion was overwhelmed by the orcs’ savage presence. He was most disconcerted to see the change in their beady eyes—no longer were the orcs’ eyes ablaze with depravity and hate; they were cool and alert, showing an intelligence and wit that he could scarcely credit to them.

Tirion held his breath and made sure not to make any sudden moves. For all he knew, the orcs might think that he had attacked Eitrigg somehow. The orcs simply stood, staring at the two on the ground as if waiting for a command. Panic grated across Tirion’s nerves. After all he had tried to do, he’d be damned if he just let himself be hacked to bits in the wilds. Yet no matter what he tried, he knew that he’d last less than a minute against such fierce warriors.

Suddenly, a larger form emerged from behind the warriors. A number of the orcs stepped aside silently as their leader made his way forward. Tirion gasped. It was the orc chieftain he had seen during the battle. Being this close, Tirion could see that the gargantuan orc’s black plate armor was trimmed with bronze runic inscriptions. Never before had Tirion ever seen an orc in full armor. The sight was both impressive and chilling. The orc’s mighty stone warhammer seemed to be as old as the world itself. The creature’s black hair was tied into long braids that hung down over its armored torso. Its green face was somewhat less bestial than the other orcs’, and its fierce, intelligent eyes were a striking blue. Tirion knew that this was no ordinary orc.

The mighty creature stepped forward and kneeled down beside Eitrigg. Tirion tensed. He remembered that Eitrigg had abandoned his duties as an orcish warrior.
Perhaps these orcs had come to punish him?

Fighting back his fear, Tirion inched forward, intending to defend Eitrigg if necessary. The large orc gave Tirion a fierce, threatening glare – warning the human to stay put and remain silent. Surrounded as he was by the chieftain’s guards, Tirion was forced to comply with the orc’s silent command. Seeing that he would be obeyed, the mysterious orc placed his large hand on Eitrigg’s head and closed his eyes, concentrating. Eitrigg’s eyes fluttered open and focused on the dark orc looming over him. The mysterious orc’s features softened slightly.

“You are Eitrigg of the Blackrock clan, are you not?” the orc asked in the human tongue. Tirion raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Did all of the orcs speak so clearly?
he wondered.

Shakily, Eitrigg looked around at the other orcs and nodded his weary head. “I am he,” he said in a low tone.

The larger orc nodded and straightened. “I thought so. It’s taken me a long time to track you down, old one,” he said evenly.

Eitrigg sat up and looked upon the larger orc intently. “Your face is familiar to me, warrior. But you are far too young to be . . .” Eitrigg studied the orc’s strong features for a moment and said, “Who are you?”

The orc nodded slightly and stood up to his full height. The gathered orcs seemed to straighten and lift their chins high as their leader spoke. “I am known as Thrall, old one. I am Warchief of the Horde,” he said proudly. Eitrigg’s jaw dropped wide open. Tirion stared in awe. This, obviously, was the upstart Warchief of which Dathrohan had spoken.

“I have heard of you,” Tirion said, his voice heavy with contempt. He saw the surrounding orc guards stiffen and ready their weapons. Apparently they didn’t take well to their leader being insulted. The orc turned to stare at the former Paladin in surprise. “And what exactly have you heard, human?”

Tirion held the orc’s fierce gaze. “I have heard that you plan to rebuild the Horde and renew your war against my people,” he said coolly.

“You are partially correct,” Thrall began, with mild amusement evident in his tone. “I
am
rebuilding the Horde. You can be sure that my people will not remain in chains for long. However, I have no interest in making war for war’s sake. Those dark days are over.”

“Those days are over?” Tirion asked skeptically. “I just watched as you and your warriors hacked your way through Stratholme.”

Thrall met the human’s accusing stare levelly. “You presume much, human. We only attacked the city to reclaim one of our own. Times have changed. Your kingdoms and your people mean nothing to me. I seek only to finish my father’s work and find a new homeland for my people,” Thrall replied evenly.

Eitrigg’s eyes were wide with sudden recognition. “Your father’s work?” he sputtered excitedly. “I knew I recognized your face, warrior! You are the son of Durotan!” Thrall merely nodded once, never taking his piercing eyes off Tirion. Eitrigg was beside himself with joy.

“Could it be, after all these years?” he asked, flabbergasted. He looked around at the orcs’ faces, searching for further confirmation. Their proud, stone-like faces revealed nothing.

Thrall turned his back on Tirion and knelt beside Eitrigg. “I have come to bring you home, old one,” he said warmly. “I’m sorry it took us so long to find you, but we’ve been somewhat busy these past months. I have already freed a number of clans, but I need wise veterans like you to help me teach them of the old ways. Your people have need of you again, brave Eitrigg.”

The old orc shook his head in shocked disbelief. He stared into Thrall’s sharp blue eyes and found hope within their shining depths. After years of dispirited isolation, his heart was filled with pride again. Slowly, Eitrigg began to believe that there could be a future for his people after all.

“I will follow you, son of Durotan,” Eitrigg said proudly. “I will help heal our people in any way that I can.” Thrall nodded once and placed his hand on the old orc’s shoulder.

Casting a sidelong glance at the surrounding guards, Tirion cautiously stood up and faced Thrall. “Eitrigg told me of your father—and of his fate. He must have been a great hero to elicit such devotion from his son.”

Thrall’s face was expressionless as he replied, “My people have always held that it is a son’s duty to finish his father’s work.” Tirion nodded sadly. He wondered if Taelan would ever share that sentiment.
Probably not,
he concluded.
What boy would ever be proud of having a disgraced exile as a father? More than likely, Taelan would only revile me for what I’ve done.

Thrall motioned toward Eitrigg and shouted a number of short guttural commands in the orcish tongue. Tirion looked around as the guards moved forward, unsure as to what to expect.
Would the orcs kill him? Would they let him go?
A number of warriors knelt down beside Eitrigg and hooked their arms under his shoulders. Tirion looked back at Thrall, questioningly.

The young Warchief smirked knowingly and said, “You risked your life to save our brother, human. We have no quarrel with you. You are free to go, so long as you do not follow us.”

Tirion exhaled in relief and watched as the orc warriors gently gathered Eitrigg up. Thrall gave Tirion an orcish salute and, without a second glance, turned to leave. Many of the orcs had already disappeared back into the densely shadowed woods. Tirion shook his head as if in a daze. A strong hand grabbed hold of his arm. He looked down and saw that it was Eitrigg. The old orc had a look of peace and fulfillment upon his gnarled face.

“We are both bound by blood and honor,
brother.
I will not forget you,” Eitrigg said.

Tirion smiled and raised his hand to his heart as the orcs led Eitrigg away. He stood for a moment, watching them go. The sounds of battle still echoed from within Stratholme’s walls. He decided that he had better make himself scarce before the human troops arrived.

With a silent prayer to the Light, Tirion Fordring turned his back on Stratholme and set out to find solace within the perilous, uncharted wildlands of Lordaeron.

A  Perfect  Circle

S
unlight cascaded down through the open skylight in the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling. Twenty-year-old Taelan Fordring stood upon an ornately carved dais and basked in the warmth and splendor of the holy Light. Large silver plates of armor adorned his broad shoulders. Beneath the plates, a carefully embroidered dark blue stole hung from his neck and streamed down his chest. He held a mighty, two-handed silver warhammer in his hands which, he was told, had once belonged to his father.

Taelan was a strong, handsome young man. Bathed in the Light as he was, he seemed almost transcendent. An aged Archbishop stood before Taelan holding a large, leather-bound tome. The old man had the light of joy in his eyes as he addressed Taelan.

“Do you, Taelan Fordring, vow to uphold the honor and codes of the Order of the Silver Hand?” he asked.

“I do,” Taelan replied sincerely.

“Do you vow to walk in the grace of the Light and spread its wisdom to your fellow man?”

“I do,” Taelan said shakily. He was overcome with a thousand different emotions at once and had to fight to get a grip on himself. This was the moment he had waited for as long as he could remember. He glanced around quickly and saw his mother standing proudly in attendance.

Though years of hardship and loneliness had streaked her soft, golden hair with silver strands, Karandra was as beautiful and radiant as she had ever been. She marveled at seeing Taelan being anointed as a Paladin. She wished that Tirion could have been present to see his son follow in his footsteps.

“Do you vow to vanquish evil wherever it be found, and protect the weak and innocent with your very life?” the Archbishop asked Taelan in a ritualistic tone.

Taelan swallowed hard and nodded while saying, “By my honor, I do.”

The Archbishop continued to speak to the assembly but, overcome as he was, Taelan could not hear his words. Oblivious to the ceremony proceeding around him, he reached into the pocket of his ceremonial cassock and took hold of the rolled, tattered parchment that he always carried with him. It was the note his father had left him before he was exiled from the kingdom. Taelan couldn’t count how many times he had read the tattered letter over the years, but he had memorized every line, every subtle stroke of the quill. He recalled one of the last passages in his mind.

My dear Taelan,

By the time you’re old enough to read this, I will have been gone a long time. I can’t adequately express how painful it is to have to leave you and your mother behind, but I suppose that sometimes life forces you to make difficult decisions. I fear that you’ll no doubt hear many bad things about me as you grow older—that people will look upon my actions and condemn them as evil. I fear that others will look down upon you for the decisions I have made.

I won’t try to explain everything that’s happened in this note, but I need you to know that what I did, I did for honor’s sake. Honor is an important part of what makes us men, Taelan. Our words and our deeds must count for something in this world. I know it’s asking a great deal, but I hope that you will understand that someday.

I want you to know that I love you dearly and that I’ll always carry you close to my heart.

Your life and your deeds will be my redemption, son. You are my pride and my hope. Be a good man. Be a hero.

Goodbye.

Taelan came out of his reverie just in time to hear the Archbishop say:

“Then arise, Taelan Fordring—Paladin defender of Lordaeron. Welcome to the Order of the Silver Hand.”

Just as it had in his boyhood dreams, the entire assembly erupted in cheers. The joyous din echoed throughout the vast cathedral, drowning out every other noise. His friends and comrades clapped and hollered in congratulations. Almost everyone gathered in the cathedral was on their feet joining in the revelry.