The Shattering

by Christie Golden

  Earth Mother, guide my blows. You know that I fight for more than myself.

  Cairne threw back his head, opened his mouth, and uttered the deep, wordless bellow of the challenge to the traditional mak’gora. For his part, Garrosh responded by uttering an earsplitting shriek that was almost as loud as the cry of his father, and, as Cairne had expected, charged at once.

  Cairne stood his ground, letting the youth run toward him, axe aloft. Garrosh whirled the mighty Gorehowl over his head. Cairne knew that the grooves in the axe head would cause it to make the shrieking sound that had given it its name. It was a sound that had struck fear into the hearts of Grom Hellscream’s enemies, but Cairne was unmoved by it. At the last moment, with a grace that belied his bulk, the tauren moved aside and let Garrosh’s own speed propel him harmlessly past. The orc tried to halt his forward movement and almost succeeded, but not before Cairne had brought up the spear and plunged it into Garrosh’s right bicep.

  Garrosh cried out in surprise, affront, and pain. His grip on the weapon loosened. Cairne lowered his horned head and rammed it into the wound, knocking Garrosh off his feet and causing him to nearly lose his grip on Gorehowl. If he had, all would have been lost for the orc. Once a weapon was dropped, the rules clearly stated that it could not be retrieved by either party.

  Cairne raised the runespear and plunged it straight down. Garrosh rolled to the side at the last minute. The spear sliced a furrow down the orc’s side and embedded itself into the earth of the arena. Cairne lost a precious second wresting it free, and by then Garrosh was on his feet. Garrosh, the most highly acclaimed warrior of the Horde, had nearly lost his weapon, and Cairne had drawn first blood.

  “Well played, old bull,” Garrosh said, panting just a little. “I admit, I underestimated your speed. It would seem that it’s just your wits that are slow.”

  “Your jeers were not that clever to begin with, and less so now, son of Hellscream,” Cairne replied, never taking his eyes off his opponent. “Save your breath for battle, and I will save mine to speak well of you at your funeral.”

  It was almost too easy to enrage Garrosh, Cairne thought. The orc’s heavy brow furrowed in offense, and with a growl he charged. He swung Gorehowl skillfully, and Cairne felt the rush of air and heard the weapon’s angry song as he barely dodged the blow. Garrosh was not a fool; he learned from his mistakes. He would not underestimate Cairne a second time.

  Cairne lowered his head, pawing the earth with his right hoof, and charged. Garrosh shrieked a war cry and lifted his axe to slice the bull in the throat. At the very last instant, however, Cairne halted, veered to the left, and thrust outward with his spear toward Garrosh’s exposed torso. Garrosh’s eyes widened. He had just enough time to turn slightly so that his right shoulder met the spear’s bite instead of his chest. The blow was dangerous, but not the killing blow it would have been otherwise. Even so, with a wound to his right bicep and now to that same shoulder, Garrosh’s arm was badly weakened.

  Garrosh cried out, in pain and in fury, his free hand clapping over the wound while his other hand clutched Gorehowl. Cairne pulled the spear free and felt the faintest twinge of pity. Garrosh’s death would be a loss to the Horde—of a fine warrior, if nothing else. If only Thrall had not appointed the younger orc leader! This tragic necessity could have been so easily avoided.

  His brief hesitation enabled Garrosh to, almost impossibly, heft the two-handed axe with his badly wounded arm. Quickly Cairne grasped the runespear with both hands, holding it up to block the blow. Strong and sturdy, the ancient weapon had witnessed countless battles, and Cairne had used it to block in such a manner before.

  Gorehowl shrieked its eerie cry as it descended.

  The runespear—the weapon of twenty generations, the pride of the Bloodhoof, which had slain so many and defended the tauren people so well—shattered into pieces.

  Its force slowed but not stopped, Gorehowl bit into Cairne’s chest, slicing a shallow groove in his fur and flesh, continuing onward to cut his arm. The strike was only a flesh wound; the spear had stayed the worst of the blow.

  Cairne recovered from the horror of seeing the ancestral weapon destroyed. He was not yet done. His hand tightened around the lower third of the spear. Its single tooth could still bite. Garrosh was still fighting, but he was badly wounded. The blow that had shattered the runespear had drained him, and he would not last much longer. And one good thrust with the remnants of the spear would—

  Cairne blinked. His vision was blurring. Had he gotten dust or sweat or blood in his eyes? He took a precious second to wipe the back of his hand across his eyes, but it aided nothing. His hand shook as he lowered it. And his legs … they felt weak. …

  Stunned, he stared at Garrosh. The orc was sweating profusely and breathing hard. As Cairne watched, Garrosh gripped the axe and met Cairne’s gaze evenly. Cairne clutched his own weapon. It weaved in his hands. It felt so strangely heavy—

  And then he knew exactly what had happened to him.

  And so, I, who have lived my whole life with honor, die betrayed.

  He could not even cry out with his last breath to accuse his murderer. It was through an act of sheer will that he was able to even hold on to the shattered spear so that he would not be struck down unarmed.

  Garrosh’s eyes narrowed as he beheld the furrow he had carved in Cairne’s chest and the pieces of the runespear lying on the earth. For a moment surprise flitted across his features, then he set his jaw in determination. He began running toward his opponent, lifting Gorehowl in both hands and bringing it down. Unable to deflect the blow or move out of its path, his life fading with every heartbeat, Cairne Bloodhoof, high chieftain of the tauren, mutely watched it descend.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Magatha watched from a distance, her calm visage betraying nothing of her increasing excitement. The two warriors were well-matched, though very different in all aspects. Cairne had strength, wisdom, patience, and experience; Garrosh had energy, the fire of youth, and speed. The simmering cauldron of conflict between the old and the new had reached a boiling point tonight. Only one would walk away, and the victor would dictate the future of the Horde. All present knew that they were bearing witness to history, and Magatha observed as emotions ran the gamut from horror and shock to enthusiasm and delight.

  It was a fierce battle, closer than anyone had expected.

  Anyone, of course, except Magatha.

  She had been waiting for the opportunity for years, and like a leaf that had slowly and unexpectedly drifted down from the tree into her lap, it had finally come. Her spies in Orgrimmar had been able to reach her in time for her to travel from Thunder Bluff to the arena, and it had been ease itself to offer her services as shaman for the ritual blessing of the weapon.

  Earlier, when Garrosh and several of the Kor’kron were in a private area below the main seating level, she had requested and been given permission to see him. “I told you once before, Garrosh Hellscream, that I suspected you were just what the Horde needed when it needed it. And that if the time was right, I would give you my support and that of the Grimtotem tribe. Let me bless your weapon in preparation for its trials today.”

  Garrosh had eyed her. “You would turn against Cairne? A fellow tauren?”

  Magatha had shrugged. “I want to do what is best for my people. I believe that is following you, Garrosh Hellscream.”

  He nodded. “That makes sense, and marks you as a wise leader of your tribe. The future lies with me, not with an old bull, hero though he might have been once.” His brows had knotted for a moment. “I … do respect him. I would rather not be the instrument of his death, but he was the one who called for the challenge, and he has insulted my honor.”

  “Indeed he has,” said Magatha. “That blow that staggered you so … Everyone is speaking of it. Shameful. It cannot stand unavenged.”

  Garrosh had growled softly, and his face, where it was not tattooed black, flushed with anger and embarrassment. Magatha kept her ex
pression neutral, but inwardly she smiled. This was almost too easy.

  “So, will you accept my blessing of your blade and the support of my Grimtotem?”

  He eyed her up and down for a moment, then nodded. “Let all who see know of your decision, then, Elder Crone. You may bless my blade before the fight begins.”

  Shortly afterward, in full view of the crowd, he had offered up Gorehowl. Magatha could barely suppress her excitement as she intoned the ritual blessing, removed the stopper from the vial that had been prepared for her scant minutes earlier, and dropped three drops of oil on the blade. Tradition demanded that she use her hands to apply the oil. She did not. Garrosh did not know the difference.

  Nor did he know how he was being used by her. Which was good—the orc would have slain her on the spot had he known what she had planned. Had he known his oh-so-precious Gorehowl was slicked with poison.

  Yes, she mused as she watched Cairne suddenly stumble and blink a few seconds after Gorehowl shattered the ancient runespear into bits and sliced into the tauren’s chest and arm. Almost too easy. But so much else I have striven for has been too hard. It is the balance.

  Garrosh seized the opportunity. Gorehowl shrieked as the orc whirled it over his head before bringing it down for the final blow. The blade bit deep at the juncture between head and shoulder, cutting through muscle and flesh. Blood spurted from the severed artery, and the mighty Cairne Bloodhoof’s legs buckled, then collapsed. He was dead by the time his torso struck the floor. Thunderous applause mixed with gasps and sobs filled the arena.

  Thus ends one era. With his death, a new one is birthed.

  Cairne’s loyal followers rushed into the ring, grieving. They lifted the body of their fallen leader. Magatha knew what everyone expected would happen now. They would ritually bathe it, washing away the dirt and blood and sweat and oil, then prepare it for cremation by wrapping it in a ceremonial blanket. There would be a long, mournful walk back to Thunder Bluff from Orgrimmar, so that all could pay their respects before the body was burned, the ashes offered to the winds and rivers, to become one with the Earth Mother and Sky Father.

  And those expectations, however false they would prove to be, would give her the opportunity for which she had hungered so long.

  She turned to one of her apprentices and whispered in Taur-ahe, “Now. Send the word now. Cairne has finally fallen. Tonight the reign of the Grimtotem begins.”

  * * *

  The moon was full over Thunder Bluff, the night clear and cloudless. The tauren were mostly diurnal, and while some activity of some sort was going on at all times, day or night, at this hour of the early morning it was mostly still. The wind wafted the smoke of a few fires upward to the star-filled skies. In their tents, the tauren drowsed.

  The Grimtotem moved, shadowlike and stealthy, black blots of ink against the moon-silvered night. Some of them arrived in Thunder Bluff on wyvern back, the beasts’ wings almost as silent as the still night air. Some of them walked, avoiding the lifts and instead climbing the sheer bluff with deadly intent and a grace that belied their bulk. They had been in position for years awaiting this call and had leaped into action within seconds of their notification.

  They all carried weapons—garrotes, knives, swords, axes, bows. No guns, nothing that would make noise. Sound meant discovery; discovery meant resistance; and that was not what their matriarch wanted. Their mission was to kill in silence and move to the next victim.

  They kept to the shadows, taking their time, moving behind the tents of the first, lowest level of the mesa until they were all in position. Soft hooting sounds then gently punctuated the night; sounds that, even if they were heard, would be disregarded. And then, coordinated, they struck.

  Swiftly the Grimtotem assassins moved into the tents. Some targets were known to them—those who were experts in weapons, or were particularly powerful druids or shaman. What good was the power of the bear when one never awoke in time to transform? What did it aid one to be lethal with a sword when one’s chest was already pierced by it? How easily throats were slit when no resistance was offered.

  They moved into the center by the small pool, checking their numbers, giving hand signals. They split into two groups. One darted off to Spirit Rise, the other to Hunter Rise. Elder Rise they ignored. That was where Magatha had made her home until this night of nights, and she had left behind loyal subjects who had doubtless already executed every one of the hapless druids unlucky enough to have been present. The old boards of the bridges creaked slightly under the attackers’ weight as they crossed, but these bridges creaked even in the wind, and they had no worries of discovery.

  Straight to their victims they ran, leaping atop the shaman who awakened only long enough to gasp and then die. Skychasers they were, a family—dead, down to the last one. There was no need to worry about the Forsaken in the Pools of Vision just below the main level of Spirit Rise. Most of them tacitly supported Magatha, and those who did not had no particular attachment to the tauren or who led them.

  On to Hunter Rise.

  These were more physically brutal battles. Quick to awaken and extremely strong and fit, the hunters put up a good fight. But they were no match for the Grimtotem, who had the element of surprise on their side, or, eventually, the poison on their blades. Soon enough, the rise was silent, and the assassins moved back to the heart of Thunder Bluff.

  Those who posed the greatest threats to Elder Crone Magatha had been slain. It was now time to kill without specific need, to strike fear into the hearts of what tauren still remained. They needed to know that the rule of the Grimtotem would have no margin for error and no place for the gentler notions of forgiveness or compassion.

  Thunder Bluff, like a child, would be rebirthed in blood.

  * * *

  “Wait,” said a Grimtotem shaman, holding up a hand. Although his given name was Jevan, others had taken to calling him Stormsong due to his affinity with the elements of air and water. While he led the party that had surrounded Bloodhoof Village, he had told those under his command that he would not utilize his formidable powers until the last moment. Now his second-in-command, Tarakor, was awaiting the signal to attack.

  “Wait?” replied Tarakor, confused. “We have been given our orders, Stormsong. We attack!”

  The shaman sniffed the air, his black ears twitching. “Something is not right. It is possible they have been alerted to our presence.”

  Tarakor snorted. “Unlikely. We have trained for years for this night.”

  Stormsong eyed him. “If we have our spies and ways of delivering messages, you may rest assured that Cairne did, too.”

  The mission to Thunder Bluff had been extensive—to slaughter everyone who posed a threat to the matriarch. It was a long list, and many who embarked on that mission would not complete it. But there was only one goal here in Bloodhoof Village—only one who needed to die. But that one must die, or else the entire blood-soaked night would have been for nothing.

  Baine Bloodhoof, Cairne Bloodhoof’s son and only heir, lived here, not with his father on Thunder Bluff.

  The tauren now sleeping securely in their tents, or even on the earth underneath the moons’ light, were in peaceful ignorance of the fact that that their beloved chieftain had joined the ancestors. The Longwalkers who had witnessed the fight in Orgrimmar and planned to report to Baine had all been quickly, quietly dispatched ere they could do so. Magi and others who could get word to Thunder Bluff swiftly had been silently followed, watched carefully—or otherwise taken care of. The roads had been blocked. Magatha had planned well and left absolutely nothing to chance.

  The village had been the first tauren settlement to be established on an open plain rather than on a protected mesa. It was evidence of how the tauren had become secure in a land that had once been so new to them.

  It was indeed secure, from predators and attacks from other races.

  It was not secure from the Grimtotem.

  “If anyone was alerted as to
Cairne’s untimely death in the arena, surely it would be his son,” said Stormsong. “A single messenger might have escaped our net. I will go ahead, quietly, and scout out the area to make sure we are not walking into a trap. If it is not safe, we will need to adjust our tactics. Do nothing until you hear from me, do you understand?”

  Stormsong was of an age with Cairne, and like that late bull was still strong and sharp despite the gray starting to dot his black pelt. Tarakor shifted uneasily. He was younger, and hot-blooded, and had been dreaming of this night for a long, long time. He did not want to wait another minute, but finally he nodded.

  “You are the leader of the mission, Stormsong,” he said in a voice that clearly revealed his wish that it were otherwise. “I will obey. But make haste, eh? My blade is thirsty for Baine’s blood.”

  “As is mine, friend, but I’d like to not shed my own if I can help it,” Stormsong said. The group of two dozen who had been assembled for tonight’s task chuckled quietly. “I will be back as soon as I can.”

  Tarakor watched him go, moving quietly, his black hide swallowed by the shadows.

  He waited.

  And waited. And waited, shifting uneasily from one hoof to the next, his ears twitching with ever-increasing anxiety. Beside him his warriors also fidgeted impatiently. They were all hungry for battle, and this sudden imposed pause did not sit well with any of them. Tarakor did not know how long he stood, eyes straining to see in the dark, when finally something inside him snapped.

  “He should have been back before now,” Tarakor growled. “Something has gone wrong. We can wait no longer. Grimtotem, attack! For the elder crone!”

  * * *

  Something had woken Baine Bloodhoof. He lay restless in his sleeping furs, an odd chill racing along his spine. A dream had come to him, one he could not recall, but that had unsettled him greatly. And so when he heard voices outside, he rose, threw on some clothing, and stepped out to find out what the problem was.