The Queen Who Ran

[Narthok 9213]

The Queen Who Ran

Spoiler

 

 

 

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The Orcish Mourning party rode silently over the rolling dunes of the great desert. Each warrior’s face was elaborately patterned with white mourning ash, ragged banners fluttering in the wind, affixed to the saddles of the great warbeasts of the Horde.

 

The Greatwar of the Humans had spilt much Orcish blood, had demanded many Orcish lives. As usual the Horde travelled unbothered through the midlands, the warriors of Numendil nowhere to be seen outside the high walls of their mountain sanctuaries. The ‘conquered’ lands of Veletz entirely empty of patrols or garrisons.

 

Soon the party arrived at the ruins of Breakwater. A hollowed shadow of its former self. The sunbleached bones of Man and Orc still visible amongst the piled rubble. Dismounting quietly the party trudged into the ruins, as they proceeded the massive corpses of Orcs could be seen piled amongst the human tide. Surrounded by the corpses of the foe, impaled with countless spirits and arrows. Yet many of the skulls appeared almost to be laughing.

 

Grommash shook his head. The elders and the shamans told him that the greatest desire of a child of the Orcsire was to die well, to die for a greater cause. What could be more noble, more honourable than to die for the PEOPLE? How could any Orc ever aspire to better adhere to the WAY of Krug?

 

Grommash was not so sure. It was by his command that lives were spent, that blood was spilt. His warriors put their faith in the Hordespeaker, they believed that he would spend their lives for the greater good of the Horde. In that perhaps there was some truth. The seasons of war had swelled the ranks of the Horde to heights rarely seen. New chieftains emerged and new warbands seem to form with each passing year. 

 

The new generation of Orcs had already amassed its own assembly of legendary Orc champions. The new Warbrothers of the Keshig had already gathered countless battle scars despite their youth. It warmed the Rex’s heart.

 

But now was not the time for the living. They had come to pay homage to the dead, to speak of war. As the party proceeded deeper into the crumbling ruins pipes and drums were produced, the simple tones and the steady beating rhythm announcing the sadness of the Orcs.

 

Their brothers had died well. Their deaths had been written in the stars, and they had met their deaths with honour. Surely they would be judged well on their journey to Stargush’stroh. Yet their absence was sorely felt by their brothers who yet lived.

 

The loss was felt all the more by the demands of war. In the early days of the invasion the enemy had been far too numerous. The Orcs had been forced to leave many of their dead where they had fallen as they had retreated from the great fortresses of the midlands. They had not had a chance to retrieve their dead.

 

Now, having gained dominance of the field and crushed the army of Eight, atleast for now, they had an opportunity to pay their respects to the fallen warriors of the Horde. The great Shamans of the Horde Azfrai’lur and Madoc’lur’s voices boomed as they chanted in the ancient tongue of old blah. Their eyes and tattoos glowing, their tongues seeming to speak words of fire. Slowly, an icy mist descended upon the ruins.

 

The mist swirled and danced, almost freezing to the touch, orcish hands and faces could been amongst its depths. As the mist touched the various greenskins some recoiled, yet it was not cold alone that the mists imparted. Soon the chanting of the dead filled the ears of the Orcs. Joyous cries and chanting filled the ears of the Mourning party. 

 

The Shamans had somehow connected them to their brothers, albeit for a short time. Some of the proud warriors sank to their knees, weeping tears of horrible mourning sadness mixed with joy. Some recoiled, poking cautiously at the strange mists evoked by the shamans. Other, sat quietly, breathing deeply as they had been taught by their elders. They would hear the voices of the dead, and they would suppress the savage beast within.

 

After the Shamans had made their oblations and the various orcs had offered meat and wine to the corpses of their fallen Warbrothers, the column turned, returning south to the Hordelands. They had heard of the coronation of the new Balarex. The glorious dead demanded retribution against the invaders. What would the sacrifices of the dead be for if the Horde did not see the war to its conclusion.

 

As they headed south the melancholy dirge quickened, transforming into a call for war. It was time for blood

 

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Spoiler

 

 

 

The war party thundered east. The Rex had blown the great horn of Yar. The routine was becoming all too familiar to the warriors of the horde. Rally to the banner of the Hordespeaker. Kill whatever gathering of the coalition they had been called out against. Take prisoners from the survivors. Return home and distribute the loot. What could possibly be different this time.

 

Initially things had gone as normal. The men of the Midlands, Velemen, Stassemen, Ferrymen, all the midland tribes had ridden south and arrived at the Hordelands where they had met the gathered warriors of the Horde. The forces of the alliance had ridden towards Balian, passing through the lands of the Orcfriends of Amathine and Haelun’or before arriving at the southernmost of the Human Kingdoms.

 

Surprisingly there had been no attempt to guard the walls or the gates. A ladder had simply been placed against the front of the city. Concerned glances were exchanged, was there really a coronation? What kind of insane fool does not post guards on their own walls? Yet there it was, none had been posted. Swiftly they scaled the walls. Like flowing water the Alliance poured through the streets of the city. 

 

As they did so they began their chants of war. Cries of “Blood for Breakwater” and “For the Horde” mixing in the streets as the Alliance advanced. Soon they surrounded the Human’s shamanhut. Within the Hushams were preparing to crown the new Balarex. As the war cries of the encroaching warriors were heard the Hushams, the Balarex and the various effete hangers on with which these Hurexes always seemed to attract immediately began to flee through one of the innumerable rat tunnels which had begun to become so emblematic.

 

Did these Hurexes have no shame? In the middle of their cities. In the middle of their holy rituals. These hushams and Chieftains fled like Hyenas from the Lion. Worst yet, they left the better men, the honourable men behind to die. 

 

Many had fought for Balian. But not the Balarex.

 

The Queen who ran

 

Grommash had never been so disgusted in his life. As he stood in blood soaked chamber, walls coated with viscera, bloodlust fading he felt nothing but sympathy for the dead men on the floor. What cruel spirits could have placed them in the service of such pathetic cowardly chieftains. It was the duty of the loyaltygiver to obey, to die. But it was the duty of the Chieftain to spend their life well.

The lives that now fed the floor tiles had died for what, a few more pathetic months of living for unworthy chieftains? What a waste.

 

Grommash paused, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He attempted to calm his heart, to suppress the beast within. RIP AND TEAR. It screamed. It demanded yet more blood. It demanded that he bury his axe in the skull of the nearest Veleman. How different was one human from another really? With effort he drove down the beast. He would not become an animal. Not today.

 

As the trance overtook him he remembered the battle with pain staking detail. He remembered the massive frames of Klog, Apek and Grothzark storming the church. Their incrdibly bulk literally flinging the smaller frames of Covenant warriors aside as they forced the gate.

 

Grommash remembere Archeol, only freshly come down from the Mountains to join the Horde putting massive Orcish arrow after Oricsh arrow into the open windows of the hall. Each dart eliciting screams from within as his victims were brutally impaled.

Who could forget the exploits of Gudanat, cleaving an enemy knight in twain with his massive axe. Roaring to the sky in celebration of his victory.

 

Even the many young Goblins who had recently emigrated from the deep mountain caves to the new Goblin district of the Horde had performed mightily, each accruing a kill to their name as they danced through the chaos of war, their lithe acrobatics a stark contrast to the lumbering brutality of their larger kinfolk. Gab’kull a new member of the hill but possessing no small skill in his own right had performed admirably, already he had begun to earn much prestige amongst the strange goblin tribes that occupied the tunnels beneath Orcgrimmar.

 

Grommash remembered the conduct of each of his warriors with fondness. He asked much of them. To suffer, to bleed, sometimes to die. Yet they had delivered so much for the horde. It was by their labours the Horde had been made great. Even when Grommash had been cornered by four halberd wielding knights, it had been the heroism of Morgok and the ancient Muthraka, each fanatically dedicated to the defence of their Rex that had saved the Hordespeaker’s life, seeing the knights reduced to a blood pile of limbs in what seemed like an instant.

 

With each passing day Grommash grew prouder of the Horde. The Horde grew more numerous with each passing day, new warriors and clans coming down from the hills, the mountains, and the forests to rally to the banner of the young Rex. Perhaps the days of Orcish shame had begun to pass. Only the stars could tell.

 

Yet, despite all of their victories the season of war still waxed. The night sky spoke yet still of death and blood in the future. The dreams of Grommash were still filled with the warsong. There was still yet a war to fight. Grommash would take his warriors to the fields of Balian. There they would fight the warriors of the Covenant. All defending

 

The Queen who Ran

Spoiler

Also Fuze has asked me to add this because its funny

 

[SaltAlt 606]

A Goblin would draw a reenactment of the battle.
 

Spoiler

 

[Strife 266]

The previously unblooded newcomer of the Uzg, an orc named Muraak, claimed his first kill... his first scar. Cleaning the blood off his weapon, sharpening its blade to a lethal edge, he pondered if this sacrifice to the Spirits was enough.

 

He will have to make more.