The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm (27 page)

Just as the bodies of the warriors were anointed with oil for their battle, so, too, were the weapons. Beram murmured something softly, dipped a finger in the vial of holy oil, and then gently smeared the glistening liquid onto the spear tip.

“I am saddened it has come to this,” he said quietly, for Cairne’s
ears alone. “But as it has, I know that your cause is the just one, Cairne Bloodhoof. May your spear strike straight and true.”

Cairne bowed deeply, humbly, his thick, powerful fingers curled tightly around the shaft of the spear. Twenty generations of Bloodhoof chieftains had wielded this runespear in battle, as he was about to do. It had tasted the blood of many noble enemies, and indeed had always struck straight and true. For a moment he allowed his gaze to linger on the runes. He had carved most of his own story into it some time ago, as was the tradition. But there was still much left to tell. He promised himself that when this battle was over and things had settled down a bit, he would take the time to finish his story.

“Old bull!” came Garrosh’s taunting voice. “Are you going to stand there all night lost in thought? I thought you had come to kill me, not stare at an old spear.”

Cairne sighed. “Your words are borne upon the winds of fate, Garrosh Hellscream. They will be among your last. I would choose them with more care.”

“Pagh!” Garrosh spat. He picked up Gorehowl, bowing to the shaman who had blessed—

Cairne’s eyes narrowed as he strained to see at this distance. It was a tauren shaman who had blessed Garrosh’s weapon with words of ritual and sacred oil. That surprised and pained Cairne, who had assumed another orc would perform that rite. It was a female, black-coated. …

“Magatha,” he breathed. She was a powerful shaman, but so was Beram. While her blessing would help Garrosh, Beram Skychaser’s blessing would help Cairne. She had to know that; it was a gesture, nothing more. All she had done was, finally, openly state where her loyalties lay.

Cairne nodded to himself, confident now more than ever of the rightness of his path. This challenge really did need to happen, before more fell under Garrosh’s spell. At least Magatha now had shown her true colors. He would have to address the disloyalty; he had no choice now. The Grimtotem would need to be banished
from Thunder Bluff, unless they finally chose to swear allegiance to the Horde. It had become a necessity, not a desire.

Magatha looked up. Cairne could not see her expression, but he imagined she was smirking. He allowed himself a quiet smile. She had chosen the wrong combatant to support.

He turned to regard his opponent.

Garrosh balanced on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight lightly, hand wrapped around the hilt of the axe, his golden-brown eyes alight with excitement.

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.

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 expression 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.