Book Two — Chapter One
Durotar, years before the events of Book One
The bottom fell out of Vegetaone’s bag before anyone asked whether he was ready to serve the Horde. Three copper coins, a whetstone, and half his breakfast landed in the dust at Kaltunk’s feet.
The older orc looked down.
“Long journey?”
“Long enough.”
“Your provisions disagree.”
Vegetaone crouched to collect them. He brushed the bread against his trousers, inspected it, and decided the cleaner side would do.
Above him, the morning sun caught the red cliffs enclosing the Valley of Trials. Smoke drifted from a cooking fire beside the Den. Somewhere nearby, an axe struck wood with a steady rhythm, interrupted by a voice complaining about the heat.
He had imagined his first morning differently.
There would have been a weapon rack. Perhaps a speech. Someone might have pointed toward a distant enemy and told him the Horde needed his strength.
Instead, he was kneeling on his own bread.
Kaltunk waited until he stood.
“Name?”
“Vegetaone.”
“Weapon?”
He lifted the battered axe at his hip.
Kaltunk studied its chipped edge, then the sleeveless shirt hanging loosely from Vegetaone’s broad shoulders. The young orc’s green arms bore scratches from thorn scrub. One boot had been tied shut with cord.
“Go see Gornek. Inside the Den.”
“What will he have me do?”
“Find out.”
Vegetaone glanced toward the narrow passage leading out of the valley. Beyond it lay the rest of Durotar, hidden behind rock and morning glare.
Kaltunk noticed.
“That road will still be there.”
Vegetaone gathered the mouth of his ruined bag in one fist and went to find Gornek.
The Den was cooler than the open valley. His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dimness beneath its roof. Gornek sat near a low table with a stack of worn equipment behind him. A recruit was trying on a pair of boots. Another held a leather vest against his chest, looking disappointed by its size.
Vegetaone slowed.
The boots were ordinary. The vest had an old repair under one arm.
He wanted both.
He had seen veteran warriors wearing plate, their armor fitted so closely that they could move in it as easily as he moved in his shirt. Someday he would have a set of his own. For now, even a leather training vest would be an improvement.
Gornek looked up.
“Kaltunk sent you?”
“He did.”
“Can you use that axe?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The boars have been tearing up the ground where our workers gather supplies. Thin them out. Bring back enough meat to make the trouble worthwhile.”
Vegetaone waited.
Gornek reached for a piece of charcoal.
“Something else?”
“No.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Outside, Vegetaone checked the axe edge with his thumb.
Boars.
He had come ready for a battle someone would remember. But Gornek had given him work, and there was a pair of boots inside that did not need cord to stay on.
He turned toward the scrub beyond the camp.
The first boar taught him that anger was useful only if he could keep his feet beneath him.
It stood beside a thorn bush, rooting in the dry earth. Vegetaone approached with his axe raised, certain that his size would settle the matter.
The boar looked up.
He shouted.
It charged.
His swing passed over its back. Something struck his shin with the force of a falling log, and then he was on the ground with dust in his mouth.
He rolled before the tusks reached him again.
The second swing landed.
For a while afterward, he sat beside the thorn bush and pressed a hand against his leg.
“You could have run,” he told the dead boar.
A troll carrying a bow stopped several paces away.
“So could you.”
Vegetaone looked up.
The troll was lean, with one tusk shorter than the other and a strip of blue cloth tied around his wrist. His bowstring had been repaired with a knot Vegetaone did not like the look of.
“Did you watch all of that?”
“Enough.”
“Forget it.”
“Depends. You planning to do it again?”
Vegetaone pushed himself upright.
“No.”
“Then I’ll have less to remember.”
The troll moved on, leaving him with a bruised shin and a much less impressive opinion of himself. At the next patch of scrub, Vegetaone stopped to watch before advancing.
He noticed how the boars lowered their heads before charging. He noticed the loose stones under his boots, the slope of the ground, the space he would need to move aside.
His next fight was shorter.
By midday, he had stopped shouting first.
Gornek examined the meat Vegetaone brought back, then glanced at the dust coating his shirt.
“Fall?”
“Once.”
“Learn?”
“Yes.”
Gornek nodded toward the equipment.
The boots were gone.
Vegetaone tried not to look disappointed.
“Take the vest,” Gornek said.
It was stiff across the shoulders and smelled of old leather. One fastening had been replaced by a wooden toggle. Vegetaone pulled it on and tightened the sides until it stopped shifting when he moved.
He lifted his axe.
The leather creaked.
Gornek watched him test it.
“Better?”
“Better.”
The older orc set a few copper coins on the table.
“There’s more work.”
Vegetaone took the coins.
“I thought there might be.”
He spent the afternoon hunting scorpids.
Their tails made him miss the boars.
He learned to keep the axe between himself and the raised stinger, to strike and step away rather than linger over a good hit. Twice he had to abandon a fight when another creature emerged from beneath a rock.
By the time his waterskin was half empty, he understood why the valley had been chosen for recruits.
Nothing here cared what he hoped to become.
Near a rise west of the camp, he heard someone calling.
The voice came again, thin and angry.
“Over here!”
Vegetaone climbed between two slabs of red stone and found a troll sitting against the rock, one leg stretched awkwardly in front of him.
His face shone with sweat.
“Hana’zua,” the troll said. “Before you ask. And if you have water, I’d rather answer the rest afterward.”
Vegetaone knelt and passed him the skin.
Below the knee, the troll’s leg had swollen. A torn strip of cloth had been bound around it.
“Scorpid?” Vegetaone asked.
Hana’zua lowered the waterskin.
“Sarkoth.”
The name meant nothing to him yet.
Hana’zua pointed up the rise.
“Large. You won’t mistake him.”
Vegetaone looked at the slope. He could see a scatter of rocks, scrub, a dark gap beneath a ledge.
“Can you stand?”
“With help.”
“Then we get you down first.”
Hana’zua caught his forearm.
“He’s still up there.”
“So is the sun. Neither is coming down with us.”
He eased the troll upright, took most of his weight, and began the slow descent.
Halfway down, his own injured shin started throbbing.
He kept walking.
At the edge of camp, two workers helped settle Hana’zua in the shade.
Vegetaone waited until someone brought a fresh waterskin. Then he turned back toward the rise.
“You going alone?”
The bow-carrying troll stood beside the path.
“Apparently.”
“Bad answer.”
Vegetaone looked at the repaired string.
“That going to hold?”
The troll plucked it with a finger.
“Longer than your bag.”
Vegetaone glanced down. The bag was tucked through his belt, its contents wrapped in the loose material like a badly folded blanket.
“What’s your name?”
“Zuro.”
“Can you hit what you aim at?”
“Can you stay standing?”
Vegetaone considered that.
“More often now.”
Zuro grinned.
They climbed together.
Sarkoth emerged from the shade beneath the ledge before they reached the top.
Hana’zua had been right. There was no mistaking him.
The scorpid’s claws scraped against stone. His armored body filled the narrow space between two boulders, and his tail curved high enough that Vegetaone could see its point above the nearer rock.
Zuro moved left.
Vegetaone lifted his axe.
He wanted to charge. The sight of the raised stinger brought back Hana’zua’s swollen leg, and anger rushed through him with a force that made his fingers tighten.
He drew one breath and planted his feet on solid ground.
“Wait for him to turn,” he told Zuro.
The first claw struck his axe haft.
Wood cracked.
Vegetaone stumbled sideways. The stinger hit the earth where his boot had been.
Zuro’s arrow struck near a joint in the shell.
Sarkoth twisted toward him.
Vegetaone hit the nearer claw before it could close around his leg. His axe bit, stuck, and almost dragged him forward when the creature recoiled.
He pulled it free with both hands.
“Again!”
Another arrow flew.
The scorpid advanced on Zuro. Vegetaone ran along its flank, boots slipping in loose grit, and struck where two plates overlapped.
Sarkoth turned so sharply that one claw caught the edge of the new vest.
Leather tore.
Vegetaone hit the rock behind him.
For a moment he could not breathe.
The tail rose.
He threw himself forward beneath its arc, shoulder scraping the shell. His axe came down at the base of the tail.
Zuro fired from the other side.
The creature convulsed. Vegetaone held on to the haft and struck again.
Then the legs folded beneath it.
Neither of them moved until the tail lay still.
Zuro lowered his bow.
“Still standing?”
Vegetaone looked down at his knees in the dirt.
“Brief interruption.”
They carried a broken claw back as proof.
Hana’zua reached for it, then looked at the tear in Vegetaone’s vest.
“That new?”
“Was.”
The troll rested his head against the wall.
“Thank you.”
There was no joke waiting after the words.
Vegetaone nodded.
At the Den, Gornek listened while Zuro described the fight. Vegetaone let him speak, grateful that the account left out how long he had needed to catch his breath afterward.
Gornek inspected the cracked axe haft.
“You’ll replace that before you use it again.”
He set out a pair of serviceable boots and a belt with a plain iron buckle. Vegetaone chose the boots. Zuro took the belt, holding it against the frayed cord supporting his quiver.
Outside, Vegetaone pulled off his old footwear.
His heel had bled through one sock.
He cleaned it, wound a fresh strip of cloth around the rubbed skin, and fitted the new boots carefully.
They were a little heavy.
He stood and walked several paces.
Nothing flapped. Nothing threatened to fall apart.
Zuro watched him.
“You look pleased.”
“I’m considering walking somewhere.”
“Ambitious.”
That evening, Vegetaone sat beside the cooking fire with his damaged vest across his knees.
One of the workers had lent him a needle thick enough to stitch leather and a length of waxed thread. He had already pricked his thumb twice.
The third time, he put the needle down and studied the tear instead of forcing it. He overlapped the edges, pierced the softer part, and pulled the thread through slowly.
The repair began to hold.
Across the fire, Zuro was trying to fit dried meat into a pouch already full of arrows, flint, and something wrapped in leaves.
“You need a bigger bag,” Vegetaone said.
“You need any bag.”
Vegetaone looked at the ruined sack beside him.
He had been going to throw it away.
Instead, he shook out the dust and laid it flat. The bottom seam had failed, but most of the cloth was sound. He folded the torn edge inward, testing how much space he would lose.
Not much.
He borrowed a smaller needle.
By the time the fire had burned low, the sack could hold his possessions again.
The stitches wandered. One corner puckered badly. He filled it anyway and lifted it by the mouth.
The bottom stayed in place.
Zuro leaned over to inspect it.
“That’s ugly.”
“Put something in it.”
The troll dropped in his flint.
Vegetaone gave the bag a shake.
Nothing fell out.
“Ugly,” Zuro conceded, “with promise.”
Vegetaone smiled and handed back the flint.
He examined the little sack again. He wanted steel armor for himself, but he could already see the use of knowing how to make a decent bag. Everyone at the fire had something they could not fit into a pocket.
When the others settled down, he took his repaired bag and walked to where the valley narrowed toward the road.
He did not leave. There was more training ahead, and in the morning he would need a new axe haft.
But he could stand here for a while.
Behind him lay the Den, the cooking fires, the patch of scrub where a boar had knocked him flat. Somewhere up the rise, Sarkoth’s body was cooling beneath the stars.
Ahead, the wind came through the opening in the cliffs carrying unfamiliar smells.
He tried to pick them apart. Dust. Dry grass. Something faint and sharp that might have been the sea.
He had never seen the sea from this side of Durotar. Vegetaone adjusted the strap of his bag. The repaired vest pulled against his shoulders, and his new boots pressed comfortably into the sand. Tomorrow he would earn what he could not yet carry.
For now, he stayed at the mouth of the valley, looking down the road until the last light disappeared.
End of Chapter One