Book Two — Chapter Two
Durotar, years before the events of Book One
The next morning began with a broken axe haft.
Vegetaone discovered it when he lifted the weapon from beside his bedroll and the head slid loose in his hand.
He stared at it.
Zuro, still half asleep beneath a rolled blanket, opened one eye.
“Planning to fight the sunrise?”
“The axe broke.”
“Then it has already won.”
Vegetaone turned the haft over. The crack ran nearly the length of the wood, dark and deep beneath the leather wrapping.
Gornek had warned him.
He should have replaced it the night before. Instead, he had spent the evening repairing his bag and admiring the fact that it could now hold his belongings without spilling them into the dirt.
He looked toward the Den.
“Where do I get another?”
Zuro sat up and rubbed his face.
“Ask Gornek.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are you asking me?”
Vegetaone considered the broken axe.
“Because you were awake.”
Zuro grinned.
“That is a dangerous habit.”
Gornek gave him a new haft, but not a new axe.
“You’ll fit the head yourself,” the older orc said.
Vegetaone held the haft in both hands. It was straight, smooth, and heavier than the old one.
“I’ve never done that.”
“Then you’ll learn.”
The Den was already busy. Recruits moved between the tables carrying leather, tools, and bundles of kindling. A pair of orcs argued over the proper way to sharpen a blade. Near the entrance, a young troll was trying to repair a shield with a strip of rope.
Vegetaone found a place beside the wall and set the axe head on the ground.
The opening in the metal was wider than the end of the haft.
He shaved the wood with a small knife, testing the fit after every few cuts. Too much would make it loose. Too little would leave the head sitting crooked.
The first attempt failed.
The axe head tilted sharply to one side.
Zuro leaned against the wall.
“Excellent.”
Vegetaone removed it.
The second attempt was worse.
The wood split near the end.
He closed his eyes.
Gornek’s voice came from behind him.
“Stop trying to force it.”
Vegetaone looked over his shoulder.
“The opening is too narrow.”
“Then make the haft fit the opening. Don’t make the opening fit your impatience.”
Vegetaone looked back at the axe.
He worked more slowly after that.
By midday, the head sat straight. He drove a wooden wedge into the top of the haft, then wrapped the base with leather to keep the wood from splitting.
When he lifted the finished weapon, it felt different from the old one.
Not better yet.
But his.
Gornek tested the head with one hand.
“It will hold.”
Vegetaone nodded.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me until you’ve used it.”
The next task came from a scout named Orgnil Scarhide.
He was a broad orc with a scar running from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. A strip of red cloth hung from his belt, marked with the symbol of the Horde.
“The valley is not the whole of Durotar,” Orgnil said.
Vegetaone stood before him with Zuro at his side.
“We know.”
“Do you?”
Orgnil pointed toward the road leading out of the Valley of Trials.
“Supplies have been disappearing along the eastern trail. Not enough to threaten the camp, but enough to make the workers nervous. Find the missing crates. If someone is taking them, find out who.”
Zuro glanced at Vegetaone.
“Sounds like a job for someone with a bag.”
Vegetaone ignored him.
“Where does the trail lead?”
“Toward the coast. You’ll pass through the dry hills and a small settlement called Sen’jin Village. Ask for Master Gadrin when you arrive.”
“Are we leaving the valley?”
Orgnil’s scar pulled tight when he smiled.
“You’ve been staring at the road since yesterday.”
Vegetaone looked toward the cliffs.
“I was considering it.”
“Consider faster. The trail will not wait.”
Orgnil handed him a rough map scratched on a piece of hide.
The marks were simple: a line for the road, a circle for the village, several crosses near the coast.
“Do not lose that,” Orgnil said.
Vegetaone tucked it into his repaired bag.
“I won’t.”
Zuro lifted his bow.
“Do we get paid?”
Orgnil looked at him.
“If you return.”
“That is not the same answer.”
“It is the one you’re getting.”
They left after the midday meal.
The Valley of Trials seemed smaller from the road.
Vegetaone had spent only a few days there, but the place had already gathered memories around him. The Den. The fire. The rise where Sarkoth had fallen. The patch of scrub where he had learned that charging first was not the same as fighting well.
He adjusted the strap of his bag.
The repaired seam held against his hip.
Zuro walked several paces ahead, bow in hand, stopping whenever the trail narrowed. He had a habit of looking behind them without turning his head.
“You expect trouble?” Vegetaone asked.
“I expect Durotar.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you need.”
The road descended between red stone ridges. Dry grass brushed against their legs. Farther ahead, the land opened into a wide plain broken by thorn trees and blackened patches of earth.
The wind carried the smell he had noticed the night before.
Salt.
The sea was somewhere beyond the hills. Vegetaone found himself walking faster.
Zuro noticed.
“You’ve never seen it?”
“No.”
“You’ll be disappointed.”
“Why?”
“It’s water. A lot of it.”
Vegetaone looked at him.
“That is what makes it disappointing?”
Zuro shrugged.
“People talk about it as if it has a personality.”
“Maybe it does.”
“Then it has a bad one. Always moving. Never helping.”
Vegetaone smiled despite himself.
They continued toward the coast.
The first missing crate lay beside the road. Its lid had been torn away, and the contents were scattered across the dirt. Most of the supplies were gone. A few strips of dried meat remained beneath the broken boards.
Vegetaone crouched beside it.
The tracks around the crate were confused. Boot marks crossed over clawed footprints. Something heavy had been dragged toward the thorn trees.
Zuro knelt nearby.
“Three people,” he said.
“You can tell that?”
“Two walked. One limped.”
Vegetaone studied the ground.
The marks were faint, but he could see them now: a deep heel print, a narrow boot, and a dragging line where one foot had not lifted properly.
“Which way?”
Zuro pointed toward the trees.
Vegetaone stood.
They followed the trail without speaking.
The thorn trees grew close together, their branches twisting into walls. The ground beneath them was shaded and soft with old leaves. A fly buzzed near Vegetaone’s ear.
He raised one hand.
Zuro stopped.
Ahead, something moved.
A figure stepped between the trees carrying a sack over one shoulder.
The figure was small, wrapped in dark cloth, and moving with a limp.
Vegetaone lifted his axe.
“Put it down.”
The figure froze.
A second shape rose from behind a fallen trunk.
Then a third.
The first dropped the sack and drew a short blade.
Zuro’s arrow struck the ground between them.
“Next one won’t miss,” he said.
The three strangers looked from the bow to Vegetaone’s axe.
The largest one spat into the leaves.
“You Horde dogs think this road belongs to you?”
Vegetaone tightened his grip.
“Did you take the supplies?”
The stranger laughed.
“Then you already know.”
The fight began with a thrown knife.
Vegetaone turned aside, but the blade cut across his upper arm. He stepped forward and swung at the nearest attacker.
The man ducked.
His companion struck Vegetaone in the ribs with a club.
Pain flashed through him.
He stumbled, but did not fall.
The old instinct rose in him: anger, speed, force.
He remembered the boar.
He remembered Sarkoth’s tail.
He planted his feet.
The club came again.
Vegetaone caught it against the axe haft and shoved forward. The attacker lost his balance. Vegetaone struck him with the blunt side of the axe, sending him into the thorn branches.
Zuro fired.
The arrow struck the ground beside the limping thief.
“Move again,” Zuro warned.
The thief did not.
The largest attacker charged Vegetaone with a curved blade.
Vegetaone met him halfway.
Steel scraped against the axe head. The impact jarred his arms. The man was faster than the boars and more deliberate than Sarkoth, but he had less weight behind his attacks.
Vegetaone gave ground.
One step.
Then another.
The thief pressed forward, smiling.
“You’re not ready for this road.”
Vegetaone glanced at the ground.
Loose stones.
A fallen branch.
The narrow space between two trees.
He stepped onto the branch.
It rolled beneath his boot.
The thief lunged.
Vegetaone shifted aside, caught the man’s wrist with one hand, and drove his shoulder into the attacker’s chest. They crashed against the tree trunk.
The curved blade fell.
Vegetaone struck once.
The man went limp.
For a moment, the only sound was the wind moving through the thorns.
The third thief ran.
Zuro’s arrow struck the ground in front of him.
He stopped.
“Good choice,” Zuro said.
They bound the thieves with rope taken from the stolen supplies.
The man Vegetaone had struck was conscious again, though he kept one hand pressed against his jaw.
“You’ll take us back?” he asked.
“That is the plan,” Vegetaone said.
“You think the Horde will reward you for dragging in three starving men?”
Zuro searched the recovered sacks.
“Starving men usually don’t steal medicine.”
He held up a small wooden box. The lid had been broken open. Inside, several empty vials rattled against one another.
The limping thief looked away.
Vegetaone noticed.
“Who needed it?”
No one answered.
He opened the sack.
Most of the supplies were food, but beneath the dried meat and cloth were bandages, herbs, and a small jar of salve. The limping thief’s ankle was swollen beneath his boot.
Vegetaone looked at it.
“You took the medicine for yourself.”
The man’s expression hardened.
“My brother.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
The answer came too quickly.
Zuro lowered the box.
“Then why keep stealing?”
The thief stared at the ground. Vegetaone remembered Hana’zua sitting beneath the rock, his leg bound with torn cloth and his face shining with sweat.
He took the jar of salve from the sack.
“Use this.”
Zuro looked at him.
“We’re supposed to bring them back.”
“We will.”
Vegetaone tossed the jar to the limping man.
“After you treat the ankle.”
The thief caught it.
For the first time, he looked uncertain.
They reached Sen’jin Village near sunset.
The settlement stood along the coast, built from wood, rope, and bright cloth. Smoke rose from cooking fires. Troll voices carried over the wind, mixed with the cries of seabirds. Beyond the village, the sea stretched beneath the darkening sky.
Vegetaone stopped walking.
Zuro continued several steps before noticing.
“You see?”
Vegetaone looked at the water. It moved endlessly, folding over itself in long gray lines. The horizon seemed too wide to be real. There was no cliff enclosing it, no ridge to mark its edge, no wall of stone telling him where the world ended. He had expected something larger.
He had not expected it to feel so empty.
Or so alive.
Zuro came to stand beside him.
“Disappointed?”
“No.”
“That is unfortunate. I was hoping to be right.”
Vegetaone stepped closer to the shore.
A wave rolled forward and broke around his boots.
The water was cold.
He looked down at the wet leather.
Zuro laughed.
“Now you’ve been welcomed.”
Vegetaone lifted one boot and watched the water drain away.
“I thought it would be warmer.”
“Durotar is warm enough for both of you.”
Behind them, one of the captured thieves groaned.
The moment ended.
Vegetaone turned toward the village.
“Let’s find Master Gadrin.”
Master Gadrin was waiting near a fire beneath a broad awning.
He was an older troll with white hair tied behind his head and a staff carved with symbols Vegetaone did not recognize. His eyes moved over the three prisoners, the recovered supplies, and the blood on Vegetaone’s arm.
“You found the missing crates,” he said.
“Most of them,” Vegetaone replied.
Gadrin looked at Zuro.
“And the thieves?”
“Alive,” Zuro said.
“Disappointing, but useful.”
The prisoners were taken aside by village guards. The limping man paused before leaving.
He looked at Vegetaone.
The jar of salve was still in his hand.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Vegetaone nodded.
Gadrin gestured toward the fire.
“Sit. You are bleeding.”
“It’s not serious.”
“That is what people say before they become serious.”
Vegetaone sat.
Gadrin cleaned the cut on his arm and wrapped it with a strip of cloth. The wound stung more than it had during the fight.
“You are new to the road,” Gadrin said.
“Yes.”
“Then learn this quickly. The road does not care whether you are strong. It cares whether you notice what is in front of you.”
Vegetaone glanced at Zuro.
“I’m learning.”
“Good. You will need to.”
Gadrin pointed toward the north, where the coast curved away into darkness.
“Strange things have been seen near the old watchtower. Fires where there should be none. Tracks that vanish before reaching the water. The village has sent scouts, but none have found the source.”
Vegetaone looked toward the distant black shape of the tower.
“What do you want us to do?”
“Tomorrow, go there.”
Zuro sighed.
“We arrived less than an hour ago.”
“And already you have work.”
“That is not the same as rest.”
Gadrin smiled.
“Rest is what you do after surviving the work.”
He handed Vegetaone a small leather pouch.
Inside were several silver coins and a polished stone marked with a red line.
“For the supplies,” Gadrin said.
Vegetaone closed his fingers around it.
“Why give me this?”
“Because you returned what was stolen.”
“We didn’t recover everything.”
“No one ever does.”
They slept near the village fire.
Vegetaone repaired the cut in his vest before lying down. The tear from Sarkoth’s claw had widened during the fight, but the stitches held well enough for him to reinforce them.
Zuro watched from beneath his blanket.
“You’re getting better.”
“At sewing?”
“At not falling apart.”
Vegetaone tied off the thread.
“I fell twice today.”
“Only twice?”
“Three times if you count the sea.”
“That was not falling. That was being attacked by water.”
Vegetaone placed the vest beside his bag.
The silver coins inside the pouch felt heavier than the copper he had carried from the valley. He had earned them, but he did not yet know what they were for.
A better weapon.
Stronger armor.
Food for the road.
Perhaps a larger bag.
He looked toward the sea.
The moonlight turned the waves pale.
“Zuro.”
“What?”
“Why did you come here?”
The troll was quiet for a while.
“Because the valley was too small.”
“That’s all?”
“No.”
Vegetaone waited.
Zuro pulled the blanket higher over his shoulder.
“I’ll tell you when I know.”
The answer sounded familiar.
Vegetaone lay back and closed his eyes.
The road beyond the valley had already given him a broken crate, three thieves, a cut arm, and the sea.
Tomorrow, there would be a watchtower.
He wondered what kind of person he would be when he reached the end of the road.
Then he remembered Gornek’s words.
Do not thank me until you have used it.
Vegetaone opened his eyes and looked at the axe resting beside him.
The new haft was still smooth beneath his hand.
He had used it once.
It had held.
For now, that was enough.
End of Chapter Two