Book Two — Chapter Four
Durotar, years before the events of Book One
By noon, the fire in the old watchtower had become a black scar against the Durotar sky.
Vegetaone stood at the edge of Sen’jin Village with his axe across his back and the rescued orc from the tower resting near Master Gadrin’s fire.
The stranger who had escaped them was gone.
North.
Toward Razor Hill.
Maybe farther.
Vegetaone wanted to follow.
But Zuro was not coming.
The troll stood near the road with his bow over one shoulder, staring toward the coast.
“You’re staying,” Vegetaone said.
Zuro glanced at him.
“For a while.”
“That sounds like an excuse.”
“It is.”
Vegetaone waited.
Zuro smiled faintly.
“My people are here. Gadrin has work that needs doing, and somebody has to make sure the fishermen stop blaming every missing net on sea monsters.”
Vegetaone looked toward the road.
“So this is it?”
“For now.”
The answer bothered him more than he expected.
They had not known each other long, but Durotar had a way of making short friendships feel older than they were.
Zuro held out his forearm.
Vegetaone gripped it.
“You’ll be fine,” Zuro said.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not.”
Vegetaone laughed.
Zuro’s expression became more serious.
“Listen to me. You keep wanting to see what is beyond the next hill.”
“Yes.”
“That is going to get you into trouble.”
“Probably.”
“Good. At least you know.”
Zuro released his arm.
“Just make sure the trouble is worth finding.”
Vegetaone adjusted the strap of his bag.
The stitching still held.
His vest did not.
The stranger’s sword had cut through the seam he had repaired that morning.
He would fix it later.
For now, he looked north.
Razor Hill waited somewhere beyond the red ridges.
Beyond that lay Orgrimmar.
And beyond Orgrimmar—
He did not know.
That was the point.
Vegetaone started walking.
He did not look back until he reached the bend in the road.
Zuro was still there.
The troll raised one hand.
Vegetaone raised his own.
Then the road turned.
And Vegetaone was alone.
The journey to Razor Hill took most of the day.
Without Zuro beside him, Durotar felt larger.
There was no voice mocking his decisions.
No arrow suddenly appearing beside an enemy’s foot.
No one reading tracks before Vegetaone even noticed they were there.
He found himself paying more attention.
The wind.
The dust.
Broken branches.
Tracks crossing the road.
Smoke in the distance.
He passed workers hauling timber south, a pair of hunters carrying boar carcasses toward Sen’jin, and a group of young orcs marching the opposite direction toward the Valley of Trials.
One of them stared at Vegetaone’s axe.
Vegetaone remembered being that recruit only days earlier.
It already felt farther away.
By late afternoon, the walls of Razor Hill appeared between the ridges.
Vegetaone almost reached them.
Almost.
Then he heard screaming.
Not battle cries.
Panic.
A wagon had overturned near the road ahead. Two wolves lay dead beside it.
Three Horde travelers were trapped against the broken wagon while shapes moved through the scrub around them.
Quilboar.
Razormane.
Five.
Then Vegetaone saw more.
Eight.
One of the travelers—a young orc carrying a chipped sword—swung wildly at a quilboar pressing toward him.
Another traveler was already bleeding from the leg.
The third held a wooden pole like a spear.
Vegetaone stopped.
Eight enemies.
No Zuro.
No arrows.
No backup.
The gates of Razor Hill were visible in the distance.
He could run for help.
A quilboar raised a crude axe over the wounded traveler.
Vegetaone dropped his bag.
Then he ran forward.
The first quilboar never saw him coming.
Vegetaone hit it from the side with his shoulder before bringing the flat of his axe across its jaw.
The creature crashed into the dirt.
Every head turned toward him.
That was the moment Vegetaone realized he had made himself the biggest problem on the battlefield.
“Move!” he shouted at the travelers.
The young orc dragged the wounded one behind the wagon.
The quilboar came at Vegetaone together.
Three from the front.
Two circling.
The others stayed near the wagon.
Vegetaone backed toward a narrow gap between the overturned cart and a stone outcropping.
He remembered the watchtower.
Do not let them surround you.
The first attacker swung a hooked blade.
Vegetaone caught it on the axe haft.
The impact drove pain through his injured shoulder.
The second quilboar rushed low.
Vegetaone kicked it square in the chest.
It barely moved.
The creature grabbed his boot.
Vegetaone went down hard.
Dust filled his mouth.
A weapon struck where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.
He rolled.
The blade buried itself in the road.
Vegetaone came up on one knee and drove the butt of his axe into the attacker’s throat.
The quilboar staggered.
Vegetaone rose with it.
A club smashed into his ribs.
Pain exploded through his side.
He stumbled against the wagon.
The wounded traveler shouted something.
Vegetaone could not hear it.
His heart was hammering too loudly.
A quilboar charged.
Vegetaone waited.
One step.
Two.
At the last instant, he moved.
The creature slammed into the wagon.
The broken wheel shifted.
The entire cart groaned.
Vegetaone saw the opportunity.
He buried his axe beneath the wheel rim and heaved.
The cart tipped.
Crates spilled from the wagon.
One struck a quilboar in the knee.
Another burst open across the road, scattering iron cooking pots.
The young orc behind the wagon understood immediately.
He grabbed one of the pots.
Vegetaone stared at him.
The young orc shrugged.
Then he smashed it into a quilboar’s face.
Vegetaone laughed.
The battle changed.
The travelers were no longer waiting to die.
One used the broken pole to keep two enemies at distance.
The wounded orc threw stones from behind the wagon.
The young fighter came beside Vegetaone.
“You got a plan?” he shouted.
“No!”
“That’s a terrible plan!”
“I know!”
A Razormane warrior larger than the others pushed through the fight.
Bone ornaments hung from its tusks.
Its axe was heavy enough that Vegetaone heard the blade cut the air.
The first swing split the wagon rail.
The second nearly took Vegetaone’s arm.
Vegetaone stepped backward.
The warrior followed.
Strong.
Aggressive.
Confident.
Vegetaone recognized the mistake because it was one he had made himself.
The quilboar expected him to keep retreating.
Vegetaone stopped.
The warrior swung.
Vegetaone moved inside the arc of the axe.
Too close for the heavy weapon to recover.
He slammed his forehead into the quilboar’s snout.
Pain flashed behind Vegetaone’s eyes.
The creature reeled.
Vegetaone hooked one foot behind its leg and drove forward.
Both fell.
The quilboar was stronger.
It rolled on top of him.
One hand closed around Vegetaone’s throat.
The other reached for a knife.
Vegetaone caught the wrist.
His lungs burned.
The knife came closer.
Closer.
The edge touched the leather above his ribs. Vegetaone could not overpower it.
So he stopped trying.
He released the wrist.
The quilboar’s arm dropped suddenly with its own force.
Vegetaone twisted.
The blade struck the ground beside him.
He trapped the creature’s arm beneath his elbow, grabbed one of the bone ornaments hanging from its tusk, and pulled with everything he had.
The warrior lost balance.
That was enough.
Vegetaone rolled free, grabbed his axe, and swung once.
The fight ended for the Razormane warrior.
The remaining quilboar saw their leader fall.
Two fled immediately.
One tried to drag another away.
The young orc raised his sword to chase.
“Let them go,” Vegetaone said.
The orc looked at him.
“They attacked us!”
“And they’re leaving.”
The young orc breathed hard.
Then lowered the weapon.
Within moments, the road was quiet.
Vegetaone stood in the center of it, chest heaving.
His ribs hurt.
His shoulder hurt.
His forehead definitely hurt.
His vest had torn again.
He looked down at it.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
The young orc stared.
“What?”
“My stitching.”
The orc looked from the torn vest to the dead Razormane leader.
“You nearly got killed.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re angry about the stitching?”
“I was getting better at it.”
For a second, no one spoke.
Then all three travelers started laughing.
Vegetaone joined them.
It hurt his ribs.
He laughed anyway.
The guards of Razor Hill arrived soon after.
By then, the rush of the battle had faded, and Vegetaone could feel every bruise separately.
His ribs ached when he breathed too deeply.
His shoulder had stiffened.
Blood had dried along one side of his forehead.
A guard took one look at him and pointed toward the inn.
“You’re done for the day.”
“I need to ask about a man heading north.”
“You need to sit down.”
“I can sit after—”
The guard stared at him.
Vegetaone looked at his own condition.
“Fine.”
The inn was crowded, hot, and smelled of stew, smoke, leather, and wet cloth.
It was perfect.
A healer cleaned the cut on his forehead and wrapped his ribs tightly enough to make him complain.
“That means it’s working,” she said.
“That is not how pain works.”
“That is exactly how pain works.”
He ate two bowls of stew.
Then a third.
Afterward, he sat alone at a small table with his torn vest spread in front of him. The thread passed through the leather more slowly than usual because his fingers had begun to stiffen.
He did not mind.
For once, there was nowhere he had to be before morning.
Around him, travelers talked about Orgrimmar, the Barrens, caravans, wars, strange creatures, and roads that stretched farther than Vegetaone could imagine.
He listened.
The world seemed to grow larger with every conversation.
Before going to bed, he checked his axe.
The haft had a fresh gouge in it from the fight.
Still solid.
Still holding.
Like him.
He slept harder than he ever had in the Valley of Trials.
Vegetaone woke late the next morning. For several seconds, he did not move. His body gave him a complete list of yesterday’s mistakes.
Ribs.
Shoulder.
Jaw.
Knee.
Forehead.
He sat up slowly.
“Good.”
Nothing had fallen off.
After food and another check from the healer, he finally asked the Razor Hill guards about the stranger from the watchtower.
Gray at the temples.
Dark cloak.
Fast with a sword.
Most shook their heads.
One did not.
“I saw someone like that yesterday,” the guard said. “Passed through without stopping.”
“Which way?”
The guard pointed north.
“Orgrimmar.”
Vegetaone looked at the road.
He had expected to spend days in Razor Hill.
Training.
Taking work.
Learning the region.
Instead, something inside him had changed. The Valley of Trials had taught him how to survive. Sen’jin had shown him how wide the world was. The battle outside Razor Hill had taught him something else.
He could stand alone.
Not perfectly.
Not without getting hurt.
But he could stand.
That mattered.
By midday, he was on the road again.
Orgrimmar appeared before sunset.
Nothing Vegetaone had seen prepared him for it.
The city rose from the red earth like Durotar itself had decided to build walls.
Massive gates stood beneath jagged stone.
Horde banners moved in the hot wind.
Warriors, merchants, hunters, shamans, travelers, beasts, and carts passed in every direction. Vegetaone stopped beneath the gate. For several moments, he simply stared. The Valley of Trials had been a beginning. Sen’jin had been the edge of the sea.
Razor Hill had been proof.
This—
This felt like the beginning of the world.
He entered.
The first thing he noticed was the noise.
The second was the armor.
Plate.
Real plate.
Heavy shoulder guards.
Metal boots.
Breastplates that looked as if they could stop an axe.
Vegetaone watched an armored warrior cross the road.
Someday.
He touched the worn leather of his own vest.
Someday he would wear armor like that.
But his attention soon shifted elsewhere.
A merchant was shouting about bags.
Vegetaone stopped.
Cloth bags hung from the stall in different sizes.
Some were rough.
Some reinforced.
Some had proper straps, even multiple compartments.
He stepped closer.
The merchant looked him over.
“You buying?”
Vegetaone picked up one of the bags.
The stitching was clean.
Better than his.
“How is this made?”
The merchant frowned.
“What?”
“The seam here.”
Vegetaone turned the bag over.
“And this reinforcement. Why double the cloth?”
The merchant took the bag away from him.
“You buying?”
“No.”
“Then stop taking it apart with your eyes.”
Vegetaone stepped back.
Across the road, a small sign hung outside a workshop. Bolts of cloth were stacked near the entrance.
Needles.
Thread.
Patterns.
A tailor worked inside.
Vegetaone forgot about the escaped stranger for almost ten seconds.
Then he remembered.
He looked north through the city.
Somewhere beyond these walls was a man collecting names.
Somewhere ahead was a road Vegetaone had never walked.
He tightened the strap of his repaired bag. First, he would find out where the stranger had gone.
Then he would learn how those bags were made.
Then—
Vegetaone smiled.
Then he would see what waited beyond the next hill.
And this time, he would see it alone.
End of Chapter Four