Book Two — Chapter Six
Orgrimmar and the road to the Barrens, years before the events of Book One
Vegetaone stayed in Orgrimmar two more days after deciding that leaving with half-healed ribs would be stupid.
He disliked the decision.
His ribs approved.
He spent the time sewing beneath the tailor’s increasingly critical eye, learning which streets connected without accidentally becoming markets, and asking questions about the gray-haired man from the watchtower. By the second evening, the answers had begun pointing the same direction.
West.
A courier remembered him.
So did a merchant.
Neither knew his name.
Both remembered the same thing. He had been buying supplies for travel.
Water.
Dried meat.
Bandages.
A map of the Barrens.
By sunset, Vegetaone had enough confirmation.
The stranger had gone west.
Vegetaone stood beneath Orgrimmar’s gate and looked toward the open road. Durotar had felt enormous when he first left the Valley of Trials.
Now it felt like the beginning of something much larger.
The Barrens stretched beyond the red hills. He had heard stories about it in the inn.
Centaur.
Quilboar.
Lions.
Harpies.
Caravans disappearing between settlements. A place called the Crossroads where travelers from across Kalimdor passed through every day.
Vegetaone smiled.
He liked the sound of that.
Before leaving, he returned to the tailor.
The older orc looked up from his table.
“You again.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Good.”
Vegetaone waited.
The tailor sighed.
“What do you want?”
“More thread.”
“You have money?”
“Some.”
“Then you’re finally becoming useful.”
The tailor sold him two spools of thread, a handful of needles, and several pieces of cheap linen.
Then he pushed a folded pattern across the table.
Vegetaone looked at it.
“What is this?”
“A bag.”
“I know what a bag is.”
“That remains unproven.”
Vegetaone opened the pattern.
Lines marked where the cloth should be cut and folded.
“Why give me this?”
The tailor shrugged.
“So the next thing you make offends me less.”
Vegetaone smiled.
“I’ll bring one back.”
“No.”
“A bag?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to see it.”
Vegetaone tucked the pattern into his pack.
“You will.”
The tailor pointed toward the door.
“Get out.”
Vegetaone left Orgrimmar the next morning.
Alone.
Exactly as he had entered it.
His ribs still ached when he breathed too deeply, but the pain had become manageable.
He did not rush.
That was new.
A week earlier, he would have chased the gray-haired stranger immediately. Now he understood something he had not understood in the Valley of Trials.
A warrior who could not reach the next battle was useless.
So he paced himself.
He stopped when the heat became too strong.
He drank before he became thirsty.
He checked his bandages.
He inspected his axe.
And when he found shade beneath an outcropping, he sat down and practiced stitching two pieces of linen together.
The first seam leaned left.
The second leaned right.
The third looked almost straight.
Vegetaone held it up.
“Good enough.”
A passing caravan driver laughed.
“No, it isn’t.”
Vegetaone looked at him.
The driver kept going.
Vegetaone examined the seam again.
“…Maybe not.”
He pulled the stitches out and started over.
By afternoon, the red walls of Durotar began to fall behind him.
The land opened.
Wide.
Dry.
Golden.
The Barrens.
Vegetaone stopped at the top of a rise.
The road stretched farther than anything he had seen before.
Savannah grass rolled beneath the wind.
Distant trees broke the horizon.
Somewhere far away, something enormous bellowed.
Vegetaone grinned.
The sea had shown him how wide the world was.
The Barrens showed him how far it could go.
He started walking.
He reached the first abandoned wagon before sunset.
One wheel was broken.
The canvas covering had been cut open.
Supplies were scattered across the road.
Vegetaone slowed.
There was no body.
That worried him more.
He crouched near the wagon.
Tracks covered the ground.
Hooves.
Many.
Centaur.
He had never fought one.
He had heard enough stories.
Vegetaone studied the trail.
It headed northwest.
The gray-haired stranger had gone west.
Not northwest.
Vegetaone could ignore it.
He stood.
Then he noticed blood on the wagon.
Fresh.
He sighed.
“Of course.”
He followed the tracks.
The sound of fighting reached him before the camp did.
Vegetaone moved through tall grass and crouched behind a low ridge.
Below him, five centaur surrounded two Horde traders.
One trader lay against a tree, clutching his arm.
The other stood with a sword in both hands.
He was losing.
Vegetaone counted.
Five.
Then he saw a sixth.
An archer on the ridge opposite him.
Six.
No Zuro.
No guards.
No one else.
Vegetaone quietly lowered his bag to the ground.
He studied the terrain.
Loose stones.
Tall grass.
A narrow gully.
The archer had the best position.
So Vegetaone decided the archer had to go first.
He circled.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The battle below grew louder.
The standing trader blocked a spear thrust.
Barely.
Vegetaone climbed the back of the ridge.
The centaur archer never saw him.
Vegetaone grabbed the bow from behind.
The centaur turned.
Too late.
Vegetaone drove his shoulder into its side.
They rolled down the slope together.
The centaur kicked wildly.
A hoof struck Vegetaone’s thigh.
Pain flashed through his leg.
Vegetaone kept hold of the bow.
The centaur reached for a knife.
Vegetaone snapped the bow across his knee.
Then hit the centaur with what remained.
Once.
Twice.
The attacker stopped moving.
Every centaur below turned.
Vegetaone stood at the top of the ridge holding half a bow.
One of the traders stared at him.
Vegetaone dropped the broken weapon.
“Run!”
The trader did not argue.
The centaur did.
Three charged Vegetaone at once.
He backed into the gully.
Exactly where he wanted them.
The first centaur came too fast.
Its spear struck stone.
Vegetaone trapped the shaft under his axe.
Twisted.
Pulled.
The centaur lost balance.
Vegetaone stepped aside.
The creature crashed shoulder-first into the wall of the gully.
The second came over it.
Vegetaone barely blocked the strike.
The impact rattled his arms.
His ribs screamed.
He ignored them.
The third centaur tried to circle.
The gully was too narrow.
It collided with the second.
Vegetaone smiled.
Now they understood.
Too late.
He attacked.
The axe moved faster than it had in the Valley of Trials.
Not because Vegetaone was stronger.
Because he wasted less movement.
One strike forced the spear aside.
Another hit the centaur’s forearm.
A kick created distance.
A shoulder turn avoided the next blade.
Everything Gornek had tried to teach him was finally becoming instinct.
Not perfect instinct.
But useful.
The centaur against the wall recovered.
It lunged.
Vegetaone ducked.
The spear passed over him.
He trapped it beneath his arm and yanked.
The centaur fell forward.
Vegetaone brought the axe down.
The fight became chaos.
Hooves.
Dust.
Steel.
Shouting.
One centaur slammed him into the gully wall.
His breath vanished.
A blade scraped across his shoulder guard.
Vegetaone answered with the axe haft across the attacker’s face.
Another spear came low.
He jumped back.
Not far enough.
The point cut across his thigh.
Vegetaone staggered.
The centaur pressed forward.
Then a sword struck it from behind.
The trader.
He had come back.
“You said run!” Vegetaone shouted.
“I did!”
The trader swung again.
“Then I stopped!”
“That defeats the purpose!”
“Less talking!”
Fair.
They fought together.
Not gracefully.
Not cleanly.
But enough.
The remaining centaur broke first.
Two fled into the grass.
The trader started after them.
Vegetaone grabbed his shoulder.
“Let them go.”
The trader looked furious.
“They took our supplies!”
“You’re alive.”
The man breathed hard.
Then looked toward his wounded companion.
His anger faded.
“Right.”
Vegetaone lowered his axe.
Only then did he realize his hands were shaking.
Not fear.
The aftermath.
He had begun to recognize it.
He sat down.
The trader looked at the blood on Vegetaone’s leg.
“You hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
Vegetaone examined the cut.
“No.”
Then his ribs throbbed.
He changed his answer.
“Maybe.”
The traders were heading for the Crossroads.
So was Vegetaone.
That made the decision easy.
They rebuilt enough of the wagon to move and traveled slowly through the evening.
Vegetaone walked beside it.
His thigh had been wrapped.
His ribs had been wrapped again.
He was beginning to suspect bandages were becoming part of his armor.
The wounded trader introduced himself as Karg.
The other was Tormak.
Vegetaone forgot which was which within an hour.
Neither seemed offended.
They told him about the Barrens.
About the Crossroads.
About Camp Taurajo.
About Ratchet on the coast.
About roads that split toward Ashenvale, Mulgore, and lands Vegetaone had never heard of.
The world kept getting larger.
That night they made camp beneath a tree.
Vegetaone repaired the tear in his trousers.
Then the cut in his bag.
Then he unfolded the tailoring pattern from Orgrimmar.
Karg—or possibly Tormak—watched him.
“You sew?”
“A little.”
“You fight with an axe.”
“Yes.”
“And sew.”
“Yes.”
The trader nodded.
“Strange.”
Vegetaone threaded the needle.
“So I keep hearing.”
He worked by firelight.
The first bag he made from the pattern was crooked. One strap was longer than the other.
The opening was too narrow.
The bottom sagged.
Vegetaone stared at it.
The trader stared at it.
Neither spoke.
Finally the trader said, “It holds things.”
Vegetaone smiled.
“That’s what I said.”
The Crossroads appeared the next morning.
Not a city.
Not even close.
But busy.
Travelers came and went in every direction.
Horde banners moved above wooden structures and watch posts.
Kodo caravans rested near the road. Hunters returned from the plains.
Messengers changed mounts.
Vegetaone stepped into the settlement and immediately understood why the gray-haired stranger might come here.
Information moved through this place.
So did everyone else.
The perfect place to disappear. Vegetaone tightened the strap of his badly made new bag.
The stranger was ahead.
Somewhere.
The road was open.
And Vegetaone was still alone.
Exactly as he needed to be.
For now.
End of Chapter Six