Book Two — Chapter Seven
The Barrens, years before the events of Book One
The Crossroads smelled like dust, sweat, cooked meat, and kodo. Vegetaone decided he liked it.
Not the smell.
The place.
Orgrimmar had been enormous, crowded, and loud enough to make a warrior feel invisible.
The Crossroads was different.
Here, everyone seemed to be going somewhere. Hunters returned carrying hides over their shoulders.
Scouts rode in from distant watch posts and disappeared inside the command hut.
Merchants argued beside wagons. Messengers changed mounts and left again before the dust from their arrival had settled. Adventurers rested beside cooking fires, comparing scars and exaggerating how they had earned them. Every road seemed to begin here.
Or end here.
North led toward Ashenvale.
South toward Camp Taurajo.
East toward Ratchet and the sea.
West toward Mulgore.
Vegetaone stood in the center of the settlement and slowly turned in a circle.
Four directions.
Four possibilities.
One gray-haired stranger.
“This is going to be annoying.”
“Talking to yourself?”
Vegetaone turned.
One of the traders he had helped stood beside the damaged wagon.
Karg.
Or Tormak.
Vegetaone frowned.
The trader frowned back.
“You forgot my name.”
“No.”
“You did.”
Vegetaone pointed at him.
“Karg.”
“Tormak.”
“Close.”
“It really wasn’t.”
Tormak shook his head and returned to unloading the wagon.
Vegetaone looked toward the roads again. The gray-haired man had come through here.
He was sure of it.
Finding which road he had taken was another matter. Vegetaone adjusted the strap of his crooked linen bag. The bottom sagged dangerously.
He looked at it.
“Don’t.”
Tormak glanced over.
“Don’t what?”
“Say anything about the bag.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was.”
Vegetaone walked away.
The first person he questioned was a guard.
That failed immediately.
“Gray-haired traveler,” Vegetaone said. “Dark cloak. Human. Carries a short sword.”
The guard looked at the road.
“You just described half the suspicious people who come through here.”
“Half?”
“Maybe a third.”
“He asks questions.”
“That describes the other half.”
Vegetaone stared at him.
The guard shrugged.
“Try the inn.”
The innkeeper remembered dozens of travelers.
Unfortunately, she remembered them all equally poorly.
“Gray hair?”
“Yes.”
“Human?”
“Yes.”
“Cloak?”
“Yes.”
She pointed toward a table.
“That one?”
Vegetaone looked.
An elderly human merchant sat drinking something from a wooden cup.
He had gray hair.
He had a cloak.
He was also approximately twice the age of the man Vegetaone was hunting and had fallen asleep with his face almost inside the cup.
“No.”
“Then I don’t know.”
Vegetaone sighed.
“Did anyone come through asking about Horde patrols?”
The innkeeper stopped wiping the counter.
That got her attention.
“What kind of questions?”
“Roads. Supply caravans. Guard movements.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“When?”
“Yesterday. Maybe the day before.”
She thought.
Then pointed toward the northern road.
“A traveler matching that description bought provisions from one of the merchants near the gate.”
Vegetaone straightened.
“Which merchant?”
She pointed outside.
“Old goblin with one eye.”
Vegetaone looked through the doorway.
There were three goblins.
Two appeared old.
All three looked as though they might be missing something.
“Which one?”
“The dishonest one.”
Vegetaone looked back at her.
“That does not help.”
She smiled.
“I know.”
The goblin was named Razik.
He had both eyes.
One was simply covered by an eyepatch because, according to him, it made customers trust him more. Vegetaone did not understand why.
Razik explained.
“A merchant missing an eye has survived something.”
“What?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You didn’t lose the eye.”
“Exactly. Much safer.”
Vegetaone decided not to pursue the logic.
“Gray-haired human.”
Razik’s grin disappeared.
That was interesting.
“You’ve seen him.”
“I see lots of people.”
“You saw him.”
“Maybe.”
Vegetaone placed two copper coins on the crate between them.
Razik looked down.
Then up.
“You insult me.”
Vegetaone added another.
Razik scooped all three into his pocket.
“Dark cloak?”
“Yes.”
“Walked like a soldier?”
Vegetaone nodded.
“Didn’t look at people when they talked. Looked at their weapons instead?”
Vegetaone leaned forward.
“Yes.”
Razik’s voice lowered.
“He was here.”
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Where did he go?”
“That costs extra.”
Vegetaone reached toward the coins.
Razik slapped his hand over his pocket.
“South.”
Vegetaone stopped.
“South?”
“South.”
“Toward Camp Taurajo?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
Razik shrugged.
“He bought water. Dried food. Rope. Asked about the road south.”
“Anything else?”
Razik hesitated.
Vegetaone noticed.
“What?”
The goblin looked around before answering.
“He asked about quilboar.”
Vegetaone frowned.
“Quilboar?”
“Settlements. Numbers. Patrols. Where their tunnels are.”
“Why?”
“If I knew why dangerous strangers did dangerous things, I would charge much more than three copper.”
Vegetaone looked south.
The road stretched beneath the Barrens sun.
Another trail.
Another mystery.
He should have left immediately.
Instead his injured thigh reminded him of the previous evening.
His ribs joined the argument.
Vegetaone grimaced.
The goblin noticed.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You buying healing supplies?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“No.”
Razik smiled.
“I have bandages.”
“I already have bandages.”
“Mine are better.”
“How?”
“They cost more.”
Vegetaone walked away.
He did not leave that day.
That decision irritated him.
Which was precisely why he knew it was probably the correct one.
His body needed rest.
His armor needed repair.
His bag desperately needed repair. And if he was going south into quilboar territory, wandering into it exhausted would be stupid. Vegetaone had spent enough time being stupid recently. He found an empty place beside one of the smaller fires and emptied his belongings onto the ground.
Food.
Thread.
Needles.
Flint.
A sharpening stone.
Bandages.
A few pieces of linen.
The bag pattern.
Three coins.
A strange green stone he had picked up near the coast because he thought it looked interesting.
He looked at the collection.
Then at the bag.
The bottom seam had begun separating.
“Traitor.”
He threaded a needle.
The first repair took nearly an hour.
He removed it.
Started again.
The second looked better.
He reinforced the corners.
Folded the seams inward.
Adjusted the straps.
Then remembered something the tailor in Orgrimmar had shown him.
Double stitching.
Vegetaone frowned.
He pulled half the work apart.
Again.
A Tauren sitting nearby had been watching silently for some time.
Eventually he spoke.
“You have repaired that bag three times.”
Vegetaone did not look up.
“Yes.”
“Was something wrong with the first repair?”
“Yes.”
“And the second?”
“Yes.”
The Tauren considered this.
“What was wrong?”
Vegetaone held up the bag.
“It looked terrible.”
The Tauren stared at it.
“It still looks terrible.”
Vegetaone lowered the bag.
The Tauren returned to his meal.
Vegetaone narrowed his eyes.
Then looked at the stitching.
“…He’s right.”
He started again.
By sunset, the bag was no longer crooked.
Much.
Vegetaone held it at arm’s length.
The straps matched.
The bottom was reinforced.
The opening was wide enough to actually put things inside without fighting the fabric.
He placed his tools into it.
Then his food.
Then everything else.
The seams held.
Vegetaone smiled.
His first real bag.
Not something patched together because he needed it.
Something made deliberately.
Useful.
Strong.
His.
“Better.”
The Tauren beside the fire looked over.
He examined the bag.
Then nodded once.
“Better.”
That felt strangely satisfying.
Vegetaone sat back.
Across the camp, a young orc warrior was examining a damaged sword.
Not sharpening it.
Studying it.
The weapon shimmered faintly.
Blue light moved along the edge for a heartbeat before disappearing.
Vegetaone watched.
The orc touched a small object to the blade.
The glow returned.
Vegetaone stood.
His ribs immediately protested.
He ignored them.
“What are you doing?”
The orc looked up.
“Working.”
“On what?”
“My sword.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why ask?”
Vegetaone crouched beside him.
The blue glow had disappeared again.
“What made it do that?”
The orc studied Vegetaone for a moment.
“Enchanting.”
Vegetaone had heard the word before.
He had never watched it happen.
“You make weapons glow?”
The orc laughed.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Magic can be bound into weapons. Armor. Rings. Cloaks. Some enchantments make them stronger. Some protect the wearer. Some sharpen what the weapon already does.”
Vegetaone looked at his axe.
Its edge was scratched.
The haft had been replaced.
The grip had been wrapped twice.
Nothing about it was magical.
Yet.
“How?”
The orc smiled.
“That question costs money.”
Vegetaone sighed.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“That is because information has value.”
“I have three copper.”
“Then you have three copper more than some people.”
Vegetaone considered the sword again.
“Can anyone learn?”
“Anyone patient enough.”
Vegetaone frowned.
“I’m patient.”
The orc laughed so loudly several people turned toward them.
Vegetaone waited.
The laughter continued.
Eventually the orc wiped his eyes.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I’m not.”
Vegetaone looked at the blue shimmer on the sword.
Tailoring had begun because he needed to repair a bag.
This was different.
There was something about the idea that caught him immediately.
Taking something ordinary.
Improving it.
Finding hidden potential inside an object and bringing it forward.
Armor stronger than when it was forged.
Weapons sharper than steel alone allowed.
A cloak carrying protection woven into the material itself.
Vegetaone liked that.
Very much.
“What do I need?”
The orc’s amusement faded slightly.
“To start?”
“Yes.”
“Dust. Essences. strange shards if you can find them. Most of it comes from breaking magical objects apart.”
Vegetaone blinked.
“You destroy magic things to make other magic things?”
“That is one way of describing it.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“It is.”
Vegetaone looked at his three copper.
Then at the crooked bag.
Then at the road.
“Of course it is.”
That night Vegetaone slept badly. The Crossroads never became entirely quiet.
Kodo shifted near the road.
Watch guards changed positions.
Someone snored loudly enough to frighten wildlife.
Once, Vegetaone woke with his hand already on his axe.
Nothing was there.
Just instinct.
He lay back down.
Above him, the Barrens sky stretched farther than any ceiling ever could.
Stars covered it.
Thousands.
Vegetaone thought of the stranger.
The watchtower.
The captive orc.
The questions about patrols.
Now quilboar.
There was a pattern.
He simply could not see it yet.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow he would go south.
The scream came before dawn.
Vegetaone woke instantly.
Not a dream.
Another scream.
Then the alarm horn.
He rolled from his bedroll, seized his axe, and ran.
The Crossroads exploded into motion.
Guards rushed toward the southern side of the settlement.
Travelers scrambled for weapons.
Merchants pulled carts away from the road.
Vegetaone reached the barricade just as the first burning arrow crossed the sky.
It struck the roof of a supply hut.
Flame spread across dry thatch.
“Quilboar!” someone shouted.
Shapes emerged from the darkness.
Dozens.
Shorter than orcs.
Broad.
Covered in coarse bristles.
Tusks curving from snarling mouths.
Some carried spears.
Others crude axes.
A few held bows wrapped in thorned vines.
They charged beneath a chorus of guttural cries.
Vegetaone tightened both hands around his axe.
So much for resting.
The first wave struck the barricade like a hammer.
Wood cracked.
Spears punched through gaps.
A guard beside Vegetaone blocked one thrust with his shield and immediately took another across the shoulder.
Vegetaone stepped forward.
His axe came down on the spear shaft.
Wood split.
The quilboar holding it stumbled.
Vegetaone drove the butt of his axe into its chest.
The creature fell backward into the attackers behind it.
“Hold the line!” the guard captain shouted.
Another volley of arrows came from the darkness.
Vegetaone ducked.
An arrow struck the post above his head.
Another hit a Horde warrior in the arm.
A third landed in the dirt near Vegetaone’s boot.
He looked south.
Archers.
Behind the charging line.
Protected.
Smart.
Too smart for a random raid.
“Someone needs those archers!” Vegetaone shouted.
“Then go!”
Vegetaone looked at the guard captain.
The captain was already fighting again.
Apparently that had been permission.
Vegetaone climbed over the side of the barricade.
Immediately regretted it.
Four quilboar saw him.
All four charged.
“Right.”
Vegetaone backed away from the road.
Open ground was death.
He needed something else.
A broken wagon sat on its side ten paces away.
He ran for it.
A spear flew past his shoulder.
Another struck the dirt.
Vegetaone slid behind the wagon as an axe slammed into the wood where his head had been.
He rolled beneath the axle.
A quilboar came around the other side.
Vegetaone kicked its knee.
The creature folded.
His axe struck once.
He turned.
Two more.
The first attacked high.
Vegetaone blocked.
The second attacked low.
He twisted aside.
Almost.
The crude blade scraped across the plate protecting his thigh.
Metal rang.
Vegetaone answered with his elbow.
Tusks snapped sideways.
The quilboar staggered.
Vegetaone swung.
The third attacker hit him from behind.
Pain exploded across his ribs.
Not again.
Vegetaone fell against the wagon.
The quilboar raised a spear.
Vegetaone caught the shaft with one hand.
The spearpoint stopped inches from his throat.
The quilboar pushed.
Vegetaone pushed back.
His boots slid through the dirt.
The creature was stronger than it looked.
Vegetaone released one hand from the shaft.
Dangerous.
He reached for his axe.
Too far.
The spear moved closer.
Three inches.
Two.
Vegetaone snarled.
Then drove his forehead directly into the quilboar’s snout.
The creature screamed.
Pressure vanished.
Vegetaone ripped the spear sideways.
The quilboar lost its grip.
Vegetaone spun the weapon around.
He had almost no experience with spears.
That did not matter at this distance.
He drove the blunt end into the creature’s stomach.
Then kicked it away.
His axe lay beneath the wagon.
Vegetaone dropped to one knee and reached.
Fingers touched the haft.
A shadow moved across him.
He rolled.
An axe buried itself in the ground.
Vegetaone grabbed his weapon.
Now the world felt right again.
He came up swinging.
The quilboar barely lifted its weapon in time.
Steel struck iron.
Once.
Twice.
Vegetaone changed angle on the third strike.
The quilboar expected another blow from the right.
Vegetaone reversed.
The axe head smashed into its weapon hand.
It screamed.
Vegetaone shoulder-charged it away.
He did not wait to finish the fight.
The archers were still firing.
That was the real threat.
He ran.
Arrows followed.
One passed his ear.
Another struck his shoulder plate and glanced away.
A third buried itself in his bag.
Vegetaone stumbled.
He looked down while running.
His new bag.
The arrow protruded directly through the side.
Vegetaone stopped.
For half a heartbeat, the battle disappeared.
He stared at it.
“You.”
The quilboar archer twenty yards away drew another arrow.
Vegetaone pointed his axe.
“I just fixed that.”
The archer fired.
Vegetaone moved.
The arrow missed.
He charged.
The archer's eyes widened.
It reached for another arrow.
Too slow.
Vegetaone hit the creature hard enough to knock both of them into the grass.
The bow disappeared somewhere beneath them.
The quilboar clawed for a knife.
Vegetaone caught its wrist.
They rolled.
Dust filled his mouth.
A tusk scraped his cheek.
The knife came free.
Vegetaone trapped the wrist against the ground. The quilboar snapped at his face.
Vegetaone pulled his head back.
The knife moved closer.
Everything narrowed.
Wrist.
Blade.
Breath.
Position.
He shifted his knee across the creature’s arm.
Pressed.
The knife fell.
Vegetaone grabbed it first.
The fight ended.
He stood.
Three archers remained.
They were already repositioning.
One shouted.
Something answered from farther south.
A horn.
Deep.
Low.
The quilboar began withdrawing.
Vegetaone frowned.
Raiders usually broke when they lost.
These did not break.
They retreated.
Organized.
Planned.
Exactly when the horn sounded.
“Don’t chase!” the guard captain shouted from behind him.
Vegetaone ignored that for approximately two seconds.
Then remembered the centaur.
The gully.
His ribs.
His thigh.
The advice he himself had given the trader.
You’re alive.
He stopped.
The remaining quilboar disappeared into the grass.
The sun had not yet risen.
Smoke drifted above the Crossroads.
Several structures burned.
Wounded warriors lay near the barricade.
Two quilboar bodies remained beside the road.
Vegetaone lowered his axe.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
The Crossroads survived.
Barely.
The fire was extinguished before it reached the main stores.
Three guards were seriously wounded.
Several travelers were hurt.
One merchant spent most of the morning loudly explaining that the destruction of his cart represented an economic catastrophe for all of Kalimdor.
No one listened.
Vegetaone sat beside the fire while a healer wrapped his ribs again.
She pulled the bandage tight.
Vegetaone winced.
“You keep reopening the same injuries.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You should rest.”
“I tried.”
“Try harder.”
She walked away.
Vegetaone looked at his bag.
The arrow hole went through both sides.
He closed his eyes.
Tormak approached.
He looked at the bag.
Then at Vegetaone.
“Don’t.”
Tormak raised both hands.
“I said nothing.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to say it held up well.”
Vegetaone examined the damage.
The reinforced seam had not torn.
Only the fabric where the arrow passed through.
He rubbed his thumb across the stitching.
It had held.
Despite everything.
Vegetaone smiled faintly.
“Yeah.”
Tormak crouched beside him.
“The quilboar don’t usually attack the Crossroads like that.”
Vegetaone looked up.
“How do they attack?”
“Travelers. Small camps. Isolated patrols. Not this.”
“Organized?”
“Not like that.”
Vegetaone remembered the retreat horn.
The archers.
The timing.
The stranger asking questions.
Quilboar settlements.
Numbers.
Tunnels.
His smile vanished.
“When did you say that gray-haired human came through?”
Tormak frowned.
“What human?”
Vegetaone stood too quickly.
His ribs protested.
He ignored them.
Razik.
He found the goblin near his damaged stall arguing with an orc over the price of replacement boards.
Vegetaone grabbed the edge of the stall.
“The stranger.”
Razik looked at him.
“What about him?”
“You said he asked about quilboar.”
“Yes.”
“When exactly?”
Razik shrugged.
“Morning before yesterday.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That depends.”
Vegetaone slammed his palm onto the counter.
Razik jumped.
“What did you tell him?”
The goblin studied Vegetaone’s expression.
For once, he did not ask for money.
“The settlements south of here.”
“What else?”
“The Thorn Hill camps.”
“What else?”
“The trails.”
Vegetaone leaned closer.
“What trails?”
Razik swallowed.
“There are old game paths east of the road. Some lead behind the quilboar camps.”
“Did he ask about the Crossroads?”
Silence.
Vegetaone already had his answer.
“What did he ask?”
Razik lowered his voice.
“How many guards stay here overnight.”
Vegetaone went completely still. The noise of the settlement faded around him.
The stranger had known.
Maybe more than known.
Maybe planned.
The captive at the tower.
The patrol questions in Orgrimmar.
The quilboar.
The Crossroads.
This was bigger than one strange human traveling through Horde territory.
Vegetaone turned toward the southern road.
Razik called after him.
“Where are you going?”
“South.”
“You just got attacked from south!”
“I noticed.”
“That usually makes people go the other direction!”
Vegetaone picked up his bag.
The arrow hole remained.
He would repair it later.
He checked his axe.
Then stopped.
Something lay near the edge of Razik’s stall.
A small object recovered from the battlefield.
Metal.
Not quilboar work.
Too clean.
Vegetaone crouched and picked it up.
A clasp.
Silver.
Part of a cloak.
He had seen it before.
At the watchtower.
The gray-haired stranger’s cloak had been held shut by a silver clasp.
Same shape.
Same markings.
Vegetaone’s fingers closed around it.
The stranger had been here.
Not yesterday.
Not two days ago.
Tonight.
During the attack.
Watching?
Helping?
Leading?
Vegetaone did not know.
But for the first time since leaving Durotar, he was no longer following rumors.
He had a trail.
A fresh one.
He slipped the clasp into his bag.
Then looked south.
Somewhere beyond the golden plains, the stranger was moving.
And this time Vegetaone was close.
Very close.
He left the Crossroads before noon.
Not healed.
Not rested.
But prepared.
He bought more linen.
More thread.
Two healing potions he could barely afford. And from the young enchanter, he purchased something else. A small pouch containing strange glittering dust. Vegetaone held it up to the sunlight.
“What does it do?”
“Nothing yet.”
Vegetaone frowned.
“I paid for nothing?”
“You paid for possibility.”
“That sounds like something Razik would say.”
The enchanter laughed.
“Find me again when you understand what to do with it.”
Vegetaone tied the pouch securely inside his bag. One profession had begun with a torn piece of cloth. Perhaps another would begin with a handful of dust.
He liked that thought.
At the southern edge of the Crossroads, Vegetaone stopped. Behind him, workers repaired the barricade.
Smoke still rose from the damaged roof.
Ahead lay miles of Barrens wilderness. Camp Taurajo somewhere beyond.
Quilboar territory.
Centaur lands.
And a gray-haired man who was beginning to look less like a wandering spy and more like the beginning of something dangerous.
Vegetaone rested one hand on his axe.
He thought about Zuro.
About Gornek.
About the tailor in Orgrimmar.
About Tormak, Razik, and the people who kept appearing along the road long enough to teach him something before the road pulled them apart again. The world kept placing strangers in his path.
Some became enemies.
Some became teachers.
Some disappeared before he learned their names.
Vegetaone was beginning to understand that a road was made of more than distance. It was made of the people who changed the way you walked it. For now there was only the Barrens.
The road.
And the hunt.
Vegetaone started south.
After several steps, something inside his bag tore.
He stopped.
Slowly lowered his head.
The arrow-damaged fabric had split.
A spool of thread fell onto the road.
Vegetaone stared at it.
Then at the sky.
“Seriously?”
The Barrens offered no answer. Vegetaone picked up the thread.
Sat beside the road.
And repaired the bag one more time.
Then he continued south.
End of Chapter Seven