Chapter 4

Returning the Favor

The forest smelled of dead leaves and feces. The latter was deliberate, and was his own smell. He had covered himself in what seemed to be a freshly-laden pile of bear dung. The potency of its stench would mask his own scent for a longer period of time, allowing him to track his prey more cautiously. Nevertheless, his time was running out. Guro'jintal eased his grip on the javelin, sliding forward through the thicket.

But suddenly he stopped. Without warning, a Troll had passed dangerously close to his position. It bore the warpaint and fetishes of the Bleeding Calf tribe, and he was both enraged and terrified that one of his prey had drawn so near and not detected his presence. He relaxed the grip on the javelin once again, listening for any other passerby. Content that there were none, he slid amongst the trees and bushes in the direction the enemy Troll had taken. After a moment, he spotted the patrol's intended end point: a small camp in a clearing, housing a total of seven Bleeding Calves, including the one that nearly spotted him, but excluding the other that he had slit the throat of minutes before. As an afterthought, Guro'jintal checked that the bloody dagger was still strapped to his belt and was reassured to find that it was. Now came the most difficult part.

Before him stood a small band of his people's most hated enemies, each of whom would rather cut out their own vile heart than surrender to the Darkspear tribe. Instead, they chose to massacre a small supply caravan that had been passing through their territory, unarmed and completely docile. When news of the killing had reached Guro'jintal, he swore he would personally take the head of each and every one of the offenders himself. And foolishly, he had ventured into the heart of Stranglethorn alone, with only his weapons as company.

But that was the past, and the present was passing quickly. He was severely outmanned, and would probably not survive an encounter with seven able warriors. But honor outweighed logic, and blood would be spilled in revenge. He decided that his life was worth sacrificing if the Bleeding Calves were put to the death for it. Thus, with a blood-curdling warcry, he burst from the jungle thicket.

The first to fall was the patrolman. Guro'jintal had appeared directly behind him, and before he could turn to see his killer the spear tore through the Troll's necking, spurting blood in a red shower. His second victim had shouted something, but was quickly silenced as Guro'jintal launched the javelin at him, goring the Troll through the heart. Five remained. As he charged the remaining Trolls, he unsheathed a wicked sword from his hip and pulled forth the already-bloodied dagger, and began slashing them about in a tornado of whirling steel. The closest troll, armed with a heavy mace, swung it two-handed at Guro'jintal. He dodged the hasty attack and drove the dagger left-handed into the Troll's neck. His victim spat blood in reply, temporarily blinding him. As he wiped the gore from his eyes, he had no time to react as another Troll came at him with a large animal bone, and clipped him across the face. He staggered away, lifting his weapons up in defense. Luckily, he deflected a return swing, and dazedly traded blows with the Troll. In two strokes he had his opponent on the defensive, driving him back in a flurry of attacks. The other Trolls backed away from the onslaught, and Guro'jintal took the momentary respite to finish off his opponent, burying the dagger in the Troll's waist and slicing his head clean off with his sword.

As the head dropped and rolled about on the ground, he turned to face his three remaining opponents, all of whom were untouched and hungry for revenge. The Troll bloodthirst was aglow in their eyes. For better or for worst, Guro'jintal's burned brighter. He charged them, swinging his arms about in an aimless, multi-directional assault. When he connected with only air, something in his gut told him what would happen next. Something heavy knocked the wind out of him from behind, a sharp tip cut across his left arm, and then a wall of wood took him full in the face, knocking him onto his back. In a moment, they were on top of them. Two of them held him down, while the third Troll loomed over him. In one hand was a wooden shield, presumably the finishing blow. In his other, the Troll drew forth a cruel-looking dagger. It threw the shield aside, and menacingly tossed the blade from hand to hand.

"Foolish Darkspear. You were a vicious warrior. I shall enjoy cutting your heart from your chest, and sacrificing it to our Gods upon this very eve," it said.

Guro'jintal attempted to spit at the Troll. "Rot in the fiery pits of damnation, foul Bleeding Calf!"

The Troll raised the dagger, and brought it down.

Crack-Boom!

The side of the Troll's head exploded in a shower of shattered bone and brain matter. The corpse fell to the floor, the dagger useless in its slackened grip.

The remaining two lifted their weight off of Guro'jintal, uttering curses and looking around. In his fading vision, Guro'jintal heard a sickening crunch and a horrifying scream, and another of the Troll's was flung aside, its arm snapped and a large dent in its forehead. He saw the third turn and run, but a figure leapt out from Guro'jintal's view, and from the sound of it tackled the Troll. A moment later, and the Troll's shouts were silenced in a crescendo of loud cracks as its neck was snapped.

He blacked out. When he awoke, something or someone was standing over him. It was not a Troll; its skin was too pale. It was a Human, and instinctively he tried to raise a hand in defense. The man caught Guro'jintal's weak arm by the wrist, and started saying something in Common. From what few words he knew, it sounded as if the Human was pleading him to relax.

Was this hell? He didn't know, because he fell back into peaceful unconsciousness.

---

"Guro!"

The voice shook him out of his slumber. Guro'jintal opened his eyes, squinting as the morning sun blinded him. He rolled over, shielding his eyes with his hand and searching for the source of the call. Stefan was close by, sitting by a small fire, a boar suspended on wooden shafts above the flames. He prodded the animal, smiling as he caught Guro'jintal's gaze.

"Finally, you're awake."

Guro grunted in reply, slowly rising to his feet. He shook the slumber from his limbs, and joined Stefan by the fire.

"You still remember how to hunt," said Guro'jintal. Stefan nodded.

"It took a while to teach my the right stuff, but you managed it in the end," the man replied. The Troll laughed; it had indeed taken a bit longer than it should have to master such a simple art. Guro'jintal stared into the flames before speaking again.

"Stefan, you remember when you save Guro's life?"

"How can I forget? You made hunting that damned villian a hell of a lot easier. If it weren't for you, I would have had to go through that Troll's goons. Of course, the gun did prove to be quite effective. Maybe not," Stefan said. Guro'jintal laughed at his joke.

"Aye, mon, that it did," said the Troll. There was a moment of silence before he continued.

"You know, Stefan, I neva repay you for that day," he started. Stefan held a hand up.

"It is nothing, my friend. To have made a bond with such a noble warrior as yourself, that is fitting payment," replied Stefan.

"No way you gettin' out that easy, mon. Me owe you great debt. Me hope that this venture be worthy of such a risk you take for me," said Guro'jintal. Stefan was about to continue, but when he saw the look in the Troll's eyes, he knew he could not sway him.

"Yes, Guro'jintal. It is more than enough, and once again I am very thankful for your assisstance."

The Troll nodded, feeling a heavy weight lift from his shoulders. Then he smiled. Stefan saw it, and a similar curve of the lips appeared on his face.

"Ah, I see! You're just trying to weasle out of doing something for me, aren't you?"

"Ah, course not, mon! Why would I be doin' anything low like 'dat?"

"Because I know you!"

They laughed together.

"Cunning b*****d," said Stefan.

---

Others had come and gone. Numerous times, hordes of patrons had passed through, bringing fresh faces into and out of the tavern. But one had remained the entire afternoon. The tender had noted the mysterious figure's endeering presence, but felt it mattered not. Such curiosity was often the death of one. And he would, by no means, risk a swift death. Besides, if he was an assassin, then whoever he was sent to kill probably didn't deserve to live. And the keeper could stomach that.

So, the figure remained at the table in the corner, unmolested and undisturbed for the entire day. He had been there when the tavern had opened for business, and had not moved since. Now, night was drawing near, and more customers were packing the busy tavern. But the stranger still sat there, alone at his table, his figure concealed beneath heavy robes. Often the bartender would risk a glance to see if he was still there, but had finally decided that there was no use hoping he would magically disappear. Eventually, he took it for granted that the figure would not move. He went back to the glass he had been shining for the past minute, placing it back onto the shelf.

In Tanaris, such events were commonplace, but there was little more that could amuse a man in the dry, open desert.