Chapter 5

Gathering the Horde

They had been treking for hours. Stefan had resorted to shoes, while Guro'jintal remained barefoot. Now they were somewhere between the northern and southern tips of the Thousand Needles. As Stefan adjusted the traveling pack that pulled painfully at his shoulders, wishing he could get a rough estimation of their location. He looked skyward, scowling at the hot sun.

"Soon?" he exhaled to Guro'jintal, who was several feet ahead and not nearly as exhausted.

"Very, mon." The Troll turned around to smile back at Stefan, then resumed his clockwork pace. Stefan's maces were not long enough to support his gait like Guro'jintal's spear was, so he was having a much harder time than the Troll was.

"Next chance we get to rest, I'm finding a kodo and taming the bloody beast. This is torture!" said Stefan, scanning the tall peninsulas that earned the valley its name.

"Won't find one here, mon. Kodo be afraid of heights."

Stefan visibly gulped as he eyed a rather tall rock formation. "They've got a right to be."

---

"Why have you brought me here, Rok'roham?"

"To witness the fruits of our labors in full bloom." The Prophet sounded genuinely satisfied.

Gerita and Rok'roham were inside a small chamber, standing outside a circle of chanting acolytes. There were six in total, and each held their voice in perfect unison. At the center of the group, bathing in a pool of black fluid, was a pair of hearts. Gerita stared at the organs with disgust. Rok'roham noticed the look of distaste upon her face.

"What is the matter, my child?"

She turned to peer into the glowing orbs of his eyes. "I do not understand. What does this ritual have to do with our cause?"

"We are in the process of defeating the opposition," said the Prophet, simply.

"What do you mean?"

"We have caught the attention of many people who would see our plans fail. This will ensure that their efforts fail before ours do."

She was going to inquire more, but something in the ritual caught her attention. The hearts had begun to glow a dull red that illuminated the hooded faces of the acolytes. And to her amazement, the twin organs began to beat. At first the thumps were sporadic and weak, but they soon grew into a steady, heavy throb. Her eyes widened when the black fluid seemed to absorb into the hearts, turning them pitch black as the liquid spread like poison along the muscles and tendons. She watched silently as the hearts slowly rose into the air, black liquid plopping loudly into the tray.

The incantations ceased suddenly, ending in an abrupt shout of demonic syllables. In the blink of an eye, the black liquid rose from the tray on an invisible river, and corruscated about the twin hearts. In the next moment, a pair of indescribable shapes floated lazily in the air where the hearts had been. They resembled monsters from the darkest nightmare, and their hissing and moaning only added to the charade. To Gerita, they were abhorrent. But to Rok'roham, they were something more.

"Beautiful." said the Prophet. The apparitions whipped about to look blindly at Rok'roham before spinning about and disappearing out of the only doorway. Their evil cackles echoed in Gerita's ears.

"What are they?" she asked.

"They are the messengers of death. In time they will find our enemies, and then they will destroy them."

Something inside her did not sit well with his words. But her love for the Prophet's grand scheme outweighed uncertainty.

"Rok'roham, my prophet," she addressed politely, "Since I have met you, I am unsure of what you are. Please forgive my bluntness, and do not misunderstand my words. I have been able to distinguish Elf from Human, and Dwarf from Troll. You bare a remarkable resemblence to the Draenei, but something about you does not fit."

He smiled, and something about the way his alien lips curled about at the ends sent a chill up her spine.

"You are not far off, my child. To many, I can easily be mistaken as one of the Draenei. But I am not an outcast, as they are. No, I am a true star walker."

"What do you mean, Rok'roham?"

---

"Eredar." said Stefan.

The word brought a bitter taste to Guro'jintal's mouth as he echoed it. "B*****d servants of Kil'jaeden."

"Aye, my friend. Once a proud race, now nothing more than a legendary evil. Their cousins, the Draenei, walk amongst the Alliance. A proud people, they are. I respect them."

"Great warriors, the Draenei. Me met several upon field of battle," started Guro'jintal, bringing his hands together in a sign of prayer and respect, "Honorable fighters."

They traveled in silence for the next few minutes, Stefan remembering how Rok'roham had deceived him. The Troll pondered the thought of confronting an Eredar, and was sorry to realize that he had never fought one before. The thought of an unfamiliar opponent both exhilarated and unsettled him. Like many quiet moments before war, Guro'jintal wondered if he would survive to look upon his experiences. He prayed that he would.

The Troll looked on, hoping to dissuade the stressful thoughts via the beautiful needles of stone. When he began to recognize familiar landmarks, he threw a hand up to signify a halt. Stefan came up abreast of him.

"We are here?"

"Aye, mon."

Stefan looked around, and was baffled to find nothing but the quiet breeze as their company.

"I see no one."

"Oh, he shall be here," started Guro'jintal, looking up at the concealed top of a rise several yards in front of them. Stefan followed his gaze, shielding his eyes from the unyielding sun.

Nothing appeared. As the moment passed, Stefan felt his neck aching from the constant craning. He was about to ask Guro'jintal again when a loud shout of excitement came from above, echoing around the canyons. Atop the needle of rock, a small dot was growing larger and larger in his vision.

"Is that him?" questioned Stefan. The Troll nodded silently. "What the devil is he...Holy saints!"

The figure was shouting again, and his descent only seemed to accelerate. Stefan leapt back, expecting the crazed plummeter to fall right on top of their heads. But then there was a thundering roar and what sounded like a small explosion, and in a shower of black smoke and tiny flames, the diver was suddenly launched horizontally, zooming around the canyons.

Stefan had nearly soiled his breeches. He turned to look at Guro'jintal. He was laughing, his gaze was following the crazy diver who was whizzing about the rises. When Stefan began to understand the lunacy of the situation, he began to laugh as well. Whoever this was, he was nuts. As the rocketeer zoomed about, he was shouting and yelling in excitement. Stefan and Guro'jintal threw their fists up in appraisal as he passed by overhead.

"This man is insane!"

Guro'jintal laughed. "Insane, maybe. But he is no man."

Stefan was about to inquire as to what the Troll meant, but the rocket suddenly dipped at an odd angle, and exploded a moment later as it flew at full speed into the ground. Stefan and Guro'jintal stood speechless for a moment. Their shock passed almost simultaneously as they sprinted towards the growing cloud of smoke. As they neared, they passed several burnt and melted remains of the flying machine. Stefan's heart sank.

"He couldn't possibly have survived a crash like that. No one could!"

They reached the center of the crash site, where a pile of wreckage lay. For a moment, nothing stirred. But then there was a low grumble, and suddenly a large metal frame was thrown aside, and a figure emerged. It was blackened and bloodied, but there was no mistaking the green tinge of the driver's skin. Stefan sighed knowingly.

"That is, unless you're an Orc," said Stefan sardonically.

"Stefan Dreis, meet Koramosh Morshogg. Master Engineer, and best pilot in all Azeroth," said Guro'jintal.

"Someone say my name?" said the Orc, hacking up a cloud of black smoke and a rather nasty-looking screw. "Apologies, but I feel like I just tickled a dragon the wrong way."

---

The newcomer appeared as most of the patrons did: tired, poor, and down on their luck. But, as the tender looked to the mysterious figure sitting in the corner, he saw something he hadn't seen since it had arrived a day earlier: movement. It was subtle, but the hooded figure had shifted in its seat. Strangely, the bartender felt a certain degree of relief. At the same time, he felt sorry for whoever this new face was, but was also glad he could be rid of the stalker soon. It was bad for business.

But perhaps it was merely a sign of humanity in the killer/stalker, whatever or whoever it was. He turned his attentions back to the tavern crowd. There was money to be made.