Chapter 18

Warsong Hold

Stefan had enjoyed the hospitality of the Orcs on a number of occasions. Still, he could not grow accustomed to their unique lifestyle. Where Troll living spaces had shown traces of organization, the Orcs were beyond help. Luxury was unheard of among the green-skinned humanoids; chairs comprised of sturdy logs of wood strung together, devoid of any padding. But usually one sat on a carpet of skin from the Orcs' many hunt trophies.

Very barbaric.

The cooking fire smoke hung heavy in his throat, burning the air in his lungs and drying his eyes. Everyone else had similar reactions, along with sporadic coughing and choking. Only Lyra seemed undaunted by the black haze. But she had an excuse as one of the Orcs' closer allies. She didn't get the odd leer from passerby like Stefan and the other Alliance-oriented party members. Geraldros, in his usual clumsy saunter, looked deathly pale. Was it the smoke? Stefan put his money on the heavily muscled Tauren lifting a giant boulder over his head and dropping it onto a waiting cart. When the giant plainswalker's breath steamed from his nostrils, causing a giant nose ring to sway, the little Dwarf visibly jumped.

Their Orcish escort stopped in front of a large tent adorned with various animal skulls and kill trophies. Several had horrid blemishes in the form of splintered bone and giant, gaping holes, perhaps from the killing blow. As the Orc pulled aside the heavy tarp covering the tent's entrance, Stefan felt a tinge of reluctance to follow. But the cold face of a giant war axe on the small of his back goaded him into step, and he headed in with the others around him.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior, Stefan eyed his companions in turn. None showed overly-visible signs of distress, but just as he was, they were all unsure of what was to come next. He looked on, squinting at a hidden figure up ahead. As they approached, the figure stepped forward into the skylight, and the first thing Stefan saw was the powerful, green arms. A giant axe was strapped to the Orc's back, one so sharp-looking that Stefan was sure it could fillet the air if the Orc moved too quickly.

All at once the group slowed to a halt. The giant stepped even closer, an arm's reach from the Orc escort in front.

"Garrosh Hellscream, we bring you members of the Explorer's League. They have papers giving them safe passage to Warsong Hold, treated with the best hospitality to offer. I shall leave them to you," said the Orc, who bowed deeply, then grunted something to the other brutes that surrounded Stefan and the others.

They withdrew from the tent, leaving only the band of journeymen and Garrosh Hellscream.

Tense moments of silence followed as the giant Orc paced left and right, his fiery eyes never once turning away from Stefan and the others. Then he spoke.

"You are not who you say you are," he stated, simply. Stefan stiffened.

"Explorers' League officials do not carry weapons, and I've never seen a plainswalker among their ranks. Luckily for you, my guards are too stupid to comprehend that simple lie you made," continued Garrosh, in fluent Common. "But I'm not so dense."

Stefan fought back a rising ounce of fear in his throat. "What will you do with us?"

"Considering your actions, I know you are too stupid to be assassins. The only clear thing is, I do not know what brought a group of multi-racial mishaps to Northrend, of all places."

He stared at them in silence.

"Well? What the hell are you doing here?" he yelled.

Molgoby had to grab Geraldros' shoulders to keep the Dwarf upright and conscious.

Stefan withdrew the rune-encrusted stone, and presented it to the Orc. It glowed an eerie blue in the light of the afternoon sun. "We are looking for the lock that this key will open."

Garrosh stared at the thing quizzically, then nodded slowly. "A Nerubian artifact."

Then the giant Orc was walking towards them, and through them as they moved aside to let him pass, steering clear of the giant axe. Cautiously, they followed him outside. Garrosh stopped and pointed to the northern edge of Warsong Hold, to where an Orc was herding together a pack of wolves.

"I shall inform my wolfmaster that you require mounts. The Nerubian stronghold is a good distance from here, but the wolves are built for the weather and will make your journey much easier," said Garrosh, turning toward them. He looked at Stefan with mild amusement. "Why are you looking at me like that, Human?"

"Why do you not slay us on the spot? There are Alliance within our ranks. We lied to gain an audience with you. And now you're sending us off with a friendly wave?" stammered Stefan.

Garrosh chuckled. "I could take all of you at the same time. You and your friends are no threat to me, or my people. I believe your presence here does not directly concern me, and therefore I do not mind getting you out of my hair. Now leave, before I decide to change my mind."

They hurried off toward the wolfmaster, Stefan being the only one to give Hellscream a final glance.

"Good luck," shouted Garrosh.

Geraldros turned around, and timidly threw a hand up in a goodbye wave.

"And good riddance," muttered the Orc under his breath.