Chapter 1
Southern Nagrand, one day after the Autumn Kosh’harg
The sun was beginning to set on the green fields of a once lush land, now falling apart. It had been a long, arduous day of scouting but finally before the night fell Groshnok had found his price. Perched atop his half-garn on a hill, he spied it. A ferocious looking jet-black worg had burst from the forest below, chasing a wounded Talbuk. Its prey quickly seized around the throat by its terrible maws, brought crashing down to the soft ground. Now came the hard part.
Turning that predator into his prey.
Throatrender had given him the task days prior, and Groshnok was eager to proceed with it, to further his place down the Path of Cunning, and become closer to the spirit known as Sharguul the Unborn. Now, killing a worg, that wouldn’t be too much difficulty. His gun could easily blast a bullet between its eyes, and if that did not fell the beast, his axes certainly would. No, this needed to be a clean kill. The pelt could not be sullied, for this was to be his new ritual armour as a Gul’thauk.
Clambering down from his half-garn, he gave the beast a steely gaze, instructing it not to go for the talbuk now struggling to cling to life. The half-garn snorted, slinking back into the shadows off the other side of the hill. Looking down to the commotion below, the Talbuk was still bucking somewhat, Groshnok noted, its last gasps of fight. He noted the wolf below becoming cautious, careful with its movements so as not to be wounded itself. Good, this would give him some time, and a distraction.
Circling behind the wolf, he slipped into the undergrowth of the trees before the clearing. Between two sturdy, twisting trunks he found his opening. A direct line to the beast, its back turned as the bleets of its meal faded. Slowly, Groshnok removed the trap he had planned from a large pouch at his side, cupping the steely spikes in his palms. Caltrops.
He had become well acquainted with a wooden version of these in his days in Stranglethorn Vale. The trolls would plant these into the earth, covering them with leaves and grass. Any person, or animal, unfortunate to step on them would not only be immobilised, but the scream from the pain of the many nerves of the foot being pierced would alert nearby hunters to their exact location. Steel plates had been inserted to the bottom of their leather boots for a reason, and although a young Groshnok had once thought it preposterous, he was thankful the first time he had felt bamboo snap against the metal. This worg would not have that luxury.
He had seven in total, enough to spread evenly of the distance of the worg’s stride. If even one paw could be pierced, the wolf would be his for the taking. Cautiously he placed them into the dirt, sinking them into enough place that they would stay, but should be ripped out upon contact. Creeping around then, he tiptoed to the clearing, the sun’s light shining against his bare chest. Save for his thick leather legguards and boots, he was armourless. The worg needed to think of him as least a threat as possible. Besides, if anything went wrong, he still had his gun and axes, of which one was now clasped in his right hand.
He could not risk whistling or yelling at the beast, lest his half-garn come running and ruin the plan. Instead, his right arm arced across his chest, before slashing sideways, hitting the oak next to him with a loud thunk. The worg, happily beginning his snack, reared its neck, its eyes focused, its mouth in a blood-soaked snarl. He had its attention. Lifting his wolf-mask, Groshnok met the worg’s glare with his own. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Silence upon the clearing, with two foes ready to see who would blink first. And Groshnok did, descending back into the shadows of the clearing, over the trap he had laid, backed up against a trunk of a tree. From the light shining between the two trees in front of him, he saw the black mass bounding forth, jaws hungry to take down that which would interrupt his meal, eyes fixed on his target.
In a flash, the eyes turned from anger to agony, its jaw opening wider to let out a pained yelp. Its front two paws had landed directly into the second set of caltrops, causing its hind legs to buck, and the worg came crashing down, its speed somersaulting it across the grass, directly towards Groshnok’s path. The orc leapt up as the wolf slammed with a sickening crunch into the trunk he had been backed against, yelping weakly in pain. Cautiously, Groshnok readied his axe, analysing the damage. The wolf’s landing had been as unfortunate as its paw placement. The side of its neck had bore the brunt of the slam, and Groshnok could see the body was weakly spasming. It had broken its neck.
Slowly, he approached the downed beast, putting his foot on the other side of the neck. The wolf stared at him, helpless, its eyes almost bleeding. Groshnok grunted, putting his full weight down on his foot, and with a crack and a last yelp, it was done. He couldn’t help but smile, admiring his work. This would indeed make a fine pelt. It was as intact as could get! He leant down to pick his prize up, when a large, fierce howl froze him in place. The half-garn.
He had never given it a name, as that was another lesson he had taken from Stranglethorn. Worgs never tended to last long there, either running off or being killed in scouting missions, often bearing the brunt of slow-acting poison darts. This one though, had been different. It had been with Groshnok since the clan had tamed its pack in Frostfire Ridge, after the Iron Horde had re-opened the Dark Portal. The worg was fiere, well able to hold its own. If it howled like that, something was very, very wrong. He rose to his feet, sheething his right axe and unholstering his gun. Leaving the corpse, he ventured out to the clearing, unsheathing his left axe as he looked towards the hill, where a large wagon stood. “Raiders?†he thought. No, that wagon did not look orcish by design. More Goblin-like.
Oh fuck.
Scrambling to the top of the hill, commotion began to grow louder. Pressing up against the wagon, he peered around to see his half-garn, covered with nets and unable to move, trying to gnaw away at its bondage. Next to it was a bloodied human, lying unmoving in the grass. Suddenly, darts were flying, landing in the wolf’s neck, as it swayed before crashing to the ground. Groshnok peered around for the assailants, and saw two goblins and an orc with their rifles poised, inching towards it from either side. In front of him, strolling towards the captured half-garn with hands clasped behind his back, was a rather plump goblin, outfitted in a fine purple velvet suit and top hat. Their leader, Groshnok assumed. And with all attention now drawn to his unconcious worg, Groshnok saw his opportunity to strike. Slinking forward he pressed the cold steel of the gun against the back of the goblin’s head. On instinct, the goblin froze, raising his hands in the air. Groshnok snarled, glaring up towards the three still moving towards his worg. “Get away from t’wolf or t’goblin gets i’!†he roared.
The three turned on their heel, pointing their rifles at him. “Easy now,†the goblin below him started. “Let’s not be hasty here. Just take that gun down from my head.â€
“Tha’s no’ ‘appenin’ ‘till ye’ ge’ yer boys ‘way from me wolf,†Groshnok retorted with a snort.
“Well my boy, that’s not happenin’ either,†the Goblin replied, surprisingly calm. “That’s quite a wolf you have. Don’t see many like that. See, somethin’ like that could go on the markets for a hefty price, wouldn’t ya say?â€
“Would do,†said Groshnok. “Bu’ ‘e ain’ for sale.â€
“Shame,†said the Goblin with a shrug. “I suppose we’ll have to just take him then. See right now you’ses got three fine shots aimin’ some VERY potent night-night juice at ya neck.â€
Groshnok looked up, eyeing the three. “Aye, an’ if yer boys ‘ad sense, they’d realise if ‘em shoots tha’ nigh’-nigh’ juice, ‘em’s coin-purse’s brains end up on the floor.â€
“Lower the gun from my head, and we’ll leave ya depart unharmed,†the Goblin pressed. “I’m offerin’ more than generous terms here my boy. Be thankful that I never forget a voice.†Groshnok’s eyebrow arched, peering down at the back of the goblin’s head. The more he thought, the more this goblin’s voice was sounding hauntingly familiar too. The goblin snickered. “Ah, finally ya’s relaxed ya grip I see,†he said. “Ya know, of all the places I thought I may see you’se again,†he continued as he turned to face Groshnok. “This was surely the last place I’d expect!†Groshnok’s gun lowered as he stared into the beady eyes of a goblin he had not seen since his last time in Booty Bay.
“F-Fax?†stammered Groshnok, recoiling in shock. The goblin flashed a gold-toothed smile back at him. His years away from the clan, soul-searching had often led him to that Goblin’s employment. And now, on some hilltop in the middle of South Nagrand, their paths crossed once more.
“Glad to see ya remember me, Rabid Wolf! I sure remember you…†Fax said, his smile growing wider. Fax’s smile had always been his greatest weapon. You could never tell if it meant he was happy with you, or was planning on stabbing you in the back. Groshnok found this question answered quickly this time, as something stung his neck. He looked up to see the orc of Fax’s party with his gun aimed, directly where he had been stung. Shit.
Groshnok threw his axe aside, lifting his arm to rip the dart out of his neck. As he did, his legs went from under him, landing hard on his tailbone, and slumping back against the wheel of the wagon. It had been too late, the drugged dart had set in. He tried to reach out to grab Fax, but found his arms would not work. HIs vision began to blur, as the figure of the goblin came closer to him.
“It’s so nice to run into old friends, isn’t it?†it said, before Groshnok’s world went black.