The Watchtower

[Groshnok]

   The sun had began to set across Nagrand, and a calm breeze flowed like the river that ran through Garadar, cooling the orc’s face. Seated at the top of the southern watchtower, he rested his back against the tower room, his gaze fixed on the direction of the Ring of Trials. Of Kil’sorrow Fortress. Or, at least, the crater that it now was. Groshnok sighed, taking a sip from his flask, the hot whiskey burning his throat.

  Memories of the two massive warlocks, infused with so much demonic fel that they were hardly orcs anymore, pressed on his mind. He had been getting up after being smashed against a gate by one of the monsters. They were half the size of a gronn easily, and the punch had dazed him. He remembered struggling to his feet, watching as Sadok cast a lightning bolt straight into one of the monster’s chests, exploding its heart, and by the blood curse the two fel orcs shared, exploding the other’s too. The ear-piercing screams coming from their mouths, and then…

  Their skin, huge balls of energy began to shine from them, growing bigger, consuming them. Groshnok had begun to regain his senses then, as the group began to run, run for the main gate. That was the aim of every orc there, be he a Red Blade or the few Kil’sorrow still remaining. Everything was hazy past then, but that was what adrenalin did. “Run, get on your wolf and get out of there,” was the only thought going through his mind. He couldn't remember anything else. That was, until the explosion.

  The two balls of fel energy had morphed together, and grown as large as the courtyard of the fortress, and in an instant, shattered the surrounding areas, along with anything unlucky enough to stand in its way. Groshnok had almost been thrown from his wolf as the earth shook violently beneath him, but had managed to hang on. His ears were ringing, sound ever so slowly returning to them. He looked around. Caruk looked unphased, as always. Sadok was on the ground. Oguur’s voice could be heard through the spirit-link, saying that where he was wasn’t looking good. But there was one orc missing. Mokhtar was not with them, nor was he responding to calls for him in the spirit-link.

  Groshnok grimaced, taking another sip of the flask. It had been a day now, and no word had reached his ears of the newblood being found. In the panic after the warlocks were killed, he must’ve taken the side gate, Groshnok had realised. That gate only led two ways. South, to a mountain range that bordered the Terokkar Forest. Or west, to an open plain that led to a drop off into the Twisting Nether. If the newblood had gone north, he’d have been vaporised. The blast had reached the mountain range, and even as far as the road to Terokkar near it. If he’d gone east, there was a chance he could have escaped the radius, but there was also a chance he could have been blown into the abyss.

  His memories began to drift back. Back to when he was a grunt in the outposts around Kalimdor. Specifically, the first place he had guarded in. Razor Hill, four years ago. Fresh out of his home of the Valley of Trials, Groshnok had spent a year and a half serving there. Just like all new grunts, he though himself to be invincible. Nothing could defeat him. Especially no human filth that decided to show up on his shores.

  He was 18, and was leading a scouting group against the Kul Tiras on Durotar’s eastern shores. There were three of them in total, Groshnok was the most senior. Even now, Groshnok could remember their names as clear as that day he led them, the first day he had met them. The silent Ner’gesh, 16 years old and deadly with a dagger. Gad’jin, a 15 year old troll from Sen’jin Village, able to pierce his target’s heart with his bow from 50 yards. Groshnok could never forget that day, the day he would first lead, even if it was just a small scouting group. It was his proudest moment, at the start. It was the second worst moment of his life, behind his mother’s death, at the end.

  Their task was simple, one that young grunts were sent on every day. See if the humans have started working on anything outside their castle, patrol changes, stuff like that. Groshnok hated it, whenever he’d be dragged along to do it. The leader would always make them stay afar, not get anywhere close. Well, now that he was leading this group, he would do it differently. He’d get up close, get the information Razor Hill really needed.

  “I don’t tink dis be a good idea,” whispered Gad’jin, as the trio crept forward to the keep. “The sergeant said we was to-”
“Oh that old idiot’s too cautious, you know that,” Groshnok whispered back, cutting the troll off. Ner’gesh padded alongside Gad’jin, his eyes scanning the distance for any movement. They were edging closer and closer to the keep, using any bit of foliage around the desert to keep themselves from being seen by an eagle eyed archer. Suddenly, Ner’gesh stopped dead in his tracks, and pointed in front of him. Grosnok looked towards where the green finger was pointing, and the sight made his blood boil.

  A jailor was dragging an unconscious orc with a rope bound around his hands across towards one of the towers. “Shoot him,” Groshnok ordered, looking towards Gad’jin.
“We only here to see, brotha, not to fight,” Gad’jin replied warily.
“Shoot him,” Groshnok repeated, his voice becoming angrier. “That pig’s got one o’ ours captured. We’ve gotta save him.” He turned to the troll, giving him an icy glare. “Do it.” Gad’jin paused for a few moments, before slowly nodding and stringing his bow. The arrow sailed through the air, embedding itself in the human’s skull. Groshnok grinned, and quickly crept over to the orc on the ground. “Get up, brother, you’re s…” Groshnok trailed off, his mouth open in shock.

  The orc on the ground was not unconscious. The dead human was not a jailor. He stared in horror at the empty eye sockets of the dead orc. “What… the fel did they do to ye’…” he gasped. Suddenly, he felt hands on his back, and in a flash his face was in the dirt. He quickly spun around to face his attacker… Only to find Ner’gesh in the place where he was a second before, with an arrow in his chest. He could hear yelling coming from behind him, and he turned his head to see archers notching their arrows on the ramparts of the castle.

  “Groshnok!” came Gad’jin’s voice. The orc sprang to his feet, as the orc beside him fell to the ground, letting out his death rattles. Groshnok had no time to stick around, as he sprinted for the trees, where Gad’jin was already running to. His eyes were glued to the ground, as he sprinted into the foliage. Arrows sailed past him left and right, and he grunted as one of them smashed into his arm. He was on the other side of the trees now, and the arrows were still coming. There was a pit ahead of him, and in front of that Razor Hill. He could hear Gad’jin running beside him.
“Dive for cover!” Groshnok screamed, the torrent of arrows beginning to thin out as the pit became closer. He leaped into it, yelping as an arrow clipped his foot.

  Groshnok opened his eyes. He was alive. He made it. “Ye’ alright, Gad’jin?” he called out, looking around. He heard a low moan to his left, and looked over to see the troll lying in the sand, the blood running into it from the arrows sticking out of his slender back. Groshnok stared at the sight. Gad’jin let out a few more shallow breaths, before the light went out of his eyes. “Shit,” the orc breathed, his hands over his head. “No, this isn’t happening, this isn’t… Grom’damnit!” Groshnok pounded the earth in rage until his knuckles became bloody. Then, a shadow loomed over him, and Groshnok looked up.
“Blackrend?” called Sergeant Rackspear, peering down at the orc from the edge of the pit. His eyes went wide when he noticed the dead troll beside Groshnok. “What the fel is going on?!”

  Groshnok closed his eyes tight, gulping down the whiskey as the memories came flooding back like a brick wall hitting him in the face. He had lied to Rackspear, saying that they had been ambushed. He would have been court martialled if he told the truth. However, Groshnok was moved to the Crossroads in the Barrens, as Ner’gesh’s father had been in the high command of Razor Hill, and was furious at his son’s death. “Get yer things, an’ get on the supply caravan, Blackrend,” Rackspear had ordered. It was for his own safety.

   That wouldn’t be the last time Groshnok had blundered while in command. He thought back to the Twilight Highlands, where he had led Toradar and Oguur into a battle with the dwarves on a scouting mission. A battle that failed horribly, and almost cost the three orcs their lives. And now this. A newblood missing, probably dead. Under his command. Groshnok sighed again, thinking about the talk he’d had with Nograx a few hours before hand. “What could you have done better?” the Dragonmaw had asked him. There were a lot of things he could have done better. But hindsight was a bitch, and there was nothing he could do now. Just wait, and hope Mokhtar would be found.
 
  The sun had fully set now, as Groshnok clipped the flask back onto his belt. He gave one last look towards the south east, before walking down the planks. “We all make mistakes, Gorewrath,” Nograx’s words rang in his mind. Groshnok frowned. “Aye, but this orc never seem to learn from them,” he thought, as he strode towards the hut he was staying in.

My first Groshnok story, hope you enjoyed!

[Kozgugore]

Great to read a bit of insight on an orc's background a bit! It certainly captures the atmosphere very well, so well done there!

[Groshnok]

Thanks! I'm hoping to right a few more stories on Grosh in the future.