The Long Road Home
“You really think this is such a good idea?” asked the disgruntled orc to his partner, sitting across the table from him. The two orcs were clad in their light leather armour, traditional of that of people of their trade. Mercenaries, rogues, bandits, blackguards. It went by many names. Always on the move, they did not wear much, as so to not slow them down. Not that they could get very far if trouble arose in their current predicament. The tight living quarters of a Steamwheedle trading ship, bound for Ratchet, did not allow such. Shul’Narok took a gulp of ale from his mug, running a hand through his long, black braid as he stared through his twenty-two-year-old eyes towards his senior partner. His partner flashed him a grin, dismissing the younger orc’s concerns.
“We’ll be fine. Don’t be worryin’ so much,” he reassured the younger orc. He was met only with a grunt.
“I still say we should’ve took up through Grom’gol,” argued Shul’Narok. “Be safer. We’re orcs, you really think they’re gonna turn us away?” Shul’Narok watched his partner’s face turned to a scowl. At least, what he could see of his face under his partner’s wolf mask.
“An’ I told ye’ it’s dangerous me seen up there, now hush yer fuckin’ voice!” snapped the senior orc. “Besides, got enough money from sellin’ ‘em pigskins to the gobbos. Be safer crossin’ here, an’ yer young hide can’t spend tha’ gold when it’s shot up wit’ Skullsplitter arrows, can it?” The senior orc’s scowl turned into its usual grin again, as he took a gulp of his ale. That grin, as jovial as it could often seem, always unnerved him. He had seen the same grin used by the orc during interrogations, and the results were never pretty. But he was damn good at them. Years of training in the jungle, he had told Shul’Narok. Working for the Horde, though no grunt. And that was all he had said, never more. Shul’Narok did not dare question him. Truth be told, as much as he trusted the older orc, he was also terrified by him.
“Aye, I know…” sighed Shul’Narok in defeat. “Apologies, Groshnok.”
Groshnok Gorewrath takes a gulp of ale from his mug.
“Don’t be, s’fine,” he replied. “We’re nearly there now anyway. Best to be away from Booty Bay now for a while anyway, after Rex’s…” Groshnok abruptly stopped, lowering his voice as he looked out the door to sense anybody listening in. “Botch.” Shul’Narok nodded in reply. There were some who were none too happy after it. Groshnok muttered to himself, silently cursing the foolish goblin. Still, had it not been for Shul’Narok knowing the captain of the ship they sat in, both could be as dead as Rex, Groshnok supposed. He was a good hand, that Shul’Narok. Not afraid to get his hands dirty, and loyal enough.
“Easy manipulatable, tha’ one,” said a ghostly voice with a snort. Groshnok glanced over the shoulder of the younger orc to see the spirit of his old blood brother. Groshnok grunted. The spirit of Gra’tagesh has plagued him since he had come back to Stranglethorn, nearly two years ago. Taking a cigarette from his pouch, Groshnok put it between his lips, lighting it with a zippo. As the first plume of smoke from the burning herbs entered his lungs, he watched as the spirit disappeared. Whether real or a figment of his imagination, the spirit of Gra’tagesh had a point though. Shul’Narok was loyal. Too loyal for a bandit. He could have taken off by himself, but he chose to bring what, Groshnok supposed, he saw as his mentor along. At the same time, it was probably Groshnok’s own fault. He had told the young orc tales of an old tribe, powerful, daring, a united pack of orcs. And with word of the tribe’s re-emergence, he knew, that Shul’Narok knew, it would only have been a matter of time before the older orc went to seek them out. But he couldn’t complain. Shul’Narok had now given him that chance.
“So you know where to find them?” asked Shul’Narok. “Who knows how long they’ve marched since that information came.” Groshnok snorted amusedly.
“How long y’been ‘way from Kalimdor, pup?” he chided. “Isn’t tha’ hard to find information. Ye’ know me.” Shul'Narok knew far too well, falling silent. “Ye’ think too much,” Groshnok continued. “I’ll find ‘em.”
“You think I’ll be able to get in?” asked Shul’Narok. “I mean, the dealings with Fax and stuff surely—”
“I said, it’ll be fine,” Groshnok said sternly. “And I told ye’ ‘bout yer voice. There probably be a few on board here who lost money, or friends, to Fax’s games…” Groshnok eyed the younger orc coldly, though his piercing glare could not be seen from under the wolf mask. “Drink yer ale, be glad ye’ go’ ‘nough gold to last ye’ a good while, an’ shut up ‘bout it.” Shul’Narok nodded, coughing as the smoke from the cigarette filled their room. He hated the smell of those herbs. He couldn’t figure how Groshnok could smoke them. Once he had asked, and once had been enough. The orc’s mood could shift wildly depending on what topic was brought up. He remembered a few days after they had first done a job together, months ago, of bringing up family. Shul’Narok’s had received a letter of his mate giving birth, and had posed the wrong question to the older orc. He remembered all too well the orc lifting his wolf mask, a task seldom saw, and his one eye piercing into Shul’Narok’s soul. He never asked about Groshnok’s family after that.
“So where first?” asked Shul’Narok hesitantly.
“Crossroads,” said Groshnok, taking a last drag from his cigarette and stubbing it out with his foot. “Ge’ lucky, they’re there. Chances is ‘em’ve passed through, but I’ll find out where.”
“It’ll be nice to have some safety of a pack,” said Shul’Narok with a smile. “Once I’m there, I’ll write me mate, and her and the cub could come along. No more this contract shit. We can finally have a life.”
“Aye, lad,” grinned Groshnok. “Sure y’will.”
“Port ahoy!” came a shout from above. The two orcs grunted, finishing their ales, and stood up. Wordlessly, they ascended to the deck. Groshnok’s eye lit up as the port of Ratchet came closer and closer.
Kalimdor. It had been far too long.The tribe, with words Shul’Narok had told him, had been moving eastwards from Stonetalon. Such vague details didn’t concern him. He was home now. It wouldn’t be too hard to find their location from here. A few friendly words in an inn, or coin slipped to the right person. Fel, a knife held against the throat if necessary. But he would find the Red Blades… he had before, and after over a year, he would again. The plank smacked hard against the wooden deck, and the pair descended onto the hot sands of Ratchet. Even at a time of the year that was cold for many places of Azeroth, the midday sun of the desert did not let up. Groshnok moved to the left as the animals were being led off the ship, grabbing his half-garn by the reigns and hoisting himself up on it. “C’mon then, lad. We go’s ground t’cover.” Shul’Narok nodded, hoisting himself atop his black wolf. The pair travelled out of Ratchet, on the road towards the Crossroads. Groshnok looked back as Ratchet left behind them, and now all that surrounded them were deserted plains. Taking another cigarette from his pouch, he lit it with the zippo, sighing as he blew out a plume of smoke.
Shul’Narok was excited. Finally, a life away from the hell that was Stranglethorn. A new life. A place to call home. And Groshnok would vouch for him, he knew that much. For it was Shul’Narok who had led the pair to here. Shul’Narok who told Groshnok of the news. And even amongst thieves, Shul’Narok knew, there is honour. As sudden as thoughts thoughts had gone by a sudden, sharp noise cracked through Shul’Narok’s ears, and an even sharper pain pierced his stomach. His wolf reared, throwing him off, as he crashed down onto the hard, paved road. Shul’Narok looked down to his stomach with a groan.
Blood. A gunshot wound. Oh spirits, there was so much blood. Shul’Narok’s arm desperately reached up, out towards Groshnok, only to his horror, seeing the barrel of the pistol pointed towards him. Groshnok grunted, the smoke coming from the pistol’s barrel mixing with that coming from his cigarette.
“Wh-what…” sputtered Shul’Narok. Groshnok only grinned, amusedly. That same, jovial grin that always had unnerved Shul’Narok.
“What? Ye’ know what,” said Groshnok menacingly, swinging down from his half-garn, the pistol still pointed firmly towards Shul’Narok’s head. “Ye’ve been helpful, pup, I’ll give ye’ tha’ much… Bu’ let’s be honest, we both know ye’ wit’ a bit o’ drink in ye’.” Shul’Narok’s eyes widened as he realised what the older orc was saying. “Oh ye’ take me for some washed up drunken rogue, I know,” continued Groshnok. Shul’Narok could feel the cold metal of the small pistol pressing against his forehead. “Bu’ I listen. An’ I listen well. Ye’ love to tell the she-orcs an’ whores yer tales of conquest…” Groshnok laughed mockingly, before lifting his wolf mask up to the top of his head, and Shul’Narok saw that serious, malevolent eye surrounded by a scarred face glaring at him. “Let’s jus’ say me tribe don’ appreciate our line of work too well.” Shul’Narok tried to move, but the blood loss had already weakened him.
“Please…” he let out hoarsely. Groshnok sighed, shaking his head.
“It’s nothin’ personal. I’s go’ a life there too, is all.” Shul’Narok heard the pistol cock, and closed his eyes. “Sorry, Shul’Narok.”
The young orc’s corpse had been left deep in the plains, surely a meal of the prowlers there by now. Groshnok’s eye darted constantly. You could never be too careful travelling these roads. But he remembered plenty of ambush locations from his time here as a young grunt, over a decade ago. Not that it probably mattered, he thought. Times change, as does the world. The last time he had donned the red spiked pauldrons, the Barrens was still one. Pigmen ambushes did not concern them, his half-garn could outrun them, and devour them whole if they got in the way. The axes lay to each holster by his side, and his boot contained the adamantite dagger of Krogon Devilstep. It was a constant reminder of the tribe, and as much as Groshnok had argued with the old orc constant, he had learned a lot from him. The tribe was his home, and in the last months before the invasion of the Legion, he had done everything he could to keep newbloods and oathbounds alike from deserting to the war effort of the Horde. For the tribe needed to be one to survive. And survive, it seems, it did. The Nag’Ogar were the iron shield of the tribe, and while they protected it in battle, Groshnok saw the position as protecting it from inside, as well. This was his true role in life, he knew. Until his death, his tribe was his home. It had been over a year of toiling as a mercenary, a slaver, a bandit. Waiting for any glimpse of them. And now, the long road home had finally come to an end.
Groshnok Gorewrath takes a drag from his cigarette.
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