Kroghur was old. The time of his battles was long gone. For an orc whose entire life had been spent in combat, the frailty of old age was a curse. He remembered his fallen comrades with envy, regretting that he had not shared their fate. His wife had died of old age; his sons had not returned from the dead ice of Northrend. But death itself had always passed him by, even though he always threw himself into the thick of the fray, fighting ferociously, never thinking of caution, for which his kin had named him Kroghur "the Mad Axe."
With a grunt, he rose from his bed, gathered his things, took his fishing rods and his trusted battle axe. The axe was heavy for him now, but the lifelong habit of never letting his weapon leave his side forbade him from leaving home without it—it would be easier to leave a hand behind. Pausing at the exit, he scowled in annoyance: he had meant to leave early to avoid seeing the warriors off. On days like these, he felt especially worthless. Resolutely pushing the curtain aside, Kroghur stepped out of the hut.
"Strength and Honor!" the orcs passing by his hut greeted him.
"Strength and Honor," he replied hollowly, glumly surveying the square before him.
The entire square was filled with warriors. Clans were forming into units, chieftains were assigning duties. Excited voices, crude jokes, and laughter could be heard everywhere. Some were saddling their armored wolves, others were sharpening weapons; there was a crowd around the trade stalls and craftsmen's tents. It was the usual preparation for a military campaign.
Shifting his axe to a more comfortable grip, Kroghur turned right and headed for the eastern gates of Orgrimmar, beyond which, on the River Rustmaul, his boat was tied. The warbands would be forming up and departing all day, and he had decided to go fishing—to get away from this hustle and bustle that now no longer stirred him, but only irritated the old warrior.
The chieftains weren't taking him on the campaign. Despite all his experience, he could no longer swing an axe for hours and couldn't endure the hardships of a long march, even with the shamans' potions. Besides, he would take the place of a younger fighter. His rage and ferocity in battle were revered among orcs, and Kroghur had every chance of becoming a chieftain himself, or at least leading a warband. But that same rage prevented it: in battle, he completely lost his head, seeing only the enemy that needed to be destroyed. A true chieftain cannot afford to forget about the battlefield and his warriors. However, Kroghur was quite content with this state of affairs. Not everyone can be the head, he thought. Someone is destined to be the axe. And so he had fought through all the wars as a simple grunt.
"Strength and Honor!" proclaimed an orc standing guard at the gates. Behind him, a small circle of other guards was gathered, discussing the upcoming campaign. Turning at the greeting, they saw Kroghur.
"Strength and Honor!" they chorused. Legends about Kroghur "the Mad Axe" still circulated among the orcs.
"For the Horde!" Kroghur responded in kind. However he felt, he couldn't show despondency in front of the youth.
"For the Horde!" the warriors shouted back with even more enthusiasm.
Passing through the gates, he crossed the bridge and descended to the river, which served as a natural moat on this side of the city. Nearby was a small dock for fishing boats. Stowing his gear in his own boat, he untied it, climbed in, and let the current carry him towards the southern tip of Durotar. He didn't feel like raising the sail or rowing. In the bay where the river met the sea, among the rocks, he knew a few good fishing spots.
Water lapped softly against the hull, the rising sun bathed everything in a golden light, and the city's din faded with distance. Steering lightly, Kroghur sank into memories. The old warrior's thoughts lacked focus: images flashed through his mind, vague sensations, the faces of friends and family. He drifted through the expanses of his memory, just as his boat drifted on the river's current.
He used to hunt to feed his family, but after his sons' deaths and his wife's passing, he had completely lost his taste for it. And his reflexes weren't what they used to be. Fishing, however, was a different matter. He didn't need to feed a family, so he didn't need much fish. Truth be told, he preferred being alone. In these moments, he could indulge in daydreams, remembering the past, his family, his friends—everything that had been and was never destined to return to the old warrior's life. And no one interrupted these thoughts with shouts of "Strength and Honor!"
Kroghur grimaced and spat into the water rushing past the hull. What honor is there without strength... he thought gloomily.
"Strength and Honor!" a thunderous shout from no less than thirty orcish throats made Kroghur start. He was approaching a bridge, where a warband from the Crossroads was marching towards Orgrimmar; a train of kodos trailed behind them. They, too, were hurrying to the war against the Burning Legion.
"For the Horde!" Kroghur shouted back, raising his axe over his head in a greeting with his right hand, while his left held the rudder. The axe nearly slipped and crashed down on his head. "Damn demons!" he cursed mentally, spitting over the side once more. Settling back down, he irritably threw the axe onto the bench, hoping no one had noticed his clumsiness. "Then again," he suddenly thought, "did I ever care about some old man in a boat when I was young and heading off to war? I certainly didn't care how he waved his axe." A bitter smile touched his lips.
The river flowed into the sea not far from the port of Booty Bay, domain of the enterprising goblins of the Venture Co. They presented themselves as merchants, though everyone knew they were notorious smugglers who didn't shy away from piracy when the opportunity arose. Thus, it was generally a quiet spot, suitable for the goblins' shady dealings. But today, the pre-campaign frenzy had reached even here. Quartermasters from various clans, not only of the Horde but also of the Alliance, were scurrying everywhere. Although the port had neutral status, due to its proximity to Orgrimmar, humans and other Alliance races were infrequent guests here. But now, everyone was trying to procure weapons, gear, potions, and supplies for their fighters—more, better, and, if possible, cheaper. And it no longer mattered if it was contraband or not—the war would write it all off. The bay was packed with ships of all kinds, between which laden skiffs darted; there wasn't enough room at the docks for everyone. A quiet fishing trip here was out of the question.
Kroghur raised the sail and, skirting the ships at anchor, headed out to the open sea. He moved south, along the coast. There were many cozy fishing spots in the contested territories, and he headed for one of them. It was a small sandbar, hidden on all sides by forest and visible only from the sea. Nearby, among the rocks, was a small cove where he could hide his boat from prying eyes. Even though there was now a truce between the Horde and the Alliance, declared for the joint campaign against the Burning Legion, caution didn't hurt. There would always be those for whom the truce was disagreeable, and for them, a lone fisherman in a contested territory was a very convenient target.
Sailing along the shore, he peered intently at the outlines of the rocks, trying not to miss the inconspicuous entrance to the cove. Soon he found it. Lowering the sail, Kroghur carefully navigated among the rocks jutting from the water with his oars. The path was familiar and posed no trouble. Entering the cove, he guided the boat onto a small beach and pulled it ashore. After climbing out, he dragged the boat higher up and tied it to a nearby tree. "All set," he thought. The boat was well hidden behind the rocks, invisible from both sea and land. He could go fish in peace.
The sandbar was a short walk along the shore. He could have approached by boat, but without the cover of the rocks, it would have been too visible, whereas a lone fisherman against the backdrop of the forest was completely inconspicuous. It wasn't far from here to the fortress of Northwatch Hold, a stronghold of the Alliance.
As the sandbar came into view around a bend in the coast, Kroghur was surprised to find it occupied. Someone was sitting on a log lying on the sand, with a fishing rod set up on a stand in front of them. Kroghur slowed his pace, trying to step as quietly as possible. Behind the fisherman, some distance away, a horse was tied to a tree. The horse and the stranger's short stature indicated this was a dwarf, who had come to fish from Northwatch Hold.
He was quite close to the log when a shell hidden in the sand crunched unexpectedly under his foot. The dwarf, who until then had been staring out to sea with an absent gaze, instantly leapt up, drawing his axe in a sharp, practiced motion. He stood for a moment, drilling the orc with a look from under furrowed brows, and then, without uttering a word, suddenly put the weapon away, sat back down on the log, and fixed his eyes on the float. Kroghur noted the slightly trembling axe, the gray, thinning mane of hair, the somewhat hazy gaze, and the deep wrinkles that furrowed the already coarse features. The dwarf was as ancient as Kroghur himself.
"Well," thought the orc, "no choice. Going back to the boat and finding another spot is too much trouble." After shifting his weight for a moment, he sat down on the opposite end of the log, laid his axe beside him, and began to unwind his fishing rod.
"Strength and honor, dwarf," Kroghur said in Common, not looking at his neighbor.
"Aye... And you try not to croak, orc," the dwarf grumbled in a raspy voice, also not looking at him.
After sorting out his tackle, Kroghur watched the float for a while. Then his gaze involuntarily shifted into the distance, and he, like the dwarf, stared at the horizon with an absent look, sinking into an abyss of memories. So they sat on the same log—enemies, completely different, yet in some ways very much alike. Two old veterans.
Several hours passed in silence.
"Orc, why aren't you off to war?" the dwarf asked unexpectedly.
"The chieftains decided to give the young ones a chance to prove themselves," Kroghur answered after a pause. "And not just in this campaign."
"Aye... Same song here," the dwarf nodded. "And nobody cares about your reasons. Me... I'd have loved one last scrap with the demons. On potions, o' course, but I reckon I could've taken a couple with me, gone out with honor... The earth's callin' me home, I reckon, but it's takin' its time. I'm tired of fallin' apart piece by piece... No strength, no honor. You orcs have it right: 'Strength and Honor!' For a warrior, one doesn't exist without the other."
"Yes, that's true..." Kroghur uttered with a sigh, surprised that the same thoughts had been circling in his own head all morning.
Silence fell over the log again, this time oppressive.
"Listen, dwarf," Kroghur broke the silence. "I saw how you drew that axe. I bet your killing blows are just as sharp?"
"Aye, you could say that," the dwarf replied, not without pride. "Why d'you ask?"
"Just curious," Kroghur hesitated, but then continued. "When you fight a big opponent, well, like me... You must have favorite moves?"
"Aye, 'course! Mostly dealt with big lunks like you," the dwarf said, giving the orc a quick once-over. And suddenly he opened up: "Especially liked catchin' the overhead swing. When the lunk wants to strike from above. You duck under his arm—and poke the sharp end right under the ribs, straight to the heart. The trick is to get out of the attack line fast. The lunk keeps swingin', not even knowin' he's already dead. Sometimes he manages to say somethin', but it's his last words, usually some curse or another."
"You know, I always liked catchin' the quick ones like you," Kroghur laughed. "You make like you're swingin' with all your might, but you're already steppin' back with one foot. If the quick one takes the bait and tries to duck, you take a full step back and bring the axe down. Sometimes I'd even split 'em in two... Well, when I was younger."
"Aye, seen that happen," the dwarf smirked, looking at the horizon again, thinking his own thoughts. "Comes down to who outsmarts who."
The silence that fell over them again was now somehow tense.
"And what if you don't catch and you don't dodge?" Kroghur asked, surprising even himself. "Strike for a strike?"
"Erm... But wouldn't that be..." the dwarf mumbled, but couldn't bring himself to say aloud what he was thinking.
Kroghur himself was stunned, shocked by his own words. He hadn't thought—or rather, he had thought, but for some reason, said it out loud.
"Though, why exactly..." — the dwarf clearly couldn't say "suicide." Suddenly he jumped up and drew his axe again. "And what are you doin' on my fishin' spot, you green-skinned wretch?! Stompin' around, makin' noise, scared all the fish away! I've killed for less! I challenge you to a duel, orc!"
"Ah, you dirt-grubber!.." Kroghur smiled with grim satisfaction, slowly rising with his axe in hand. "I accept your challenge, dwarf!"
Circling the log from opposite sides, the opponents slowly began to circle each other on the sand.
"Hold!" the dwarf waved a hand. "Let me untie my horse. She'll find her way back to the hold on her own... if need be."
Kroghur stopped and nodded. He thought of his own boat. "Well," he decided, "maybe someone will find it, maybe not." The dwarf untied the horse, tossed the reins over the saddle, but didn't send her away—who knows, he might have had to catch her later. Returning to the beach, he met the orc's gaze.
Kroghur didn't resume circling. He took a wide step forward, raising his axe. The dwarf ducked under his arm and thrust the point of his axe under the orc's ribs, straight into his heart, making no attempt to move out of the line of attack. Kroghur, with his last strength, brought his own axe down on the dwarf, just below the base of his neck. It didn't cleave him in two, but the blow was mortal. The dwarf, without a sound, fell onto his back, the orc's axe still buried in him, and stared at the sky with open eyes.
Unclenching his fingers and letting the dwarf fall, Kroghur stood for a moment longer. He looked down at the axe handle protruding from under his own ribs, then at the dwarf's body. He raised his head, followed his opponent's gaze into the cloudless blue, and exhaled:
"Strength and Honor!" And he too fell onto his back.
The horse, which had been grazing, snorted anxiously and, sensing it was now alone, trotted off through the woods towards the hold. Silence fell upon the beach, broken only by the whisper of small waves washing onto the sand.
Several hours passed. The sun had long since passed its zenith when a troll emerged from the forest onto the beach, soundlessly, like a shadow detaching itself from the trees. A bow was slung on his back, and he held a short spear in his hand. Looking around, the troll crouched not far from the bodies on the sand and began carefully studying the tracks. With his face painted in a fearsome pattern, it was hard to tell what emotions the scene before him evoked.
A splash came from the sea. A small Alliance patrol skiff was entering the cove. A man—the captain of the hold's guard—stood tall at its bow. The troll didn't hide, merely shifted closer to the forest, gripping his spear more comfortably, and waited calmly.
The skiff ground into the sand. Several guards jumped ashore and pulled it further up. The captain followed. He approached the bodies, while his men remained by the skiff.
The captain carefully examined the bodies and the tracks in the sand.
"The horse came back without its rider," he said without preamble in Orcish, betraying his long service in Kalimdor. "When we realized something was wrong, they sent me to look. And you, troll, what brings you here?"
"Spirits whispered..." the troll replied in Common, showing he was no simpleton either.
"Spirits? Of course," the captain couldn't suppress a sarcastic smirk but immediately turned serious. "Well, the picture's clear. Sat, fished... Then argued over something. Or remembered old grudges. Here the dwarf jumped up, seems he challenged the orc to a duel. The orc accepted. Went around the log and... hmm..."
He paused by the tracks the dwarf had left when going to untie his horse. Without dwelling on them, he continued:
"Anyway, they met. Landed one blow each. Both fatal."
"Spirits whisper it could have been different," the troll said impassively.
"Perhaps. But let your spirits keep their versions to themselves. An honest duel, a worthy death, the truce isn't broken. Everyone's happy. How's that sound?"
"Let it be so!" the troll agreed easily, narrowing his eyes. Between his protruding tusks and the war paint, it was impossible to tell if he was smiling or snarling.
The troll glanced towards the forest and gave an almost imperceptible nod. A dozen of his kin emerged soundlessly from the trees, carrying a stretcher woven from vines. The captain waved a hand to his guards, then walked over to the dwarf's body and, with effort, pulled the orcish axe from the terrible wound that had nearly cleaved the dwarf in two. He laid the axe on the sand and took the dwarf's own axe, which one of the trolls had already placed there. The guards laid the dwarf's body on the stretcher and carried it to the skiff. The captain, without looking back, followed them. He climbed aboard and watched as they loaded the stretcher.
Meanwhile, the trolls placed the orc's body on another stretcher, laid his axe on top, and secured it. Then, as silently as they had appeared, they vanished into the forest with their burden. The remaining troll sat on the sand a while longer, not taking his eyes off the captain's back, then retreated into the shadow of the trees. Standing in the shade, he involuntarily reached for his bow, but as he went for an arrow, he glanced in the direction of his departing tribesmen. "The orc's body must be delivered to Orgrimmar," he thought. "Then it will be clear to all who broke the truce." He glanced sideways at a tree a couple of paces away, where he thought he'd sensed something.
"Alright, human, you got lucky today," he whispered, barely audible, and melted silently into the undergrowth.
Sometime later, on that very tree the troll had looked at, a branch swayed, and a barely visible trail of footprints led from the forest to the skiff.
"The troll says you got lucky today, Captain," said a night elf scout, dropping his cloak of invisibility and climbing aboard.
"I wasn't counting on luck so much as on you. And on them," the captain nodded towards two smugly grinning gnomes sitting by the gunwale. One was a priest, the other a mage. Both were surrounded by a faint shimmer of readied spells—something protective and healing from the priest, and something long-range and destructive from the mage. Crouched behind them were another ten guards.
"That's good. It's just... another squad of trolls moved out on the other side of the bay."
"Meaning, if it came to a fight, it's still unknown who'd have been lucky..." the captain smirked.
The elf only nodded silently in response.
"Well, fine. I don't think this truce will last forever. We'll find out then whose side luck is on."
The captain scanned the shore and nodded to the guards. They deftly pushed the skiff into the water and jumped in themselves. Soon, the cove was empty. Only two fishing rods remained, standing forsaken on their stands by the old log.
