would have to be a willing partner in such an endeavor for it to succeed. As he regarded the orc now, standing so certain in his rightness, Cairne was not at all certain that Garrosh would be such a participant in shaping his own destiny.
He looked back at the slowly retreating skiffs. At least Garrosh had spared some lives, although Cairne had a sneaking suspicion it was rooted in arrogance. Garrosh very much wanted words of his deeds to reach Varian, to no doubt further irritate that leader.
Cairne sighed deeply, and turned his face up to the sun, weak in these northern climes but still present, closed his pale green eyes, and prayed for guidance.
And patience. A very great deal of patience.
FOUR
It was a festival the likes of which Cairne had never seen in Orgrimmar, and he wasn’t altogether sure he liked it.
It was not that he did not wish to honor the soldiers who had fought so valiantly against the Lich King and his subjects. But he knew as well as others, and better than some, the cost of war on all fronts, and frowned a little to himself at the lavishness with which the veterans were received.
The parade, he had recently discovered, had been Garrosh’s idea. “Let the people see their heroes,” he had stated. “Let them march into Orgrimmar to the welcome they deserve!”
An unkinder soul than Cairne might have mentally amended, And make sure everyone knows that Garrosh Hellscream was responsible for the victory.
Still, Garrosh had insisted that everyone who had been involved with the campaign in Northrend be encouraged to participate. No one expected to see Forsaken or sin’dorei veterans in this parade, although they would not have been denied the right to march had they attended. They had their own concerns and had waged their own campaign in the northernmost continent of the world. No, this parade was mainly comprised of those who dwelt in the hot, dusty lands of Kalimdor—orcs, trolls, and tauren. And it looked to Cairne as if every one of those races who had raised a weapon or a curse against the Scourge had come. The line stretched all the way from the gates of Orgrimmar well past the zeppelin tower.
Scorning the softer traditional rose petals that the Alliance often used on such occasions, Horde workers had paved the road with pine branches that, when crushed underfoot, produced a pleasing scent. Durotar did not offer much in the way of pine branches, so Cairne knew that these had been shipped in from a great distance. He sighed deeply and shook his head at the extravagance.
Grom’s boy was at the head of the parade, the first at the gate when it opened, along with his Warsong Hold veterans. Cairne did not begrudge him the position—after all, Cairne had stayed behind in Kalimdor and Garrosh had gone to Northrend, as had all these brave warriors. And most of them were orcs, and this was orc territory. Still, it rankled him that most of the crowd kept pace with Garrosh, cheering him on, seeming to care little for the ranks of other military units who had fought just as hard, and in some cases had sacrificed even more bright young lives to the cause but who lacked a charismatic figurehead.
Thrall himself was standing outside Grommash Hold. He was clad in the instantly recognizable black plate armor that had once belonged to Orgrim Doomhammer, for whom Orgrimmar was named. In one giant green fist, the warchief of the Horde bore the massive Doomhammer itself. Thrall was an imposing figure whose legend preceded him at every turn, and on more than one occasion a battle had been won simply by his appearance on the field so clad.
Beside him, slightly stooped but still powerful for an orc in his late fifties, stood Eitrigg. Eitrigg had left the Horde after the Second War, in which his sons had been betrayed by fellow orcs and were killed in battle. Sickened by the corruption and waste he saw in the orcs, Eitrigg had felt his duty to his people was over. He had rejoined the Horde when Thrall had risen to command it and return the orcs to their shamanic roots. He was one of Thrall’s most valued and trusted advisors and had only just returned from aiding the Argent Crusade in Zul’Drak. In his arms, he bore an object wrapped in cloth.
Thrall’s bright blue eyes, rare among orcs, were fastened on the approaching line of warriors. Garrosh drew