automatically to touch his cheek, then hissed and pulled his hand away. The orc seemed almost confused for a moment, and then anger descended visibly upon him.
“You challenge me then, old bull?”
“Did I not make myself clear? Perhaps I ought to try again. I challenge you to a duel of honor, Garrosh. I challenge you to a mak’gora.”
Garrosh sneered. “The mak’gora has been weakened. Watered down. Since Thrall’s decree, it has become nothing more than a show. You want to fight me? Then fight me truly. I am in charge of the Horde now, and I say I will accept your challenge of the mak’gora—the old mak’gora. The way it once was, with all the old rules. All of them.”
Cairne’s eyes narrowed. “To the death, then?”
Garrosh grinned. “To the death. Perhaps now you will apologize.”
Cairne stared for a moment longer, then threw back his head and laughed. That caught Garrosh by surprise.
“If you ask me to fight under the old rules, son of Hellscream, then know that you have done nothing but unfetter my hands. I sought only to teach you a lesson. I will regret depriving the Horde of such a fine warrior, but you cannot be allowed to destroy everything Thrall has worked for. To undermine the sacrifices the honored dead have made. All in the name of your own personal glory. I will not have it, do you hear me? I repeat my challenge. The mak’gora—the traditional way. To the death!”
“I accept,” Garrosh snarled, but there was the briefest moment of hesitation. “With pleasure. I used to feel sorry for you, but not anymore. It is time that the Horde was rid of old parasites like you, hanging on by the grace of those who actually went and fought and died in battle.”
“It is time the Horde was rid of a young, arrogant fool like you, Garrosh,” Cairne replied, unperturbed. “I regret the necessity of doing so. But I must. In truth, I am glad you have pushed for the traditional way. You have killed innocents, and you are planning nothing less than killing any hope for peace. I cannot permit this to continue.”
Garrosh was laughing now, dabbing gingerly at his chin, then bringing his bloodied fingers up to his mouth and licking at them gently. The movement had to have been exquisitely painful, but he had recovered and gave no sign of the torment he had to be enduring.
“You know what you need, of course.”
Garrosh hesitated.
“What weapon? What garb to wear? How many witnesses?” asked Cairne.
When Garrosh, his cheeks darkening in embarrassment, shook his head, Cairne snorted. “You call for a traditional fight, yet I, a tauren, understand your orcish traditions better than you!”
“You are caught up in details,” growled Garrosh. “Whatever you wish I will do. Only let us begin this fight!”
Cairne regarded the orc with contempt, then shook his head and composed himself. “We each may select one weapon. A shaman of our own choosing is permitted to bless it. No armor—no clothing, indeed, save a loincloth. And we must each have at least one witness.” He smiled bitterly. “I daresay we will have more than that.”
Garrosh nodded curtly, recovering. “I will follow all these rules.”
“In the arena. One hour.” Cairne turned to go. At the doorway he paused. “Make what arrangements you may, Garrosh Hellscream. Do not fear that I will desecrate your body. In death, I will give you the honor you should have earned yourself in life.” He inclined his head.
Garrosh’s laughter followed him as he marched out.
One hour later the arena was packed. Torches and braziers were lit, providing light and stifling warmth. Word had spread just as the fires had before Thrall’s departure, and it was clear that sides had been chosen. Some came to sit in support of Cairne; others—many others—came to cheer on Garrosh.
Cairne looked up, straining to recognize faces with his aged eyes. Most of those on his side of the stands were tauren, not unexpectedly. There were a few of other races, too, but one thing tended to stand out about them—they were older. He could not see far enough to distinguish individuals on Garrosh’s side, but he could see clearly in the orange light that, mixed among the green, purple, gray, and pink skins of orc, troll, Forsaken, and blood elf, were the black and brown and white coats of tauren.
Cairne sighed. He believed he could win this fight, or else he would not have issued the mak’gora. Life was not so pale and