Elder Rise they ignored. That was where Magatha had made her home until this night of nights, and she had left behind loyal subjects who had doubtless already executed every one of the hapless druids unlucky enough to have been present. The old boards of the bridges creaked slightly under the attackers’ weight as they crossed, but these bridges creaked even in the wind, and they had no worries of discovery.
Straight to their victims they ran, leaping atop the shaman who awakened only long enough to gasp and then die. Skychasers they were, a family—dead, down to the last one. There was no need to worry about the Forsaken in the Pools of Vision just below the main level of Spirit Rise. Most of them tacitly supported Magatha, and those who did not had no particular attachment to the tauren or who led them.
On to Hunter Rise.
These were more physically brutal battles. Quick to awaken and extremely strong and fit, the hunters put up a good fight. But they were no match for the Grimtotem, who had the element of surprise on their side, or, eventually, the poison on their blades. Soon enough, the rise was silent, and the assassins moved back to the heart of Thunder Bluff.
Those who posed the greatest threats to Elder Crone Magatha had been slain. It was now time to kill without specific need, to strike fear into the hearts of what tauren still remained. They needed to know that the rule of the Grimtotem would have no margin for error and no place for the gentler notions of forgiveness or compassion.
Thunder Bluff, like a child, would be rebirthed in blood.
“Wait,” said a Grimtotem shaman, holding up a hand. Although his given name was Jevan, others had taken to calling him Stormsong due to his affinity with the elements of air and water. While he led the party that had surrounded Bloodhoof Village, he had told those under his command that he would not utilize his formidable powers until the last moment. Now his second-in-command, Tarakor, was awaiting the signal to attack.
“Wait?” replied Tarakor, confused. “We have been given our orders, Stormsong. We attack!”
The shaman sniffed the air, his black ears twitching. “Something is not right. It is possible they have been alerted to our presence.”
Tarakor snorted. “Unlikely. We have trained for years for this night.”
Stormsong eyed him. “If we have our spies and ways of delivering messages, you may rest assured that Cairne did, too.”
The mission to Thunder Bluff had been extensive—to slaughter everyone who posed a threat to the matriarch. It was a long list, and many who embarked on that mission would not complete it. But there was only one goal here in Bloodhoof Village—only one who needed to die. But that one must die, or else the entire blood-soaked night would have been for nothing.
Baine Bloodhoof, Cairne Bloodhoof’s son and only heir, lived here, not with his father on Thunder Bluff.
The tauren now sleeping securely in their tents, or even on the earth underneath the moons’ light, were in peaceful ignorance of the fact that that their beloved chieftain had joined the ancestors. The Longwalkers who had witnessed the fight in Orgrimmar and planned to report to Baine had all been quickly, quietly dispatched ere they could do so. Magi and others who could get word to Thunder Bluff swiftly had been silently followed, watched carefully—or otherwise taken care of. The roads had been blocked. Magatha had planned well and left absolutely nothing to chance.
The village had been the first tauren settlement to be established on an open plain rather than on a protected mesa. It was evidence of how the tauren had become secure in a land that had once been so new to them.
It was indeed secure, from predators and attacks from other races.
It was not secure from the Grimtotem.
“If anyone was alerted as to Cairne’s untimely death in the arena, surely it would be his son,” said Stormsong. “A single messenger might have escaped our net. I will go ahead, quietly, and scout out the area to make sure we are not walking into a trap. If it is not safe, we will need to adjust our tactics. Do nothing until you hear from me, do you understand?”
Stormsong was of an age with Cairne, and like that late bull was still strong and sharp despite the gray starting to dot his black pelt. Tarakor shifted uneasily. He was younger, and hot-blooded, and had been dreaming of this night