World of Warcraft: The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm Page 0,84

for a long, long time. He did not want to wait another minute, but finally he nodded.

“You are the leader of the mission, Stormsong,” he said in a voice that clearly revealed his wish that it were otherwise. “I will obey. But make haste, eh? My blade is thirsty for Baine’s blood.”

“As is mine, friend, but I’d like to not shed my own if I can help it,” Stormsong said. The group of two dozen who had been assembled for tonight’s task chuckled quietly. “I will be back as soon as I can.”

Tarakor watched him go, moving quietly, his black hide swallowed by the shadows.

He waited.

And waited. And waited, shifting uneasily from one hoof to the next, his ears twitching with ever-increasing anxiety. Beside him his warriors also fidgeted impatiently. They were all hungry for battle, and this sudden imposed pause did not sit well with any of them. Tarakor did not know how long he stood, eyes straining to see in the dark, when finally something inside him snapped.

“He should have been back before now,” Tarakor growled. “Something has gone wrong. We can wait no longer. Grimtotem, attack! For the elder crone!”

Something had woken Baine Bloodhoof. He lay restless in his sleeping furs, an odd chill racing along his spine. A dream had come to him, one he could not recall, but that had unsettled him greatly. And so when he heard voices outside, he rose, threw on some clothing, and stepped out to find out what the problem was.

Two of the braves held another tauren between them. Even in the dim moonlight Baine recognized him.

“I know you,” he said. “You are one of Magatha’s people. What are you doing here this time of night?”

The other tauren was elderly, but there was nothing frail about him. He made no effort to resist the firm grip the braves had on him. Instead, he gave Baine a compassionate yet concerned look.

“I come to warn you, Baine Bloodhoof. Your father is dead, and you are to be next. You must leave, quickly and quietly.”

Pain shot through Baine, but he tamped it down. This was a Grimtotem. This had to be a trick.

“You lie,” he rumbled. “And I do not take kindly to jests about my father’s well-being. Tell me why you are really here, and perhaps I will overlook your poor taste in jokes.”

“No lie, Chieftain,” the Grimtotem insisted. “He fell in the arena against Garrosh Hellscream, whom he challenged in the mak’gora.”

“Now I know you lie. Thrall has forbidden such things. The mak’gora is no longer a duel to the death.”

“What was old is new again,” said Stormsong. “Cairne made the challenge, and Garrosh agreed—providing they fought under the old rules. It was indeed to the death.”

Baine froze. It was all indeed possible, from what he knew, both of his father and of Garrosh. He knew that his father had not approved of Thrall’s appointment of Garrosh—nor, truth be told, had Baine. He knew that both Hamuul Runetotem and Cairne thought it likely that Garrosh was behind the attacks on the Sentinels in Ashenvale. It was entirely like Cairne to have challenged Garrosh if he felt that the orc was a true danger to the well-being of the Horde. And entirely like Cairne to not back down if Garrosh decided to change the rules.

“My father would have won such a battle,” he said, his voice shaking slightly.

“He might well have,” the shaman agreed, “had not Magatha poisoned Garrosh’s weapon. She used her position as shaman to bless Gorehowl and coated its blade with poisoned oil. A single strike was all that was needed.” He said the words bitterly, angrily. “My pack—open it. There is sad proof within.”

Baine nodded at one of the braves. The tauren opened the pack they had taken from the Grimtotem, and his eyes widened. Baine felt a deep chill within. Slowly, the brave reached inside—and produced a small fragment of what looked to be little more than a broken stick.

Baine extended a hand, and the brave placed the splinter of the legendary runespear in Baine Bloodhoof’s palm. Trembling, he closed his fingers about it, feeling the runes, known and familiar, against his skin. He staggered. His powerful yet gentle father—whom he had envisioned either passing gloriously in battle or peacefully in his sleep—murdered by treachery …

Anger began to swell inside him as the Grimtotem continued. “Two dozen Grimtotem warriors are waiting just beyond the firelight to attack. I was to lead the mission myself. Instead, I come