Cycle of Hatred

Nine

For many years, Rexxar, last of the Mok'Nathal Clan, walked the continent of Kalimdor alone, save for the company of the big brown bear, Misha. Born of orc and ogre blood both, as most of his now—defunct clan, he had grown weary of the squabbling and ruthlessness and endless war that characterized what was laughingly referred to as civilization. In truth, Rexxar found more civilization in Misha's fellow bears or the wolves of Winterspring than in any of the human, dwarven, elven, or troll cities that marred the landscape.

No, Rexxar preferred to wander, living off the land, and being answerable to none. If he ever felt the urge to call a place home, he knew that he had one in Durotar. During the founding of the orc nation, Rexxar had come to the aid of a dying orc who was charged with bringing a message to Thrall. Granting the warrior his final wish, Rexxar had brought Thrall the report, and found himself amid orcs who had gone back to the old ways, before Gul'dan and his Shadow Council destroyed a once—great people.

But, though Rexxar was honored to call Thrall a comrade and swear fealty to him, and was happy to fulfill that oath by aiding the orcs against Admiral Proudmoore's treachery, among other services, in the end, Rexxar preferred to wander. Even as great a nation as Durotar had towns and settlements and order. Rexxar was built for the chaos of the wild.

Without warning, Misha broke into a run.

Hesitating for but a second, Rexxar followed his companion. He couldn't hope to keep up with the four—legged animal's loping gait, of course, but the half—breed's powerful legs were enough to keep him within sight of her. Misha wouldn't bolt from her companion's side without good reason.

They were in a region near the coast, filled with high grass. Though lesser beings might have found the terrain difficult to cross, Rexxar and Misha had sufficient strength to bend the grasses to their will.

It was only a minute later that Misha came to a halt, her snout invisible as it dipped into the shoulder—high blades. Rexxar slowed down and put his hand to the hilt of one of the axes strapped to his back.

What he found—what Misha had scented—was the body of a full—blooded orc. Rexxar knew this because a considerable amount of its blood had been shed.

His hands falling to his side, Rexxar shook his head. "A fallen warrior. It is only a pity that he died alone, without comrades to aid him in battle."

Before the half—breed wanderer could contemplate putting the brave orc's soul to rest, he heard a whisper.

"Not…dead…yet…"

Misha made a yowling noise, as if surprised that the orc could speak. Peering down closely at what he had believed to be a corpse, Rexxar saw that the orc had lost an eye. The dead socket was healed over, so the wound had not been inflicted by the same hand—or hands—that had brought him to the brink now.

"Burning…Blade…must…get…to…Orgrimmar. Thrall…warned. Burning…Blade…"

Rexxar knew not what was so important about a blade that burned, but this warrior was obviously clinging to life only because he had yet to provide the necessary intelligence to Thrall. Recalling the oath he had sworn to the Warchief, Rexxar asked, "What is your name?"

"By—Byrok."

"Fear not, noble Byrok. I am Rexxar of the Mok'Nathal, and I swear to you that Misha and I will see you brought to Orgrimmar to deliver your warning to the Warchief."

"Rexxar…you…are known…to me…We…must…make haste…"

The half—breed could not say the same of this Byrok, but it mattered not. With a gentleness he rarely had cause to employ, he lifted Byrok's bleeding form and lay him across Misha's expansive back. The bear bore the weight with no protest—though they had sworn no actual oath, the bond between Rexxar and Misha was unbreakable. If Rexxar desired it, Misha would do it.

Without another word, they turned westward toward Orgrimmar.

The first time Rexxar came to Orgrimmar, it was still being built. Around him had been many dozens of orcs building structures, clearing pathways, and transforming the harsh wilderness of Kalimdor into a home.

Upon his return now, that work had been done, but there were still many dozens of orcs visible through the gates, engaged in the day—to—day business of life. Though he had little use for civilization, Rexxar did feel pride and joy in what he saw. Since coming to this world, his mother's people had either been cursed tools of Gul'dan's demonic masters or broken slaves of their human enemies. If orcs were to live in this world, better it be on their own terms.

Surrounded on three sides by hills, a massive stone wall had been built on the city's fourth side. Reinforced with giant wooden logs, the wall was broken only by a large wooden gate, currently open, and two wooden watchtowers. Atop the wall were more logs, sharpened to a point to discourage enemies from storming the gates, and poles with pointed ends. The crimson flag of the Horde hung from both towers and from some of the poles.

It was, Rexxar thought, a fearsome sight, fitting for the home of the mightiest warriors in the world.

A guard wielding a spear approached from the gate. "Who goes there?"

"I am Rexxar, last son of the Mok'Nathal. I bear Byrok, who has been injured, and carries a message for Warchief Thrall."

The guard scowled, then looked up at one of the watchtowers. The warrior stationed there yelled down, "It's all right, I remember that one—and his bear. Know that wolf's—head mask anywhere. He's a friend to the Warchief. Let him in!" Rexxar wore the hollowed—out head of a wolf he had slain on his crown. It served as protection for his head and an image of fear for his enemies.

Satisfied with that, the guard stepped aside, allowing Rexxar, Misha, and the bear's burden to enter Orgrimmar.

The orc city was built within a huge ravine, with traditional hexagonal structures built into the sides of the ravine as well as the recesses. As he walked through the Valley of Honor, where the gate was built, toward the Valley of Wisdom, where Thrall's throne room was housed, Rexxar was both fascinated and appalled. The former because the orcs had come so far in a mere three summers. The latter because it was yet another city in a world that had too many of them already.

When he was about halfway to the Valley of Wisdom, he was met by the familiar site of a medium—height orc: Nazgrel, the head of Thrall's security, along with four of his guards. "Greetings, last son of the Mok'Nathal. It has been far too long."

Out of respect, Rexxar removed his headgear. "Since seeing you, Nazgrel, yes—since being in the city, no. But I did swear an oath to Thrall, and I would not leave this noble warrior to die in the grass."

Nazgrel nodded. "We have come to escort you to him—and the shaman has been summoned as well, to tend to Byrok. We've also come to relieve Misha of her burden." At a gesture from Nazgrel, two of the guards lifted the bleeding form of Byrok from Misha's back. At first, the bear started a growl, but at a look from Rexxar, she backed down.

They proceeded through the long and winding roads of Orgrimmar to the large hexagonal building at the far side of the Valley of Wisdom. Thrall was waiting for him in the throne room, which Rexxar found to be as cold as Frostsaber Rock. Thrall sat on his throne, with the wizened shaman Kalthar standing on one side of the throne, and an orc Rexxar did not know on the other. When the guards had placed Byrok on the floor in front of the throne, Kalthar moved to kneel at the warrior's side.

Shivering slightly, Rexxar saluted the Warchief. "I bid you greetings, Warchief of the Horde."

Thrall smiled. "It is very good to see you again, my friend—I only wish it would not take one of my people being beaten to near—death to bring you back to Orgrimmar's gates."

"It is not my way to live among city—dwellers, Warchief—as you well know."

"Indeed, I do. Still, you have again done us a great service." He turned to the shaman. "How is he?"

"He will survive—he is a strong one. And he wishes to speak."

"Can he?" Thrall asked.

Kalthar sniffed. "Not well, but I doubt he will allow me to treat him properly until he does."

"I must…sit up…Help me, shaman." That was Byrok. He sounded stronger than he had in the grasses, but not by much.

With a huge sigh, the wizened orc gestured to Nazgrel's guards, who helped Byrok into a sitting position.

Hesitatingly, pausing many times for breath, Byrok spoke of what happened to him. Rexxar knew nothing of the Burning Blade, but the others did, apparently—it was an old orc clan.

"This can't be the same thing," the orc Rexxar did not know said.

"It does seem unlikely, it's true, Burx," Thrall said, "but if their symbol is the same—"

Burx shook his head. "It could be a coincidence, but I don't buy that. Besides, I've been hearing rumors about a human cult that's been building up in Theramore. They're called the Flaming Sword. It might be that one of them had some of our people as slaves, learned of the symbol that way, and took it for their own use."

Nazgrel nodded. "I've heard some of those rumors as well, Warchief."

"With respect," Kalthar said, "I must treat this man. He has discharged his duty, now I must take him from this ridiculously cold throne room and heal him."

"Of course." Thrall nodded, and, at the old shaman's direction, the guards took Byrok out of the throne room.

Thrall then got up from his animal—skin throne and started to pace. "What do you know of this Flaming Sword, Nazgrel?"

Nazgrel shrugged. "Very little—humans gathering in their homes to talk about things."

Burx sneered. "Sitting and talking are things the humans do quite well."

"But if they are brash enough to attack an orc within Durotar's borders," Nazgrel added, "then they've become a lot more powerful than we thought."

"We've got to respond," Burx said. "It's only a matter of time before the humans attack us."

Rexxar thought this extreme. "You would condemn an entire species on the actions of six of them?"

"They'd do the same to us in a heartbeat," Burx said. "And unless these are the same six who stole our trees, and who stood around and did nothing while orc traders were attacked, then it is very much more than six people."

Thrall turned to face Burx. "Theramore is our ally, Burx. Jaina would not allow such a thing to gain power."

"She may not have any control over this," Nazgrel said. "For all her power, for all she has earned our respect, she is but one human female."

Rexxar remembered Jaina Proudmoore as the only honorable human he'd ever met. When faced with a choice between siding with her father, her very flesh and blood, and honoring a promise to an orc, she chose the latter. That choice saved Durotar from being destroyed before it was finished. "The Lady Proudmoore," he said, "will do what is right."

Shaking his head, Burx said, "Your confidence is touching, Mok'Nathal, but misplaced. Do you really think that a woman can change decades of human evil? They fought us and killed us and enslaved us! Do you think that will change just because one person says so?"

"The orcs changed because one person said so," Rexxar said quietly. "That person stands before you now as Warchief. Do you doubt him?"

At that, Burx backed down. "Of course not. But—"

Thrall, however, had obviously made his decision. He sat back down on the throne, refusing to let Burx finish. "I know what Jaina is capable of, and I know her heart. She will not betray us, and if there are vipers in her midst, both the Horde and the most powerful wizard on the continent will deal with it together. When she has finished with the thunder lizards, I will speak to her of this Flaming Sword." He turned and looked right at Burx. "What we will not do is go back on our word to the humans and attack. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Warchief."