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BLIZZARD ENTERTAINMENT

Glory
by Evelyn Fredericksen

The blacksmith wiped ichor off my sword, eyed the blade, and tossed it into the pile at
his feet. "Too damaged. Get another," he grunted, pointing to the rack of weapons behind
him. "Next!"

New blade in hand, I rechecked my armor. Scarred, but sound. More than enough for the
coming battle.

I was looking over my wolf when the order came: "Gakarah ma!"

Eagerly we soldiers formed ranks for our commander, Saurfang the Younger. Behind
him stretched the towering shadow of Angrathar the Wrath Gate. He didn't even seem to
notice. I'd never met a braver orc. From what I'd seen so far, he was truly his father's
son, brown skin or not.

"Some of you rode here with me from Azjol-Nerub, where we pitted our strength against
the rotting spider-folk. For those of you who missed it, we smashed our way into their
precious kingdom and blocked off their tunnels into the Dragonblight." He gave us a
slow and savage grin. "Arthas won't be getting any reinforcements from them today."

We cheered, and the wind shifted, bringing with it the stench of decay. As if the Forsaken
here weren't bad enough. I'd never understand why they'd been allowed to join the
Horde. They might hate the Scourge, but they were still undead. Worse, they were
traitors: they'd served the Alliance in life. If the Forsaken could change allegiance once,
they could do it again.

"And the Alliance has held up its end of the agreement," Saurfang went on. "Our scouts
have just confirmed that Naxxramas too has been cut off." He raised a gauntleted hand to
silence our jeers. "Yes, Naxxramas was probably the smaller task. That was why I asked
to take on Azjol-Nerub. It was only right for the Horde to claim the greater challenge and
the honor that comes with it. Even so," and he chuckled, "clearly the pinkskins' pride
was stung. They must have set their feet on fire, racing to beat us here."
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A guttural war cry behind him drew his attention. Drawing his axe, he turned at last to
watch the battle playing out below us. His vantage point was better than mine, but I
heard a loud metallic clanking and then an unearthly roar.

He reacted immediately. "Rise up, sons of the Horde!" he shouted, and turned to face us
again. "Blood and glory await us!"

Whatever he'd seen, it meant trouble for the reckless humans. We ran to our wolves and
mounted up.

"Lok-tar ogar!" Saurfang cried as he led us down the hill.

"For the Horde!" we thundered back in answer.

He charged deep into the fray, heading for the humans' general. The rest of us spread out
and aided the Alliance forces where necessary. They were fools to have started this fight
without us. They'd seen little of war, and for the past six years we had been at "peace".
They were soft, and they were smugly certain they could win the day. It hadn't occurred
to them that they might lose. They didn't really understand loss, not as we orcs do.

I jumped off my wolf and launched myself at a ghoul. Severed its head, shrugged off the
clutch of its rotting hands. Another undead reached for me, this one a skeleton in rags.
Then there was another, and another after that. So many. The next one spotted my
approach, and her expression changed to fear and anger. One of the Forsaken. I barely
managed to halt my blade. "Out of the way!" I rasped, and thrust her aside impatiently.

After that, I let the familiar surge of bloodlust overcome me. My sword became my
world: I couldn't see anything beyond it.

The elders say we were a peaceful race before we came to Azeroth. Our clans kept
mostly to themselves. They hunted game, planted crops, raised families, and lived in
harmony with the elements.

When I was a child, I wondered what Draenor must have been like. I tried to imagine
these strange orcs who had a world of their own, a freedom I've never known. The few
times I managed to picture such creatures, I despised them. They hadn't deserved their
world, just as humans did not deserve Azeroth.

All too soon the Horde won the day, and Angrathar was ours. Yet the biggest task still lay
ahead. The brash human general taunted Arthas and drew him out of Icecrown to
confront us. Behind his spiked helm, the Lich King's eyes blazed a chilling blue. He
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threatened to teach us the true meaning of fear, and as he spoke, new undead clawed
their way out of the ground.

But our bold leader had grown weary of fighting Arthas' minions. "Enough talk! Let it be
finished!" He ran forward, axe raised.

The Lich King's glowing runeblade met Saurfang's axe, and the axe shattered like ice,
pieces of metal flying outward. By the time Saurfang's back hit the ground, he was dead.
Killed in one blow. Impossible. I stared in numb horror while Frostmourne devoured my
commander's soul.

Again the human general blustered: "You will pay for all the lives you've stolen, traitor."

Arthas' reply was interrupted by an explosive crash and screams. I looked around. A
cloud of yellow-green mist was rising in the middle of the battlefield, some distance
away. Hard to see what was happening.

Malicious laughter drew my eyes upward. Silhouetted against the bright gray sky, a
robed figure stood on the crags to one side of the Wrath Gate. "Did you think we had
forgotten?" he called. "Did you think we had forgiven?" Catapults rolled into position on
either side of him. "Behold now the terrible vengeance of the Forsaken! Death to the
Scourge! And death to the living!"

They had betrayed us. Curse them and their monstrous queen.

Too late, Horde and Alliance forces tried to scatter. We were packed tightly together, and
the catapults were already firing their payload: barrels that exploded on impact and
released more of the noxious-looking mist. Anyone close enough to the blasts died
instantly. Others doubled over, choking, retching, clawing at their eyes, crying out in vain
for aid.

After the Third War, we could have defeated the humans once and for all. Instead, Thrall
spoke of mercy. As if the humans had ever shown us mercy. I was born in their
internment camps; they were pits of filth and despair. We were meant to die there. What
would the warchief know of our suffering, the famous gladiator, the human pet? Nothing.
He talked us into this. Allying with humans time and again. Bowing to their demands.
Starving to death in nearly barren lands, surrounded by plenty. It was the internment
camps all over again. Humans were too cowardly to exterminate us outright, but they
intended to wipe us out all the same.

With this deadly mist, it seemed they might finally succeed. My eyes burned, and my
throat was closing up. Suddenly my legs failed me, and I found myself on my knees. This
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was no heroic end, no glorious destiny. I'd known all along that humans, alive or undead,
couldn't be trusted. I didn't deserve this.

I could taste my own blood. Then there was only darkness and the sound of my heart as
it beat its last.

Where are all your words now, Warchief?