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 devoid of delight for him that he was ready to relinquish his grasp upon it. Far from it. He had made the challenge—and accepted Garrosh's decision to return to the "old way"—because he needed to end Garrosh's arrogant, shortsighted, dangerous rule over the Horde Cairne loved so much. He planned to take Garrosh's place until Thrall returned to mete out whatever justice he saw fit. Cairne was ready to accept it.
He was under no illusion, however, that this would be an easily won battle. Garrosh was one of the best warriors the Horde had. But one - on - one combat was a different thing from battle, and Garrosh was impetuous. Cairne would fight in his own manner, and that manner would give him victory.
Over in his area of the huge arena, Garrosh was preparing. Per the ritual rules of the mak'gora, he was naked save for a loincloth, and his brown body had been oiled till it shone. He cut a striking figure of orcish power, muscular and proud, warming up for the fight with the mighty axe that had slain Mannoroth. It, too, had been oiled, and glinted darkly.
Cairne would be fighting with the weapon of his lineage—the runespear. He, too, had stripped to a loincloth. If his fur was slightly gray with age, it was still sleek and thick, shiny with the anointing oil. Beneath his pelt was solid muscle. His joints might ache in the rain or snow from time to time, and his eyes might strain to see, but he had lost none of his strength and little of his speed. He now hefted the runespear, offering it to each of the four directions and elements, thumping his chest with the hand that clasped the spear to salute the Spirit of Life within himself and all other beings, and then turned to Beram Skychaser for his blessing.
Just as the bodies of the warriors were anointed with oil for their battle, so, too, were the weapons. Beram murmured something softly, dipped a finger in the vial of holy oil, and then gently smeared the glistening liquid onto the spear tip.
"I am saddened it has come to this," he said quietly, for Cairne's ears alone. "But as it has, I know that your cause is the just one, Cairne Bloodhoof. May your spear strike straight and true."
Cairne bowed deeply, humbly, his thick, powerful fingers curled tightly around the shaft of the spear. Twenty generations of Bloodhoof chieftains had wielded this runespear in battle, as he was about to do. It had tasted the blood of many noble enemies, and indeed had always struck straight and true. For a moment he allowed his gaze to linger on the runes. He had carved most of his own story into it some time ago, as was the tradition. But there was still much left to tell. He promised himself that when this battle was over and things had settled down a bit, he would take the time to finish his story.
"Old bull!" came Garrosh's taunting voice. "Are you going to stand there all night lost in thought? I thought you had come to kill me, not stare at an old spear."
Cairne sighed. "Your words are borne upon the winds of fate, Garrosh Hellscream. They will be among your last. I would choose them with more care."
"Pagh!" Garrosh spat. He picked up Gorehowl, bowing to the shaman who had blessed—
Cairne's eyes narrowed as he strained to see at this distance. It was a tauren shaman who had blessed Garrosh's weapon with words of ritual and sacred oil. That surprised and pained Cairne, who had assumed another orc would perform that rite. It was a female, black - coated….
"Magatha," he breathed. She was a powerful shaman, but so was Beram. While her blessing would help Garrosh, Beram Skychaser's blessing would help Cairne. She had to know that; it was a gesture, nothing more. All she had done was, finally, openly state where her loyalties lay.
Cairne nodded to himself, confident now more than ever of the tightness of his path. This challenge really did need to happen, before more fell under Garrosh's spell. At least Magatha now had shown her true colors. He would have to address the disloyally; he had no choice now. The Grimtotem would need to be banished from Thunder Bluff, unless they finally chose to swear allegiance to the Horde. It had become a necessity, not a desire.
Magatha looked up. Cairne could not see her expression, but he imagined she was smirking. He allowed himself a quiet smile. She had chosen the wrong combatant to support.
He turned to regard his opponent.
Garrosh balanced on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight lightly, hand wrapped around the hilt of the axe, his golden - brown eyes alight with excitement.
Earth Mother, guide my blows. You know that I fight for more than myself.
Cairne threw back his head, opened his mouth, and uttered the deep, wordless bellow of the challenge to the traditional mak'gora. For his part, Garrosh responded by uttering an earsplitting shriek that was almost as loud as the cry of his father, and, as Cairne had expected, charged at once.
Cairne stood his ground, letting the youth run toward him, axe aloft. Garrosh whirled the mighty Gorehowl over his head. Cairne knew that the grooves in the axe head would cause it to make the shrieking sound that had given it its name. It was a sound that had struck fear into the hearts of Grom Hellscream's enemies, but Cairne was unmoved by it. At the last moment, with a grace that belied his bulk, the tauren moved aside and let Garrosh's own speed propel him harmlessly past. The orc tried to halt his forward movement and almost succeeded, but not before Cairne had brought up the spear and plunged it into Garrosh's right bicep.
Garrosh cried out in surprise, affront, and pain. His grip on the weapon loosened. Cairne lowered his horned head and rammed it into the wound, knocking Garrosh off his feet and causing him to nearly lose his grip on Gorehowl. If he had, all would have been lost for the ore. Once a weapon was dropped, the rules clearly stated that it could not be retrieved by either party.
Cairne raised the runespear and plunged it straight down. Garrosh rolled to the side at the last minute. The spear sliced a furrow down the orc’s side and embedded itself into the earth of the arena. Cairne lost a precious second wresting it free, and by then Garrosh was on his feet. Garrosh, the most highly acclaimed warrior of the Horde, had nearly lost his weapon, and Cairne had drawn first blood.
"Well played, old bull," Garrosh said, panting just a little. "I admit, I underestimated your speed. It would seem that it's just your wits that are slow."
"Your jeers were not that clever to begin with, and less so now, son of Hellscream," Cairne replied, never taking his eyes off his opponent. "Save your breath for battle, and I will save mine to speak well of you at your funeral.”
It was almost too easy to enrage Garrosh, Cairne thought. The orc’s heavy brow furrowed in offense, and with a growl he charged. He swung Gorehowl skillfully, and Cairne felt the rush of air and heard the weapon's angry song as he barely dodged the blow. Garrosh was not a fool; he learned from his mistakes. He would not underestimate Cairne a second time.
Cairne lowered his head, pawing the earth with his right hoof, and charged. Garrosh shrieked a war cry and lifted his axe to slice the bull in the throat. At the very last instant, however, Cairne halted, veered to the left, and thrust outward with his spear toward Garrosh's exposed torso. Garrosh's eyes widened. He had just enough time to turn slightly so that his right shoulder met the spear's bite instead of his chest. The blow was dangerous, but not the killing blow it would have been otherwise. Even so, with a wound to his right bicep and now to that same shoulder, Garrosh's arm was badly weakened.
Garrosh cried out, in pain and in fury, his free hand clapping over the wound while his other hand clutched Gorehowl. Cairne pulled the spear free and felt the faintest twinge of pity. Garrosh's death would be a loss to the Horde—of a fine warrior, if nothing else. If only Thrall had not appointed the younger orc leader! This tragic necessity could have been so easily avoided.