His brief hesitation enabled Garrosh to, almost impossibly, heft the two - handed axe with his badly wounded arm. Quickly Cairne grasped the runespear with both hands, holding it up to block the blow. Strong and sturdy, the ancient weapon had witnessed countless battles, and Cairne had used it to block in such a manner before.
Gorehowl shrieked its eerie cry as it descended.
The runespear—the weapon of twenty generations, the pride of the Bloodhoof, which had slain so many and defended the tauren people so well—shattered into pieces.
Its force slowed but not stopped, Gorehowl bit into Cairne's chest, slicing a shallow groove in his fur and flesh, continuing onward to cut his arm. The strike was only a flesh wound; the spear had stayed the worst of the Cairne recovered from the horror of seeing the ancestral weapon destroyed. He was not yet done. His hand tightened around the lower third of the spear. Its single tooth could still bite. Garrosh was still fighting, but he was badly wounded. The blow that had shattered the runespear had drained him, and he would not last much longer. And one good thrust with the remnants of the spear would— Cairne blinked. His vision was blurring. Had he gotten dust or sweat or blood in his eyes? He took a precious second to wipe the back of his hand across his eyes, but it aided nothing. His hand shook as he lowered it. And his legs… they felt weak….
Stunned, he stared at Garrosh. The orc was sweating profusely and breathing hard. As Cairne watched, Garrosh gripped the axe and met Cairne's gaze evenly. Cairne clutched his own weapon. It weaved in his hands. It felt so strangely heavy—
And then he knew exactly what had happened to him.
And so, I, who have lived my whole life with honor, die betrayed.
He could not even cry out with his last breath to accuse his murderer. It was through an act of sheer will that he was able to even hold on to the shattered spear so that he would not be struck down unarmed.
Garrosh's eyes narrowed as he beheld the furrow he had carved in Cairne's chest and the pieces of the runespear lying on the earth. For a moment surprise flitted across his features, then he set his jaw in determination. He began running toward his opponent, lifting Gorehowl in both hands and bringing it down. Unable to deflect the blow or move out of its path, his life fading with every heartbeat, Cairne Bloodhoof, high chieftain of the tauren, mutely watched it descend.
Twenty two
Magatha watched from a distance, her calm visage betraying nothing of her increasing excitement. The two warriors were well - matched, though very different in all aspects. Cairne had strength, wisdom, patience, and experience; Garrosh had energy, the fire of youth, and speed. The simmering cauldron of conflict between the old and the new had reached a boiling point tonight. Only one would walk away, and the victor would dictate the future of the Horde. All present knew that they were bearing witness to history, and Magatha observed as emotions ran the gamut from horror and shock to enthusiasm and delight.
It was a fierce battle, closer than anyone had expected.
Anyone, of course, except Magatha.
She had been waiting for the opportunity for years, and like a leaf that had slowly and unexpectedly drifted down from the tree into her lap, it had finally come. Her spies in Orgrimmar had been able to reach her in time for her to travel from Thunder Bluff to the arena, and it had been ease itself to offer her services as shaman for the ritual blessing of the weapon.
Earlier, when Garrosh and several of the Kor'kron were in a private area below the main seating level, she had requested and been given permission to see him. "I told you once before, Garrosh Hellscream, that I suspected you were just what the Horde needed when it needed it. And that if the time was right, I would give you my support and that of the Grimtotem tribe. Let me bless your weapon in preparation for its trials today."
Garrosh had eyed her. "You would turn against Cairne? A fellow tauren?"
Magatha had shrugged. "I want to do what is best for my people. I believe that is following you, Garrosh Hellscream."
He nodded. "That makes sense, and marks you as a wise leader of your tribe. The future lies with me, not with an old bull, hero though he might have been once." His brows had knotted for a moment. "I… do respect him. I would rather not be the instrument of his death, but he was the one who called for the challenge, and he has insulted my honor."
"Indeed he has," said Magatha. "That blow that staggered you so… Everyone is speaking of it. Shameful. It cannot stand unavenged."
Garrosh had growled softly, and his face, where it was not tattooed black, flushed with anger and embarrassment. Magatha kept her expression neutral, but inwardly she smiled. This was almost too easy.
"So, will you accept my blessing of your blade and the support of my Grimtotem?"
He eyed her up and down for a moment, then nodded. "Let all who see know of your decision, then, Elder Crone. You may bless my blade before the fight begins."
Shortly afterward, in full view of the crowd, he had offered up Gorehowl. Magatha could barely suppress her excitement as she intoned the ritual blessing, removed the stopper from the vial that had been prepared for her scant minutes earlier, and dropped three drops of oil on the blade. Tradition demanded that she use her hands to apply the oil. She did not. Garrosh did not know the difference.
Nor did he know how he was being used by her. Which was good—the orc would have slain her on the spot had he known what she had planned. Had he known his oh - so - precious Gorehowl was slicked with poison.
Yes, she mused as she watched Cairne suddenly stumble and blink a few seconds after Gorehowl shattered the ancient runespear into bits and sliced into the tauren's chest and arm. Almost too easy. But so much else I have striven for has been too hard. It is the balance.
Garrosh seized the opportunity. Gorehowl shrieked as the orc whirled it over his head before bringing it down for the final blow. The blade bit deep at the juncture between head and shoulder, cutting through muscle and flesh. Blood spurted from the severed artery, and the mighty Cairne Bloodhoof s legs buckled, then collapsed. He was dead by the time his torso struck the floor. Thunderous applause mixed with gasps and sobs filled the arena.
Thus ends one era. With his death, a new one is birthed.
Cairne's loyal followers rushed into the ring, grieving. They lifted the body of their fallen leader. Magatha knew what everyone expected would happen now. They would ritually bathe it, washing away the dirt and blood and sweat and oil, then prepare it for cremation by wrapping it in a ceremonial blanket. There would be a long, mournful walk back to Thunder Bluff from Orgrimmar, so that all could pay their respects before the body was burned, the ashes offered to the winds and rivers, to become one with the Earth Mother and Sky Father.
And those expectations, however false they would prove to be, would give her the opportunity for which she had hungered so long.
She turned to one of her apprentices and whispered in Taur - ahe, "Now. Send the word now. Cairne has finally fallen. Tonight the reign of the Grimtotem begins."
The moon was full over Thunder Bluff, the night clear and cloudless. The tauren were mostly diurnal, and while some activity of some sort was going on at all times, day or night, at this hour of the early morning it was mostly still. The wind wafted the smoke of a few fires upward to the star - filled skies. In their tents, the tauren drowsed.
The Grimtotem moved, shadowlike and stealthy, black blots of ink against the moon - silvered night. Some of them arrived in Thunder Bluff on wyvern back, the beasts' wings almost as silent as the still night air. Some of them walked, avoiding the lifts and instead climbing the sheer bluff with deadly intent and a grace that belied their bulk. They had been in position for years awaiting this call and had leaped into action within seconds of their notification.