Suddenly Gordawg growled. Not the way of the earth. Not right. Angry, frightened stone here. Something has made it so!
Thrall listened, barely breathing.
Something that was once right, but now is wrong. Mas of the world, but now is unnatural and dark. Was wounded, once, but now is healed in a way—but the healing also wrong. Is angry. Wants to make others wounded.
Will hurt the earth to do so. Must be stopped!
He stamped his foot, and the earth shook.
This… something, Thrall thought. It is in Azeroth?
Stone fears its coming. Not there, not yet. But stone is afraid. Poor stone. He lifted a hand and extended a finger, pointing it at Thrall. You hear cries of frightened stone. Of all the elements. These quakes of the earth, giant waves, fires—that is the elements telling you they are afraid. You must stop them from being wounded… maybe destroyed completely!
How do I do that? Please tell me!
Gordawg shook his enormous head. Gordawg not know. Perhaps other shaman who also hear the frightened stone might know. But I tell you this. I have tasted something like this fear before. Almost kind of fear I taste in the earth right before this world ripped to pieces. Is fear of being broken. Being shattered.
Gordawg turned and strode off. Thrall stared after him, shocked.
"He ate the stone you gave him," Aggra said, stepping up beside Thrall. "Was he able to help?"
"Yes," said Thrall, his voice a whisper. He cleared his throat, shook his head. "He told me that the stone was afraid. That all the elements are afraid. They know something dreadful is coming. Something that was once good and in harmony with the world, but now is unnatural. It's been hurt, and it burns with the desire to hurt other things."
He turned to her. "And one final thing. I have to go back to Azeroth. I don't think they would have helped me if I couldn't do something. I have to see if I can figure out what exactly the elements are so terrified of… and do all in my power to stop it. Because that stone was emitting a similar kind of terror to what Draenor felt before—"
"—before it was shattered," Aggra finished, her own eyes wide with fear. 'Yes, Go'el. Yes! We must not let such a cataclysm happen twice!"
Once the bloodlust and the thrill of victory over Cairne had passed—Cairne Bloodhoof, a legend, one of the great figures of the Horde's history in Azeroth—Garrosh was somewhat surprised to find himself dealing with mixed emotions.
Cairne had been the one to challenge him. Garrosh still wasn't exactly sure why. Cairne had hurled accusations about—something about some attack on druids somewhere. Garrosh had had no idea what he was talking about, but once that humiliating blow had been struck and Cairne had invoked the challenge, there had been no turning back. For either of them. The old bull had fought well. Garrosh would never admit it, but he had been worried that he might not survive the fight. But he had. Garrosh bore the blood of the tauren high chieftain on his hands, yes, but there was no guilt. It had been a fair fight, each combatant had been aware that only one would walk away alive, and honor had been satisfied.
And yet… while there was no guilt, Garrosh found there was regret. He had not disliked Cairne, although the two had clashed repeatedly over their beliefs in what was best for the Horde. It had been a shame that Cairne simply could not wrap his old - fashioned mind around what needed to be done.
After the wild celebrating of those who had been supporting Garrosh had died down and the night was moving toward dawn, Garrosh found himself back at the arena. Cairne's body had been removed almost immediately, to where, he did not know. He wasn't sure what the tauren did with their dead. Bury them, burn them?
There was still blood on the floor of the arena. Garrosh supposed someone would have to come clean it up. He would see to it on the morrow. For now, he was embarrassed that he had neglected the vital task of cleaning his blade for too long. Speaking of… where was—He looked around, becoming increasingly worried when he did not see the axe.
"Are you looking for Gorehowl?" The voice startled Garrosh. He turned to see one of the Kor'kron standing there, holding out his cherished axe and bowing. "We retrieved it and put it in a safe place until you wished it."
"My thanks," said Garrosh. He was a little uncomfortable with the nearly constant and yet often unnoticed presence of the elite unit of bodyguards. But he had to admit, they were handy at times like this. He was angry that he had allowed himself to be so carried away as to forget Gorehowl. It would not happen again. He waved the bodyguard away, and the Kor'kron bowed again and moved into the shadows, leaving Garrosh alone with the axe that had been his father's.
As he regarded the axe, and the blood on the arena where Cairne had fallen, he heard a voice behind him. An orc's—but not one of his bodyguards.
"This is a loss to the Horde, and I know you know it."
Garrosh turned to see Eitrigg sitting up in the stands. What was the old orc doing here? He couldn't remember seeing Eitrigg during the combat, but surely he had to have been present. Garrosh found he didn't remember much about the actual fight itself; it was no wonder that he hadn't been paying attention to who else was watching. He had been rather occupied at the time.
He debated chastising the other ore, but found he was strangely weary. "I do know it. But I had no choice. He challenged me."
"Many saw the challenge. I don't dispute that. But did you not notice how quickly he fell?"
Unease stirred in Garrosh. "I do not remember much. It was… fast, and heated."
Eitrigg nodded. Slowly, for Garrosh knew his joints pained him, Eitrigg rose and descended to the floor of the arena, speaking as he went. "It was. How many blows did you receive? How many did Cairne deal? Many. And yet he fell so quickly from just one."
"It was a good blow," Garrosh said, his voice sounding petulant in his own ears. Had it been? It had been right across the chest. Hadn't it? The bloodlust hazed everything—
"No." Eitrigg spoke bluntly. "It was a long but shallow cut. And yet he did not defend himself when the death strike came." By now Eitrigg stood beside him. "Do you not think that odd? I certainly did. And I am not alone in my observation. Cairne died far too quickly, Garrosh, and if you didn't notice it, others did. Others like me, and Vol'jin, who came to me just a short while ago. Others who wonder how it is that such a fine warrior fell with just a glancing blow."
Garrosh was starting to grow angry. "Out with it!" he growled. "What are you trying to say? Are you saving I did not win this fight fairly? Would I have let him give me these wounds had I been attempting to cheat?"
"No. I do not think you fought dishonorably. But I believe someone did." Eitrigg extended a gnarled finger and pointed at Gorehowl. "You received a shamanic blessing with sacred oil on your blade."
"So did Cairne. So does everyone who chooses to fight in the mak'gora," Garrosh said. "It's part of it. That is not dishonorable!" He was starting to raise his voice, and a strange emotion was churning inside him. Was it – fear?
"Look at the color of the oil," Eitrigg said. "It is black and sticky. No—in the ancestors' names, do not touch if!"
Most of the blade that had taken Cairne Bloodhoof s life was coated with dried blood. But in one small spot along the edge, Garrosh could now see a tacky - looking, black substance that did not in any way resemble the golden, glistening oil with which blades were usually anointed.
"Who blessed Gorehowl, Garrosh Hellscream? Who blessed the axe that slew Cairne Bloodhoof?" Eitrigg's voice held anger, but it was not directed at Garrosh.
A sick feeling twisted Garrosh's gut. "Magatha Grimtotem," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.