User:Peregrine2976/Fanfiction/Scarab of the Sands/Part One

Rhonin leaned back in his chair and stifled a yawn. The dreams had kept him up again last night. Always they were of the same, always they were of sand…

“Elder Rhonin?”

The voice startled Rhonin back to reality. He waved his hand, indicating for the Orc before him to continue speaking. Drak’Kul continued speaking of mundane matters such as troop deployments and resource management, but Rhonin forced himself to pay attention. As the de facto leader of the Burned Banner Brotherhood, it was his duty to know these things.

When at last the tedious Orc had gone, Rhonin allowed himself a brief smile. He should count himself lucky to have the assistance of an Orc such as Drak’Kul in handling such matters. Rhonin himself would never have the head to handle it, and Drak’Kul was in many ways distinctly un-Orcish, with his slow, measured pacing, both mentally and physically, and his close, even tedious, attention to detail. He had seen Drak’Kul in battle, though, and knew he was as accomplished a warrior as his father had been. Drek’Thar had trained his son well.

Stretching, Rhonin stood and left his study. The charred black stone walls greeted him as they always did, with stony silence. Working his way through the twisting corridors of Blackrock Spire, he soon arrived at the feasting hall, where the assorted Elves, Humans, Orcs, Tauren, and every other race imaginable were being entertained by an Orc storyteller. As he glimpsed the Orc’s face and weapon, Rhonin had to grin. He knew this Orc well, and liked him. The Warchief of the Horde he was, the mighty Doomhammer swinging in his hand as he reenacted a legendary battle, Saurfang was indeed a fearsome sight.

Slipping into the room unnoticed, Rhonin chose a chair at the back and listened as the Orc regaled his audience with a tale that many would believe to be exaggerated. Rhonin knew better.

“…on and on they came, a swarm of black dragonkin, and drakes in the air above raining fire down on us. But we did not sway! We stood our ground, Thrall and I, Eitrigg on the right and Vol’Jin on the left! Thousand upon thousand they came, and thousand upon thousand they died! Four against tens of thousands, and we held our ground against the fury of the blacks! Eitrigg and I meeting foe with axes, Thrall with hammer and lightning, Vol’Jin with spear, they were no match!”

The Orc’s voice resonated throughout the room, the deep growling sound that naturally was an Orc’s voice only adding to the drama of his tale.

“And then, Vol’Jin’s foe got in a lucky thrust with a draconic sword! Before he could react, they were all over him, and the four became three, three against thousands.”

Glancing around, Rhonin saw that the faces of the listeners were rapt as they listened to this legendary Orcish warrior.

“Four came on Eitrigg at once, and he slew three before the fourth stabbed him through the heart with a spear! And the three became two, Thrall and I back to back, meeting our foes with hammer and axe, with might and magic, and thousand upon thousand they came and they died!”

Rhonin could not help himself – he found himself being caught up in the tale as much as everyone else. Saurfang was, surprisingly for a warrior of such skill and ferocity, also a master storyteller.

“And then, horror of horrors, I heard a bellow behind me, and, turning, beheld Thrall with a spear through his chest. He bellowed, he roared, but not with pain, nor fear, but with anger! And that blow, which would have slain any lesser, was but an inconvenience for the mighty Thrall! For minutes he fought on, though by rights he should have been dead, before he finally succumbed to the call of death.” Saurfang’s eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped and then rose dramatically. “And now… it was only I, Saurfang, one against hundreds! They came, and they died, and they came again, and they died again, a tide of blackness, but I held my ground, until to my demise, my axe shattered upon an upraised shield!”

The listeners groaned though it was clear that Saurfang had survived.

“Reaching out blindly for any weapon to defend myself with, my hands found the haft of a weapon, and lifting it, smashed it with all the force I could muster into my nearest foe! And drawing the weapon back, I saw I had picked up Thrall’s hammer, the Doomhammer, and with it in my hands I laid waste to the attackers until all were dead, all, and I still alive!”

The listeners cheered and clapped and stamped their feet.

Saurfang’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Four against tens of thousands, and four were victorious! Though the four were reduced to one, the thousands were reduced to none, and the mighty warriors, who died there, on that dark yet glorious day, live on in the Lok’vadnod of the Horde, in this tale, and in the hearts of myself, and all who hear my words!”

There was an outbreak of more applause and cheering, and for minutes the feasters applauded Saurfang, who stood with his head bowed, breathing deeply. Even from this distance, Rhonin thought he could see the tears in the old Orc’s eyes. <<< Prologue --- Part II >>>