moonshadows

To Thrall, son of Durotan, Warchief of the Horde

My name is Kalika Ironheart, exile of the Dragonmaw clan. I regret that I cannot deliver my message to you in person, but I still have a debt to pay with my life. Since we will never meet, I must trust that Orgrim knew what he was doing when he chose you and try to answer all the questions you will have.

When the Dark Portal closed, three clans on this side remained free: mine, yours, and the Blackrocks who betrayed Doomhammer out of cowardice and selfish lust for power. They still cling to dark ways, Warchief. They have warlocks and consort with demons and, worse, they have allied with Deathwing. The Dragonmaw still lurk in the mountains between dwarven lands and the human kingdoms of the north, breeding red dragons from the captive dragon-queen to ride in battle. They have allied with the Blackrock, or they had over ten years ago, but I doubt much will come of that. My people are strong and fierce and unbothered by casual alliances that bring little benefit – they will only fly to Rend’s aid if he begs for help, which he will not do.

During the war, I flew on the back of the red dragon Varialstrasz. Afterwards, I was a courier between my clan and Blackrock Mountain. On one visit, the greatest of the Blackrock warlocks ensnared me with demonic magic and had his way while I could not resist. When I realized I was pregnant, I returned and killed him, and I pray to the ancestors who forsook us that I have killed his vile scheme as well. Now, I am sure, you wish to ask what I mean – particularly when my daughter arrives unaccompanied and unbowed by my death. I will put it to you plainly: Ryxl is a weapon, one I place in your hands because you are a shaman and you have not forgotten that our race was once more than a pack of butchers. I commanded Varialstrasz to fly me far to the south, past the human kingdom of Stormwind, and deep into the jungle. On the shore, by a village of Zandalari trolls, I freed him and resolved to live in exile rather than let the child I bore serve the honorless coward huddling in Blackrock Mountain. I tried to kill her in the womb many times, you see, rather than birth a dead warlock’s fel rape-child – but nothing worked. I am no shaman; of the spell that created her, I can only tell you what I have learned from my own actions and what has been told to me by the Zandalari elders. She is a weapon, Warchief, one meant for Rend’s black hand. I would have strangled her before her second sunrise, but the Zandalari elders suggested I find a new master for her instead. I left her in the nest of some wild raptors; their god put his mark on her and gave her back. I taught her everything I know, and the Zandalari elders taught her things I cannot comprehend. We have honed her, and I am sending her to you, but I beg you – if she does not lie quietly in your hand, if she is not an obedient weapon serving you with honor, kill her. I would not have my death, my exile, and the last third of my life be in vain.

I did horrible things under the Blood Curse, Warchief. We all did. I have raised my daughter, against my better judgment, in hopes that taking such a weapon away from Blackhand’s foul son and delivering it to you will help atone for my part in things.

Remember: she is not merely a warrior, although she is twice as old now as she was when she killed her first man. She is a weapon seeking a hand to wield her, a slave seeking a master, and if she does not serve you then she will become an enemy of the Horde.

I hope this letter finds you well. I hope my daughter serves you well. I hope the ancestors forgive me for what I have done.

Thrall put the letter aside, deeply troubled by its contents and wishing Grom or Orgrim were still alive to discuss it with. This orc woman, Kalika, had left behind her clan and her entire life on the conviction that the unborn child she carried had to be kept out of Rend’s hands. The strength of that conviction did not shake him, not after having seen Grom wrestle with his own bloodlust, but the implications did. A warrior created by demonic magic, blooded while still a child and tempered by mysterious trollish voodoo, a weapon seeking a hand if the letter was to be believed. The young Warchief rubbed his wrists, feeling the phantom pain of iron shackles. The talk of slaves and masters bothered him almost more than the implication of such a warrior answering to Blackhand’s son. He had no desire to hold the leash of a child whose only sin was being fathered by a warlock, especially knowing what that felt like from the other end.

A quiet word to an Elite standing outside sent him running, and Thrall paced the length of the room while he waited. Minutes later, a grizzled older warrior entered cautiously.

“How can I help, Warchief?”

Grunting, the younger orc passed the letter over and continued to pace while Saurfang read it. A low whistle heralded the older warrior reaching the end. “Thoughts?”

“The Dragonmaw were fierce warriors even before the Shadow Council,” Saurfang said slowly. “I remember Kalika. Even Blackhand hesitated to tangle with her. She was one of the first warriors on dragonback. For her to go into exile…” He shook his head slowly.

Thrall’s voice was a soft rumble. “And her child?”

The question hung in the air; Saurfang’s eyes dropped back to the letter. “Kalika would more likely underestimate a warrior. If she is urging her own daughter’s death should she misbehave…I would take her at her word.”

“I don’t like it,” growled the bigger orc.

Saurfang handed the letter back and watched as Thrall absently rolled it up as if by doing so, he could erase the message from existence. “I did many things I do not like,” he said quietly.

Still growling under his breath, Thrall place the tight roll on his desk and resumed pacing. “I was a slave almost my entire life. I will not treat her as a weapon, Saurfang. She deserves the freedom to choose her own path.”

Silence filled the room, broken only by the sounds of pacing. “What will you do, Thrall?”

The young Warchief stopped and sighed. “I will send her a letter of recommendation. If she wants to be a warrior of the Horde, she can go through the Valley of Trials like everyone else. If she does…I’ll watch her. It might not be necessary to act.”

“And if it is?”

The quiet question made Thrall’s heart twist painfully. “Then I’ll take care of it myself,” he said in a low growl.