From our series of guild lore, the conclusion to the tale of Zalmoxis the warlock and Magliol the traveller... . You can read parts one and two here.
Part III: Been in the Storm
They were swept back into the Nether and subsumed by it. This time it was quite a while before they found their footing. The air was familiar, the smell … the marshes. Zangarmarsh.
‘Wha— why are we here?’ Zalmoxis felt a trepidation he could not begin to explain.
‘That I am not sure of.’ They set out into the mucky undergrowth. The sounds … it was so loud back then, so many birds and animals. After a few minutes of mucking through the undergrowth they found what they were hunting: a fish farm in a shallow pool under the cover of the huge mushrooms. It was on fire.
In front of the burning farm stood a huge, angry-looking orc. His axe was bloody. The two grunts cleaved in half to one side explained that. At his feet was a dead orc woman, but the axe had not killed her. She looked … horrible.
‘You miserable demon-fucking dog, I will eat your heart out while it beats in your chest!’ The one being yelled at, clad in the robes of the Shadow Council, did not look afraid.
‘Still yourself Yar’rog! You are Stormreavers, and whether you like it or not you and your children are the servants of Gul’dan! And if you will not serve him, I’m sure the little ones will!’ One of the sons of Yar’rog stood beside the Shadow Council warlock, grinning ruefully.
‘Give up, old man. You can’t win. Where are my brother and sister?’
‘YOU!’ Yar’rog’s eyes flashed with madness. ‘You are no son of mine! You will fall on this axe, too!’ He charged forward, raising the axe high. A spell struck him in the chest, and he fell forward. Getting back up, he started to charge again. Another spell struck him. His skin began to break out in awful sores and cuts. He did not stop getting up and charging, even though the warlock struck him down with each attempt. ‘Miserable … pig … shit …’
‘Enough.’ The warlock turned to his young apprentice. ‘Finish him.’ If there was hesitation in the youth’s eyes, it was gone before anyone noticed it. The fire spell ignited the pained-looking warrior, who writhed and screamed on the ground for what felt like an eternity.
‘GAMMOSH!’ Even in his death-agony, it sounded like a real threat. From their left came a shout, and Zalmoxis saw himself running towards the still-smoldering farm. He shut his eyes.
‘Make it go away.’ His voice was quiet. Pleading. ‘Please, Thoradiel …’ When he opened his eyes they were back in Thalandiel House.
He became a pig farmer, even though he wasn’t really any good at it. But after all his time travelling, he liked the solutude of the farmstead in lower Durotar. His only neighbor was a peacable fellow, an old grunt veteran with grandchildren. Sometimes they would come to Magliol’s farm in the evenings to drink and sing. Magliol gave the children sweets he bought in Thunder Bluff when he went once a month.
It was a peaceful time. A prosperous time. And even when news of troubles in far away lands passed by the little farm, Magliol paid them little heed. They were not his torubles. He had no troubles. He had his people back, and a real home. Perhaps if it did not last forever, it would at least last a long time.
It didn’t. The human raiders came from the shore where their embattled keep stood mostly in ruins. They were thin, desperate mongrels. And they were hungry. They struck old Gor’s farm first. Magliol heard the shouts of the children and rushed outside in nothing but his shorts. One of the sailors, with the green anchor on his chest, was holding one of the children out over the trough, laughing in the firelight of the boy’s home. Gor was dead. Something in Magliol broke. One of the humans noticed him, and they advanced on him with swords drawn, shouting in a language Magliol didn’t know and didn’t care to know. He whispered a few words quietly, and his feet traced a pattern in the dirt.
‘Yar’rog calls you.’ The cackle was long and loud, piercing the night. The distant soldier dropped the child.
‘It’s been a long time, orcy-worky!’ The imp cackled again.
‘Catch up later. We have work to do.’
They left none of the humans alive. The three children were safe and mostly unhurt. Despite it’s protestations, he dismissed the imp quickly. He tucked the children into his own bed and slept in the door. He felt sick.
In the morning he took them to their parents’, who were grateful and sad to hear about Gor. Magliol promised to bury him, and he did. It was the last time he went back to his farm. I have left so many places behind
, he thought. I have travelled such a long road. How much longer will it be?
He had no idea. But no matter. It was time to take up arms as only he knew how. If the troubles of the world would not stop following him, he would turn to face them, once and for all. There was no one to leave a note for, no one to give his clothes and mementos to. He left everything behind in the little hut. There was nothing to do but set out for the Valley of Trials and put his name down for service. But not this name. No, Magliol was not a soldier, not a crusader or fighter. He was a peaceful, happy man. Let him stay that way. Nor would his given name do. He had given up the right to use his father’s name when he had polluted it so long ago. He had to take his own name, a new name.
The journey across Durotar took only a day or so. He found the recruitment building quickly enough, and a tired-looking grunt took the necessary information.
‘What are you here for?’
‘Ah, magical studies.’
‘Mage, warlock, or priest?’
‘… warlock.’ The grunt gave him a nasty look.
‘Report to Nartok. Name?’
‘Zalmoxis.’
Epilogue
No one saw the orc emerge from the portal, just as no one had seen him enter. He did not stay long at the top of the ancient Stair, taking the first wyvern he could find towards the encampment to the west. There he resupplied, got maps and information, and prepared for his journey onwards. If they had enquired as to where he was going he may have told them to the west, to Zangarmarsh, where he planned on spending a month, maybe more, where he would stay in retreat until he was called back by a sharp-eyed druid who had been sent to Outland to fetch him. On the other hand, he may have said nothing. It doesn’t matter. No one asked.
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