They came at him in silence, slipping like shadows between the crude stone pillars of the ruined ziggurat. Their faces were masked with ragged hides, tusks and teeth painted black with ash. Clubs of bone and wood glinted in the firelight.
Drogar darted left—but two more orcs blocked his escape, snarling through their masks. One swung a club at his skull. He ducked low, the blow grazing his shoulder, and drove his fist into the attacker's snout with a sickening crunch. Without pause he spun right and sprinted toward the shattered statue of Grondrak, the old orcish war-god, whose severed hand still clutched a broken axe.
He scrambled to the base of the statue, pressing his back against the stone.
"Come down, half-blood!" the masked orcs chanted. "Come down—we have a gift for you!"
"Then climb up and give it to me," Drogar snarled.
The attackers surged forward. Drogar kicked the first one hard in the jaw, sending him sprawling. A club cracked against his shin, knocking him from his perch. He fell into the mud, rolled, and lashed out with his heel, catching another square in the ribs.
Then he sprang to his feet and leapt over them—clearing one entirely and landing hard on the ash-stained earth.
A thrown club struck him square between the shoulder blades. He staggered. They were on him in an instant, dragging his arms behind him.
"Now we have you," came a voice, muffled by hide.
"You never had me, Urkash," Drogar hissed. "I'd know your stench in the deepest pit of the Maelstrom."
"You won't fight in the Rite tomorrow," growled another. "The Blood Trials are for true-born orcs—not half-breeds."
Drogar's posture slumped, his head falling low. The orcs loosened their grip. In that heartbeat, he struck—driving his elbow back, shattering a tusk. His fist smashed Urkash's nose. Blood sprayed.
The others fell on him, fists pounding, feet slamming into his ribs and spine. He dropped to one knee. Urkash grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.
"You asked for this," Urkash spat, and his knuckles slammed into Drogar's jaw. Another. Then another.
Drogar tasted blood, felt a tooth shift.
There is no pain, he told himself. There is no pain.
"What's going on over there?"
"The watchers!" one orc hissed. The masked youths scattered into the shadows. Drogar collapsed face-first into the earth.
Two sentinels approached. One knelt. "What happened to you?"
"I fell," Drogar croaked. He spat blood and shook off the offered hand.
"And they were helping you up, no doubt?" grunted the orc.
"They're still in the ruins," whispered the other sentinel.
"I know," Drogar said, eyes distant. "But they won't catch me unaware again."
The sentinels moved on. Drogar waited a moment, then bolted into the dark. He veered from alley to alley, climbed rooftops slick with dew, until only silence remained.
He would not go to the barracks, nor to the hut where his mother waited. Instead, he ran to the sanctuary cliff that overlooked Durotar.
Far below, the shattered statue of Grondrak loomed in moonlight.
High above, the winds howled.
Grulka stepped from the shadows of the shrine, leaning on her twisted staff. She sat on a broken plinth, breathing heavily, sorrow weighing on her hunched shoulders.
"I'm sorry, Drogar," she whispered. "You are strong—but you must become iron. You are marked by fate."
She thought of the other younglings in the barracks—how easily they had learned to hate the half-blood. A minor spell, the lightest push, and they turned on him like wolves. It took more magic to soothe a wound than to stir hatred. A dangerous truth. Grulka shivered.
She looked up at the broken-eyed statue. "Don't look so proud, old god. I know your name. I know your price. And my power is not yet spent."
A face filled her mind, and she smiled. Despite the curse, Drogar had one friend. One boy whom even hate could not touch.
"Sweet Makrog," she murmured. "If all orcs were like you, none of this would be needed."
Drogar sat on a cold ledge, watching the eastern sky brighten. His stomach growled, but his jaw throbbed too much to chew the crust of dried meat in his pouch. Below, the river snaked through the valley, the water golden in the dawn light.
He shivered, though not from the cold. The warmth only reminded him how frigid the night had been.
Training had taught him to ignore pain, to close his mind to cold or heat. He had mastered much. But the warmth stabbed him like memory.
The statue of Grommash Hellscream—twelve feet tall, axe raised in triumph—glowered down from the peak. Drogar took a small bite of his rations, wincing at the pain. One tooth was loose. His ribs ached. The punch from Urkash had been powerful and, held as he was, Drogar could not roll with the blow.
He stretched—then froze as he heard movement on the Climbing Path. He slid behind the statue's base, crouched, and grabbed a sharp stone. If they came again, someone would die.
A slender figure in a dark-blue tunic appeared. He had dark curly hair and thick brows.
Drogar exhaled in relief, recognizing his friend, Makrog.
Makrog ran to him, eyes wide with worry. "By the ancestors, how much more must they hurt you? Hurkie, my friend, how much more must you suffer?"
Drogar shrugged. "Perhaps today will be the end."
"Not if you win, Hurkie. They could kill you if you win." Makrog looked into his friend's ice blue eyes and saw no compromise there. "You are not going to lose, though, are you?" he said sadly.
Drogar shrugged. "Perhaps—if Azog is more skillful, if the judges favor him."
"Of course they will favor him. Vol'jin is coming to watch—you think the judges will allow a nephew of the Warchief to be humiliated?"
Drogar laid a hand on Makrog's shoulder. "Since that is the case, why are you worried? I will lose. So be it. But I will not play to lose."
Makrog sat beside him, pulling two shriveled fruits from his pouch. He handed one over. Drogar bit it carefully.
"Why are you so stubborn?" Makrog asked. "Is it your Alteraci blood?"
"Why not the orcish blood, Makrog? Neither people are renowned for giving ground."
"It was not meant as an insult, Hurkie. You know that."
"Not from you, no," said the taller youth. "But think on it you all call me Hurkie, mix-blood—and you think of me as a half-breed bastard."
Makrog pulled away, hurt flashing across his face. "You are my friend," he protested.
"That is not at issue, Makrog, nor is it an answer. You cannot help what you are. You were born of the Flaming Horns line, pure-blooded, with a line of heroes that goes back far beyond Draenor. Your father rode beside Kilrogg Deadeye before the betrayal—before the old gods whispered poison into our hearts. He never lost a battle. Never flinched. Not once."
"You also had a Flaming Horns orcish father who came back on his shield, with all his wounds in front," insisted Makrog. "You are Flaming Horns too."
"And I have an Alteraci mother." Drogar removed his tunic, wincing as his arms stretched over his head. His lean body was marked by bruises and cuts, and his right knee was swollen. His angular face was also battered, the right eye almost closed. "These are the marks I bear for my blood. When they took me from my mother's house, I was seven years old. From that day to this, I have never known the sun to shine on a body that did not carry wounds."
"I too have suffered bruises," said Makrog. "All orc boys must suffer—else there would be no Flaming Horns Orcs, and we would no longer be pre-eminent. But I hear what you say, Hur …Drogar. It seems Azog hates you, and he is a powerful enemy. Yet you could go to him and ask to serve him. Then it would stop."
"Never! He would laugh at me and throw me out into the street."
"Yes, he might. But even so, the beatings would end."
"Would you do that if you were me?"
"No."
"Then why should I?" hissed Drogar, his pale eyes locking on his friend's face.
Makrog sighed. "You are hard on me, Drogar. But you are right. I honor you as a sworn brother, and yet I do not see you as a Flaming Horns. I do inside my head—but my heart…"
"Then why should the others—who are not my friends—accept me?"
"Give them time."
"I have. Time gives only more bruises."
"Know this: whatever you choose, I will stand beside you," said Makrog proudly.
"That is something I never doubted." Drogar smiled faintly. "Then call me Hurkie. From you, it does not sting."
Makrog stood. "I'll pray to the spirits for you. I will see you at Vorgun Bloodshade's house three hours after noon for the contest."
"I'll be at the arena by noon."
Makrog nodded and walked away. Drogar watched him go, then turned his gaze to the city.