Durotar. Home of warriors. Cradle of the fiercest legends among the clans. From this scorched land, not a century past, the mighty Warchief Azog had marched with 300 battle-hardened orcs and 700 bonded grunts to the fire-ravaged gorge known now as the Redfang Pass. There, against all odds, they stood against the might of Stormwind, led by High King Xerxion, whose dominion stretched across continents.
Azog and his warriors held the pass against over a quarter-million Stormwind soldiers. They slaughtered wave after wave until Xerxion released his Immortals—ten thousand elite soldiers of Stormwind, clad in gleaming mithril and enchanted plate. The orcs broke them with steel, claw, and fury.
Dragor often stood at the summit of Skullfang Ridge, imagining that last stand. Blood-red banners fluttered in his mind's eye, bronze war-helms glittered in the sun, and guttural war-cries echoed through time. Stormwind, for all its magic and might, had been humbled by the ferocity of the Flaming Horns' finest.
Out beyond the cracked horizon, hidden in the shadows of jagged peaks, stood the totem of Azog—carved from obsidian and bone, marking the place of betrayal. Betrayed by one of their own—an orc from a rival clan seeking favor with Stormwind—Azog and his warriors were surrounded and annihilated. He had known the betrayal was coming and was urged by his allies to retreat. His answer was etched into the annals of orcish legend:
"An orc leaves the battle carrying his shield—or upon it. There will be no retreat."
Dragor often wondered how such a name could be shared with his worst enemy. Was the hero of Redfang truly his kin? Was he as cruel as his namesake? He hoped not.
Climbing the highest stone of Brokenfang Hold, Dragor looked down on his home. Fewer than thirty thousand orcs dwelled in the sprawl below, yet their name inspired awe from Macedonian lands to the Eastern Kingdoms. No orcish warband had ever lost a battle where numbers were equal.
He sighed, remembering the recent conversation with Makrog, his only friend.
"You are harsh with me, Dragor. But true. I see you as a brother, and yet I do not see you as a Flaming Horns orc. I do inside my head—but my heart…"
Then why should the others—who are not my friends—accept me?
The pain ran deep. Taken to the warrior pits at age seven, as were all younglings, Dragor had suffered for his mixed lineage. His father was orc; his mother, an Alteraci (Human) from Stormwind.
There in the pits, he met Azog—named for the Warchief of legend. Azog mocked his blood and demanded he kneel like a servant. Dragor, though smaller, fought him tooth and fist. He lost repeatedly but never knelt.
Azog was of high blood, and many sought his favor. Dragor was an outcast. Only Makrog dared befriend him—Makrog, son of High Blademaster Karnok.
After eight years of struggle and bruises, Dragor had clawed his way to the top of the Blood Trials, earning a place in the final match of the Grand Strategem. It was a game of minds, not blades. Each contender controlled an army of carved wood figurines: foot soldiers, war beasts, and the revered Scir'kathi outriders.
His opponent? Of course, Azog.
"Victory," Makrog had warned, "will bring only more pain." Yet Dragor could not and would not consider playing to lose. The Strategem was sacred, the highest test of command. Each player received identical forces: 3,000 troops—main phalanx, warbeasts, and the Scir'kathi flankers, vassals of the orcs. Respected for their skill, but never allowed in the front ranks. Never truly equals.
Dragor closed his eyes, remembering the previous year's match. The battle had taken two hours. Long before the conclusion, he had grown bored and wandered away into the marketplace. Both phalanxes had locked together, the judges throwing knuckle-bones and removing the dead until, at last, the White army overwhelmed the Red. A pointless exercise, Dragor had decided.
What good was such a victory? The winner had fewer than a hundred orcs at the close. In real combat, he would have been overwhelmed by any second enemy force. A battle should not be fought that way. This year, he would change that. Win or lose, they would remember him.
He knelt in the dust and slowly began to draw formations, thinking and planning. His mind drifted, remembering the Great Race three weeks past. Twenty miles over burning sands, up rocky bluffs, lungs fire-torn, muscles seared. All the young warriors ran that day—the ultimate test of juvenile strength and courage. He had outdistanced them all, even Azog, saving the last of his energy for the sprint to the agora, where the Warchief waited with the laurel of victory.
Yet near the end, he spotted an elder of the Scir'kathi struggling with a hand cart along Soldiers' Walk at the foot of the olive grove. Dragor had watched in dismay as the right wheel came loose, tipping the cart's contents to the dust.
The old Scir'kathi struggled to loosen a looped thong from the stump at the end of his right arm. He was crippled.
"Help me, boy!" called the Scir'kathi. Dragor hesitated, then turned.
Azog was far behind him, out of sight. Dragor tried to gauge how much time he had. With a curse, he ran down the slope and knelt by the wheel. It was cracked through, yet still the boy tried to lift it into place, forcing it back over the axle. It held for a moment, then broke into several shards.
The old Scir'kathi slumped to the ground beside the ruined cart. Dragor glanced into his eyes; there was pain, defeat, and dejection. The elder's tunic was threadbare, the colors long since washed away. His sandals were as thin as parchment.
"Where are you going?" Dragor asked.
"My son lives in a settlement an hour from here," replied the old man, pointing south. Dragor glanced at the wrinkled skin of his arm, showing cuts from many sword-blades—old wounds of a warrior deserving respect.
Dragor stood and stared down at the cart. It was loaded with pots and jugs, several old blankets, and a breastplate and helm of a style he had only seen painted on vases and murals.
"I will help you home," said Dragor at last.
"There was a time, boy, I would have needed no help."
"I know, Elder. Come. I will support the axle if you can steer and pull."
Hearing running feet, Dragor glanced up. Azog sped by along the crest of the hill, not looking down. Swallowing disappointment, Dragor took hold of the axle, heaving the cart upright. The old man took his place at the handles, and together they made their way slowly south.
It was dusk when Dragor finally returned. Jeers and taunts followed him.
"What happened, mix-blood? Did you get lost?"
"More likely lay down for a rest," sneered another. "There's no stamina in half-breeds."
He said nothing. He had done what was right. That was enough. But the past was dead.
Dragor grew hungry. He went to the mess hall, ate alone, ignored by his peers. Azog sat across the room, flanked by his sycophants. Later, he walked to his mother's hut. He found her sitting in the sunshine. She glanced up at him and smiled. She was as frail as spider silk, her eyes sunken. He touched her shoulder and kissed her gently, lips brushing bone beneath dry, taut skin.
"Are you eating well?" he asked.
"I have no appetite," she whispered. "But the sun is good for me. It makes me feel alive."
He knelt beside her and offered water.
"Will you contend in the rite game today?" she asked.
"Yes."
She nodded, a strand of dark hair falling across her brow. Dragor stroked it back into place.
"You are hot. You should come inside."
"Later. Your face is bruised?"
"I fell during a race. Clumsy. How are you feeling?"
"Tired, my son. Very tired. Will the Warchief be at Vorgun's house to see you win?"
"It is said he will—but I might not win."
"No." A mother's pride spoke. "But you will do your best, and that is enough. You were always a fighter. Your father would be proud. He never reached the final."
"Is there anything I can do for you? Food?" Dragor took her hand, holding it tightly, willing his strength into her frail limbs.
"I need nothing. I have been thinking these last few days about an Alteraci close to Stormwind, the forests and the plains. I keep dreaming of a white horse on a hillside. I am sitting in a field, and the horse comes toward me. I so long to ride that horse, to feel the wind on my face, whispering through my hair. It is a tall horse, with a fine neck. But always I wake before it reaches me."
"Horses are good omens," said Dragor. "Let me help you inside. I will fetch Rhea—she will cook for you. You must eat, Mother, or you will never regain your strength."
For a while he sat with her. She rested her head against a threadbare pillow and slept. Moving back into the hut, he washed the dust from his body and combed his dark hair. Then he pulled on a clean chiton tunic and his second pair of sandals. The chiton was unembroidered and too small, barely reaching midway down his thighs.
Dragor walked to the next hut and rapped on the doorframe. A short, red-haired orc woman came out; she smiled upon seeing him.
"I will go to her," she said before he spoke.
"She is not eating," said Dragor. "She is becoming thinner every day."
"That is to be expected," answered Rhea softly, sadness in her voice.
"She is fading," Dragor said sharply.
"No,". "The summer sun will heal her."
With fire in his heart, Dragor returned to the warrior pits. He would face Azog today. And this time, whether through honor or cunning, he would make the world see