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As much as he loathed himself for
being forced to do it； Byrok ran。
It was a hard thing for him； and not just because the dagger that was still protruding from his thigh slowed his gait。
To run from battle was shameful。 But Byrok knew he had a higher duty to perform the Burning Blade had
returned； only this time they were humans。 And all the attackers； not just the two he d noticed before； wore that
flaming sword image somewhere on them： a necklace； a tattoo； something。
This was information that needed to get back to Thrall。
So Byrok ran。
Then he stumbled。 His left leg refused to lift as it was supposed to but his right leg continued to run； and so he
crashed to the ground； high grass and dirt getting in his nose and mouth and eye。
Must…get…up…
You ain t goin nowhere； monster。 Byrok could hear the voice； hear the humans footfalls； and then feel the
pressure when two of them sat on his back； immobilizing him。 Cause； here s the thing your time is over。 Orcs
don t belong in this world； and so we re gonna take you out of it。 Got me？
Byrok managed the effort of lifting his head so he could see two of the humans。 He spat at them。
The humans just laughed。 Let s do it； boys。 Galtak Ered nash！
The other five all replied in kind： Galtak Ered nash！
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
A Pocket Star Book published by
POCKET BOOKS； a division of Simon & Schuster； Inc。
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This book is a work of fiction。 Names； characters； places and incidents are products of the author s imagination or
are used fictitiously。 Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons； living or dead； is entirely coincidental。
Copyright ？ 2006 by Blizzard Entertainment
All rights reserved； including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever。 For
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//。SimonSays。
To GraceAnne Andreassi DeCandido；
Helga Borck； Ursula K。 Le Guin；
Constance Hassett； Joanne Dobson；
and all the other women who taught me so much
Acknowledgments
Primary thanks must go to Blizzard Games guru Chris Metzen； whose contributions to everything Warcraft cannot
be understated。 Our phone conversations and email exchanges were tremendously fruitful and full of an amazing
creative energy。
Secondary thanks go to Marco Palmieri； my editor at Pocket Books； and his boss Scott Shannon； who both thought
this would be a good idea； and to Lucienne Diver； my magnificent agent。
Tertiary thanks to the other Warcraft novelists； Richard Knaak； Jeff Grubb； and Christie Golden。 In particular；
Jeff s The Last Guardian and Christie s Lord of the Clans were very helpful with the characterizations of Aegwynn
and Thrall； respectively。
Gratitude also to： the Malibu Gang； the Elitist Bastards； Novelscribes； Inkwell； and all the other mailing lists that
keep my sanity by making me insane； CITH and CGAG； the folks at Palombo who put up with me； Kyoshi Paul
and the rest of the good folks at the dojo； and； as ever； the forebearance of those that live with me； both human and
feline； for all the continued support。
Historian’s Note
This novel takes place one year prior to World of Warcraft。 It is three years after the invasion by the Burning
Legion and their defeat by the bined forces of the orcs； humans； and night elves （Warcraft 3： Reign of Chaos
and Warcraft 3X： The Frozen Throne）。
One
E rik had been cleaning ale off the demon skull mounted behind the bar when the stranger walked in。
The Demonsbane Inn and Tavern didn t usually get much by way of tourists。 Rare was the day when Erik didn t
know the face of one of his patrons。 More mon was when he didn t know their names he only remembered
their faces due to repeated exposure。 Erik didn t much care who came into his tavern； as long as they had coin and a
thirst。
Sitting down at a table； the stranger seemed to be either waiting for something or looking for something。 He wasn t
looking at the dark wooden walls though you could barely see them； seeing as how the Demonsbane had no
windows and illumination only from a couple of torches or at the small round wooden tables and stools that
festooned the floor。 Erik never bothered to arrange the tables in any particular pattern； since folks would just go and
move them around to suit themselves anyhow。
After a minute； the stranger got up and walked up to the wooden bar。 I m trying to get some table service。
Don t have none； Erik said。 He never saw the sense in paying good money for waiters。 If folks wanted a drink；
they could walk up to the bar。 If they were too drunk to walk up to the bar； he didn t want them to drink anymore
anyhow； since folks who were that drunk were like to start fights。 Erik ran a quiet tavern。
The stranger plunked a silver piece on the bar and asked； What s the most expensive drink you have there？
That d be the boar s grog from the north。 Orcs make it； ferment it in
The stranger s nose wrinkled。 No no orc drink。
Erik shrugged。 People had weird considerations when it came to alcohol。 He d seen folks argue about the relative
merits of beer versus corn whiskey with more intensity than they brought to political or religious disagreements。 If
this gentleman didn t like orc drinks； that wasn t Erik s lookout。 Got corn whiskey fresh batch made last month。
Sold。 The stranger smacked his hand on the wooden bar； disturbing some of the nut shells； berry seeds； and other
detritus that had gathered there。 Erik only cleaned the bar about once a year or so unlike the demon skull； no one
could really see the bar； and he never saw the need to clean a surface that wasn t visible。
One of the regulars； a soldier who always drank the grog； turned to look at the stranger。 Mind tellin me what you
got against orc booze？
The stranger shrugged while Erik pulled the glass bottle of corn whiskey off the shelf and poured some of its
contents into a mug that was mostly clean。
I have nothing against orc drink； good sir it s orcs themselves I have issue with。 The stranger held out a hand。
My name is Margoz。 I m a fisherman by trade； and I have to say that I m not well pleased with how my s have
filled up this season。
Not bothering to shake the hand or introduce himself； the soldier said； All that tells me is you ain t no good as a
fisherman。
Lowering his hand upon realizing that the soldier wasn t feeling friendly； Margoz took his corn whiskey instead。
I m a fine fisherman； sir I thrived in Kul Tiras； before circumstances forced me to move here。
On the other side of Margoz sat a merchant who sputtered into his ale。 Circumstances。 Right。 Got conscripted to
fight the Burning Legion； did you？
Margoz nodded。 As I m sure many were。 I tried to make a new life for myself here in Theramore but how can I；
with