Once again, Chromie activated the Vision of Time, and an image of Kor’jus, kneeling and harvesting mushrooms, appeared. He was facing away from the door, intent on his work, and did not see the visitors lifting the curtain. Even so, perhaps sensing them, Kor’jus frowned, and turned.
“Stop here, please,” said Tyrande, and Chromie halted the scene. “Kor’jus, can you please tell us who these orcs are?”
“I only knew one by name, but they all were members of the Kor’kron. The Blackrock orc—the one with three fingers on one hand and that scar all across his face—that is Malkorok. Or was, at least.”
The identification was necessary only as a formality; most of those assembled recognized the late leader of the Kor’kron. Gray-skinned and covered with red war paint, Malkorok, for many, had come to epitomize the worst of what the Blackrock orcs were known for. Oh yes, he was recognized, and despised.
“Thank you. Chromie, please continue.”
“Read the sign,” said the image of Kor’jus. “The shop doesn’t open until tomorrow.” His hand tightened on the small knife he had been using.
“We’re not here for mushrooms,” Malkorok said, his voice soft. He and four other orcs moved into the shop. One of them drew the curtain. “We’re here for you.”
Only now did Kor’jus look uncertain. “What have I done?” he asked. “I am a fair merchant. There can be no complaints against me. Warchief Garrosh himself eats my crop!”
“It is because of the warchief that we are here,” Malkorok said, advancing one step, then another. Kor’jus stood his ground. “You speak against him so—perhaps one day your mushrooms are not so carefully harvested, eh?”
Understanding dawned, and Kor’jus scowled. “The Horde is not made up of slaves. Each member is of value! I can speak against my warchief’s decisions without conspiring against him!”
Malkorok exaggeratedly tilted his head and tapped his chin, as if actually considering this. “No,” he said, “I don’t think you can.”
He seized the mushroom grower’s wrist in his three-fingered hand. Even maimed, Malkorok obviously had a powerful grip, for Kor’jus dropped the knife and gasped. Casually, clearly relishing his task, Malkorok wrenched his victim’s arm backward. It broke with an audible snap. The other four rushed in, perhaps fearful of losing their own chance for sport, laughing cheerily as if they were indulging in a drinking game rather than pummeling an outnumbered opponent into a pulpy mass.
They used only their fists, and went for what would hurt rather than what would kilclass="underline" the face, legs, and arms. One of the Kor’kron landed a solid punch and Kor’jus’s nose crunched, spraying blood and mucus. His head snapped back and teeth flew at a second punch, and when the overzealous orc went for a third, Malkorok stopped him.
“If we kill him, he can’t show people how afraid he is,” the leader of the elite guards reprimanded.
Kor’jus lifted his chin and watched the Vision display his own beating with a steady gaze. As well he might—though the fight was five highly trained Kor’kron against one shopkeeper, Kor’jus held his own for several minutes before, inevitably, he dropped to his knees. His face was hardly recognizable, and he breathed in sharp, pained gasps. One final kick sent him curling up tightly, but even then he resisted crying out.
The Kor’kron were barely winded, and clapped one another on the back as they left. When they were gone, Kor’jus lifted his head, spat blood and more teeth, and fell unconscious.
The scene faded. Kor’jus was now breathing quickly, angrily. Tyrande resumed her questions. “Kor’jus, to the best of your knowledge, was this attack on you by the Kor’kron the only one of its kind?”
“No,” the orc replied. “There were others. Beaten as badly as I, or worse.”
“You were extremely badly beaten,” said Tyrande. “It is a wonder you did not die.”
“With respect—” Baine began.
“I withdraw the last comment, Lord Zhu,” Tyrande said, interrupting the Defender with a look of weary patience. “Please tell the jury what you mean by ‘or worse.’ ”
“I refer to the explosion at Razor Hill Inn awhile ago,” Kor’jus replied.
“Razor Hill is not exactly known for its decorum,” Tyrande said, and chuckles ran the length of the auditorium. “Surely violence there—even an explosion—could be explained away by disgruntled customers, not the Kor’kron.”
Despite the amusement displayed by the audience, Kor’jus’s expression stayed somber. “I was there. I was at the inn in order to avoid Orgrimmar as much as possible, so that I would not run into Malkorok.” He laughed shortly. “Ironic, isn’t it? He came in and started to threaten a Forsaken and a blood elf.” Kor’jus looked uncomfortable. “I left once they arrived, unnoticed. I was lucky.”
“Really? He threatened them? Physically or verbally?”
“He tried to intimidate them, at least at the beginning. I don’t know what was said later.”
Tyrande nodded. “Chromie, if you please? Let us see for ourselves exactly what happened.”
Anduin had never been to the inn at Razor Hill, and saw nothing in the scene before him to make him want to have visited before it had been destroyed and rebuilt. It was dark, raucous, filthy, and likely foul-smelling. He noticed the bronze dragon Kairoz hiding a smile at some of the reactions that this particular tableau engendered.
Nonetheless, it seemed to be a boisterous place of good cheer, until the Kor’kron entered. They paused at the door, their hulking presences blocking out most of whatever light penetrated into the tavern’s main room. Two patrons, a Forsaken and a sin’dorei, were drinking together, but looked up at the newcomers.
“Pause,” Tyrande said. “These two Horde members are Captain Frandis Farley and Kelantir Bloodblade. Captain Farley was sent by the lady Sylvanas to command the Forsaken units that would serve under their warchief. The Blood Knight, Bloodblade, had previously served under Ranger-General Halduron Brightwing. Both, by all accounts, fought well in the battle against Northwatch Hold.”
Anduin glanced over at the Horde area. Both Sylvanas and Halduron were leaning forward. Anduin had not heard of either Farley or Bloodblade, but judging by how their leaders reacted to their images, the two were held in high regard.
Bloodblade had hair the color of the sun and skin so pale as to look untouched by it. Even off-duty, she kept pieces of her armor on. Farley had been well on his way to decay before he had been reborn as a Forsaken, and Anduin wondered how he managed to indulge in liquid refreshment with a jaw that didn’t seem likely to close.
Tyrande nodded to Chromie, and the scene resumed.
“Trouble,” Kelantir said to her companion.
“Not necessarily.” Frandis lifted a bony arm and waved. “Friend Malkorok! Are you slumming? The contents of a chamber pot are probably better than the swill this rascal Grosk serves, but it’s cheap and I hear it does the job. Come, let us buy you a round.”
Malkorok smiled. Anduin didn’t like the look of it, and if her expression was any indication, neither did Kelantir.
“Grosk, drinks all around.” The Blackrock orc clapped Frandis on the back so hard the Forsaken nearly fell forward on the table. “I might expect to find tauren or Forsaken here. But I must say, you look sorely out of place.” He looked right at Kelantir as he spoke.
“Not at all. I have been in worse places than this,” the paladin said, narrowing her eyes at Malkorok while the innkeeper, presumably the rascal Grosk, served them.
“Perhaps, perhaps,” Malkorok said. “But why are you not in Orgrimmar?”
“Iron allergy,” Kelantir said.
Despite the tension, Anduin grinned. He liked this Kelantir. She was brave. It was the sort of thing his friend Aerin, a gutsy dwarf, lost to the upheaval of the Cataclysm, might have said.