And, come in they did. An entire brigade, most either walking or on foot, and carrying or dragging the wounded. There was a great deal of chaos, as the Dawn scrambled to assist their brethren, and that was her cue to act. She wouldn’t be greedy, she just needed one.

_____________________________

“Commander Julius, Sir. Another report from the Plaguelands… um… Sir? This one is even more odd.”

The silver-haired man rubbed his face. With hints of a new plague circulating, he did not need odd reports coming in. He tugged at his black and silver tabard, and nodded at the young man. “Go on.”

“Well, Sir, there was an attack last night –“

The Commander cut him off. “There are attacks most nights, Corporal.”

“Yes, Sir. That’s not the unusual part. Apparently, when the men returned to base, a man went missing. One of the wounded, Sir.” The young man shifted uneasily, his helm in his hand.

“And a search party was organized, I assume?” Julius looked at him coolly. “Get on with it, man.”

“Yes, Sir, he was found a few hours later, some distance away from the camp. Sir? Why would someone take a man to heal him?”

That caught Julius’ attention. “What? Heal…. How? “ He leapt to his feet, hand out. “Let me see that report.”

The Corporal handed it over. “Yes, Sir. Wounds stitched up – with thread, Sir! And he was bandaged… and … and had some sort of…. goo… under the bandage.”

“A poultice,” Julius corrected. He was familiar with the less-orthodox, less-preferred ways of healing. “Doesn’t say here… could the man identify who was responsible?”

“No, Sir. He says he thought it was a woman, but couldn’t be sure. Said she smelled nice, though. Must have been delusional.”

Death. They’d let her die, with their ineptitude, their corruption, their faith in that mumbo jumbo they called Light. They’d refused to save her, refused to bring her back. With Death we lose fear of our foes, and with Death we instill fear on the minds of those who deserve it. Living close to Death we will know Strength.

Strength. There was strength in numbers. She needed to reduce their numbers, make them weak. Then she could show them the right way to do things, to heal. This Strength is honed with hours and days, months and even years of hard training. She’d been training, working, researching salves, poultices, elixirs for decades. It was that knowledge that led her.

Wisdom. Any Warrior will come to sense and experience that physical prowess alone is not enough to win the battle. No, it took planning, strategy, and nerves of steel. Cold, calculating action. Knowing your enemy, their weaknesses, their flaws.

Honor. When our Honor is challenged, we meet with equal challenge. A true dishonor is met with Death. This corruption cannot continue. This … vile… controlling…. pervasion of that mumbo jumbo… making people think that was the way. The false way, the path to death. Mindless fools, relying on an unseen power.

Love. The most important principle. Once Love is understood, the rest becomes easy. With love, our fear of Death be overcome, our inner Strength grows, our mind opens with Wisdom. Not only the feeling uttered by a lover or a mother’s protective hold, but a clear and transparent substance that keeps all spirits, objects, people, and things united through adversity. Bjorke loved her daughter; she had been her world. She loved her people, now, wanted the best for them, to lead them. She loved her husband, for showing her the way.

Her mask in place, she moved quietly down the hill, sticking to the shadows. The first patrol, a single guard, was easy enough. Bound and gagged, and left under a scraggly, twisted bush. The next, a pair, required a bit less finesse. They would wake with headaches from the concussive blows, but they’d live. Methodically, she removed the patrols from the field of operation, leaving only the pair of medics, tending the wounded in the tent.

Bjorke moved behind the tent, and moaned, calling out, softly. “H-help me…” It was enough. The ersatz healers, champions of the Light, came to her “rescue.” She lay, ready, her stiletto coated with poison. And then she heard it. That eerie cackle. No! Not now… her plans! The Forsaken were on her, on the pair of Dawn scum. She stayed still, hoping they would think her no threat, an injured casualty. The Dwarf and Human, their black and silver tabards billowing out, ran at the Forsaken, charging with all their sanctimonious furor, but were outnumbered. Sure enough, the Boners thought her nearly dead, and focused their attack on the two men.

She crawled off, slowly, hiding herself in the shadows, listening to the screams of the men as they were ripped apart. Serves ‘em right. Let them heal themselves. The thunder of hooves echoed in the hills as more arrived. The stench of fel permeated the air, and the dry grass crackled as the felsteed’s hooves burned hoofprints in the ground. She only caught a few of the words – her knowledge of Gutterspeak was severely limited – but it sounded like the mounted group was in a hurry, and wanted their friends to join them. She held her breath, and sure enough, they sped off, racing their bony mounts across the dirt.

Bjorke rolled to her back, letting her breath escape slowly. Now what? They’d ruined her plan. A low moan caught her ear, and she grinned. Perhaps there was time to play, after all. But no, the medics were in no condition to moan, or anything else. She went into the tent. No doubt the next target for the Forsaken, had their friends not shown up. Three men lay on cots, and she knew what she had to do. A quick triage assessment, and she was ready to work. It wasn’t as thorough a job as she would have liked, but her time was limited. She packed up her kit, and headed out, looking up at the blank, dark sky. Not even starlight to give comfort in this eerie land.

She ran quietly into the hills, back deep along the pass, to where her horse, Beans, was waiting for her. “Good boy,” she murmured to him, stroking his nose. She stripped down, washing first her armor, then herself in the stream, before dressing again in the simple leathers and broad hat she wore to gather herbs.

Just outside Southshore, she doused herself in the whiskey from her flask. Beans knew what to do, and walked slowly to the stables. Bjorke slurred at the stableboy, winking at him, groping him drunkenly. “You take care my horse, and I’ll take care of you, later, hmm?”

She staggered into the Inn, demanding bourbon from the man behind the counter. “Whaddya mean, ye don’t have any?”

“You’ve had enough, anyway, Miss. Perhaps a room? To sleep it off?”

She winked at this one, too. “You come with it?” She belched loudly in his face. No sense taking the chance he might say ‘yes’. Taking the offered key, she bumped into the tables and chairs, cursing them, as she headed upstairs, certain her presence would be remembered by all.

Truitt brought her the concoction she preferred on these mornings-after – spider ichor, giant eggs, ground bruiseweed and several dashes hot sauce. That’s the ingredient she left out when passing along this “cure.” Made it nearly palatable. She gulped it down – the only way to drink it, really – and waved Truitt off. He was the last person she wanted to see right now.

She sat in her office, shuffling papers, ignoring the occasional knock on the door. By afternoon, she’d had enough, and headed up to Southshore, her flask filled once more.

———————————————–

“Commander, we’ve had a report from Blackwood Lake.” The young Corporal saluted hastily, then offered the paper to the silver-haired man behind the desk. Commander Julius took the report, frowning as he read it over. “How did this happen? What of the patrols?” He looked at the Corporal in near-disbelief.

“Found tied, but unharmed.” The young man hesitated. “It’s the rest that’s so … odd.”

The silver-haired man read over the report. “Just the Medics? This … sounds familiar. Corporal, send a runner to the Archives. See if this matches any other reports.”

“Sir?”

“Do it!”

A quick salute, and off the Corporal ran. Julius’ frown deepened as he read the details of the attack. Very troubling. Why would anyone kill Medics, let alone like this? A thought occurred to him and he yelled for the Corporal.

“What of the wounded? What happened to them?”

“Well, Sir, they… they’d been healed. That is, they’d been treated, but not by our men, not with … our methods.”

“Make sure the Archivist gets that detail, will you? Could be important.” Commander Julius saluted once more, dismissing the young man.

“Not here,” she countered. “I’ve had enough of Goblins to last me awhile. Southshore.”

A curt nod was the only response as he continued walking.

“I always forget this is a dry town,” Bjorke chuckled lightly, handing him a bottle from her bag. “Good thing I’m prepared.”

Bjorke filled Norgoth in on the business of the Order from the week, skipping over some of the more unusual meetings she’d had. She did tell him of the escapade at the Stockades, but he seemed to be only half-listening, as if his mind was elsewhere.

“You were very quiet tonight, Nor. Are you alright?”

He shrugged, taking another pull from the bottle. “I guess I just don’t have much in common with the younger members.”

“And what of me? You hardly spoke to me, either.”

Before he could answer, a young Dwarvish voice rang out angrily. “You!” Bjorke looked up to see the woman who’d been in their Guild Hall, demanding ale the other night while Bjorke had been in a meeting. Her eyes narrowed as she turned on the feisty red-head. However, the misunderstanding from before was soon sorted, thanks in part to another bottle from Bjorke’s bag. They invited the woman to join them, and answered her questions of their Order. Well, Bjorke did. Norgoth remained fairly silent, until announcing he was headed upstairs for bed.

“Here?” Bjorke asked in surprise.

“Here’s as good a place as any.”

She looked at him quizzically. There were no fur rugs here, no clanging sounds of the Great Forge, no racks of weapons on the wall for comfort. “Very well, I’ll join you shortly. Try not to fall asleep before I do.” She kissed him on the cheek as the Dwarf laughed boisterously. Watching him head upstairs, she frowned slightly before turning back to the Dwarf.

“If you have other questions, contact me. I’d best get up there, before it’s too late.”

But those short minutes spent in conversation had been too much. She found him snoring away upstairs.

____________________________

The morning sun filtered through the trees in Southshore. “Morning, Bjorke,” as the finger traced up her arm from elbow to shoulder. She rolled, and through eyes still bleary with sleep, she saw the silver-haired gentleman she’d spoken with in Teldrassil, and at the Races. Frowning, her brain struggled to process this, and another voice rumbled. “Morning.” She turned. That cascade of blue hair, and those writhing tattoos – the Demon Hunter. “Heya, B.” This, from the rugged young man she’d stitched up several times already. His distrust of healers was almost as great as hers.

“Dabu,” came the familiar rough voice, and she saw Kaz’ran there, offering a toothy grin.

Bjorke closed her eyes, and sank back down on the bed, trying to make sense of all this. “What in Illidan’s name is going on?”

“Brought your Morningbrew, Boss.”

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up with a sharp intake of breath. She found the room deserted, the bed empty, and her heart heavy.

“Lucky Hat, my eye,” she chuckled quietly. “The man cheats.” And there was the hut. She lay flat on the ground, using her spyglass to check the area. All was quiet, just as she had expected. She nearly giggled in anticipation. It had been some time since she’d had a “diplomatic mission” like this. Norgoth had laughed at that, knowing exactly what she meant. He wanted done with this business, too.

The only tricky bit would be to make it look… well, not how it looked. Suicide was nearly unheard of in Goblins. Best to make it look like a difference of opinion. An accident under these circumstances just wouldn’t fly.

She crept into the hut, serenaded by the snores of both Goblin and Ogre. Over the past year, she’d been perfecting that sleeping draught she liked to use, and now, gauging the correct amount to dose two Ogres was child’s play. The thin stiletto pierced skin easily, and the drunken sots didn’t even wake. Oh, look! A maul, right there in that one’s hand! Clumsy bed-mate to be sure, but she couldn’t have wished for a better opportunity. Now for the real fun.

“Wake up.” She rolled her eyes. “You’d think by now the idiot would at least know to be a light sleeper.” She kicked him, “WAKE UP!” Bright yellow eyes stared up at her, and in the seconds it took to process what was happening, he scrambled backwards, away from her. “Well, at least you are not completely addled. Do you know who I am? No?” She was a bit disappointed. Ah, well, no matter. “You made big trouble for a friend of mine.” She paused, frowning. “And.. ok, we’ll say two friends.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

The Goblin spotted the large hammer in her hand, as it hung down at her side. “Now, I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement —eeep!” He yelped, jumping out of the way as she swung, knocking over a table and lamp.

“Blast it!” Bjorke cursed, stomping out the small, resulting fire. “No, can’t have that… we need evidence this time.”

Another swing, another yelp, another crash. She grinned at him. Granted, he couldn’t see it behind the mask, but it did make her eyes twinkle merrily. “You can’t escape, you know. Just like my friend. With your outrageous fees… how was he ever going to escape your clutches, hmmm?” That did it. The pieces fell into place for the Goblin. She rolled her eyes. How could someone so dull-witted run such a scheme? The Cartel was lucky to be rid of him.

Swing.Yelp.Crash.

She looked around, surveying her handiwork. Not bad, not bad at all. The look she gave the Goblin was just as merry, but this time, the swing connected, and the yelp was more of a gurgle.

“Thanks for the loan of your teddy-bear, Mr. Ogre.” She whispered sweetly to him, as she placed the maul back in his grip. The massive ham of a hand clutched it reflexively, and he rolled over. She blew him a kiss, and headed back for home.

Kaz and the priest were waiting when she arrived. “Let’s get to work,” she said by way of greeting, only to have it returned in the form of a breath-stealing embrace from Kaz. “Yeah, I missed you too, big guy.” He traced a finger along the crooked scar on her eyebrow, and she batted his hand away affectionately. “I’m fine, I tell you.” But she smiled up at him. “I’m fine,” she repeated softly.

“Then, shall we begin?” the priest asked patiently.

Bjorke nodded, then remembered to speak. “Yeah, let’s move. Got a lot of boxes to shift, to try to catch up.”

“This is so exciting, so many visitors at once!” Mabon hugged Bjorke, who merely stood there, stiffly, as if moving might upset the delicate balance of the sitting room.

Once released, she smiled at Mabon. “I just need to speak with Truitt for a bit. How about you whip us up one of your famous meals, eh?”

Mabon clapped her hands in glee, and bounced off to the kitchen. “Lovely, people to cook for….”

She had limited time, and much to say. “Truitt, sit down. I need to talk to you.” Bjorke told him of the fire at the Flats, and Iophon’s arrest. “He’s fine, you knew this would happen. He… wanted you to know he misses you. No one got hurt – it all went according to plan.”

Truitt nodded dumbly. He didn’t really understand the plans, but he trusted them both. “What next?”

“Well, the Guard will come, to talk to you. Stay calm, just like we rehearsed, ok?” He nodded again. “Then, soon enough, he’ll be released.” Bjorke saw the stricken look on his face. “I know it’s hard to understand, but jail time isn’t as bad as it sounds, really. And… it’s not his first time.” Not that Bjorke would know. She’d made a deal to avoid it herself.

She patted his leg. “You look good, Truitt. Time off agrees with you. Or… maybe it’s him.” She shrugged. “Either way, you deserve a break, eh?”

“Lunch will be ready soon!” Mabon breezed back into the room, a vision of silk and ribbon, as if she herself was posing as a figurine.

Bjorke stood and smiled at her. “Terribly sorry, afraid I must run. Mabon, you take good care of Truitt, alright?” She gave Truitt a wink, and an apologetic shrug.

Bjorke knocked on the doorjam and peeked her head in the open door. “Ready?” She held out a skin to him. “Give this to her, will you? My lastest batch. Pretty damn close to the original, I think.”

Truitt looked at her, frowning. “Odd thing to take to my hostess.”

She merely grinned at him. “The girl does love her stout. Trust me.”

Nodding, he tucked the skin into his satchel, then latched it. He bent to scoop up the tiny white kitten.

Bjorke reached out a finger to scratch it on the head. “I’m going to miss having this little fellow underfoot.” She looked at Truitt, smiling sadly. “You, too. But it won’t be long, and then it will all be over, eh?” It was the cat that got the patting, and the kiss goodbye at the Flight Master.

_________________

Truitt walked along the road, satchel in hand, kitten following happily at his heels. It was well past noon, and he was glad the road was shaded by trees. Finally, the cottage came into view. Truitt recognized it right away. He’d been told it looked straight out of a child’s story, and that it did. It was a small stone cottage, with flowering vines trailing up the walls, and rows of smooth white stones lining the walkway to the front. A haphazard tangle of flowers made up the front garden, populated by dozens of butterflies. The house even had a turret – not a grand one, to be sure, and somehow, it suited the small building perfectly. As he grew closer, the babbling of a brook could be heard from behind the house.

The wooden door had an round arched top, and was painted bright blue. He knocked, and held his breath. It had been a long time since he had seen Mabon Lightpath. He’d been warned about her state of mind, and not to mention her children. “She’s fine, mostly,” Bjorke had said. “She just tends to forget things, like what happened. So… just don’t correct her if she calls you by their names, alright?” Truitt knocked again, a bit harder, and finally he heard noises within.

Mabon opened the door. The petite red-head was a bit curvier than before – sewing fine ladies’ dresses was a bit less calorie consuming than swinging a pair of maces at things – but it seemed to suit her. She was only a few years older than Truitt, still very young and beautiful, until you looked in her eyes. Those teal eyes held a depth of sadness such as Truitt had never seen before, and it took his breath away. He just stood there, mouth open, staring at her.

“Truitt!” She threw her arms around him, standing on tiptoe to hug his neck. “Come in! Come in! Oh, by the Light, it’s good to see you!” She tugged him by the arm, pulling him into the house. She ushered him into a sitting room — the woman was used to living simply, but well, given the sumptuous couches, hand carved tables, and simple draperies. Spread throughout the room, on just about every flat surface were figurines of children — mostly elven children, but human, dwarf and gnome children figures littered the room.

“I’m so glad you’ve come to visit me!” She pulled him to the couch, holding his hands, and sat. “You must catch me up on everything and everyone.”

A sudden hiss caught their attention. A large, fat orange cat laid back his ears, and was telling this young intruder just what he thought. “Mouse!” cried Mabon. “You be nice.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I sort of … forgot about him. I… hope it’s alright I brought him along.” Truitt picked up the ball of fluff, who was doing his best to puff up larger, but only succeeded in looking more comical.

“Yes, yes, it’s fine. Mouse doesn’t get many visitors and forgets his manners.” She scolded the cat and he rubbed his head against Truitt.

“And what of you? Someone special in your life?” Mabon asked him.

Truitt’s ears turned pink, and he started stammering, “It… it’s complicated….”

She cut him off. “Oh, I should see about some lunch or something! You must be starving, Arminas!” She jumped up and hurried off to the back of the house.

“No, I’m fine… really… don’t go to any…. trouble…” his voice trailed off futilely, and he sat, looking at Topper. “Uh oh…”

In the morning, Myrre performed more healing rituals on Hero. She offered to do the same for Bjorke, but was waved off. “I’ll mend,” was the response. The Druid said Hero was well enough to travel. She wasn’t sure about Bjorke, but knew it was a moot point.

“Thank you, Myrre. I can’t tell you how much this means to me,” Bjorke almost gushed her appreciation.

“I’m just glad I could help.” She smiled, and bowed, heading off. “Try to rest, Turid,” she said, wasting her breath.

Bjorke watched Myrre go. She told Hero to stay put. He wagged his tail slightly. “Good boy. I won’t be long.” She and Kaz’ran headed downstairs to talk to the Goblin. With Jazzik as translator, she laid out the new plan. The Goblin frowned, watching his profits evaporate before him. “Better this than a complete halt to the operation, Jazz.”

With everything in place, she and Kaz loaded Hero onto their wagon, and headed to the docks. As the boat arrived, Kaz picked her up once more, but gently hugging her. The look on his face showed his worry, still. “Be good.” He kissed her, more gently than usual, careful of his tusks.

“See you soon,” she replied in Orcish. “Thank you.” She smiled at him, rather lopsidedly. She would have winked, but with one eye swollen shut, the effect just wasn’t the same. A few gold handed over to the Goblin crew secured a bunk for Hero. She was not looking forward to the next leg of the trip – Hero hated riding on the Gryphon. Too bad Myrre wasn’t around to soothe him, the way Druids seemed to be able.

Once back at the Guild Hall, she found the place deserted, and she was greatly relieved. She set Hero down on the rug before the fire, and settled down at her desk. Soon enough, the bottle of whiskey was out, along with a parchment and quill. The strain of carrying the dog had tired her out, and her hand shook slightly as she wrote.

Doc ~
Headed for Ironforge this morning. Hero was well enough to travel. I talked to my partner, and he has agreed to accept your help. As have I, obviously. The Goblin, Jazzik, works for me – well, as much as any Goblin works for anyone, other than himself. He will show you which boxes of supplies to move. He is also a translator. Kaz doesn’t trust him much, and I understand how he operates.

Be at Jazzik’s place an hour after sunup in Rachet. Kaz will meet you there. He plans the route, and will show you on the map.

~B

“No, not really, but… even then, I fear my skills are not up to the challenge.”

“Hey,” Bjorke rasped. “I’m right here. I can hear you.” She coughed again, pulling away her blood-spattered hand, frowning at it. “I hate when that happens.”

The Doctor chuckled dryly. “And does this happen often?”

She shrugged. “Often enough.”

“Myrre, you are to be commended on your work thus far. If she is this pleasant after triage, I can only imagine how difficult she was when you arrived. Now, see if you can scare up a kettle, and boil this up.” He handed her a sachet. “Not for drinking, mind you. She’s to breathe in the vapors, so nice and hot.” Myrre nodded and set off to talk to the Goblin, downstairs. He crouched down next to Bjorke. “Now, I’m just going to nudge things back into place, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t punch me for doing so.” He concentrated, and sent a healing wave of Light-energy over her.

“Just get on with it,” came her less-than-grateful reply.

His ministrations continued. The steaming kettle was brought forth, and he explained it was a clotting agent, and she needed to breath in the steam. Myrre settled at the foot of the bed, curling up, exhausted. The healing spells she had used on Hero had taken a toll on her. Once the druid had drifted off to sleep, Iophon settled down to ask questions.

“What are you doing out here? And who made such a lovely mess of you?”

Bjorke explained, slowly, between coughs and breaths of steam, about her delivering supplies. “People are skittish about cross-faction dealings. My partners don’t trust many, Alliance side. The more people that know what I’m doing, the harder it is for me to work.” She paused to breath in more steam. “It was easier… before. But public leadership has a way of garnering a great deal of attention,” she said rather wistfully.

“Contraband…. Or basic supplies?” He asked cautiously.

She leaned over the kettle once more. This time the coughs sounded more forced than involuntary, but she took her time inhaling. When she was ready, she leaned back against the bed, her eyes closed. “Do you always ask this many questions? Must drive Truitt nuts.”

“You should hear the questions he asks,” Iophon said mischieviously.

Bjorke groaned, rubbing her face in her hands. “I… don’t want to know.”

“Look, you need rest. A week of complete bedrest would not be too much, in my opinion.”

She shook her head. “Only way I’d stay in bed a week wouldn’t involve rest.” It was Iophon’s turn to groan.

“Very well, but I must do something. Let me help.” He nodded at the Orc. “I can’t talk to him, but I can get things from Point A to Point B. “ He continued on, offering his aid, wanting to be a part of the Order. Bjorke frowned while she considered this. Each problem she brought up was countered by a logical solution.

“I’ll think it over. Can’t afford to get behind, that’s for sure.” She turned, and crawled into the bed, curling up protectively around Hero, her hand on his neck.

Iophon stood, bowing graciously. “Promise me you’ll wake her if you get worse, or if you fail to get better, will you? I’d best get back before someone wakes up, and starts wondering where I’ve been.”

Bjorke tried once more to raise an eyebrow. Why the face? Why did they have to go after her face? “Tell him… he can take the morning off.”