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


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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.
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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 e-mail 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 combined 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 common 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.