Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

The buck's nose twitched as he rose from his feeding to investigate his surroundings. Something had alerted him, but his white tail stayed down. Not yet enough danger to warn the herd, he thought.

His thoughts were proved wrong when the arrow passed through its skull.

As the body fell to the side, a white wolf pup bounded from the nearby snowdrift, pouncing upon a fawn. The fawn's mother looked on, stunned, for a split second too long. She too was felled by an arrow. Three deer, all down in a matter of seconds. The Clan would eat well tonight. He said a quick prayer of thanks to the Spirit of the Wilds, just as he'd been instructed to do by Elder Drek'thar. Etar slung the deer over his shoulder and gave a piece of the fawn's hindquarters to Frostfang. A feeling of gratitude rushed through the orc.

The bond between him and the wolf was almost telepathic. Though he could not communicate with words in the same way that he could with his Clanmates. More like feelings; emotions transferred between the pair. Etar always knew when Frostfang was hungry or injured, and the wolf seemed to know when Etar was ready to leave the Frostwolf camp, or when Etar was in need of him.

Etar flicked his head upward in a sharp movement and sniffed, and the pair were off back towards the camp.


"A fine kill, son of Kotar. A fine kill. By the looks of it, they all died within seconds of each other. Even more impressive."

Etar couldn't help but grin as Galvangar heaped praise upon him. It was one thing to have the sentries cheer at the fine venison as it passed by them on the back of an orc. It was another completely for the leader of the Frostwolf warriors to praise said orc.

In fact, almost all the orcs were cheering at him. Thrall himself could not pull of such a clean kill. He looked back to his father, who was sitting at the edge of the fire ring with his mother. He was smiling.

That image was forever burned into the young orc's mind. His father and mother, who'd always been afraid and a bit ashamed at the small orc they'd reared, celebrating his prowess with the bow along with the Clan.

And then they were gone; replaced by an agonized scream and a wall of flame.

The orcs of the Frostwolf clan were thrown to the ground by the force of the blast. Etar's head hit the cold stone hard, and he felt something pop.

The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was the twisted, evil visage of the dwarven tank driver laughing and waving his rifle - a beautifully crafted dwarven hand cannon.

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