Inlokta bowed low.

The elder warrior before him acknowledged him with a nod. “Remove your clothes.”

Inlokta unlaced his wool tunic and his leather pants, depositing them in a pile at the hooves of the other warrior. He took the woven band of strung together harpy claws from about his neck, and slipped the beaded ring from off his left horn. He set all these gently on top of his clothes.

The warrior nodded again, and then pulled back the thin cloth flap of the wickiup. A wave of heat washed over Inlokta from within. An old, but strong voice boomed a welcome. “Enter.”

He did.

The wickiup was larger on the inside than one would expect by viewing its exterior, but it was still very small. With Inlokta there were four in the lodge, and it was crowded.

At the centre of the wickiup was a small pit, and within it were a number of granite stones, the largest perhaps the size of Inlokta’s hoof. Those at the centre glowed a faint red. The heat was remarkable. At any other time it would have been unbearable, but Inlokta straightened his shoulders and snorted defiantly.

Seated around the stones were three other tauren, each as naked as he, and each of whom’s fur was matted with sweat. At Inlokta’s left, the spirit walker Masewi, his white fur and yellow eyes dyed a dull red by the glowing stones. At Inlokta’s right, the hunter Nautsiti, her dark red eyes and dull orange fur all but unchanged by the granite. And directly in front of him was Durn, the huge chieftain of their tribe whose broad shoulders and considerable girth nearly consumed the space of the whole wickiup. He looked almost unrecognizable without the headdress, festooned with harpy feathers of many colours and sizes, which denoted his station. But he appeared no weaker or smaller. With his countenance illuminated by the glowing stones, Inlokta knew that he would have great fear of Durn if they ever met on the field of battle, but knew at the same time that they never would. Durn was his chieftain - and in that, was his leader, his guide, his protector, as he was to all the tauren of the Harpyslayer Tribe.

The Stonetalon Mountains in which they made their home - particularly at this time of year - was amongst the colder lands the tauren inhabited. The winds that shrieked their way up, down, and through the mountains had left it clear of all but the most swarthy of trees, and tenacious of plant life. But within this wickiup, Inlokta felt that even the Dark Iron dwarves in their home under the volcanic Blackrock Spire would wipe the sweat from their brows here.

The warrior outside closed the flap behind him.

“Be at peace, friend Inlokta,” Durn gestured invitingly, and Inlokta sat down. “I have looked forward to this sweat for the risings and settings of many suns and moons. I admit I found the dogma of these elves... troubling at first. It was difficult for me to follow Cairne’s noble example.” His teeth flashed in the glow. “But I am glad now that I did. The stories I have heard, of your work with the Circle - these are the things that great songs are sung of. I see now that Hamuul has not abandoned the Earth Mother at all. He has found a different way to pay her homage. A way perhaps older than our own.”

Nautsiti leaned in to him. “Is it true you have taken the shape of beasts? Have you run with the wolves? Flown with the hawks?”

“Nautsiti, let him be,” Masewi chided gently. “Inlokta may answer such questions later. Now we must commune with the Earth Mother. We have come to share your unique perspective.”

Masewi picked up a braided tuft of sweet grass, woven with a number of herbs and glazed with ironwood sap. He tossed it onto the stones, and immediately, Inlokta could smell the intoxicating aroma of the cocktail. Masewi then dipped a wooden gourd into a clay bucket at his side, which was full of water. He tossed the water on the stones, and a plume of steam erupted from the pit with a loud sizzle. It clouded the room in an instant, and the others faded from Inlokta’s view.

Other images, however, came into his periphery. First they were as silent as the fog that obscured them, but soon he heard low, friendly growls. The steam was a river, alive with salmon, and a family of vigilant bears waded in the shallows. They were large, strong - they reminded him of Durn. Yet they caught the fish from the river with such an elegant expertise that seemed to defy their size. They were happy. They bantered back and forth of the fortuitous season. They begrudgingly admired the salmon who managed to evade their grasp. They shared good-natured laughs at the cubs trying to emulate their elders only to bowl over each other and scare away the fish.

They were warriors. They were hunters. They were brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. They were dangerous, fierce, unrelenting. And they were, all of them, beloved.

Inlokta could not tell his tears from the sweat. His time with the druids of Thunder Bluff had taught him much, but he had forgotten much as well. It came flooding back through the heat from the stones, the sweat on his snout, and the steam in his lungs. He wished he could hold it there, and carry it about with him forever.

As the steam settled, the shapes within faded, and the echoes of the ursine chatter with them.

The grey left the world, leaving only the black shadows of the wickiup and the intense orange of the heated stones.

The other three tauren had had their eyes closed, and now opened them. Nautsiti sighed wistfully. Masewi grunted in thought. Durn was still and pensive.

They shared a silence for a few moments, which seemed longer in the heat.

Durn exhaled loudly, with such force that Inlokta felt his breath upon his face. “I thought these many generations on the plains would have shown us all the beauty the Earth Mother possesses. I was wrong to doubt Runetotem and his druids. We have much to learn from him. From you, Inlokta.”

Inlokta nodded.

“It is good that you have returned to Aparaje,” said Masewi. “The spirits have told us that a time of great trial is upon the tribe. The wind speaks of a long winter ahead, and the coursers have been scarce all season. Times will be hard for us. We will need new ideas, new powers, to survive the days ahead.”

“Yes, times will be hard,” Durn agreed, “but we are ready to greet this struggle as we would any other. And even if you brought nothing back with you from Thunder Bluff, Inlokta, I would be happy to have you amongst us. To have any wayward tribesman back amongst us.”

Masewi and Nautsiti nodded in agreement.

“We have spoken enough words,” said Masewi, reaching again for his gourd. “Let us now reflect.” The spirit walker poured another gourd full of water on the stones, and a great cloud of steam enveloped the room once more. But there were no visions, this time - only a blanket of grey.

Inlokta could not say how long he sat there with them. It could have been hours; days even. The silence in the wickiup, the steam that blinded him, the tangy fumes of the sweet grass, and the enveloping heat confused not only his bodily senses, but his sense of time, as well. There was the occasional sound from outside the tent, of the village’s children playing, of tribesmen calling to each other, or of kodos grunting, but these seemed so distant. They provided no centre or focal point. Inlokta felt comfortably lost at sea.

But soon, these sounds were dogging his perception. They became more frequent, more pronounced. The children were no longer playing. Without having realized that he had closed his eyes, Inlokta opened them. The steam had lifted, and his tribesmen within the wickiup had looks of tentative confusion about their faces as well.

Suddenly, heavy hooffalls sounded at the door of the tent, and the flap was thrown wide. A blaze of startling sunlight flooded the tent from behind Inlokta. His shadow fell across Durn, making him the only thing he could see properly, and giving him, for a moment, a strangely divine countenance.

“Makaba, what’s happened?” the chieftain demanded.

The warrior at the door was panting, his eyes wide with panic. “We are under attack!”

The four moved with surprising speed considering how enthralled in the ritual they were. Inlokta turned and crawled out from the tent, hastened to dress himself. Nautsiti, Durn, and Masewi issued out after him and similarly attended other piles of their clothing. Durn fastened his leather kilt around his waist as spoke. “Makaba, what nature of beast attacks us. Have Riven’s harpies recovered?”

Makaba may have answered, but Inlokta did not hear, did not need to hear.

As the name implied, the Harpyslayer Tribe’s nemeses were the brutal harpies of the Stonetalon Mountains. The birdwomen were a graceful and cunning enemy, worthy foes of the Harpyslayers. While most tauren tribes dwelt in the flatlands to the south, where their most palpable enemies were the centaur or quillboar, the mountains were too inhospitable for them. Through these windy peaks, the harpies thrived. They lived, they loved, they killed, they died. Much like the tauren.

They antagonized each other for as long as the eldest elder could recall his eldest elder recalling. The harpies were possessed of limited dexterity, due to their small claws and cumbersome wings, and so frequently raided the tauren’s villages for supplies they could not themselves render, but still use. The tauren, being flightless, sometimes retaliated against the harpies’ nests and took from them supplies they, being bound to the ground, were unable to acquire on their own. The coursers of Stonetalon were the most reliable supply of meat for both the tauren and the harpies, and if their numbers were scarce this season, resources would be stretched thin between them. Hostilities would no doubt ensue. The harpy sorceress who called herself Sister Riven - whom Durn had spoken of - was a most powerful foe, and she often led the most daring and devastating of attacks against the tauren. In her most recent attack on Aparaje, however, Nautsiti had injured the harpy’s wing, and she and her forces had staged a premature retreat. It seemed too recent for her to be back to full health, but she was a resilient creature, and Inlokta would put nothing beyond her.

It was not Riven.

It was not the harpies.

For a moment, Inlokta was exceptionally confused, for no enemies appeared to be on the field. The tauren were fighting desperately, but all Inlokta saw as far as his eyes could see was tauren. It took a long time to realize that the tauren were fighting each other.

The tauren of the Harpyslayer had fur of many different colours. Black, red, brown, grey, and many tones in between, or sometimes mottled patches of several different colours. But the tauren of the tribe attacking them were all black, from horn to hoof.

Some say that they were the first tribe to be maddened by the voices from within the earth, and that the Earth Mother turned their fur black that she might not see their accursed actions in the darkness. Others claimed that they were the chosen of the Raven Spirit, and he had given the same sable coat of that great bird to do their bidding. Others still spoke of the tribe’s elders selectively breeding their family lines.

The theories for the universal colour were varied, but all knew them to look at them.

The Grimtotem Tribe.

Th Grimtotem were an ancient clan, with a strong heritage and deep roots in the land and the history of the tauren. They had numbers rivaling that of the Stonebull Tribe, and political power which drew sweat on the brows of even the Bloodhoof Clan. Their warriors were strong, their mystics powerful, their elders wise. They were respected throughout all the tribes, but were not so trusted. Particularly of late, they had been aloof and aggressive towards outsiders, tauren or otherwise. The fairly recent promotion of the Elder Crone Magatha to the head of the tribe, many speculated, was to blame for the turmoil. Magatha had visions of grandeur for the tauren, and her vision had little room for outsiders. Her tune had changed once the Forsaken came to the table. Their ruthless methods brought them to common ground with the Grimtotem. But as unfriendly as the Grimtotem were now, even before Magatha’s untimely promotion outsiders were wary of wandering into Grimtotem territory. They were considered strong allies, but were not to be tested.

As Inlokta watched them now, cutting down his tribesmen, he thought that the tauren tribes should rethink their standing. But the Harpyslayers were not going without a fight. Youngbloods were taking up arms against Grimtotem warriors twice their size. Elders, frail with age, were calling upon their ancient skills. Novice shaman were rushing into battle with half-finished totems. Some won. Most fell. The Grimtotems were better equipped, and had greater numbers. Camp Aparaje was falling before his eyes.

The din of battle had distracted him. As he regained himself, Inlokta became aware that Durn and Makaba were engaged in a heated debate, and that Masewi and Nautsiti had left, and were running down the path from the wickiup towards the stables.

“They are too many in numbers, Chieftain,” Makaba cried mournfully. “Aparaje is lost!”

“No!” Durn snapped. Now fully equipped in the trappings of Chieftain, most notably the large headdress adorned with the rainbow of large harpy feathers, he appeared both inspiring and terrifying. A desperate light engulfed his eyes. At his side he hoisted a massive halberd that looked like a felled tree with a mighty steel blade lashed to its end, decked in carvings and harpy bones. “This village is more than huts of skin and grass and wood. Aparaje is not lost so long as any fight in its name. Find the children, Makaba, take them from here.”

“I will not abandon Aparaje in its last hour!” Makaba became suddenly indignant.

“You will obey your Chieftain!” Durn roared. He turned from Makaba and spoke no more to him. He instead grabbed Inlokta from the sleeve of his tunic. “Come, Inlokta. Die by your chieftain as we fight these traitors. These tricksters, these fools! They will nurse their wounds, run hands over their scars. They will tell quiet tales to each other of the day they fought true Shu’halo!”

Inlokta found himself running beside his Chieftain, expecting to die, and as excited as he had ever been.

A Grimtotem archer on kodoback thundered past them, and with a speed and elegance that shocked Inlokta into belief, Durn caught the side of a plate of armour on the kodo’s mighty shoulder, and launched himself upwards, spearing the archer through the back with the end of his halberd. He kicked the corpse aside, and took its place, gathering the reins of the kodo and wheeling it about. The kodo, it seemed, did not even notice that her rider had been replaced.

Durn directed the armoured kodo against her own. Having been decked in the standards of the Grimtotem, the attackers didn’t realize her rider had been replaced either until she stomped through one of their ranks, pulverizing tough tauren skulls, flinging them in the air with the ravasaur talon that had been fastened to the end of her snout, over the stump of her natural horn. Durn’s mighty halberd cut the wind, almost elegant in its precision, hewing Grimtotem heads from their necks, feet from their legs, while avoiding both his own tribesmen and the kodo who bore him.

Inlokta barely realized he was turning into a bear until he had already charged an archer who was taking careful aim, had sunk a much stronger jaw into thick tauren flesh. His clothes had become coarse fur, his stringy hair a thick mane. His horns, however, remained, as did his necklace of harpy claws about his neck.

The archer cried out, but Inlokta would not relent, merely sunk his teeth in deeper. The sound of heavy hooffalls drew his attention just in time to see a Grimtotem warrior coming to the aid of her tribesman, swinging a thick stone sledgehammer with both hands. Inlokta hopped back off the archer, missing the strike which would have otherwise crushed his skull. Before she could recover, Inlokta was upon her with an ursine roar.

He clamped his mouth down on her nearest arm, and she released the hammer. With her free hand, she punched him smartly on the snout, and he released her reflexively from his jaw. But even as he did, he raked across her midsection with his thick black claws, and she cried out.

She drew a knife from a harness on her thigh.

An arrow struck Inlokta in the shoulder, and he roared in pain. He glanced to his left to see a Grimtotem archer triumpanthly putting a new arrow to his bow, just before a Harpyslayer warrior smashed him in the face with a carved totem pole.

The Grimtotem before him took advantage of his distraction and darted forward with the knife. She struck him on his other shoulder, but fortunately the wounds he had already inflicted on her dulled the blow. Nevertheless, he returned in kind, and struck her across the face with an open paw. She doubled over, coughed up a spurt of blood, and Inlokta quickly lunged at her, biting her exposed neck. He heard her spine crunch in his jaws, and felt the force of the blow jar his skull. She went limp immediately.

He let her go and she fell from his jaws. He wiped the blood from his snout with his paw, and moaned, the motion aggravating the arrow still stuck in his shoulder.

A defiant Grimtotem warcry attracted his attention once more, and he saw a dark tauren towering over him with a thick, dull battleaxe in his meaty fist. He roared, foam and spit flying from his maw, and was about to charge when a bolt of lightning streaked through the air and blasted into his chest, sending him flying backward off the hill.

Inlokta turned to see his saviour, the shaman Masewi, ride by on the tribe’s prized albino kodo: Echeyanka. The kodo had no reins – Echeyanka needed none - leaving Masewi’s hands free to weave his storms against the Grimtotem. The spirits were friends to the Harpyslayers. His spells were most effective.

A heartbreaking groan from behind him forced him to turn, and behold a scene that churned his stomach.

The Grimtotem had turned on Durn and his hijacked kodo. But while Durn himself had managed to block or avoid most of the arrows that had been rained at him, the creature beneath him was not as graceful as he. What portion of her black hide hadn’t been covered in Grimtotem war paint was soaked with her blood, arrows sticking out from nearly every inch of flesh that wasn’t covered by armour. A broken arrow even jutted out from the remains of her right eye. To her credit, she was still moving, but she would not last long, and Durn had attracted much ire. When she fell, the Grimtotem would swarm upon him.

Inlokta shed a tear for the creature, but at least she would die serving his noble chieftain, protecting his beautiful home, not between the knees of some traitorous Grimtotem.

Inlokta began to run on all fours towards Durn and the dying kodo. He bowled over Grimtotem who were too focused on Durn to notice the druid’s approach from behind. He trampled them under his heavy frame, gored them aside on his horns.

With a final death wail, the kodo’s head flopped to the ground, snapping off the arrows that had struck her chin, and slumped to the side, swinging Durn from her back and into a crowd of Grimtotem. The dark tauren cheered at their success, but Inlokta found they were gripped with fear as, merely getting to his feet, Durn had killed five of their number. They backed away, formed a ring around him, and extended their weapons, but none approached him. Inlokta gnashed, clawed, and charged his way through them. He saw other Harpyslayers battling through the crowd to get to Durn as well, some not as lucky as he.

He bowled over one final Grimtotem shaman and found himself in the middle of the ring. Only one other Harpyslayer had managed to breach the crowd; the leatherworker Kaya Flathoof.

Inlokta bared his great teeth, and growled, stepping in front of Durn. The Grimtotem before him took a step back. Kaya, too, menaced a dull skinning knife varnished in Grimtotem blood before her, her young face resolute.

Durn stood over the broken body of one of the tauren he had killed. His halberd was at his side, its blade resting lightly on the hard ground.

“Leave him!” a shout came from beyond the crowd. “Back away.”

The Grimtotem parted to make way for a great kodo, so black his rider seemed to be atop a shadow. His rider was a man, wearing a great horned helm, and with a gigantic mallet slung across his back. He smirked. Inlokta was familiar with the expression but had never seen it on the face of a tauren before that moment. It was unbecoming.

“So stands the lord of the Harpyslayers?” the kodo rider demanded. He chuckled. “You’ve not even the sense to die.”

Durn took a deep breath. “Grundig. May the spirits of your noble ancestors be blind to this. May your proud father never know your legacy.”

“My legacy is far from being realized, Harpyslayer,” said Grundig darkly.

“Your legacy is only finished on the day that you die, Darkcloud,” Durn shook his head. “And that day has come.”

Grundig threw back his head and laughed aloud. “The Harpyslayers are nothing if not fools.” With a sigh, he began to dismount. “Back away. I shall face him alone.”

“You’ll have a task trying!” Kaya shouted, stepping in front of Durn. Inlokta growled in agreement.

Grundig, still climbing down his eerily still kodo, waved to his forces offhandedly. “Restrain the girl, and the animal.”

A tauren sorceress stepped forward and grabbed Kaya’s arm gruffly, but before Kaya could even wrest it away, the Grimtotem’s head was sliced from her shoulders with one swift swing from Durn. Two tauren attempted to rush Inlokta, but he reared up and swatted one across the face, knocking him to the ground. The second was more wary.

Meanwhile, three more tauren had attempted to capture Kaya. Durn had taken the hands from one, and the full torso from another; the third had been surprised to find Kaya’s knife sticking out from his throat. A tauren attempted to tackle Inlokta, but he bucked him off and eviscerated him with two strokes from his hind claws.

As Kaya attempted to wrest her knife free from the tauren she had killed, a Grimtotem grabbed her wrist, managed to duck under a swing from Durn, and wrenched the tauren girl away, twisting her arm behind her back. Before any of them could react, the Grimtotem hugged Kaya to him, and held the tip of his blade to Kaya’s neck.

Durn froze. Inlokta bristled.

“Control your beast, Harpyslayer.”

Durn held up his hand, and Inlokta begrudgingly calmed. The warrior who held Kaya backed away from Durn, pulling her with him back into the crowd of Grimtotem. Two others prodded Inlokta back with spears. Gundig had since descended fully from his kodo, and he now strode into the ring with his great mallet unslung and in his hand.

“None shall interfere!” Grundig announced gruffly, as much to Durn as to the Grimtotems surrounding them. “We shall shall battle, Durn, you and...”

Grundig’s speech was cut short as he raised his hammer to deflect a blow from Durn. The Harpyslayer chieftain leapt forward, swinging his great halberd as if it was a dainty rapier. Grundig was clearly caught off guard, but to his credit, he managed to avoid and parry any number of strikes which would have cloven a less seasoned man in twain.

When finally Durn’s initial flurry was done, Grundig attempted his own offensive, swinging his hammer low, hoping perhaps to catch Durn’s knees or shins, hobbling him. Durn stepped aside, caught the shaft of Grundig’s hammer on the curve of his halberd’s blade, drove it into the ground, then brought the butt end of his halberd up to slam it across Darkcloud’s face.

The dark tauren let out a cry, the hammer forced from his grip, and fell backward onto the ground with a grunt.

A communal gasp went up from the assembled Grimtotems. Inlokta licked his maw in anticipation. A cold wind blew through them, catching Durn’s multicoloured headdress, making him seem even more gigantic and brilliant than he was.

He heaved his halberd from the dirt, and kicked Grundig’s hammer over to him.

Grundig eyed it with a great, fiery hate in his eyes. With a speed that amazed Inlokta, he grabbed it and sprang to his feet, swinging the hammer to catch Durn in the stomach. Durn coughed, staggered backward, and Grundig attempted to carry him further, with the hope of toppling Durn off his hooves.

But Durn replied with a punch to Grundig’s face. The Grimtotem tauren was shoved to the side, and had to struggle to hold his footing. Durn has already recovered, and in two motions so swift they could have been one, he cut the head off of Grundig’s hammer, then cut across Grundig’s chest. Had Grundig been any slower, Durn would have sliced the top of his torso off. Instead, he left a deep cut that brought the Grimtotem tauren to the ground once again.

Grundig dropped the handle of his broken hammer, and clutched his bleeding wound, backing away.

“Kill him!” he barked.

Inlokta was sure he had heard him wrong. The Grimtotem hesitated as well, apparently as startled as he. Even Durn looked at him not with horror or disappointment, but with a quizzical gaze.

“Do it!” his shout was more piercing, more desperate, now, and this time the Grimtotem did not hesitate.

An arrow struck Durn in the leg, and he shouted in surprise, just as the other warriors rushed him. He spun his halberd like a baton, cutting Grimtotem tauren open on all sides, showering the crowd with their blood and innards. But they were too many. Inlokta batted one of his guards away, and made to charge in and save his chieftain, but the other speared him in the leg, and he felt his tendon snap up his leg like a cut bowstring. He fell forward with a yelp.

Inlokta tried to raise himself up, drag himself towards the battle, but his guard struck him in the back of the neck with the butt end of his spear, and pinned him to the ground. He could only watch. Finally, pieces of black-furred tauren ceased to fall, and the crowd parted for Grundig.

Durn was on his knees, held fast by three Grimtotem. His right arm ended in a bloody stump, and Inlokta saw the missing hand on the ground, still clutching his mighty polearm. His armour was cracked and torn – blood seeped from every seam. His left eye was swollen shut. His legs were clearly broken. His headdress lay broken and dirtied on the ground.

A Grimtotem sorceress helped Grundig to his feet, and he stepped in front of Durn. His one hand was still clutching his wound, the other seemed broken, or otherwise crippled from his battle, but he directed as much as he could with it. “Remove his armour.”

One of the tauren stepped forward, and cut the straps and buckles of his armour. It fell unceremoniously about his hooves. His chest was exposed, his thick fur soaked in blood. It heaved laboriously.

But somehow, even in such staggering defeat, Durn was majestic – even beautiful. Inlokta tried to call out to him, but he had forgotten his form. He could not speak in such a way that Durn could understand him. What escaped his maw was a pitiful whimper; a mournful dirge.

“You will never be forgotten.”

Grundig smirked. “Honour is a dead art, Durn Harpyslayer. Your honour has cost you your life and your clan. These are not times for meaningless codes and traditions. Our world changes before our very eyes, Harpyslayer, and we must rush to keep pace. Such is the way of…”

“Just do it,” Durn grumbled, interrupted him. With every word, blood spattered from out his mouth. But every word bore the force of a hurricane. “At least let me die without the words of a coward on my ears.”

Grundig’s frown faded. “You,” he signaled the tauren who held Inlokta. “Stick your spear through his heart. As you would when skewering a boar.”

Though Inlokta was unable to see her, he heard Kaya cry out in protest.

The tauren had Inlokta held in such a fashion that he could not look up to see him. But he felt the spear on his neck rattle. He stammered: “But, Lord Darkcloud, we…”

Grundig stared him down. The butt of the spear left Inlokta’s neck. He tried to rise but felt a hoof on his back push him down. The tauren stepped forward, and thrust his spear into Durn’s chest.

Durn convulsed only once, and then his head sank low, and his body went limp. He made no sound.

Grundig stepped forward, and spit on the ground before him. The tauren who had killed Durn released the spear.

“What news?” asked Grundig.

“The village has fallen,” said one of the Grimtotem soldiers. “Their elders are slain. Some attempted escape but we destroyed them.”

“You’re certain?” Grundig demanded. “We can allow no mercy to these dogs.”

“As confident as we can be, Lord.”

“Good.” Grundig took his hand from the wound. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. He wiped the congealed blood from his palm. “Take what provisions you need from the town and begin construction of a base camp in Greatwood Vale. Burn the rest.”

“And what of these prisoners?” asked the tauren who had killed Durn, gesturing to Inlokta and, he assumed, Kaya.

Grundig appeared thoughtful for a moment. “The girl is mine, we will bring her to Greatwood Vale as well. Take the beast into the woods and kill it, leave it for the spiders to feast on.”

“I’ve never seen a bear with horns like that before,” one of the tauren commented.

“Could it be a druid? Perhaps one of the night elves?” another suggested.

“I don’t care,” said Grundig flatly. “Take it into the woods, kill it either way. We have other matters to see to.”

Inlokta felt a sharp spear stick into his flank, and he painfully hoisted himself to his feet, taking care not to put weight on the crippled hind leg. Three tauren began to lead him away. He looked about for Kaya, but she was lost in the crowd. Soon he began to smell the thick, hot smoke from the burning buildings.

As they walked, he surveyed the ruins of his home.

Harpyslayers of every walk of life lay dead, everywhere. Patrols of Grimtotem were walking amongst the huts, finishing off the wounded survivors. There was the windcaller, Horoon, the youngblood Bluewater, Brave Ramblood, the miller Tautsatwa. Nautsiti lay beside her gargantuan kodo Terkala, her face close to his great, closed eye. If not for the grievous wounds inflicted upon them both, and the unnerving stillness of their chests, Inlokta could have mistaken them for catching a nap on a summer’s afternoon.

The Grimtotem were trying to wrangle Echeyanka, but she was being difficult. Masewi was likely dead. She would not be controlled by the Grimtotem. They would have to kill her, eventually. Inlokta made a silent prayer for it to be swift and dignified. The white kodos were messengers of the Earth Mother. Echeyanka deserved no less.

Perhaps he could take two, but it was unlikely with his ruined leg. Either way, with three, he would be finished quickly. He would die. That was the way of it. And he had no compunction to see any more death.

As they were about to cross over into the forest, Inlokta heaved a great sigh, and paused, taking what would surely be his final gaze at the place he had lived and loved for so many years. It was a cruel irony that he was returned so shortly before he had it all torn away from him.

Even as the black smoke billowed up to choke the afternoon sun, even as the blood of his kin flowed down the mountains, all he saw was a beautiful summer’s day, with barely a wisp of clouds in the sky. The windmills turned slowly in a gentle breeze. The youngbloods trained with the elders at the Warrior Circle. Nautsiti taught a group of children how to feed Terkala. Ramblood helped Kaya stretch a courser’s skin to be tanned on a frame. They were happy, they were safe.

This was the Aparaje he knew. This was the Aparaje he would remember as he died.

One of the Grimtotem kneed him forward. He turned, and shambled on towards his fate.

They weren’t ten yards from the treeline when one of them, the only woman amongst them, stopped. “This is good enough,” she nodded. Inlokta collapsed on the ground at the command. The cool, coarse grass tickled him through his fur.

Of the other two, one wore a thick metal helm, concealing his face, only a pair of dark eyes stared out from a thin slit. The other was the tauren who had killed Durn. The helmeted Grimtotem raised his spiked club high. Inlokta didn’t bother to brace himself.

The other suddenly put his hand forward, halting the first. “Hold. This is not needed.”

“Needed?” came a deep voice through the helmet. “These are the commands of Darkcloud.”

“There’s no honour to be had here.”

“Honour is a dead art,” said the woman icily. “What would you have us do, Asatokwe?”

“Leave him be,” he replied. “Return to the village.”

“This is lunacy,” said the other man. “Step aside.”

Asatokwe stood between them. Inlokta raised his head, and examined each of them quizzically.

The woman drew a thin sword from her sheath. “He dies or we die.”

Asatokwe sighed, and moved to the side.

“Perhaps you should remember what colours you wear,” she advised, and she nodded to the third tauren.

He stepped forward and raised his club again.

Inlokta dropped his head to the ground.

The scuffle happened so quickly he was only vaguely aware of it until after it had happened. Asatokwe kicked the woman fiercely in the hip, sending her sprawling into the other tauren, knocking him off balance.

He raised his club. “Apostate!” he cried as he charged.

Asatokwe drew a smaller club from his own belt, and unslung a shield from his back, just in time to catch the blow. He replied with a swift crack of his club to the other’s knee. The tauren bellowed in painful rage, and swung again. Asatokwe expertly dodged, and stuck his club under the other tauren’s wrist, and spun it upwards, forcing the spiked club from his hand. The tauren looked bewildered for a moment, before Asatokwe’s club smashed down on his helmet, denting and cracking it. A spray of blood spit out from the eyeslit in the helmet, and the tauren fell backward, his spiked club falling on the ground.

Suddenly, the female tauren ran up behind Asatokwe and jammed her sword in his back. Asatokwe reared back, howling in pain, and Inlokta saw that the blade had pierced him through. Asatokwe turned, catching the woman in the face with his arm and knocking her back. Her grip on her sword remained, however, and she wrenched it from his body, cutting him further, as she stepped back. She drew a second sword in her other hand.

Asatokwe raised his shield, but the damage was clearly deep. He was losing blood by the second, but he gritted his teeth, fought the sleep his body begged for. But he would die without help, that was clear.

He had killed Durn. He deserved worse than death.

Inlokta reached out to grab the fallen mace, but his paw couldn’t grip it properly. He’d forgotten the limits of this form. He slipped back into his tauren form, felt his wounds shift to accommodate this new form. His tendon was repaired, but his shin still felt like it was engulfed in flames.

The Grimtotem charged Asatokwe, and he caught her blade on the edge of his shield, but she brought the second sword around at his face. He attempted to turn to avoid it, but the sword raked heavy across his horn, and he winced. She pushed forward with her shoulder, and he fell backward, his head narrowly missing a large stone. She rushed forward, stomping a hoof on the horn she had struck, and a loud crack resounded as it connected with the stone beneath it. Then, with her other hoof, she kicked him in the face, and the horn broke clean off. Asatokwe cried out. The tauren crossed her swords, and prepared to behead him.

With what little resolve was left him, Inlokta swung the massive mace and struck the woman in the side of the head. The spikes pierced and hooked her flesh, sending out a shockwave of blood that spattered across Inlokta’s face. She roared and fell to the side, dropping her sword and clutching her face. Inlokta raised the mace once more.

“Traitorous dog!” she spat between tears. “And you!” she nodded to Inlokta. “Worm of the Harpyslayers. I would expect such cowardice, hiding as an animal, from the likes of your withered, misbegotten…”

The mace fell. She would speak no more of traitors.

Inlokta released the weapon and collapsed backward. He would survive these wounds, he was sure of that, and when he had rested he could heal himself with his druidic magics.

He was not so confident of Asatokwe.

The Grimtotem tauren lay on his back, as well, clutching the wound on his abdomen, bleeding through the links of his armour. His breath staggered from his mouth.

“We must leave here,” he managed to choke.

We? This Asatokwe presumed much. He had killed Durn, had participated in the raid on Aparaje that had destroyed his entire people. He had saved Inlokta, yes. At least in the physical sense. But what life did he have now?

Inlokta took a deep breath and turned, pine needles and dirt sticking to the blood congealing on his back. He crawled on all fours up to Asatokwe.

“Move your hands,” he commanded, and the Grimtotem obliged.

It was a messy wound, but then, melee battle was hardly surgical. Inlokta placed his hand on the wound, and in a burst of green light, the gaping wound began to mend. Asatokwe grew a sharp breath, and coughed.

Inlokta sighed, and laboriously got to his hooves. He extended a hand to Asatokwe, and helped the dark tauren to his own.

He winced. “There is still great pain. Is this normal?”

“My energies are spent, for now, and I have no reagents. Were I better rested I could repair the damage more completely.”

“Until then, we need to be on the move,” Asatokwe urged, squinting in pain as he bent to pick up his club and shield. “I had expected another patrol to check on us already.”

“Simply tell them I bested you; that you were the only survivor,” Inlokta suggested.

Asatokwe shook his head. “I cannot go back. My tribe is… the Grimtotem have lost their way. I know enough about their mad plans to stop them. But we must leave, quickly. We must find a place to hide. They will be searching for us once they find them dead.”

Asatokwe lumbered forth, with a limp, deeper into the forest.

Inlokta did not move. He looked up, and saw the smoke rising from his village over the treetops.

“Quickly, Harpyslayer!”

Inlokta sighed, and followed Asatokwe into the darkening woods.