Teeth spun through the air on trails of blood, and the crowd roared. Morg, known as the Mighty, sped past his prone opponent and grabbed the hard rubber ball from the dust. His mailed left hand tossed it to the maw of the scoop-glove on his right. Green muscles still in motion he swung his right arm as hard as he could, the ball shooting out like a bullet, bouncing off the tip of the defender’s shovel glove and into the goal.
The scene lost some of its impact on the grainy black-and-white television flickering in the den. Dev’tor leaned forward in his battered kodohide chair, yellow teeth bared in an old warrior’s cheer.
“Ha! Did you see that? Orgrimmar’s got a good team this year, son. Players like Morg the Mighty will win us the championship.”
Standing at the doorframe, Kargath grunted in affirmative, half-watching the glowing screen. He took a black kodohide jacket from the closet, clutching it like a talisman. Putting it on he instantly felt bigger, the jacket a defense against the world’s uncertainties.
“Sit down, this looks to be a grand game.”
“I have to go to the shop, father. Nog is expecting me.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
Dev’tor sighed, his tone somewhere between pride and disappointment.
“Then do your duty as a warrior must.”
Kargath said nothing, his father’s words echoing in his mind. As a warrior must, though he was no warrior yet. That would come with the autumn chill, when he would take up the ax and vow service to the Horde, promising to fight its enemies with bravery and honor. He wondered if he could even bring himself to say the words. What enemies? The Scourge was dust, the Old Gods and Burning Legion contained, and the Alliance a key ally.
Hot summer winds blew as Kargath stepped onto the road, spirals of dust lifting up from the ground. The sky darkened in the scorching dusk, the Valley of Honor’s red rooftops and narrow alleys sprawled before him. Not too many people out just yet; not with Orgrimmar facing its old Razor Hill rivals in Brawlball. West of that, the Valley of Spirits, spears of steel and glass shimmering in the heat. Beneath the ziggurats of magic and commerce were their smaller and older stone cousins, where fantastically rich trolls still gave offerings to ensure the favor of the Loa. History said the trolls built the first civilizations, and they had more than reclaimed their legacy.
Kargath walked the rough streets, his stride cool and insouciant. No one had anything to really fight for any longer, but that didn’t stop some from trying. Kargath was no stranger to rumbles, and used to look for them with his friends at his side, prowling the nighttime with chains and clubs. Somehow he got bored of it. Maybe it was just age. Maybe the feeling that the fights were pointless, that his father finished all the real battles.
Lazy summer heat still smothered Orgrimmar when the sun vanished. In the corner of his eye Kargath spotted a pair of skullboys leaning on the railing of the porch at Krog’s Bar, tattooed hands deftly catching the switchblades they tossed in the air. Black eyes stared right at Kargath, promising pain if he took a step closer. Kargath pretended not to notice.
Things were busier in the Valley of Strength. Sounds from the arena shook the whole neighborhood; the game was a close one. Navigating the canyon roads he reached Noz’s Machine Shop. A sleek cherry-rod rocket cruiser sat out front, light dancing on the chrome decals along the body and engines. Kargath’s eyes grew wide, recognizing the new Skurk Motors ’57 Raptor. Forgetting his troubles he hurried up, wanting to get a better look. The thing practically leaped out of the lot, racing down the streets in Kargath’s mind.
“Yo, Kargath! Thanks for making it here on such short notice. Bruk’s sick again; probably whooping it up over at the arena.”
Noz waddled out of the garage, his oil-stained hands gripping a wrench. His sharp goblin face smiled, and Kargath felt his face doing the same. Things were so simple at the shop.
“It’s nothing boss. Who brought this number here?” Kargath pointed to the Raptor.
“Some troll hot rodder. He’ll probably pick it up tonight.”
“Aw, you should have called me in yesterday, I want to get my hands dirty with this thing!” protested Kargath.
“He wanted Serkor to do it. I guess they know each other or something.”
“Come on, Serkor wouldn’t know what to do!”
“Hey, this troll’s a paying customer. Anyway, Margor’s ’53 Scorpid’s acting up again. I think it might be the fuel intake, but you check it out for yourself.”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks again, Kargath. Don’t know how I’d run this joint without you.”
Margor’s vehicle had a new problem every month, normal for the year and make. The ’53 Scorpid was the mechanic’s best friend, always good for a fix-up. Kargath took off his jacket and got to work.
Everyone brought their rigs to Noz’s. A reputation for good work brings more of it, and the city knew Noz had an eye for talent. Kargath got the job by showing off the work he’d done on his own cruiser, a ’55 Skurk Nightsaber, his pride and joy. He’d paid an arm and a leg for that masterpiece, and fixed it up to go twice as fast. Not so useful in Orgrimmar’s narrow streets, where it was one car among many, but in the wide open spaces south of the city the Nightsaber became a god.
The game ended and the crowds lurched through the streets, taking swigs of bloodmead as they went. Laughter and cheer filled the warm night air, though with an orcish edge. Fights always came after the game, no matter who won or lost.
“Orgrimmar won! Hey, anyone here a fan of Sirg Skullclub?” called out Noz.
“He’s an all right player,” responded a junior mechanic named Farn.
“Was an all right player. They say he just died; punch to the chest knocked him flat in the fifth round. Docs didn’t think it was bad, but they were wrong.”
“Good for him. Honorable death in a winning game. Hope I go out like that.”
“Sheesh, the guy died! Think how much more he could’ve done if he lived!” exclaimed Noz.
“Aw, Noz, you just aren’t an orc.”
“Come on, you can’t tell me Brawlball has to be this damn lethal. You guys oughtta do it like the tauren and humans, make it safer.”
“While we’re at it we’ll put wheels on our shoes and play it elf-style," joked Farn. The other mechanics laughed at the joke, Kargath among them. No point to making Brawlball safe. Every orc knew that. His father said it wasn’t a really good game unless someone died.
Harrisar came in a while later as the crowds thinned, his teenage daughter in tow. Noz almost had a monopoly when it came to repairing human cars. Orc-owned shops tended to return human cars in worse condition than they arrived. Kargath never understood the kind of person who would do that. Didn’t prove or solve anything. Besides, Harrisar was built like a truck, and had enough scars to deserve respect. The man was a paper-pusher at a Stormwind company’s branch office, but you wouldn’t guess it to look at him.
Harrisar had taken a shine to Kargath. He first repaired the human’s car the last summer, and Harrisar said it ran better than when he first bought it. Kargath hadn’t done anything special, but he wasn’t going to turn down a compliment. Harrisar was already crossing the garage towards Kargath’s workstation.
“Hey there, sport! Heard you got my car fixed up yesterday. I would have picked it up then, but there was some last minute work at the embassy.”
“Pleasure as always, sir,” said Kargath. He stood up, wiped the oil off his hands, and shook with Harrisar.
“Quite a game up in the arena. I like the way you fellas play it in Orgrimmar. For keeps, just like the old days. Ever let humans into the orcish leagues?”
“No rule against it, but it might not be the best idea. Different weight classes and all that.”
“Really? ‘Cause I was thinking I’d give it a shot – ha ha ha! Just kidding around there. Maybe back in the old days, but I’m ready for some peace and quiet myself.”
How many demons fell before Harrisar’s blade? Kargath wondered.