魔兽争霸官方小说:仇恨之轮-Cycle of Hatred(英文版)- 第1部分

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！　　
　








































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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　email　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　bined　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　mon　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。　

After　a　minute；　the　stranger　got　up　and　walked　up　to　the　wooden　bar。　I　m　trying　to　get　some　table　service。　　

Don　t　have　none；　　Erik　said。　He　never　saw　the　sense　in　paying　good　money　for　waiters。　If　folks　wanted　a　drink；
they　could　walk　up　to　the　bar。　If　they　were　too　drunk　to　walk　up　to　the　bar；　he　didn　t　want　them　to　drink　anymore　
anyhow；　since　folks　who　were　that　drunk　were　like　to　start　fights。　Erik　ran　a　quiet　tavern。　

The　stranger　plunked　a　silver　piece　on　the　bar　and　asked；　　What　s　the　most　expensive　drink　you　have　there？　　
　
That　d　be　the　boar　s　grog　from　the　north。　Orcs　make　it；　ferment　it　in

The　stranger　s　nose　wrinkled。　No　no　orc　drink。　　

Erik　shrugged。　People　had　weird　considerations　when　it　came　to　alcohol。　He　d　seen　folks　argue　about　the　relative
merits　of　beer　versus　corn　whiskey　with　more　intensity　than　they　brought　to　political　or　religious　disagreements。　If
this　gentleman　didn　t　like　orc　drinks；　that　wasn　t　Erik　s　lookout。　Got　corn　whiskey　fresh　batch　made　last　month。　　

Sold。　　The　stranger　smacked　his　hand　on　the　wooden　bar；　disturbing　some　of　the　nut　shells；　berry　seeds；　and　other　
detritus　that　had　gathered　there。　Erik　only　cleaned　the　bar　about　once　a　year　or　so　unlike　the　demon　skull；　no　one
could　really　see　the　bar；　and　he　never　saw　the　need　to　clean　a　surface　that　wasn　t　visible。　

One　of　the　regulars；　a　soldier　who　always　drank　the　grog；　turned　to　look　at　the　stranger。　Mind　tellin　　me　what　you
got　against　orc　booze？　　

The　stranger　shrugged　while　Erik　pulled　the　glass　bottle　of　corn　whiskey　off　the　shelf　and　poured　some　of　its
contents　into　a　mug　that　was　mostly　clean。　

I　have　nothing　against　orc　drink；　good　sir　it　s　orcs　themselves　I　have　issue　with。　　The　stranger　held　out　a　hand。
My　name　is　Margoz。　I　m　a　fisherman　by　trade；　and　I　have　to　say　that　I　m　not　well　pleased　with　how　my　s　have　
filled　up　this　season。　　

Not　bothering　to　shake　the　hand　or　introduce　himself；　the　soldier　said；　All　that　tells　me　is　you　ain　t　no　good　as　a　
fisherman。　　

Lowering　his　hand　upon　realizing　that　the　soldier　wasn　t　feeling　friendly；　Margoz　took　his　corn　whiskey　instead。
I　m　a　fine　fisherman；　sir　I　thrived　in　Kul　Tiras；　before　circumstances　forced　me　to　move　here。　　

On　the　other　side　of　Margoz　sat　a　merchant　who　sputtered　into　his　ale。　Circumstances。　Right。　Got　conscripted　to
fight　the　Burning　Legion；　did　you？　　

Margoz　nodded。　As　I　m　sure　many　were。　I　tried　to　make　a　new　life　for　myself　here　in　Theramore　but　how　can　I；　
with　the　damned　greenskins　taking　all　the　good　fishing　waters　for　themselves？　　

Erik　found　himself　nodding　in　agreement　with　the　first　half　of　Margoz　s　statement；　if　not　the　second。　He　himself
had　e　to　Theramore　after　the　Burning　Legion　was　driven　off　not　to　fight；　as　the　fighting　was　over　by　the　time　
he　made　the　journey；　but　to　claim　his　inheritance。　Erik　s　brother　Olaf　had　fought　against　the　Legion　and　died；
leaving　Erik　enough　coin　to　build　the　tavern　Olaf　had　dreamed　of　opening　after　he　finished　his　service。　In　addition
to　the　money；　Erik　was　bequeathed　the　skull　of　a　demon　that　Olaf　had　slain　in　bat。　Erik　had　never　particularly　
wanted　to　run　a　tavern；　but　he　d　never　particularly　wanted　to　do　anything　else；　so　he　opened　the　Demonsbane　in
honor　of　his　brother。　He　figured；　rightly；　that　the　munity　of　humans　in　Theramore　would　gravitate　toward　a　
place　with　a　name　that　symbolized　the　driving　off　of　demons　that　led　to　the　citystate　s　formation。　

I　ain　t　standin　　for　this；　　the　soldier　said。　You　fought　in　the　war；　fisherman　you　know　what　the　orcs　did　for　us。　　

What　they　did　for　us　is　not　what　distresses　me；　good　sir；　　Margoz　said；　but　rather　what　they　are　doing　to　us　now。　　

They　get　the　best　of　everything。　　This　was　the　boat　captain　at　one　of　the　tables　behind　the　soldier。　Up　Ratchet
way；　them　goblins　always　favor　orcs　for　repairs　or　dock　space。　Last　month；　I　had　to　wait　half　a　day　　fore　they　d　let
me　dock　my　skiff；　but　some　orc　boat　e　by　two　hour　after　me；　and　got　a　spot　right　off。　　

Turning　to　face　the　captain；　the　soldier　said；　Then　go　somewhere　other　than　Ratchet。　　

T　　ain　t　always　an　option；　　the　captain　said　with　a　sneer。　
　
S　not　like　they　always　need　the　repairin　；　neither；　　the　man　with　the　captain　Erik　thought　it　might　have　been　his
first　mate；　since　they　dressed　similarly　said。　They　got　oaks　up　in　mountains　above　rimmar；　be　makin　　their　
ships　from　them。　What　we　got？　Weak　spruce　is　all。　They　hoard　em；　they　do；　keepin　　all　the　good　wood。　Our　
boats　ll　be　leakin　　all　over　thanks　to　the　marshy　garbage　we　gotta　work　with。　　

Several　other　voices　muttered　in　agreement　with　this　sentiment。　

So　you　d　all　like　it　better　if　the　orcs　weren　t　around？　　The　soldier　slammed　his　fist　on　the　bar。　Without　them；
we　d　be　demonfood；　and　that　s　a　fact。　　

I　don　t　think　anyone　s　denying　that。　　Margoz　sipped　from　his　whiskey　mug。　Still；　there　does　seem　to　be　an
unequal　distribution　of　resources。　　

Orcs　used　to　be　slaves；　you　know。　　This　was　someone　else　at　the　bar　whom　Erik　couldn　t　see　from　where　he　was
standing。　To　humans；　and　to　the　Burning　Legion；　if　you　think　about　it。　Can　t　blame　em　for　wanting　to　take　
everything　they　can　now。　　

I　can　if　they　re　takin　　it　away　from　us；　　the　captain　said。　

The　merchant　nodded。　You　know；　they　re　not　from　here。　They　came　from　some　other　world；　and　the　Burning　
Legion　brought　em　here。　　

The　first　mate　muttered；　Maybe　they　oughta　go　back　where　they　came。　　

Makes　you　wonder　what　Lady　Proudmoore　was　thinking；　　Margoz　said。　

Erik　frowned。　At　those　words；　the　tavern　suddenly　got　rather　quiet。　Lots　of　people　had　been　muttering　assent　or
disagreement；　either　with　the　sentiments　expressed　or　the　people　expressing　them。　

But　as　soon　as　Margoz　mentioned　Jaina　Proudmoore　worse；　mentioned　her　in　a　disparaging　manner　the　place　
got　quiet。　

Too　quiet。　In　the　three　years　Erik　had　been　a　tavern　owner；　he　learned　that　there　were　two　times　when　you　expected
a　fight　to　break　out：　when　the　place　got　too　loud；　and　when　it　got　too　quiet。　And　the　latter　times　usually　brought　on
the　really　nasty　fights。　

Another　soldier　stood　up　next　to　the　first　one　this　one　was　wider　in　the　shoulders；　and　he　didn　t　talk　much；　but
when　he　did；　it　was　in　a　booming　voice　that　made　the　demon　skull　behind　the　bar　rattle　on　its　mount。　Don　t
nobody　talk　bad　bout　Lady　Proudmoore　　less　he　wants　to　be　livin　　without　teeth。　　

Swallowing　audibly；　Margoz　quickly　said；　I　would　never　dream　of　speaking　of　our　leader　in　anything　but　reverent
tones；　good　sir；　I　promise。　　He　gu