The Way of the Sword

Wardstone used to be a village on the southern edge of Elwynn Forest.

"Used to be" was the key phrase on Sir Corwin's mind as he led his company through the smouldering ruins. He couldn't call Wardstone a village now, given how little of it was left standing. And villages usually had people in them, and unless the corpses strewn across its streets were playing a game, he figured he could estimate the town's populace at being zero. Riding his horse like a harbinger of the end of all things, he looked at Sir Harold, and asked, "how many people used to live here?"

"By the last census? At least two-hundred and sixty."

Corwin winced. The last census had been five years ago. Three years before the orcs attacked Stormwind after emerging from the Black Morass. Chances were that some people had escaped their rampage, but chances also were that the village's population had increased since then. Dismounting, and trying to breathe through his mouth while he did so, Corwin of House Amber reflected that leaving things to chance wasn't a sure way to win a battle. He hadn't been named Defender of the Crown by leaving things to chance. He'd been named it because of his ability to win.

"Fan out," he said. "Search for any survivors."

The knights remained mounted while footmen began picking their way through the ruins. Spear, sword, shield, and bow clanged against their armour, as their heavy footsteps crushed smouldering wood, and tiptoed around the corpses – especially ones that had already invited flies. Men, women, and children alike lay where they fell, each of them having suffered wounds from weapons bigger than could be held by human hands. At least half of them had had limbs or their heads severed. And some of them, Corwin noticed, were little more than piles of meat clumped together. Apparently dealing death wasn't enough for the greenskins – they had to keep hacking at their victims in the dirt. Corwin looked over as one of his footmen took off his helmet and threw up. Another was in prayer to the Light. Normally he would have told them both to get back in line and do the job the company's coin master was paying them for, but this wasn't normal. Things hadn't been normal for two years.

"Sir Corwin?"

He looked at Harold. The man had likewise dismounted, but unlike Corwin, had his sword drawn.

"Yes?"

"I…" He took a breath. "I hate to ask, but how much longer must we remain here? It already stands to reason that there's no survivors."

Corwin frowned. "That eager to leave are you?"

"I'm eager to get back to our camp lest the beasts attack again. To smell the burnt flesh of pigs rather than…" He trailed off, gesturing at a burnt out corpse. Corwin could tell it had been adult, but be it male or female was a question beyond him.

"There's still a chance," Corwin said. "And as long as that chance remains, we stay in Wardstone." He looked at Harold and forced a smile. "Cheer up. Least they took some of the orcs with them."

Harold scowled, and Corwin could understand why. At times, levity was a useful tool for those in service to the realm. This wasn't one of them. So instead, he patted his friend on the shoulder. "At least a few more minutes. Then we depart."

Harold nodded. "Of course."

The two knights continued to move through the village. At the very least, Corwin reflected, he'd been right in that some orcs had fallen here as well. He glanced at a trio of men who'd taken up arms, who were lying beside the body of one of the hulking green beasts. Corwin knelt down and lifted the orc's finger in his hand. It flopped down onto the ashes with a soft thump.

How many of you are there? He wondered. He lifted the brute's head by his hair and stared at its face – its eyes. Its fangs. Its scars. Where did you come from?

He glanced round Wardstone again. At the few orc bodies who remained, and the many, many more humans who lay among the ashes.

Why are you attacking this kingdom? He looked back at the orc's body and scowled. How many of you do we have to kill before you kill all of us?

"Sir Corwin?"

He glanced back at Harold.

"We best be going," the knight said.

With heavy heart, Corwin got to his feet as well. "Very well. I can only hope the Light takes these people to the hereafter, and bestows upon them better fortunes than-"

When Harold died, it was quick, but not painless.

A creature burst out of the small hovel behind him, tearing through its wooden frame as easily as a man might tear through parchment. It was carrying two axes, and screamed as it dove into Harold. He let go of his horse, which quickly bolted, leaving his master to be butchered as the axes cut through armour, flesh, and bone with equal ease. Corwin stood frozen in horror for a few seconds before he rushed to aid his friend. His friend, who was already dead, lying in a pool of blood.

The creature looked up at Corwin, glaring at him through red eyes, and bearing blood-stained teeth. It was a female orc, he reflected. And in his experience, just as adept at killing the warriors of King Llane Wrynn. So when he brought his sword around, the orc parried it with her axe and used the other one to swing at him.

His men were shouting. Corwin backed away, already on the defensive. Being a female of the greenskins, the height difference between them was less severe, but her savagery was as great as any of the beasts he'd encountered. Beasts usually in the company of soldiers, or at the best of times, dispatched from the saddle. Not on the ground – the same ground he stumbled back to as the orc continued her attack. As he desperately rose his sword to deflect her blows, before the force of one knocked it out of his hand.

She screamed, and brought her axe down. He yelled in defiance. The axe came down, but never made contact with him, as a spear was rammed through the orc's back. She spun round and swung her axe, burying it deep into the man's shoulder. He screamed, she howled, and Corwin took the opportunity to draw out a dagger and plunge it into the monster's leg. And while that wasn't enough to incapacitate her, the crossbow bolt that tore into the bitch's side was.

Corwin scrambled to his feet and glanced around. The footman who'd saved his life was lying on the ground, moaning, as another footman tried to bandage his wound. Harold was lying nearby, the pool of blood around him increasing in radius. Knights were riding towards him, a man was bringing a spear down to the orc's head and-

"Hold!"

The man looked at Corwin, a look of bewilderment visible in his eyes, even with the helmet he wore. "Sir?"

Corwin looked at the orc, struggling to pull the bolt out. "She was in the attack. We take her with us."

Sir Eustace looked at him. "Sir Corwin, a touch of mercy befits the Order of the Horse, but this is-"

"We take her. We make her talk. We find out what we can." Corwin watched as the orc struggled to her feet and let out a growl, before he brought the hilt of her sword around against her jaw. A tooth fell into the ground beside her, and he looked at his men. "Bind her."

The orc began screaming something in her Light-forsaken tongue.

"And gag her!"

They didn't have anything to gag the monster with, but they did have chains, along with a neck shackle. Luckily, the greenskin had stopped talking eventually, after they'd broken her arm. She wasn't doing too well, given that she still had a crossbow bolt lodged in her side – none of the men had wanted to treat her, and Corwin had decided to leave it in – he didn't want her to bleed out before she got into the tender care of an interrogator. And as much as he was loathe to admit it, the notion of the monster being in pain did give him a sense of satisfaction. And if ever the teachings of the Light called those feelings into question, he cast a glance at the body of Sir Harold, being born on a stretcher by two footmen. They couldn't take the bodies of everyone in Wardstone (who outnumbered the living by over 10:1), but they could take the body of a knight with them. Unlike the orcs, the people of Stormwind buried their dead. Unlike the orcs, mankind was not a race of savages.

So Corwin told himself as he reached Sir Anduin Lothar's camp. So he told himself as footmen came rushing over, yelling and beating the orc with their fists. So he told himself, as the orc stumbled, and suffered their boots.

"Sir Corwin?" Eustace asked.

Corwin took a breath. He was enjoying this…which, he supposed, was enough reason for him to yell at the men to stay back.

"What about Wardstone?"

"Were there any survivors?"

"Sir Harold…oh the Light…"

He looked at Eustace. "Take her to the interrogators."

Eustace chuckled. "Of course. They have their fun with her, you have your fun with Sir Lothar."

Corwin glanced at the orc as she was yanked away, before looking back at his fellow knight. "I think you and I have very different ideas of fun."

Eustace shrugged. "Just saying. I mean, did you hear what happened with the knights under the command of Sir Rodrik? Turns out that orc holes aren't that different from those of-"

Corwin walked towards the command tent. Wardstone had left him with a sense of nausea that had still endured an hour after leaving the town. He didn't want to add to that.

He approached the command tent and handed his sword to the guards outside. Suckling pig was being cooked somewhere, and he fought the urge to gag. Not only had Wardstone made him feel ill, but now the smell of flesh was adding to it. Again trying to breathe through his mouth, he walked into the command tent, finding three men standing over a map of the area. One with human and orc figurines dotted around it. Corwin made a mental note that the amount of orc figurines had increased since yesterday, while there were far too many human figurines stationed in the borderlands of Stormwind City.

"Sir Corwin," Lothar said.

He looked at Lothar, before glancing at Sir Dillon and Sir Peter. One of those men he respected more than the others.

"Heard you brought back some meat with you," Dillon said. "That true?"

Corwin began to pour himself some wine. "Word travels fast."

"It does. Shame you don't travel faster."

Corwin took a sip of the wine and met Dillon's eyes. "I'm sorry. Am I bothering you?"

Peter glanced at Dillon, then Corwin. "We're just saying – Llane named you King's Champion, but the king is keeping the majority of his forces at Stormwind."

"Strong hearts, strong walls and all that bullshit," Dillon said.

Lothar cast Dillon a glance. "Watch your tongue, good sir."

Dillon didn't back down. "Just saying Anduin – you may be friends with the king, and that crackpot in Karazhan, but-"

"Out," Anduin Lothar said.

Dillon scowled. Peter took a step forward. "Sir Anduin, I'm just saying-"

"Both of you. Out." He glared at Dillion, then Peter, then Dillon again. "Now."

Peter bowed and departed. Dillon cast Corwin a dirty look before returning his gaze to Lothar, and bowing likewise. Corwin took another sip of his wine as the two men departed, and took another sip as Lothar likewise made his way over to the glass containing the red liquid.

"Dillon has a point you know," Corwin said. "The king is keeping too many forces at the capital. If he wants us to fight the orcs, we need to do so without one hand behind our back."

"Llane has his reasons," Lothar murmured.

"I'm sure. But are they good ones?"

Lothar faced Corwin, now holding his own glass of wine.

"Are they tactically sound?"

"Like I said…the king has his reasons." He took a seat beside the table.

Light's arse, I'm sure he does. Corwin took a seat opposite Lothar. His friend (or so he hoped), but more importantly, Knight Commander of the Order of the Horse, Champion of the Realm, the Last Son of Arator, and the Best Hope to Win This War. Not that the last title was a title at all, but it was what Corwin believed.

"I heard about Wardstone," Lothar murmured. He looked at Corwin. "But you, having seen it with your own eyes…"

"The orcs came. They killed everyone. They left our dead, they left their dead, and they weren't to be seen when we arrived. No doubt in the Black Morass." Corwin sipped more of the wine and pursed his lips. "Light, this is terrible."

Lothar didn't rise to the jibe. Instead, he murmured, "I understand they left one of them behind. One who you sent to be interrogated."

"After she killed Sir Harold? Yes, I did."

"Hmm." Lothar leant back in his chair, taking another sip of wine.

"Lothar?" Corwin asked. "Don't tell me you're having second thoughts?"

"The orcs are an enemy," Lothar murmured. "Enemies have information."

He hadn't answered the question. So instead, Corwin murmured, "I understand the view from the high road is pretty. But you'll have a hard time marching an army across it."

Lothar said nothing.

"The orcs are savages," Corwin said. "I know that you…that the king…want us to play the role of noble humans, defenders of the Light, protectors of the realm, but if the enemy are refusing to conduct war by any civilized standards, why should we?"

Lothar said nothing.

"They wield axes that can cleave a man in half for Light's sake!"

Lothar smirked. "The dwarves wield axes as their weapon of choice. Are they savages for not favouring the sword?"

"The dwarves? Come now Lothar."

"It's a fair question."

Corwin put his wine on the table – it tasted terrible, and Lothar wasn't helping it. "Fine. The dwarves of Ironforge are honourable. Their hammer wielding cousins are also honourable. The Dark Irons are monsters, and can die in the fires they burn for all I care."

"And the orcs?"

Corwin frowned, as he watched Lothar get to his feet and begin pacing around the table. "Is this the new you?" he asked. "You find the Tome of Divinity and you think you're some prophet of the Light?"

Lothar glanced at him. "You understand I could ask you to leave as well."

"You could. But before you do, I'd like to know when you developed an interest in philosophy. Because that nonsense is best left for the priests of Northshire Abbey."

Lothar didn't answer. Instead, he walked over to a chest and drew out a sword. Not his own, granted, but still, a sword. A weapon in the command tent when usually none were allowed. Corwin watched as he laid it out on the table, between the armies of Stormwind and those of the so-called Horde.

"What is this?" Lothar asked.

Corwin raised an eyebrow. "Is this a trick question?"

"A simple question, Corwin. Not the first one I've asked today."

He got to his feet, looking at the blade, before murmuring, "a sword."

"A sword," Lothar repeated. "A weapon of war."

"As opposed to weapons that aren't used for war?"

Lothar shrugged. "Axes can be used for many things. As can knives. But the sword is a weapon first, and a weapon only. We attach nobility to it – we lay it on men's shoulders as he anoint them. We forge them as gifts for kings and princes. We swear by them, and bid women kiss their blade. But in the end, a sword is good for one thing, and one thing only – killing."

Corwin frowned. He'd grown up among swords all his life. Swords were ubiquitous in reality and legend, in history and myth. Swords were used by men of all the Seven Kingdoms, and even the elves were said to favour them – not that he'd ever seen one of the fey folk in his life. But to hear words such as Lothar's, and to hear it from the knight himself…

"The orcs use axes," Lothar said. "At times, I wonder if they use them for things other than killing."

But hearing those words, that removed the spell. "Lothar," Corwin said. "I understand what you're doing."

"Do you now?"

"And it's admirable. Trying to find the good in all, whether they be men or dwarves, or trolls, or gnolls, or any other creature in these lands. But we've fought the orcs for two years, and I've never seen anything to suggest that they're any different from the monsters they present themselves as."

Lothar didn't answer, but the look in his eye told Corwin that he couldn't think of any such example either.

"So we have swords," Corwin said, tapping the blade. "So we've killed each other, and killed our enemies. We've shed enough blood across these lands to stain the Great Sea forever red. But there's no moral equivalency to be had here – the orcs kill everyone they find, and what few wretches have been taken into the Black Morass have never been seen again. So if we've forged swords, and all swords are good for is for killing, then fine. Let's kill them. Let them wield their axes, let them chop up wood, or gut pigs, or whatever else, it matters not. They're bigger. Stronger. Tougher. And one of the few things that have kept the kingdom in the fight is that our steel is better – sword and armour both."

Lothar nodded and gave Corwin a sad smile. Corwin, in turn, gave him a nod in turn, and watched as he bound the sword again and put it in the chest. However close Lothar was with Llane, he understood the truth of the war better than he did. Holding out wasn't going to work. Not when the Horde controlled so much land already.

"You're right, of course," Lothar murmured. He turned back to the table and tapped the head of one of the figurines. "So tell me – how do we go about killing them?"

For a moment, Corwin wondered if he should press the issue further. If the resignation he heard in Lothar's voice should be torn apart, lest his heart grow soft beneath his breastplate.

"Well, we have our prisoner. Maybe she can help."

Instead, he spoke of other matters. After all, he'd led men of Stormwind, and had killed over a dozen orcs with his sword already.

He had plenty of ideas as to how to kill savages.

A/N

So I read an article not too long ago that asked the question as to why swords are fetishized in fantasy fiction. Axes and daggers have usage beyond warfare, but the sword is a tool that exists solely as a weapon. And yet...okay, seriously, how many 'special swords' exist in fantasy? How many axes? I'll give you a hint - there's far less of the latter than the former. I'd further argue that it's a fetish that extends to the real world as well, and in multiple cultures. Ergo, drabbled this up. And granted, Warcraft I isn't the best context for exploring moral equivalancy, but went with it regardless. Swords vs. axes and all that.