Chapter 16: Gnoll Escape
“I once knew a Kirin Tor mage who befriended a gnoll chieftain. Taught him a magic trick popular with Dalaran children. He had a whole tribe at his beck and call until the chieftain sicced his hunters on him.
Turns out, gnolls have very short memories. Both for spellcraft and favors.”
* Scholar Zeania Flameblossom, “What to Avoid When Picking an Apprentice: A Treatise on the Magically Inept Races of Azeroth”
~ Brgllrm
“So…” I said, breaking the silence hanging over our group ever since Srlgl left. For how obvious their curiosity was, Grrgl and Brrgl were quiet as pair of mice. “First time seeing a surface village?”
They looked at each other, seeming to have a conversation solely through their eyes. It was honestly a bit creepy, two hulking murlocs just staring deeply into each other’s pupils. Maybe that was common in the ocean? Sound travels faster in water, so ocean hunters must have created some other form of communication that wouldn’t tip off aquatic prey.
Oh, maybe they have a version of sign language? I’ll have to ask Srlgl later.
As I finished my musings on speaking underwater, the twins finally said the first words I had heard from them since they surfaced on the beach. Simultaneously, they both responded in a deep rumble. “Yes.”
Wow. I could feel the sound as it hit me. It was like standing next to a bass player, the vibrations causing my teeth to chatter and a shiver down my spine. The experience almost distracted me from catching a glimpse of their teeth. Although teeth were the wrong word to use for whatever they had. The duo possessed truly terrifying sets of chompers, each tooth sharp as a wolf’s fang. They were brilliant as well, their spotless surface almost shining in the sun.
What was it with murloc and sparkling teeth? No one in my village sharpened or modified them, hell they barely clean them at all! The most I’ve seen anyone do is chew on various herbs and twigs. No way these two got such pearly whites from anything but modern dentistry, and by modern I mean from my previous life.
Maybe it was magic? Or does living in the ocean do that much for murloc teeth?
Once I had stopped pondering the strange disparity in dental hygiene between my village and the coastrunners, I moved on to Srlgl. There was something about him that rubbed me the wrong way. It was a familiar sense of unease, how his smile raised my guard rather than calm me.
Now that I think about it, his teeth were also unusually clean, and he hadn’t said anything about living in the ocean. Plus his facial features were what I would describe as handsome, although I don’t know how much of that is from my old human preferences or the hormones of a growing murloc body. Either way, it was a sentiment I hadn’t encountered previously, one I hadn’t even considered possible. If I had to choose one word to describe him, at least physically, it would be perfect.
That’s it! He looked perfect. Too perfect. In a society without extensive cosmetics and plastic surgery, I was more used to seeing flaws in the murloc form. Sun-wrinkled skin and scars from minor injuries, perhaps a missing frill or two. Srlgl had none of those blemishes and looked almost fake because of it.
Well, I had wanted to learn more about Srlgl. Asking about his appearance might be innocuous enough to lower any guard they might have.
Shuffling closer beside the two brothers, I started my line of inquiry. “So… what’s up with Srlgl’s looks? I would have thought a coastrunner would have scars and stuff.”
The two brothers paused their rhythmic marching, spinning around in synch to stare me in the eyes. Their faces were blank, but that was its own response.
Okay, note to self, I thought with diminishing confidence, don’t mention appearance.
Before I could clarify my statement, the brother on the left, Brrgl I think, spoke up. “Are you saying he is a bad coastrunner?”
Then Grrgl jumped in. “Just because he has the skill to avoid injury while fighting?”
The conversational flow snapped back to Brrgl. “Then you are mistaken, and your understanding of a coastrunner’s job is small.”
Then, with their piece said, they turned around and continued touring the village perimeter. Shaking my head, I jogged alongside them to catch up with their longer strides.
After a few minutes of silent marching, I finally worked up the courage to respond. “Hey, I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean any disrespect.” When the brothers didn’t say anything for half a minute, I continued. “You both really respect Srlgl, don’t you?”
They paused again, this time twisting their heads instead of their full bodies. They were looking straight into my eyes, seemingly trying to figure out if I was serious or not. The answer they came to was apparently… “...Yes.”
Brrgl took over the explanation. “He saved our lives.”
“The naga spared no one in their attack,” said Grrgl, carrying on the second Brrgl stopped speaking. “Even elders and tadpoles were struck down or captured in their massive nets.”
There was a brief pause as Brrgl found back a growing frown. It was one of the first visual hints of emotion I had seen from them. “We tried to fight but could do nothing against the foul magic of their sea witch.”
“Then,” Grrgl said while turning his face towards the ocean. “When the fight seemed impossible, Srlgl appeared.”
“He dove down from the surface and stabbed the sea witch through the chest.” As Brrgl spoke, he mimed the action, driving an imaginary spear into his throat.
Grrgl started shaking his head from side to side. “He told us to retreat.”
There was a pause as both brothers fell silent. Then Brrgl spoke in a quiet voice. “We did.”
“And now he is teaching us how to be strong. Strong like him.” I noticed Grrgl wasn’t speaking to me anymore. His attention was fully transfixed on the ocean. “Strong enough to stop the naga if, no, when they come again.”
“Wow…” I said, my voice trailing off as I heard the reverence in their speech. I had heard similar tones in my previous life. It was how my priest talked about God, that complete faith and devotion. But I had never heard it used when talking about a person.
I was still trying to wrap my head around what would make someone talk about Srlgl like that (sure he was attractive, but not divinely hot) when our little group ran into one of the few gatherers still going out into the forest. It was an older man, limping as he walked from an injured knee.
As we approached, he turned and narrowed his eyes at the two massive coastrunners next to me. His grip tightened on a sturdy branch he was using as a cane, the few leaves still attached rustling with the movement.
“Hello Brgllrm,” he said with a knock of his stick to accompany the greeting. “What are you doing this close to the forest?”
“Oh, not much,” I said, avoiding having to say their name in response. “I was just giving the coastrunner visitors a tour.” As I pointed to Brrgl and Grrgl, they both gave the gatherer a slight bow. He nodded back, not banging his stick this time.
“Well, don’t let me hold you.” He said, turning to walk in the opposite direction. “If you need anything, let me know.”
As the man walked away, I couldn’t help but feel a bit underwhelmed by the situation. These two were experiencing their first time on land, and all I was showing them were boring buildings and a treeline. Even the people we met were apprehensive, acting less animated than normal.
There had to be something I could show them. Something unique to dry land. It had to not have an equivalent in the ocean, like how coral homes were similar to the huts we used.
The problem was, I couldn’t take them into the forest. It was still technically banned by Mrgglr for anyone to leave the village without a reason that would help the war effort. The bare minimum amount of gatherers were allowed to forage, but I wasn’t a gatherer. Even my bodyguard of two hulked-out coastrunners didn’t change the situation, at least not officially.
If I wanted to show them something unique, I would need a reason beyond getting food. Something that could help with fighting that existed within the forest. Was there anything like that?
Just as I was about to give up hope and return to the village, an idea hit me. What about after the fighting?
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“Hey,” I shouted to the gatherer. “Actually, I did need help.”
He paused while licking his lips, shook his head, and made his way back to me. With a small sigh, he said “What did you need?”
“Do you know what I can find bees?” I said. After he responded with a confused look, I started to clarify. “You know, the small flying bugs? They’re yellow and black and make a noise like bzzzzzz-”
I was cut off from my bee impression by him raising his hand. “I know what a bee is. You have to know the threats of the forest to become a gather.”
There was a period of silence as he lowered his hand. It stretched on for almost a minute as the man studied my face. I tried to keep as cheery an expression as I could, despite my growing unease.
“I do know where to find bees…” he said, drawing out the last word until his voice disappeared. “But I don’t think anyone can get it for you.”
“Why not? Other gatherers have done stuff for me. Like that time I forgot to restock Mrgglr’s peacebloom shell.” I said while making my best pleading face. “Besides, I have a good reason for wanting honey. I can make medicine out of it. Help people not get sick.”
“I’m sorry Brgllrm,” the gatherer said while shaking his head. “The forest is a dangerous place. Always has been, considering all the bears and humans and what have you. But now that we know the gnolls are hunting us, no one wants to range too far afield from the village.”
He pointed south of the camp, his hand held high. “The only place I know of that has bee hives is deep inland. Far enough that retreating to camp would be impossible.”
As he turned back to face me, I noticed the concern in his eyes. Whether it was regarding my safety or the possibility that I would force this issue I couldn’t tell.
I stepped closer to him while nodding. “I understand it will be dangerous. But look who I have with me!” I gestured to Grrgl and Brrgl who seemed to snap to attention at the mention of their name. “Any gnoll who tries something with them around is in for a bad time.”
There was a pause as he stared at the two Coastrunners behind me. His eyes passed up and down their forms, lingering on their exposed muscles. “Well,” he said without breaking eye contact with Grrgl’s biceps, “I suppose you know what you’re doing, being Mrgglr’s apprentice and all.”
He turned around and pointed south into the forest. “There’s always a few big hives deeper into the forest, near that big clearing the humans like to make. It’s the one with all those big orange things growing in the ground.”
Big orange things… what? “Uh, okay.” I said with a puzzled look on my face. “So just head south until we find the farm with the orange things, got it.” The man responded to my unsure face with one of his own, nodding to my less-than-subtle request for clarification.
As I trudged into the forest, the brothers close behind me, I heard the man behind mutter to himself. “What’s a farm?”
~ Sergeant Brashclaw
It was a raucous night at Sergeant Brashclaw’s den. The final raiding party had just returned with an entire caravan of peasants in tow. After giving them a few good licks on the head and moving the humans into the pantry, Brashclaw joined his pack in the feast hall. It was the largest room in the entire mine, hollowed out by its previous owners in their search for additional veins.
His smartest underlings were constantly repairing the wooden supports holding up the ceiling. Looted nails and bits of wood they could find from smashed crates and barrels became the things keeping a mountain from falling on them.
As some of his favorite slaves shuffled into the room, each carrying an enormous platter, Brashclaw stood up and signaled the start of the feast by grabbing the first human in the procession and biting into his throat. Some of his pack might have frowned at the waste of food as the dish the slave was carrying clattered to the floor, but Brashclaw had always been a bit old-fashioned.
His follow-up of pulling out a massive cleaver and chopping off choice cuts of the slave to throw into the crowded feast hall squashed any concerns regarding food waste. His pack was too busy fighting each other for the flying goodies to think about anything else.
What followed was the type of meal unheard of in recent memory. Fresh meats of every kind were heaped in piles on the table. Beasts that prowled the forests, flocked in the skies, and darted through the waters mingled next to each other in massive plates or charred skewers.
Perhaps its only contemporary was the celebration of the first murloc raids half a month ago. That had been less bountiful, but the novelty of murloc flesh made up for the insufficient quantity.
That two once-in-a-lifetime feasts happened in the same month had not been lost on Brashclaw’s pack. Even from his lofty position, separated on an elevated platform, he could feel the anticipation of the crowd. They were excited, and as the night stretched on their gazes would drift to him, waiting for him to do something monumental.
But it wasn’t time yet. The night was young, and Brashclaw wanted his declaration to be perfect.
The hours passed quickly as the feast ramped up. And what a feast it was! There were songs and boasts about great raids, each table trying to one-up the others. Scuffles between the tables were expected, anticipated even. It’s not a real feast if no one gets shanked.
Drinking games and displays of strength were also constantly taking place, often ending in one or more gnolls passed out on the ground, his compatriots laughing and shaving his fur with rusty daggers.
And most importantly of all, there was enough food and drink to satiate an ogre. Maybe it could even make the damn things palatable, all that delicious food in their guts.
Each time a slave entered the room with a new tray, they would be swarmed by the surrounding tables. The slave was only spared from the vicious fighting and ravenous hunger of the gnolls by fleeing as soon as possible, leaving the early arrivals to fight over the meat before a straggler had the bright idea of turning them into a meal. Of course, a few humans didn’t do that, usually because they were stunned by fear or injured in the initial blows. Normally I would have punished those actions. If I didn’t then the whole den would be devoid of slaves within a week. But it wasn’t worth killing the mood of tonight over such petty matters.
Plus the slaves make such an amusing sound while they’re eaten—music to my ears after spending the last month planning raids instead of going on them.
Once enough gnolls had been removed from the hall from brawls and blackouts, the center of the room was cleared of tables and ringed with a long, blood-soaked rope. The room took on a sense of excitement as everyone knew what was coming next.
Brashclaw turned around to the wall behind his chair, where a thick rope had been dropped through the roof. He felt its loose strands rub along his paw as he pulled three times, each pull drawing out loud ringing from the looted bell set up in the rafters.
It had once been a rallying cry of the humans, built into the tower of one of those idiotic buildings they called churches. No warriors, less fortified than the smallest gnoll camp, and they even let cloaked strangers in at night! Although Brashclaw had heard stories about packs trying to raid undefended churches and being repelled by blasts of blinding light. It was probably nothing, desperate lies of subordinates trying to not get executed for losing to withered old humans.
But none of that mattered. Now the bell was a symbol of Brashclaw’s, and by extension gnollish, might. The deafening ringing elicited further cackling and cheers from his pack as they watched a procession of combatants enter the hall. First came the traitors, gnolls who had betrayed, wronged, or just upset Brashclaw or his closest allies. They were all tied to a long rope carried by a massive warden, easily standing a head above the bound gnolls.
Then came the slaves, a dozen people stumbling forward blindfolded, the wardens keeping them in line with pokes of sharpened sticks. They were mostly human, the majority obtained from the final raiding party’s successful score of a peasant caravan. But at the back was the star of the show. A single murloc, the only adult they had captured from their raids on the murlocs that Brashclaw managed to keep alive and out of his subordinate's stomachs. It would be useful, and just plain fun, to see how the fish freaks fought.
Finally, the third and final group entered, this one made up of Brashclaw’s best poachers. They brought with them a menagerie of the deadliest creatures that resided in the surrounding forests. Four hyenas snapped at the feat of the slaves in front of them, while a goretusk strained against the ropes that bound it, trying to gouge its handler with its sharpened tusks. And at the back was his prized fleshripper, currently pecking at the eyes of the gnoll carrying her.
The participants lined up along the edge of the circle, all while the surrounding feasters threw refuse and scraps at them. Brashclaw looked towards the head warden and nodded, starting the first part of the evening's main event.
Feasting gnolls started shouting, trying to get his attention. Brashclaw swept his head across the room, finding who he was looking for at the far end. The man he pointed to stood up and made his way over to the ring with a vicious grin on his face. As he stepped in one of the slaves was pushed in as well, a human woman who left bloody footprints with every wobbly step she took. There was a pause as she stared in fear at the scout, the woman unable to flee due to the surrounding gnolls. Then the scout pounced forward and she screamed.
The process repeated itself, with Brashclaw calling up a lucky gnoll and them taking their prize in the ring. The gnolls who got chosen were always grateful to him. It wasn’t every day you got to eat a full corpse or kill it yourself either.
After a few uneventful fights, it was time for the executions. Every traitor was pushed into the pit at once, left to fight until one stood alone. I ignored the details of the brawl while I stepped to the side and prepared for the next fight. It was always the same, a great big fight in the center while the cowards hugged the edge, ironically becoming targets for each other.
Once it was done, and the surviving gnoll had been marked for future fights, the bodies were cleared out by the cooks and Brashclaw made his way down to the ring. The crowd somehow got even louder, with tables breaking from the banging of cups and fists on them. He stepped over the blood-soaked ring, looking across the circle to the sole murloc prisoner being unbound.
Brashclaw started advancing the moment his opponent realized what was happening. As he slowly walked forward he spread his arms wide, his claws glinting off the flickering torchlight from the surrounding walls. The murloc pulled back, drawing inward and saying something in that gurgling language of theirs.
Brashclaw laughed at the display of cowardice. It was just like those pathetic creatures to beg for mercy even now when it had nothing left to lose. If it would just fight back, then maybe he would consider keeping it around as entertainment. But seeing it's almost bowing form Brashclaw wanted nothing more than to slice its throat personally.
Then, as Brashclaw was standing almost directly above the murloc, it shot up and drove a knee into his crotch. Stumbling back, Brashclaw caught a glimpse of a red fist before it collided with his face, knocking him back further. Each blow dimmed the cackling coming from his pack, replaced with an awkward silence.
Growling, Brashclaw spun back and slashed out with his claws. But the murloc had dived down, his swings catching nothing but dust. Looking down, the murloc was trying to spin around Brashclaw and strike at him from behind. As it scrambled past his leg, the murloc screamed and collapsed onto the ground.
Brashclaw reached down with one paw and picked the murloc up by its throat. A closer inspection showed a cut along its leg, one that had partially healed but was recently opened from the exertions in the fight. With one final snarl, Brashclaw slit the murloc’s throat, dropping the body onto the bloodied ground.
Brashclaw took in his pack, narrowing his eyes at the apprehension and hesitation he saw in them. He stomped back to his seat in almost complete silence, the murloc body still lying in the center of the ring. Then, once he was back in his intimidating position, he opened his mouth. With a booming voice, he addressed his pack. “That is why we treat them like humans.”
A chorus of confused noises came from his pack. “Some of you have said we should just attack now. How hard can it be, you say, it will be like fishing.”
He pointed to the quickly forming black eye on his face. “This is what happens when you think they can do nothing. They surprise you.” The murmurs of the crowd were rising. “When we started fighting the humans, what did we do? Did we run straight at them in their towers, where all their warriors were? No! We attack their weaknesses. The far-away farms. Children playing in the streams. Lone fighters pissing in the woods!”
“For generations, we believed humans could never be beaten. But we have already won against the humans! They are running for their pitiful lives! If we treat these murlocs as seriously as we did the humans, there is nothing they can do to stop us!”
The crowd had started talking again, but it was a far cry from the eruption of cheers from before the fight. Brashclaw could still see the weakness, the thought of failure, spreading through his pack.
Looking to a special table positioned next to his platform, Brashclaw took in the cloaked forms of five Defias members sitting stoically. While many of the newly arrived Defias were fun sports, down to do anything from drinking contests to bouts in the pit against gnolls and humans alike, those five never participated in any games. Brashclaw barely saw them, and he was only able to draw them into conversation when it came to tactical matters or their daily ‘tutoring’ sessions.
Even now, he noted their disregard for the festivities he so meticulously organized. Their food was untouched and none of the five were watching the fights. Rather, they were focused on some kind of parchment placed on the table, talking and pointing out things while one wrote.
Shaking his head, Brashclaw returned his attention to the feast proper. If those arrogant idiots wanted to live a boring life, he wouldn’t stop them.
“Besides.” He said with a dismissive snort. “What can a few fish-freaks do to us now that I’ve gained command over the water they live in!”
A chorus of chuckles and yelps accompanied him as the Sergeant stood up, pointing his hand out and focusing on the words and movements the Robed Defias had shown him. It was difficult, precise movements requiring intense concentration mixed with the visualization that came easier when daydreaming. Never mind the fact that he could barely tell if it was working or not, his talents in the arcane being what they were.
But eventually, it clicked. The temperature of half the room he was pointing at dropped noticeably, fires flickering out of existence and frost forming on the cauldron stewing in the chimney. But that wasn’t what his pack was looking at. Instead, their attention was drawn to his outstretched hand, where a complex sigil of blue light had formed. It was mesmerizing to anyone who had been living the life of his pack, forced to scrounge and kill each other for the next meal.
It was a promise, a statement to all the gnolls standing before him.
We can have all they have, their power and wealth can be ours. It said wordlessly, silent save for the slight hum of arcane energy leaking from his circle.
It may not have been true, but it was one hell of a motivator.
Brashclaw smiled, letting the spell slip from his concentration. The crowd’s attention slipped away from his magical feat and the feast hall erupted into hoots, cackling laughter, and the pounding of weapons on tables. If all went well, he would be Riverpaw chieftain by next year.
Or maybe, Brashclaw thought, letting a bit of that hope he had just given his pack overtake him, they’ll be calling me Packlord Brashclaw. I just need to deal with Hogger.