Early the next morning, before dawn, Jess went to the Mage Quarter and dusted the study. Amy Marin said things in Redridge were complicated and her father might not return for several days. When Jess mentioned he wanted to go out of town on business, she took it upon herself to give him permission.
After finishing his work, he hurried to Old Town.
He'd practically run from one end of Stormwind to the other. By the time he reached the Pig and Whistle, the inn was already packed.
The crowd was chanting a name in rhythm: “Baenthor! Baenthor!” Jess felt he'd heard the name somewhere before. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.
He pushed through to the front, where two bare-chested fighters, one tall and one short, faced each other in a corner of the inn.
The taller man had shoulder-length light-brown hair and held a wooden staff toward his opponent. His face was firm and quite handsome, with the sharp, well-defined features typical of a northerner.
He had a little facial hair, but still looked young, perhaps around thirty. His movements and footwork were remarkably steady.
Gred, on the other hand, looked a lot worse. The fight had already gone on for a while, and his face and body were covered in bruises. The man across from him had almost no injuries. Apart from being drenched in sweat, he looked as fresh as if he'd only just started fighting.
“Take down that dwarf, Baenthor!”
“Hit him!”
“Thrust! Use thrusts! Dwarves have short arms!”
The shouts grated on Jess's ears. He was human too, but if he cheered for Gred, the crowd might beat him up.
The man called Baenthor was a full head taller than Jess. Standing in the little space below the stairs on the inn's ground floor, he almost touched the beam above him.
Judging by his hair, beard, skin, muscular body, and slightly rounded belly, he might well be a noble, certainly not an ordinary middle-aged veteran.
A noble in Stormwind who could fight... Could this be His Majesty Varian Wrynn?
Impossible. Varian was only about fifteen or sixteen now, still a kid. Besides, he had dark-brown hair.
Gred suddenly roared and rushed forward, attacking with the wooden staff in both hands. The man easily turned the blow aside with his own staff and lightly stepped to the side, avoiding it perfectly.
For all his height and solid build, he moved without a hint of clumsiness. His leg muscles tightened and carried his whole body sideways like a smoothly running machine. It was a pleasure to watch.
Jess had to admit Gred was in trouble. When he'd heard yesterday that Gred was going to fight some members of a middle-aged-and-old-men's club, he'd imagined a casual brawl with an old fellow. He hadn't expected such an intense, exciting match.
Wait... Baenthor. Thorbane. Was the name deliberately reversed?
If it was Trollbane, Jess knew the family.
Could this man be Danath Trollbane, one of the Sons of Lothar, one of the expedition's leaders, and among the strongest human warriors of the age?
The Trollbanes were the royal family of Stromgarde. Danath was the nephew of King Thoras Trollbane.
But the Alliance expedition was facing the orc Horde around Nethergarde Keep and the Dark Portal right now. Fighting might already have spread into Draenor.
Danath should be fighting orcs. There was no way he'd be here dueling an obscure Wildhammer dwarf while his comrades were at war.
“Kill that mustached pretty boy, you old bastard from Aerie Peak! Don't make us look down on you!”
“That fellow? I'd do ten times better than him!”
Jess looked toward the shouts. They came from two dwarves, probably from Ironforge. More and more Ironforge dwarves had arrived in Stormwind over the years. The city had even set aside a Dwarven District for them.
Just as Jess worried that Gred would be beaten and hurt, the dwarf suddenly turned and swept his staff sideways after the man dodged his thrust. The man clearly hadn't expected it. He barely dodged and almost lost his balance.
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Gred excitedly pressed the attack while his opponent's steps were unsteady. Relying on his absurd upper-body strength, he struck from one strange angle after another, chopping and slashing with the staff. The fight suddenly turned around. The man struggled to block, retreating in confusion until he was driven into a corner!
He didn't seem used to a dwarf's strength. Had he never fought dwarves before?
If he were Danath Trollbane, that wouldn't make sense.
Danath was recognized as a master fighter across the world, from Quel'Thalas to the three dwarven clans and all seven human kingdoms. Not only was he skilled with weapons; over his fifty or sixty years, he had gained extensive experience fighting elves, dwarves, and trolls.
Right. Danath Trollbane was already over fifty. This man was clearly much younger.
Even trapped in a corner, the man had no intention of surrendering. His reach was so much longer that Gred didn't dare thrust his staff at his throat or chest. If he tried, his own vital points would be struck first.
In that moment of hesitation, the man suddenly grabbed Gred's staff and kicked him square in the chest!
The blow landed solidly. Gred lost his grip on the staff and flew backward, crashing onto the floor. The surrounding dwarves and humans gasped.
“What was that?!”
“What a disgrace!”
“Baenthor!”
As if he'd heard the crowd jeering, Gred gritted his teeth, struggled to his feet, spread his arms, and charged with a wild yell. The man raised his foot to repeat the kick, but the instant he extended it, Gred caught his ankle!
“Die, you bastard!”
The man's face went pale. Gred hurled him upward, smashing him hard into the ceiling!
Gred followed in two quick steps as the man fell, drove his knee into the man's back near the neck, and pulled his arm up tight.
“Do you give up?!”
The audience erupted in cheers. Beer and milk splashed everywhere. Even the humans who had been chanting Baenthor's name thought it was a thrilling finish.
“I give up!”
Only after hearing the surrender did Gred let his eyelids sink, release the man, and slowly stand.
The man rubbed his arm, got up, and leaned against the wall. He looked at Gred, wanting to laugh but grimacing from the pain of his fall. In the end, his face was somewhere between laughter and tears.
“They'll let you into the Warriors' Guild, Mr. Gred,” the man said.
“Of course they will.” Gred sat on the nearby stairs. “Good fight, Baenthor.”
The man limped over, picked up a straight sword of medium length, and said, “That was one hell of a fight. This is yours. A bet's a bet.”
Gred took the sword with a delighted grin. “You're a man of your word, I'll give you that.”
Once the spectators had left, Jess walked over. Gred took one look at him and scowled.
“Hey, you promised to come this morning. Why'd you turn up halfway through?”
“I had to work in the Mage Quarter, Gred. And you only said morning. How was I supposed to know you meant this early? The sun had barely risen when you started! I got up before dawn and went to the Mage Quarter first, just so I could watch your match.”
“Fine. The result was good, and you didn't miss the best part.” Gred waved the sword. “This is what I was really after. That sword Baenthor had is practically new. It's a lot better than the old, battered swords and axes left over from the war that we've been picking up. We'll need some decent weapons when we head outside.”
Jess hadn't expected Gred to be thinking about finding weapons for both of them.
He took the sword and examined it from every angle. Finally, on the pommel at the end of its dark-red grip, he found an emblem of a clenched fist.
“The emblem of the Kingdom of Stromgarde. This sword comes from Strom.”
“Probably an Arathi mercenary,” Gred said. “But he must have missed the war. The sword looks barely used. I spotted it long ago. It's the sort of weapon used by Stromgarde's royal guards, not ordinary soldiers.”
“How much could it sell for?” Jess asked.
“Probably not much. Ten or twenty silver at most, and that's only because it was used by a royal guard. Just because someone important carries a sword doesn't mean the sword itself is good. Stromgarde isn't what it used to be. They can't make truly fine weapons anymore. This one's decent, but it can't compare with ours—or even with Lordaeron's.”
“Didn't you notice anything strange about his name?” Jess asked.
“What was strange about it?”
“What's the royal family's name in Stromgarde?”
“Isn't it Arathor? No, wait. Arathor was the name of their ancestors' house. Stromgarde's king is Thoras Trollbane... Trollbane! Could that man be Danath's younger kinsman, Galen Trollbane? No wonder he could fight! He must have come to see Danath Trollbane off on his father's orders and stayed in Stormwind for a while. And he couldn't even behave himself during that short stay? He had to come to the Warriors' Guild and fight?”
“Very possible,” Jess agreed. “The Trollbanes are born fighters, after all. If that's who he was, you just beat the brother of one of the strongest fighters in the world.”
Gred laughed and shook his head. “Whether he's really a Trollbane is another matter. Galen's a long way behind Danath. Beating him isn't anything to brag about, though he is at least famous. If I could beat Danath in a duel one day, I'd have a story to tell for the rest of my life. I hope he doesn't die over in Draenor and comes back soon.”
At that, Gred seemed to remember something. His excitement quickly faded.
“Let's talk about our plans for this afternoon.”
“Don't you want to rest?”
“What is there to rest from? All I did was beat up a spoiled rich boy.”
Prince Galen Trollbane really didn't have a good reputation. Although he was an excellent fighter, he'd done almost nothing during the earlier war with the orcs. That stood in sharp contrast to Danath Trollbane, who'd led Stromgarde's army into direct combat with the orcs in Khaz Modan and served as Turalyon's tactical adviser.
Many people guessed that Galen was a coward who hid behind his father and brother rather than risk his own life on the front lines.
As the king's only son, he was somewhat spoiled by Thoras, who didn't want him joining the expedition to gain experience. The king didn't even want him going to Nethergarde Keep, where he might come into contact with the orc forces defending the Dark Portal.
Yet this controversial heir had ambitions far beyond both his own abilities and his kingdom's strength. He dreamed of restoring ancient Arathor and reuniting the seven kingdoms under a human empire.
That ambition would lay the groundwork for the tragedy that later befell both him and the entire Kingdom of Stromgarde.