魔兽争霸官方小说:仇恨之轮-Cycle of Hatred(英文版)-第17部分
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target； though he kept him in his peripheral vision。
They soon arrived at a small adobe structure near the docks。 This particular house was constructed of the cheaper
material rather than wood or stone； indicating that very poor people indeed lived here。 If this Margoz was a
fisherman； as Manuel thought； he was obviously a bad one； as it took a true lack of skill to not succeed as a
fisherman on an island on the coast of the Great Sea。 The nearest cesspool was poorly concealed； and Strov almost
gagged from the odor of waste in the air。
Margoz entered the building； which was probably originally constructed as a fourroom house； but now had each
room rented out to a different tenant。 Strov took up position behind a tree across the way from it。
Three of the rooms already had lanterns burning。 The fourth lit up about half a minute after Margoz entered。 Strov
casually walked across the way and then stood near Margoz s window； making as if to urinate on the wall。 He made
sure to stumble as he approached； so that any passersby would assume he was drunk。 It wasn t all that unusual late
at night to see drunks relieving themselves on whatever surface presented itself。
From Margoz s room； Strov heard the words： Galtak Ered nash。 Ered nash ban galar。 Ered nash havik yrthog。
Galtak Ered nash。
Strov started。 He didn t recognize the rest of it； but the first and last part were things the orcs who attacked them at
Northwatch had said。
Pleased with himself for having rightly made this connection； Strov continued listening。
Then his entire face scrunched up in revulsion at the sudden stink of sulfur。 On the face of it； sulfur should have
been more pleasant； or at least less revolting； than the cesspool s overwhelming odor。 But there was something
wrong something evil about this smell。 Margoz s words had sounded like an incantation； and now this。 Not only
was magic afoot； but Strov was willing to bet his sword that it was demonic magic。
M sorry； sir； I didn mean to Margoz paused。 Yeah； I realize y don wanna be bothered less it s important；
but it s been months； sir； and m still in is same hole。 I jus wanna know Another pause。 Well； it s importan t
me！ And wha s more； people keep talkin t me； like I can help em or somethin 。
Strov couldn t hear the other half of the conversation； which meant that either Margoz was crazy and was talking to
himself which Strov had to admit was likely； especially given his inebriated state or the other half of the
conversation was meant for Margoz s ears only。
I dunno whatcher talkin bout。 Nobody didn
got eyes n the back a my head！
Another pause。 Well； how s I s posed t know that？ Huh？ I ain t
What Strov knew about demons was mostly how to kill them； but this odd onesided conversation definitely had the
stink of demon to Strov and not just because of the sulfur。
He did up his pants。 At this point； he had enough to report to Colonel Lorena。 Besides； he didn t much like the idea
of being this close to a demon。
Turning around； he found himself facing absolute darkness。
What the ？ He whirled around； but there was only darkness behind him as well。 Theramore had pletely
disappeared。
I do not like spies。
Strov didn t so much hear the voice as feel it in his very bones。 It was as if someone had sewn his eyes shut； only
his eyes were open； but he couldn t see anything。
No； it wasn t just sight that had gone quiet。 The darkness extended to his other senses。 He could no longer hear the
bustle of Theramore； nor taste the salty air； nor feel the breeze wafting in off the Great Sea。
And the only thing he smelled now was sulfur。
Why do you spy on my minion？
Strov said nothing。 He wasn t sure he was capable of speech； and even if he was； he would never give up
information to a creature such as this。
I do not have time to play these games。 It seems you must simply die。
The darkness caved in on Strov。 His body grew cold； the blood freezing in his veins； his mind screaming in sudden；
terrifying agony。
The last thought Strov had was hope that Manuel wouldn t blow Strov s entire pension on boar s grog…。
Eleven
M uzzlecrank used to like being a goblin bruiser。 Truly； it had been easy work when he first signed up。 Bruisers
enforced the peace in Ratchet； and the pay was good。 Muzzlecrank s shifts were spent wandering up and down his
section of the pier at Ratchet； beating up the occasional drunk or vagabond； taking bribes from shipmasters moving
contraband； arresting the ones who were too stupid or too cheap to pay bribes； and generally getting to meet all
manner of people。
Muzzlecrank had always thought of himself as a people person。 Ratchet was a neutral port goblins as a rule did
not take sides in the numerous conflicts that ravaged the land and as a result； pretty much every type of creature
you were like to find in the world came through at some point or other。 Elves； dwarves； humans； orcs； trolls； ogres；
even the occasional gnome it was the crossroads of Kalimdor。 Muzzlecrank always liked seeing the different
interactions； whether it was dwarves shipping construction materials to elves； elves shipping jewelry to humans；
orcs shipping crops to elves； humans shipping fish to ogres； or trolls shipping weapons to pretty much anyone。
Lately； though； things had gotten somewhat less pleasant。 Especially between the humans and the orcs which was
problematic insofar as the most mon patrons of Ratchet were those two races。 Ratchet was right at Durotar s
southernmost border； and was the nearest port to Theramore as well。
Just last week； he had had to break up a fight between an orc sailor and a human merchant。 The former had
apparently stepped on the latter s toe and the human took umbrage。 Muzzlecrank had been forced to break them up
before the orc beat the human into a pulp； which hadn t been any fun at all。 Muzzlecrank preferred to get into fights
with vagabonds and drunks because they were kind enough not to fight back。 Fightingmad orcs were another kettle
of grease entirely； and Muzzlecrank preferred to stay as far away from them as possible。
Fights like that usually meant that he had to draw his gun； and every time he did that he ran the risk of someone
figuring out that he was really bad at using the stupid thing。 Oh sure； he could fire it easily enough any idiot could
do that； just point and pull the trigger； and a pressed air burst sent a out to snare whatever you were
shooting at but his aim was lousy； and the always missed the target and usually made a big mess。 Luckily； the
site of a bruiser pointing a gun with a giant muzzle at you was enough to stop most fights or at least slow them
down long enough for reinforcements to arrive。
Since then； no more actual fights had broken out； but there were a lot more terse words and heated exchanges
happening。 It had gotten to the point where many of the merchant ships were now ing into Ratchet with armed
escorts the orc vessels with warriors from rimmar； the human ships with soldiers from Northwatch。
Muzzlecrank s beat was the northernmost section of the pier； a section that had twenty berths。 As Muzzlecrank
wandered down the woodenplanked pier； he saw that fifteen of the twenty docks were filled； but things were
mostly quiet。 This was a huge relief。 The sun shone down on his face； warming him in his mail armor。 Perhaps
today would be a good day。
After a few minutes； the sun went away。 Muzzlecrank glanced up to see that several clouds had rolled in； and it
looked likely to rain soon。 Muzzlecrank sighed he hated rain。
As he neared the end of the dock； he saw a human and an orc having an animated conversation。 Muzzlecrank didn t
like the look of this。 Animated conversations between humans and orcs these days tended to end in violence。
He moved in closer。 The human s boat was docked right next to the orc s； in the two northernmost berths。
Muzzlecrank recognized the orc as Captain Klatt of the Raknor； a merchant who served as the dealer of crops from
the farmers in the Razor Hill region。 Though he could not remember the human s name； Muzzlecrank knew his ship
was a fishing trawler called the Passion s Reward for some odd reason。 Muzzlecrank had never understood human
naming conventions。 Klatt had named the Raknor after his brother； who died fighting the Burning Legion； but he
hadn t the first clue what the name Passion s Reward had to do with anything； least of all fishing。
The exchange was a mon one。 Farming was difficult in the Dustwallow Marshes where humans had settled on
Kalimdor； but there was plenty of fishing。 Razor Hill； meanwhile； was too far inland for fishing to be practical so
humans often traded their surplus catches for the orcs surplus crops。
I will not trade you my finest salmon for this refuse！
Muzzlecrank sighed。 Obviously today trade was not going to go well。
Klatt stomped his foot。 Refuse？ You lyin little twerp these are our best crops！
A sad mentary on your farming； the human said dryly。 That fruit looks as though it was stepped on by an
ogre smells like it； too。
I ain t gonna stand here and be insulted by a human
