Beyond the Dark Portal

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Village up ahead," Ba'rak reported, leaning over with his hands on his legs as he struggled to catch his breath. Dried blood still coated his side beneath the rough bandages they'd rigged for him after Kargath Bladefist had ordered the Shattered Hand clan to abandon Hellfire Citadel. Yet Ba'rak was actually one of the least injured among their little band.

Which was why they were here.

"I'll go on by myself," Kargath told Ba'rak and the others. "I will make better time." He glanced around at the other orcs. "Heal quickly. When I return we'll set out for the Black Temple."

As he walked, Kargath wondered how it had come to this. True, when Ner’zhul had given him those orders to stay behind and delay the Alliance at Hellfire Citadel. it had been obvious the shaman did not expect them to survive. Nor was death in battle a problem for Kargath or any of his Shattered Hand orcs. But dying with honor was one thing — dying for no reason was another. And leaving Ner’zhul and the others defenseless against the Alliance would bring dishonor on them and their entire clan, even if they had died in the process. That was why, when he had seen that the Alliance had conquered the citadel and shattered all their defenses. Kargath had gathered what warriors he could find and had set out for the Black Temple itself. But he'd had fewer than he'd hoped, and many of them had been so badly wounded they hadn't even survived the first night. Now he had only a handful left, none of them uninjured.

He stalked on, a part of him noting the landscape around him. Most of Draenor resembled Hellfire Penin­sula, with its cracked red ground and bare stretches. Why, then, was this region still so green? Lush grass cushioned his steps, and clumps of bushes alternated with tall trees. Nagrand had clearly not been touched by the same desolation as the rest of their world, but why?

It was ironic, in a way — the greenest, healthiest part of Draenor, and it was home to sick and weakened orcs. As he crested a low hill, Kargath saw the village spread out before him. Its tightly built walls, domed roofs, and plank porches were in the same style as most orc vil­lages, including his own. For a second Kargath enter­tained die notion of bringing his warriors here, chasing out the current inhabitants, and claiming the village as their own. They could let the war pass them by — Ner’zhul did not expect to see any of them again, so he wouldn't be surprised when they never appeared. They could let the Horde go on to other worlds and live out their days here instead, tending herds and crops and battling whatever beasts lived in the forests whenever they felt the old bloodlust rise.

But no, Kargath scolded himself. He had sworn an oath to fight for the Horde. How could he live with himself — or look any of his warriors in the eye — if he did not give them his all? Besides, he thought with a shiver, claiming this village would mean facing its cur­rent residents, and he didn't think any of his warriors were up for that.

Walking down the hill, Kargath approached the vil­lage cautiously. He saw a few orcs moving around slug­gishly, patches of brown against the green of their surroundings, but they hadn't noticed him yet. When he was still a hundred feet or so from the nearest hut, Kargath slowed to a halt/

"Geyah!" he shouted, breaking into a short spate of coughing as the deep breath exacerbated his injuries. "Greatmother Geyah!" The orcs he'd noticed earlier looked up, startled, then disappeared into the nearest huts. Hopefully they were summoning Geyah, Kargath thought bitterly. He doubted he had the strength for another shout right now.

A moment later the curtains over a hut entrance rus­tled and then were pushed aside. Greatmother Geyah emerged and stomped toward him, squinting against the sunlight. "Who's there?" she called out, her voice as sharp as ever. "Kargath Bladefist, chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan," he replied, forcing himself to stand up straight as she approached.

"Kargath, eh? I've not seen you for many a year," Geyah commented. She finally stopped halfway be­tween him and the huts and met his gaze. Her eyes were still violet, Kargath noted, and her long hair was still thick, if streaked with gray. She didn't look ill. Impatient, though. And the curl of her lip — was that revulsion he saw there?

"What do you want here?" she demanded, confirm­ing his impression.

"An Alliance army has invaded Draenor," Kargath told her, his sense of urgency warring with the respect­fulness his elders had drummed into him as a youth. "They've overthrown Hcllfirc Citadel and will be marching on the Black Temple soon."

"Eh? And what's that to me?" Geyah asked, sniffing. "Monuments to war, the both of those places. We're better off with them gone."

"I need warriors," Kargath explained, hoping he sounded confident and demanding rather than desper­ate. “Any orc able to fight must come with me at once."

Geyah stared at him, her eyes wide. “Are you mad?" she burst out. "This is a village of the sick, or have you forgotten that?" She studied him, and a sly grin flickered across her lips. "No, I can see you haven't — or would you rather we continued this discussion inside one of the huts?" When he shifted uneasily from foot to foot, her grin widened. “As I thought. You know who dwells here." Her grin turned to a scowl. “And now you want to add to their suffering by dragging them into your foolish war? Why should they fight? Why should any of us?" She glared at him. "You invaded the humans' world. This is the consequence."

Kargath felt his own lips pulling back in a snarl as his anger began to outweigh his fear. "We are all part of the Horde," he reminded her sharply. "We are one race, and all must survive or fall together." He studied her for a second, then switched to a different tack. "Ner’zhul says he can get us off this hellhole. If he can get to the Black Temple and hold off the Alliance long enough, he can open portals to other worlds. You could have an entire world to yourself, for you and your patients."

"What's wrong with this world?" Geyah responded. She gestured at the greenery all around them. "I like it just fine."

"This world is dying."

"Only part of it," she countered. "The part you and your fool warlocks have tainted. Nagrand is as vibrant as ever." She looked smug. "It is mag'har — uncorrupted. And so are its people. They may be sick with the red pox, even dying from it. But at least their pocked skin is brown, and they have not been fouled by the Horde's dark magics."

"It is your duty!" Kargath insisted. "All your warriors must come with me at once!" Geyah laughed at him then. "You want them?" she asked. "Get them yourself. Drag them out of their sickbeds and you can take them with you to your war.”

Kargath glared at her, but his anger was up now and overwhelming all else, including his fear. "They don't look that ill," he said, staring past her to where many of the orcs she tended had emerged from the various huts to watch the exchange. From here he could see that some of them were limping and others were bent or bowed or hunched, but they all appeared to have the right number of limbs. And at this point as long as they could hold a club he'd take them.

He started toward the village, just as one of the fig­ures stepped away from its hut and approached them. It was a male, a young warrior, and as he neared, Kar­gath could see he was tall and muscular. He was also staggering, swaying on his feet, and his brown skin was pale except where angry red pustules marred it, many of them seeping a thin red fluid that looked more like tainted tears than blood.

With a start Kargath realized he knew the youth. It was Garrosh Hellscream, son of Grom!

"What has happened?" Garrosh demanded, lurching to a stop beside Geyah. "Why are you here? Is it the Horde?" A strange look came over the youth's face. "Is it my—“ A horrible wet groan rose from his throat, drowning out his words, and then Garrosh fell to his knees, gasping as blood and bile spilled from his mouth, pouring down his chin and chest and soaking into the grass below.

"I warned you not to exert yourself!" Geyah snapped, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. She did not seem concerned about the risk of touching him. "The pox is still upon you, and you're nowhere near well enough to leave your hut yet!" Then she glared at Kar­gath, a nasty smile on her face. "Do you want him to join you for battle? Are these the warriors you'd hoped to find?"

Kargath had recoiled when Garrosh started spitting up blood, and he continued to back away now. "No. They are no warriors." Disgust and despair added venom to his words. "They are not even orcs anymore — they are useless." He glared at Gcyah. at Garrosh, and at the other villagers behind them. "You pathetic weak­lings!" he snarled, raising his voice as best he could. "Do the Horde a favor and die here! If you can't help defend your people, you have no right to live!"

With that he turned on his heel and stalked off. There was nothing for it now but to take his remaining war­riors and disappear into the hills. He lacked the numbers to make a difference at the Black Temple.Too, the more he thought about it, after being abandoned at Hellfire Citadel, Kargath felt that he did not owe Ner’zhul any­thing anyway. No, he would take what few soldiers he had left and find some place to hole up and rebuild. Some day they would be strong again, and then they would reclaim Hellfire Citadel and the rest of the land from there. And when he did finally die, Kargath vowed, it would be on his feet. He shuddered at what lay behind him. No matter what, he would not end up like them.

"We need to get you back to your bed," Geyah scolded Garrosh, though more gently now.

Garrosh shook off her hands. "What did he say?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper, his throat still spasming after tossing out so much liquid. "Was it — was it about my father? Is he — is he still alive?"

Geyah looked away, unable to meet the hope flicker­ing in the boy's eyes. Was Grom alive? She had no idea. Not that it mattered. She had heard plenty about the older Hellscream over the past few years, about his sav­agery and his battle frenzy and his appetite for vio­lence. He had been the first to give himself to the Horde and to Gul'dan's foul magic, she knew, and it had corrupted him utterly. Even if he still lived, he would surely be beyond redemption.

"He didn't say anything about your father," she told Garrosh now, gripping his arm again and refusing to be put off a second time. "I am sure he is still alive and well, else Kargath would have mentioned it."

Garrosh nodded and let himself be led away, his en­ergy spent. Geyah's heart went out to him, and to all the orcs she tended here. Would they survive the red pox? Some of them, perhaps, but not all. Yet a part of her couldn't help feeling that at least their deaths would be cleaner than those of the orcs whose souls had been so tainted; the mark showed through to their very skin. She shook her head and continued walking with Garrosh, refusing to glance back to where the emerald-skinned Kargath was still march­ing away.