Beyond the Dark Portal

CHAPTER FOUR

“Warsong, attack!"

Grom held Gorehowl high, letting the sunlight play along its blade. Then he leaped forward, swinging the axe in a great arc, the hol­low space behind the haft shrieking as the blade cut through the air. Behind him his warriors waved and swirled and swung their own weapons, creating the un­settling shrieks and whistles and whoops for which the clan was named. Many began to sing as well, chanting tunes that were less about the words than about the rhythms, the pulse-pounding beats that fired their blood and at the same time made their enemies quail.

Except that, this time, the enemy wasn't quailing — in part because many of them were too unaware to do so.

The first foe came within range, bellowing some­thing inarticulate. Gorehowl caught him in the neck, slicing smoothly through flesh and bone and tendon. The head flew off, mouth still open in a shriek, the foam at its lips now joined with bloody spittle. The green body collapsed, though it made a feeble attempt to swing its hammer even as it fell. Blood spattered on Grom's face like warm red rain. He grinned, his tongue snaking out to lick it from his lips. One less Bonechewer to worry about.

All around him the Warsong warriors were carving into the Bonechewer clan. Normally the Bonechewer orcs were crazed enough to strike fear into any heart, but Grom had prepared his warriors. "They are like wild beasts," he had warned them. "They are savage and strong and know no fear or pain. But they have no sense, either, and they do not coordinate or even con­sider. They simply attack on instinct. You are the better fighters. Focus your minds, watch your flanks, work with your brothers, and we will sweep through them like a wind through the grass, laying waste to all before us." His people had cheered, and so far it seemed they were remembering his words. But he wondered how long they could go before their own bloodlust took control, pushing aside all rational thought and causing them to abandon strategy just as their Bonechewer cousins had.

He felt it himself, that sweet hot feeling that quick­ened his pulse and made him thrum with energy As Gorehowl split a charging Bonechewer from shoulder to hip, Grom felt the joy and rage swirling within him, dulling his mind, charging his senses, threatening to sweep him away on a tide of raw exultation. He wanted to surrender himself, to give in to the song of combat, to lose himself in the thrill of death and de­struction and victory.

But he would not. He was Grom Hellscream, chief­tain of the Warsong. He had his duty. And he would re­quire a clear head to fulfill it.

A flurry of activity caught his eye. A massive orc lifted one of his warriors and hurled him bodily at a cluster of Warsong, then grabbed one of the fallen and wrenched an arm free to use as a gore-dripping club. This was the one Grom sought. Swift as thought, he closed the distance between them, cutting down any Bonechewer in his way and shoving his own warriors aside as well. At last he was facing the crazed orc with only a single body-length between them.

"Hurkan!" he bellowed, swinging Gorehowl in front of him both to clear a space and so its shrieking would cut through the combat sounds all around them. "Hurkan Skullsplinter!"

"Grom!" the Bonechewer chieftain shouted back, holding high the limb in his hands. It still spasmed slightly "Look, I have one of your orсs! Part of him, anyway!" Hurkan laughed uproariously, spittle flying from his mouth.

"Call off your warriors, Hurkan!" Grom demanded. "Call them off or we will kill every last one of them!"

Hurkan raised the severed arm high in response, and around him many of his warriors stilled to hear what their leader had to say. "Do you think we fear death?" Hurkan asked with surprising calm.

"I know you don't," Grom replied. "But why throw your lives away here, fighting your own kind, when you could instead spend them slaughtering humans on Azeroth?"

That made the Bonechewer chieftain tilt his head. 'Azeroth? The portal fell, Hellscream — or don't you re­member?" He grinned, a nasty expression that revealed his many broken teeth. "Not that you were ever al­lowed to set foot on that other world, of course."

Grom's head pounded and his vision turned red for a moment. He desperately wanted to wipe that sneer off Hurkan's face, preferably with Gorehowl's blade. But he knew his fellow chieftain was deliberately goad­ing him, and used that knowledge to help resist the fury that so wanted to boil to the surface.

"You weren't either," he retorted, though he had to grit his teeth not to shout the words or simply spit them. "But now we will get our chance. Ner'zhul says he can open the portal again. The Horde will return to that world and conquer it at last."

Hurkan laughed, a rough sound that started low and rose to a shrill cackle. "Ner'zhul! That withered old shaman! He gets us into this mess, then runs off and hides — and now he wants us to dance at his command, all over again? What do we gain from it all?"

"The chance to kill humans — many of them," Grom answered. "The chance to win glory and honor. The chance to claim new lands, lands still rich and fertile." He gestured around them. Nagrand was still lush and green, unlike most of Draenor, perhaps because the battle-crazed Bonechewer clan had not bothered much with warlocks. Even so, Grom knew the Bonechewer clan was as desperate for new foes to conquer as any orcs would be.

'What would we have to do?" Hurkan asked. He was still holding the severed arm of one of Grom's warriors. Grom narrowed his eyes. Perhaps this was a break of sanity in the storm of madness that whirled around the Bonechewer leader. He had lost a few good warriors today, and if he could bring Hurkan in line without losing more he would be well pleased. He would see no more of his people ripped to pieces if he could help it.

"Two things. First, pledge yourself and your clan to Ner'zhul," Grom replied. "Follow his orders, and fight alongside the other clans rather than against them."

Hurkan grunted. "Give us something else to fight and we'll leave the rest of you alone," he promised.

"You'll have more than enough foes to keep you busy," Grom assured him. He shifted his grip on his axe; he didn't think the next request would be so will­ingly granted. "There is one other thing. Ner'zhul wants that." And he pointed.

Hurkan looked down, puzzled, but his expression changed to a frown when he realized Grom was indi­cating the skull hanging around his neck. An orc skull, bleached from years of exposure. Deep gouges were visible in the bone.

The Bonechewer chieftain scowled. "No. He cannot have this." He rested one hand protectively over the or­nament. "It is not just any skull. It is Gul'dan's skull!"

"Are you so certain?" Grom replied, hoping to plant the seed of doubt. "I was told he died on Azeroth."

"He did," Hurkan said. "Torn apart by demons, they say, on an island he raised from the sea itself. Killed by his own power and pride." He guffawed. "But at least one of the warlocks with him survived. He escaped the temple they had found there. On his way out, he found Gul'dan's remains — ripped to shreds, he said." The Bonechewer leader shrugged. "Even dead they had power, or so the warlock thought. Especially the head. So he took it with him." He laughed. "Looks like Gul'dan got to return to Draenor after all!"

"How did you get it?" Grom asked.

Again Hurkan shrugged. 'A warrior killed the war­lock and took it from him. I killed the warrior and claimed it myself. Or perhaps there were others in be­tween. No matter. Once I saw it and learned whose skull it was, I knew it must be mine. And it is." He grinned again. 'And I will not part with it. Not for Ner'zhul, not for anyone."

Grom nodded. "I understand."

His attack was sudden and swift, Gorehowl already slicing the air as he leaped forward. But Hurkan was an experienced warrior and for once he was thinking clearly — he dove to the side, the axe shrieking past his shoulder, and then spun, his massive fist catching Grom across the cheek. The blow sent a jolt of pain through him, but Grom ignored it. Hurkan grabbed a warclub dropped by one of the warriors he'd killed and swung it toward Grom. Grom danced aside, the club narrowly missing his chest, and lashed out again. Gorehowl caught Hurkan across the upper right arm, carv­ing open the flesh.

Grom was vaguely aware of the gathered orcs watching, waiting to see who won. He knew more than just his own life hung upon the outcome of this battle, but he could spare no more than a passing thought for such a thing if he were to be the victor.

Hurkan was proving to be a worthy foe. The big Bonechewer chieftain was as large as Orgrim Doomhammer had been and almost as fast. And when he was thinking, Hurkan was no fool but a wily old warrior, one who could read an opponent and anticipate his moves. He proved that as he ducked another swing and came up beneath it, slamming both hands into Grom's chest and sending him stumbling back several paces.

But the moment of clarity had passed. Already Grom could see his foe's eyes beginning to roll back, and foam flecking his lips. Hurkan's breathing was be­coming labored, his strikes more powerful but also less controlled. Grom easily ducked or blocked the wild swings, although his arms strained with the effort. Grom bared his teeth in a savage grin, feeling the bloodlust rise within him. It wanted to control him, as it con­trolled Hurkan. But Grom would not let it. He was the master, not it. It was time to end this. He ducked be­neath Hurkan's latest swing, filled his lungs, and thrust his head forward into the Bonechewer's face.

His black-tattooed jaw opened almost impossibly wide and a violent, gut-wrenching scream pierced the air. Hurkan's own scream was a bass counterpoint as he clapped huge hands to his bleeding ears and dropped to his knees in agony. Blood spurted from his nose and eyes and dripped from his open mouth. Grom's legendary war cry mutated into a laugh of tri­umph as he swung Gorehowl in a smooth arc, separat­ing Hurkan's head from his massive shoulders.

The body continued to move, its arms flailing for a moment. For a second it paused, as if listening with some other senses, then pitched forward to the ground. It lay there, twitching slightly

Grom stared at it, grinning, then kicked the body over. Fortunately, the prize he had come for was undam­aged. He looked at the skull for a long moment, remem­bering Gul'dan, remembering Ner'zhul. Remembering all that had happened over the last few years. Then he pulled a thick cloth bag from his belt and dropped it over Gul'dans skull, scooping the grisly item up safely Teron Goreflend had spoken with Grom before he left, and the death knight had warned Grom not to touch the skull directly. While Grom disliked and distrusted the death knight, an unnatural thing somehow returned from death and wearing a human corpse for flesh, he did heed the warning. Gul'dan had been dangerous enough in life that Grom could easily imagine the warlock's remains still having power in death.

Straightening with Gorehowl in one hand and the bag in the other, Grom looked out over the assembled orсs. "Who now speaks for the Bonechewer clan?" he demanded loudly.

A tall, powerfully built young orc pushed his way forward. He wore a belt fashioned from orc spines and bracers carved from the spine segments of an ogre. A heavy spiked club rested across one shoulder. "1 am Tagar Spinebreaker," he announced proudly, though his eyes shifted uneasily to Hurkan’s body before re­turning to Grom. "I lead the Bonechewers now."

Grom gestured with the bag. "I have taken the skull. Now I will ask you, Tagar Spinebreaker: Will you join with us, or will you join Hurkan?"

The new Bonechewer chieftain hesitated. "Before I answer, I have a question for you, Grom Hellscream. You ask us to follow Ner'zhul. Why have you chosen to do so? You once said he created all our troubles!"

So, the brute wasn't as stupid as he looked. Grom decided he deserved an answer. "He did create all our troubles,'" Grom replied, "by handing control to this traitor"—he gestured with the bag—"and letting Gul'dan do whatever he chose without obstruction. But before that Ner'zhul was wise, and advised the clans well. And he first forged the Horde, which is a great thing.

"I follow him now because he has sworn to reopen the Dark Portal. I should have been there before, slaughtering humans on Azeroth, but Gul'dan pre­vented it. Now I will have my chance." He laughed. "Ner'zhul has told me that Gul'dan's skull is a neces­sary ingredient in the rite to open the portal. Sweet it is to me that Gul'dan, who denied me before, will now be the key to my opportunity. That, Bonechewer, is why I follow Ner'zhul.

"Now — the choice is yours. Rejoin the Horde. Or"—he raised Gorehowl again, and spun it so it sang, an undulating dirge of blood and chaos—"we slaughter you all, down to the last suckling babe. Right now." He tilted his head back and roared, the pounding overtak­ing him. Behind him, his warriors started to chant, stomping their feet and swinging their weapons to add to the rhythm, until the very plain shook with the sound.

Grom licked his lips and raised his axe, then met Tagar's wide eyes. "Which will it be?" he growled. "Gorehowl longs to shriek again. Shall it taste human flesh … or Bonechewer?"