Rise of the Horde

9

It is easy to understand why so many of my contemporaries prefer to let this history die. Let it sink into oblivion silently, slipping beneath the waters of time until the surface of the lake is once again unruffled, and no one knows of the shame lurking in the depths. I, too, feel that shame, though I was not alive when this occurred. I see it in Drek’Thar’s face as he recounts his part of the tale in a shaking voice. I saw the weight of it on Orgrim Doomhammer. Grom Hellscream, friend and traitor and friend again, was ravaged by it.

But to pretend it did not exist is to forget how dreadful the impact was. To make ourselves into victims, rather than claiming our participation in our own destruction. We chose this path, we orcs. We chose it right up until it was too late to turn back. And having made that choice once, we can, with the knowledge that we have of the end of that dark and shameful road, choose not to take it.

So I wish to hear the testimony of those who placed one foot in front of the other on a road that spelled near obliteration of our kind. I want to understand why they took each step, what had to happen for it to seem logical and good and right.

I want to know this so when I see it unfolding again, I will recognize it.

Humatis have two sayings that are wise beyond imagining.

The first is, “Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it.”

And the second is … “Know your enemy.”

Velen was deep in meditation when Restalaan reluctantly approached him. He sat in the central courtyard of the Temple of Karabor, not on the comfortable benches that flanked the rectangular pool, but on the hard stone. The air was filled with the scent of the flowering bushes of the lush garden, and the water murmured softly as it circulated. Trees, their leaves moving in the wind, added their own quiet sounds. It was a tranquil scene, but Velen’s attention was inward.

Long, long had the draenei and the Naaru trusted one another. The luminous beings who so seldom opted to take solid form had been first caretakers of the exiled eredar, then teachers, and then friends. They had traveled together and beheld many worlds. Each time the Naaru, particularly the one that called itself K’ure, had been instrumental in helping the draenei flee when the man’ari uncovered their hiding place. And each time, Kil’jaeden and the monstrous creatures who had once been eredar had come closer to capturing them. Velen grieved every time he and his people had to depart a world to save themselves, knowing that any beings they left behind would be as changed as the eredar had been. Kil’jaeden, always eager for more to join the Legion he was creating for his dark master Sargeras, would overlook no possible recruit.

K’ure, as sorrowful as Velen, grieved with him. But it spoke in Velen’s mind with the unalterable logic that Kil’jaeden, Archimonde, and Sargeras would have destroyed another world in the same amount of time. All worlds, all beings, all races were horrifically equal in Sargeras’s eyes. They all needed to be obliterated in a ghastly festival of carnage and fire, Velen’s death at the hands of beings who had once been his dearest friends would save none of the luckless innocents, whereas his life possibly would one day.

“How?” Velen had raged once, “How is my life more important, worthier, than theirs?”

The gathering is slow, K’ure had admitted. But it continues. There are other Naaru like me, who are reaching out to the younger races. When they are ready, they will all be brought together. Sargeras will eventually fall beneath the will of those who yet believe in what is good and true and harmonious, what is the timeless balance of this universe.

Velen had no choice but to either believe this being who had become his friend, or turn his back on those who had trusted him and be twisted into man’ari. He chose to believe. Now, though, he was confused. The orcs had begun attacking lone hunting parties. There seemed to be no reason for the aggression; none of the shaken guards to whom Velen had spoken reported anything out of the ordinary. And yet, three hunting parties had been killed down to the last draenei. Restalaan, who had investigated the slaughter, had reported that the bodies were not simply killed … they were butchered.

So Velen had come to the temple, created in the earliest years of the draenei on this world. Here, surrounded by four of the seven ata’mal crystals that had sprung into being so very long ago, he could hear the faint voice of his friend in his mind, but as yet, K’ure had no answers for him.

There would be no flight for them this time if things went wrong. K’ure was dying, trapped in the very vessel that it had provided when it had crashed into this world two hundred years past.

“Great Prophet,” said Restalaan, his voice soft and weary-sounding. “There has been another attack.”

Slowly, Velen opened his ancient eyes and regarded his friend sorrowfully. “I know,” he said. “I felt it.”

Restalaan ran a thick-fingered hand through his black hair. “What do We do? Each attack seems more violent than the last. Examination of the injuries done to the bodies seems to indicate that they are improving their weapons.”

Velen sighed deeply and shook his head. The white braids swung gently with the movement. “I cannot hear K’ure,” he said quietly. “At least, not as well as I used to. I fear its time is not much longer.”

Restalaan lowered his gaze, pain evident on his face. The Naaru had effectively sacrificed itself for them; all the draenei knew and understood this. Strange and mysterious as the being was, the draenei had grown to care for it. It had been trapped and slowly dying for two centuries. Somehow, Velen had thought it would take longer than that for the being to die … if it did die, as he understood such things.

He rose with purpose, his light tan robes fluttering behind him. “It yet has wisdom to impart to me, but I have not the skill to hear it anymore. I must go to it. Perhaps proximity will help it communicate better.”

“You—you mean to go to the ship?” Restalaan asked.

Velen nodded. “I must.”

“Great Prophet … I do not mean to question your wisdom, but—”

“But you do anyway,” Velen said, laughing, his startling blue eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine good humor. “Continue, my old friend. Your questioning always has value to me.”

Restalaan sighed. “The orcs have adopted the vessel as their sacred mountain,” he said.

“I know this,” Velen replied.

“Then why antagonize them by venturing there?” Restalaan asked. “They would surely see this as an act of aggression at any time, particularly now. You would be giving them a reason to continue their attacks against us.”

Velen nodded. “I have thought of this. Thought long and hard on it. But perhaps it is time to reveal who we are, and what their sacred mountain is. They believe their ancestors dwell there; and they may very well be right. If K’ure does not have much longer, should we not utilize its wisdom and its powers while we can? If anyone or anything can broker peace between the orcs and ourselves, this being, greater far than any of us, has that ability. This may be our only hope. K’ure spoke of finding other races, other beings, to join in its quest for balance and harmony. To stand against Sargeras and this vast, unholy force he has created.”

Velen placed a white hand on his friend’s armor-plated shoulder. “One thing for certain has been revealed to me in my meditations. And that is that things can no longer continue as they used to, orc and draenei can no longer live in distant familiarity with one another. There’s no returning to that, my old friend. There is either war or peace. They will either become our allies or our enemies. And I would never forgive myself if I did not explore every avenue to peace I could. Do you understand now?”

Restalaan searched Velen’s face unhappily, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I do. But I like it not. At least let me send you with an armored guard, for I know they will attack before they will listen.”

Velen shook his head. “No. No weapons. Nothing to provoke them. In their hearts, they are honorable beings. I was able to glimpse the souls of the two young orcs who stayed with us a few years ago. There is nothing cowardly or evil in there, only caution and now, for some reason, fear. They attacked hunting parties, not civilians.”

“Yes,” Restalaan shot back. “Parties that were greatly outnumbered.”

“We found blood that was not our own spilled at those sites,” Velen reminded him. “They took the bodies back for ritual burning, but there was orcish blood enough on the soil. And with our knowledge, a handful of draenei can easily stand against many orcs. No. I will risk all on this. They will not slay me where I stand, if I state my intentions honorably and I come without the blatant ability to defend myself.”

“I wish I had your confidence, my Prophet,” said Restalaan resignedly, bowing deeply. “I will assemble a small escort party, then. And they will not be armed.”

The Great One, Kil’jaeden, began to visit Ner’zhul with more frequency. First it was only in the dream state, as with the ancestors. He would come in the night while Ner’zhul slept deeply, his body heavy with the drug that opened his mind to Kil’jaeden’s voice, and whisper his praise and congratulations and plans for further orc victory.

Ner’zhul was in ecstasy. Each letter that arrived by bloodhawk from the various clans was read with eagerness and delight. We came across two scouts far from aid, the Shattered Hand clan chieftain wrote. It was ease itself to dispatch them, outnumbered as they were.

The Bleeding Hollow clan is proud to report to the great Ner’zhul that we have obeyed him in all things, said another letter. We have joined with the Laughing Skull clan, more than doubling the number of armed warriors to send against this devious foe. It is our understanding that the Thunderlord clan seeks allies. We will send a courier to them tomorrow.

“Yes.” smiled Kil’jaeden. “Do you see how they are coming together in a just cause? Before, these clans would be challenging one another if they crossed paths. Now, they are sharing knowledge, sharing resources, working as one to overcome a foe who would see you all destroyed.”

Ner’zhul nodded, but he felt a sudden pang. It had been glorious to finally behold this beautiful, powerful entity, despite the fact that he looked so much like the hated draenei, but … he had stopped seeing Rulkan. He found he missed her. He wondered why she was no longer seeking him out.

Hesitantly, he spoke. “Rulkan—”

“Rulkan has done her part in bringing you to me, Ner’zhul.” soothed Kil’jaeden. “You know she is well and happy—you have seen her. We do not need her as an intermediary anymore. Not now that I have been convinced of your worthiness to be my voice among your people.”

And as before, Ner’zhul’s heart flooded with joy. But this time, despite the comforting and exciting words of Kil’jaeden, he felt a sad little jerk in his heart as it beat, and still wished he could speak with his mate.

Ner’zhul was deep in thought when Gul’dan brought the missive to him. The apprentice bowed and handed his master a piece of parchment, stiff with blue liquid.

“What is this?” Ner’zhul asked, taking the parchment.

“It was taken off a draenei approaching from the south,” Gul’dan replied.

“A party?”

“A single courier. No arms, not even a mount. The fool was walking.” Gul’dan’s lips twisted into a smile and he chuckled.

Ner’zhul looked down at the parchment, realizing now that the blue stains were the courier’s blood. What had possessed the idiot, walking alone, unarmed, into the heart of Shadowmoon territory?

He unfolded it carefully, trying not to tear it, and quickly began to read. Even as his brown eyes darted over the words, the room was suddenly filled with radiance and both shaman prostrated themselves.

“Read it aloud, great Ner’zhul,” came Kil’jaeden’s smooth voice. “Share it with me and your loyal apprentice.”

“Yes, please, my master,” said Gul’dan eagerly.

As he read it, for the first time since he had spoken with his beloved Rulkan, Ner’zhul tasted doubt—

“Ah,” Gul’dan interrupted. “I remember … Durotan, who is currently the Frostwolf chieftain, and Orgrim Doomhammer.”

Ner’zhul nodded absently, his thoughts distracted for a moment, then resumed reading.

Gul’dan was the first to speak. Or, more accurately, to laugh.

“Such arrogance! My lord, great Kil’jaeden, this is an opportunity not to be missed. Their leader comes like a clefthoof calf to the slaughter, unarmed and stupidly thinking that we know nothing of his evil intentions. And he thinks to violate Oshu’gun! He will die before he sets a vile blue hoof upon even the root of our holy mountain!”

“What you say pleases me, Gul’dan,” Kil’jaeden rumbled in that smooth-as-water voice. “Ner’zhul, your apprentice speaks wisdom.”

But Ner’zhul found words stuck in his throat. He opened his mouth twice to speak, and finally words rasped forth on the third attempt. “I do not disagree that the draenei are dangerous,” he said haltingly, “But … we are not gronn, to kill unarmed foes.”

“The courier was slain,” Gul’dan pointed out. “He was unarmed and even unmounted.”

“And I regret that!” Ner’zhul snapped. “He should have been taken into custody and brought to me at once, not killed!”

Kil’jaeden said nothing. The scarlet radiance bathed Ner’zhul as he continued, groping his way to a solution.

“He will not be permitted to defile our sacred place,” the shaman continued. “Have no worries about that, Gul’dan. But I will not have him killed without having the chance to speak to him. Who knows but that we might learn something.”

“Yes,” said Kil’jaeden, his voice rich and warm. “When one is in pain, one will reveal all he knows.”

The words startled Ner’zhul, but he did not reveal his surprise. This magnificent being wanted him to torture Velen? Something inside him was excited at the prospect. But something else inside him recoiled. Not yet. He would not do such a thing yet.

“We will be waiting for him,” he assured both his great lord and his apprentice. “He will not escape.”

“Lord,” said Gul’dan slowly, “a suggestion, if I may?”

“What is it?”

“The closest clan to the mountain is the Frostwolf clan,” Gul’dan pointed out. “Let us have them take Velen and his party and bring them to us. Their leader once tasted draenei hospitality. And although he has not hindered our efforts, I do not recall hearing that he has led any attacks against the draenei. We shall kill two birds with one stone: take the draenei leader captive, and make Durotan of the Frostwolves prove his loyalty to our cause.”

Ner’zhul felt two pairs of eyes boring into his—the small, dark ones of his apprentice, and the glowing orbs of his master Kil’jaeden. What Gul’dan had suggested sounded like wisdom. Then why was Ner’zhul so reluctant to agree?

The heartbeats ticked away and perspiration sprouted on Ner’zhul’s low brow. Finally, he spoke, and was relieved to hear his voice sounded sure and strong.

“Agreed. It is a good plan. Find me pen and parchment, and I shall notify Durotan as to his duty.”