Rise of the Horde

10

I have never been so proud of my father as when Drek’Thar told me of this incident. I have good cause to know how hard it is to make the right decision at times. He had much to lose and nothing to gain by making the choices he did.

No, that is not right.

He retained his honor. And there can be no price high enough to sacrifice that.

The letter brooked no disagreement. Durotan stared at it, and then with a deep sigh passed it to his mate. Draka read it quickly, her eyes darting over the words, and growled soft and low in her throat.

“Ner’zhul is cowardly, to lay this at your feet,” she said softly, so as not to be overheard by the courier who waited outside. “The request comes to him, not you.”

“I have promised to obey.” Durotan said, his voice equally soft, “Ner’zhul speaks for the ancestors.”

Draka cocked her head thoughtfully. A stray beam of sunlight penetrating the tent from a gap in the scams caught her face, throwing her strong jaw and high cheekbones into sharp relief. Durotan’s breath caught in his throat as he looked at his beloved. For ail the chaos—madness, even—that seemed to have suddenly descended upon himself and his people, he was grateful for her. He touched her brown face lightly with a sharp-clawed finger, and she smiled briefly.

“My mate … I do not know that I trust Ner’zhul,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded. “But we both trust Drek’Thar, and he has confirmed what Ner’zhul has said. The draenei have been plotting against us. Ner’zhul says that Velen has even insisted on entering Oshu’gun.”

Again, the chieftain of the Frostwolf clan regarded the letter. “I am pleased that Ner’zhul has not asked me to slay Velen. Perhaps, once we have him in our power, we can convince him to change his ways, have him explain why they are so bent on harming us. Perhaps we can negotiate a peace.”

The thought seized his heart and squeezed it hard. As glorious as his life with Draka was, as proud as he was of his clan, how much happier would he be simply doing as his father had done—hunting the beasts of the woods and fields, dancing in the moonlight at Kosh’harg festivals, listening to the old tales and basking in the loving warmth of the ancestors. He had not said anything to Draka, but he was secretly glad that they had not yet conceived a child. This was not a time that was easy on the young orcs. Their childhood had been stolen from them; adult duties had been placed on shoulders still not quite broad enough to bear them. If Draka were to bear a child. Durotan would not hesitate to have his son or daughter trained as other children were. He would ask nothing of other parents that he would not do himself, but he was glad that he was not faced with that decision quite yet.

Draka watched him with intense, narrowed eyes. It was as if she could read his thoughts.

“You have met Velen before,” she said. “I watched you try to reconcile your memories of that encounter with the news that they were trying to destroy us all. It was not easy for you.”

“Nor is it now,” he replied. “Perhaps it is just as well that I am assigned this task. Velen will remember that night, of that I am certain. He may be willing to treat with me, whereas he might not be so willing to treat with Ner’zhul. I wish I had seen the letter he had sent.”

Draka sighed and got to her feet. “I think that would have been most enlightening,” she said.

Durotan emulated her. “I will tell the courier that his master may rest content. I will not shirk my duty.”

He felt her worried gaze boring into his back as he left.

Velen held the violet crystal close to his heart. The red and yellow ones rested at his side as he sat in meditation, casting a soft glow upon his alabaster skin. The four others were placed elsewhere in draenei territory, their great powers serving his people as needed. But the violet one never left him.

Its power opened the mind and spirit, and in a way, it was almost like being in direct communication with the Naaru. Velen always felt stronger, cleaner, his soul honed to a keen edge, when he meditated with the violet crystal. Although each of the seven crystals was precious and powerful, this was the one he treasured the most.

He strained to hear the soft whispers of K’ure, but he could not. Velen’s heart ached. He bowed his head.

He heard voices and opened his eyes. Restalaan was speaking to one of the acolytes, and Velen waved him forward.

“What news, old friend?” Velen inquired. He indicated a pot of hot herbal tea.

Restalaan waved his hand, declining the offer. “Good and bad, my Prophet,” he said. “I deeply regret to inform you that the courier you sent to the shaman leader Ner’zhul was killed by a group of orcs.”

Velen closed his eyes. The violet crystal grew warmer for a moment, as if trying to offer comfort.

“I sensed his death,” Velen said heavily. “But I had hoped it was an accident. You are certain he was murdered?”

“Ner’zhul says so, and offers no apology.” Restalaan’s voice conveyed his anger and affront at the incident. He was kneeling beside Velen, next to the red crystal. Velen’s dark blue eyes darted to the crystal as it pulsed once, briefly, responding to Restalaan’s emotions.

“So much for your theory that they would not attack an unarmed man,” Restalaan continued bitterly.

“I had so hoped for better,” Velen said quietly. “But you said there was some good news to mitigate these sad tidings?”

Restalaan grimaced. “If you can call it that. Ner’zhul says that an orc contingency will meet with us at the base of the mountain.”

“He … is not coming?”

Restalaan dropped his gaze and shook his head. “No, my Prophet,” he said quietly.

“Who does he send in his stead?”

“The letter does not say.”

“Give it to me.” Velen stretched out a white hand and Restalaan placed the parchment in his palm. Velen uncurled the parchment and read the letter quickly.

Velen sighed deeply. This was not the response his soul had longed for. What had happened to the orcs?

Why in this world or any other were they suddenly so bent on harming the draenei, who had never opposed them in any fashion?

I guarantee nothing, Ner’zhul had said, writing in a strong, bold hand.

“Very well,” said Velen quietly. “Then nothing is guaranteed,” He smiled at Restalaan. “Rather like life.”

The day was inappropriately bright and cheerful, Durotan thought, squinting against the bright early summer light that danced down. Surely, on a day when his soul felt so bleak and unhappy, the weather ought to reflect it. Clouds, at the very least. More appropriately, a cold, drizzling rain. But the sun did not care about an orc’s heavy gait, or even the fate of an entire race of people. It shone down as merrily as if all was right every place its rays touched. Oshu’gun almost seemed to be on fire, so bright was the light that reflected off its multifaceted, crystalline surface.

Durotan had chosen a position of strength. From where he had positioned his warriors, he would be able to see Velen’s traveling party long before they spotted the orcs. He had decided to wait and let the Prophet of the draenei come directly to him, although he had strategically positioned his warriors so that if the draenei attempted to flee, no avenue of flight would be open to them. And all the orcs who waited patiently on this offensively glorious day were armed to the teeth, with shaman at the ready. With her sharp eyes and superb fighting skills, Draka was highly useful to him as a scout. He had positioned her as one of the lookouts in the first group of warriors. The instant that Velen was visible, she would send word to her mate via a spell cast by Drek’Thar.

Drek’Thar himself, though, was standing beside Durotan, As the most powerful shaman in the clan, his place was to protect the clan’s leader. The two stood on a rock outcropping just above the entrance to the gleaming sacred mountain. Dozens of warriors waited with arrows, hand axes, and javelins at the ready. Others had spent days maneuvering large boulders into position. At a word from Durotan, a simple movement would send death in the form of huge stones crashing down upon the draenei.

The threat of death, in fact, was everywhere on this lovely mountain, on this beautiful sunny day.

A breeze stirred Durotan’s black hair and a bird sang brightly. Drek’Thar looked at his chieftain with concern.

“My chieftain, you are doing what you have been told to do,” Drek’Thar said earnestly. “These beings are our enemies.”

Durotan nodded and wished he could believe it as easily as every other orc seemed to.

The breeze brushed his check again, more insistently, and this time he heard words on the wind. Draka’s message, borne to him by Drek’Thar’s bond with the elements. They are coming. Five of them. None of

them is wearing armor or carries any visible weapons. They walk serenely.

The wind wafted her words away, and he knew it went to touch the ears of all the orcs assembled. When the time was right, Drek’Thar would harness the wind to give orders to Durotan’s troops. Durotan straightened, and his heart beat more swiftly. His hand gripped his battle-axe tightly.

“There they are,” said Drek’Thar grimly. Durotan followed his gaze.

Draka’s report had been accurate, right down to her interpretation of the manner in which the draenei approached. The five draenei did not wear the strange blue and silvery armor that Durotan remembered from his single encounter with them. They were dressed instead as they had been for the meal, in robes of beautiful hues that caught the breeze and fluttered behind them like banners. Walking at the very front of the little group was Prophet Velen himself. He was unmistakable; his simple tan robes contrasted with those of his entourage, and of course his strange white skin was unique. Durotan grinned a little despite the direness of the situation. The draenei were so garishly clad that only a blind orc would have failed to spot them from a great distance.

The smile faded at what that had to represent. They wanted to be spotted immediately. They wanted the orcs to be confident that they carried no weapons and were on what Mother Kashur would have called a pilgrimage. Or was it all just an elaborate trick? Shaman needed no spears to destroy. Neither did the draenei. Durotan remembered the magical nets that scared and blackened flesh on contact—nets of energy, alien to the orcs, that had come from nowhere.

No, even unarmed, the draenei were far from harmless.

He had briefed his warriors and knew they would obey. They understood they were not to fire a warning shot—not to utter even an insult—without Durotan’s express command. But they knew how the draenei fought, and would not be taken unawares. Durotan could smell the tension emanating from those warriors closest to him; he wondered if the draenei could, too.

Durotan watched as the groups he had set farthest away came out of hiding to close ranks behind the draenei. They were far enough back so that Durotan hoped the draenei would not notice. If they did, they gave no sign, but merely continued with that steady, confident … serene … pace.

Durotan and Drek’Thar made no attempt to disguise themselves. After several long minutes, Velen lifted his head and looked up, right into Durotan’s eyes. Durotan did not break the gaze, but stood waiting for his enemies to continue their approach. They reached the base of the mountain, but before they could continue farther, dozens of orcs moved purposefully out of hiding to surround them.

Velen did not look in the least bit surprised. He glanced around, smiling a little, and then returned his gaze to Durotan. Slowly, Durotan descended until he stood face-to-face with the draenei prophet.

“Long has it been since you and I last stood so, Velen,” Durotan said in a calm voice. He deliberately did not use the draenei’s title.

“Long indeed, Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan,” Velen said in that rich, smooth voice that Durotan remembered. “Are you friends with Orgrim still?”

“Indeed I am,” Durotan replied. “He carries the Doomhammer now, and is second in his own clan.”

Sorrow flitted across the pale face, a sorrow that was deep and unquestionably genuine. Again, Durotan remembered that night so long ago, when this being had sat with them and talked of orcish ways, of the Doomhammer and the cost at which Orgrim would buy it.

“I hope his father and yours passed with great honor,” Velen said.

“We are not here today to speak of the past,” Durotan said, more forcefully than he intended. He did not like to remember that night. “We are here because you have informed us that you dare trespass on our most sacred place.”

There it is, then, he thought. Let us not mince words.

Velen held Durotan’s gaze and nodded. “I had sent a missive to Ner’zhul, not to you, Durotan. He has declined to meet with me. I wonder … did he share this missive with you?”

“There was no need for me to read it.” Durotan replied, “I was asked to come in his stead. And I have done so.”

Durotan saw the broad shoulders slump a little. Velen sighed deeply. “I see,” he said. “He may not have told you why I wished to come today.”

“I do not need to know your purpose, draenei,” Durotan said.

“But you do, or else this conversation will be for nothing.” The voice was clear and crisp, and there was nothing old or frail about it despite Velen’s obviously ancient age. Durotan raised an eyebrow. That Velen was a wise elder was immediately apparent. But now, for the first time. Durotan caught a glimpse of the sheer strength of will that had buoyed Velen for countless years.

“This this mountain is sacred to your people. We know this, and we have respected it. But it is also sacred to us.” Velen took a step forward, his gaze locked on Durotan’s. The orc warriors around him shifted, murmured, but otherwise did not move.

“Deep inside the mountain is a being that has long cared for the draenei people,” Velen continued. “It is older by far than anything either of our minds can grasp. And more powerful. But even old and powerful things can die, and it is dying now. There is wisdom and grace and reconciliation We can have from it, your people and mine. We—”

“Blasphemer!”

Durotan started. The bitter cry had sprung from the throat not of some short-tempered warrior in the crowd, but from the orc who stood beside him. Drek’Thar’s eyes were wide and his body trembled with outrage. Veins stood out on his neck and he shook his fist at Velen. Durotan was so shocked by the outburst that he did not silence it as quickly as he should have, and Drek’Thar continued.

“Oshu’gun belongs to us! It is the home of the beloved dead, cradler of their spirits, and your hideous cloven feet are not fit to take one step up its blessed sides!”

Velen, too, seemed surprised at the outburst. He turned his attention to the shaman and stretched out a hand imploringly.

“Your sprits are housed within these walls, it is true, and I would never say it was not so.” Velen cried. “But they are drawn there because of this being. It seeks to—”

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Drek’Thar bellowed in outrage. Other cries went up, and before Durotan realized quite what was happening, he saw his warriors surge forward. Draka moved toward them, trying to stop the attack, but she might as well have been trying to hold back the incoming tide. Durotan spun and struck Drek’Thar hard across the face. The shaman whirled, snarling. “Protect them!” Durotan cried. “You will obey my orders, and we must take them alive. Protect them, curse you!”

Drek’Thar’s eyes flashed in fury, but only for an instant. He lifted his hands and closed his eyes, and suddenly a huge circle of flame sprang up around the five draenei. A wind sprang up, whipping the fire even higher and physically buffeting the orcs. The warriors stepped back, and to Durotan’s horror some of the archers began nocking arrows on their bowstrings.

“Hold!” bellowed Durotan, the wind taking his order and bearing it to his warriors’ ears. “I will slay anyone who fires!”

Between his command and Drek’Thar’s powerful, if reluctant, abilities, the draenei were unharmed. Durotan raced down the mountainside to his prisoners, for such they now were. Drek’Thar was at his heels.

“Dismiss fire,” Durotan told Drek’Thar. At once, the sheets of flame that almost singed Durotan’s eyebrows dissipated. He stood face-to-face now with Velen, and a wave of an emotion he could not properly name rose inside him as he realized that the draenei elder was still as calm and serene as he had been when they had simply been talking.

“Velen, you and your people are now prisoners of the Frostwolf clan,” Durotan said in a soft, dangerous voice.

Velen smiled, sweetly, sadly. “I expected nothing less.” he said.

He and the other four somehow maintained their composure while Durotan ordered them stripped and searched. Their glorious robes were taken and given to Durotan’s top warriors, and the draenei were clad now in sweat-stiff tunics. His stomach turned at the jeers, insults, and spits that came their way at the humiliation, but he did not stop it. As long as no physical harm came to the prisoners—and Durotan watched closely to ensure that none would—he would let his warriors have their sport. Beside him, Draka looked angry at the behavior of her fellow Frostwolves and whispered, “My mate, can you not silence them?”

He shook his head. “I want to see how the draenei react. And … the warriors have stayed their hands when they might have been expected to kill. I will not silence their tongues as well.”

Draka looked at him searchingly, then nodded and withdrew. He knew she did not approve, and he did not like what he was seeing either. But he was walking a delicate line, and he knew it.

“My chieftain!” cried Rokkar, Durotan’s second in command. “Come see what they have brought us!”

Durotan went to Rokkar’s side and peered into the sack he had opened. His eyes widened. Nestled inside, swathed in soft fabric, were two exquisitely beautiful stones. One was red, the other was yellow. Durotan ached to touch them, but did not. He looked up and met Velen’s gaze. “Long ago, Restalaan showed us a crystal similar to this one,” he said. “That one protected a city. What do these do?”

“Each has its own strength. They are part of our legacy. They were bequeathed to us by the being that dwells in the sacred mountain.”

Durotan growled softly. “You would do well not to mention that again,” he said. To Rokkar, he said, “Feed them, bind their hands, and put them on wolves, with shaman to guard them. Give the stones to Drek’Thar. We will take the draenei back with us and deliver them to Ner’zhul. He should have been here in my stead today.”

He turned and stalked off, not wanting to look at Velen’s odd, glowing blue eyes, not wanting to see the disapproval in Draka’s.

During the long ride back, Durotan wrestled with his emotions. On the one hand, he shared Drek’Thar’s offense. Oshu’gun was sacred to the orcs. The idea that something other than the ancestors dwelt inside it, indeed, as Velen claimed, was so powerful that it lured the ancestors to it, struck him to the core. He could only imagine how the shaman felt about such a declaration. Everything seemed to point to Ner’zhul’s being correct, that the draenei were a blight upon the world and should be eliminated.

What nagged at him was why. He would get an answer to that question tonight.

With everyone, including the five captives, mounted, they made good time. The sun was only starting to set when they returned. Durotan had sent outriders ahead with the good news, and the clan was waiting eagerly for their arrival. On his right were Drek’Thar and Rokkar, who shared the sentiments of the Frostwolves. On his left was Draka, who had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the entire event. Durotan knew that he did not want to hear what she had to say; he was already being pulled in too many directions as it was.

The prisoners were ungraciously shoved into two tents and an immediate guard was set up around them. Four seasoned warriors and Drek’Thar’s most trusted shaman stood proudly, pleased with the duty entrusted to them. Durotan had ordered Velen isolated; he wanted to speak with the draenei prophet alone.

After the excitement had settled down somewhat, Durotan took a deep breath. He was not looking forward to this conversation, but it had to be done. He nodded to the guards and entered the small tent that hosted Prophet Velen.

Since he had ordered Velen bound, he expected to see the elder with his hands tied. Instead, he saw that whoever had carried out his order had done so with excessive zeal.

The tent had been erected around a sturdy tree, and Velen was now bound to the trunk. His arms had been yanked back at an awkward angle, the ropes around the white flesh of his wrists tied so tightly that even in the dim light of twilight Durotan could see that they were turning a darker shade. A rope tied, thankfully loosely, around his neck forced him to keep his head up or risk choking. A dirty cloth had been shoved in his mouth. He was on his knees, and his hooves, too, were bound behind him.

Durotan uttered a deep oath and drew a dagger. Velen gazed at him with no sign of fear in those deep blue eyes, but Durotan did notice that the draenei looked surprised when the orc used the weapon to cut the bonds rather than his throat. Velen made no sound, but a flicker of pain passed over his ghostly white face as blood returned to his limbs.

“I told them to bind you, not truss you up like a talbuk,” Durotan muttered.

“Your people are very eager, it would seem.”

Durotan passed the elder a waterskin and watched him closely while he drank. Sitting before him in filthy clothing, gulping at tepid water, his white flesh raw from the bonds, Velen did not look like much of a threat. How would he feel, he wondered, if he had gotten word of the draenei treating Mother Kashur so? Everything about this felt wrong. Yet Mother Kashur herself had assured Drek’Thar that the draenei were a threat so dire as to be almost unimaginable.

There was a bowl of cold blood porridge on the ground. With his right foot, Durotan shoved it toward the prisoner. Velen eyed it, but did not eat.

“Not quite the feast you served Orgrim and me when we dined in Telmor,” Durotan said. “But it is nourishing.”

Velen’s lips curved in a smile. “That was a memorable evening.”

“Did you get what you wanted from us that night?” Durotan demanded. He was angry, but not with Velen. He was angry that it had come to this, that one who had shown him nothing but courtesy was now his captive. And so he took it out on the Prophet.

“I do not understand. We merely wished to be good hosts to two adventuresome boys.”

Durotan got to his feet and kicked over the bowl. Congealed porridge oozed onto the earth. “Do you expect me to believe this?”

Velen did not rise to the bait. He replied calmly, “It is the truth. It is your choice as to whether you believe it.”

Durotan dropped to his knees and shoved his face into Velen’s. “Why are you trying to destroy us? What have we ever done to you?”

“I might ask you the same question,” said Velen. A flush had come to his white face. “We have never lifted a finger to harm you, and now over two dozen draenei are dead from your attacks!”

The truth of the comment made Durotan even angrier. “The ancestors do not lie to us,” he snarled. “We have been warned that you are not what you would seem—that you are our enemies. Why did you bring those crystals if not to attack us?”

“We thought it might help us better communicate with the being in the mountain.” Velen spoke quickly, as if trying to get the words out before Durotan could silence him. “It is not an enemy to the orcs, nor are we. Durotan, you are intelligent and wise. I saw this in you that night so long ago. You are not one to blindly follow like an animal to slaughter. I know not why your leaders lie to you, but they do. We have ever sought to interact peaceably with you. You are better than this, son of Garad. You are not like the others!”

Durotan’s dark brown eyes narrowed. “You are wrong, draenei,” he spat. “I am proud to be an orc. I embrace my heritage.”

Velen looked exasperated. “You misunderstand. I do not malign your people. I merely—”

“Merely what? Merely tell us that the only reason We are seeing the beloved dead is because of your … your god trapped in the mountain?”

“It is not a god, it is an ally, and would be one to your people as well if you would permit it to be.”

Durotan swore and rose, stalking about the tent, his hands clenching and unclenching. Then he uttered a long, deep sigh, the anger in him burning down to ashes.

“Velen, your words are but wood on the fire of our wrath,” he said quietly. “Your claim is arrogant and offensive. It will support those who are already prepared to slay your people on the word oi our ancestors. I do not understand myself—but you are asking to choose between people I trust, traditions I have been raised on, and your word.”

He turned and faced the draenei. “I will choose my people. You need to know this. If you and I come face-to-face on the field of battle, I will not stay my hand.”

Velen looked only curious. “You … will not take me to Ner’zhul, then?”

Durotan shook his head. “No. If he wanted you, he should have come for you himself. He appointed me to treat with you, and I have carried out my duties as I saw fit.”

“You were supposed to deliver a prisoner to him,” Velen said.

“I was to meet with you and listen to your words,” Durotan said. “Had I captured you in battle, stricken a weapon from your hands, and wrested you to the earth, then yes, you would be a prisoner. But there is no honor in binding a foe who extends his hands willingly for the rope. We are at an impasse, you and I. You insist that you have no ill will toward the orcs. My leaders and the ghosts of my ancestors tell me otherwise.”

Again, Durotan knelt before the draenei. “They call you Prophet—do you know the future then? If so, then tell me what you and I can do to avert what I fear will unfold. I would not shed innocent life, Velen. Give me something, anything, I can take to Ner’zhul that will prove that what you say is true!”

He realized he was pleading, but the fact did not distress him. He loved his wife, his clan, his people. He hated what he was seeing: an entire generation rushing headlong to adulthood with only blind hate in their hearts. If begging before this strange being could change this, then beg he would.

The strange blue eyes held an unspeakable empathy. Velen extended a pale hand and placed it on Durotan’s shoulder.

“The future is not like a book one can read,” he said quietly. “It is ever changing, like the rush of water, or the swirl of sand. I am granted certain insights, but nothing more, I felt very strongly that I needed to come unarmed, and behold, I am greeted not by the orcs’ greatest shaman, but by one who has slept safely under my roof. I do not think this an accident, Durotan. And if anything can be done to avert this, it lies with the orcs, not with the draenei. All I can do is tell you what I have already said. The river’s course can be changed. But you are the ones who must change it. That is all I know, and I pray it is enough to save my people.”

The look on his ancient, oddly cracked face and the tone of his voice told Durotan what his words did not: that Velen did not, indeed, think it would be enough to save his people.

Durotan closed his eyes for a moment, then stepped back. “We will keep the stones,” he said. “Whatever power they have, the shaman will learn how to harness.”

Velen nodded sadly “Such I assumed,” he said. “But I had to bring them. I had to trust that we could find a way past all of this.”

Why was it, Durotan wondered, that he felt closer at this moment to one he had been told was an enemy than to the spiritual leader of his own people? Draka might know. She had known all along. She had said nothing, understanding with a wisdom he could not comprehend that he had to come to this moment on his own. But he would speak to her tonight, alone in their tent.

“Get up.” he said, speaking roughly to hide his emotions, “You and your companions may leave safely.” He grinned suddenly. “As safely as you might, in the darkness, with no weapons. If you come to your deaths this night when you are past our territory, it will not be on my head.”

“That would be convenient for you,” agreed Velen, getting to his feet. “But somehow. I think it is not what you want.”

Durotan did not reply. He marched out of the tent and told the waiting guards. “Velen and his four companions are to be safely escorted to the borders of our lands. Then, they will be released, to return to then-city. No harm is to befall them, is that clear?”

The guard looked as if he was about to protest, but another, wiser warrior shot him a fierce glance.

“Very clear, my chieftain,” the first guard murmured. As they went to fetch the other draenei, Drek’Thar hurried up to Durotan.

“Durotan! What are you doing? Ner’zhul expects prisoners!” “Ner’zhul can take his prisoners himself,” Durotan snarled. “I was in command, and this is my decision. Do you question it?”

Drek’Thar looked around and walked Durotan away from prying ears. “I do,” he hissed. “You heard what he said! He claims the ancestors are—are like moths to a torch around this god of his! The arrogance! Ner’zhul is right. They must be eliminated. We have been told so!”

“if it is to be, then it will be,” said Durotan. “But not this night, Drek’Thar. Not this night.”

As he and his companions walked slowly over the dew-drenched grasses of die meadows, past the towering black silhouettes of the trees of Terokkar forest, toward the nearest city, Velen’s heart was heavy.

Two of the ata’mal crystals were now in the possession of the orcs. He had no doubt but that Durotan’s words were correct, and that their shaman would shortly unlock their secrets. But they had missed one.

They had missed it because it did not wish to be found, and when it came to the crystals, light obeyed its wishes and bent itself so that the violet crystal remained hidden from the view of the searching orcs. He held it close to his heart now, feeling its warmth seep into his ancient flesh.

He had gambled, and failed. Not completely; that he and his friends were alive and walking toward safety was testimony to that. But he had hoped the orcs would listen, that they would at least accompany him into the heart of their own sacred mountain, and behold something that did not negate their faith, not in the slightest, but had in fact given birth to it.

The outlook was grim. As he had walked into the camp, he had observed what was happening. Younglings were being trained so hard they were dropping from exhaustion. Forges were going even so late at night. For all that he was walking freely now, Velen knew that the incidents of today had done nothing to avert what would come. The orcs, even the ones led by the insightful, slow to anger Durotan, were not just preparing for the possibility of war. They were convinced of the certainty of it. When the sun showed her yellow head tomorrow morning, she would look upon the inevitable.

The crystal he held so close to his heart pulsed, sensing his thoughts. Velen turned to his companions and looked upon them sorrowfully.

“The orcs will not be dissuaded from this path,” he said. “And therefore, if we are to survive … we, too, must walk the path to war.”

Far in the distance, broken, dying, resting as peacefully as possible deep below the waters of the sacred pool, the being known as K’ure uttered a deep, agonized cry.

Velen started, recognizing the voice, and bowed his head. The Frostwolf orcs gasped at the sound and turned to regard the perfect triangle of Oshu’gun.

“The ancestors are angry with us!” a young shaman cried. “Angry for letting Velen go!”

Durotan shook his head. He ought to rebuke the youngster, and on the morrow, if such words were uttered again, he would. But now, his heart was full of sorrow. It was not a cry of anger that came from the sacred mountain. It was the wrenching sound of ultimate grief, and he shuddered inside as he wondered why the ancestors mourned so very, very deeply.