Rise of the Horde

11

Ner’zhul … Gul’dan. Two of the darkest names ever to sully the history of my people. And yet, Drek’Thar tells me that once Ner’zhul was admired, even beloved, and truly cared for the people whose spiritual leader he was. It is hard to reconcile those words with what Ner’zhul has become, but I try. I try because I want to understand. And yet, try as I might … I do not.

“What?”

Ner’zhul’s shriek of outrage made his apprentice Gul’dan wince, Durotan did not bat an eye.

“I released the Prophet Velen,” the chieftain of the Frostwolf clan said calmly.

“Your orders were to take him and the others prisoner!” Ner’zhul’s voice climbed with each word. It had been so plain, so easy. What had Durotan been thinking? To toss away this opportunity like bones when the meat had been devoured! How much information could they have extracted from Velen? What kind of bargaining power over the draenei would he have bought them?

But that thought was dwarfed by the overwhelming horror of how Kil’jaeden would react. What would he do when he learned that Velen had not been captured? The beautiful being had been seemingly well pleased at the prospect, when Ner’zhul told him of the plan. Flushed with pride at his cleverness, thinking victory already assured. Ner’zhul had even dared to offer Velen to Kil’jaeden as a sort of present. Now what would happen? The realization that he felt fear rather than chagrin at bringing disappointing news was not lost on the shaman.

“You put me in charge of the capture, and capture them I did,” Durotan replied. “But there is no honor in a prisoner taken willingly. You want us to be strong as a people, rather than as individual clans, and we cannot do that without a code of honor that is inviolable, that is—”

Durotan continued speaking in his gruff, deep voice, but Ner’zhul was no longer listening. At that instant, that frozen space in time. Ner’zhul had a sudden realization that Kil’jaeden might not be the benevolent spirit he presented himself as. Durotan, lost in his own voice speaking words to explain his decision, did not notice the shaman’s shift in attention. But Ner’zhul felt Gul’dan’s gaze upon him, and another fear welled up inside him that Gul’dan was bearing witness to his master’s first hints of doubt.

What is the right thing to do? How can I best serve?

Why is Rulkan no longer coming to me?

He blinked and came back to himself when he realized that Durotan had ceased speaking. The large chieftain was regarding Ner’zhul intently, waiting for the shaman to speak.

How best to handle this? Durotan was well regarded among the clans. If Ner’zhul punished Durotan for his decision, there would be many who would respond with sympathy to the Frostwolf clan. It could cause a rift in the fabric Ner’zhul was trying to weave, the tightly knit fabric of a united orc nation … a Horde, if you will. On the other hand, if he condoned Durotan’s actions, it would be a severe and insulting blow to those who had fervently supported his previous position that the draenei must die.

He could not decide. He stared at Durotan, who began to frown slightly.

“My master is so overcome with rage that he cannot speak,” came Gul’dan’s smooth voice. Both Durotan and Ner’zhul turned to look at the younger shaman. “You have disobeyed a direct order from your spiritual leader. Return to your camp, Durotan, son of Garad. My master will send you a letter shortly conveying his decision.”

Durotan glanced back at Ner’zhul, his dislike of Gul’dan plain on his broad face. Ner’zhul gathered himself and stood tall, and this time, when he reached for words, he found them. “Begone, Durotan. You have displeased me, and worse, you have displeased the being who has shown us such favor. You will hear from me soon enough.”

Durotan bowed, but did not leave immediately. “There is one thing I do bring you,” he said. He extended a small bundle to Ner’zhul. The shaman accepted it with hands that shook, and hoped desperately that both Durotan and Gul’dan would interpret the trembling as fury and not fear.

“We took these off the prisoners,” Durotan continued. “Our shaman believe that they may hold power that we can use against the draenei.”

He hesitated a moment longer, as if waiting for further word from Ner’zhul. When the silence stretched long and uncomfortably between them, he bowed again and left. For a long moment, neither master nor apprentice spoke.

“My master, please forgive me for interrupting. I saw you were so overcome that you could not speak, and I feared that the Frostwolf boy would misinterpret your anger as hesitancy.”

Ner’zhul shot him a searching look. The words sounded sincere. Gul’dan’s face looked sincere. And yet-There was once a time when Ner’zhul would have confessed his doubt to his apprentice. He had trusted and trained him for years. But now, at this moment, although battered by uncertainties as if by opposing winds, Ner’zhul knew one thing very clearly. He did not want Gul’dan to see any weakness in him.

“I was indeed overcome with rage,” Ner’zhul lied. “Honor serves nothing if it hurts your people.”

He realized he was clutching the bundle Durotan had given him. Gul’dan was staring at it almost hungrily.

“What did Durotan give you, to offset your anger with him?” Gul’dan inquired.

Ner’zhul looked at him with a superior air. “I will examine it first, and share it with Kil’jaeden, apprentice,” he said coolly. He was looking for a reaction, and dreaded seeing it.

For the briefest of moments, anger flitted across Gul’dan’s face. Then the younger orc bowed deeply and said contritely, “Of course, my master. It was arrogant of me to expect—I am merely curious, that is all, to see if the Frostwolf chieftain has contributed anything of worth.”

Ner’zhul softened somewhat. Gul’dan had served him well and loyally for many years now, and indeed, would succeed Ner’zhul when the time came. He was jumping at shadows.

“Of course,” Ner’zhul said, more gently. “I will let you know if I learn anything. After all, you are my apprentice, are you not?”

Gul’dan brightened. “I serve you in all things, my master.” Looking happier, he bowed again and left Ner’zhul alone.

Ner’zhul sat heavily on the skins that served him for a bed. He cradled the bundle in his lap and said a prayer to the ancestors that if Durotan had failed to deliver the leader of the draenei, perhaps at least the Frostwolf chieftain had managed to obtain something of value.

He took a deep breath, unwrapped the bundle, and gasped. Nestled against soft fur were two glowing gems. Gingerly, Ner’zhul touched the red one and gasped again.

Energy, excitement, and a sense of power flowed through him. His hands wanted to grip a weapon, although he had had no need of one for years, and he yearned to swing it. Somehow he knew that if this crystal were on his person, his aim would be true. What a gift this was to the orcs! He would have to see how he could turn this hot, red passion for fighting that lurked in the center of this stone to his purposes.

It took a great effort of will for him to release the red crystal. He breathed deeply, calming himself as his mind cleared.

The yellow one next.

Ner’zhul grasped it. This time, he had some idea of what to expect. Again, he felt it emanating warmth and a sensation of power. But this time, there was no excitement, no urgency. As he held the yellow crystal, his mind cleared and he realized that he had hitherto been seeing things as if in a fog-dense valley. He could not find the words to describe it, but there was a purity, a clarity, a precision to everything. It was, in fact, so keen, so clear that Ner’zhul began to perceive this opening of his mind as pain.

He dropped the crystal back into his lap. The brilliant clarity, knife-sharp, faded somewhat.

Ner’zhul smiled. If he did not have Velen himself to present to Kil’jaeden, at least he had these precious items to offer to appease the magnificent being.

Kil’jaeden was furious.

Ner’zhul quaked before that anger, prostrating himself on the earth, murmuring, “Forgive me …” as Kil’jaeden raged. He squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating pain such as he had never experienced to suddenly start shooting along his body, when abruptly the raging ceased.

Cautiously, Ner’zhul risked a glance at his benefactor, Kil’jaeden was once more looking serene, poised, and calm and bathed in radiance.

“I am … disappointed,” the Beautiful One murmured. He shifted his weight from one enormous cloven foot to the other. “But I know two things. The Frostwolf clan leader is the one responsible. And you will never, ever, trust him with an important task again.”

Relief swept through Ner’zhul and he almost fainted from the sensation, so powerful was it. “Of course not, my lord. Never again. And … we did find these crystals for you.”

“They are of little use to me,” said Kil’jaeden. Ner’zhul winced. “But I think your people might find them helpful in your battle to crush the draenei. That is your battle, is it not?” Fear again clenched hard at Ner’zhul’s heart. “Of course, lord! It is the ancestors* will.”

Kil’jaeden looked at him for a moment, his brilliant eyes emanating flames. “It is my will.” he said simply, and Ner’zhul nodded frantically.

“Of course, of course, it is your will, and I obey you in all things.”

Kil’jaeden seemed satisfied by the response and nodded. Then he was gone, and Ner’zhul sank back, wiping a face greasy with the sweat of terror.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of something white. Gul’dan had seen everything.

We have been planning an attack for some time now, and last night, when the Pale Lady did not shine, we descended in force upon the sleeping little town. Not a one was left alive, not even the few children we found. Their supplies—food, armor, weapons, some strange items we know nothing of and shun—this bounty is now shared between the two unified clans. Their blood, blue and thick, dries now upon our faces, and we dance in celebration.

There was more to the missive, but Ner’zhul did not read it. He did not have to. Although the details might be different, the essence of the letters was always the same. A successful attack, glory in the killing, the ecstasy of blood spilled. Ner’zhul glanced at the pile of letters he had received just that morning: seven of them.

With each month that passed, even throughout the long, hard winter months, the orcs grew more skilled at killing draenei. They had learned much about their foe with each victory. The stones that Durotan had given Ner’zhul proved to be valuable indeed, Ner’zhul worked with them, alone at first, and then in the company of other shaman. The red stone they dubbed the Heart of Fury, and they found that when the leader of a raid carried it, not only did he fight with more energy and skill, but everyone under his command benefited as well. The stone was passed from clan to clan at each new moon, and was highly coveted. Yet Ner’zhul knew no one would dare to steal it for himself.

The second stone he called the Brilliant Star, and he found that when a shaman carried the crystal, he or she experienced a profound focus and clarity. While the Heart of Fury roused the emotions, the Brilliant Star calmed them. The thought process was swifter and more precise, and concentration was not easily broken. The result was powerful magic, precisely controlled … another key to an orcish victory. The delicious irony that they were using the draenei’s own magic against them further improved morale among the orcs.

But all these things did not hearten Ner’zhul. The sudden flash of doubt that had shuddered through him when he had spoken with Durotan had shaken him to the bone. He fought back the suspicions, terrified that somehow Kil’jaeden was able to read his thoughts. But they came, like maggots writhing from a corpse, to haunt his sleeping and waking thoughts. Kil’jaeden looked very, very similar to the draenei. Was it possible that they were somehow the same? And was he, Ner’zhul, being used in some sort of civil war?

One night, he found he could no longer bear it. Silently, he dressed and roused his wolf Skychaser, who stretched and blinked at him sleepily.

“Come, my friend.” Ner’zhul said affectionately as he settled on the great creature’s back. He had never before ridden to the sacred mountain. Always, he had walked, as was tradition. But he needed to return before he was missed, and he was certain that the urgency of his mission would mitigate his offense with the ancestors.

It was almost spring, almost time for the Kosh’harg festival, but spring seemed far away as the cold wind bit at Ner’zhul’s ears and nose. He huddled down, grateful for the warmth of the massive wolf, and shielded himself as best he could from the wind and now snow.

The wolf pressed on through the drifts, making steady if not swift progress. At last. Ner’zhul looked up and saw the perfect triangle of the Mountain of Spirits, and a great weight suddenly lifted from his heart. For the first time in months, he truly felt as if he was doing the right thing.

Skychaser would have difficulty climbing, so with a command to “stay” he settled down, burrowing into a drift and curling up tightly. Ner’zhul did not imagine he would be more than a few hours, and hurried to climb the mountain with more alacrity than he had felt in a long time, his sack heavy with waterskins and his heart full of anticipation.

He should have done this long ago. He should have gone right to the source of wisdom, as shaman before him had done. He had no idea why he had never thought of this before.

At last he came to the entrance and paused before the perfect oval. As anxious as he was to reach the ancestors, he knew the ritual must be honored. He lit the bundle of dried grasses he carried and let its sweet scent calm and purify his thoughts. Then he stepped forward, murmuring a spell to light the torches that lined the walk. Ner’zhul had walked this path more times than he could recall, and his feet moved steadily as if of their own accord. Down twined the smooth path, and Ner’zhul’s heart raced with hope as he stepped forward into the darkness.

It seemed to take longer than usual for him to become aware of the increase in light. Ner’zhul stepped into the cavern, and thought that somehow, the light emanating from the sacred pool seemed dimmer than it had been in the past. The thought unsettled him.

He took a deep breath and chided himself. He was bringing his own external fears to this sacred space, nothing more. He stepped to the pool, removed the waterskins from his pack, and poured out the contents. The soft splashing of water was the only sound, and it seemed to echo. His offering complete, Ner’zhul sat by the water’s edge and waited, gazing into the radiant depths.

Nothing happened.

He did not panic. Sometimes the ancestors took their time about responding.

But when more time had passed, uncase began to stir in Ner’zhul’s heart. Moved, he spoke aloud.

“Ancestors … beloved dead … I, Ner’zhul, shaman of the Shadowmoon clan, leader to your children, have come seeking … no, begging wisdom. I—I have lost my way to your light. The times are dark and fearful even as we grow stronger, more united as a people. I question the path I am on, and I beseech your guidance. Please, if ever you loved and cared for those who have followed in your footsteps, come to me now and advise me, that I may lead them well!”

His voice quavered. He knew he sounded lost and pathetic, and for a moment stubborn pride made him flush with shame. But then that feeling was chased away by the knowledge that he did care for his people, he did want to do what was right for them, and at this moment he had no idea what that might be.

The pool began to glow. Ner’zhul leaned forward eagerly, his eyes roaming the surface, and in the water, he saw a face looking back at him.

“Rulkan,” he breathed. For a moment quick tears mercifully blurred her image. He blinked and his heart lurched with pain as he saw the look in her ghostly eyes.

It was hatred.

Ner’zhul recoiled as if struck. Other faces began to appear in the water, dozens of them. All of them had the same expression. Nausea welled in him and he cried out, “Please! Help me! Grant me your wisdom that I may win favor again in your eyes!”

Rulkan’s severe features softened somewhat, and it was with a trace of compassion in her voice that she spoke. “There is nothing you can do, not now, not in a hundred years, to win favor in our eyes. You are not a savior of your people, but their betrayer.”

“No!” he shrieked. “No, tell me what to do and I will do it. It is not too late, surely it is not too late—”

“You are not strong enough,” said another rumbling voice, this one male. “If you were, you would never have walked so far down this path. You would not have been so easily gulled into doing the will of one who bears no love for our people.”

“But—I do not understand,” Ner’zhul murmured. “Rulkan, you came to me! I heard you! You, Grekshar—you advised me! Kil’jaeden was the one you wanted me to embrace! The Great Friend to all the orcs!

She said nothing in response to this; she did not have to. Even as the words tumbled from his lips he understood how profoundly he had been misled.

The ancestors had never appeared to him at all. It had all been a trick concocted by Kil’jaeden, whoever—whatever—he was. They were right not to trust Ner’zhul now. Any shaman who would be so easily deceived could never be trusted to put things right again. All was an elaborate web of lies and deceit and manipulation. And he, Ner’zhul, had been the first foolish insect to become inextricably trapped in it.

Nearly a hundred draenei were dead. There was no turning back, no requesting aid from the ancestors. He could not trust any of his visions ever again, except to understand that they were likely to be lies. Worst of all, he had delivered his people into the hands of one who, despite his fair appearance and his honeyed words, did not have their best interests in whatever passed for his heart.

Even as he stared into the ghostly eyes of his beloved, she turned away from him. One by one, the myriad faces reflected in the water followed suit.

Ner’zhul trembled with the horror of what he had done. There was nothing he could do to make it right. Nothing he could do except continue on this path that Kil’jaeden had so carefully contrived for him to walk, and pray to ancestors who no longer listened to him that somehow, some way, things would turn out all right. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

Crouching in the darkness in a bend in the tunnel, Gul’dan listened to the sound of his master sobbing, and smiled to himself.

Kil’jaeden would be grateful for the information.