Rise of the Horde

13

How is it we did not see? It is easy to lay the blame on the charismatic Kil’jaeden, or the weak Ner’zhul, or the power-hungry Gul’dan for our fall. But they asked of each individual orc to pretend that hot was cold, that sweet was sour, and even when everything in us screamed against what we were being told, we followed. I was not there, I cannot say why. Perhaps I, too, would have obeyed like a whipped cur. Perhaps the fear was so great, or the respect for our leaders so ingrained. Perhaps.

Or perhaps I, like my father and others, would start to see the flaws. I would like to think so.

Blackhand looked out from under his bushy eyebrows, frowning. He always looked like he was frowning, perhaps because he almost always was.

“I do not know about this. Gul’dan.” he rumbled. His oversized hand went to the hilt of his sword, fondling it in an uneasy gesture.

When Gul’dan had asked to meet with Blackhand a fortnight ago, and to bring his most promising shaman but to tell no one of what they were to be doing, he had agreed. Blackhand had always liked Gul’dan better than Ner’zhul, although he was not sure why. When Gul’dan sat down with him over a lavish meal and explained the current situation, Blackhand was very glad he had come. Now he knew why he liked Gul’dan so much; the former apprentice, now master, was like Blackhand himself. He had no use for ideals, only practicalities. And power, good food, lavish armor, and bloodshed were things both orcs craved.

Blackhand was chieftain of the Blackrock orcs. He could rise no higher. At least … not until now. When the clans were separate, the greatest glory was to lead one’s clan. But now … now they were working together. Now Blackhand could see the glint of greed in Gul’dan’s small eyes. He could almost smell the hunger wafting off the other orc, a hunger he shared.

“Ner’zhul is an honored and valued advisor,” Gul’dan said as he chewed dried fruit, extending a claw to pick a chunk where it had gotten lodged between his teeth. “He has great wisdom. But … it has been decided that I would be a better choice to lead the orcs from this point on.”

Blackhand grinned savagely. Ner’zhul was nowhere to be seen.

“And a wise leader surrounds himself with trusted allies,” Gul’dan continued. “Those who are strong and obedient. Who will fulfill their obligations. And who, for their loyalty, will be held in high regard and richly rewarded.”

Blackhand had begun to bridle at the description “obedient,” but was mollified when Gul’dan mentioned “high regard” and “richly rewarded.” He glanced over at the eight shaman he had brought to Gul’dan. They were sitting huddled over a second fire some distance away, being attended to by Gul’dan’s servants. They looked wretchedly unhappy, and were conveniently out of earshot.

Blackhand said, “You asked for the shaman. I assume you know what is happening with them?”

Gul’dan sighed and reached for a talbuk leg. He bit deeply into it, the juices running down his face. He wiped his jutting jaw absently, chewed, swallowed, and answered.

“Yes, I have heard. The elements are no longer obeying them.”

Blackhand watched him intently. “Some air beginning to mutter that it is because what we are doing is wrong.”

“Do you think that?”

Blackhand shrugged his massive shoulders. “I don’t know what to think. This is all new territory. The ancestors say one thing, but the elements won’t come.”

He was harboring a growing suspicion about the ancestors as well, but held his tongue. Blackhand knew that many thought him a fool; he preferred to let them think he was nothing mote than a strong arm and a powerful sword. It gave him distinct advantages.

Gul’dan perused him now, and Blackhand wondered if the new spiritual leader of the orcs had sensed there was more to the orc leader than met the eye.

“We are a proud race.” Gul’dan said. “It is sometimes painful to admit that We do not know everything. Kil’jaeden and the entities he leads … ah. Blackhand, the mysteries they harbor! The power they wield—power they are willing to share with us!”

Gul’dan’s eyes sparkled now with excitement. Blackhand’s own heart began to race. Gul’dan leaned forward and continued to speak in an awed whisper.

“We air as ignorant children before them. Even you—even I. But they are willing to teach us. Share with us some of their power. Power that is not dependent upon the whim of the spirits of air, earth, fire, and water.” Gul’dan made a dismissive gesture. “Power such as that is feeble. It is not reliable. It can desert you in the middle of a battle and leave you helpless.”

Blackhand’s face hardened. He had witnessed this very thing, and it had taken all the strength of his warriors to snatch victory when the shaman had begun yelping in terror that the elements were no longer working with them.

“I am listening,” he growled softly.

“Imagine what you could do if you led a group of shaman who controlled the source of their powers, instead of begging and scraping for it,” Gul’dan continued. “Imagine if these shaman had servants who could also fight on your side. Servants who could, say, send your enemies fleeing helplessly in terror. Suck their magic dry as the insects in the summer suck blood. Distract them so that their attention was not on battle.”

Blackhand lifted a bushy eyebrow. “I can imagine success under those conditions. Success almost every time.”

Gul’dan nodded, grinning. “Exactly.”

“But how do you know this is true, and not some false promise whispered in your ear?”

Gul’dan’s grin widened. “Because, my friend … I have experienced this. And I will teach your shaman over there everything I know.”

“Impressive,” rumbled Blackhand.

“But that is not all that I can offer. The warriors—I know a way to make you and everyone who fights at your side more powerful, fiercer, deadlier. All this can be ours if We but claim it.”

“Ours?”

“I cannot continue to waste my time speaking with every single leader of every single clan every time they have a complaint.” Gul’dan said, waving his hand imperiously. “There are those who are in agreement with what you and I think is the best way to proceed … and those who are not.”

“Go on,” said Blackhand.

But Gul’dan did not, at least not right away. He was silent, gathering his thoughts. Blackhand grasped a stick and poked at the fire. He knew well that most of the orcs, even those of his own clan, thought him hotheaded and impetuous, but he knew the value of patience.

“I envision two groups of leaders of the orcs. One, a simple governing council to make decisions for the whole, its leader elected, its business conducted openly for all to see. The second … a shadow of this group. Hidden. Secret. Powerful,” Gul’dan said quietly. “This … this Shadow Council will be comprised of orcs who share our vision, and who are willing to make the necessary sacrifices to obtain it.”

Blackhand nodded. “Yes … yes, I see. A public leadership … and a private one.”

Gul’dan’s mouth stretched in a slow grin. Blackhand regarded him for a moment, then asked the question.

“And to which one shall I belong?”

“Both, my friend,” Gul’dan answered smoothly. “You are a born leader. You have charisma, strength, and even your enemies know you are a master strategist. It will be case itself to have you elected as leader of the orcs.”

Blackhand’s eyes flashed. “I am no puppet,” he growled softly.

“Of course not,” said Gul’dan. “Which is why I said you would belong to both. You would be the leader of this new breed of orc, this … this Horde, if you will. And you will be on the Shadow Council as well. We cannot work together unless we can trust one another, can we?”

Blackhand gazed into Gul’dan’s glinting, clever eyes and smiled. He did not trust the shaman in the least bit, and he suspected that Gul’dan felt the same about him. It didn’t matter. They both wanted power. Blackhand knew he did not possess the talents and skills that would enable him to wield the sort of power for which Gul’dan lusted. And Gul’dan did not want the sort of power Blackhand craved. They were not in competition, but in league; what benefited one would benefit the other, not rob him of a thing.

Blackhand thought of his family—his mate, Urukal, his two sons. Rend and Maim, his daughter Griselda. He did not dote on them the way that the weak Durotan doted on his mate Draka, of course, but he cared for them. He wanted to see his mate bedecked in jewels, his sons and daughter revered, as befitted the children of Blackhand.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. Turning, he beheld Ner’zhul, once the powerful and now the discarded, slipping out of the door of the tent.

“What about him?” Blackhand asked.

Gul’dan shrugged. “What about him? He means nothing now. The Beautiful One wishes him kept alive for the moment. He seems to have something … special in mind for Ner’zhul. He will still be a figurehead; love of Ner’zhul is too ingrained in the orcs to cast him aside just yet. But do not worry, he is no threat to us.”

“The Blackrock shaman … you say you will train them in these new magics? The magics that you yourself have studied? That they will be invincible?” “I will train them myself, and if they adapt well to the new arts. I will place them first among my new warlocks,”

Warlock. So that was the name of this new type of magic. It had an interesting sound to it. Warlock. And the Blackrock warlocks would be the first ones chosen.

“Blackhand, chieftain of the Blackrock clan, what say you to my proposal?”

Blackhand slowly turned toward Gul’dan. “I say, hail to the Horde—and hail to the Shadow Council.”

It was an angry crowd that showed up at the foot of the sacred mountain. Durotan had sent out messages to others he trusted, and had received confirmation that the elements indeed had shunned the shaman. One particularly painful report came from the Bonechewer clan. Their entire party had fallen to the draenei, their annihilation remaining a mystery until a few days later when a shaman who had stayed behind tried to heal a sick child.

Now they were coming, the clan leaders and their shaman, to meet with Ner’zhul and demand an explanation.

Ner’zhul came out to greet them, waving his hands and asking for silence.

“I know why you have come today,” he said. Durotan frowned. Ner’zhul was so far away that he seemed a mere speck, and yet Durotan could hear him perfectly. He knew that usually, Ner’zhul achieved this feat by asking the wind to bear his words so that all could hear him. Yet, if the elements had indeed refused the shaman, how was that possible? He exchanged glances with Draka, but both remained silent.

“It is indeed true that the elements no longer answer the shaman’s call for aid.” Ner’zhul kept speaking, but his words were drowned out by angry shouts. He looked down for a moment, and Durotan regarded him closely. The spiritual leader of the orcs looked more frail, more downtrodden, than Durotan had ever seen. Of course, Durotan thought.

After a few moments, the shouting died down. The orcs assembled were angry, but they wanted answers more than they wanted to vent their rage.

“Some of you have, upon discovering this, leaped to a conclusion that what we are doing is wrong. But that is incorrect. What We are doing is achieving power the likes of which We have never seen. My apprentice, the noble Gul’dan, has studied these powers. I will let him answer any questions you have.”

Ner’zhul turned and, leaning heavily on his staff, stepped aside. Gul’dan bowed deeply to his master. Ner’zhul did not seem to notice. He stood, his eyes closed, looking old and frail.

In contrast, Durotan had never seen Gul’dan looking better. There was a new energy about the orc, a strong sense of confidence in his bearing and in his voice when he spoke. “What I am about to tell you may be hard for you to accept, but I have faith that my people are not close-minded when it comes to ways to better themselves,” he said. His voice was clear and strong. “Just as we were surprised and awed to learn that there were powerful beings other than the ancestors and the elements, we have discovered that there are ways to harness magic other than cooperating with the elements. Power that is not predicated on asking or begging or pleading … power that comes because we are strong enough to demand it to come. To control it when it does. To force it to obey us, bend to our will, rather than the other way around.”

Gul’dan paused to let this sink in, looking around at the gathered orcs. Durotan glanced at Drek’Thar.

“Is this possible?” he asked his friend.

Drek’Thar shrugged helplessly. He looked completely startled at Gul’dan’s words. “I have no idea,” he said, “But I tell you, after that last battle … Durotan, the shaman were doing the work of the ancestors! How could the elements refuse us under those circumstances? And how could the ancestors allow such a thing?”

His voice turned bitter as he spoke. The shock and shame was still upon him. Durotan understood that the shaman felt like a warrior who had reached confidently for his axe and found it turning to smoke in his hands—an axe a trusted friend had given him, an axe he had been asked to use in a good cause.

“Yes! Yes, I see you understand the value of what I—what the Beautiful One who has taken us under his wing is offering,” Gul’dan said, nodding. “I have studied with this great entity, as have these few noble shaman,”

He stepped back and several shaman, dressed in some of the most beautifully tooled leather armor Durotan had ever seen, stepped forward.

“They are all Blackrock orcs,” Draka murmured, her brows drawing together in a frown. Durotan had noticed that too.

“What they have learned,” Gul’dan continued, “will be taught to every single shaman who wishes to be instructed. This, I swear to you. Follow me now to the open lands where our Kosh’harg rituals have been held as far back as anyone can remember. I will have them demonstrate their formidable skills.”

For some reason he could not fathom, Durotan felt suddenly ill, Draka squeezed his arm reassuringly, noticing his abrupt paleness.

“My mate, what is it?” she asked quietly as, along with everyone else assembled, the two moved toward the Kosh’harg festival grounds.

He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said in an equally soft voice. “I just … I feel as though something terrible is about to happen.”

Draka grunted. “I have been feeling that way for a long time now.”

Durotan kept his face neutral with an effort. He was responsible for the welfare of his people, and his position with Ner’zhul and likely now Gul’dan was already precarious. Durotan was well aware that if either shaman sought to discredit him or his clan, it would be easier than it had been in the past. With the clear focus on union, for the Frostwolf clan to be exiled or in any way cut off could spell extinction for them. Durotan did not like the direction in which things were going, but he could protest only so much. For himself, he did not care. But he could not permit his clan to suffer.

And yet—his blood raced, his heart shook, his body trembled with foreboding. He said a quick prayer to the ancestors that they would continue to guide his people wisely.

They reached the flat river valley that for generations had played host to the Kosh’harg festival. As his feet touched the sacred ground. Durotan felt himself relaxing slightly. Memories came back to him, and he smiled as they brushed his mind. He recalled that fateful night when he and Orgrim had both decided to fly in the face of tradition and dared to spy on the adults as they spoke—and how disappointed both had been at the mundane conversations. Wiser now, he was sure that he and Orgrim, bold though they had thought themselves at the time, had likely not been the first to be so daring, nor were they likely to be the last.

He recalled, too, his first real glimpse of the female who would become his life-mate, hunting in these lush fields, dancing around the fire to the sound of the drums throbbing in his veins, and chanting to the moon. As long as his people still had this, he thought, all would still be well with them. Heartened somewhat, he looked over at where the dancing was usually held. A small tent was erected, and he wondered what it was for.

He and Draka halted a few yards away from the tent, assuming it was part of the demonstration. The others followed suit. The sun shone brightly as more and more orcs gathered. Durotan saw that most of those who had come today were clan chieftains and their shaman, so the site did not have to accommodate quite as many as it did during the festival time.

Gul’dan waited until everyone else was assembled before striding purposefully toward the tent. The shaman trained in this mysterious new magic followed him. They all strode with confidence and pride. Coming to a halt in front of the tent, Gul’dan beckoned to a few of the Blackrock warriors, who stepped forward and stood at attention.

At that moment, the wind shifted. Durotan’s eyes widened as a familiar scent was carried to his nostrils.

Draenei …

Low murmurs around him told him that he was not the only one who had caught the scent. At that moment, Gul’dan nodded to the warriors. They disappeared inside the tent for a brief moment.

Eight draenei, their hands tightly bound, emerged from the tent.

Their faces were puffy and swollen from beatings. Rags had been shoved in their mouths. Blood was caked on their blue skin and what little remained of their clothing. Durotan stared.

“When the Blackrock clan fought using the magic I am about to share with you, their victory was so absolute that they were able to take several prisoners,” Gul’dan said proudly. “These prisoners will help me show you what these new magical abilities can do.”

Outrage flooded Durotan. Slaying a foe in armed combat was one thing. Slaughtering helpless prisoners was another. He opened his mouth, but a hand on his arm stayed his words. He glanced up angrily into Orgrim Doomhammer’s cool gray eyes.

“You knew about this.” Durotan hissed, his words for his old friend’s ears alone.

“Keep your voice down,” Orgrim hissed back, glancing about to see if anyone was paying attention to them. No one was; everyone’s attention was riveted on Gul’dan and the draenei prisoners. “Yes, I knew. I was there when we captured them. It is the way of such things, Durotan.”

“It did not use to be the way of the orcs.” Durotan replied.

“It is now.” Orgrim said. “It is a sad necessity. For what it is worth, I do not believe that this will become a common practice. The goal is to slay the draenei, not torment them.”

Durotan stared at his old friend. Orgrim kept the gaze for a moment, then flushed and looked away. Durotan felt his outrage abate somewhat. At least Orgrim understood what a violation this was, even if he supported it. But what else could Orgrim have done? He was second in command to Blackhand. He was oath-bound to support his chieftain. Like Durotan, he had responsibilities to others he simply could not shirk. For the first time in his life, Durotan wished he were a mere clan member.

He looked down into his mate’s eyes. She stared, aghast, first at him and then at Orgrim. And then, he saw the sorrow and resignation flit across her features and she lowered her head.

“These beings have worth to us in this moment,” Gul’dan was saying. Durotan, his body feeling heavy as lead, dragged his gaze to the shaman. “We will use them to demonstrate these new powers.”

He nodded to the first Blackrock shaman in line, who bowed. Looking slightly nervous, the female closed her eyes and concentrated. A sound like rushing wind filled Durotan’s ears. A strange pattern written in purple light appeared at her feet, encircling her. Above her head, a purple cube turned idly. Then, suddenly, a small, squawking creature appeared at her feet. It capered, its eyes blazing red, its small but sharp teeth bared in what looked like a smile. Durotan heard murmurings and some hisses of fear.

Other shaman followed suit, summoning the same eerie purple circles and cubes, manifesting creatures seemingly out of thin air. Some were large, shapeless things in hues of blue and purple, hovering ominously. Other beings were fair to look upon, save for their hooved feet and batlike wings. Some were large, some small, and all sat or stood quietly beside those who had called them into being.

“Pretty little pets, to be sure,” came the distinctive voice of Grom Hellscream, dripping with sarcasm. “But what do they do?”

Gul’dan smiled indulgently. “Patience, Hellscream,” he said, almost condescendingly. “It is a strength, not a weakness.”

Hellscream’s brows drew together, but he stayed silent. He was as curious as anyone, Durotan assumed. Blackhand stood, smiling a little, looking like a proud father. Only he seemed unsurprised by what was unfolding here, and Durotan realized that he must have already witnessed the powers of the newly trained shaman. Witnessed, and approved.

One of the draenei was cut loose from the rest and shoved forward. His hands still bound, he stumbled a few steps on his cloven feet, then stood erect. His face was impassive. Only his slowly moving tail gave any indication of stress.

The first shaman stepped forward, moving her hands and murmuring slightly. The little creature at her side squawked and jumped about, then suddenly fire erupted from its clawed hands to slam into the hapless draenei. At the same moment, a ball of … darkness … formed at the shaman’s fingertips and rushed toward the prisoner. It grunted in pain as its blue flesh was blackened and burned from the small creature’s attack, but it dropped to its knees in obvious agony as the shadow ball struck it.

Again the shaman muttered something, and flames erupted from the very flesh of the tortured draenei. Where before he had been stoic and silent, now he screamed in torment, his cries muffled somewhat by the gag in his throat, but not completely. He jerked and spasmed on the earth, flailing like a fish freshly hooked, his eyes rolling wildly. Then he was still. The reck of burned flesh filled the air.

For a moment, there was silence. Then came a sound that Durotan had never thought to hear: cries of approval and delight at the sight of a bound foe dying in helpless torment.

Durotan stared in horror. Another prisoner was slain for “demonstration purposes.” This one was beaten with a whip by one of the fairer servants of the shaman, standing transfixed while fire rained upon it, and darkness pummeled it. A third was brought forward, its magical essence sucked out of it by a monstrous creature that looked like a deformed wolf with tentacles sprouting from its back.

Bile rose in Durotan’s throat as blue blood and ashes covered what once had been sacred land, land that had been and was even now lush and fertile, though its profound sense of tranquility had been brutally violated. Here he had danced, had sung to the moon, had conspired with a boyhood friend, had courted his beloved. Here generations of orcs had celebrated their unity on a place so holy that any fights that broke out had been halted immediately, the combatants ordered to make peace or to depart. Durotan was no shaman. He could not sense the earth or the spirits, but he did not need to in order to feel their pain as his own.

Mother Kashur, surely, surely this is not what you wanted, he thought. The cheering filled his ears, the stench of blood and charred flesh assaulted his nostrils. Worst of all was the sight of his brethren, even some among his own clan, who were caught up in the frenzy of inflicting pain and torment upon beings who were rendered incapable of even spitting on their opponents.

He was dimly aware of his hand hurting. Somewhat in a daze, he looked down to see that Draka was clenching it so hard she threatened to break the bones.

“For the shaman!” cried someone.

“No!” Gul’dan’s voice carried over the noise of the cheering crowd. “No longer are they shaman. They were abandoned by the elements—they will call them no longer and beg for their aid. Behold those who have power, and who are not afraid to wield it. Behold … the warlocks!”

Durotan tore his gaze from his fingers entwining with his mate’s to look up at the sacred mountain. It jutted serenely skyward as it ever had, its sides catching and reflecting the light, and for a long moment, Durotan wondered why it did not shatter and break, like the heart of a sentient being, overcome with horror at what was being done in its once-comforting shadow.

There were wild celebrations that night. Durotan participated in none of them and forbade members of his clan to do so. As the Frostwolf shaman sat by their small fire, subdued and eating in silence, Drek’Thar dared ask the question that Durotan knew was in their hearts.

“My chieftain,” said Drek’Thar quickly, “will you permit us to learn the ways of the warlocks?”

There was a long silence, unbroken save by the crackling of the fire. Finally Durotan spoke.

“I have a question for you first.” he said. “Do you approve of what was done to the prisoners today?”

Drek’Thar looked uncomfortable. “It … would be better had we attacked them in honest combat.” he admitted. “But they are our enemies. They have proven that.”

“Proven that they will fight back when attacked.” Durotan retorted. “That is all that has been proven.” Drek’Thar started to protest, but Durotan waved him to be silent. “I know, this is the will of the ancestors, but today I beheld something that I never thought I would see. I saw the sacred fields where for countless years our people met in peace defiled by the blood of those who couldn’t even lift a hand to defend themselves.”

He saw movement at the edge of the circle and caught Orgrim’s scent. Durotan continued. “In the shadow of Oshu’gun itself. Those who slew the draenei today did not do so in order to protect an immediate threat to our lands. They butchered prisoners in order to show off their new … talents.”

Orgrim now coughed quietly and Durotan motioned him forward. Orgrim was well known to all present, and he sat down by the fire with the familiarity of one known and welcomed.

“Orgrim,” Draka said, touching her friend’s arm gently. “The first … warlocks … are from your clan. What are your thoughts?”

Orgrim stared into the firelight, his heavy brows knitted together as he sorted through his thoughts. “If we are to fight the draenei—and even you Frostwolves are resigned to the necessity of it—then we should fight to be victorious. The elements have abandoned the shaman. They are fickle and unpredictable at their best, and were never the most reliable allies. Not like one’s friends.”

He glanced at Durotan and smiled a little. Despite the heaviness in his chest, Durotan smiled back.

“These new creatures, these strange powers—they seem to be more dependable. And destructive.”

“There was something about them ….” Draka’s voice trailed off. Drek’Thar broke in quickly.

“Draka, I know your concerns. They were definitely not natural powers, at least not natural as we shaman have always known them. But who is to say that is wrong? They exist, they must have some place in the order of things. Fire is fire. Whether it comes from the fingers of a little dancing being or with the spirit of fire’s blessing, it burns flesh just the same. I agree with our esteemed guest. We have committed to the battle. Surely we do not fight to lose it!”

Draka still shook her head, her beautiful eyes unhappy. Her hands moved as if she were physically groping for the words.

“It is more than summoning fire, or even the strange bolts of darkness,” she said. “I have fought draenei. I have slain draenei. And never have I seen them writhe in such pain, nor give voice to such torment. The things who are serving the warlocks seemed to … enjoy that.”

“We enjoy the hunt,” Durotan pointed out. He disliked arguing with his mate, but as always, he needed to see all sides of an issue in order to decide what was best for his clan. “The wolves enjoy feasting on steaming flesh.”

“Is it wrong to wish to win?” Orgrim challenged, his gray eyes narrowing. “Is it wrong to take pleasure in the victory?”

“In the hunt, in the victory, no. It is the suffering of which I speak.”

Drek’Thar shrugged. “Perhaps the beings who are summoned to serve feed on that. Perhaps it is necessary to their existence.”

“But is it necessary to ours?” Draka’s eyes glittered in the firelight, and Durotan knew with a pang that it was not from anger but from tears of frustration.

“The draenei have always had superior magics to ours, even with the aid of the elements.” Drek’Thar said. “I have always been a shaman. I was born so. And now I tell you I will embrace the path of the warlock, if my clan leader will permit it. Because I understand what those powers can do for us, having dealt with the elements for as long as I have. I would say, Draka, I am sorry, but yes—yes—this is necessary to our existence. If we do not have the powers of the elements to call upon, the draenei will obliterate us from the face of the earth.”

Draka sighed and buried her face in her hands. The small group was silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Durotan thought something was missing; now he knew. He did not hear the sounds of the night creatures, the birds and insects and other living things who formerly filled the air with quiet sounds. They had been driven from this place by what had occurred here earlier. He tried not to think of this as an omen.

“I will permit the Frostwolf clan to learn these arts,” he said heavily.

Drek’Thar bowed his head. “I thank you, Durotan. You will not regret it.”

Durotan did not reply.