Rise of the Horde

14

Drek’Thar weeps as he tells me of these things, tears falling from eyes that can no longer see the present but too keenly can see the past. I have no comfort to offer him. That the elements have come again to his call—to mine—indeed to that of any orcish shaman is testimony to their compassion and forgiveness, their desire to see the balance restored.

The Spire that still houses darkness is not on this continent. We are well away from its malevolence physically, but not yet out of its shadow. The shadow that was cast so long ago, on the day following the defiling of what had once been our most sacred place.

The shadow of a black hand.

Sleep did not come easily to Durotan. Nor, he realized, to Draka, as she tossed and turned and sighed. Finally he gave up and lay awake, going over die events of the day. Everything in him screamed that it was wrong to embrace a magical path that so blatantly throve on the suffering of another being. And yet, what else was there to do? The elements had deserted the shaman, even though the ancestors themselves had given the orcs this task. Without magic to use as an additional weapon, the orcs would be wiped out by the superior technology and knowledge of the draenei.

He rose and left the sleeping tent. He started a fire to shake off the predawn chill and silently ate cold raw meat. As he broke his fast and watched the sky lighten, he saw a courier approaching. Without stopping, the rider tossed a scroll to Durotan and rode on. Durotan unfolded it and closed his eyes at the contents.

There was to be another meeting in two days. At that time, the chieftains would elect a leader who would speak for them all. Make decisions for them all. They would select one who would be called Warchief.

A soft hand stroked his hair. He looked up to see Draka reading over his shoulder.

“You might as well stay home,” she said gruffly. “The outcome is decided anyway.”

He smiled sadly at her. “You did not use to be so cynical, beloved.”

“I did not use to live in such times,” was all she said. In his heart, he knew she was right. There was only one orc who was well-known enough, charismatic enough to win sufficient votes to be elected Warchief. Grom Hellscream might give Blackhand a bit of a challenge, but Hellscream was too impulsive to be trusted with such a task. Blackhand had been a visible figure from the very start, at first opposing and then supporting Ner’zhul. It was his shaman who had become the first warlocks. He had won more victories in his attacks against the draenei than anyone else.

Draka, as she was so often, was right in this as well. And two days later, Durotan watched with dull eyes as the votes of the clan chieftains were tallied, and as Blackhand of the Blackrock clan was chosen. He felt several glances come his way as Blackhand’s name was announced by Gul’dan, and as the big orc stood and with false modesty accepted the title. Durotan did not even bother to object. What would be the point? He was already being watched closely for suspicion of disloyalty. No word he could possibly utter would change anything.

At one point, he looked over at Orgrim. To all other eyes, the second in command of the Blackrock clan looked steady and supportive of his leader. But Durotan knew Orgrim better than anyone, and he saw the slight frown that furrowed his friend’s brow, the tightness around the lips that indicated that Orgrim was perhaps as unhappy with the decision as Durotan. But he, too, was in no position to object. Durotan hoped that perhaps Orgrim’s position, so close to Blackhand, would help mitigate the damage he was certain Blackhand would do.

Blackhand now stood in front, waving and smiling at the cheering crowd. Durotan could not object, but neither could he bring himself to cheer for an orc who exemplified everything he despised.

Orgrim stood behind his leader on Blackhand’s right. Gul’dan, whom Durotan was certain was manipulating things but was unsure as to how, stood back and gazed at Blackhand respectfully.

“My orcish brothers and sisters!” Blackhand cried. “You honor me, I will prove a worthy Warchief of this vast sea of noble warriors. Day by day, we improve our weapons and our armor. And now, we reject the unpredictable elements and embrace true power—power that our warlocks control and wield without groveling or scraping to anyone or anything. This is liberation! This is strength! We are of one purpose, one clear focus. We will wipe the draenei from our lands. They will be unable to resist this tide of warriors and warlocks, this sweeping Horde. We are their worst nightmare. To battle!”

He lifted his arms and shouted, “For the Horde!”

And thousands of impassioned voices cried, “For the Horde! For the Horde! For the Horde!

Durotan and Draka returned home shortly after the election of Blackhand, too disgusted to remain longer. The shaman stayed behind for training. When they returned several days later, Durotan saw they stood tall and proud once again. This new magic had given them back their faith in themselves—something that had evaporated like morning mist when the elements deserted them. For that, Durotan was grateful. He loved his clan, and knew them to be good people. He did not like seeing them broken and disheartened.

They practiced their skills on beasts at first, joining the hunting parties and sending their strange creatures after clefthoof and talbuk. Durotan was still troubled at the agony the attacked creatures suffered. As time passed, the creatures suffered less—not because the pain was decreased, but because the warlocks were learning to kill faster and more efficiently. The addition of the strange “helpers,” or “pets,” as some warlocks fondly referred to the beings firmly under their control, seemed to make all the difference.

Blackhand seemed to enjoy his newfound position. Scrolls came almost daily from couriers whose wolves and whose selves seemed to wear more ornate adornment each time they rode into camp. Durotan had to admit that knowing what was going on with the other clans was useful information.

But one day, someone other than the courier came into the encampment. Durotan recognized the raiment; the approaching orc, mounted on a wolf with a particularly glossy black cloak, was one of Blackhand’s personal warlocks, Kur’kul. He halted his wolf, dismounted, and bowed before Durotan.

“Chieftain, a word with you from the Warchief,” he said in a surprisingly pleasant voice. Durotan nodded and motioned that the warlock walk with him. They strode until he felt certain they would not be overheard. “What is it, that Blackhand sends one of his most important warlocks to me?” he asked.

Kur’kul smiled around his tusks. “I am riding to all the clans,” he said, clearly intending for Durotan to be put in his place. The Frostwolves were not being particularly honored, it would seem. Durotan grunted and folded his arms across his chest, waiting.

“The most important factor in our eventual and glorious victory over the draenei is numbers,” Kur’kul continued. “They are few, we are many. But we need to be more.”

“So what is it Blackhand wishes?” growled Durotan. “Shall we leave off fighting for mating?”

Kur’kul did not blink. “Not leave off fighting, but yes … encourage your warriors to procreate. You will receive accolades for each child that is born to your clan. That will help. But unfortunately, we need more warriors right now, not six years from now.”

Durotan stared, stunned. He had meant the comment as a crude joke. What was going on?

“Children begin training at age six,” Kur’kul continued. “They are strong enough to fight at age twelve. Summon all your younglings.”

“I do not understand,” Durotan said. “Summon them for what?”

Kur’kul sighed as if Durotan were a foolish child, “I have the ability to accentuate their growth,” he said. “We will … push them forward a bit. If we take all the children that are between six and twelve now and age them to twelve, we will increase the numbers of warriors on the field by almost fifty percent.”

Durotan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Absolutely not!”

“I’m afraid it’s not a choice. It’s an order. Any clan who refuses will be branded a traitor to the Horde. The clan will be exiled, and their leader and his mate … executed.”

Durotan stared, stunned. Kur’kul handed him a scroll. He read it, shaking with anger, and saw that the warlock had spoken truly. He and Draka would be put to death, and the Frostwolf clan exiled.

“You would rob them of their childhood, then,” he said stonily.

“For their future? Yes. I will drain a little of their lives … only six years’ worth. They will come to no harm. The Blackrock children certainly didn’t. Black-hand insisted his own three young ones be the first to be so honored. And in return, they will be able to fight for the glory of the Horde now, when they can make a difference.”

Durotan was not in the least surprised that Black-hand had permitted this to be done to his children. For the first time, Durotan was grateful that there were so few children in his clan. There were only five of them older than six and younger than twelve. He again read the missive, feeling furious and sickened at the same time. These children ought to be able to simply be children. The warlock waited calmly. Finally. Durotan said in a voice he made deliberately harsh to hide his pain, “Do what you must do.”

“For the Horde!” said Kur’kul.

Durotan did not reply.

What happened next was barbaric.

Durotan forced himself to remain impassive while Kur’kul cast a spell on the five Frostwolf children. They writhed in pain, screaming and flailing on the earth as bones were stretched, as skin and muscle burst into unnatural growth. A sickly green line linked the children to the warlock, as if he was sucking the very life out of them. The expression on Kur’kul’s face was ecstatic. If the children were suffering, he most definitely was not. For an awful moment, Durotan feared the warlock would not stop at age twelve, but would continue draining life from the children until they were shriveled and ancient.

But thankfully, Kur’kul did stop. The young orcs—children no longer—lay where they had dropped the instant the draining had begun. For long moments, they could not be roused, and when they did, they wept, softly, breathily, as if they no strength left for anything else.

Durotan turned toward the warlock. “You have done what you have come for. Get out.”

Kur’kul looked offended. “Chieftain Durotan, you—”

Durotan seized him by the front of his scarlet robe. Fear flickered across the other orc’s face.

“Get out. Now.”

Durotan shoved hard and Kur’kul stumbled backward, almost falling. He glowered at Durotan.

“Blackhand will not be pleased to hear of this,” Kur’kul growled. Durotan did not dare speak; if any other words came from his mouth, he knew they would doom his clan. Instead he turned away, shaking with rage, and went to the children who were children no longer.

For some time after that, nothing was asked of the Frostwolf clan save more intensive training and reporting back on that training, and Durotan was both relieved and apprehensive. Somehow, he knew that when Blackhand and Gul’dan chose to notice him, the task they would set for him would be a difficult one.

He would not be disappointed.

Durotan was looking at a new pattern for armor the smith had just drawn up when the wolfrider loped into the Frostwolf encampment. Without breaking stride, the rider tossed Durotan a parchment, wheeled his mount around, and departed. Durotan unrolled it and began to read, his eyes widening. He looked up quickly at the departing figure of the rider—it was not the official courier.

There was no signature; the missive did not need one. Durotan knew Orgrim’s bold script. He crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the fire, watching it twist and curl in on itself like a living thing as the flames licked and consumed it.

Orgrim had sent the warning just in time. That very afternoon, a rider wearing the official tabard of a courier approached and handed the Frostwolf chieftain a parchment. Durotan nodded as he accepted it and put it aside. He did not want to see it right now.

But the courier looked uneasy. She did not dismount, but neither did she turn her wolf and ride back to the Frostwolf lands.

“I have been instructed to wait for a reply,” she said after an awkward pause.

Durotan nodded and unrolled the parchment. The writing was exquisite, and he knew that Blackhand had dictated the missive; the Warchief, smart and cunning though he was, was barely literate.

It was worse than he had thought. Durotan kept his face carefully neutral, though out of the corner of his eye he saw that Draka was watching him carefully.

The signature was an imprint of Blackhand’s right hand, stained with ink.

Durotan was furious. How could Orgrim have revealed this information? Did he truly follow Blackhand after all, that he would tell the Warchief of this incident and so put Durotan on the spot? The anger ebbed as he realized that the information to which Blackhand referred—their visit there as boys, the way the city was hidden, Durotan’s almost uncanny memory—these were things that could have been dropped in conversation at any point over the last few years. Blackhand was intelligent enough to pick up any crumb of information, and hoard it until such time as it was necessary. Durotan thought about lying, about claiming that he could not recall the words by which Restalaan had dispelled the illusion that kept die draenei city safe and hidden from the eyes of the ogres … and now, the eyes of the orcs. It had been a long time, and he had only heard the phrase uttered once. Anyone else would indeed have forgotten it. But the threat in the letter was so thinly veiled as to be almost ridiculous. If Durotan agreed to assist with the attack, he would prove his loyalty to the Horde, to Blackhand, and to Gul’dan, at least for the moment. If he refused, even if he claimed not to recall the words Blackhand wanted him to speak … well, like Orgrim, Durotan feared the worst.

The courier was waiting.

Durotan made the only decision he could make.

He looked up at the courier, his face impassive. “I will do as the Warchief bids, of course. For the Horde!”

The courier looked both relieved and a little surprised. “The Warchief will be pleased to hear this. I am instructed to give you the following.” She reached into her leather backpack and retrieved a small sack, which she handed to Durotan. “Your warriors and your warlocks will need to train with these.”

Durotan nodded. He knew what they were: the Heart of Fury and the Brilliant Star that he had ordered taken off Velen. These stones were perhaps the only things that had spared him once before when he had incurred Ner’zhul’s anger. Now, he would use them against the very people he had taken them from.

“The Warchief will contact you soon,” the courier said, inclined her head, and turned her wolf. Durotan watched her go. Draka stepped quietly beside him. He handed her the letter and went into their tent.

A few moments later she joined him, slipping her arms around him from behind while he buried his face in his hands and grieved over the events that had led to the terrible decision he had been forced to make.

A few days later the war party gathered at the Frostwolf encampment. Most of the warriors and warlocks were from the Blackrock clan, but there were more than a few painted Warsong faces in the crowd, and several Shattered Hand as well. Even the most obtuse among the Frostwolves could sense the mistrust and contempt from the visitors. Durotan knew it was no accident that the other orcs were all from the most martial clans. They were there to make sure the Frostwolves did not falter at any critical point. Durotan idly wondered which among them had the instructions to slit his throat at the first sign of hesitation. He hoped it was not Orgrim, The two old friends exchanged only a few words, and Durotan saw regret in Orgrim’s visage. For that, at least, he was glad.

A courier had been sent ahead, so there were plenty of bonfires roaring and food and drink for the hungry “guests.” Many of the Frostwolves gave up their own lodging for the visitors, so that those who would head into battle the following morning would rest as well as possible. Durotan met with Orgrim and the others who would lead the assault, sketching out a layout of the city as best he and Orgrim could recall it.

By daybreak, the war party—a small army of orcs—was on the move. They passed into the meadows that surrounded the Terokkar forest, where so long ago Orgrim and Durotan had raced as youths and been startled by the appearance of an ogre.

No lumbering giants troubled the vast wave of orcs as they moved steadily toward their destination this morning. Durotan was in the front, riding beside Orgrim on Nightstalker. They were silent, but Durotan did not miss the fact that Orgrim’s gray eyes lingered on the site where two boys had been rescued by draenei warriors.

“The years have been long since we passed this way,” Durotan said.

Orgrim nodded. “I am not even sure we have the right direction. The forest and fields have changed and grown, and there were precious few landmarks originally—”

Durotan said heavily, “I remember the way.” He wished he did not. A pile of stones here, a strange-shaped outcropping there was enough to guide him. It looked like nothing to anyone else. Blackhand had told his troops that the draenei were able to disguise their city. Even so, Durotan’s sharp ears caught slight murmurings of concern. He frowned.

“We are drawing close,” he said. “We must be quiet. There is an excellent chance that We will have been seen and reported already.”

The war party grew silent then. With a few gestures, Orgrim dispatched some of his outriders to scout the area. Durotan’s mind went back to that twilight, when he, too, was worried about where they were going and what the draenei had planned for him.

He brought his wolf to a halt and dismounted. Nightstalker shook his head and scratched his ears absently. It was here … or close to here … . Durotan felt a desperate hope that perhaps the draenei remembered that they had exposed their secret to him, that they had changed the hiding place of the magical stone upon which their protection depended.

There was no telltale rock beneath which the green gem was secreted. Durotan’s memory would have no aid in uncovering it. He concentrated, walking slowly, hearing the jangling of tack and the soft clinking of armor as the others watched and waited. He closed his eyes to aid his concentration, saw again Restalaan kneeling on the ground, moving aside leaves and pine needles to uncover—

Durotan opened his eyes and moved a few steps to his left. He said a quick prayer to the ancestors; whether it was asking for help in finding the stone or in not finding it, he was not certain. Mailed hands reached down and brushed away layers of detritus and then touched something cool and hard.

There is no turning back now. Durotan closed his fingers around the gem and picked it up.

Even in his distraught state of mind, he could sense the stone emanating a comforting energy. It nestled in his palm as if it belonged there. Durotan ran his left index finger over it, drawing out this moment before everything would change irrevocably.

“You found it.” breathed Orgrim, who had silently stepped up to his friend. Durotan was overcome with emotion and could not speak for a moment. He merely nodded, then tore his gaze from the beautiful, pulsating stone and looked up at the awestruck faces gazing at the treasure he held.

Orgrim nodded brusquely. “Get into position,” he said, “We have been fortunate that there has been no advance warning.”

The stone was so calming to hold, Durotan wanted nothing better than to simply stand and look into its depths, but he knew that he had already made his choice. He took a deep breath and spoke the words that Restalaan had spoken so long ago in this same place.

“Kehla men samir, solay lamaa kahl.”

He wanted to believe that his thick, orcish accent would not activate the stone. That he was able to fulfill his obligation to his people without storming a small city full of civilians. But apparently the words were understood by whatever force controlled the green gem. The illusion was already dissipating, the trees and boulders shimmering into insubstantiality, and before the orcish war party a wide, paved road stretched as if in invitation.

They needed no urging. The glorious city of the draenei lay before them, and with cries torn from over a hundred throats, the orcs descended upon it.