Rise of the Horde

16

The Shadow Council. Even now, so many years on, we know so little about who they were and what they did. Gul’dan carried many, many secrets to his grave. May he rot there in torment. It is difficult enough for me to understand how one or two may become so corrupted that they would doom their descendants for power in their lifetimes; that there were so many—the number is not even known for certain—is beyond the scope of my limited imagination.

Yet even these numbers would not have mattered had it not been for the demons who held them in their grasp. Their pain, I rejoice in; what they did to others who obeyed them because they trusted them, I condemn with every fiber of my being.

“That was an excellent test,” Kil’jaeden approved, smiling at his subjects, Gul’dan bowed, his eyes bright with his master’s approval. Ner’zhul hunkered down, his eyes on the floor. But even so, he was listening.

“I confess. I was surprised Durotan was able to carry out our orders,” Gul’dan said. “I expected him to resist, or at least put shackles on what his orcs could and could not do. But the city lies claimed and broken, my lord. All the draenei who once lived there are gone—most of them dead.”

“‘Most’ is not good enough. Gul’dan. You know that.”

Gul’dan flinched slightly at the criticism. He wondered, not for the first time, about the connection between Kil’jaeden and the draenei, and why the Beautiful One so despised them. “It was our first attempt at taking the battle to them, rather than attacking lone hunting parties. Great One.” the warlock replied, a little surprised at his own daring. Kil’jaeden cocked his horned red head, considered, then nodded.

“True. And there is yet time.”

It had been several days since the fall of Telmor. Gul’dan, impressed with the job Durotan had done, had tried to give the city to the Frostwolf clan as a reward, but Durotan had declined the offer. The Frostwolves, he stated, would continue to live in their ancestral lands.

The Blackrocks, however, had not been so foolish. Blackhand and his family now slept in the beds where the magister of the city had once slept. At first, the orcs had not known what to make of the trappings of the draenei, but now they were beginning to incorporate their victims’ way of life into their own. They sat in chairs, ate at tables, analyzed and trained with draenei weaponry, adapted the armor for bulkier orcish frames. Some of the females and not a few of the males of the Blackrock clan had taken to wearing draenei clothing, incorporating it with traditional orcish tunics, robes, and breeches.

Gul’dan knew that many wondered why he or Ner’zhul had not taken the city for themselves. It was tempting, but Gul’dan had been well advised by his master. Creature comforts were pleasant, but power was sweeter, and the less Gul’dan claimed for himself publicly, the greater his reach would be in secret. Kil’jaeden would not let him down, as long as Gul’dan did his master’s work well. A few items were brought to this new place he called home—an enormous, circular table carved of wood inlaid with softly glowing shells and stones, along with several beautiful chairs.

Gul’dan stepped forward to the massive table, running his hands over the polished surface, smiling to himself. All that remained was to summon those whom Gul’dan had reason to believe would answer. Some names were immediately obvious to him. Others came only with extended thought. But he had a list of names now that was long enough to be comprehensive, should enough to be … managed.

Soon, sooner that he had even hoped, the Shadow Council would form. While on the outside. Gul’dan was advancing the orcs as a race, giving them power and eliminating the “enemy” that was the draenei, a handful of orcs almost as corrupt and power hungry as he would pull the strings.

It was not about the orcs as a race.

It had never been about the orcs as a race.

It was about power—getting it, wielding it, and keeping it. Ner’zhul had never understood that. He liked the power, but was not willing to feed it the meat it craved. The end Kil’jaeden demanded.

Deceit, lies, manipulation—even Blackhand, who thought he was initiated into Gul’dan’s ultimate schemes, hadn’t grasped the vastness of Gul’dan’s ambitions. It was as huge as Kil’jaeden’s desire to destroy the draenei. It was as enormous as the sky, as deep as the oceans, and knife-sharp as hunger.

Gul’dan looked at Ner’zhul with contempt as the older orc who had once been a mentor sat huddled in a corner. His gaze traveled to the blazing eyes of Kil’jaeden, and the great being nodded.

“Summon them.” Kil’jaeden said. His lips parted in a smile, showing sharp white teeth. “They will come when you call. And they will dance to your tune. I will see to that.”

Allies.

They needed allies.

Gul’dan wondered how Kil’jaeden had not foreseen this. The orcs were mighty indeed, especially when controlled and directed properly. The long months, over a year now, that this war had stretched had only made them more so. Their best brains had gotten to work on understanding the technology of the draenei as best they could. Building had begun on a center fortress, which Gul’dan called the Citadel, where a standing army could be conveniently quartered, trained, and equipped. The orcs had never before attempted anything like this, and Gul’dan was proud that he had suggested the idea. There were warriors, there were shaman—now, of course, warlocks—there were healers, there were craftsmen. The first three had clear roles and no lack of opportunity to perform their duties. The craftsmen were contributing on a different level, creating the armor and weapons and buildings to support those who had the glory of slaughtering draenei until their bodies were sticky with spilled blood.

Some would call these laborers a lower class of orc. Privately, Gul’dan felt that way himself. But he was wise enough to know that their work, while hardly glamorous or likely to gain them recognition, was as necessary as a warrior’s willingness to kill or a warlock’s mastery of curses. Those who provided food, shelter, weapons—the warriors and warlocks would not get very far without them. So Gul’dan had made a show of praising the craftsmen, the pleasant result being that they were inspired to work harder and continually improve.

But even though every member of every clan was working as hard as he could—and Gul’dan had spies in each clan to make certain of it—it was not going to be enough. The taking of Telmor had been surprisingly easy, and the boost to morale was tremendous. But Gul’dan knew that the Horde’s victory was largely due to luck. No one in that sheltered city believed for a moment they would be discovered and overrun in a matter of a few hours. They had thought themselves completely and utterly safe, protected by the magic of the green stone Gul’dan had dubbed Leafshadow, which shielded them first from ogre eyes and then from orcish. That easy victory would not be repeated. How would—

“Ogres,” he said aloud, thoughtfully. He tapped one sharp-nailed finger against his jutting chin. “Ogres …”

“Absolutely not!” cried Blackhand. He dosed the distance between himself and Gul’dan in two strides, towering over the smaller orc. It took every ounce of bravado Gul’dan had not to retreat from that fearsome face shoved to within an inch of his.

“Come now. Blackhand,” Gul’dan soothed. “Calm yourself and listen to what I am saying. You will be the one to benefit most from this, after all.”

That got him. Blackhand growled, snorted, and stepped back. Gul’dan did his best not to look obviously relieved.

“They are filth,” Blackhand grunted. “They have long been enemies of the orcs. Longer than the draenei, and with better reason. How is it that I will benefit?” Getting right to the point, Gul’dan thought with satisfaction. He had judged Blackhand properly.

“There are some who still mutter that you were not elected fairly.” Gul’dan said. “If you succeed in this, it will only add more glory to your name.”

Blackhand’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But will the orcs agree to this?”

Gul’dan permitted himself a smile. “They will if we tell them to,” he replied.

Blackhand threw his head back and roared with laughter.

Orgrim shifted uneasily in his saddle as he glanced at his leader. When Blackhand had explained what he wanted to do, Orgrim had erupted in protest. He had joined in countless hunting parties over the years to eliminate the ogre threat. More than most orcs, with him it was personal. He had never ceased hating the fact that years ago, he had fled from one of the giant, lumbering, thick-skulled creatures. And now Blackhand proposed this.

But Orgrim knew that whatever else his leader was—and he was many things that Orgrim did not like—he was a good strategist. The plan was sound, if one could detach oneself emotionally from it. So he had agreed to lend his support.

Obtaining information had been tricky. The Blackrocks had captured three of the ogres and spent many a long night speaking in sufficiently small words to get their point across before the deceptively pudgy things understood what they wanted and began to cooperate. Now every warrior, warlock, and healer from the entire enormous clan stood prepared for battle.

The ogres had told them where their masters lurked and led them to this place—an opening at the foot of the Blade’s Edge mountain chain. They had made no attempt to hide themselves. Refuse littered the area outside, and there were plenty of large bare ogre footprints going in and out. Even as Orgrim watched, he saw a small group of ogres trundling out into the daylight. No doubt, they thought themselves safe, as the draenei in Telmor had before them; and no doubt, a year ago, they would have been right. But much had changed since then. The orcs were no longer groups of scattered clans, but a unified fighting force willing to put aside an old grudge for a new hatred.

Blackhand was in front, flanked by the three ogres. Behind him were his sons. Rend and Maim, who spoke to one another in low voices punctuated by the occasional rough giggle. Orgrim had been against allowing the boys to fight at first, but they had proven to be stronger and better than one might think. They lacked their father’s cunning, but they certainly had inherited his bloodthirst. Griselda, too, had been trained to fight, but she was not a natural the way the boys were. Their names were appropriate. Their father shot them an angry look and they sobered at once.

Orgrim wondered if Blackhand would make a speech. He hoped not. Blackhand was at his best in action, not words, and his clan was more than ready to follow him. To his relief, Blackhand looked over the sea of warriors, nodded once, and then gave the order to attack.

The first wave charged, screaming wildly and pouring down the side of the foothills where they had hidden. At first the ogres were so confused at the sight of three of their own allying with the orcs that they simply stood and let themselves be slaughtered. Then, as their slow brains began to comprehend that they were under attack, they rallied. They still did not attack their fellow ogres, who lumbered through their ranks to talk to the head of the guards stationed somewhere inside die cavern.

Orgrim was determined to enjoy the last authorized ogre-killing he was likely to taste, and swung the Doomhammer with something akin to glee. His wolf was swift, and darted easily between the tree-trunk-thick legs of the ogre who raged impotently and swung his club as fiercely as he could. He recalled how big they had seemed to him as a child. They were still big, but so was he, now, and he wielded a legendary weapon with control and skill. He fractured the shin-bone of the ogre and it roared in agony. Orgrim’s wolf danced out of the way as the huge thing fell, making the earth tremble as it landed. It tried to get up, pushing its bulk off the ground with its large, fat hands, but by then other Blackrocks had swarmed upon it. Faster even than Orgrim could reckon, the ogre was dead and bleeding from over two dozen wounds.

Orgrim wheeled just in time to see one of the orcish warriors hurtling through the air, dead from a single blow from an ogre’s massive club. Growling. Orgrim gathered himself to charge the murdering creature when a cry of “Hold, hold!” brought him up short.

It was testament to the power of Blackhand’s personality that even now, even when most of the Blackrocks were caught in the grip of bloodlust and killing an ancient enemy, they stayed their hands. The ogres didn’t, at least not at once, and Orgrim found himself riding away from the battle until the slow ogre brains understood what was going on. The thought galled him. It is for the good of all of us, Orgrim, he told himself.

He glanced over to see the ogres the Blackrocks had befriended talking to their kind. Or, rather, bellowing at them and occasionally smacking them. But at least the ogres had been distracted from following the retreating orcs and appeared to be listening. One of them, bigger and wearing something that looked like an official sash of some sort, actually seemed to have a brain. Orgrim could not understand the vile things and used the pause to catch his breath and gulp some water.

“Can’t wait till we can kill them again,” Rend said. Orgrim glanced at his chieftain’s eldest son.

“If we succeed, they’ll be fighting alongside us,” Orgrim replied. “You won’t be allowed to kill them.”

Maim spat. “Heh. Right. Kill ’em on the sly.”

Orgrim grimaced. He himself would like nothing better, but … “Several are dead already trying to make this plan of your father’s work. He wouldn’t like you undermining his efforts.”

Rend sneered at him. “Who’s going to tell him?”

“I will. If this works, and they listen to us—if any of them turn up dead, yours are the first names I’ll mention.”

Rend glowered. Right now, he was so young that it looked like childish petulance, but inwardly. Orgrim was touched with foreboding. He had never liked Blackhand, and liked his children, with the exception of little Griselda, even less. He did not know if it was their parentage or their forced growth that was responsible, but there was a darkness in them that Orgrim mistrusted. One day, if they survived and began using their brains in addition to their powerful muscles, Rend and Maim would grow up to be even more dangerous and deadly than their father.

“I told you he wouldn’t listen, Rend.” Maim said petulantly. “Old man’s forgotten what it’s like to have bloodlust running through him. Let’s go.”

With a final sneer. Rend followed his brother. Orgrim sighed. He had bigger problems than two upstart youngsters right now. He turned his attention back to the negotiations, although he doubted the ogres would have understood the word. The attacks appeared to have stopped. Blackhand, who had fled the battlefield as he had told all his clan to do, now directed his wolf back down to where the ogres were gathered. Orgrim rode to his chieftain’s side, arriving just in time to hear the leader of the guard announce. “We no like gronn. Gronn hurt us.”

He beckoned to one of the other ogres who turned to show his back to Orgrim and Blackhand. Orgrim saw that there were scars crisscrossing the ogre’s back. He felt no twinge of pity for the creature; they had done worse to the orcs for decades. Still, it was useful to know. The captured ogres had also spoken of such things, and now they nodded as if they were terribly wise.

“What you give us if we join you?” demanded the guard.

Blackhand grinned up at the thing. “Well, for one thing, we won’t beat you.” Orgrim thought of Blackhand’s own sons, but said nothing. “We’ll see to it that you’re fed and given appropriate weapons.” Orgrim was relieved that Blackhand hadn’t promised armor; three orcs could be armored out of the materials that would protect a single ogre. And, fortunately, the guard—obviously one of the more intelligent of the ogres—still wasn’t smart enough to think of armor himself.

“You’ll have food, and shelter, and the delight of smashing draenei to small wet stains on the grass.”

The other ogres had been listening intently, and now one of them literally jumped up and down with delight, “Me smash!” it roared gleefully, and several others took up the simple but apparently highly entertaining phrase. Blackhand waited for their enthusiasm to die down before continuing. “So, are we agreed?”

The ogre captain nodded. “No more hurting of ogres,” he growled, and turned to regard those he led. His tiny eyes were shiny with tears, and this time, as he looked upon the ogres whose backs were crawling with scars, Orgrim did feel a little sorry for them. A very little.

“What is your name?” Orgrim asked the captain suddenly. It shifted its gaze to him.

“Krol,” he said.

“Krol, then,” said Blackhand quickly before his second could say more. “When do you think we should lead our combined assault?”

“Now,” Krol said, and before either Orgrim or Blackhand could protest, he bellowed something in his hideous native tongue. The other ogres jumped up and down, and the earth shook as they landed. Then they all turned and purposefully reentered the cave mouth. Blackhand cast a glance over at Orgrim, who shrugged. He suspected it was easier to stop the tide than this flood of stupid, single-minded giants.

“Call them,” Blackhand said. Orgrim produced a clefthoof’s single horn and blew on it. The orcs cried out in delight and began to again descend in response.

There was no time to remind the Blackrock clan of the plan. Orgrim hoped they would remember it, especially the overzealous Maim and Rend. Slaughter of ogres aplenty awaited them, but they had damned well better be killing the right ogres.

Because if they didn’t, if they gave the ogres any reason to question this sudden and very peculiar alliance, then the babes and old males and females who awaited word at the encampment might be all that remained of the Blackrock clan.

Orgrim was not optimistic. The Blackrock clan had ever been fierce in the hunt. Blackhand was little more than a cunning savage, and Orgrim had not failed to observe that recently, a sort of manic fury had begun to creep through all the clans. As he whirled his wolf around to charge into the cave with his fellow clan members, he wondered if perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Surely the greenish tinge on the skins of the orcs next to him was nothing more than a trick of the light.