Rise of the Horde

17

Home, whatever race you are, it is a word, a concept, that makes the heart swell with longing. Home can be ancient ancestral lands, or a new place that one has made one’s own. Home can even be found in the eyes of the beloved. But we all need it, yearn for it, know that without a home of some sort we are incomplete.

For many years, each clan had its own home. Its own sacred lands, its own spirits of earth, air, water, fire, and spirit of the wilds. The uprooting began and continued, each more shattering than the last, until we came to Kalimdor. Here, I found a home for a wandering people. A place of rest and sanctuary, where we could regroup and rebuild.

Home, for me, is now named for my father: the land of Durotar.

Durotan lifted his head and sniffed the wind. The scent that filled his nostrils was one of dust and desiccation, an acrid sort of odor. Not the smell of something burning, not quite, but similar. Once, Drek’Thar would have been able to catch the scent even better than he, but those days had passed. He was no longer a shaman, but a warlock. The air would not waft to him when asked, bearing information as detailed as if it had been written on a piece of parchment. And worse. Drek’Thar, along with the other warlocks of the Frostwolf clan, did not particularly seem to care.

There had been no rain for some time, and the summer seemed hotter than usual. It was the second summer in a row that rains had come scantily, if at all, and on a whim Durotan knelt and dug his fingers into the soil. Once, it had been fertile loam, dark brown and emitting a rich earthy scent. Now, his fingers plunged easily into the dust. Its crust crumbled beneath his fingers, yielding instantly to dissolve into sand that would not hold grasses or crops, would not hold anything. It sifted through his fingers like water.

He sensed Draka’s approach, but did not turn around. Her arms slipped about his waist from behind and she pressed against him. They stood like that, for a long moment, then with a final squeeze she released him and stepped around to face him. Durotan dusted off his hands.

“We have never relied that much on what we could grow anyway,” he said quietly.

Draka regarded him with her dark, knowing eyes. His heart ached to look at her. In so many ways, she was better than he. But she was the mate of the chieftain, not the chieftain, and she did not have to make the choices he did.

The choices he had.

“We have depended upon what We could hunt, mostly,” Draka said. “But the animals We hunt survive on what the earth provides. We’re all connected. The shaman knew that.”

She fell silent as one of the younger warlocks hurried by, a small capering thing at its heels. As they passed, the little thing turned to look at Draka and smiled, showing a mouth crammed full of pointed teeth. Draka could not suppress a shudder.

Durotan sighed and handed her a scroll. “I just received this. We must all prepare for a long march. We are to leave our lands.”

“What?”

“Blackhand’s orders. He has relocated to this new citadel that has been made for him and he wants his army there. It is no longer enough for us to join together to attack. We must all live together and be ready to follow where Blackhand leads us.”

Draka stared up at him incredulously, then her eyes dropped to the scroll. She read it quickly, then rerolled it and handed it to him.

“We had best prepare,” she said quietly, then turned and strode back to their tent. He watched her go, and wondered exactly what it was that made his heart break at the sight.

The Citadel was incomplete, but the moment it came into Durotan’s sight, he was stopped dead in his tracks. Beside him there were several awed murmurs.

“So powerful!”

“So big!”

“Worthy of a Warchief!”

Had Durotan spoken, he would have said: Blasphemous, A blight upon the land. Out of harmony with everything we are.

The traveling Frostwolf clan was still many leagues distant, but the Citadel perched upon the horizon like a buzzard. There was nothing in its design that bespoke orcish building. This structure, this architectural nightmare, this offense to eye and spirit was larger even than the draenei buildings. Of course, Durotan knew its purpose, and it would have to be enormous if it were to constantly house an elite force of orcish warriors. Still, he had expected something else.

Instead of the smooth, sleek lines that marked the structures of the draenei, this fortress was sharp and jagged. Instead of coexisting with the landscape, it dominated it. Hewn from black stone and jagged wood and metal, it fairly bristled against the sky. Durotan knew that he could see only the main tower from here, but that was enough. He stood as if rooted to the spot, reluctant to take a single step closer to the monstrosity.

A silent look passed between him and Draka. Were they the only ones left who saw? The rest of the Frostwolves moved forward, passing their chieftain. Reluctantly. Durotan squeezed his mount and continued.

Proximity to the fortress did nothing to make it seem more attractive. Now Durotan could see other buildings—barracks, storage silos, a flat expanse of training areas that were crowded with large weapons he had never seen before. They, too, looked dark, and dangerous, and deadly.

Officious members of the Blackrock clan and others greeted Durotan perfunctorily and sent the Frostwolves to a flat area in the western part of the complex to begin setting up tents. It was heading on toward dusk when Durotan received the summons to report to the courtyard of the Citadel, along with several others from his clan. The group of about twenty walked the distance and waited.

He heard the drums first, in the distance. Durotan tensed. They had specifically been instructed not to bring any weapons, just to come and wait for … they were not told what. Draka glanced at him uneasily. He had no assurance to offer her; he was as in the dark about what was to unfold as she.

The drums came closer. The earth began to vibrate beneath Durotan’s feet. Such was not unusual when the drumming started in circle, but so far away? He heard other concerned murmurings and knew that he was not the only one with a twinge of apprehension.

The earth continued to shake, the vibrations growing stronger. Two Blackrock riders approached, looking exultant. “Do not fear, proud members of the Horde!” one of them cried. “Our new allies, brought into our ranks by the mighty Blackhand, are approaching! Welcome them!”

There was something familiar in the feel of the ground shaking. The only other time Durotan had ever experienced such a thing was when he had been fighting—

“Ogres!” someone screamed. And indeed, now Durotan could see them. Dozens of them, huge and purposeful, were striding toward the gathered group of orcs. More wolfriders from the Blackrock clan were trotting about, shouting and blowing horns in triumph. The crowd was going insane with delight, yelling and dancing and cheering wildly.

These were the new allies? Durotan could scarcely believe it. Even as he stared, unable to find words, the biggest ogre he had ever seen appeared. Blackhand himself strode beside it, his movements as lithe and proud as if the mammoth thing did not make him look like a child’s toy.

“We will crush the draenei!” Blackhand bellowed, and as if they had been awaiting the cue, the ogres marching with him cried, “Crush! Crush! Crush!”

For a sick, dizzying moment, Durotan was a child again, fleeing before such a monster. He blinked, and he again saw in his mind’s eye his father’s strong frame smashed and broken, blood and life dripping into the ground, Garad’s skull crushed like a nut by a single blow from an ogre’s club.

Ores were fighting alongside monstrous, feeble-brained creatures in an effort to destroy an intelligent, peaceful race.

The world had gone mad.

Velen shuddered. His assistant was at his elbow, offering a warm, soothing drink, but the Prophet waved it away. No comfort could come from a beverage now. No comfort could ever truly come again.

He had grieved when word had come that Telmor had fallen, and with the city his dear friend Restalaan. It had been even more painful to hear how the attack had occurred. Velen had seen something special in the youth Durotan had been, and his treatment at the orc’s hands had only served to confirm his faith in the chieftain of the Frostwolf clan. But now this. Durotan and Orgrim had been the only two orcs ever to witness how the green stone had protected the city. One of them had even memorized the incantation that would deactivate the stone’s protective camouflage. A handful had escaped to flee here, to the Temple of Karabor. Their wounds had been dressed, but there was nothing Velen or anyone else could do to heal their shattered spirits.

But worse news was to come. The refugees did not tell of simple bows and arrows, or axes or spears or hammers being the sole weapons of destruction. They spoke in low, hushed voices of greenish-black bolts of terrible pain, of torment beyond anything that the shaman had hitherto inflicted upon their enemies. They spoke of creatures gibbering and capering at the feet of those who wielded this magic based on suffering and agony.

They spoke of man’ari.

Suddenly, many things fell into place with a dreadful logic. The abrupt, irrational attacks by the orcs. Their sudden increase in technology and skills. The fact that they had turned their backs on shamanism, a religion that, as Velen understood it, required a give-and-take relationship between the elemental powers and those who would wield them. Those who would command man’ari did not seek balance or harmony with their power; They sought dominance.

Just as Kil’jaeden and Archimonde had.

The orcs were nothing more than pawns in the hands of the eredar. Velen knew that he and the rest of the draenei, the “exiles,” were the real targets. The orcish Horde, augmented now with creatures that were immensely powerful, was the way by which Kil’jaeden sought to destroy him. For a brief moment Velen wondered if perhaps the new leader of this Horde would listen to reason; if he would turn and fight alongside the draenei to overthrow Kil’jaeden once he learned how he had been used. He dismissed the thought almost at once. It was probable that those who were being used by Kil’jaeden knew of the eredar’s true nature and purpose, and the offer of power likely seemed believable as well as seductive. So had Archimonde and Kil’jaeden succumbed, and they were far older, stronger, and wiser than any orc.

And now, this vision, adding insult to injury. A vision of the lumbering ogres allying with the orcs—something that he once would have dismissed as a dream brought on by a too-rich meal. Now, he knew it to be the truth. Something had changed the inherent nature of the orcs so drastically, so irrevocably, that they had allied with creatures that they had hated for generations against the draenei, a people they had been tentative friends with for almost as long.

If this had happened elsewhere, the response would be simple. Velen would gather his people and flee, protected by the Naaru. But the ship had crashed, and K’ure lay dying, and there was no escape other than fighting against this Horde and praying that somehow, some way, they would survive.

Ah, K’ure, my old friend. How I miss your wisdom now, and how bitter it is that you be in the hands of the enemy, who does not even understand that you exist.

He held the stone known as Spirit’s Song close to his heart, and felt the faintest of flickers from the dying Naaru. Velen closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Gul’dan looked around the room with utter satisfaction. Everything was going as planned. The Shadow Council had been meeting for some time now, and thus far, Gul’dan felt confident he had selected them well. They were all prepared—nay, eager—to turn their backs on their people in order to advance their own aspirations to power. They had accomplished so much already, acting through their puppet that was foolish enough to believe he was a true part of the Council rather than simply their mouthpiece. It had been easy to get him elected Warchief, and as long as the Council smiled and nodded at him for the few moments that he attended the meetings, he did not question his position. But Blackhand always departed before the real meetings began, sent off on some mission or other that made his barrel chest swell with pride.

“Greetings,” Gul’dan said as he slipped into his chair at the head of the table. As always, Ner’zhul lurked in a corner, never invited to sit with the others, but permitted to hear their conversations, Kil’jaeden had so instructed, and while Gul’dan was unsure as to why his benefactor desired this, he wanted nothing more than to stay in Kil’jaeden’s good graces and did not demur.

The Council murmured perfunctory greetings, and Gul’dan got down to business. “How are the various clans reacting to the idea of ogres as allies? Kargath, let’s start with you.”

The chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan grinned and grunted. “They are primed for bloodshed, and they don’t care who helps them slit open draenei throats,”

Rough laughter filled the cavern as many of the Council nodded in agreement. In the dim light provided by the torches, their eyes seemed to Gul’dan to glow orange. A few, however, scowled and did not join in the merriment.

“I have heard protests from some in the Whiteclaw clan.” one said. “And Durotan of the Frostwolves still bears watching, for all that he led the attack on Telmor.”

Gul’dan held up a hand. “Do not fear, I have had Durotan in my mind for some time.”

“Why has he not been eliminated?” Kargath growled angrily. “It would be easy to replace him with another more in line with our plans. Durotan is becoming well known for disagreeing with Blackhand’s position—and yours as well.”

“That is precisely why I still need him alive,” Gul’dan said, watching to see who understood without further explanation. He saw comprehension register on a few faces, while others still looked puzzled and angry.

“Because he is known for a more moderate stance,” Gul’dan continued, regretful that he had to spell it out for anyone on the Council, “when he does Finally go along, everyone else who might have doubts goes with him. He speaks for many who do not dare speak for themselves. If Durotan agrees, so goes their logic, then it must be all right. As Kargath mentioned, the Frostwolf clan is not the only one who appears to have reservations,”

“But … what if there comes a time that he does not agree? Some line he is not willing to cross?”

Gul’dan smiled frostily. “Then we will deal with him in a way that best advances our power without placing it at risk. As we always do.” Gul’dan decided it was time to change the subject. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. “Speaking of those who have reservations. I have heard that there are some who continue to attempt to contact the elements and the ancestors.”

One of the members looked uncomfortable. “I have attempted to dissuade them, but I cannot see how I can punish them for it. It was, after all, belief that the ancestors wanted us to attack the draenei that even made this possible.”

He sounded a bit defiant. Gul’dan smiled reassuringly “Yes indeed. That was the bait that hooked them so deeply.” He glanced over at Ner’zhul. The older shaman met his eyes and then glanced down quickly. Such had been the bait that had hooked Ner’zhul as well—bait that did not hold the same appeal for Gul’dan.

“But that is no longer necessary,” Gul’dan continued. “We must make sure that there is no turning back to the old ways. We have been lucky indeed in our campaign, and with the ogres success is likely to continue. But if there are any setbacks, any battles that go poorly, then those who still hold shamanism close to their hearts may find an appreciative ear. That won’t do at all.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We must do more than simply encourage warlock practices. We must actively discourage shamanism. It would be unfortunate if for some reason the ancestors actually were able to communicate with their descendants.”

Again, he glanced at Ner’zhul. It had only been when Ner’zhul had traveled to the sacred mountain that he had been able to speak with the ancestors and discover what had really been going on. Until that point, even as powerful a shaman as he was, Ner’zhul had been tricked by illusions. The answer, therefore, seemed simple.

Deep in the disembodied dreaming floated the beings that were made of light. They had the memories of what had gone before, and they had glimpses into the future. Long had they dwelt here, fed by the Other, who was like them, but not like them, and who they sensed was well into the heart of a slow passing. Until recently, they had dwelt in this state of being-not-being in peace and tranquility. But now, defilement and hatred and danger had come. They could not reach the sleeping, beloved living any longer. And the beloved living did not come as they used to, to replenish the sacred pool and unintentionally keep the Other alive. Only the Greatly Deceived One had come, weeping and begging, but too far lost in the deception to be aided.

Suddenly, their deep dreaming was disrupted. A tremor went through them. Pain savaged them and they cried out for aid from the Other, who could not help them, who could not help itself The dark unholy things that had once been beings of beauty were coming. The ancestors sensed their approach. They came inexorably, joining their powers, creating a ring of darkness and severance around the base of the mountain. Darkness visible danced from the twisted things who had followed Sargeras, lured by the promise of power, fed now with the promise of the obliteration of everything. The ancestors felt the seething, focused hatred coalesce into a manifestation of greenish-black energy, whipping around like severed tentacles, seeking a dreadful union. Slowly, inexorably, their stranglehold increased until a rope of shadow power choked the mountain, sealed it shut, preventing any lost orc from entering, any frantic soul from departing.

And now, the Other, too, cried out in grief as the circle was sealed shut. For without the shaman to bring it water, it could not even continue to attempt to heal itself. And without the Other, there would eventually be no ancestors.

Far away, in their sleep, the few orcs who still secretly thought of themselves as shaman trembled and wept, their dreams corrupted into nightmares of endless torment and an inescapable doom.