Rise of the Horde

18

I am one of the second wave of shaman, just as I am the leader of the second, and I pray better and wiser, incarnation of the Horde. I have spoken with the elements and spirits, and I have felt them working in harmony with me many times, and refusing their aid almost as often.

But I have never seen the spirits of the ancestors, not even in my dreams; my soul yearns for such a connection. Until very recently, those who once walked the path of the shaman did not even dream of being able to walk it again, and yet they do.

Perhaps one day, the barriers between us and the beloved dead, too, will be lifted.

Perhaps.

But I wonder, if they truly knew how far we wandered from their loving teachings, if they saw what we had done in Draenor, done to Draenor … perhaps even now they would turn their backs on us and leave us to our fates. And if they so chose, I cannot say that I would blame them.

“I don’t understand.” Ghun said. He was the youngest of the clan’s warlocks, and still, Durotan mused with bitterness, an idealist. He had seen Ghun’s nose wrinkle at the strange creatures he was forced to utilize in the battle against the draenei. He had seen the youth’s face filled with regret as his enemy writhed in agony before him. Drek’Thar had brought the boy to Durotan’s attention after the declaration from Gul’dan had been issued. “What is wrong in hoping that the elements will one day work with us again? And why can I not go to Oshu’gun?”

Durotan had no real answers for him; the decree that no one must ever again practice the shamanic arts on pain of severe punishment—or exile or death for repeated violations—had seemingly come out of nowhere. True, most of those who had walked the shamanic path had turned from it when die elements abandoned them. But what about the ancestors? Why in the world, in this time of crisis and need, did Gul’dan forbid the orcs their most sacred place?

And because he had no answers for a youth who deserved them, Durotan grew angry. His voice was gruff and deep.

“In order to triumph over the draenei, our Warchief has made certain allies. These allies have given us the warlock powers you control. Do not lie to me, I know you are pleased with the results.”

Ghun’s sharp-nailed, long fingers had been working in the dead earth and had dislodged a stone. He tossed it up and down in his palm. Durotan frowned, looking at the boy’s skin. The dryness of this place and the harsh conditions under which they had been laboring for nearly two years now were taking a toll. Normally smooth brown skin, stretched tight over toned muscle, was dry and flaky. Absently Ghun scratched at a patch of rough skin. Durotan glanced at the new skin underneath.

It had a greenish tint.

For a moment, mindless, animal panic washed over Durotan. Durotan forced himself to be calm and look again. There was no mistaking it—the skin was indeed slightly green. He had no idea what it meant, but it was new, and it was strange, and he instinctively did not like it. Ghun seemed not to have noticed. He hurled the rock with a grunt, watching it sail into the distance.

Had Ghun been older, he would have noticed the warning in the tone of voice his clan chieftain used earlier. But he was young and wrapped up in his own concerns, and did not heed the warning.

“The spells … the creatures who obey me … I am pleased with the efficiency. But not with how it is efficient. It feels—it feels wrong, my chieftain. Killing is killing, and the elements used to give me powers that killed my foe just as dead. But I never felt this way about it when they gave me the power. We are in this war because the ancestors told us we needed to kill the draenei,” Ghun continued. “So why is Gul’dan now saying we can’t go talk to them?”

Something inside Durotan snapped. He let out a furious bellow and hauled the boy to his fret. He gripped the fabric of Ghun’s shirt and brought his face to within an inch of the shocked young warlock’s.

“It doesn’t matter!” he cried. “I will do what is best for the Frostwolves, and now that means doing what Gul’dan and Blackhand tell us to do. Obey this new order!”

Ghun stared up at him. As abruptly as it came the white-hot fury departed, leaving sorrow in its wake. Durotan added in a harsh whisper meant for the boy’s ears alone, “I won’t be able to protect you if you don’t.”

Ghun looked up at him, an odd, orange gleam in his eyes for an instant, then he looked down and sighed.

“I understand, my chieftain. I will not bring dishonor upon the Frostwolf clan.”

Durotan let him go. Ghun stepped back, straightened his clothes, bowed, and departed. Durotan watched him go, conflicted. Ghun, too, sensed the wrongness in the way things were unfolding. But a single youth attempting to contact the elements could not stand against it.

Nor, Durotan thought bitterly, could a single chieftain.

A sacred site was the next to fall beneath the might of the Horde.

Hard on the heels of the proclamation banning shamanism was the order to march on a place the draenei called the Temple of Karabor. Although it lay close to the Shadowmoon Valley, the ancestral lands of Ner’zhul’s own clan, who had taken the name Shadowmoon from that same valley, no orc had ever seen it before. It was a sacred place, and as such had been respected by the orcs. At least it had been respected until now, when Blackhand stood before his assembled army and ranted against the so-called “spirituality” of the draenei.

“The cities we have taken so far were mere practice,” Blackhand declared. “One day soon, their capital will be destroyed. But before we shatter their most important city, we will shatter them as a people. We will storm this site! Smash their statues. Destroy everything that means anything to them. Slaughter their spiritual leaders. They will lose heart and then … then claiming their city will be as easy as killing a blind wolf pup.”

Durotan, who stood with the other armed and mounted warriors, glanced at Orgrim. As was almost always the case, his old friend stood at Blackhand’s side, Orgrim had become a master at keeping his face impassive, but he could not completely hide his feelings from Durotan. He, too, knew what this meant. The temple was Velen’s home. The Prophet had only been visiting Telmor that day when Orgrim and Durotan had met him; his place was in the temple, where he prayed and meditated and served as a prophet and guide to his people. They would very well slay him this day, if he was there. It had been hard enough to kill Restalaan. Durotan would have prayed that he would not be forced to kill Velen, too … had there been anyone to pray to.

Six hours later, as he stood atop the stairs to the great scat of the temple of the draenei, he almost choked from the smells that assaulted his nostrils. The now-familiar reck of draenei blood. The stench of urine and feces and the thick odor of fear. The sweet, cloying smell of incense. Blood covered the soles of his boots as they crunched on strewn rushes, releasing a clean fragrance that somehow made all the other scents so much worse—

Durotan doubled over and vomited, the taste sour in his mouth. He heaved and choked until his stomach was utterly empty, then with trembling hands rinsed his mouth with water and spat.

Harsh laughter greeted his ears and he flushed. He turned to see Blackhand’s two male brats, Rend and Maim, laughing at him.

“That’s the spirit,” Rend said, chuckling still. “That’s all they deserve—our vomit and spit.”

“Yeah,” said Maim unoriginally. “Our vomit and spit!”

Maim kicked the corpse of a nearby priest clad in pale purple vestments and spat on it. Durotan turned away in disgust and horror, but there was no respite. Everywhere he looked he saw orcs doing the same thing to corpses: defiling them, looting them, putting on their bloody, rent robes and parading about mockingly. Others were methodically filling sacks with beautifully carved bowls and plates and candlesticks while they crunched on sweet fruits that had been left as offerings to deities that the orcs didn’t begin to understand and didn’t want to. Blackhand, with another victory to his credit, had found some kind of alcoholic beverage and was chugging it down so quickly some of the green fluid spilled and dripped onto his armor.

Is this what we have become? Murderers of unarmed priests, looters of things holy to them, defilers of their very bodies? Mother Kashur … in a way I am glad you are forbidden to us … I would not want you to see this.

“They have taken the temple,” said Kil’jaeden, “but they have not found me my prize.”

Kil’jaeden’s voice was as honey-smooth as ever, but his tail lashed agitatedly. Gul’dan’s stomach clenched in fear.

“Velen the Traitor must have known somehow,” Gul’dan said. “He is called ‘prophet’ after all.”

Kil’jaeden’s massive head whipped around, and Gul’dan had to force himself not to quail. Then Kil’jaeden nodded slowly.

“You are right,” he said. “If he were an easy and stupid enemy, I would have found him here now.”

Gul’dan began to breathe again. Part of him burned to ask what Velen had done to one who was, he was certain, his own kind in order to earn himself such single-minded hatred. But Gul’dan was wise enough to keep silent. He could live with his curiosity unsatisfied on this particular issue.

“With their temple taken for our own purposes. Great One, surely those that remain will all have fled to the city. They will be there, thinking themselves safe, but they will be trapped instead.”

Kil’jaeden steepled his scarlet fingers and smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. The temple shall be yours. Blackhand is quite comfortably ensconced in the Citadel. But before you order your little puppets to attack the draenei stronghold, I have a little … gift for them.”

Ner’zhul waited until Gul’dan was finished. He watched beneath half-closed lids as Gul’dan wrote letter after letter, getting ink stains on his stubby fingers, using those same stubby fingers to pop a piece of fruit or chunk of meat into his mouth. These were important letters, then; normally Gul’dan would have one of the unctuous scribes send out missives.

The temple had been … purged, was the word Gul’dan had used. The priests that lingered to bravely and foolishly stand against the wave of orcs had been killed with ruthless speed and efficiency. Ner’zhul heard that their bodies had been violated, and found that part of him still held onto enough compassion that the thought sickened him. Those violated bodies were long gone, as were their sacred items. Much of the temple had been closed off; the Council and its servants did not require that much room. Some furnishings had been taken and used for the Council’s needs. Others had been torn down or removed, replaced with the dark, ominously spiky decorations that were rapidly becoming inextricably associated with the Horde. The entire structure had been renamed the Black Temple, and instead of priests and prophets, it now played host to liars and traitors. And, Ner’zhul mused bitterly, he was certainly among that number.

At last, Gul’dan was finished. He dusted the ink with powder to prevent smears and sat back. He looked up at his former master with thinly veiled disgust.

“Address them and take them to the couriers, see that you do it quickly.”

Ner’zhul inclined his head. He still could not bring himself to bow before his erstwhile apprentice and Gul’dan, knowing full well just how broken Ner’zhul was, did not press it. He sat down in the chair Gul’dan vacated, and the moment Gul’dan’s heavy stride could no longer be heard, he immediately began to read.

Gul’dan expected him to read the letters, of course. And indeed there was nothing contained in them that Ner’zhul did not know. He was privy to all meetings of the Shadow Council, though he was forced to sit on the cold stone floor of the Black Temple and not at the huge stone table with those who had the real power. He was not certain just why he was allowed, only that for some reason Kil’jaeden wanted him there. Otherwise, he was certain Gul’dan would have dispatched him here now.

His eyes flew over the words, and he was sickened by them. He felt utterly impotent, like a fly trapped in the sticky sap that flowed down the barks of the olemba trees. Or, that used to. From what he had heard, the trees that provided the sweet nectar had either been cut down, their wood used for weapons, or were dying. Ner’zhul shook off the imagery and began to roll up the missives, his eyes falling on the unused pieces of parchment and still-filled inkwell and pen.

The thought was so audacious his heart stopped for an instant.

Quickly he looked around. He was completely alone, and there was no reason to expect Gul’dan back. Gul’dan, Kil’jaeden, the Council—they thought him broken, as harmless as an ancient, toothless wolf that warmed its old bones by the fire until at last it slipped into the sleep of death. And they were mostly right.

Mostly.

Ner’zhul had reconciled himself to the fact that he had had his power taken away from him. His power, but not his will. If that too had been taken from him, he would have been unable to resist Kil’jaeden at all. Ner’zhul could not act directly, but he might be able to contact someone who could.

His fingers trembled as he took another piece of parchment. He was forced to pause for a long moment and calm himself before he could write anything legible. Finally, he scribbled a brief message, blotted the ink, and rolled it up. The wolf was toothless. But the wolf had not forgotten what it was like to fight.

More orders to march. Durotan was growing heartily sick of it. Their was no respite any more, just battle, repairing armor, eating increasingly tough and stringy meat, sleeping on the earth, and another battle. Gone were the times of drumming and feasting and laughing and ritual. The perfect triangle of the Mountain of Spirits on the horizon had been replaced by the dark, forbidding image of a spire that occasionally emitted black smoke. Some said a creature slept deep inside the mountain, and that one day, it would awaken. Durotan did not know what to believe anymore.

When the courier rode up, Durotan took the missive and began to read it with dull eyes. Those eyes widened as he read, and by the time he had finished it he was sweating and trembling. He looked up, wondering madly if someone had been able to glean the contents of the letter just by watching him read it. Ores strode past him, dust clinging to their rough, flaky skins and battered armor. No one gave him so much as a disinterested glance.

He hurried to Draka, the one person in the world he dared share this information with. Her eyes widened as she read.

“Who else knows of this?” she said quietly, fighting to keep her face impassive.

“Only you,” he said, equally softly.

“Will you tell Orgrim?”

Durotan shook his head. Pain laced his heart. “I dare not. He is oath-bound to tell Blackhand.”

“Do you think Blackhand knows about this?”

Durotan shrugged. “I have no idea who knows what. I only know that I must protect my people. And I will do so.”

Draka looked at him long and hard. “If we as an entire clan do not do this thing … we will attract attention. You risk punishment. Maybe even exile or death.”

Durotan stabbed a finger at the letter. “Any one of those things is better than what will happen if we obey No. I have sworn to protect my clan. I will not give them over to—”

He realized belatedly that his voice had risen and some heads were starting to turn. “I will not give them over to this.”

Draka’s eyes filled with quick tears and she gripped his arm hard. Her nails dug into his flesh. “That,” she said fiercely, “is why I became your mate. I am so proud of you.”