Rise of the Horde

19

I am proud of my heritage. I am proud that I can name Durotan and Draka as my parents. I am proud that Orgrim Doomhammer called me friend and trusted me with the leadership of the people he loved.

I am proud of my parents’ courage … and at the same time, I wish there had been more they could do. But I am not in their place. It is easy to sit back, secure in my position and comforts in this life, decades after the fact, and say, “You should done this,” or “You should have said that.”

I offer no judgment on anyone save a handful of individuals who knew full well what they were doing, knew that they were trading the lives and destiny of their people for gratification in the moment, and did so gleefully.

For the others … I can only shake my head and be grateful that I was not forced to make the choices they did.

Gul’dan was so excited he could hardly contain himself. He had looked forward to this moment ever since Kil’jaeden had first spoken of it. He had wanted to move forward even faster than his master did, but Kil’jaeden had chuckled and counseled patience.

“I have seen them, and they are not quite ready yet. Timing is everything, Gul’dan. The same blow delivered too early or too late does not kill, only wounds.”

Gul’dan thought it an odd metaphor, but understood what Kil’jaeden meant by it. But now, at last, Kil’jaeden thought the orcs ready for the final step.

The Black Temple had a central courtyard open to the night sky When the temple belonged to the draenei, this area had been a lush garden, with a rectangular pool at the center. The conquerors had drunk their fill of the sweet, pure water over the last few weeks with no care about replenishing it, and now the pool was nothing more than an empty space of stone and tiles. The trees and flowering plants that had surrounded it had long since died, withering with astonishing speed. At Kil’jaeden’s request, Ner’zhul and Gul’dan now stood beside that empty pool. Neither of them knew what to expect.

For long hours they stood in utter silence. Gul’dan wondered if perhaps he had displeased his lord in some way. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat, and he glanced nervously at Ner’zhul. He wondered if perhaps tonight the defiant shaman was going to be slain for his disobedience, and he perked up a bit at the thought. His mind was wandering, considering various torments that might be imposed upon Ner’zhul, when a sudden loud crack of thunder made them both gasp aloud. Gul’dan looked up at the sky. Where there had hitherto been a host of stars, now there was only a black emptiness. He swallowed hard, his eyes riveted on the darkness.

Suddenly the darkness began to churn. It looked like a thunderhcad, black and pulsing. Then it began to swirl in a spiral. The spiraling picked up speed. A wind lifted Gul’dan’s hair and stirred his robes, gently at first, then more fiercely, until he felt the wind scouring his skin. The earth beneath his feet rumbled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ner’zhul’s lips move, but he could not hear what if anything was said. The wind was too loud, the trembling of the earth beneath his increasingly unsteady feet too intense.

The sky cracked open.

Something bright and blazing screamed to earth directly in front of Gul’dan and Ner’zhul. It struck the ground so hard that Gul’dan was knocked off his feet. For a long, terrifying minute, he could not breathe; he simply lay on the earth and gasped like a fish until finally his lungs remembered how to function and he inhaled a great surge of air.

He got to his feet, his body shaking uncontrollably, and lost his breath again at what he beheld.

It towered over him. Chunks of earth flew as it shook four legs that ended in hooves and flapped large, leathery wings in annoyance. Its hair was more of a mane, flowing in green tendrils over its neck and down its back. Green eyes glittered like fiery stars and its swooping tusks caught the dim light as it opened its mouth. It seemed to have row after row of sharp teeth, and its bellow made Gul’dan want to drop to the earth and weep in utter terror. Somehow, he remained standing and silent before the monstrosity. It raised its clenched fists and shook them fiercely, then lowered its head and looked around at the huddled, quaking orcs.

What is that thing? Gul’dan screamed silently.

Suddenly. Kil’jaeden appeared, looking down at Gul’dan and grinning fiercely.

“Behold my lieutenant, Mannoroth. Well has he served me and well shall he continue to serve. On other worlds, they call him the Destructor. But here, he is the savior. Gul’dan,” purred Kil’jaeden, and suddenly Gul’dan felt weak and sick again. “You know what I am offering your people.”

Gul’dan swallowed hard. He did not dare glance at Ner’zhul, whose gaze he felt boring into his back.

Yes, he knew well what Kil’jaeden was offering. Power beyond imagining … and slavery for eternity. Kil’jaeden had offered the former to Ner’zhul in exchange for the latter, and Ner’zhul, the coward, had balked. He had not wanted to doom his people.

Gul’dan was untroubled by such scruples. All he could think of was the reward Kil’jaeden had promised. “I do know. Great One,” Gul’dan said, surprised by the strength and steadiness of his voice, “I know, and I accept my lord’s most generous offer.”

Kil’jaeden smiled. “Excellent,” he said. “You are wiser than your predecessor.”

Confident and elated, Gul’dan turned to gloat at Ner’zhul. The elder shaman stared at his former apprentice imploringly He did not dare to speak, of course, but he did not need to. Even in the dim light of the stars, his expression was plain to read.

Gul’dan’s lips curled around his tusks, and he turned back to regard Mannoroth. He was still terribly imposing, but Gul’dan’s fear had retreated in the face of his overwhelming desire for power. He gazed at the being, knowing that it, like he himself, was highly regarded by the one they both served. They were brothers in arms.

“Only a special blade can do what I ask of you, Gul’dan,” rumbled Kil’jaeden. He extended his hand. The dagger seemed tiny in comparison to the huge palm upon which it rested, but it was quite large when Gul’dan curled his own fingers around it.

“This has been forged in the fires of the mountain in the distance,” Kil’jaeden said, pointing to the smoking mountain. “My servants have worked long and hard to craft it. You know what to do, Mannoroth.”

The creature nodded its huge head. Its tail moving to balance its bulk, it knelt on its front two feet and extended an arm. It turned its hand upward, exposing the comparatively softer flesh of its wrist.

For a heartbeat, Gul’dan hesitated. What if this was some sort of trick, or a test? What if Kil’jaeden really didn’t want him to do this? What if he failed?

What if Ner’zhul was right?

“Gul’dan,” said Kil’jaeden, “Mannoroth is known for many things. Patience is not among them.”

Mannoroth growled softly and his green eyes glinted. “I am eager to see what will happen. All of your people … Do it!”

Gul’dan swallowed hard, lifted the blade, aimed its gleaming edge toward the flesh of Mannoroth’s exposed wrist, and brought the knife down as hard as he could.

And flew backward from the force of Mannoroth’s blow as the creature bellowed in pain. Dazed, he lifted his head and blinked, trying to clear his vision.

Liquid fire spouted from the wound, glowing a sickly greenish yellow as it pumped into the pool of the draenei priests. The injury was tiny compared to the vastness of Mannoroth’s body, but the blood flowed steadily as if from a waterfall. Faintly, Gul’dan was aware that Ner’zhul, the weakling, was crying. Gul’dan could not tear his eyes from the sight of the unholy blood pouring, pouring without ceasing, from the creature who continued to roar and thrash in pain. He got to his feet and walked over to the edge of the pool, being very, very careful not to come into contact with the fluid spewing from the wound he himself had made. “Behold the blood of the Destructor,” gloated Kil’jaeden. “It burns away all that will not serve you, Gul’dan. It cleanses all thoughts of hesitation, confusion, or uncertainty. It creates a hunger that can be directed any way you choose. Your little puppet thinks he rules die Horde, but he is wrong. The Shadow Council thinks they rule the Horde, but they are wrong.”

Gul’dan lifted his eyes from the pool of glowing green liquid that continued to pump from Mannoroth’s injured arm to gaze raptly at Kil’jaeden.

“Gul’dan … it will soon be you who rules the Horde. They are ready They thirst for what you will give diem.”

Gul’dan again turned to look at the flowing liquid.

“Call them to you. Quench that thirst … and what their hunger.”

The now-familiar horn awakening the Horde and summoning them to the courtyard blew before dawn. Durotan had not been sleeping; he did not sleep much anymore. He and Draka rose without a word and began to dress.

Suddenly he heard her inhale swiftly. He turned at once to see that she was staring at him, her eyes wide.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Your … your skin,” she said quietly He looked down at his bare chest. His skin was dry and flaky and as he scratched at it, the skin beneath it looked … green. He remembered seeing the same tint on young Ghun’s skin not so long ago.

“It’s just the light,” he said, trying to reassure them both. She would not be so easily placated. Draka lifted her own arm and scratched. Her skin, too, was green. She lifted dark eyes to him. They both saw it. It was no trick of the light.

“What is happening to us?” Draka asked.

Durotan had no answer. They continued to dress in silence, and as he went outside to the courtyard to wait, Durotan’s eyes kept traveling to his arm, the strange green hue of his skin hidden beneath dented metal armor.

The announcement about the assembly had come yesterday afternoon, during a training session with some of the younger orcs. Durotan still could not get used to seeing children who, a few months earlier, had been barely able to walk now wielding swords and axes with extraordinary power. They seemed content with their new status, even pleased, but Durotan fought the urge to shake his head every time he saw them.

Durotan found he could not even summon curiosity about their next target. It would be the same as before—slaughter, rage, defilement of corpses. Recently, even the bodies of slain Horde had been left where they had fallen, their weapons and armor taken to be used on a living body. Sometimes a friend or family member bowed over die corpse for a moment, but even that was happening less frequently. Gone were the days of bringing home the honored dead and placing them with deep ritual upon a funeral pyre, their spirits sent with all ceremony to join the ancestors. Now, there was no time for rituals, or pyres, or the ancestors. There was no time for the dead. There was no time for anything, it would seem, but slaughtering draenei and mending weapons and armor so the Horde could go out again to continue the task.

He stood with dull eyes in the courtyard, awaiting his orders. Blackhand rode to the gates of the Citadel, where they could see him clearly. There was a wind today With nothing to block it in this desolate place, it caused the banners of the various clans to snap fiercely.

“We have a long march ahead of us,” Blackhand cried. “You were told to pack supplies. I hope you listened. Warriors, your weapons must be ready and your armor sound. Healers, have your ointments, potions, and bandages at hand. But before we march to war, we will march to glory.”

He lifted a hand and pointed off in the distance, where the sullen mountain that jutted against the sky puffed black smoke.

“That is our first destination. We will stand on the mountain … and what happens there will be remembered for a thousand years. It will begin a time in which the orcs will know power that we have never before tasted.”

He paused to let this sink in, and nodded, visibly pleased, at the murmur that ran through the crowd.

Durotan tensed. So … it would be today …

Never one to talk more than he needed to. Blackhand ended this rallying speech with, “Let us go!”

The Horde surged forward eagerly, curious and excited by Blackhand’s words. Durotan looked quickly at Draka, who merely nodded her support of his plan. Then, forcing his heavy feet to move, he followed, caught up in the tide.

There was a narrow, steep path that led partway up the smoky mountain to a large plateau. It looked to Durotan as if a chunk of the mountainside had been cut away with a clean sword strike, so unnaturally perfect was it. His skin crawled at the thought. Very little that came into his life these days was natural, it seemed. Three large slabs of black, polished stone lay in a row, partially embedded in the soil. They were beautiful, but sinister at the same time. The orcs were wear after the long climb in the hot sun wearing full armor and carrying weapons and supplies, and Durotan wondered what the logic behind this was. There seemed little point in exhausting the warriors before the battle. Perhaps the attack would come later, on the morrow when they were rested.

To Durotan’s surprise, once everyone had gathered and quieted, it was not Blackhand who addressed them, but Gul’dan.

“It was not so very long ago,” Gul’dan said, “that we were a scattered people. We came together only twice a year, and then only to sing and dance and drum and hunt.” He said the words in a voice dripping with contempt. Durotan looked down. For centuries, the clans had come together at the Kosh’harg festival. It was not something foolish, as Gul’dan’s tone of voice implied, but something sacred and powerful. It was what had kept the clans from attacking one another. But it might have been a lifetime ago, by the way the orcs around him reacted. They, too, grunted in disapproval, shook their weapons fiercely, and looked ashamed. Even those among them who had been the shaman.

“Now, look at us! We stand shoulder to shoulder, clan by clan. Laughing Skull next to Dragonmaw, Thunderlord next to Warsong, all under the strong, insightful leadership provided by Blackhand—whom you have chosen to unify you. For Blackhand!”

A cheer went up. Durotan and Draka did not participate.

“Under his shrewd guidance, and with the blessings of the beings who have chosen to ally with us, we have grown strong. We have grown proud. We have advanced further in skills and technology in the last two years than we have in two centuries. The threat that once loomed over us has been broken, and it will take only a final push to see it forever crushed. But first … first, we will pledge ourselves to this cause and receive blessings in return.”

He bent and held up a strange chalice. It looked to be carved from the horn of some creature, but Durotan had never seen even a clefthoof sport so large a horn. Too, it was curved and yellowed. Strange glyphs had been inscribed on it, and as the night closed in around them, the inscriptions seemed to glow faintly. Whatever the cup contained glowed as well. As Gul’dan held it before him, an eerie yellow-green light lit his face from beneath, casting grotesque shadows.

“This is the Cup of Unity,” Gul’dan said in a reverent voice. “This is the Chalice of Rebirth. I offer this to the leader of every clan, and he in turn may offer it to anyone in his clan whom he wishes particularly blessed by the beings who have been so very, very good to us. Who will come forth first, to pledge his loyalty and receive his blessings?”

Gul’dan turned a little to his right, toward Blackhand. The other orc grinned and opened his mouth to speak when a savage, familiar voice rent the night air.

No, Durotan thought. No … not him …

Draka’s hand clamped down hard on Durotan’s arm. “Will you warn him?”

Durotan’s throat worked. He could not speak. He shook his head: No. Once, he had counted the slender but imposing orc who strode boldly forward as a friend. But he could not risk revealing that he knew what was going on.

Not even for Grom Hellscream.

The chieftain of the Warsong clan had made his way through the crowd to stand in front of Gul’dan. Blackhand looked a bit put out at Hellscream. Clearly, both Gul’dan and Blackhand had anticipated that the Warchief would drink first.

Gul’dan’s mouth quirked in a smile. “Ever one to seize the moment, dear Grom.” he said, bowing a little as he handed the cup filled with the swirling green fluid to Grom. Waves of heat and light rose up from the chalice, and Grom’s face—already decorated to inspire fear in his enemies and respect from his allies—looked even more alarming.

Grom did not hesitate. He brought the cup to his lips and drank deeply. Durotan watched, straining to see the reaction. Perhaps, after all, the letter had not been sent by someone who wished him good; perhaps it had been a trap—

Gul’dan barely had time to take the chalice from Grom before the other orc stiffened and shuddered. He doubled over for a moment, and the crowd murmured in worry. Durotan stared, horrified, as Grom’s hunched-over body pulsated and quivered. Before his eyes, Grom’s shoulders, slender for an orc’s, broadened. His armor creaked as it settled over this newly powerful body. Slowly, Grom straightened. Tall as ever he had been, reshaped by the green liquid to be stronger and thickly muscled, he looked out over the crowd.

What Durotan could see of his face was smooth and healthy and, save for the tattooed jaw … completely green.

Grom threw his head back and shrieked again. The cry was louder than Durotan had ever heard it. It was almost like a knife made of sound that ripped through one’s body and left one shattered and bleeding. Durotan covered his ears, as did nearly everyone else, but he could not tear his gaze from Grom’s face.

Grom’s eyes now glowed red.

“How do you feel, Grom Hellscream, of the Warsong clan?” asked Gul’dan with a peculiar mildness.

Grom’s expression of ecstasy was so keen it was almost pain, and he seemed to grope for words. “I feel … magnificent! I feel …” He broke off and screamed a third time, as if only the primal cry would do. “Give me draenei flesh to tear and rip! Draenei blood on my face … I will drink it down until I can hold no more! Give me their blood!”

His chest heaved with the passion of his emotions, his fists clenching and unclenching. He looked prepared to attack an entire city with nothing but his bare hands … and Durotan thought he would win that battle. Hellscream motioned to his clan.

“Voices of the Warsong! Come forth! Not a one of you will be denied this ecstasy!”

The Warsong warriors rushed forward, all eager to feel what their chieftain was feeling. The cup was passed around, and one by one, they drank. Each one shuddered for a moment in deep pain; each one passed through that pain to apparent delight and obviously increased strength. And the eyes of every one who drank turned a blazing red. Blackhand watched, his frown increasing. When the last of the Warsongs had drunk from the cup, he grunted. “I will drink!” he demanded, seizing the cup and swigging down a great gulp. Blackhand clutched his throat for a moment, but stayed completely silent while whatever dark magic was in the cup did its hellish duty. He had removed his armor, and the muscles rippling and growing beneath his taut green skin were clearly visible. Red eyes glowed when he finally looked up. He motioned to his sons, and Maim and Rend shoved other orcs perfunctorily out of their way as they rushed forward. Durotan saw Griselda, Blackhand’s only daughter, hesitate before she, too, stepped up to drink. Blackhand sneered at her.

“Not you,” he snarled. Griselda drew back as if struck. Durotan, who had always been fond of the girl, breathed a sigh of relief. Blackhand intended to shame her. Instead, he was unwittingly giving her a great gift. Blackhand motioned to Orgrim.

“Come, friend Orgrim! Drink with me!”

Even now, even as his best and oldest friend was being summoned to drink the dark liquid, Durotan could not speak. But thankfully, he did not need to. Orgrim bowed his head.

“My chieftain. I will not take that glory from you. I am your second, not chieftain, and I do not seek that position.”

Durotan sagged with relief. Orgrim saw what Durotan had seen, even though he was not privy to the information Durotan had been given. He was not a fool. He owned his own soul, and he would not surrender it for the sort of power that racked the body and made the eyes burn with such a sinister gleam.

Now the other clan chieftains lined up, anxious for this blessing that had so excited two of their most famous and respected chieftains. Durotan did not move. Drek’Thar leaned in and whispered, “My chieftain—do you not wish the blessing?”

Durotan shook his head. “No. Nor will I permit any of my clan to drink.”

Drek’Thar blinked, shocked. “But … Durotan, it is obvious that this drink grants great power and passion! You would be a fool not to drink it!”

Durotan shook his head, recalling the contents of the letter. He had been skeptical at first; now he was certain. “I would be a fool if I did,” he said quickly, and when Drek’Thar tried to protest, he silenced the former shaman with a look.

Unbidden and unexpected, words from the draenei prophet Velen floated back to Durotan: We chose not to sell our people into slavery, and for that we were exiled. Durotan knew in his bones that once the orcs had drunk from this chalice, their will was no longer theirs. Gul’dan was doing exactly what the leaders on die draenei’s home world had done. He had sold his people into slavery. History was repeating itself; now it was Durotan who defied his leaders for the sake of his people. Perhaps he and his clan, like the draenei, would soon be “exiled ones.” It did not matter. What he was doing was right. He realized that now all the chieftains save he had drunk, and the moment he had dreaded was upon him.

Gul’dan waved him forward. “The mighty Durotan! The hero of Telmor!” Durotan forced his face to remain still. “Come and join with the other chieftains. Drink your fill from the chalice!”

“Nay, Gul’dan, I will not do so.”

In the light of the torches. Durotan could see that a muscle twitched near Gul’dan’s right eye.

“You refuse? Do you think you are better than the others? Do you think you do not need the blessing?”

The other chieftains were frowning now, their breathing labored as if they had been running, their brows glistening with sweat.

Durotan did not rise to the bait. “It is my choice.”

“Perhaps others in your clan feel differently,” Gul’dan said, sweeping his arms to include the Frostwolf clan in his expansiveness. “Will you let them drink, then?”

“No. I am the chieftain of die Frostwolf clan. And this is what I choose.”

Gul’dan stepped down from the obsidian slab and strode to Durotan. He leaned in and whispered in the chieftain’s ear. “What do you know and how did you know it?”

It was no doubt meant to be an intimidating gesture, but instead Durotan was filled with new hope. Gul’dan felt threatened. But instead of sending an assassin in the night to dispatch someone he regarded as an inconvenience, he was trying to bully Durotan into submission. He had just confirmed the truth of the contents of the mysterious letter, and revealed that he had no idea who its author was. Durotan realized he could survive this and still protect his clan.

He said, equally quietly, “I know enough. And you will never discover how I learned it.”

Gul’dan pulled back and forced a smile. “It is indeed your choice, Durotan, son of Garad. And if you choose to deny yourself such a blessing, then you must bear the consequences.”

The words were double-edged, but Durotan didn’t care. Another day, he might need to worry about what Gul’dan had planned for him.

But not tonight.

Gul’dan returned to his position and cried out to the crowd. “All who wish the blessing of the mighty Kil’jaeden, our benefactor, have received it. Think of this place as hallowed ground, for here the orcs took steps to become something far greater dian what we were born as. Think of this mighty mountain as Kil’jaeden’s throne, where he sits and watches and blesses us as we do work that will purge us still further of anything other than the best of which we are capable.”

He stepped back and nodded to Blackhand. His eyes glowing red, his armor catching the flickering of the torches, Blackhand lifted his arms and cried, “Tonight We make history. Tonight We attack the last remaining stronghold of our enemy. We will tear limbs from bodies. We will bathe in blood. We will storm through the streets of their capital like their worst nightmare. Blood and thunder! Victory to the Horde!”

Durotan stared. Tonight? There had been no strategy discussed. This was not some little hamlet or village Blackhand was talking about, but the draenei capital. This was their place of last refuge, and he was certain they would fight more fiercely than they had ever before, like cornered animals. He recalled the huge engines of war that had been built, and knew that Blackhand had ordered them moved—where, neither Durotan nor the others knew.

Madness. This was madness.

And as he looked at the screaming bodies surrounding him, their eyes all twin pinpricks of crimson light, he realized that the word was truer than he thought.

Those who had drunk from the tainted cup had indeed gone mad. Grom Hellscream danced closer to the fire, waving his newly muscular arms and throwing his head back, the firelight dancing on once-brown skin that had now turned green. Durotan, sick and dazed with horror, looked into glowing red eyes that were so akin to those of the enslaved creatures the warlocks commanded; that green skin, the same green hue that was already tainting the skins of the warlocks, like Ghun, was even starting to taint Durotan’s own skin and that of the one he loved with all his heart.

He thought of the contents of the letter, written in an archaic tongue that few but the highly educated—the shaman and the clan leaders—would know:

You will be asked to drink. Refuse. It is the blood of twisted souls, and it will twist yours and those of all who imbibe. It will enslave you forever. By the love of all we once held dear, refuse.

The ancient language had a single word for “twisted souls.”

These were the things that were held in check by the warlock’s will, but just barely. The fluid that had passed the lips of those Durotan had called both friend and foe had been the blood of one such. And Durotan watched as the twisted souls that the orcs now were somehow bound to danced insanely in the torchlight before racing down the mountains to run, fueled with unnatural rage and energy, to attack the most fortified city this world had ever seen.

Twisted souls.

Dae’mons. Demons.