Rise of the Horde

22

Can a thing be at once a blessing and a curse? A salvation and a doom? For such I hold what happened next in the history of my people. From every account, the demonic energies, used so freely and with no heed given as to their cost, leeched all that was wholesome and life-giving from the world of Draenor. Kil’jaeden had wanted to increase the number of orcs, so that we would become a formidable army, and he had done so, forcing the growth of our younglings and robbing them of their childhood. Now, the orc population was larger than it had ever been, and there was no way to feed the hungry. It is clear to me, as it must have been clear to those living through those terrible times, that if we had remained on Draenor, our race would likely have died out.

But how we left … and why we left … this world still bleeds from the wound of that. I do what I can to heal while still safeguarding the interests of this new Horde I have made, but I wonder if these wounds will ever really close. Life for my people: a blessing. How we obtained it: a curse.

The Shadow Council had been nervous, almost as worried sick as Gul’dan had been at Kil’jaeden’s departure. But now they had a direction. He called the Council and shared with them the words of the mysterious stranger who called himself Medivh. He spoke of the fertile fields, clean water, healthy, glossy-coated prey animals. And he spoke even more glowingly of the beings called “humans” who would fight enough to be a challenge, but who would inevitably fall to the superiority of the Horde.

“Water, food, killing. And power to those who agree to help bring it about,” Gul’dan said, his voice seductive, almost purring. He had gauged them correctly. Their eyes, some red and glowing, some still brown and intense, were focused on him and he saw hope … and greed … on their faces.

The work began.

First, they had to redirect the attention of the starving Horde. Gul’dan was well aware that, with decreasing food supplies and a burning thirst for violence that no longer had an outlet, the orcs had started attacking one another. He had Blackhand send out decrees to all the clans, submitting their finest warriors for controlled, one-on-one or small party fights in public display. The winners would receive food from the losing clan, and a supply of pure water as well as honor and fame. Frantic for something, anything, to case the pain of their dual hunger, for food and for blood, the orcs responded well to the suggestion, and Gul’dan was relieved. Medivh wanted an army to attack the humans. It would not do if all the orcs had slaughtered one another before the invasion.

Durotan continued to give him trouble. The leader of the Frostwolf clan, likely emboldened by the fact that Gul’dan did not cut him down the night of the attack on Shattrath, had begun speaking out more publicly. He decried the staged battles as demeaning. He called for a way to try to heal the land, stopping just short of directly blaming the warlocks for it. In other words, he danced as close to the line as was possible, and sometimes crossed it.

And, as had always been the case, some were listening. While the Frostwolf clan was the only one whose leader had not drunk the blood of Mannoroth, there were other orcs in lower positions who had also refused. The one who worried Gul’dan the most was Orgrim Doomhammer. That one could be trouble. Orgrim had never much liked Blackhand; one day, he might do something about that dislike. But for the moment, he did not side publicly with the Frostwolves, and indeed was one of the regular victors in the champion battles.

The visions continued. Medivh had a very clear idea of what he wanted: a portal between the two worlds, one that could be created with the Shadow Council and its warlocks on one side, and Medivh and whatever magics he was controlling on his side.

They could not work in secret; the portal would have to be large in order for the armies Medivh wanted to pass through. Besides, the Horde was feeling defeated. The excitement and challenge of the arena battles and constructing this portal with high ceremony would give them something to focus on.

Medivh was pleased with the idea. In one vision, he assumed the form of a large black bird, perching on Gul’dan’s arm. Claws dug into his flesh and reddish-black blood trickled across green skin, but the pain felt … good. There was a small piece of paper rolled up around the bird’s leg. In his vision, Gul’dan unrolled the paper and saw a design that took his breath away. When he awoke, he sketched it on a large parchment.

He surveyed it, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Beautiful,” he said.

“I do not understand your displeasure,” Orgrim said one day as he and Durotan sat atop their mounts to survey the building of what Gul’dan called the Portal. Everywhere Durotan looked, orcs were working. The males were bare to the waist, the females nearly so, and their green skins glistened with sweat underneath a sun that scorched the land. Some of them chanted rhythmic war cries as they worked, others were focused and silent. The road to this plateau, running in an almost straight line from what was starting to become known as Hellfire Citadel, was already well paved so that construction equipment could be easily moved.

The shapes of the four large platforms were based on draenei design. The irony did not escape Durotan. The original design had been modified, crowned with the now-familiar spikes and sharp edges that were starting to make orc architecture distinctive. But Durotan could remember walking up similar steps as a boy, and walking up those steps again with the intent of killing all he found atop them. Two obelisks pointed into the sky like sharp spears, and a statue of Gul’dan sat atop another one.

But most forbidding of all was the fourth, set a little way back from the other three. This was to be the framework for the actual Portal that Gul’dan kept promising them would manifest. Two huge slabs of stone towered into the air, a third lying across them to make the most primitive of gateways. Shapes were starting to appear out of the rock, looming shapes of cowled figures on either side, and some sort of serpent undulated atop it.

“Is this not better than having them ride into your camp and slaughter your clansmen?” Orgrim continued.

Durotan nodded. “Yes, in a way,” he said. “But we still do not know what this is a portal to.” Orgrim gestured at the sere landscape. The Hellfire Peninsula was one of the most damaged areas of the world, but far from the only one. “Does it matter? We know what it is a portal from.”

Durotan grunted with a hint of amusement. “I suppose you’re right at that.”

He felt Orgrim’s gray eyes regarding him steadily “Durotan … I have refrained from asking you this, but … why did you refuse your clan the draft Gul’dan offered?”

Durotan looked at his friend, answering one question with another. “Why did you yourself not drink?” he countered.

“There was something … not right,” Orgrim said at last. “I did not like what I saw it doing to the others.”

Durotan shrugged, hoping his friend would not press the point. “You had the same insight as I did.”

“I wonder,” said Orgrim, but he did not question further.

Durotan saw no need to reveal what he knew. He had managed to protect his people from the horrors of what drinking demonic blood would do to them. He had asserted himself to Gul’dan, and thus far, no repercussions had fallen. And Orgrim, ancestors be praised, had had wisdom enough to realize that there was something amiss and had also declined. For now, that was enough for Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan.

“I fight today,” Orgrim said, changing the subject. “Will you come?”

“I know that you do this not for glory, but for your clan,” Durotan said. “You fight to win them food and water. But I will not show my face at these … displays. Orcs should not be fighting orcs. Not even in ritualized combat.”

Orgrim sighed. “You have not changed, Durotan. You were ever afraid of me defeating you.”

There was a hint of mirth in his voice. Durotan turned, and for the first time in many, many long months, grinned with genuine warmth.

The day had come.

All night, while a ring of warlocks stood guard lest any curious onlooker witness the dark ritual, several stonemasons had been hard at work carving the final seal into the portal’s base. Once they had finished, wiping their sweaty brows and turning to smile at one another, they had been quickly slain. The blood of those who had created the seal would prime it, Gul’dan had been informed by Medivh. Gul’dan had no reason to doubt his new ally’s wisdom. But the luckless masons would not be the last to die here.

The dawn was a fiery one, crimson and orange, and the air was thick and stale. While the portal was being completed over the last several days, other tasks had been finished as well. The war machines that had so devastated Shattrath several months earlier now were again pressed into service, repaired, oiled, and tested. Armor that had been neglected was polished, swords were sharpened, dents hammered out of chest pieces and helms.

The great orcish army that had so decimated the draenei was being reformed.

Some clans had been requested to remain behind. Gul’dan had done his best to convince the chieftains of the Shattered Hand. Shadowmoon, Thunderlord, Bleeding Hollow, and Laughing Skull clans that they were needed here. Grom and the Warsong had been particularly hard to convince to remain. For a moment, as the chieftain raged at him, Gul’dan wondered if he had done the right thing in letting Hellscream drink the demon blood. More than most, he seemed to have little control over his emotions; despite Gul’dan’s flattery about how valuable Grom was to him and how he needed him here, it was Grom’s wildness and unpredictability that made Gul’dan want him to stay behind. He could not risk Grom getting some mad idea into his head and defying orders. Medivh would not like that; he would not like that at all.

Blackhand had requested that the entire Horde gather at the Hellfire Citadel. Over the last few days, several who had returned to their ancestral lands, the Frostwolf clan among them, had trickled in and camped in the area. They had obeyed the order to arm themselves as if they were going into battle, although few of them understood exactly what was going on.

They assembled, clan by clan. Each clan wore their traditional colors in the form of a decorative sash or belt over their armor, and on this hot, windy day, their banners snapped proudly.

Gul’dan and Ner’zhul watched the assembly. Gul’dan turned to his former mentor. “You and your clan will be among those staying behind.” he said shortly.

Ner’zhul nodded, almost meekly. “So I assumed,” he said. He did not say much these days, which was just as well with Gul’dan. He had half suspected that the older orc would try to wrest control from him after Kil’jaeden had abandoned them, but apparently Ner’zhul was too crushed to even do that. Gul’dan thought with contempt about the time, not so long ago, when he had idolized and envied Ner’zhul. How foolish he had been then. He had grown and learned, even from the bitterness of deception. Although there were times when he thought he caught a faint glimmer of something in Ner’zhul’s eyes, as now. He looked sharply at the other orc and decided it was just a trick of the light. He returned his attention to the assembling clans and smiled.

Even though his designs went far beyond simple bloodletting, he could not help but be stirred at the sight. They were glorious! The scorching sun glinting on their armor, their banners waving in the wind, their green faces shining with anticipation. If all was as Medivh promised, this could be the turning point to greatness. The drums began. Deep, primal, they shuddered along the earth, through stone, into the bones of the Horde. Many of them threw back their heads and howled as they began to march, falling naturally into step with one another, again a unified people.

Gul’dan made no move to hurry. Once they were all assembled at the Portal, he would be magically transported there by another warlock. He could enjoy watching the parade of his army march down the wide, paved road to the Portal.

Standing in front of the Portal was a draenei child.

Where had they found it? Durotan had not so much as glimpsed a draenei in months; nor had anyone else. They must have considered it great good luck to have found any draenei, let alone a youngling.

They were in the front of the crowd, standing next to the Thunderlord clan and the Dragonmaw clan. The Portal gate had been finished and looked both beautiful and terrifying. Two cloaked figures, whose eyes glowed red either from magic or clever technology, flanked the opening. A carved serpentine creature curled about the top, its maw gaping open, showing pointed carved teeth. It extended sharp, lizardlike claws and had ridges along its long neck and body. Durotan had never seen anything like this, and briefly wondered how such an image had occurred to the masons. A nightmare, possibly? He grimaced. All in all, it was a formidable construction.

But he only barely registered the skill that had gone into its creation. His eyes were transfixed on the young draenei. He looked so terribly small next to the enormous arch—small, and thin, and bruised. He stared vacantly at the sea of orcs who were bellowing at him, so far beyond terror that he obviously felt nothing.

“What are they going to do with it?” Draka wondered aloud.

Durotan shook his head. “I fear the worst,” he said.

She stared at him. “I saw some killing of children in battle.” she said. “The bloodlust was upon them—I could not condone it, but I could see how it could happen, but surely they will not make a ritual sacrifice out of this child!”

“I hope you are right.” said Durotan, but he could see no other reason for the small figure to be present. If such were the case, he could not stand by. He did not want to risk harm to his clan, so he prayed he was wrong.

The warlocks were chanting something now, and to Durotan’s amazement, Gul’dan appeared right before their eyes. The Horde murmured, and Gul’dan smiled benevolently at them.

“Today is a glorious day for the orcs!” he cried. “You have all seen this Portal being built, admired the craftsmanship and how it stands as a monument to the glory of the Horde. Now, I will reveal to you the visions I have had.” He pointed at the gate. “Far, far away, in a land called Azeroth, I have an ally. He offers us his land. It is green and lush, filled with pure water and fat creatures to hunt. Best of all, we will continue to exult in the glory of bloodshed. A race called “humans” the enemy of our ally, will try to stop us from taking their lands. We will destroy them. Their dark blood will flow freely upon our swords. As we have destroyed the draenei, so now we will destroy the humans!”

A cheer went up. Draka shook her head in disbelief. “How can they still feel this way? Can they not see this new land will suffer as ours has if we continue on this path?”

Durotan nodded his agreement. “But at the same time, there is no choice. We need food, water. We must go through this Portal.” Draka sighed, seeing the logic but not liking it.

“Even now, our ally is working to open the Portal on his side. And now, we will begin.” He gestured to the little draenei captive. “Blood is a pure offering to those who give us these vast powers. And the blood of a child is purer still. With the life fluid of our enemies, we will open the Portal and step into a glorious new world—a new page in the history of the Horde!”

He approached the bound child, who looked up at him with empty eyes. Gul’dan raised a jeweled dagger. It glinted in the sunlight.

“No!”

The word was ripped from Durotan’s lips. Everyone turned to stare at him. He surged forward. If this new venture was opened by the blood of an innocent child, no good could come of it. He did not make it three steps before he was tackled and went down hard on the sun-baked earth. The instant it happened, he heard Draka utter her war cry and the clang of metal on metal as she charged. Chaos erupted. He struggled to his feet and beheld the crumpled form of the child. Blue blood spurted from his slashed throat.

“Gul’dan, what have you done to us!” Durotan shrieked, but his protest was lost in the roar of the enraged mob of orcs. The Frostwolves had sprung into action to defend their chieftain, and the shouts of battle were almost deafening. Durotan’s breath was knocked out of his lungs as his attacker—he could not tell from what clan—resumed the fight. In defense, Durotan lifted his axe and swung. The other dodged, moving more swiftly than Durotan had expected, came up, and—

The tenor of the cries abruptly changed as the earth rumbled beneath their feet and a deep, piercing sound shuddered along their bones. The fighting stopped and as one the orcs turned to gaze at the Portal. Moments before, one could look into the area outlined by the pillars and simply see more of the Hellfire Peninsula landscape. Now there was a blackness and a swirl of stars, as if one were looking into a night sky gone mad. Even Durotan’s eyes were riveted on the sight. As he watched, the blackness shimmered and reformed itself into a scene that both startled and puzzled him.

Gul’dan had spoken of a beautiful land, rich with fat preybeasts, fertile fields, blue skies. Durotan was indeed looking at a place he had never seen before, but it was a far cry from the idyllic realm Gul’dan had described. It was as moist as Draenor now was arid. A thick haze floated above brackish water and swaying marshland grasses. A buzzing, chirping sound filled the air. At least, thought Durotan, there was life in this strange place.

Unhappy murmurs ran through the crowd. This was where Gul’dan wanted to send them? It was not much better on first glance than their own land. But then again, Durotan realized, water meant life. Orange though the sky was, not blue, and drenched though the land was not filled with flowers and meadows, it could support life.

He turned to look at Gul’dan as the murmuring rose in volume. Gul’dan was obviously trying to cover his own shock. He waved his arms for silence.

“Azeroth is a large world, as is our own!” he cried. “You know how different the land can be from place to place. I am certain it is the same here. This place … does not look as inviting as I was …” His voice trailed off and he shook himself, visibly recovering. “But behold, this is in truth another land! It is real! You!”

Gul’dan pointed at two dozen fully armored orcs who stood beside the Portal. They snapped to attention. “You have been chosen to be the first to investigate this new land. Go forth, in the name of the Horde!”

The orcs hesitated only an instant, then grimly ran forward into the Portal.

The scene vanished.

Durotan’s head whipped around to stare at Gul’dan. The warlock was doing his best to stay composed, but clearly he had been rattled.

“They are our scouts” Gul’dan said. “They will return with news of this world.”

And before the gathered orcs could truly begin to grow worried, the image of the swamp reappeared and the orcs hurried through. They were grinning from ear to ear. More than half of them carried the carcasses of large animals. One was a reptile of some sort, scaly, long-tailed, with stubby legs and huge jaws. The other was a four-legged, furry thing, with claws on all four of its feet, a long tail, small rounded ears and spots on its yellow, glossy coat. Both were obviously healthy specimens.

“We have slain and eaten both type of creatures,” the leader of the scout said. “Their flesh is wholesome. The water there is pure. We do not need a beautiful land. We need one that will feed and sustain us. This Azeroth will do so admirably, Gul’dan.”

A murmur went through the crowed. Despite himself, Durotan felt his gaze drawn to the beasts the scouts had brought through and his stomach growled. It had been two days since he had eaten. Gul’dan visibly relaxed. He looked over at Durotan, and his eyes narrowed. Durotan tasted apprehension, sharp and bitter, in his throat.

He and his clan were needed. He knew that. He also knew that his defense of the child—and the reaction it had provoked among the other clans, many of whom had come to the defense of the Frostwolves—would not be forgotten. He had half suspected that Gul’dan would order his execution or banishment, but apparently Durotan and the Frostwolves yet had some use to Gul’dan and Blackhand.

So be it. For now, he would fight alongside his brethren. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself. Whatever betided, Durotan knew he would die with his honor intact.

Gul’dan looked back over the crowd of expectant orcs and took a deep breath.

“This is the moment of destiny,” he said. “On the other side, a new beginning awaits. A new enemy to slaughter. You can feel it, can you not? The bloodlust rising? Follow Blackhand! Listen to his orders and you will rule this new world as is your right! It’s your world on the other side of the Portal. Take it!”

The cries were deafening. The crowd surged forward. Even Durotan found himself caught up in the thrill of a new world, so lush and ripe and ready for the taking. Perhaps his worry was misplaced; perhaps this would indeed be a new beginning. Durotan loved his clan, loved his people. He wanted to see them thrive. And he, like all orcs even before this moment, reveled in the kill.

Perhaps it would all be well.

Axe in hand, hope flourishing in his heart, Durotan joined in the race toward the Portal, toward this place called Azeroth. He lifted his arms and raised the cry that was on the lips of every orc as they surged forward:

“For the Horde!”