Rise of the Horde

3

Drek’Thar had not seen the cities of the draenei when they were at peace. He only saw them when … well, I am getting ahead of myself. But he told me that my father had walked the shining roads of the draenei, had eaten their food, slept in their buildings, spoken with them fairly. Had caught a glimpse of a world so unlike our own that even today, it is hard to wrap one’s mind around it. Even the lands of the kaldorei are not so alien to me as what I have learned of the draenei. Drek’Thar said that Durotan did not have the words to describe what he saw; perhaps today, living in this land that bears his name and seeing what I have seen, he would. Regret is a bitter taste …

Durotan couldn’t move. It was as if the mysterious net of shining energy had flung itself about him as it had the ogre, and he was as helpless to resist. He stared, his mouth slightly open, trying to make sense of what his eyes showed him. The draenei city was glorious! Woven into the side of the mountain as if it had sprung from it, to Durotan’s eyes it was a union of stone and metal, of nature and artifice. He did not know exactly what he was seeing, but he knew it to be harmonious. With its concealing spell dissolved, the city was revealed in its tranquil magnificence. Everything he saw drew the eye upward. Massive stone steps, wide and blunt at the base and tapering toward the top, led to spherical dwellings. One reminded Durotan of a snail shell; another, of a mushroom. The combination was striking. Bathed in the hues of the setting sun, the bold lines of the steps were softened, and the domes seemed even more invitingly rounded.

He turned to see a similar expression of awe on Orgrim’s face, and then saw the slight smile curving Restalaan’s blue lips.

“You are welcome here, Durotan and Orgrim,” Restalaan said. The words seemed to break the spell, and Durotan moved forward awkwardly. The stone of the roads had been smoothed, by time or draenei hands, he could not say. As they drew closer, Durotan could see that the city continued up the mountain. The architectural pattern of wide, bold steps leading to a softly curved structure was repeated here. There were long roads, made of the same white stone that somehow did not seem to get dirty although at least ten generations of orcs had lived and died since the draenei had arrived. Instead of the skins and horns of animals slain in the hunt, the draenei seemingly utilized the gifts of the earth. Gleaming gems were everywhere, and there was that curious overabundance of light brown metal unlike any Durotan had ever seen. The orcs knew metal; they worked it to serve them. Durotan himself had helped in the hunt with axe and sword. But this …

“What is your city made of?” Orgrim asked. It was the first thing he had said since the two began their odd journey in the company of the draenei.

“Many things,” Restalaan said amiably. They were passing through the gates now, and receiving curious, but not hostile, looks from the denizens of this place. “We are travelers, fairly new to your world.”

“New?” Durotan said. “It was over two hundred summers ago that your people came here. We were not as We are now.”

“No, you are not,” Restalaan agreed smoothly. “We have watched the orcs grow in strength and skill and talent. You have impressed us.”

Durotan knew it was meant as a compliment, but somehow the comment stung. As if … as if the draenei thought they were somehow better than the orcs. The thought came and went, fleeting as a brush from a butterfly’s wings. He kept looking around, and to his shame, wondered if that was not indeed the case. No orc dwelling was this ornate, this complicated. But then … the orcs were not draenei. They did not need, or choose, to live like the draenei.

“To answer your question, Orgrim, when We arrived here, We utilized everything We had brought with us. I know your people build boats, to travel the rivers and lakes. Well, we came on a boat that could travel in the sky … a boat that brought us here. It was made of metal and … other things. Once we realized that this was to be our new home, we took part of the boat and used it in our architecture,”

So that was the giant, muted, swirling metal that seemed at once to be made of copper and skin. Durotan’s breath caught.

Beside him, Orgrim scowled.

“You lie! Metal cannot float!”

An orc would have growled and boxed Orgrim’s ears—hard—for such insolence. The draenei merely chuckled.

“So one would think. But one would think that it would not be possible to summon the elements to fight an ogre if one did not know better.”

“That is different,” sniffed Orgrim. “That is magic.”

“So is this, of a sort,” Restalaan said. He beckoned to one of his men and said something in his native tongue. The other draenei nodded and hurried ahead.

“There is someone I would like you to meet, if he is not too busy,” Restalaan said, then fell silent. Durotan had a thousand questions but did not dare voice them, fearing that he would make himself look foolish. Orgrim seemed to have accepted Restalaan’s comment about magic, but both youths still craned their necks looking around.

They passed many draenei in the street, and once saw a female who looked about their age. She was delicately built, but tall, and when Durotan met her gaze, she seemed startled. Then a soft smile curved her lips and she ducked her head shyly.

Durotan felt himself smiling in return. Without thinking, he said, “In our encampment you would find many children. Where are the draenei children?”

“We do not have many,” Restalaan said. “Our people are very long-lived, and because of that we do not often have children.”

“How long-lived?” asked Orgrim.

“Very,” was all Restalaan would say. “Suffice it to say that I remember our arrival here.”

Orgrim stared openly at their companion. Durotan wanted to elbow him, but he was too far away. He suddenly realized that the young-seeming female they had just seen was probably nowhere near his age after all. At that moment, the scout that Restalaan had dispatched returned and spoke quickly. Restalaan looked pleased at whatever the scout had to say, then turned, smiling, to the two orcs.

“The one who brought us to this world, our prophet, Velen, is staying here for several days. I thought he might wish to see you. It is not often We get such visitors.” Restalaan’s smile widened. “I am very pleased to say that not only has Velen agreed to meet you, he has invited you to stay with him this evening. You are to dine with him and sleep in the magister’s house. This is a very high honor indeed.” Both boys were struck dumb. Dinner with the Prophet, the leader of all the draenei?

Durotan was beginning to think it might have been better if he had been squashed flat by the ogre’s club.

They followed dutifully as Restalaan led them down the winding, climbing streets up through the foothills and to the large building that sat highest on the mountain. The steps, perfectly square and solid, seemed to go on forever, and Durotan’s breath came quickly as they climbed. He reached the top and was regarding the snail-shell structure with interest when Restalaan said, “Look back.”

Durotan and Orgrim obeyed, and Durotan’s breath caught in his throat. Below them, spread out like jewels on a meadow, was the draenei city. The last bit of sunset painted them in flaming colors, then the sun settled over the horizon and all was bathed in shades of purple and gray. Lights came on in the houses, and Durotan thought of the stars in the sky settling on the earth.

“I do not mean to brag, but I am proud of my people and our city,” Restalaan said. “We have worked hard here. We love Draenor. And I never thought to have the chance to share it with an orc. The ways of destiny are strange indeed.”

As he said this, a deep, almost ancient sorrow seemed to settle on his strong blue features. He shook off the mood and smiled.

“Come in, and you will be attended to,”

Silent, shocked almost beyond the ability to speak, their young minds wide open to all the sights and sounds and smells of this thoroughly alien place, Durotan and Orgrim entered the magister’s scat. They were shown into rooms that while ornate and beautiful made them feel oddly penned in. The curving walls, so attractive from the outside and no less lovely here, seemed to confine rather than embrace them. Fruits sat in bowls ready for consumption, strange clothes were set out for them to wear, and a tub of water so hot that it steamed sat in the middle of the room.

“That water is too hot to drink and is too much for steeping leaves,” Durotan said.

“It is for bathing,” the draenei replied.

“Bathing?”

“To wash the dirt from one’s body,” Restalaan said. Orgrim shot him a look, but Restalaan seemed to be quite serious.

“We do not bathe,” Orgrim growled.

“We swim in the rivers in summer,” Durotan said. “Perhaps this is similar.”

“You do not need to do anything you feel uncomfortable with,” said Restalaan. “The bath, the food, the clothes are here for your pleasure. Prophet Velen will expect to see you in an hour. I will come for you then. Is there anything you need?”

They shook their heads. Restalaan nodded and closed the door. Durotan turned to Orgrim.

“Do you think we are in danger?” Orgrim eyed the strange materials and the hot water. “No,” he said. “But … I feel like I am in a cave. I would rather be in a tent.”

“Me, too.” Durotan went to the wall and tentatively touched the curving surface. It felt cool and smooth beneath his fingers; he realized that he had expected it to feel warm and … somehow alive.

Durotan turned and pointed at the water. “Do you want to try it?”

“No,” Orgrim said. Both orcs started laughing, and both eventually splashed their faces and found the warm water to be more pleasant than anticipated. They ate the fruit, drank the water, and decided that the cloth vests laid out for their use were acceptable to wear in place of their soiled, sweat-stiff tunics, but that they would keep their leather breeches.

The time passed more swiftly than they anticipated, and they were engaged in a challenge to bend one of the metal legs of a chair when there came a soft knock on the door. They jumped guiltily; Orgrim had managed to twist the chair leg somewhat and it stood a bit crookedly now.

“The Prophet is ready to see you now.” said Restalaan.

He is an Elder, was the first thing Durotan thought as his eyes met those of Prophet Velen.

Seeing the other draenei up close had been startling enough. To behold Velen was something else again.

The Draenei Prophet was half a head taller than the tallest of the city guards Durotan had seen, but not as powerful-seeming physically. His body, clad in soft, swirling, light tan robes, seemed less muscular than theirs. And his skin! It was a warm alabaster hue. His eyes, deep set and wise, glowed a brilliant blue, and were encircled by deeply etched wrinkles, speaking of one who was not just an Elder, but possibly even ancient. His silver hair did not flow down his back, as was the case with the others, but was ornately braided and looped, exposing his pale skull. His beard flowed like a silver wave almost to his waist.

Not Elder. Not even ancient, Durotan thought as those intense blue, glowing eyes settled upon him and seemed to bore into his very soul. Almost . . . outside of time altogether.

He thought about Restalaan’s comment, that he himself was over two hundred summers.

Velen was a good deal older than that.

“Welcome,” Velen said in a mellow voice as he rose and inclined his head. The braids danced with the movement. “I am Velen. I am glad that my people found you today, though I doubt not that in a few years you would be more than capable of handling an ogre and even a gronn or two by yourselves.”

Again, Durotan did not know how he knew this, but this was no idle compliment. Orgrim sensed it too, for he stood up even straighter and met the draenei’s eyes evenly. Velen waved them to sit and they did so. Durotan felt awkward and ungainly, sitting at the lavish tabic in the ornately carved chairs. When the food came out, he relaxed inwardly. Haunch of talbuk, roasted whitefeathers, large rounds of bread, and plates heaped high with vegetables—this was food he knew and understood. Somehow, he had expected something entirely different. But why? Their buildings and way of life might be vastly different from that of the orcs, but like the orcs, the draenei lived off what the land could provide. The preparation was slightly unusual—the orcs tended to either boil their food or cook over an open flame, when they cooked at all; frequently flesh was eaten raw—but overall, food was food, and this food was delicious.

Velen was an excellent host. He asked questions and seemed genuinely interested in the responses: How old would the boys be before they could hunt ogres? Choose a mate? What was their favorite thing to eat? Their favorite weapon? Orgrim, even more than Durotan, warmed to the conversation and began talking of his prowess. To his credit, he did not need to embellish his stories.

“When my father passes, I will inherit the Doomhammer.” Orgrim said proudly. “It is an old and honorable weapon, passed down from father to eldest child.”

“You will swing it well. Orgrim,” said Velen. “But I trust that it will be many years before you take on the name of Doomhammer.”

The fact that his father would have to die before he would become Orgrim Doomhammer seemed to have momentarily escaped the young orc, and he abruptly grew solemn. Velen smiled, with, Durotan thought, a hint of sorrow. At the movement, fine cracks appeared in Velen’s face, the subtlest of spiderwebs on that smooth white surface.

“But describe this hammer to me. It must be a mighty weapon.”

Orgrim brightened again. “It is enormous! The stone is black and blunt and powerful, and the shaft is made of carefully crafted wood. Over the years, the shaft has had to be replaced, but the stone itself has not a chip on it. It is called the Doomhammer because when its owner takes it into battle, it spells doom for the enemy.”

“I see,” said Velen, still smiling.

Orgrim was warming to his task. “But there is also another prophecy,” he continued. “It is said that the last of the Doomhammer line will use it to bring first salvation and then doom to the orc people. Then it will pass into the hands of one who is not of the Blackrock clan, all will change again, and it will once again be used in the cause of justice.”

“That is a powerful prophecy,” said Velen. He said no more, but Durotan felt a shiver. This man was dubbed “Prophet” by his people. Did he know if the Doomhammer prophecy would come true? Did Durotan dare to ask?

Orgrim continued, describing the Doomhammer in loving detail. Durotan, who had seen the weapon in question, ceased listening to Orgrim’s chatter and focused on Velen. Why was this being so interested in them?

Durotan was a sensitive youth, he knew. He had overheard some snippets of conversation from his parents, who were worried about such sensitivity, and from Mother Kashur, who scoffed at them and told them to worry about important things and to “leave the boy to his fate.” Durotan knew feigned interest when he saw it, and felt that he’d recognize it even in a draenei. But Velen’s brilliant blue eyes were bright and focused, his kind if ugly face open, his questions sincere. He wanted to hear about the orcs. And the more he heard, the sadder he seemed to become.

I wish Mother Kashur could be here instead of me, Durotan thought suddenly. She would appreciate this opportunity more than Orgrim or I could.

When Orgrim had finished describing the Doomhammer. Durotan asked, “Can you tell us of your people, Prophet? We know so little. In the last few hours I have learned more than any of my people have over the last hundred years, I think.”

Velen turned glowing blue eyes to Durotan. Durotan wanted to quail from that gaze, not because he was afraid of it, but because he had never before felt so …seen.

“The draenei have never withheld information, young Durotan. But … I believe you may be the first who has ever asked. What do you wish to know?”

Everything, Durotan wanted to stay, but instead focused his question. “The orcs had never met the draenei until two hundred summers past. Restalaan said you came here in a great vessel that can travel the skies. Tell me more of this.”

Velen took a sip of the beverage that tasted like summer to Durotan and smiled. “To begin with, ‘draenei’ is not our true name. It is a term that means … ‘exiled ones’.

Durotan gaped.

“We disagreed with others in our world. We chose not to sell our people into slavery, and for that we were exiled. We have spent much time finding a suitable place to dwell—a place to call our own. We fell in love with this land, and We call it Draenor.”

Durotan nodded. He had heard the term before. He liked how it sat on his tongue when he spoke it, and the orcs did not have a name for this place other than “world.”

“It is our term, We have not the arrogance to think the orcs would use it as well. But such We have dubbed it, and We love Draenor deeply. It is a beautiful world, and We have seen many,”

Orgrim gasped. “You have seen other worlds?”

“Indeed We have. And We have met many people.”

“People like the orcs?”

Velen smiled gently. “There is no one like the orcs,” he said, respect resonant in his voice. “You are unique in our travels.” Durotan and Orgrim looked at each other and sat up a little straighter in their chairs.

“But yes, we had been traveling for some time before we found this land. Here we are, and here we will stay.”

Durotan burned to ask more—to ask how long they had been traveling, what their homeland had been like, why they had left it. But there was something in Velen’s timeless face that told him that although he had been invited to inquire, the draenei leader would not tell him that particular tale.

So instead he asked about how they had tamed the nature of their weapons and magic. “Our magic comes from the earth.” Durotan said. “From the shaman and the ancestors.”

“Our magic comes from a different source.” Velen said. “I do not think you will understand it if I explained it.”

Orgrim said indignantly, “We are not stupid!”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to imply that,” Velen said at once. It was a graceful and sincere apology, and again Durotan was impressed. “Your people are wise and you two are obviously bright. But … I am not sure I have the words in your language. I have no doubt that if I had the time and vocabulary you would understand.”

Even in the explanation he seemed to grope for the words. Durotan thought of the sort of magic that could disguise a city, thought of the soft, uncanny metal somehow melded with gems of the earth and solid stone, and realized that Velen was right. There did not breathe an orc who could have grasped all of this in a single evening, though he suspected Mother Kashur would have an intrinsic comprehension, and he again wondered why it was that the two races did not interact more.

The conversation turned to more mundane topics. The two youths learned that deep in the Terokkar forest was a spot, sacred to the draenei, called Auchindoun. Here, the dead were laid to rest, placed in the ground instead of being burned on pyres. Privately, Durotan thought this odd, but held his tongue. Telmor was the closest town to this “city of the dead,” and Velen had come on a sad mission, to lay to rest some who had died fighting the same ogre that had almost claimed Orgrim and Durotan earlier that day.

Normally, Velen explained, he lived in a beautiful place called the Temple of Karabor. There were other draenei towns, but the largest was to the north, a place called Shattrath.

At last, the meal was over. Velen sighed, and his eyes rested on his empty plate, but Durotan felt certain the Prophet did not see it.

“You will excuse me.” Velen said, rising. “It has been a long day, and I must meditate before I sleep. It has been an honor to meet you, Durotan of the Frostwolf clan, and Orgrim, of the Blackrock clan. I trust you will sleep well and deeply, safe within these walls, where none of your people has been before.” Durotan and Orgrim rose with the others and bowed. Velen smiled with, Durotan thought, a hint of that strange sorrow he had glimpsed in the draenei leader earlier.

“We will meet again, young ones. Good night.” The two orcs left shortly afterward. They were escorted to their rooms and indeed slept well, though Durotan had a dream of an old orc sitting quietly by his side, and wondered what it meant.

“Bring him,” the old orc said to Mother Kashur.

Mother Kashur, the eldest shaman of the Frostwolf clan, slept deeply. Because of her high position of honor, her tent was second in lavishness only to that of Garad, the clan leader. Thick rugs of clefthoof fur kept her old bones from the cold of the earth, and a loyal and loving granddaughter tended to her needs, cooking and cleaning and keeping the fire stoked on cold days for the clan’s “mother.” Mother Kashur’s duty was to listen to the wind and water and fire and grass, and drink the bitter herbal beverage each night that opened her mind to visits from the ancestors. She gathered information for her clan the way the others gathered fruits and firewood, and this gift nourished them as deeply.

The old orc was not present, and yet she knew he was real. He was in her dream, and that was enough for her. In this dream state, she was young and vibrant, could see her ruddy skin glowing with health, knew her form to be sleek and knotted with muscle. The old orc was the age at which he had died, the age at which his wisdom had been at its height. His name had been Tal’kraa in life, but now, although he was many generations distant from her, she called him only Grandfather.

“You received the message,” Grandfather told the young, vibrant dream-Kashur. She nodded, her dark hair flowing with the movement.

“He and the Blackrock boy are with the draenei,” she said. “They will be safe. I can feel it.”

Grandfather Tal’kraa nodded, his thick jowls shaking with the movement. His tusks were yellowed with age and one had been broken off in a battle long since forgotten.

“Yes, they are safe. Bring him.”

It was the second time he had said this, and Kashur was not certain as to what he meant.

“He will come to the mountain in a few months, when the trees shed their leaves to sleep,” she said. “So yes, I will bring him.”

Tal’kraa shook his head fiercely, his brown eyes narrowed in annoyance, Kashur smothered a smile; of all the spirits that honored her with their presence. Grandfather Tal’kraa was one of the least patient.

“No, no,” Tal’kraa growled. “Bring him to us. Bring him to the caverns of Oshu’gun. I would look upon him there.”

Kashur inhaled swiftly. “You … wish me to take him to meet the ancestors?”

“Is that not what I just said? Foolish girl! What has happened to the shaman these days?”

It was a rant he went on frequently and it troubled Kashur not in the slightest. She was too stunned by the import of what he had just said. Sometimes the ancestors had wanted to see a child before; it was infrequent, but it had occurred. Usually it meant that the child in question was destined for the shamanic path. She had not thought Durotan’s feet would walk that road; it was rare that a shaman led a clan. There would be too much pulling him in each direction for him to be an effective leader. To both listen to and honor the spirits and to guide one’s people well were more than most orcs could manage. One who could do both would be a remarkable orc indeed.

When Kashur did not reply. Grandfather growled and slammed his staff on the ground. Kashur jumped slightly.

“I will bring him on his initiation day,” Kashur assured her ancestor.

“At last, you understand,” Tal’kraa said, shaking his staff at her. “And if you fail me, I will take my staff to your head instead of the innocent earth.”

He could not completely hide a smile as he said it, and Kashur smiled back as her dream-self closed her eyes. For all his bluster and short temper, Tal’kraa was wise and kind and loved her deeply. She wished she had known him when he was alive, but he had died almost a hundred years ago.

Kashur’s eyelids fluttered open, and she sighed as her spirit returned to her current, real body … as old as Tal’kraa had been when he died, hands and feet curled up with joint pain, body weak, hair stark white. She knew in her heart that the time would soon come when she would be able to leave this body, this shell, for the final time and be with the ancestors in the sacred mountain. Drek’Thar, her apprentice, would then be the advisor to Garad and the rest of the Frostwolf clan. She had every confidence in him, and actually looked forward to the day when she would be pure spiritual energy.

Although, she mused as the sunlight trickled in and the birdsong caressed her ears, she would miss the things that being alive granted her, the simple things like birdsong and hot food and the loving touch of her granddaughter.

Bring him, Grandfather had said.

And so she would.