Rise of the Horde

5

Upon reflection, so Drek’Thar tells me, this time in our history was as a perfect day in early summer. We orcs had everything we truly needed: a hospitable world, the ancestors to guide us, the elements to aid us as they saw fit. Food was plentiful, our enemies were fierce but not invincible, and we were rich with blessings. If the draenei were not necessarily our allies, neither were they foe. They shared their knowledge and their bounty whenever they were asked; it was we, the orcs, who always held back. And it is we, the orcs, who would unwittingly be twisted to serve another’s end.

Hate is powerful. Hate can be eternal. Hate can be manipulated.

And hate can be created.

In the darkness visible, ageless, timeless, Kil’jaeden dwelt. The power surged and throbbed through him, better than blood now, more nourishing than meat or drink, heady and calming at the same time. He was not omnipotent, not yet, or else worlds would fall before him with a thought rather than through battle and destruction, and on the whole, he was content with this.

But they yet lived, die exiles. Kil’jaeden could sense them, though centuries had passed according to those to whom time still mattered. They were lying low, Velen and die rest of the fools. Too cowardly to face him and Archimonde, who had worked as his friend and ally through the … changes … as he had when they were simple beings.

He, Archimonde, and the others no longer thought of themselves as “eredar.” Velen would call them “man’ari,” but they called themselves the Burning Legion. Sargeras’s army. The chosen ones.

He extended a scarlet hand, long and elegant and clawed, into the nothingness that was everything and felt it ripple beneath his inquiry. Scouts had been dispatched the moment the enemy had escaped, scouts who reported nothing but failure. Archimonde wanted them to die for their lack of success, but Kil’jaeden opted otherwise. Those who feared, fled, he had good cause to know. Those who sniffed reward and their lord’s approval stayed, hungering for it. So while Kil’jaeden made his disapproval known, those who had failed him usually got a second chance. Or third, if he believed them to be doing all they could and not simply coasting on his goodwill.

Archimonde disagreed on this obsession that occupied Kil’jaeden.

“There are worlds aplenty to conquer and devour, in service to our master Sargeras,” Archimonde rumbled. The blackness glowed around them as his voice pierced it. “Let the fool go. We would sense it if he used his talents on any level that would pose a threat. Let him rot on some world, bereft of everything that mattered to him.”

Kil’jaeden slowly turned his massive head to regard the other demon lord.

“It is not about rendering him powerless,” Kil’jaeden hissed. “It is about destroying him and those foolish enough to have followed him. It is about crushing him for his lack of faith. For his stubbornness. For his refusal to think about what was best for all of us.”

The large, clawed hand turned into a fist and the sharp nails dug into the palm. Molten fire poured forth, then the flow stopped as it hit what passed for air, leaving a thick ridge like a scar. Kil’jaeden’s body was covered with many such welts; he took pride in them.

Archimonde was powerful, elegant, smooth, intelligent. But he lacked the burning desire for utter obliteration that Kil’jaeden nursed. He had explained it time and again, and now simply sighed and opted not to discuss the matter further. For centuries now, they had had this argument; no doubt they would continue to have it for centuries more … or until Kil’jaeden succeeded in the destruction of the being who had once been his closest friend. Perhaps that was it. Kil’jaeden mused with a sudden enlightenment. Archimonde had never had particular feelings for Velen other than as a fellow leader of the eredar. Kil’jaeden had loved Velen as a brother, closer than that, loved him almost as another aspect of himself.

And then …

Again the huge hand clenched, and again unholy fire poured forth in lieu of blood.

No.

It would not be enough to think of Velen sitting on some backwater world, nursing his hurt pride, living off the land in some cave. Kil’jaeden once would have said he wanted blood. But blood, powerful in its own way as it was, would not satisfy him now. He wanted the essence of shame, of utter and complete humiliation. That would be even sweeter than the coppery taste of life flowing from Velen and his stupid followers.

Archimonde tilted his head, a gesture Kil’jaeden recognized. One of his own servants was speaking to him. Archimonde had his own schemes and machinations, all, like Kil’jaeden’s, in service to their dark master and his ultimate conquest. Without a word Archimonde rose to his full, imposing height and departed, his movements lithe and sleek, belying his size.

At that moment as well, Kil’jaeden felt a slight scratching inside his head. He recognized it as once: it was Talgath, ever his right hand, seeking contact. And the sensation emanating from the thought was one of cautious hope.

What is it, my friend? Speak! Kil’jaeden commanded in his mind.

My great lord, I do not wish to plant false hope, but … I may have found them.

Tempered delight rose inside Kil’jaeden. Like the being he hunted, Talgath was ever the cautious one of his minions. Only a little lower in rank than Kil’jaeden himself, he had proved his loyalty over the centuries. He would not say even this guarded statement without good cause.

Where? And what makes you sense this?

There is a small world, primitive and insignificant. And I have sensed their peculiar brand of magic Minting the area. It is possible that they may have come and gone. Such, alas, has happened before.

Kil’jaeden nodded, even though Talgath was not present to see the gesture. Some things from his past yet lingered, he thought, smiling a little at the ancient movement that betokened agreement in nearly every sentient species he had encountered.

You speak truly, he acknowledged. Many times before, Kil’jaeden’s forces had arrived on some world or other, lured by the sweet essence of eredar magic, only to find that somehow Velen and his wretched followers had gotten wind of the approach and escaped. But I remain hopeful. I will find them and twist them to my purposes, and I have eternity in which to do so.

A thought occurred to him. So often before, Kil’jaeden’s forces had descended upon a world where Velen was thought to be, only to have him escape. Kil’jaeden had nursed his insulted pride by destroying such worlds, but the slaughter of primitive races—though pleasant—did not slake his demonic thirst for complete and total revenge.

He would not behave that way this time. He would not send Talgath at the head of the Burning Legion. Velen had once been the strongest of them, the wisest, the most attuned to magic and science. Kil’jaeden could not imagine that his old friend would have dropped his guard, not after such a relatively brief time. Velen would be constantly on the alert, ready to flee in the face of so obvious a threat.

But … what about a less obvious threat?

Talgath … I want you to investigate this world for me.

My lord? Talgath’s mental voice was smooth and poised, but puzzled.

We have descended upon worlds in force before, and to no avail. Perhaps this time, only one is sent. One only, but one who can be trusted completely.

Kil’jaeden sensed unease and pride warring in Talgath’s thoughts.

There are more ways to destroy one’s enemy than with an army. Sometimes, those ways are better.

You—you wish me to find such a better way, then?

Precisely. Visit this place on your own. Learn about it. Investigate. Tell me if the exiles are truly there, and if so, what their state is. Tell me what they live on, if they are fat and settled like tamed livestock or lean and edgy, like prey animals. Tell me what their world is like, what other peoples live there, what creatures, what seasons. Investigate, Talgath. Do nothing without express orders from me.

Of course, my lord. I shall prepare at once. Still puzzled, but obedient and intelligent. Talgath had served the man’ari master well in the past. Now he would serve well again.

Kil’jaeden’s face, though it little resembled what it had been before he had cast his lot with the great lord Sargeras, was still able to twist into the facsimile of a smile.

Durotan, like all his people, had been ready to begin training with weapons at the age of six. His body was already tall and filling out, and the usage of weaponry came naturally to his people. At twelve, he had gone with the hunting parties. And now, after the rite that marked him as an adult, he had been able to join in the hunt for the ogres and their obscene, twisted masters, the gronn.

This year, as the autumn Kosh’harg came, he joined the adults in the circle after the children had been sent to bed. And as he and Orgrim had learned years before, being an adult and being able to attend the fireside circle was not very interesting.

However, the one thing he did find interesting, as he watched with observant brown eyes, was interacting with those whose names he had known for many years, but who never spoke much to him because of his youth. Mother Kashur, of course, was from his own dan. He knew she had high standing among the shaman of the other clans, and he took pride in that fact. He noticed her huddled by the fire on this first night, a woven blanket wrapped around a frame that seemed to him little more than bone and skin. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that this would be her last Kosh’harg celebration, and the thought saddened him more than he had expected.

Next to her, younger than she but older still than Durotan’s parents, was Kashur’s apprentice Drek’Thar. Durotan had not spoken much with Drek’Thar, but the older orc’s sharp tongue and sharp eyes were deserving of much respect. Durotan’s brown eyes continued to roam over the assembled company. Tomorrow, the shaman would be gone, departing for their meetings with the ancestors in the cavern of the sacred mountain. Durotan shivered as he again recalled his visit there, and the cold breeze that felt like a draft, but was nothing so ordinary.

Over there was Grom Hellscream, the young and slightly manic chieftain of the Warsong clan. Only a few years older than Durotan and Orgrim, he was new to his position. There had been mutterings about the mysterious circumstances under which the former chieftain had died, but the Warsong clan did not challenge Grom’s leadership. Durotan thought it no wonder. Though youthful, Grom was intimidating. The dancing, flickering light of the fire only served to make him look more menacing. Thick black hair flowed down his back. Upon his ascension to chieftainship, Grom’s jaw had been tattooed a uniform shade of black. Around his neck hung a necklace of bones. Durotan knew their meaning: Among the Warsong, it was tradition that a young warrior wear the bones of his first kill, inscribed with his personal runes.

Beside Grom was the enormous, imposing Blackhand of the Blackrock clan. Next to Blackhand, munching in silence, was the chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan, Kargath Bladefist. In lieu of a hand, he had a scythe embedded in his wrist, and even now as an adult Durotan found himself unsettled as the blade glinted in the firelight. Next to him was Kilrogg Deadeye, chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow clan. The name was not a familial one, but one he had taken for himself. One eye flitted over the assembled company; the other sat, mangled and dead in truth, in its socket. If Grom was young for a chieftain, then Kilrogg was old for one, but it was clear to Durotan that despite his years and grizzled appearance, Kilrogg was far from done with either life or leadership.

Uneasily Durotan turned his attention elsewhere.

On Drek’Thar’s left was the famous Ner’zhul of the Shadowmoon clan. For as long as Durotan could remember, Ner’zhul had led the shaman. Once, Durotan had been permitted to attend a hunt at which Ner’zhul had been present, and the mastery this shaman had over his skills was shocking. While others grunted and labored to contact the elements, directing them powerfully but without grace, Ner’zhul remained tranquil. The earth shook beneath him when he asked it; lightning came from the skies to strike where he directed. Fire, air, water, earth, and the elusive Spirit of the Wilds all called him companion and friend. He had not seen Ner’zhul interact with the ancestors, of course; no one but shaman were witness to such things. But it was clear to Durotan that if the ancestors had not favored Ner’zhul, he would not have serenely carried power all this time.

Ner’zhul’s apprentice, however, Durotan did not like. Orgrim was sitting next to his boyhood friend, and, seeing where Durotan’s gaze led, leaned over and whispered, “I think that Gul’dan would better serve his people if he were set out as bait.”

Durotan looked away so that no one else would see him smile. He did not know how experienced Gul’dan was as a shaman; surely he must have some ability or else Ner’zhul would not have taken him on to succeed him. But he was not a very prepossessing orc. Shorter than many, softer than most, with a short, bushy beard, he did not exemplify the orc as a warrior. But Durotan supposed that one did not have to be a hero to contribute.

“Now that one, she is a warrior born.”

Durotan looked in the direction that Orgrim had indicated and his eyes widened slightly. Orgrim had spoken the truth. Standing tall and straight, her muscles rippling beneath smooth brown skin in the firelight as she reached and sliced a chunk of meat off the roasting talbuk carcass, the female in question seemed to Durotan to be the epitome of all the orcs valued. She moved with the feral grace of one of the black wolves, and her tusks were small but sharpened to deadly points. Her long black hair was pulled back in an efficient but attractive braid.

“Who—who is she?” Durotan murmured, his heart already sinking. Surely this magnificent female was a member of another clan. He would have noticed if such a beauty—strong, supple, graceful—had been in his own clan.

Orgrim guffawed and slapped Durotan on the back. The sound and gesture caused several heads to turn in their direction, including, Durotan realized, that of the lovely female. Orgrim leaned in to whisper the words that made Durotan’s spirits rise.

“You unobservant dog! She is a Frostwolf! I’d have claimed her for myself if she were of my own clan.”

A Frostwolf? How in the world had Durotan failed to notice such a treasure in his own clan? He turned his gaze from Orgrim’s grinning visage to look at her again. He found her staring directly at him. Their gazes locked.

“Draka!”

The female started and turned away. Durotan blinked, as if returning to himself.

“Draka,” he said quietly. No wonder he had not recognized her. “No, Orgrim. She was not a warrior born. She is a warrior made.” Draka had been born sickly, her skin a pale fawn color rather than the healthy tree-bark brown that marked most orcs. For most of his childhood. Durotan remembered the adults speaking of her in low whispers, as of one already on the way to joining the ancestors. His own parents once spoke of her sadly, wondering what her family had done that the spirits would curse them with such a frail child.

It was soon after that. Durotan realized, putting the pieces together, that Draka’s family had moved to the outskirts of the encampment. He had not seen much of her, busy as he was with his own duties.

Draka had sliced off several chunks of meat and brought them back to her family. Durotan noticed two younglings sitting with the orcs who presumably were her parents. Both looked fit and healthy. Feeling her gaze upon him. Draka turned her head and met his eyes steadily. Her nostrils flared and she sat up straighter, as if daring Durotan to look upon her with pity and compassion rather than admiration and respect.

No, this one did not need any pity. By the grace of the spirits, the healing of the shaman, and the power of the will he could see burning in her brown eyes, she had cast off her childhood frailty to mature into this … this vision of female orc perfection.

His breath escaped him in a whoosh as Orgrim elbowed him. Durotan glared at his childhood friend.

“Stop gaping, it makes me want to put something in your mouth to shut it,” Orgrim grumbled.

Durotan realized he had indeed been gaping, and that more than one knowing, grinning glance was coming his way. He returned his attention to the feast, and did not glance at Draka again for the rest of the night.

But he dreamed of her. And when he awoke, he knew that she would be his. He was heir to the chieftaincy of one of the proudest of orc clans.

What female could deny him?

“No,” Draka said.

Durotan was stunned. He had approached Draka the next morning and invited her to go hunting with him the following day. Alone. Both knew what that meant; male and female hunting in a pair was a courtship ritual. And she had rebuffed him.

It was so unexpected he did not know how to react. She watched him almost contemptuously, her lips curving around her perfect tusks in a smirk.

“Why not?” Durotan managed.

“I am not yet of age.” she replied. The way she phrased it made it sound more like an excuse than a reason.

But Durotan would not be put off so easily. “I had intended this to be a courting hunt, that much is true,” he said bluntly. “But if you are not of age I will respect that. Still. I would like your company. Let this be a hunt shared by two proud warriors, nothing more.” Now it was her turn to be startled. Durotan guessed that Draka had expected him to either push the point or leave in anger.

She paused, her eyes wide. Then she grinned. “I will come on such a hunt, Durotan, son of Garad, leader of the Frostwolf clan.”

Durotan thought he had never been happier. This was vastly different from the usual hunt. He and Draka had set a brisk, loping pace. All his challenges with Orgrim had given Durotan stamina, and for a moment he worried that he was going too fast. But Draka, born so fragile and now so strong, kept up with him. They did not speak much; there was little to say. They were on a hunt, they would find prey, kill it, and bring it back to their clan. The silence was easy and comfortable.

He slowed as they moved into open territory and began to scan the ground. There was no snow on the earth, so tracking was not the simple job it was in the winter months. But Durotan knew what to look for: disturbed grass, broken bush twigs, an indentation, however slight, on the soil.

“Clefthooves,” he said. He rose and scanned the horizon in the direction they had gone. Draka still crouched on the earth, her fingers delicately moving aside the foliage.

“One is injured,” she announced.

Durotan turned to her. “I saw no blood.”

She shook her head. “No blood, but the pattern of the prints tells me this.” She pointed where he had looked. He saw nothing to alert him to an injured beast and shook his head, puzzled.

“No, no, not this print … the next. And the one after that.”

She moved along, careful where she placed her feet, and suddenly Durotan saw what she had: The indentations of one hoof were slightly less deep than the other three.

The beast was limping.

He turned admiring eyes on her, and she flushed slightly. “It is easy to read.” she said. “You would have found it yourself.”

“No,” he admitted honestly. “I did not. I saw the prints, but I did not take the time to observe them in full detail. You did. You will make an excellent hunter one day.”

She straightened and looked at him proudly. Something warm and simultaneously strengthening and weakening rushed through him. He was not one to pray, but now as he looked at Draka standing before him, he sent a quick prayer to the spirits: Let this female look agreeably upon me.

They followed the trail like wolves on the scent. Durotan had stopped leading; this female was his equal in tracking. They complemented one another well. He had the sharper eyes, but she looked more deeply at what he found. He wondered what it would be like to fight beside her. Their eyes on the earth before them, they loped around a sharp turn. He wondered what it would be like to—

The great black wolf, crouched snarling over the same animal they had been tracking, whirled. For an endless instant, three predators regarded one another. But even before the mighty beast had gathered itself to spring, Durotan had charged.

The axe felt as nothing in his arms as he lifted and struck- It sank deep into the creature’s torso, but Durotan felt the retaliatory bite from yellowed teeth crunch down on his arm. Pain, white hot and shocking, coursed through him. He tore his arm free. It was harder this time to lift the axe with his arm pumping blood, but he did. The wolf had turned its attention fully upon Durotan, its yellow eyes boring into his, its mouth open in a roar. Its hot breath stank of rancid meat.

At that instant, before the great jaws could close upon his face, Durotan heard a war cry. There was a flurry of movement in the corner of his eye. Draka sprang upon the beast, her long, ornamented spear preceding her. The wolf’s head snapped back as the spear pierced its midsection. In the instant of inattention, Durotan hefted his axe again and brought it down as hard as he could. He felt it cut through the animal’s body, down, down, striking earth, going deep, lodging so firmly he could not pull it out immediately.

He stepped back, panting. Draka stood beside him.

He felt her warmth, her energy, her passion for the hunt as powerful as his. Together they stared at the mighty beast they had slain. They had been taken unawares by an animal that usually required several seasoned orcs to bring it down, and they were still alive. Their foe lay dead, blood pooling beneath it, sliced in two by Durotan’s axe, Draka’s spear protruding from its heart. Durotan realized he would never be able to tell which of them had struck the true killing blow, and the thought made him ridiculously happy.

He sat down hard.

Draka was there, quickly washing the blood from his lacerated arm, only to mutter under her breath as more came. She tended him with healing salves and tightly wrapped bandages, along with some bitter-tasting herbs she added to the water and ordered him to drink. After a few moments, the dizziness went away.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

She nodded, not looking at him. Then a smile quirked one corner of her mouth.

“What is so funny? That I was not able to stand?”

His voice was harsher than he had intended and she looked up quickly, surprised at his tone.

“Not at all. You fought well, Durotan. Many would have dropped their axe after such a blow,”

He felt oddly pleased by her comment, delivered as a factual statement rather than flattery. “Then … what amuses you?” She grinned, meeting his eyes evenly. “I know something, and you do not know it. But … after this … I think I will tell you.”

He felt himself smiling too. “I am honored.”

“I told you yesterday that I was not of age for a courtship hunt.”

“True.”

“Well … when I said that, I knew I would soon come of age.

“I see,” he said, though he didn’t, not quite. “Well … when will you come of age?”

Her smile broadened. “Today,” she said simply.

He looked at her for a long moment, then, with no word, pulled her to him and kissed her.

Talgath had been observing the orcs for some time. Now, he withdrew from them, their bestial nature offending him. Being a man’ari was better. Except for the female creatures with the leathery wings and tail, man’ari slaked their lust with violence, not coupling. He preferred it that way. He would, in fact, have preferred to have slain the two on the spot, but his master had been quite clear about intervening. There would be questions asked if these two did not return to their clan, and though they were as unimportant as flies to him, flies could become a nuisance. Kil’jaeden wanted him only to observe and report back, nothing more. And so Talgath would.

Revenge, mused Kil’jaeden, like fruit on a tree, was sweetest when allowed to fully ripen. There had been moments over the long stretch of years when he had harbored doubts about being able to locate the renegade eredar. The more Talgath shared with him, however, the more confident and delighted Kil’jaeden grew.

Talgath had served him well. He had observed the pathetic, so-called “cities” the once-mighty Velen and his little handful of eredar had created. He had observed how they lived, hunting like the creatures who called themselves “orcs,” putting grain in the ground with their own hands. He had watched them trade with the hulking, barely verbal creatures, treating them with a courtesy that was positively laughable. Talgath sensed some echoes of former grandeur in their buildings and limited technology, but overall, Talgath felt that Kil’jaeden would be pleased with how low his former friend had fallen.

“Draenei,” they called themselves now. The exiles. And they had named the world Draenor.

Kil’jaeden realized that Talgath was perplexed when, rather than focusing on Velen himself, Kil’jaeden wanted to know more about the orcs. How were they organized? What were some of their customs? Who were their leaders, and how were they chosen? What was important to them as a society, as individuals?

But Talgath’s job was to report, not to evaluate, and he answered his master to the best of his ability. When at last Kil’jaeden had learned everything that Talgath had learned, right down to the names of the two beasts rutting after their kill together, he was satisfied—for the moment at least.

At long last, revenge would be his. Velen and his upstart companions would be punished. But not quickly, not with an army of enhanced eredar to rend them to pieces of bloody pulp. That would be too merciful. Kil’jaeden wanted them dead, yes. But he wanted them broken. Humiliated. Crushed as utterly and completely as an insect beneath a booted foot.

And now, he knew exactly how to do it.