Rise of the Horde

6

The lessons from that time were bitter, bought with blood and death and torment. But ironically, the thing that nearly destroyed us was the thing that would redeem us later: a sense of unity. Each clan was loyal to itself, fiercely dedicated to its members, but not to others. What we united under, and against, was dreadfully wrong and for that, we are atoning stilt Generations after me will still pay for those mistakes. But the unity itself was glorious. And it is that lesson I wish to recover from the ashes. It is that lesson that caused me to speak with the leaders of so many seemingly different peoples, to work together toward goals we can all be proud of.

Unity. Harmony That is the good lesson of the past. I have learned it well.

Ner’zhul looked up into the twilight sky, content. The sunset was brilliant tonight. The ancestors must be pleased, he mused, taking a small amount of pride in the thought. Another Kosh’harg had come and gone. They seemed to him to come much harder on each other’s heels than they had in the past, and each time the celebration occurred, there was something to rejoice in, and something to mourn.

His old friend, Kashur—he understood that her clan, the Frostwolves, had addressed her reverently as “Mother”—had passed to the ancestors. From what he had heard, she had died bravely. She had insisted on joining a hunt, something she had not done for years. The Frostwolves had hunted clefthooves, and the ancient Mother had been in the vanguard of the charging warriors. She had been trampled to death before anyone could intervene to save her, and Ner’zhul knew that even as her clan mourned her, they celebrated her life and how she had chosen to depart it. Such was the way of the orcs. He wondered if he would see her, and then chided himself for the thought. He would see her if she saw fit to reveal herself to him. Death was not the vast desert of sorrow to a shaman that it was to other orcs, for they had the privilege to again be in the presence of the beloved dead, learn their wisdom, feel their affection.

The Frostwolves had had a double tragedy, for the intervening time between Kosh’hargs had claimed their leader Garad as well. The Frostwolves had had the misfortune on one deceptively sunny day to stumble across no fewer than three ogres and one of their monstrous masters. The hideous creatures were stupid but fierce, and the gronn was a cunning foe. The orcs were victorious, but at a grave cost. Despite all the healers could do, Garad and several others died from their injuries that black day.

But in the sorrow of losing a leader, and one that Ner’zhul had known and respected, was the joy of seeing new blood come into its own. Kashur had spoken well of young Durotan, and from all Ner’zhul had seen, the youth would make a fine leader. He had watched as Durotan was named chieftain, and had noticed an attractive, fierce-looking female looking on with more than simple clan interest in the proceedings. Ner’zhul felt certain that by the next Kosh’harg, the lovely Draka would be the mate of the new Frostwolf chieftain.

He sighed, sifting through the images in his mind while filling his eyes with the delights of the glorious sunset. The years came and went, and gave their blessings, and demanded their sacrifices.

He went to his small hut, which he had once shared with a mate who had passed to the ancestors several years ago. Rulkan visited him from time to time, imparting no words of wisdom, but filling his heart with tenderness and opening him afresh to the needs of his people each time her spirit brushed his. He missed her rough laughter and her warmth beside him at night, but he was content. Perhaps, he mused, Rulkan would come to him in a vision tonight.

He prepared a potion, chanting over it softly, then drinking it slowly. It would not actually cause a vision; nothing would unless the ancestors willed it, and sometimes visions came upon him when he least expected them. But over many long years the shaman had learned that some herbs opened the mind while one slept, so mat if one was indeed granted the gift of a vision, one would remember it more clearly the following morning.

Ner’zhul closed his eyes, and then opened them again almost immediately, although he knew he was fast asleep.

They were standing on a mountaintop, he and his beloved Rulkan. At first he thought they were observing the sunset together, then realized that the sun was rising, not descending into slumber for the night. The sky was glorious, but in a way that roused and moved him rather than calmed and comforted him. The colors were scarlet and purple and orange, almost violent, and Ner’zhul’s heart lifted.

Rulkan turned to him, smiling, and for the first time since she had exhaled her final breath as a living being, she spoke to him.

“Ner’zhul, my mate, this is a new beginning,”

He gasped, trembling, overcome with love for her, flooded with a simmering excitement roused by the vibrant colors of the sunrise. A new beginning?

“You have led our people well,” she said. “But the time has come to deepen the old ways, take them further, for the good of all.”

Something rose inside his mind to nudge at his conscious thought. Rulkan had not been a shaman. She had not been a chieftain. She had only been her wonderful self, which had been more than enough for Ner’zhul, but she had held no position in life that would make it likely that she would speak so authoritatively. Annoyed at his lack of faith, Ner’zhul pushed the voice down. He was not a spirit. He was only flesh and blood and though he understood the spirit ways more than most, he also knew that there was much he would never understand until he stood with them. Why wouldn’t Rulkan speak for the ancestors?

“I am listening,” he said.

She smiled. “I knew you would,” she said. “There are dark and dangerous times ahead for the orcs. Hitherto, we have only come together at the Kosh’harg festivals. Such isolation must end if we are to survive as a race.

Rulkan looked into the sunrise, her face thoughtful and shadowed. Ner’zhul ached to hold her, to take her burdens as his own as he always had in life. But now, he knew he could not touch her, nor force her to speak. So he sat silently, drinking in her beauty, ears straining for her voice.

“There is upon this world a blight,” Rulkan said quietly. “It must be eliminated.”

“Say it, and it will be done,” Ner’zhul swore fervently. “I will always honor the advice of the ancestors.

She turned to him then, her eyes searching his as the light grew brighter. “When it is eliminated, our people will stand proud and tall … even more than they are now. Power and strength will be ours. This world will be ours. And you … you, Ner’zhul, will lead them.”

Something in the way she said the words made Ner’zhul’s heart leap. He was already powerful. He was honored, perhaps even revered, by his own clan, the Shadowmoon dan. He was the leader of all the orcs, in fact if not in name. But now desire stirred in his heart for more. And fear stirred in him too, dark and unpleasant, but something that must be faced.

“What is this threat that must be eliminated before the orcs can claim what is rightfully theirs?”

She told him.

“What does this mean?” Durotan asked.

He broke his fast with the two people in his clan he trusted most: Draka, his intended, whom he would wed with full ceremony at the next full moon, and Drek’Thar, the new head shaman of the clan.

Durotan, along with everyone else, had mourned the passing of Mother Kashur. Durotan knew in his bones that she had intended to die that day, and wished to make a good death. She would be missed, but Drek’Thar had proved himself a worthy successor. Fighting back his personal grief, he had stepped in as the primary healer of the hunt then and subsequently. Kashur would have been proud. Now the three sat and ate in the chieftain’s tent, where Durotan, chieftain since his father’s death in battle against the gronn and their ogres, now dwelt.

Durotan was referring to the letter that had recently arrived, borne by a long, lean courier on a long, lean black wolf. He again perused its contents as he ate porridge made from blood and grain.

Durotan had made the courier wait while he discussed the matter. The courier seemed quite put out, but agreed to stay for a brief time. The aromatic smell of the porridge, wafting from a large cauldron, perhaps helped convince him.

“I do not know, other than that obviously Ner’zhul feels this is of extreme importance,” Drek’Thar admitted. “Such a thing has never happened outside of the Kosh’harg ceremonies. Always the shaman have a meeting then, in the presence of the ancestors who wish to attend. But never outside of that. And I have never heard of anyone summoning the chieftains. But I have known Ner’zhul all my life. He is a wise and great shaman. If the spirits were to speak to any of us about something that threatens us all, they would speak through him.”

Draka growled, “Summoning you like you are pets to come at his call.” she muttered. “I mislike this. Durotan. It smacks of arrogance.”

“I do not disagree with you,” Durotan said. His hackles had risen at the tone of the letter and at first he had been inclined to refuse. But as he read it again, he looked past the haughty words to the intent of the letter. Something was definitely troubling the one orc everyone respected, and surely that was worth a few days’ travel.

Draka watched him, her eyes narrowing. He looked at her and smiled.

“I will go, then. And all my shaman.”

Draka frowned. “I will come with you.”

“I think it would be best if—”

Draka snarled. “I am Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish. I am your intended, soon to be your life partner. You will not forbid me to accompany you!”

Durotan threw back his head and laughed, warm inside at the display of Draka’s spirit. He had chosen well, all right. From one born weak had come strength and fire. The Frostwolf clan would flourish with her by his side.

“Call in the courier, then, if he has finished his meal,” Durotan said, humor still lacing his deep voice. “Tell him that we will come to this strange meeting of Ner’zhul’s, but we had best be assured of its necessity when we are there.”

The Frostwolf leader and shaman were among the first to arrive. Ner’zhul himself greeted them, and the moment Durotan laid eyes on the shaman he knew that he had been right to come. While Ner’zhul was not a young orc, Durotan thought he had aged years in the few months since the last Kosh’harg. He looked … thinner, almost wasted, as if he had not been eating for some while. And his eyes looked haunted. He grasped Durotan’s broad shoulders with hands that trembled, and his thanks were sincere.

This was no arrogant play for power, but a genuine feeling of threat. Durotan inclined his head, then left to see his people settled in.

Over the next few hours, as the sun sank toward the horizon, Durotan watched a steady stream of orcs progress to the flat meadowlands at the base of the sacred mountain, almost as if gathering there for the Kosh’harg festival. He saw the bright banners that announced every clan fluttering in the breeze, and he felt a smile curve his face when he saw the symbol of the Blackrock clan—Orgrim’s clan. Since they had become adults, the two boyhood friends had found their time together limited, and while Orgrim had attended Durotan’s chieftain ceremony, they had not seen one another since, Durotan was pleased but not altogether surprised to see that Orgrim marched only a step behind Blackhand, the hulking and intimidating leader of the Blackrock clan. Durotan’s old friend was now second in command, then.

Draka followed her future mate’s gaze and grunted, also pleased. She got along very well with Orgrim, for which Durotan was grateful. He was fortunate that the two people who mattered the most to him could be friends with one another.

While Blackhand was speaking with Ner’zhul, Orgrim threw Durotan a glance and a wink. Durotan grinned back. He was troubled by Ner’zhul’s appearance, but at the very least, this gathering would give him a chance to visit with Orgrim. Even as Durotan had that thought, however, Blackhand turned away with a snort and waved for Orgrim to follow. Durotan felt the smile on his face ebb; if Blackhand demanded that Orgrim attend him throughout this meeting, then even that pleasure would be denied him.

Draka, who knew him so well, reached for his hand and squeezed it. She said nothing, she did not have to. Durotan looked down at her and smiled.

Word came from the same long, lean courier that Ner’zhul would not hold the meeting until tomorrow, as various clans would still be trickling in through the night. The Frostwolf encampment was smaller than most but more harmonious than many They had brought traveling tents and furs, and the courier had seen to it that they had been given plenty of meat, fish, and fruit. A haunch of talbuk now turned slowly over the fire, its tantalizing scent keeping the appetite sharp even as the orcs feasted on raw fish. There were a total of eleven—Durotan, Draka, Drek’Thar, and eight of his shaman. Some of them looked very young to Durotan, but while shaman certainly could grow in skill over time, once the ancestors had appeared to them in visions they were all accorded equal honor and respect.

A shadowy form appeared beyond the ring of the fire’s illumination. Durotan got to his feet and drew himself to his full imposing height, just in case the visitor had had too much to drink and had come with belligerent intent. Then the wind shifted and he laughed as he caught Orgrim’s scent.

“Welcome, my old friend,” he cried as he went to roughly embrace the other orc. Tall as Durotan was, Orgrim was still bigger, as he had been in their youth. As he regarded the Blackrock second in command, Durotan privately marveled how he had been able to best Orgrim in anything.

Orgrim grunted and clapped Durotan on the shoulder. “Your gathering is small, but it smells the best of any of them,” he said, looking at the roasting meat and sniffing appreciatively.

“Then tear off a hunk of talbuk and leave your duties behind for a while,” Draka said. “Would that I could,” Orgrim sighed, “but I do not have much time. If the Frostwolf chieftain would walk with me a bit, I would be honored.”

“Let us walk, then,” Durotan replied.

They left the encampment and walked in silence for a time, until the campfires were small, twinkling lights in the distance and they were assured that there were no prying eyes or ears to witness them. Both orcs sniffed the wind as well. Orgrim stood silently for a while, and Durotan waited with the patience of the true hunter.

At last, Orgrim spoke. “Blackhand did not want us to come,” he said. “He thought it demeaning, that Ner’zhul would summon us like we were pets to his call.”

“Draka and I had that reaction as well, but I am glad we did. You saw Ner’zhul’s face. One look at him was all I needed to determine that we had been right to come.”

Orgrim snorted derisively. “For myself as well, but when I left the camp, Blackhand was still raging against the shaman. He does not see what you and I do.”

It was not Durotan’s place to speak ill of another clan leader, but neither was it any secret what most orcs thought of Blackhand. He was certainly a powerful orc, fully in his prime, bigger and stronger than any orc Durotan had ever seen. And he was also certainly not stupid. But there was an air about him that raised Durotan’s hackles. Durotan decided to hold his tongue.

“I see your struggle even in the darkness, my old friend,” Orgrim said quietly. “You do not have to speak for me to know what you would say. He is my chieftain, I have sworn loyalty to him and I will not break that oath. But even I have my misgivings.”

The admission startled Durotan. “You do?”

Orgrim nodded. “I am torn, Durotan; torn between my loyalties and what my mind and heart tell me. May you never be put in such a position. As second, I can help moderate him somewhat, but not much. He is clan leader, and he has the power. I can only hope that he will listen to others tomorrow and not stubbornly sit on his wounded pride.”

Durotan fervently shared that hope. If things were indeed as bad as Ner’zhul’s expression seemed to indicate, the last thing he wanted to see was the leader of one of the most powerful clans behaving like a spoiled child.

His eye fell upon a dark shape on Orgrim’s back. Pride and sorrow both flooded him as he spoke. “You carry the Doomhammer now. I did not know of your father’s passing.”

“He died bravely and well,” Orgrim said. He hesitated, then said, “Do you remember that day long ago when We ran afoul of the ogre and the draenei saved us?”

“I could never forget it,” Durotan said.

“Their prophet spoke of the time when I would receive the Doomhammer,” Orgrim said. “I was so excited at the thought of wielding it in the hunt. That was the first time ! understood—I mean really understood—that the day it became my weapon would be the day I would be fatherless.”

He unstrapped the weapon from his back and hoisted it. It was like watching a dancer. Durotan thought—a balance of power and grace. The moon shone down upon Orgrim’s strong body as he moved, crouched, sprang, swung. Finally, breathing heavily and sweating, Orgrim replaced the legendary weapon.

“It is a glorious thing.” Orgrim said quietly. “A weapon of power. A weapon of prophecy. The pride of my lineage. And I would shatter it into a thousand pieces with my own hands if it would bring my father back.”

Without another word, Orgrim strode back toward the small cluster of twinkling fires. Durotan made no move to follow. He sat for a long time, staring up at the stars, sensing deep within his soul that the world he would behold upon awakening tomorrow would be radically different than the one he had known all his life.