Rise of the Horde

7

I know well that we lost more than we gained, we orcs. At that point, our culture was unspoiled, innocent, pure. We were like children who had always been safe, loved, and protected. But children need to grow up, and we as a people were too easily manipulated.

There is a place for trust; no one can accuse me of not knowing this. But we must also be careful. Those who have fair faces can deceive, and even those whom we believe in with all our souls can beguiled.

It is the loss of our innocence that I lament when I think back to what those days must have been like. And it was our innocence that led to our downfall.

It was a long line of solemn faces that turned to look at the gathered leaders of the orc clans. Durotan stood next to Draka, his arm about her waist in a protective gesture, although he was not sure why he felt she needed defending. His eyes widened as they met Drek’Thar’s and he saw in his friend and advisor’s face something that chilled him to the bone.

He wished he could stand with Orgrim, They were of different clans and different traditions, but other than his intended, there was no one Durotan trusted more. But Orgrim, of course, stood beside his chieftain Blackhand, who looked around at the gathered shaman with thinly concealed annoyance.

“He has been too long away from the hunt, that one,” Draka murmured, nodding in Blackhand’s direction. “He is spoiling for a fight.”

Durotan sighed. “He may well get it. Look at their faces.”

“I have never seen Drek’Thar so, not even when Mother Kashur’s body was broken,” Draka said.

Durotan did not reply, merely nodded and continued to observe.

Ner’zhul strode forward into the center of the gathered crowd. Everyone moved back to give him room. He began to walk sunwise in a circle, murmuring. Then he paused and lifted his hands. Fire burst forth in front of him, leaping skyward in a display that brought soft sounds of appreciation even from those who had seen such things many times before. It stood, towering over them for a long moment, then subsided, settling down to become a traditional bonfire, albeit a magical one.

“As the darkness falls, in more ways than one, sit you beside the fire,” Ner’zhul commanded. “Let each clan sit to itself, with its own shaman, and I will call you forth to speak when the time is right.”

“Perhaps you wish us to fetch a slain beast for you, too,” came a fierce, angry voice. “And lie obediently at your feet at night!”

Durotan knew that voice; he had heard it raised often enough at the Kosh’harg festivals in his youth, and had heard its owner utter cries to chill the blood during hunts. It was distinctive and unmistakable. He turned to look at Grom Hellscream, the youthful leader of the Warsong clan, and hoped that the outburst would not overly delay whatever it was Ner’zhul had to tell them all.

Hellscream stood in the front of his clan, more slender man most orcs, but still tall and imposing. The Warsong colors were red and black, and while Hellscream wore no armor, the simple learners in those strong hues served to send an imposing message nonetheless. He folded his arms and glared at Ner’zhul.

Ner’zhul did not rise to the bait, merely sighed deeply. “Many of you feel your honor is offended, this I know. Give me leave to speak, and you will be glad that you are here. Your children’s children will be glad of it.”

Hellscream growled and his eyes flashed, but he said no more. He stood for a moment longer, then with a shrug, as if to indicate that it was by his own will, he sat. His clan followed his lead.

Ner’zhul waited until there was quiet, and then began to speak. “I have had a vision.” he said, “from one of the ancestors whom I trust more than I can possibly say. She has revealed to me a threat, lurking like a poisonous scorpion under a flowering bush. All the other shaman can attest to this, and the)^I will, once they have opportunity to speak. It grieves and infuriates me that we have been so duped.”

Durotan hung on the shaman’s words, his heart racing. Who was this mysterious enemy? How had so dark a foe escaped their notice?

Ner’zhul sighed, looking down on the ground, then shook himself. His voice was deep and confident, if laced with sorrow.

“The enemy of which I speak,” he said heavily, “is the draenei.”

Chaos erupted.

Durotan stared, disbelieving. He looked around, seeking Orgrim’s gaze, and stared into his friend’s wide, gray eyes, seeing there the same stunned shock that he himself felt. The draenei? Surely something was wrong. The gronn, yes, perhaps they had stumbled across some secret knowledge to use against the hated orcs … but no. Not the draenei.

They were not even fighters on the level that the orcs were. They hunted, yes, that was true, but they needed meat as much as any orc in order to survive. They could stand against the gronn, and sometimes had assisted a hunting party a time or two. Durotan’s thoughts went back to the day when two young orc children were fleeing before an ogre whose footsteps made the earth tremble, and the tall, blue figures that had appeared out of nowhere to save them.

Why would they risk themselves to save two boys if they were truly as methodically evil as Ner’zhul believed? It made no sense. Nothing about any of this made sense.

Ner’zhul was clamoring for silence, and not getting it. Blackhand was on his feet, veins standing out in his thick neck, while Orgrim was doing what he could to placate his chieftain. Then a terrible noise pierced the air, shattering the ears and almost stopping the heart. Grom Hellscream stood as well, his head thrown back, his chest thrust forward and his black jaw open so wide it seemed almost to have unhinged itself like a snake’s. Nothing could compete with Hellscream’s war cry, and stunned silence ensued.

Grom opened his eyes and grinned at Ner’zhul, who seemed completely nonplussed at having a former antagonist become an ally so quickly.

“Let the shaman continue.” Hellscream said. So utter was the silence after his outburst that the words were heard by all, even though they were spoken in a conversational tone. “I want to hear more of this new, old enemy.”

Ner’zhul smiled gratefully. “I know this startles you. It shocked me as well. But the ancestors do not lie. These seemingly benevolent people have been waiting for years until the time is right to attack us. They sit safely behind their strange buildings made of materials we do not understand, and they harbor secrets that could benefit us greatly.”

“But why?” Durotan spoke even before he himself realized he had. Heads turned to look at him, but he did not back down. “Why do they want to attack us? If they harbor such vast secrets, what do they need from us? And how could we possibly defeat them if this is true?”

Ner’zhul looked discomfited. “That, I do not know, but I do know that the ancestors are concerned.”

“We outnumber them,” Blackhand growled.

“Not by that much,” Durotan shot back. “Not against their superior knowledge. They came here on a ship that sails between worlds. Blackhand. Think you they will fall to arrows and axes?”

Blackhand’s heavy brows drew together. He opened his mouth to retort.

“This has been simmering like a stew on the fire for many decades,” Ner’zhul interrupted, forestalling the argument. “Resolution and eventual victory will not come overnight. I do not ask you to go to war this moment, but simply to be aware. To prepare. To discuss with your shaman the right course of action. And to open your minds and hearts to a union that will ensure triumph.”

He spread his hands imploringly. “We are separate clans, yes, each with its own traditions and heritage. I am not asking you to give up that proud history, merely asking you to open your minds to a unity that takes clans that are strong alone and turns them into an unstoppable force. We are all orcs! Blackrock, Warsong, Thunderlord, Dragonmaw … don’t you see how little those distinctions matter? We are the same people! In the end, we want safe homes for our young, success in the hunt, mates who love us, honor among the ancestors. We are more alike than different.”

Durotan knew this to be true and glanced over at his friend. Orgrim stood behind his chieftain, tall and imposing and solemn. Yet when he felt Durotan’s gaze on him, he met that gaze and nodded.

There had been those who had protested this unusual friendship between two adventuresome and, Durotan had to admit, trouble-prone youths. But Durotan would not be who he was today if he had not drawn from Orgrim’s steady strength; and he knew in his bones that Orgrim felt the same about him.

But the draenei …

“May I speak?”

The voice belonged to Drek’Thar, and Durotan turned, surprised. The question seemed to be addressed not only to his chieftain, but to the shaman who had been a mentor to all of them. Ner’zhul looked at Durotan, who nodded.

“My chieftain,” Drek’Thar said, and to Durotan’s shock his voice trembled, “my chieftain, what Ner’zhul has said is true. Mother Kashur confirmed it.”

The other Frostwolf shaman nodded. Durotan stared at them. Mother Kashur? If there was anyone Durotan trusted, it was that wise old orc. His mind went back to the moment when he stood in the cavern, feeling the cold air that was not air on his face, listening and watching with every fiber of his being as Mother Kashur spoke to someone he could not see but who he knew was there.

“Mother Kashur said the draenei are our enemies?” he asked, hardly able to believe his ears.

Drek’Thar nodded.

“It is time for the clan chieftains to listen to their own shaman, as Durotan has done,” said Ner’zhul. “We will reconvene at twilight, and the chieftains will tell me their thoughts. These are the people you know and trust. Ask them what they have seen,”

The gathered crowd began to disperse. Slowly, looking at one another cautiously, the Frostwolf clan wandered back to their own encampment. As one, they sat in a circle and turned their attention to Drek’Thar, who began to speak slowly and carefully.

“The draenei are not our friends,” he said. “My chieftain … I know you and the Doomhammer Blackrock stayed with them one night, I know that you spoke well of them, I know that it appears that they saved your life. But let me ask you … did nothing strike you amiss?”

Durotan recalled the ogre bearing down on them, bellowing in fury, its club swinging. And with an uncomfortable sensation, he recalled how very, very quickly the draenei appeared to rescue him and Orgrim. How they could not return home as it was so conveniently close to twilight.

He frowned. It was an uncharitable thought, and yet …

“Your brow furrows, my chieftain. I take it, then, that your youthful faith in them is now starting to wane?”

Durotan did not answer, nor did he look at his clan’s head shaman. He stared down at the earth, not wanting to feel this way, but unable to stop the doubt from creeping into his heart, like the cold fingers of a frosty morning.

In his memory, he again spoke to Restalaan, telling the tall blue draenei, “We were not as we are now.”

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

He felt again a sharp sting, as if the compliment were a carefully crafted insult. As if the draenei thought they were superior … even with their strange, unnatural blue skin, their legs shaped like those of common talbuks, with long, reptilian tails and shiny blue hooves instead of decent feet like the orcs had—

“Speak, my chieftain. What do you recall?”

Durotan told him in a rough and heavy voice of the fortuitous arrival of the draenei, of Restalaan’s near arrogance, “And … and Velen, their prophet, asked many questions about us, and he was not making idle conversation. He truly seemed to want to know about the orcs.” “Of course he did,” Drek’Thar said. “What an opportunity! They have been plotting against us since they arrived. And to find two—forgive me. Durotan, but two young and naive children to tell them everything they wanted to know? It must have been quite an event.”

The ancestors would not lie to them, especially about something so important. Durotan knew this. And now that he recalled the events of that day and night in this new light of knowledge, it was obvious how suspicious Velen’s actions had been. And yet … was Velen such a master of deceit that the sensation of trust both Orgrim and Durotan had felt had been all a lie?

Durotan bowed his head.

“There is part of me that doubts yet, my friends,” he said quietly. “And yet, I cannot stake the future of our people on such thin ice as my own personal doubts. Ner’zhul did not propose an assault tomorrow. He asked for us to train, and watch, and prepare, and draw closer as a people. This I will do, for the good of the Frostwolves and the good of the orcs.”

He looked at each worried face in turn, some merely friends, some, like Drek’Thar and Draka, known and loved.

“The Frostwolf clan will prepare for war.”