Rise of the Horde

8

How easily the mind can be turned to hate from a place of fear—an instinctive, natural, protective response. Instead of focusing on the things that unite us, we focus on what divides us. My skin is green; yours is pink. I have tusks; you have long ears. My skin is bare; yours is covered with fur. I breathe air; you do not. If we had clung to such things, the Burning Legion would not have been defeated, for I would never have wished to ally with Jaina Proudmoore, or fight alongside elves. My people would then not have survived to befriend the tauren, or the forsaken.

So it was with draenei. Our skin was reddish-brown then; theirs was blue. We had feet, they had hooves and a tail. We lived mostly in the open, they lived in enclosed spaces. We had a fairly short life span; no one knew how long-lived they were.

Nevermind that they had shown us nothing but courtesy and openness. That they had traded with us, taught us, shared whatever they were asked to share. That had no bearing now. We had heard from the ancestors, and we saw with our own eyes how different they were.

My prayer, every day, is for wisdom to guide my people. And in that prayer is couched a plea, never to be blinded by such trivial differences.

The training began. It had always been custom among nearly every clan to begin training the younglings once they celebrated their sixth year, but previously, the training had been serious but relaxed. Weapons were for hunting animals, not sentient beings who had their own weapons and skills and technological advantages, and there were plenty of hunters who could easily bring down prey. A young orc learned at his or her own pace, and there was plenty of time for play and enjoying simply being young.

No longer.

The plea for unity among the orcs was answered. The couriers exhausted their beasts riding to and fro between clans carrying messages. At one point some bright fellow came up with the idea of training bloodhawks to carry the letters. It took some doing and did not happen overnight, but gradually, Durotan grew used to seeing the scarlet birds fluttering to Drek’Thar and others in the clan. He approved of the idea; every warm body was needed if battle plans were to be successful.

While spears, arrows, axes, and other weapons worked well against the animals of the fields and forests, they would need to be supplemented with other types of weapons if they were to be used against the draenei. Protection would be vital, and whereas before the smiths and leathercrafters focused on armor that would blunt attacks from claws and teeth, now they had to create things that would save the wearer if he were impaled or slashed by a sword. Those who understood the craft of smithing had been few previously; now, the master smiths found themselves teaching dozens at a time. The forges rang day and night with the sound of hammers and the hiss of hot metal being plunged into water barrels. Many spent long days swinging picks, forcing the earth to yield the necessary minerals for crafting weapons and metal armor. Hunts, which had been conducted as the need arose, now were daily events, as food needed to be dried and preserved and skins were required for armor.

The younglings who lined up for training looked very young indeed to Durotan, who was one of many instructors. He recalled his father teaching him the ways of axe and spear. What would he think of these small ones, all but buckling beneath shiny metal armor, holding weapons that no orc had ever before borne?

Draka, with whom he had joined in a quick, quiet ritual as he did not want to take time or resources away from war training, touched his back gently. Always, she knew what he was thinking.

“It would be better if we had been born in a time of peace,” she agreed. “Even the most bloodthirsty knows the truth of that. But We are where we are, my mate, and I know you will not shirk this task.”

He smiled sadly at her. “Nay, I will not. We are warriors. We thrive on the hunt, on the challenge, on the spilling of blood and the cries of victory. They are small, but they are not weak. They will learn. They are Frostwolves.” He paused, then added fiercely, “They are orcs.”

“Time is passing,” said Rulkan.

“I know … but you would not have our people go into battle unprepared,” Ner’zhul replied. “The draenei are vastly superior as it stands now.”

Rulkan grunted unhappily, then smiled. Ner’zhul looked at her. Was it his imagination, or did the smile seem forced?

“We are training as fast as We can,” Ner’zhul added quickly, not wishing to offend the spirit who had been his lifemate.

Rulkan was silent. Clearly, it was not fast enough.

“Perhaps you can help us,” he said. He was aware that he was babbling. “Perhaps there is knowledge you have that … that …”

Rulkan frowned, then cocked her head. “I have told you all I know,” she said, “but there are other powers … other beings … that the living do not know of.”

Ner’zhul almost stumbled at her words. “There are the elements, and there are the ancestral spirits,” he managed. “What other beings are there?”

She smiled at him. “You yet breathe, my mate. You are not ready to treat with them. They are the ones who have been aiding us, so that We may aid you, the beloved ones We left behind.”

“No!” Ner’zhul realized he was pleading, but he could not help it. “Please … We need aid if We are to protect the future generations from the draenei’s insidious plots.”

He did not say that he was enjoying being the center of attention from every single orc in every single clan. He did not say that her earlier promise of power had made him think on such things, and begin to desire them. But even more than that, she had instilled such terror of the monstrous draenei that this sudden holding back on her part unnerved him totally.

Rulkan looked at him appraisingly. “Perhaps you are right,” she said. “I will see if they will speak to you. There is one whom I trust the most, whose concern for our people is deep and abiding. I will ask him.”

He nodded, almost ridiculously pleased at her words, then blinked awake. A smile stretched his lips.

Soon. He would see this mysterious spirit, this benefactor, very soon.

Gul’dan smiled at him as he brought in fruit and fish to break his master’s fast. “Another vision, my master?” He bowed low as he presented the food and cup of steaming herbal tea. Upon Rulkan’s advice, Ner’zhul had begun drinking a tincture of certain herbs brewed to a precise strength. Rulkan assured him that it would continue to ensure that his mind and spirit remained open to visions. Ner’zhul had found the concoction unpleasant at first, but had showed no sign of his dislike. Now, he found he enjoyed the beverage first thing in the morning and three more times throughout the day. He accepted the cup and sipped it as he nodded in response to Gul’dan’s question.

“Indeed … and I have learned something important. Gul’dan, for as long as there have been orcs, there have been shaman. And the shaman work with the elements and with the ancestors,”

Gul’dan’s face wore an expression of puzzlement. “Yes … of course …”

Ner’zhul couldn’t stifle a grin that stretched his lips wide over his tusks. “And that is still true. But there is more than we know of. More that the ancestors can see, but we as living beings cannot. Rulkan has told me she has been in contact with such beings. They have wisdom and knowledge even beyond that of the ancestors, and they will come to us to aid us. Rulkan says there is one in particular who has chosen to take the orcs under his wing. And soon … soon he will show himself to me!”

Gul’dan’s eyes sparkled. “And … to me too, perhaps, master?”

Ner’zhul smiled. “You are a strong one, Gul’dan,” he said. “I would not have chosen you as my apprentice if that were not the case. Yes, I think so. When he has deemed you worthy, as he has deemed me.”

Gul’dan lowered his head. “May it be so.” he said. “I am so honored to serve. This is a time of great glory for the orcs. We are blessed to live to see it.”

The Blackrock clan, with Blackhand himself in the vanguard, had begged for the honor of being the first to strike. There had been some resentment and grumbling, but the hunting skills of the Blackrock were legendary, and they were logical first choice as they also lived fairly near Telmor, one of the smaller, more isolated cities. They had been given the first efforts at armor, swords, metal-tipped arrows, and other weapons of war that would bring down the draenei.

Orgrim, the Doomhammer strapped across his back and clad from head to foot in metal that made him chafe and feel confined, rode at his chieftain’s side. The wolf beneath him seemed to have an equal dislike of the heavy armor, and now and then turned his massive head to snap at Orgrim’s leg, as if at some insect that annoyed him. He also seemed to be laboring a bit as he bore his rider across the soft meadow grass, panting more than usual, pink tongue lolling.

Orgrim muttered under his breath. It had sounded so simple: go to war against this new, insidious foe. But when they had all, including Orgrim, stood and cheered the decision, no one had stopped to think of how difficult it would be simply to prepare. They would need to breed the wolves for size even more now, if the animals were to carry armor as well as orc bodies already heavy with dense bone and powerful muscle.

The weapons were not untried. Several times already they had attacked the ogres, rationalizing that although they were lumbering and stupid and the draenei were quick and intelligent, fighting them was more akin to fighting the new enemy than killing talbuk would be. They had lost a few, at first, who were burned on a pyre with due ceremony for their honorable sacrifice. The weapons felt alien in their hands, the armor slowed them down, but each time, the attacks went more smoothly. The last time, they had faced not only a pair of ogres but one of their masters, a gronn who had the ferocity of the ogres it dominated and a vile cleverness that made it a much more challenging foe. Two brave Blackrock soldiers fell before Orgrim got in the final blow, swinging his hammer of prophecy and bringing doom upon the bellowing gronn.

Blackhand stood beside him, panting and sweating, blood, his own and that of the creature they had just slain, spattering his face. He wiped his face with his mailed hand and licked the blood, grunting.

“Two ogres and their master,” he muttered, reaching out a hand to clap Orgrim on the shoulder. “The pitiful draenei do not stand a chance against our might!”

Standing sweating in the sun, its bright light glinting off the metal plate and almost blinding his eyes, Orgrim agreed. Bloodlust rose high in him. He trusted Ner’zhul and the shaman of his clan. Further, he had spoken with Durotan, and they both agreed that though they had been treated fairly by the draenei on that long-ago day when they had been rescued by the blueskins, there had been something peculiar about them. The spirits had never guided them falsely before. Why would they do so now?

But as he rode alongside his lord to where a small hunting party had been reported. Orgrim had misgivings. What if the draenei had been odd? Surely the orcs must have seemed odd to them when they first arrived. Was death truly an appropriate punishment for being different? When had there been a single attack on an orc by the draenei? A single insult or offense, even? Now eighteen Blackrock warriors, armed to the teeth, their bodies coated in protective metal, were riding to slaughter a group of the blueskins who were doing nothing more threatening than gathering food for their people. Unexpected and unwanted, an image rose in Orgrim’s mind of the young draenei girl who had smiled shyly at them. Was it her father or mother who would die here on this gloriously sunny day?

“You look lost in thought Orgrim,” said Blackhand in his gravelly voice, startling Orgrim momentarily. “What fills your mind, my second?”

The face of an orphan, thought Orgrim, but did not say. Instead, he said gruffly, “I was wondering what color draenei blood was.” Blackhand threw back his oversized head and laughed heartily. Orgrim heard a harsh caw and the sound of frantic wingbeats as the very crows took flight at the noise of the Blackrock chieftain’s laughter.

“I will make sure your face is painted in it,” Blackhand said, chuckling.

Orgrim’s jaw tightened and he said nothing. The ancestors do not lie, he thought grimly. A child is innocent, always, but its parents have earned death, if they are plotting against us as the spirits have said.

They came upon them with ridiculous ease, not bothering to hide their approach. The scout had said the hunting party numbered eleven, six males and five females, and they had encountered a herd of cleft-hooves. While the great, shaggy beasts were strong and difficult to bring down, they did not have the aggressiveness of a roused herd of talbuks, and the draenei hunting party had already managed to isolate a young bull. It roared, pawing the earth and lowering its head, aiming its single horn at its attackers, but the outcome was assured.

Or it would have been, had it not been for the arrival of the orcs.

Blackhand drew his company to a halt on a ridge. Orgrim could smell the excitement from his kinsmen. Their bodies quivered with anticipation in their newly crafted armor, their hands clenched and unclenched, wanting to curl about the weapons that were only now becoming familiar. Blackhand held up a mailed fist, his small eyes fastened on the activity below, waiting for the right moment to swoop down like a hawk on a meadow rat.

The Blackrock chieftain turned to his shaman, who were in the back. They, too, wore armor, but carried no weapons; they did not need to. They would heal their brethren as they fell, and also direct the immense power of the elements toward their foe.

“You are ready?” he asked.

The eldest among them nodded. His eyes glowed fiercely and his lips were curved in a smile. He, too, wanted to see draenei blood shed this day.

Blackhand grunted and brought his fist down. The Blackrock warriors charged.

They uttered their battle cries as they came, and the blueskins turned, startled. At first, only surprise registered on those faces. No doubt they merely wondered why such a great number of mounted orc warriors were coming to aid them in the kill. It was only when Blackhand, atop his monstrous wolf, brought his two-handed broadsword down in a smooth blow that severed their leader in half that the draenei realized that the orcs had come not for the clefthoof, but for them.

To their credit, they did not stare in stunned horror at the sight, but sprang immediately into action. Voices that held only the faintest tremor of fear uttered words in a liquid-sounding, alien tongue. Although Orgrim did not recognize the words—Durotan had the gift of recall for such things, not he—the sound was familiar. He knew what to expect from that long-ago day when the draenei had rescued him and Durotan, and had prepared his kinsmen. So when the sky crackled with unnatural blue and silver lightning, the shaman were ready. They blasted the strange bolts of light with lightning of their own. The brightness was almost blinding, and Orgrim looked down quickly, his focus on the draenei warrior in front of him wielding a staff that glowed and sparked. He roared and lifted the Doomhammer over his head and brought it crashing down upon his enemy. The armor the draenei warrior wore could not withstand such an attack and crumpled like a thin tin bracelet. Blood and brains spattered the ground.

Orgrim looked up, searching for his next target. Some of the Blackrocks were held in the magical netting created by the draenei’s foul, unnatural lightning. They were proud and strong warriors, but they screamed in agony as the netting burned its way into their skin. The acrid odor of burning flesh mixed with the reck of blood and fear in Orgrim’s nostrils. It was an intoxicating smell.

He felt a wind brush his face, chasing away the scents of battle and infusing his lungs with energy. Orgrim selected the one he would next kill and raced toward the warrior, a female who had no weapon but who was wreathed in pulsating blue energy. Orgrim grunted in surprise as the Doomhammer struck die field and bounced off, the shock shivering up the weapon into his arms and jarring him to the bone. One of the shaman stepped in, the crackling sound of lightning vying with the mysterious, magical energies of the draenei, and Orgrim cheered as he saw the good, natural lighting beat back that blue field. He swung again, and this time the Doomhammer crunched down on the blueskin’s skull most satisfactorily.

It was all but over now. Only two remained standing, and in a heartbeat they had fallen beneath a mass of armored brown bodies. A few more shouts and grunts and the unmistakable sound of bladed weapons sinking into flesh, and then all was silent.

The cornered clefthoof had escaped.

Orgrim caught his breath, his blood singing in his ears, aflame with the excitement of the kill. He had always enjoyed the hunts, but this … he had never experienced anything like this. Sometimes the beasts he attacked fought back, but prey such as the draenei—intelligent, powerful, who fought in the same way he did and not with tooth and claw—was new to him. He threw back his head and laughed, and wondered if somehow he had become drunk on the sensation.

The cheers and rough, deep bellows of laughter from the victorious orcs were the only sound in the glade. Blackhand strode to Orgrim and embraced him as best he could through the armor they both wore.

“I saw the Doomhammer, but it was so fast it was only a blur to my eyes,” the Blackrock chieftain rumbled, grinning. “You fought well today, Orgrim. I was wise to name you my second.” He stooped over the mage that had been Orgrim’s last kill and removed his mailed gloves. The skull had been completely shattered, and blue blood was everywhere. Blackhand dipped his fingers in the slain draenei’s life-fluid and carefully painted Orgrim’s face with it. Deep inside, something shifted in the orc. He remembered doing this himself at his first kill, the blood red and warm; he remembered having this done to him when he went to the sacred mountain as part of the Om’riggor ritual, with his father’s blood on his face. And now, his leader had anointed him again, with the blood of the beings that were their enemy.

A bit of the dark blue liquid trickled down his check into the corner of his mouth. Orgrim extended his tongue, tasted the fluid, and found it sweet.

The bloodhawk settled on its master’s arm, its talons digging deep into the protective leather. Ner’zhul paced while the hawkmaster unrolled the message and delivered it to him. Quickly, he scanned the small piece of parchment.

So easy. It had been so easy. Not a single casualty, although some had been injured, of course. Their first foray and the orcs had been completely victorious. Blackhand spoke contemptuously of how swiftly they had descended upon the party and broken their skulls. It was all unfolding as Rulkan had promised him. Surely, surely now the being with whom Rulkan had allied would appear. The orcs, led by Ner’zhul, had certainly proven their worth with this decisive triumph.

He again read the missive. Blackhand and the Blackrock orcs had indeed been the right choice to send against the draenei. They were powerful and violent, but unlike the Warsong or some other clans, they were completely under the control of their chieftain.

That night, he had a victory feast prepared for the Shadowmoon clan, and they ate and drank and laughed and sang until at last Ner’zhul trundled to his bed and fell into a deep, profound sleep.

And the being came.

It was glorious, radiant, so bright that even with his vision-eyes Ner’zhul could not bear to look upon it at first. He fell to his knees, shaking with the joy and awe that washed through him.

“You have come,” he whispered, feeling tears well up in his eyes and slip down his face. “I knew that if we pleased you, you would come.”

“Indeed you have, Ner’zhul, shaman, soul-tender of the orcs.” The voice rumbled through his bones and Ner’zhul closed his eyes, almost giddy at the sensation. “I have seen your masterful handling of your people, how you brought disparate clans together with a common purpose, a glorious goal.”

“One that was inspired by you. Great One,” murmured Ner’zhul. He thought of Rulkan and briefly wondered why she was no longer appearing to him, then dismissed the thought of her. This great entity was far superior to even the shade of his beloved mate. Ner’zhul craved more words from this magnificent being.

“You came to us and revealed the truth.” Ner’zhul continued. “We did what was needed.”

“You did indeed, and I am well pleased with you. Glory and honor and sweet victory will continue to be yours if you do as I say.”

“Of course I will, but … Great One, this humble petitioner would beg a favor.”

Ner’zhul risked a glance up at the being. It was enormous, radiant and red, with a powerful torso and legs that ended in cloven hooves and curved backward like a talbuk’s …

… or a draenei’s … .

Ner’zhul blinked. There was silence for a moment after he voiced his request and he thought he felt a sudden chill. Then the voice spoke again in his mind and in his ears, and it was still smooth and sweet as honey.

“Ask, and I will decide if you are worthy.”

Suddenly Ner’zhul’s mouth was dry and the words would not form. With an effort, he spoke. “Great One … do you have a name by which we may call you—

A chuckle rumbled through Ner’zhul’s blood. “A simple favor, easily granted. Yes, I have a name. You may call me … Kil’jaeden.”