Hurkan laughed, a rough sound that started low and rose to a shrill cackle. “Ner’zhul! That withered old shaman! He gets us into this mess, then runs off and hides—and now he wants us to dance at his command, all over again? What do we gain from it all?”
“The chance to kill humans—many of them,” Grom answered. “The chance to win glory and honor. The chance to claim new lands, lands still rich and fertile.” He gestured around them. Nagrand was still lush and green, unlike most of Draenor, perhaps because the battle-crazed Bonechewer clan had not bothered much with warlocks. Even so, Grom knew the Bonechewer clan was as desperate for new foes to conquer as any orcs would be.
“What would we have to do?” Hurkan asked. He was still holding the severed arm of one of Grom’s warriors. Grom narrowed his eyes. Perhaps this was a break of sanity in the storm of madness that whirled around the Bonechewer leader. He had lost a few good warriors today, and if he could bring Hurkan in line without losing more he would be well pleased. He would see no more of his people ripped to pieces if he could help it.
“Two things. First, pledge yourself and your clan to Ner’zhul,” Grom replied. “Follow his orders, and fight alongside the other clans rather than against them.”
Hurkan grunted. “Give us something else to fight and we’ll leave the rest of you alone,” he promised.
“You’ll have more than enough foes to keep you busy,” Grom assured him. He shifted his grip on his axe; he didn’t think the next request would be so willingly granted. “There is one other thing. Ner’zhul wants that.” And he pointed.
Hurkan looked down, puzzled, but his expression changed to a frown when he realized Grom was indicating the skull hanging around his neck. An orc skull, bleached from years of exposure. Deep gouges were visible in the bone.
The Bonechewer chieftain scowled. “No. He cannot have this.” He rested one hand protectively over the ornament. “It is not just any skull. It is Gul’dan’s skull!”
“Are you so certain?” Grom replied, hoping to plant the seed of doubt. “I was told he died on Azeroth.”
“He did,” Hurkan said. “Torn apart by demons, they say, on an island he raised from the sea itself. Killed by his own power and pride.” He guffawed. “But at least one of the warlocks with him survived. He escaped the temple they had found there. On his way out, he found Gul’dan’s remains—ripped to shreds, he said.” The Bonechewer leader shrugged. “Even dead they had power, or so the warlock thought. Especially the head. So he took it with him.” He laughed. “Looks like Gul’dan got to return to Draenor after all!”
“How did you get it?” Grom asked.
Again Hurkan shrugged. “A warrior killed the warlock and took it from him. I killed the warrior and claimed it myself. Or perhaps there were others in between. No matter. Once I saw it and learned whose skull it was, I knew it must be mine. And it is.” He grinned again. “And I will not part with it. Not for Ner’zhul, not for anyone.”
Grom nodded. “I understand.”
His attack was sudden and swift, Gorehowl already slicing the air as he leaped forward. But Hurkan was an experienced warrior and for once he was thinking clearly—he dove to the side, the axe shrieking past his shoulder, and then spun, his massive fist catching Grom across the cheek. The blow sent a jolt of pain through him, but Grom ignored it. Hurkan grabbed a warclub dropped by one of the warriors he’d killed and swung it toward Grom. Grom danced aside, the club narrowly missing his chest, and lashed out again. Gorehowl caught Hurkan across the upper right arm, carving open the flesh.
Grom was vaguely aware of the gathered orcs watching, waiting to see who won. He knew more than just his own life hung upon the outcome of this battle, but he could spare no more than a passing thought for such a thing if he were to be the victor.
Hurkan was proving to be a worthy foe. The big Bonechewer chieftain was as large as Orgrim Doomhammer had been and almost as fast. And when he was thinking, Hurkan was no fool but a wily old warrior, one who could read an opponent and anticipate his moves. He proved that as he ducked another swing and came up beneath it, slamming both hands into Grom’s chest and sending him stumbling back several paces.
But the moment of clarity had passed. Already Grom could see his foe’s eyes beginning to roll back, and foam flecking his lips. Hurkan’s breathing was becoming labored, his strikes more powerful but also less controlled. Grom easily ducked or blocked the wild swings, although his arms strained with the effort. Grom bared his teeth in a savage grin, feeling the bloodlust rise within him. It wanted to control him, as it controlled Hurkan. But Grom would not let it. He was the master, not it. It was time to end this. He ducked beneath Hurkan’s latest swing, filled his lungs, and thrust his head forward into the Bonechewer’s face.
His black-tattooed jaw opened almost impossibly wide and a violent, gut-wrenching scream pierced the air. Hurkan’s own scream was a bass counterpoint as he clapped huge hands to his bleeding ears and dropped to his knees in agony. Blood spurted from his nose and eyes and dripped from his open mouth. Grom’s legendary war cry mutated into a laugh of triumph as he swung Gorehowl in a smooth arc, separating Hurkan’s head from his massive shoulders.
The body continued to move, its arms flailing for a moment. For a second it paused, as if listening with some other senses, then pitched forward to the ground. It lay there, twitching slightly.
Grom stared at it, grinning, then kicked the body over. Fortunately, the prize he had come for was undamaged. He looked at the skull for a long moment, remembering Gul’dan, remembering Ner’zhul. Remembering all that had happened over the last few years. Then he pulled a thick cloth bag from his belt and dropped it over Gul’dan’s skull, scooping the grisly item up safely. Teron Gorefiend had spoken with Grom before he left, and the death knight had warned Grom not to touch the skull directly. While Grom disliked and distrusted the death knight, an unnatural thing somehow returned from death and wearing a human corpse for flesh, he did heed the warning. Gul’dan had been dangerous enough in life that Grom could easily imagine the warlock’s remains still having power in death.
Straightening with Gorehowl in one hand and the bag in the other, Grom looked out over the assembled orcs. “Who now speaks for the Bonechewer clan?” he demanded loudly.
A tall, powerfully built young orc pushed his way forward. He wore a belt fashioned from orc spines and bracers carved from the spine segments of an ogre. A heavy spiked club rested across one shoulder. “I am Tagar Spinebreaker,” he announced proudly, though his eyes shifted uneasily to Hurkan’s body before returning to Grom. “I lead the Bonechewers now.”
Grom gestured with the bag. “I have taken the skull. Now I will ask you, Tagar Spinebreaker: Will you join with us, or will you join Hurkan?”
The new Bonechewer chieftain hesitated. “Before I answer, I have a question for you, Grom Hellscream. You ask us to follow Ner’zhul. Why have you chosen to do so? You once said he created all our troubles!”
So, the brute wasn’t as stupid as he looked. Grom decided he deserved an answer. “He did create all our troubles,” Grom replied, “by handing control to this traitor”—he gestured with the bag—“and letting Gul’dan do whatever he chose without obstruction. But before that Ner’zhul was wise, and advised the clans well. And he first forged the Horde, which is a great thing.
“I follow him now because he has sworn to reopen the Dark Portal. I should have been there before, slaughtering humans on Azeroth, but Gul’dan prevented it. Now I will have my chance.” He laughed. “Ner’zhul has told me that Gul’dan’s skull is a necessary ingredient in the rite to open the portal. Sweet it is to me that Gul’dan, who denied me before, will now be the key to my opportunity. That, Bonechewer, is why I follow Ner’zhul.
“Now—the choice is yours. Rejoin the Horde. Or”—he raised Gorehowl again, and spun it so it sang, an undulating dirge of blood and chaos—“we slaughter you all, down to the last suckling babe. Right now.” He tilted his head back and roared, the poundi
ng overtaking him. Behind him, his warriors started to chant, stomping their feet and swinging their weapons to add to the rhythm, until the very plain shook with the sound.
Grom licked his lips and raised his axe, then met Tagar’s wide eyes. “Which will it be?” he growled. “Gorehowl longs to shriek again. Shall it taste human flesh…or Bonechewer?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“A what?” Turalyon, General of the Alliance forces, paladin of the Silver Hand, stared in utter bafflement at the tiny figure who sat before him.
“A rat problem!” the gnome exclaimed.
“When you said there was an issue with wildlife that was threatening to derail the entire tram construction project,” Turalyon said slowly, “I assumed you had run into difficulties with the subterranean lake, or perhaps the creatures in…” Turalyon’s voice trailed off. “You did say ‘rat’?”
“Indeed!” Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, head of the project to construct a mechanical transportation system that would eventually link Stormwind and Ironforge, shuddered.
“Horrible things, those vermin. Some bodies we’ve found were this big!” Mekkatorque spread his hands about six inches apart. Granted, on that tiny frame, that was a substantial amount, but still…the engineer had called an emergency session with the general of the Alliance over a rat problem?
Turalyon still wasn’t quite sure what to think of the small beings who were good friends with the dwarves. If Mekkatorque, who had come to Stormwind a few years ago with the full endorsement of the dwarven king Magni Bronzebeard himself, was any indication, they were a curious bunch. Mekkatorque talked fast and used terms that Turalyon was utterly unfamiliar with, and struck him as a jovial fellow. The gnome representative didn’t even reach Turalyon’s hip when standing, and was all but swallowed by the large chair in which he was now ensconced. The table was level with his bright eyes, and at one point, Mekkatorque let out an exasperated huff and simply climbed atop it to point at the blueprints he had unfolded within two minutes of his arrival.
“They’ve completely infested the prototype, chewing through the wiring here, here, and here,” Mekkatorque continued, stabbing a tiny finger down at the blueprints. “We can’t extract it or even get in to repair it without losing more good people to those vile creatures. The last team we sent in after it…well, it wasn’t a pretty sight.” His large eyes looked solemn.
Turalyon nodded. The idea of a tram had struck him as brilliant when it was first proposed shortly after the Second War. Progress on rebuilding Stormwind was being made, but slowly—it was a long and dangerous trek from Ironforge to Stormwind, and King Bronzebeard had chafed at the delay in getting supplies to his allies. Turalyon felt out of his depth at the time, and still had that reaction every time Mekkatorque came to him with updates or problems. He was a paladin, a warrior by fate and a priest by training. He knew little enough of simple construction, and this “tram” was quite beyond him. Especially when Mekkatorque talked so fast.
Turalyon had discovered that gnomes were fiercely if eccentrically intelligent, and he was willing to believe it if this…contraption that Mekkatorque proposed did even part of what he claimed it would do. He remembered their first conversation.
“How safe will it be?” he had asked.
“Er…well, we are on the cutting edge technologically with it, you must understand,” Mekkatorque had said, running a hand along his muttonchop whiskers. “But I’m willing to bet it will eventually be as safe as the safest gnomish creation ever!”
Something in the sound of his voice had warned Turalyon that that might not be particularly safe at all. But he wasn’t a builder, or an engineer. Still, it was coming along.
Until this rat problem.
“I understand that rats are proportionately much larger, and therefore much more threatening to your people than to mine,” Turalyon said as diplomatically as he could, although he wondered why Bronzebeard hadn’t handled the problem on the Ironforge end. “And we can’t have them chewing through the wiring. I’ll send some of my men back to Ironforge with you. They’ll, er…hunt the vermin down and help you effect repairs.”
Turalyon might have been Greatfather Winter himself the way Mekkatorque reacted. “Thank you, thank you! This is excellent. It will be back on track in a jiffy. And then we can finally tackle that pesky underwater problem.” The gnome slipped off the chair and reached up a small hand to Turalyon, then pumped it vigorously.
“Go speak to Aramil,” Turalyon said, referring to a former guard at the keep who now served as Turalyon’s assistant in all things nonmilitary. “He’ll take care of the arrangements.”
Turalyon watched the gnome depart, and turned back to his correspondence. Dozens of letters, from so many people, all wanting something from him. He ran a hand through his short blond hair and sighed. A walk would do him good.
The air was clean and clear as he stepped outside, although clouds lowered. He walked up to the canal, gazing briefly at his reflection in the now-cleared water. Turalyon had never been to Stormwind until the day he and his men had entered the city two years ago, and so he had not had the additional horror of knowing what the city had been like before it fell. It was horrific enough as it was. These famous canals had been clogged—with stones and lumber, with dirt…with defiled corpses. The dead had been respectfully buried, the rubble cleared. Now the canals ran freely again, connecting the various parts of the city. Turalyon lifted his gaze to the white stone, gray now in the dimming light, and the red roofs. The Dwarven District housed many of Bronzebeard’s hardworking men, sent along with Mekkatorque, and nestled next to that area was the cathedral.
Thunder rumbled as he approached. He fixed his eyes on the glorious building, one of the first to be completed in its entirety. The orcs had damaged it badly, but even then it was a place of safety—the enemy had not realized that the cathedral had vast rooms and catacombs beneath it. Dozens had huddled there, sheltered by its stone while terror raged above them. It was one of the few buildings large enough to house the refugees in the initial stages of reconstruction, and even now, people flocked to it when they were ill, or injured, or even just in need of a little reminder of the Light.
Like Turalyon.
“Oof!” He stumbled forward, so lost in thought that he hadn’t seen the pair of children until they’d slammed into him.
“Sorry, mister!” the boy cried. The girl gazed up at him with solemn brown eyes. Turalyon smiled and patted her hair as he spoke to the boy.
“With an attack like that you’ll make a fine soldier one day,” he said.
“Oh yes, sir, I hope so, sir! You think all the orcs will be dead before I’m old enough to kill them?”
Turalyon’s smile faltered. “I’m sure you’ll be able to serve the Alliance well,” he said, evading the question. Revenge. The fiery need and anger it kindled in the heart had cost Turalyon someone he loved. He would say nothing to foster racial hatred in a child. Keeping his hand on the girl’s head, he murmured a soft prayer. Light glowed around his hand and for a brief moment, the child was enveloped in radiance. Turalyon lifted his other hand and blessed the boy as well. Awe shone in both pairs of eyes that regarded him.
“Light bless you both. Now, you two had best be getting home. Looks like rain.”
The boy nodded and grabbed his sister’s hand. “Thanks, Mister Paladin!” The two ran toward their home. It was not far; Turalyon realized they lived in the building adjacent to the cathedral. The orphanage.
So many orphans. So many lives lost.
Thunder rumbled again, and the heavens let loose. Rain began pouring down in sheets. Turalyon sighed, pulling his cape around himself and running lightly up the steps to the cathedral, getting soaked even in that short distance. The smell of incense and the soft, barely audible sound of chanting coming from somewhere in the building soothed him at once. He had become used to giving orders, to fighting battles, to emerging from them covered in his own blood or that of the orcs. It was good to come back to the ch
urch, and to remember his origins as a simple priest.
A soft smile curved his lips as he beheld his brethren, his fellow Knights of the Silver Hand, doing their duties here as surely as they had on the battlefield. Archbishop Alonsus Faol had created the order three years ago, and it was by his decree that the paladins now served humbly in the communities that had been so devastated by the war. Even as he looked around, Turalyon saw his old friend Uther, whom he himself had given the title “Lightbringer.” Turalyon was used to seeing the powerfully built man in full armor, swinging his weapon, his ocean-colored eyes afire with zeal as the Light came to him in the form of powerful attacks. But Uther now was clad in simple robes. He was attending to a woman who looked exhausted and drained, gently wiping her forehead with a damp cloth and cradling something in his free hand.
As Turalyon drew closer, he saw that the bundle Uther held so gently was a newborn, its skin still mottled from birth. The new mother smiled tiredly but happily and reached for her child. Its lusty, healthy wail was the sharp, sweet song of hope. Uther rested his hand on the woman and blessed her and her child, as Turalyon had done with the orphans earlier. Turalyon realized that although Uther was obviously at home on the battlefield, using the Light to take the lives of those who would slay him and those he served, he was equally at home here in the cathedral, bringing a new little life into the world. Such was the dichotomy of paladins; they were warriors and healers both. Uther glanced up and smiled, rising to greet his friend.
“Turalyon,” he said in his deep, gruff voice. The two paladins clasped hands. “Good to see you. About time you found your way down here.” Uther cuffed the younger man playfully.
“You’re right,” Turalyon agreed, chuckling. “It’s good to be here. It’s too easy to get caught up in all the things that need to be done but can never quite be finished. Like a rat problem.”
“Eh?”
“I’ll tell you later. For now, how can I help?” This was what mattered, he thought. Not staying holed up in the keep pushing paper.
Beyond the Dark Portal Page 4
