“I will not be here long,”
said Thrall.
“Come spring, I will rejoin Grom Hellscream, and help his noble clan storm the camps and free our people.”
“Grom Hellscream,” sneered the stranger, waving his hand dismissively. “A demon-ridden dreamer. I have seen what the humans can do, and it is best to avoid them.”
“I was raised by humans, and believe me, they are not infallible!” cried Thrall. “Nor are you, I would think, you coward!”
“Thrall —” began Drek’Thar, speaking up at last.
“No, Master Drek’Thar, I will not be silent. This stranger comes seeking our aid, eats at our fire, and dares to insult the courage of our clan and his own race. I will not stand for it. I am not the chieftain, nor do I claim that right. But I will claim my right to fight this stranger, and make him eat his words sliced upon my sword.”
The strange orc laughed heartily and rose. He was almost as big as Thrall, and now, to his astonishment, Thrall saw that this arrogant stranger was completely clad in black plate armor, trimmed with brass. Uttering a fierce cry, the stranger opened his pack and pulled out the largest warhammer Thrall had ever seen. He held it aloft with seeming ease, then brandished it at Thrall.
“See if you can take me, whelp!”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
© 2001 by Blizzard Entertainment. All rights reserved. Warcraft and Blizzard Entertainment are trademarks or registered trademarks of Blizzard Entertainment in the U.S. and/or other countries. All other rademarks are the property of their respective owners.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-7434-2316-X
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
This book is dedicated to its “holy trinity”:
Lucienne Diver
Jessica McGivney
and
Chris Metzen
with appreciation for their enthusiastic support and unwavering faith in my work.
LORD OF THE CLANS
PROLOGUE
They came when Gul’dan called them, those who had willingly — nay, eagerly — sold their souls to the darkness. Once they, like Gul’dan, had been deeply spiritual beings. Once, they had studied the natural world and the orcs’ place in it; had learned from the beasts of forest and field, the birds of the air, the fish of the rivers and oceans. And they had been a part of that cycle, no more, no less.
No longer.
These former shamans, these new warlocks, had had the briefest taste of power and, like the barest drop of honey on the tongue, found it sweet indeed. So their eagerness had been rewarded with more power, and still more. Gul’dan himself had learned from his master Ner’zhul until student had finally surpassed teacher. While it had been because of Ner’zhul that the Horde had become the powerful, unstoppable tide of destruction it presently was, Ner’zhul had not had the courage to go further. He had a soft spot for the inherent nobility of his people. Gul’dan had no such weakness.
The Horde had slain all there was to slay in this world. They were lost with no outlet for their bloodlust, and were turning on one another, clan attacking clan in a desperate attempt to assuage the brutal longings that flamed in their hearts. It was Gul’dan who had found a fresh target upon which to focus the Horde’s white-hot need to slaughter. Now they would soon venture into a new world, filled with fresh, easy, unsuspecting prey. The bloodlust would rise to a fever pitch, and the wild Horde needed a council to guide them. Gul’dan would lead that council.
He nodded to them as they entered, his small, fire-hazed eyes missing nothing. One by one they came, called like servile beasts to their master. To him.
They sat around the table, the most feared, revered, and loathed among the entire orcish clans. Some were hideous, having paid the price for their dark knowledge with more than just their souls. Others were yet fair, their bodies whole and strong with smooth green skin stretched tight across rippling muscles. Such had been their request in the dark bargain. All were ruthless, cunning, and would stop at nothing to gain more power.
But none was as ruthless as Gul’dan.
“We few gathered here,” began Gul’dan in his raspy voice, “are the mightiest of our clans. We know power. How to get it, how to use it, and how to get more. Others are beginning to speak out against one or the other of us. This clan wishes to return to its roots; that clan is tired of killing defenseless infants.” His thick green lips curled into a sneer of contempt. “This is what happens when orcs go soft.”
“But, Great One,” one of the warlocks said, “we have slain all the Draenei. What is there left to kill in this world?”
Gul’dan smiled, stretching his thick lips over large, sharp teeth. “Nothing,” he said. “But other worlds await.”
He told them of the plan, taking pleasure in the lust for power that was kindled in their red eyes. Yes, this would be good. This would be the most powerful organization of orcs that had ever existed, and at the head of this organization would be none other than Gul’dan.
“And we will be the council that makes the Horde dance to our tune,” he said at last. “Each one of us is a powerful voice. Yet such is the orcish pride that they must not know who is truly the master here. Let each think that he swings his battle-ax because he wills it, not because we are commanding it. We will stay a secret. We are the walkers in the shadows, the power that is all the more potent for its invisibility. We are the Shadow Council, and none shall know of our strength.”
Yet, one day, and that day soon, some would know.
ONE
Even the beasts were cold on a night such as this, mused Durotan. Absently he reached out to his wolf companion and scratched Sharptooth behind one of his white ears. The animal crooned appreciatively and snuggled closer. Wolf and orc chief stared together at the silent fall of white snow, framed by the rough oval that was the entrance to Durotan’s cave.
Once, Durotan, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan, had known the kiss of balmier climes. Had swung his ax in the sunlight, narrowing small eyes against the gleam of sunshine on metal and against the spattering of red human blood. Once, he had felt a kinship with all of his people, not just those of his clan. Side by side they had stood, a green tide of death flooding over the hillsides to engulf the humans. They had feasted at the fires together, laughed their deep, booming laughs, told the stories of blood and conquest while their children drowsed by the dying embers, their little minds filled with images of slaughter.
But now the handful of orcs that comprised the Frostwolf clan shivered alone in their exile in the frigid Alterac Mountains of this alien world. Their only friends here were the huge white wolves. They were so different from the mammoth black wolves that Durotan’s people had once ridden, but a wolf was a wolf, no matter the color of its fur, and determined patience combined with Drek’Thar’s powers had won the beasts over to them. Now orc and wolf hunted together and kept one another warm during the interminable, snowy nights.
A soft, snuffling sound from the heart of the cave caused Durotan to turn. His harsh face, lined and held in perpetual tautness from years of worry and anger, softene
d at the noise. His little son, as yet unnamed until the ordained Naming Day of this cycle, had cried out as he was being fed.
Leaving Sharptooth to continue watching the snowfall, Durotan rose and lumbered back to the cave’s inner chamber. Draka had bared a breast for the child to suckle upon, and had just removed the infant from his task. So that was why the child had whimpered. As Durotan watched, Draka extended a forefinger. With a black nail honed to razor sharpness, she pricked deep into the nipple before returning the infant’s small head to her breast. Not a flicker of pain crossed her beautiful, strong-jawed face. Now, as the child fed, he would drink not only nourishing mother’s milk, but his mother’s blood as well. Such was appropriate food for a budding young warrior, the son of Durotan, the future chieftain of the Frostwolves.
His heart swelled with love for his mate, a warrior his equal in courage and cunning, and the lovely, perfect son they had borne.
It was then that the knowledge of what he had to do sank over him, like a blanket settling over his shoulders. He sat down and sighed deeply.
Draka glanced up at him, her brown eyes narrowing. She knew him all too well. He did not want to tell her of his sudden decision, although he knew in his heart it was the right one. But he must.
“We have a child now,” Durotan said, his deep voice booming from his broad chest.
“Yes,” replied Draka, pride in her voice. “A fine, strong son, who will lead the Frostwolf clan after his father dies nobly in battle. Many years from now,” she added.
“I have a responsibility for his future,” Durotan continued.
Draka’s attention was now on him fully. He thought her exquisitely beautiful at this moment, and tried to brand the image of her in his mind. The firelight played against her green skin, casting her powerful muscles into sharp relief and making her tusks gleam. She did not interrupt, merely waited for him to continue.
“Had I not spoken against Gul’dan, our son would have more playmates with which to grow up,” Durotan continued. “Had I not spoken against Gul’dan, we would have continued to be valued members of the Horde.”
Draka hissed, opening her massive jaws and baring her fangs in displeasure at her mate. “You would not have been the mate I joined with,” she boomed. The infant, startled, jerked his head away from the nourishing breast to look up at his mother’s face. White milk and red blood dripped down his already jutting chin. “Durotan of the Frostwolf clan would not sit by and meekly let our people be led to their deaths like the sheep the humans tend. With what you had learned, you had to speak out, my mate. You could have done no less and still be the chieftain you are.”
Durotan nodded at the truth of her words. “To know that Gul’dan had no love for our people, that it was nothing more than a way for him to increase his power. . . .”
He fell silent, recalling the shock and horror — and rage — that had engulfed him when he had learned of the Shadow Council and Gul’dan’s duplicity. He had tried to convince the others of the danger facing them all. They had been used, like pawns, to destroy the Draenei, a race that Durotan was beginning to think had not required extinction after all. And again, shuttled through the Dark Portal onto an unsuspecting world — not the orcs’ decision, no, but that of the Shadow Council. All for Gul’dan, all for Gul’dan’s personal power. How many orcs had fallen, fighting for something so empty?
He searched for the words to express his decision to his mate. “I spoke, and we were exiled. All who followed me were. It is a great dishonor.”
“Only Gul’dan’s dishonor,” said Draka fiercely. The infant had gotten over his temporary fright and was again nursing. “Your people are alive, and free, Durotan. It is a harsh place, but we have found the frost wolves to be our companions. We have plenty of fresh meat, even in the depths of winter. We have kept the old ways alive, as much as we can, and the stories around the fire are part of our children’s heritage.”
“They deserve more,” said Durotan. He gestured with a sharp-nailed finger at his suckling son. “He deserves more. Our still-deluded brothers deserve more. And I will give it to them.”
He rose and straightened to his full imposing height. His huge shadow fell over the forms of his wife and child. Her crestfallen expression told him that Draka knew what he was going to say before he spoke, but the words needed utterance. It was what made them solid, real . . . made them an oath not to be broken.
“There were some who heeded me, though they still doubted. I will return and find those few chieftains. I will convince them of the truth of my story, and they will rally their people. We shall no longer be slaves of Gul’dan, easily lost and not thought of when we die in battles that serve only him. This I swear, I, Durotan, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan!”
He threw back his head, opened his toothy mouth almost impossibly wide, rolled his eyes back, and uttered a loud, deep, furious cry. The baby began to squall and even Draka flinched. It was the Oath Cry, and he knew that despite the deep snow that often deadened sound, everyone in his clan would hear it this night. In moments, they would cluster around his cave, demanding to know the content of the Oath Cry, and making cries of their own.
“You shall not go alone, my mate,” said Draka, her soft voice a sharp contrast to the ear-splitting sound of Durotan’s Oath Cry. “We shall come with you.”
“I forbid it.”
And with a suddenness that startled even Durotan, who ought to have known better, Draka sprang to her feet. The crying baby tumbled from her lap as she clenched her fists and raised them, shaking them violently. A heartbeat later Durotan blinked as pain shot through him and blood dripped down his face. She had bounded the length of the cave and slashed his cheek with her nails.
“I am Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish. No one forbids me to follow my mate, not even Durotan himself! I come with you, I stand by you, I shall die if need be. Pagh!” She spat at him.
As he wiped the mixture of spittle and blood from his face, his heart swelled with love for this female. He had been right to choose her as his mate, to be the mother of his sons. Was there ever a more fortunate male in all of orc history? He did not think so.
Despite the fact that, if word reached Gul’dan, Orgrim Doomhammer and his clan would be exiled, the great Warchief made Durotan and his family welcome in his field camp. The wolf, however, he eyed with suspicion. The wolf eyed him back in the same manner. The rough tent that served Doomhammer for shelter was emptied of lesser orcs, and Durotan, Draka, and their yet-unnamed child were ushered in.
The night was a bit cool to Doomhammer, and he watched with wry amusement as his honored guests divested themselves of most of their clothing and muttered about the heat. Frostwolves, he mused, must be unused to such “warm weather.”
Outside, his personal guards kept watch. With the flap that served as a door still open, Doomhammer watched them huddle around the fire, extending enormous green hands to the dancing flames. The night was dark, save for the small lights of the stars. Durotan had picked a good night for his clandestine visit. It was unlikely that the small party of male, female, and child had been spotted and identified for who they really were.
“I regret that I place you and your clan in jeopardy,” were the first words Durotan spoke.
Doomhammer waved the comment aside. “If Death is to come for us, it will find us behaving with honor.” He invited them to sit and with his own hands handed his old friend the dripping haunch of a fresh kill. It was still warm. Durotan nodded his acceptance, bit into the juicy flesh, and tore off a huge chunk. Draka did likewise, and then extended her bloody fingers to her baby. The child eagerly sucked the sweet liquid.
“A fine, strong boy,” said Doomhammer.
Durotan nodded. “He will be a fitting leader of my clan. But we did not come all this way for you to admire my son.”
“You spoke with veiled words many years ago,” said Doomhammer.
“I wished to protect my clan, and I was not certain my suspicions were correct unt
il Gul’dan imposed the exile,” Durotan replied. “His swift punishment made it clear that what I knew was true. Listen, my old friend, and then you must judge for yourself.”
In soft tones, so that the guards sitting at the fire a few yards away would not overhear them, Durotan began to speak. He told Doomhammer everything he knew — the bargain with the demon lord, the obscene nature of Gul’dan’s power, the betrayal of the clans through the Shadow Council, the eventual, and dishonorable, end of the orcs, who would be thrown as bait to demonic forces. Doomhammer listened, forcing his wide face to remain impassive. But within his broad chest his heart pounded like his own famous warhammer upon human flesh.
Could this be true? It sounded like a tale spewed by a battle-addled half-wit. Demons, dark pacts . . . and yet, this was Durotan who was speaking. Durotan, who was one of the wisest, fiercest, and noblest of the chieftains. From any other mouth, these he would have judged to be lies or nonsense. But Durotan had been exiled for his words, which lent them credence. And Doomhammer had trusted the other chieftain with his life many times before now.
There was only one conclusion. What Durotan was telling him was true. When his old friend finished speaking, Doomhammer reached for the meat and took another bite, chewing slowly while his racing mind tried to make sense of all that had been said. Finally, he swallowed, and spoke.
“I believe you, old friend. And let me reassure you, I will not stand for Gul’dan’s plans for our people. We will stand against the darkness with you.”
Obviously moved, Durotan extended his hand. Doomhammer gripped it tightly.
“You cannot stay overlong in this camp, though it would be an honor to have you do so,” Doomhammer said as he rose. “One of my personal guards will escort you to a safe place. There is a stream nearby and much game in the woods this time of year, so you shall not go hungry. I will do what I can on your behalf, and when the time is right, you and I shall stand side by side as we slay the Great Betrayer Gul’dan together.”
Lord Of The Clans Page 1
