Durotan, of course, was the son of a chieftain, and did not like to be called a lazy little orc who whimpered like a wolf pup, and so had gone about his task as he had been told. Later, as an adult, he had asked Drek’Thar if his words were true.
The shaman had chuckled. “It is true that it is foolish to recklessly fell a tree,” he said, “and to cut them down too close to our village alerts strangers to our presence. But… yes. I feel that it is disrespectful. Don’t you?”
Durotan had to agree, but added, “Do the Spirit’s rules always align with what the chieftain wants?”
Drek’Thar’s broad mouth had smiled. “Only sometimes,” he had said.
Now, as he rode alongside Orgrim, a thought occurred to Durotan. Felling trees…
“Gul’dan said that when the southern orcs cut open trees, they smelled… wrong.”
“Now listen to who is talking about Gul’dan!” said Orgrim.
“No, truly… what do you think that means? And the blood apple… he showed us the seeds were gone.”
Orgrim shrugged his massive shoulders and pointed to a copse up ahead. Durotan saw the dark skeletons of fallen branches resting on piles of dried brown needles. “Who knows? Maybe the southern trees decided they didn’t want to be cut open any more. As for the apple, I have bitten into some that had no seeds ere now.”
“But how would he have known?” Durotan persisted. “If he had cut open the apple and there had been seeds in it after all, he would have been laughed out of our village. He knew there wouldn’t be one.”
“Maybe the fruit had already been cut.” Orgrim vaulted off Biter and turned to open the empty pack in preparation for filling it with wood. Biter began to turn in circles, trying to lick Orgrim’s face, and the orc was forced to follow, chuckling. “Biter, cease! We have to load you up.”
Durotan laughed too. “Your dancing leaves much to be…” The words died in his throat. “Orgrim.”
The other orc, instantly alert at the change in his friend’s voice, followed Durotan’s gaze. Several paces away, all but hidden in the gray-green folds of the pines, a white spot on the bark revealed that someone had hacked away a branch.
The two had hunted together since they could walk, stalking make-believe prey and rough toys made of skin. They were attuned to one another in ways that transcended language. Now, Orgrim waited, taut and silent, for instructions from his chieftain’s son.
Observe, Durotan’s father had taught him. The branch had been chopped, not broken and twisted off. That meant whoever did this had weapons. The cut still bled amber sap, so the harvesting of the limb was recent. Snow was churned up beneath the violated tree.
For a moment, Durotan stood still and simply listened. He heard only the soft sigh of the cold wind and the rustle of pine needles in response. The clean fragrance wafted to his nostrils as he inhaled deeply. He smelled something else: fur, and a not unpleasant, musky scent—the scent not of the strangely floral-smelling draenei, but of other orcs.
And over these two known, familiar smells, a third stood out starkly: the metallic tang of blood.
He turned to Sharptooth and placed a hand over the wolf’s muzzle. The beast obediently sank into the snow, still and as silent as his master. He would not move or howl unless he was attacked or Durotan called for him.
Biter, as well trained as his littermate Sharptooth, obeyed as Orgrim did likewise. Both wolves watched their masters with intelligent golden eyes as the two orcs stepped forward carefully, avoiding mounds of snow which might conceal branches that could snap and betray their presence.
They had come armed only with axes, their wolves’ teeth, and their own bodies—weapons aplenty to deal with ordinary threats, but Durotan’s hand itched to hold a battle axe or spear.
They moved toward the harvested trees. Durotan touched one of the weeping marks, then pointed to the trampled snow, indicating how obvious the interlopers had been. These orcs did not care if anyone knew they were present. Durotan bent to examine the tracks. A few feet away, Orgrim did likewise. After a quick but thorough inspection, Durotan held up four fingers.
Orgrim shook his head and held up a different number, using both hands.
Seven.
Durotan grimaced. He and Orgrim were orcs in their prime, fit and fast and strong. He would have felt comfortable attacking two, even three or four, other orcs, even armed only with hatchets. But seven—
Orgrim was looking at him and gesturing further into the copse. Spoiling for a fight as he had been since his birth, he was eager to take on the trespassers, but Durotan slowly shook his head no. Orgrim’s brows drew together, wordlessly demanding an exclamation.
It would have made a tremendous lok’vadnod, but while Durotan would have been honored for his exploits to be remembered in song after a brave death, he and Orgrim were too close to the village. Durotan held his arms as if he cradled a child in them, and Orgrim reluctantly nodded.
They returned to their wolves, which still huddled in the snow. Durotan had to struggle not to mount immediately. Instead, he buried a hand in the soft, thick ruff of Sharptooth’s throat. The wolf got to his feet, tail wagging slowly, and accompanied Durotan for several paces as the copse and its dangerous tidings fell away behind them. Only when Durotan was certain they had not been heard or followed did he leap atop Sharptooth, urging the wolf to race for the village as fast as his great legs would carry him.
* * *
Durotan headed straight to the chieftain’s hut. Without announcing his presence, he shoved open the door. “Father, there are strangers who—”
The words died on his lips.
The chieftain’s hut was, by clan law, the largest in the village. A banner covered one wall. The chieftain’s armor and weapons occupied one corner. Cooking utensils and other day-to-day items were neatly arranged in another. Ordinarily, a third corner was filled with sleeping furs, which were rolled up and stowed out of the way when the family was active.
Not today. Garad lay on a clefthoof skin on the hard earthen floor. A second pelt covered him. Geyah had one hand beneath his neck, tilting his head forward so that the Frostwolf chieftain could sip from the gourd ladle in her other hand. At Durotan’s entrance, both she and Drek’Thar, who stood beside her, jerked their heads in his direction.
“Close the door!” Geyah snapped. Shocked into silence, Durotan quickly obeyed. He crossed the space between himself and his father in two long-legged strides and knelt beside Garad.
“Father, what is wrong?”
“Nothing at all,” the chieftain grumbled, irritably shoving the steaming liquid away. “I am tired. You would think that Death himself was hovering over me instead of Drek’Thar, though sometimes I wonder if they are one and the same.”
Durotan looked from Drek’Thar to Geyah. Both of them wore somber expressions. Geyah looked as if she had not slept more than a few moments during the last three days. Durotan realized, as he had not done earlier, that she had worn the same beads in her hair since Gul’dan’s visit; Geyah, who would never wear ritual garb of any sort once the ceremony was over.
But it was to the shaman that he spoke. “Drek’Thar?”
The older orc sighed. “It is no illness I am familiar with, nor injury,” he said. “But Garad feels…”
“Weak,” Geyah said. Her voice trembled.
So, this was why she had urged Durotan to depart on firewood duty for three days running. She did not want him here, in the village, asking questions.
“Is it serious?”
“No,” grunted Garad.
“We do not know,” Drek’Thar answered as if Garad had not spoken. “And it is this that concerns me.”
“Do you think it has anything to do with what Gul’dan said?” Durotan asked. “About the world growing sicker?”
About the sickness reaching Frostfire Ridge.
Drek’Thar sighed. “It could be,” he said, “or it could be nothing at all. An infection I cannot detect that will run its course, perhaps, o
r—”
“If it were, you would know it,” Durotan said flatly. “What do the Spirits say?”
“They are agitated,” the shaman replied. “They disliked Gul’dan.”
“Who could blame them?” said Garad, and gave his son a wink meant to reassure. But it had the opposite effect. The entire clan had been unsettled by the green orc’s dire predictions. It would be unwise for Garad to appear before his people in this condition. Geyah and Drek’Thar had been right to wait until he had recovered to—
Durotan swore. He had been so shocked to see his father in such a state that he had forgotten what had driven him to barge into their dwelling.
“We found traces of intruders in the woods, a league to the southeast,” he said. “They smelled of blood. More blood than a simple kill. And it was old blood.”
Garad’s small eyes, watery and bloodshot, narrowed at the words. He threw aside his blanket. “How many?” he said as he struggled to rise.
His legs gave way and Geyah caught him. His mother was strong and had many years of wisdom upon her, but for the first time in Durotan’s memory, his parents seemed old to their son.
“I will gather a war party,” Durotan decided.
“No!” The protest was a bellow, an order, and despite himself Durotan stopped in his tracks, so deeply rooted was the instinct to obey a command from his father.
But Geyah was having none of it. “Durotan will deal with these intruders,” she said. “Let him lead the war party.”
Garad shoved his mate aside. The gesture was imperious, angry, but Durotan knew that fear drove his father. Normally, if he had treated her with such disrespect, Geyah would have responded with a blow of her own. Garad might be the chieftain, but she was the chieftain’s wife, and tolerated no such treatment.
That she did not chilled Durotan to his soul.
“Listen to me,” Garad said, speaking to all of them. “If I do not ride out to face this threat, the clan will know—will believe—that I am too weak to do so. They are already agitated, thanks to Gul’dan’s nonsense. To be seen by them as unable to lead…” He shook his head. “No. I will command this war party, and I will return victorious. And we will deal with whatever is happening then, from a place of triumph. I will have shown the Frostwolves that I can protect them.”
His logic was unassailable, even as Durotan’s heart cried out against it. He looked at his mother, and saw the wordless request in her eyes. She would not be fighting alongside Garad, not today. For the first time in their lives, Geyah suspected her husband would not return. The clan could not afford to lose him, her, and Durotan in a single, terrible battle. Pain twisted inside him.
“I will keep him in my sight, Mother. No harm will—”
“We Exile those who are weak, Durotan,” Garad interrupted. “It is our way. You will not hover around me, nor interfere. If this is my fate, I accept it, and I will do so unaided, on Ice’s back, or on my own two feet.” Even as he spoke, he swayed slightly. Geyah caught him, and this time when he pulled away, he was not ungentle with his loving life companion. He reached out for the gourd and looked at it a moment.
“Tell me what you have seen,” he said to Durotan, and listened while he drank down the draft.
5
Geyah and Durotan assisted Garad with his battle armor. It differed from hunting armor in that it was specifically designed to block blows from axes, hammers, and maces, as opposed to hooves or horns. Beasts attacked the center of mass: the chest and legs. Orcs went for these as well, but the shoulders and throat were particularly vulnerable on an orc wielding a weapon designed for close combat. Throats were guarded with thick leather collars, and the shoulders sported massive pads studded with metal spikes. But for a race where honor was all, armor was less important than the weapons. And the weapons that orcs bore into battle were massive.
The weapon bequeathed to Orgrim was the Doomhammer, for which his family was named. The huge chunk of granite was wrapped twice around with gold-studded leather and affixed to a thick oaken haft that was almost a weapon in itself.
Thunderstrike was Garad’s hereditary weapon of choice for the hunt. But the huge axe he had named Sever was his weapon for battle. With two blades of steel, honed meticulously to a leaf-thin sharpness, Sever did exactly what it was named for. Seldom did Garad strap it to his back, but he wore it with pride today.
Durotan had never been prouder to call himself a son of Garad than when his father emerged a short time later. He strode from his hut as straight as Durotan had ever seen him, his dark eyes flashing with righteous rage. Orgrim had already been speaking to the warriors of the clan, and most of them, too, had donned battle armor.
“Frostwolves!” Garad’s voice rang out. “My son brings news of intruders in our forests. Orcs who do not approach our territory openly, as a hunting party would, but who skulk and hide. They hew limbs from our trees, and they reek of old blood.”
Durotan fought back an instinctive shiver at the memory. Any orc would deem the scent of fresh blood, spilled in the name of sustenance or honor, a good smell. But old blood, that stale, musty stench of spoilage… no orc would choose to wear it. A warrior reveled in blood, then cleansed afterward, donning fresh clothing for the celebration to follow.
Were these the Red Walkers Gul’dan had spoken of? Was this why they named themselves thus—because they were always covered in the blood of their kill? When Gul’dan had mentioned them, Durotan had been inclined to welcome them, should they arrive in Frostwolf territory. Any orc who refused the warlock was an orc to respect. Or so he had believed, until he had scented them.
Things slain should be allowed to move on—the souls of orcs, and the souls of little brothers and sisters such as the clefthooves, even down to the smallest snow rabbit. They were slain and eaten or burned, returning to the earth, water, air, and fire. Pelts were cleaned and tanned, never worn rotting and bloody.
The thought appalled Durotan—as it did every Frostwolf who listened attentively to their chieftain’s words.
“We will ride to confront these intruders,” Garad continued. “We will drive them from our forests, or slay them where they stand!”
He lifted Sever and bellowed, “Lok’tar ogar!” Victory, or death.
The Frostwolves took up the cry, shouting along with him as they raced to their equally eager wolves. Durotan leaped atop Sharptooth, casting a quick glance over his unarmored shoulder at his father. For just an instant, the weariness that had prostrated Garad a short time ago flitted across the chieftain’s features. Then, with what Durotan knew to be an effort of sheer, stubborn determination, Garad banished it.
Durotan’s throat suddenly felt tight, as if squeezed by an unseen hand.
* * *
Garad forced his sluggish mind to focus as he rode. The Frostwolves raced toward the cluster of violated trees with no semblance of secrecy. His son and Orgrim had reported seeing the footprints of seven, but doubtless, there were more. It was even possible that the main force outnumbered the Frostwolves, who had never boasted great numbers. One thing was certain: neither orc had seen any sign that the intruders had wolves. In the end, the Red Walkers, if such they were, would be facing more than a score warriors—in truth, twice as many, as the frost wolves themselves had been trained to fight alongside the orcs they regarded more as friends than as masters.
It would be sufficient to wipe them out. At least, Garad had to hope it would be. And he had to hope he would last long enough to do what he had come to do, return home, and continue fighting this crippling, cursed weakness.
The symptoms resembled those caused by the bite of a lowly but dangerous insect the orcs called a “digger”. The victim was enfeebled for days at a time, with a lack of energy and strength uniquely terrifying to an orc. Agony, racking convulsions, a shattered limb—these things, orcs knew how to embrace. The listlessness and lethargy evoked by this insect truly frightened them.
But neither Geyah nor Drek’Thar had found evidence that he ha
d been bitten by a digger. And Drek’Thar had heard nothing—nothing at all—from the Spirits as to the nature of this mystery illness. When Durotan had come with his talk of blood-steeped enemies, Garad had known it was a sign. He would rise, and fight. He would rally and defeat this malady, just as he had every other enemy.
A victory brought by action would also be good for the clan’s morale. Gul’dan’s dire foreboding, his unsettling presence, his strange slave, and above all, his green skin—it had cast an unwholesome shadow upon the Frostwolves. Bloodshed of an enemy, would hearten them immensely. And Garad longed to be once again spattered with the hot blood of a justified kill. Perhaps this was a test sent by the Spirits—and triumph would restore his vigor. Illness had stalked the clan—even its chieftain—ere now. As he had done before, he would repel it.
The arrogant interlopers had left a broad trail from the wounded trees, their footprints dark smudges on trampled snow. The Frostwolves followed, overwriting the tracks with the paw prints of their mounts. The trail led to the gray curve of the foothills, the peak of Greatfather Mountain lost to view in the low clouds.
The strange orcs were expecting them, and Garad was glad of it.
They stood in a line, straight and silent, their number a mere seventeen. While the Frostwolves wore armor and bore weapons that reflected their northern heritage, the intruders wore a strange jumble of armor styles—boiled leather, fur, metal plating. Their weapons were similarly mismatched.
But that was not what brought some of his clan members up sharply. Garad knew it was the sight of their armor—their skin, their faces—all covered in handprints of crusted, dark, dried, reeking blood.
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