“I have seen no newborns,” he said, and Orgrim sobered as well.
“Neither have the wolves littered,” Orgrim said. “Nor were many calves born to the herds this year.”
“There is wisdom in that,” Durotan mused. “Fewer mouths to feed when supplies are scarce.”
“Yes,” said Drek’Thar, who was sitting with them and reaching his hands toward the warmth. “Wisdom. The Spirit of Life understands ebb and flow. But if there are no new calves to grow into adults, what have we to eat? If there are no sturdy young orcs born to the clan, what will become of the Frostwolves?” He turned his blind face in Durotan’s direction. “Your attentiveness has saved lives, Durotan.”
Durotan scowled and shook his head. “Had I been more attentive, the Red Walkers might not have dared attack.”
“Even so. Do not belittle what you have done that has been worthwhile. Children who might have starved to death with lesser care live to play by the fire tonight. But attentiveness cannot create life.”
“Has the Spirit of Life come to you, then?”
Drek’Thar shook his head. “The Spirits come less often to me, in these times. But I do not need to have visions or messages to know something this simple. The clan is strong and healthy, for now. But now is not tomorrow.”
The words were heavy to Durotan. He thought of Gul’dan and his promises of a new land, fertile and green and bursting with life. He wondered if the warlock and his Horde had already departed, bound for this mysterious place. Durotan recalled the unsettling hue of Gul’dan’s skin, the green glow in his eyes, the dead things with which he chose to adorn his body.
He shook himself. Everything in him, and in Geyah, Garad, and Drek’Thar, told him that whatever the warlock promised, it would come at a price. A burst of laughter came from the newly settled family, free, joyful, and content.
The clan was strong and healthy, for now. And for now, Durotan would let that be enough.
* * *
The winter was brutal. It came hard on the heels of a dry autumn that yielded wizened fruit and a frost that bit deep. The firewood that had been gathered with muttered complaint in the summer now kept them warm. The dried flesh they had refrained from eating when it dripped sweet juices was now a leathery comfort when snowstorms raged outside, and there was no thought of hunting.
As the clan clustered about the life-giving fire, Durotan told young ones tales about his father and his own first hunt, where he learned what it truly meant to be a Frostwolf. He encouraged Geyah to tell stories of Garad in his prime, and of himself as a child. He invited the elderly orcs who could no longer hunt or fight to sit by the communal fire and share recollections of when they were young. His only request was that the tales uplift, inspire laughter, or otherwise “make our clan better for the hearing of them.”
The Frostwolf clan survived the winter with no loss of life from cold or lack of food. And when spring finally returned, the nuts and seeds so carefully stowed away were planted and tended to.
No one spoke in whispers any more of Garad being “cut down.” No one mentioned Gul’dan, unless it was to condemn his fear-mongering. And Geyah told her son that his father would have been proud.
Durotan did not reveal to anyone, not even Orgrim, with whom he shared so much, how he lay awake at night counting barrels of dried grains in his head, or wondering if there were enough kevak leaves to ease the coughing of one of the little ones. Or how he constantly battled a sense of doubt that he was doing the wrong thing.
He knew enough of his parents’ interaction to know that Garad turned to his mate for advice and counsel. Doubtless, he had been able to confide his fears to her as well. But although it would likely have been wisdom to have chosen a mate, Durotan did not feel any stirring in his heart.
Perhaps it was simply too weighted down.
9
“I say it will be a dancer, not a drunkard, who is the last orc to throw something on the Midsummer fire tonight,” Orgrim said. “The dancing is only beginning. The drinking isn’t.”
Durotan laughed. Later, he would assume his place on the Stone Seat, but for now, it was too close to the bonfire for his comfort. He and Orgrim stood on the outskirts of the village as the dancers whooped, shouted, and leaped in the flower-starred meadow.
They had made it through a full, and difficult, year with only four clan members to mourn. Two fell in a hunt, one was lost in an accident, and an old orc had died beside a fire, drifting into an endless slumber after telling a story of his youth. Durotan’s people were still content. They did not complain about the austere measures their chieftain put on them. They were Frostwolves, accustomed to hardship, and if tonight they reveled, Durotan would be glad.
“I see you started early,” Durotan replied to Orgrim, gesturing to a waterskin that was, he knew, most definitely not filled with water. Orgrim laughed and passed the bag of cider to his friend. Durotan drank, the tangy but sweet liquid flowing down his throat, and returned the skin to Orgrim.
“Barely a mouthful!” Orgrim said. “Set a good example to your clan, chieftain, and drink up!”
“I will set the example by not having a pounding head on the morrow.”
“I won’t have a pounding head, either.”
“That is because your Doomhammer skull is so thick a clefthoof could dance upon it without causing…” Durotan’s voice trailed off.
There was movement on the meadow, a small speck in the distance. None of the dancers had noticed it yet. It did not move like an animal, and no lone Frostwolf would have wandered so far. Durotan realized that it was a figure, and one heading directly toward the village.
Red Walker.
Ever since the attack last autumn, Durotan had had his people on high alert for this hideous “clan” of blood wearers. But today, there had been no patrols. Today, he had let his clan relax and enjoy. Rest. He cursed himself.
Orgrim said quietly, “I will get the wolves.”
* * *
Picking up on his master’s sense of urgency, Sharptooth flattened his ears against his skull as he ran. The aptly named Biter actually snapped as he bore Orgrim. The two orcs had not raised an alarm, not yet. The Red Walker was out in the open and clearly alone, and Durotan and Orgrim would be more than a match for a single foe. But as they raced across the open meadow, as exposed as the enemy, Durotan turned to see the dancers pause and observe them, their faces tense.
The Doomhammer was strapped across Orgrim’s broad back, and Durotan clutched Thunderstrike in one powerful hand. His jaw was set in grim determination. They were downwind of the intruder, and Durotan sniffed, trying to catch the telltale scent of old, dried blood. He frowned when all he smelled was the musk of another orc.
In harmony with him as ever, Orgrim said, “No stink.”
The small dot grew larger as they approached. Durotan leaned back and Sharptooth slowed. Biter raced forward for a few paces, then Orgrim circled back to where Sharptooth now stood.
At first, the shape had appeared bulky, and he had assumed it was a male. But there were strange angles on the form, and gradually Durotan realized that he was looking at a female who bore something across her shoulders. Her pace was steady. He now caught a glimmer of something blue and white draped across her torso.
Tension bled out of him so quickly that Durotan actually trembled. Joy, knife-sharp as torment, sliced through him.
“Orgrim, my old friend, you have an idiot for a chieftain,” he said between whoops of giddy laughter.
“I suspected that,” Orgrim said, “but why do you think so?”
“What day is today?”
“Midsummer, of… course…” Orgrim’s eyes went wide.
“That’s not a Red Walker out there. That’s a Frostwolf!”
Orgrim shouted in astonished delight. Both orcs leaned forward and their wolves, happy to be running again, hastened toward the Frostwolf female. She had halted, awaiting their approach, and she bore the body of a talbuk doe on her shoulders. The wind
caught a trailing corner of the Frostwolf banner and it fluttered about her. As Durotan and Orgrim came to a halt in front of her, her dark eyes met Durotan’s. She grunted as she shrugged off the talbuk and let it fall to the earth. Her belly was flat and bare, her strong, muscular legs encased in roughly made leggings. Her arms were sleek and knotted with muscle, her skin a warm, rich brown. A purple crystal hung about her neck on a cord made of sinew. It caught the sunlight as she threw back her head and laughed, lifting a single small axe in salute.
“Hail, Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh!” she shouted in a bright, clear voice. “I am—”
“Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish,” Durotan said, and grinned.
Durotan walked beside Draka almost in a daze as they made their way back to the celebration, her offering of meat slung across Sharptooth’s back. His heart was so full. Surely, this was a sign from the Spirits that things would improve soon. He had never seen an Exile return, and it seemed more like fate than coincidence that it was Draka, who exemplified weakness becoming strength, coming home when the clan most needed to be strong.
She was welcomed like a returning hero, and Durotan supposed she was. Skin and bone she had been, weak and frail and slight, almost as slight as the female slave who had accompanied Gul’dan. Now, she was muscular, strong, fierce. He recalled she had bowed her head to no one, departing for what everyone—including herself, perhaps—believed to be certain death. She had returned every bit as proud.
The two years since her departure had seen the death of Draka’s parents, but Geyah welcomed her with a warm embrace. Draka was stiff at first, but gradually her arms crept up to hug the older female tightly. Drek’Thar’s smile was broad and his voice trembled as he gave her the formal blessing of the clan. Durotan surrendered the Stone Seat to her, which she accepted after a brief hesitation. He himself cut her a dripping slice of roasted flesh, and she ate hungrily. She was muscular, but lean, so very lean. Not an ounce of superfluous flesh softened her frame. He made sure she ate her fill and refused to let her be besieged with questions while she did so.
At last, Draka sighed and sat back, placing a hand on her full belly. She let her gaze travel over the scene before her. “Durotan. I grieve for your father.”
“He died in battle,” Durotan said. “Do not grieve.”
They looked at one another for a moment before she said, “Do you know, I almost did not return.”
“Why not?”
She chuckled without humor, staring at the leaping flames of the bonfire. The sun had set, and the warmth was now welcome. “I was an Exile. My clan had turned against me.”
Durotan felt his stomach clench. “It is our way, Draka.”
“Which is why I did not return. It has been…” She shook her head. “The Frostwolves have done well. Others have not. The world out there is harsh, Durotan, son of Garad.”
“So is the world here.”
She turned to him, her brown eyes intense. “The world out there is bigger than here.”
“What happened to you? How did you survive? What did you see? I want to hear everything.”
Draka scrutinized him. “Why?”
There were many reasons, all of them entirely proper coming from the chieftain of a clan. And yet, he hesitated. “Things have… happened here. I will tell you of them. But I want to know what you have seen.”
“For what reason?” she pressed.
“I am chieftain now. I need to protect the Frostwolves as best I can. You are a Frostwolf again—if you wish to be. You can help them. Help… us.”
Draka smiled. “And?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He owed Draka nothing more than what a chieftain owed a returned Exile—an offer to return to her place in the clan. But there was something remarkable about her. Something that made him want to not be a chieftain, always mindful of his words, always trying to lead and do the right thing.
“I watched you leave,” he said at length. “You stood straight and proud, though you were so scrawny the weight of the pack alone should have crushed you. You didn’t look back. I thought that was the bravest thing I would ever see. Last year, I stood and looked out to the west, and wondered if you would come back. But you didn’t.”
“But I did,” she said quietly.
“You did.”
Draka chuckled, low and soft. Her eyes searched his boldly, as if she had earned the right to regard him as an equal because of what she had endured. Perhaps she had. Finally, she seemed to make up her mind about something. She rose from the Stone Seat, stretched her long, strong body, then lay on the earth, watching the smoke as it rose in a gray, twining trail as if trying to meet the stars.
“For as long as time,” she said at last, “the south was lush, and our north, our Frostfire Ridge, was starkly simple. This, we know. We were proud that we did not grow lazy, that the challenges honed us. Made us Frostwolves, and not some other clan. And they did, and I was glad of it. Even though I was an Exile, in some ways, I was prepared for what I saw, and the southern orcs were not. I knew what was expected of a Frostwolf, and even if my body was weak, my heart…” She clenched a fist and brought it between her breasts, thumping it firmly. “My heart was strong. My heart and my head kept me alive. Alert. Clever. Alert and clever enough to stay alive until my body caught up with them.”
He watched her intently, then realized he was staring. Instead, he lay down as well, not touching her, but beside her, and they both looked up at the stars overhead. He envied them their impassivity.
Draka continued. “I could have returned last Midsummer. I chose not to. I wondered if there had been a reason for my weakness, my being sent into Exile. I wanted to learn what was out there. So I went on a journey.”
“Where did you go?” Could he have done such a thing? The clan was so important. So tightly knit. Would his heart have been strong, as Draka’s was, or would it have broken at leaving his family and their way of life behind? And if he had managed to last a year alone, would he have been able to choose to walk away, simply to see what else was out there?
“Many places. South, west, east, north. I have seen the sun rise from a mountain peak in the east. I got lost in a forest so ancient it makes Greatfather Mountain seem young. I learned how to hunt, and to eat, many things. What plants were wholesome, and what were not.”
She turned her head to look at him. Her eyes glittered orange in the firelight.
“There is a blight there that is not here, not yet. Sickness. Ugliness. Things not just dying, but…” she groped for words. “Being twisted first. It is difficult to explain.”
“Did you encounter other orcs?”
She nodded. “Yes. From many different clans. Some were hunting parties, as we had encountered here. They carried tales of their lands. They told me how hungry they were, and how frightened.”
“They said that?”
She laughed. “Not in so many words. But I could smell it on them. They were afraid, Durotan.” She fell silent, then said, “I saw others, too. I traveled with the draenei for a time.”
“What?” Durotan was shocked. He knew the draenei were more common in the south, but there were some near Frostfire Ridge, as well. He had glimpsed them only once, fascinated by their blue skin, their curving horns, their long tails, their hooved legs that made them look closer kin to talbuks than to orcs. They had been in retreat. Garad had said they were always in retreat; the draenei were notoriously shy, immediately melting away if the Frostwolves ever came across them. The two races avoided one another, which resulted in peace. The draenei never offered offense or violation of the Frostwolf territory, and Garad said only a coward looking to feel better about himself would pick a fight with one who never challenged him.
“Only for a little while. I came across them while they were hunting. They were kind, and wise. They gifted me with this,” she said. She held up the necklace Durotan had observed earlier. Even in the dim light, it glittered. “They had created a small refuge they c
alled Haven, to the north, a safe place where they could rest while traveling. They let me share it, one time when I was injured and needed to recover. They are not what we thought.”
“They seem so…” He struggled for words. “Passive. They will not fight. Even the talbuks fight back.”
She shook her head. “No. They have honor, and they are strong, just not the way we are. We worked together.”
“How?” Draenei spoke gibberish. Draka’s laugh was robust and hearty.
“They are not so unlike us that I could not be understood. I learned a few words and phrases as well. They are not orcs, but they are people. In the end, I do not regret my Exile, son of Garad. Your father might have thought he was giving me an honorable death. He gave me something else, instead. But when all is done, when the sun of my life sets, I would see it do so here, in Frostfire Ridge.”
They lay beside one another for some time, neither feeling the need to speak more. The revels went on around them—drums pounding, laughter filling the air. Orgrim was nowhere to be seen. Durotan wondered how his friend’s head would be feeling on the morrow, and he found himself smiling. He was content, for the first time in so very long. He was sure that Draka had many exciting stories to tell, of her two years away from the clan, and he wanted to hear them all.
His smile faded. There was a question that needed to be asked, but he was loath to do so. He postponed it for as long as he could, enjoying the simple comfort of lying beside her, not touching, not speaking. But he had to know.
“Draka,” he said, “during your travels, did you ever hear of… a warlock?”
As he had feared, Draka’s sneer of distaste soured the soft moment. “Pagh!” She turned her head away from him and spat angrily. “Gul’dan, the green-skinned slaver. Indeed, yes, I heard of him. He is gathering the orcs to him with a tale of some faraway, perfect magical land, where the beasts fight amongst themselves to decide which will be your dinner, fruit falls so often it bruises your head, and birds piss cider.”
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