Warcraft

by Christie Golden

  Durotan bellowed with laughter. She joined in, and they lay grinning at one another for a while. Then, Durotan told Draka of Gul’dan’s visit. She listened intently as he described both the warlock and his slave. When he spoke of Garad’s death at the hands of the Red Walkers, she propped herself up on one elbow, her gaze never leaving his face.

  He spoke for a long time, telling Draka everything that had happened since her Exile, the words flowing out of him. It seemed so easy to talk to her, and he wondered why. Some of these things he had not even said to Orgrim. Maybe it was because she was a returned Exile, someone who had not been present when the incidents occurred. Or because she had learned things during her travels, and could offer a fresh perspective. Or perhaps it was the peaceful intensity emanating from her, as if she listened with her whole being, not just her ears.

  When he finally fell silent, she spoke.

  “Red Walkers,” she said. Her voice was as cold as a glacier. “I have seen them.”

  Now Durotan, too, rose up on one elbow to peer at her. “Tell me.”

  “They call themselves so, because they cover themselves with the blood of their prey. But the name is wrong.” She shook her dark, braided head slowly. “They are not red walkers, not any more.”

  “I don’t…” And then he did understand.

  “The blood… Draenei?”

  She nodded. “And… orc.”

  10

  The first snow followed Draka by a mere twenty-nine days.

  It was not much, a few crystalline flakes that melted before settling on the ground. But snow had never come this early, and Durotan felt both furious and sick.

  In the summer there had been some protest at his miserliness with their supplies, but now that vanished almost as quickly as the snowflakes. Resignation settled in, but the clan knew they would greet the swiftly approaching winter prepared. Durotan was proud of them.

  Draka’s unexpected arrival heartened the Frostwolves. She would tell stories to rapt young orcs—and some rapt not-so-young ones, too. At Durotan’s request, she drew maps on dried, tanned hides, showing where she had traveled, and what lay there. She offered techniques the Frostwolves had never seen before: ways to hold the bow that granted a steadier aim, methods to rewrap sword hilts to make them easier to grip. But most of all, Durotan realized she offered hope. If an Exile could return to the Frostwolves after two full years, alive and even stronger, surely they could all survive.

  Shortly after the snowfall, Durotan asked Geyah, Orgrim, Drek’Thar, and Draka to join him in the chieftain’s hut. The first three had become trusted advisors, and he sensed Draka had much to contribute as well. At first, the others were stiff and uncomfortable around the newcomer, but gradually everyone started to relax.

  “I have missed frostweed tea,” Draka admitted, accepting a hot cup from Durotan. “Other herbs are nourishing, but none is as tasty.”

  Drek’Thar, holding his own cup between his hands, turned his head in her direction. “Other herbs?” he inquired. “Only the frostweed and the kevak leaf are safe for us to eat.”

  “I thought so, too,” Draka said. “But I have since learned that I was wrong. Fireweed and arrowroot can both be eaten. Arrowroot saved my leg when I chewed it and made a poultice to treat a red maka sting. And starflower…” Her eyes sparkled. “Well, if you need a long sleep and interesting dreams, simply drink a cup.”

  Geyah looked stunned and sat down awkwardly. “Starflower gives death, not sleep. So we—and you—were taught, Draka. Why would you drink it?”

  “I did not know what it was when I was offered it,” Draka said. “The Thunderlord clan says it is good to quiet the mind.”

  Geyah shook her head slowly. “That you are here to tell us this is proof it is not poison, but…”

  “No doubt our ancestors had reason for teaching us this,” Durotan said. “It could be that someone drank too strong a potion and never awoke.”

  “This could be of great help,” Drek’Thar said. “Anything that can heal or feed this clan is a gift, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish. Later, come to the shaman hut and tell all of us what else you have learned.”

  Draka’s cheeks turned dark. Durotan almost laughed. Draka, who had survived what most orcs considered a death sentence, who had traveled far and wide, who had a gleefully coarse sense of humor and who had seen orcs who wore the blood of their own kind like an obscene decoration… Draka was blushing. And abruptly he understood.

  Gently, he placed a hand on her arm. “You are no longer an Exile, Draka. You are one of us. You always have been.”

  She shook off his hand with a grunt and muttered something he couldn’t catch. But the look she gave him was grateful.

  Later, taking advantage of the good weather, Durotan assembled a hunting party. Anxious to see Draka demonstrate her various techniques against living prey, he invited her to join the group, and was taken aback when she refused.

  “Why will you not come?” he demanded.

  “Because I do not wish to.”

  “We require your skills, Draka. We must know what you know.”

  “I have taught you enough here, in the village,” she said. “Your archers and warriors learn quickly.”

  She strode off. He followed. “The Frostwolves need you to hunt with us.”

  “You have not needed me for two years,” she shot back, and kept walking.

  Clan members did not simply walk away from their chieftain when he was speaking to them! Irritated now, Durotan grabbed her arm to halt her. She tried to jerk away, her black brows drawing together, her strong jaw jutting fiercely.

  Like the hands of all orc males, Durotan’s were huge on her smaller form. “I am your chieftain,” he growled. “You will do as I command.”

  Her eyes, brown as the earth, deep as its secrets, bored into his. “Is this how you lead, then? Perhaps I should have stayed away.”

  He released her and stepped back. “No,” he said. “It is not how I lead. And I am gladder than I can say that you came home.”

  He waited for her to stalk away again, but she stood where she was. Encouraged, he said, calmly this time, “You do not have to accompany us if you do not wish to. But I don’t understand. You have so much to teach us, Draka. Why won’t you come?”

  Her frown deepened and she turned away. “You know I was sickly as a child. No one taught me the ways of weapons; no one thought I would survive long enough to use them. I had to learn them myself, or die.” She shrugged. “I learned.”

  “You did. You amaze me, Draka.” She turned to look at him, surprised at the honesty and humbleness in the admission. “Show us what you have learned. I, for one, long to see it.”

  “But there were things I did not learn in my Exile,” she said. “Things I didn’t have the chance to learn. I can hunt, Durotan. But… I cannot ride to that hunt.”

  If she had struck him, he could not have been more astonished. He had not paid much attention to her when he was young; he was the son of a chieftain, and, like most children, had focused mainly on his own wants, desires, and perceived hardships. He had assumed all Frostwolves learned how to ride, even those who were Exiled. But Draka had been delicate, and clearly even her parents had assumed she would be Exiled and die. What did a corpse need with riding skills?

  “Yes,” he said gently, “you can. Today, you will ride with me, in a place of honor, atop Sharptooth. You will sit behind me, and speak in my ear, telling me what to do, how to hold the weapon, and I will obey your instructions. All will see you teaching me. And then, when there are no other eyes to see or voices to carry tales, I will take you away from the village and teach you how to ride Sharptooth, or whichever wolf chooses you, without any guidance from anyone.”

  Draka’s face, her beautiful, sharp-toothed, square face, had gone from closed and wary to open and amazed. She stared at him, then bowed her head and dropped to one knee.

  “You honor me, chieftain,” she said. Her voice was thick.

 
Durotan leaned down and lifted her up. “No, Draka. I—all of us—are the ones honored. Come.” He extended a hand and grinned. “Show us how it is done.”

  Tentatively, she extended her own hand. It was callused and strong, the nails chipped from hard use. Yet his own massive palm swallowed it as his thick fingers closed gently around it, as if holding a great treasure.

  They returned with six talbuks, and the clan feasted that night.

  Despite the early snowfall that chilled in more ways than one, the fall was kind. The trees gave forth plenty of nuts, and the fruits were dried and stored with great diligence. The clan had learned the wisdom of so doing last autumn. There was even a brief false summer, which invited Durotan to feel enough at ease to ride alone with Draka.

  She had now been chosen by a wolf of her own. When only a few days old, a Frostwolf child was permitted to play with the pack and bond with the pups. This first great friend could live to see fifteen turns of the seasons. The death of one’s first wolf was a respected occasion of tremendous grief—often the first great loss of an orc’s life. Another wolf would choose the bereaved clan member. This pattern was repeated until the death of a Frostwolf left the wolf behind, alone, just as Ice had been when Garad was killed. The bereft wolf grieved until it chose another clan member. Sometimes, that never happened, and the wolf was unrideable for the rest of its life.

  No one had been more shocked than Draka when, one evening, Ice had separated from the pack and lain down beside her as she sat by the fire. Bold and strong as she was, she had gazed at the huge wolf with the innocent wonderment of a child, hardly daring to believe what she was seeing.

  “Am… has he chosen… me?” Draka had asked. Her voice had cracked on the last word. When Durotan assured her that Ice had indeed done so, she had thrown her arms around his father’s wolf, and he had seen the glint of tears of joy in her eyes. Durotan had worried at first, as Ice was powerful and stubborn. But he seemed to sense Draka’s uncertainty and treated the former Exile like a pup.

  Orgrim teased him relentlessly. “She would be a worthy mate. Even your father’s wolf thinks so! You would sire fine children. She is strong and beautiful—and,” he added, “smarter than you.”

  “All that you say is true, old friend,” said Durotan, “even the last.”

  “Do you not find her pleasing?”

  “More than I can say. But I do not feel that the time is right to ask her. Not with things as they are.” Not with winter coming.

  Annoyed, Orgrim growled. “If you weren’t my chieftain, I would box your ears. I certainly couldn’t harm your brain further, if you lack the wits to gratefully accept what is right in front of you.”

  “You could try,” Durotan challenged. And for the first time since the world had turned harsh, he and his childhood friend engaged in a scuffle with much bruising, and more laughter.

  * * *

  Winter, as reliable as death, did come. And it was cruel. Game was even scarcer this year, though such a thing would have seemed hard to believe the year before. Hunting parties had to range further to find their quarry, sometimes staying away for several days in a row. Kurg’nal, who had led one such hunt, took his chieftain aside upon the group’s empty-handed return.

  “We saw talbuks,” he said bluntly, “but we did not pursue them.”

  “What?” Durotan had to modulate his voice. Something in Kurg’nal’s grim, lined face told him that this was not news to share with the clan. More quietly, Durotan asked, “Why not?”

  “They were sick,” Kurg’nal said. “Sick in a way we have never seen before. They looked like they were not alive, yet they moved. Patches of fur were worn away and the skin… looked green.”

  Durotan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the coldness of the air. “It could be that they have been reduced to eating poison,” Durotan said. “Sometimes that can change the color of the skin before death.”

  “Even to green?” Kurg’nal asked doubtfully.

  “My father once told me he met an orc almost as blue as draenei. He said it happened when the other clan’s water supply became tainted. If blue, then why not green?”

  Kurg’nal looked relieved. “That is likely what it is. I had never seen anything like it before. I am glad to know your father spoke of such things.”

  “Me too,” Durotan admitted. “Still, say nothing of this. We have enough troubles for our waking hours. We do not need our dreams to be filled with worries, too.”

  * * *

  One evening, the clan gathered by the fire to listen to Gurlak, whose voice was the strongest, sing a lok’vadnod. The laughter and cheering of approaching orcs mingled with his words; since there was a group on patrol, as usual, Durotan knew these must be the calls of the returning hunting party. Everyone’s face brightened at the sound—it meant food, and it had been over twelve days since they had eaten anything but dried fruits and salted fish.

  “Chieftain!” cried Nokrar as he approached, still on his wolf. The firelight caught the glitter of the rings in his nose and pointed ears, as well as revealing his enormous grin. “We bring good news!”

  “Your safe return is good news all on its own, but I suspect you do not come empty-handed.”

  “We bring three talbuks… and a sign from the Spirits!” Nokrar said as he swung down from atop his wolf. Drek’Thar turned his head in Nokrar’s direction at the words.

  “I will be the judge of that, Nokrar, but I would be as pleased to hear it as any Frostwolf,” he said. “What is this supposed sign?”

  “We followed the trail of the talbuk herd to the base of Greatfather Mountain,” Nokrar said. “There is a lake there that wasn’t there before.”

  “There is grass around it,” Shaksa, Nokrar’s daughter, put in, so excited that she interrupted. This was only her third hunt. She was shaping up to be one of their best trackers, with a sharp eye matched only by the sharp tongue she had inherited from her father. “Chieftain, the water is hot!”

  Excited murmurs arose. “Surely this is a blessing from the Spirit of Fire, isn’t it, Drek’Thar?” Nokrar persisted. “In the midst of the worst winter we have ever seen, to find an oasis like this?”

  “I have heard of springs that produce heated water, but never one suddenly appearing,” Durotan said.

  “Nor have I, and I have lived long and listened well to the old stories,” Drek’Thar said. He looked cautiously optimistic. “It is strange that the Spirit of Fire did not come to me, but it certainly is not beholden to do so. Nor are any of the Spirits. I do believe this is a good sign. We now know of a place where our prey will gather, if they are to eat. And this means that we, too, will eat.”

  “And bathe!” said Nokrar. “It is nothing like the cold lake water in summer. You must come, Chieftain, and see this gift for yourself!”

  The very next morning, Durotan and a few others, including Orgrim, Geyah, and Draka, rode to the base of Greatfather Mountain. Durotan’s eyes widened at the sight. It was exactly as Nokrar and Shaksa had described it: a small spring, which by all logic ought to have been frozen solid, bubbling and emitting steam. It was surrounded by a patch of green, startlingly verdant against the thick white blanket of snow. And when Durotan sank into the welcoming waters, the near-scalding water first shocked, then soothed, and he, too, believed that the Spirit of Fire was smiling upon them.

  11

  In his dream, Drek’Thar could see.

  And in his dream, he had come to the hot spring at the foot of Greatfather Mountain. All manner of creatures grazed peacefully on the green grass, from snow hares to clefthooves. As always when he regarded the mighty summit, Drek’Thar could see Greatfather Mountain’s face, ancient beyond reckoning. Hitherto, his expression was stoic but benevolent; distant but kind.

  Now, Greatfather Mountain’s stone face was contorted in a soundless cry. As Drek’Thar stared in horror, his feet sprouting ugly black roots that lashed him to the earth, he saw a tear gather at the corner of Greatfather Mountain’s eye. It
was not clear like water, but a colossal drop of red that coursed down his stone face. It grew in size as it ran, becoming a stream, a torrent, a river of blood.

  Thick and scarlet, the bloody tear cascaded into the pool, turning it into a churning crimson cauldron. The creatures which had been grazing calmly now bellowed in pain. Their bodies turned to sickly gray ash, which drifted to briefly cover the spring with a grisly blanket before the red reservoir devoured it.

  Drek’Thar heard a horrible noise and realized it was his own scream of agony. He looked down at his brown skin, then deeper, seeing past the muscles and bones to the veins coursing through every part of him. They ferried not blood but fire, white and yellow and orange.

  His screams continued, raw and violent, lacerating his throat, until he opened his eyes onto darkness.

  “Wake up, Drek’Thar!” The voice was calm, familiar—Palkar’s. For a moment, the shaman didn’t understand why he couldn’t see and thought that somehow his eyes had been burned away by Greatfather Mountain’s bloody tears, but then he remembered the wolf.

  He sat up, thrashing about wildly for Palkar’s hand, and clutched it hard.

  “Bring Durotan,” he rasped. “Now!”

  * * *

  Always, Drek’Thar had been a wise and calming presence, though even the shaman would have admitted he had been reckless in his younger years—which had cost him his sight. But to see him now, trembling and groping for Durotan, spitting out words as fast as he could think them, shook the young chieftain to his core.

  He grasped the flailing hands, stilling them, and strove to speak calmly. “Drek’Thar, it’s me, Durotan,” he said. “Take a breath, old friend, and tell me what you have seen.”

  Durotan had brought Geyah with him, and they listened with growing concern as the words poured out of the shaman, like the strange, bloody river Drek’Thar described pouring down Greatfather Mountain’s craggy face. Nothing about the images made sense to Durotan, though they chilled him to the bone.