The answer was strangely important to him. She looked away for a moment, her throat working, then turned her warm brown eyes up to his.
“No,” she said, quietly. “Had it been my child, I would have done everything I could to save him. No matter the consequences. You do not know this, Durotan, but that is something Frostwolves share with the draenei. They love their children, and would die for them.”
For a fleeting instant Durotan thought the reference odd, but then he remembered—the draenei had brought Draka to this place. Not for the first time, he found himself full of wonder for what this fierce female had undergone.
He let his hands fall from her shoulders and stepped back. “Rest, Draka. You have earned it.”
She smiled sadly. “I will not be able to rest for a long time, Durotan. Nor, I think, will you.”
* * *
The morning after the exodus from Frostwolf Ridge dawned gray and cold. Lingering smoke still drifted in from the south. The air was not clean, but at least it did not scorch the lungs when one took a breath. What water and food the Frostwolves had been able to bring with them—a bag of nuts here, a waterskin there—had been consumed the night before. Durotan decided to seek out the lake, and Draka had asked to accompany him.
Draka had told him this place was a haven. But as the two Frostwolves stood beside the lake, Durotan saw that it could be called one no longer. While the trees and stones were still there, providing shelter from the elements and a defense against attack from beast or other enemies, the lake they now regarded was coated in fine gray ash. Rotting corpses of animals foolish enough to drink water that had grown poisonous had been frozen, paritially in ice, bloated and obscene. It was winter, but it was clear to Durotan that the grass and trees in the area had died months before. There were no fresh droppings to alert them to the presence of any game in the immediate area.
The cold gray morning did nothing but illuminate a scene of despair as they solemnly regarded the dead lake, which should have promised life.
“Forgive me, my chieftain,” Draka said at last. “I have led you on a fool’s errand.”
“We would have ridden blindly otherwise,” Durotan reassured her. “Here, at least, there is shelter and a chance for us to regroup.”
Draka snorted, clearly irritated with herself. “I keep failing the clan.”
“Do you not think I feel that I keep doing so?” he asked her.
She looked at him with surprise. Clearly, the thought had never occurred to her. His clan had lost nearly everything—their home, their history, and even the lives of children. Durotan had led them to a place that was nearly as barren as a village covered in hardened liquid stone.
“We must deliver the news about the lake,” he said.
Draka took a deep breath. “We will find clean water. And land that supports life. You must believe it, my chieftain. And more importantly, you must make them believe it.”
She was right. Without faith in their leader, the clan would be destroyed. Durotan grunted his agreement, then turned and headed back to the stone shelters.
13
The very young and the very old were the first to die.
As the grim gray light crept over the land, a wail went up when a mother discovered her sleeping child would never awaken. Others developed racking coughs and followed over the first few days, their tiny lungs unable to recover from the heat and the smoke. The oldest, too, were not strong enough to fight off the brutal effects of those first devastating minutes of Greatfather Mountain’s destruction. Fights broke out over the heartbreaking task of burying the dead. Some wanted to cut trees to burn the bodies. Others insisted they be offered to the earth. But firewood was needed more by the living than the dead, and the earth was frozen solid. In the end, the orcs gathered stones and covered their dead so that, at the very least, scavengers would not feast on the corpses of brave Frostwolves.
Groups of Frostwolves departed daily, some to hunt for game, others to forage for food and search for sources of fresh water. There was not enough of either, and some who set forth never returned to the Haven. Those who went in search of them came across bodies that had been food for predators, or who had simply wandered too far and lost their way. Some of the missing were never found at all, even though parties were sent out after them. Durotan’s first thought was that Red Walkers had attacked them, but no sign of those disgusting creatures was ever found. He dared to hope they had perished with Frostfire Ridge—perhaps the only good thing to come of the disaster.
Some water was found—caught in tree hollows that had escaped most of the direct ash fall. The first snows were filthy, gray instead of white, but after a time, they became cleaner. Boiling and flavoring the water seemed to help. Soups made with pine-needle broth, herbs and ground nuts became a staple. In the early days of her Exile, Draka had not been strong enough to hunt larger game. She had subsisted on insects and small animals for a time, and had mastered the art of snares. She taught the children how to make them while the adults were out hunting. Every few days, the snares would yield some small creature, which was cut up and added to the broth so that all might have at least some nourishment.
In an effort to both keep up the clan’s spirits and to replace the items they had to leave behind, Durotan encouraged the tanning of what few hides they were able to obtain. Once, the proud Frostwolves would have scorned the idea of sewing together rabbit hides for bedding, but no longer. Branches and twigs were gathered to make rough baskets and other containers. Wood was hollowed out to hold water that became increasingly hard to find.
Drek’Thar and the other shaman sought answers from the Spirits, but they were speaking less and less frequently. One memorable night, though, Drek’Thar was told by the Spirit of Water to watch for a redjay flying overland in a straight line, in either the morning or the evening. The children made a game out of keeping watch for the bird, and Durotan promised that a special song would be made for one if they found it.
It was the only sign they had, and after many days passed with empty skies, Durotan began to doubt it would ever appear.
Until it did.
* * *
Draka, Durotan, and Geyah had been out on two different hunts since before dawn. Orgrim had been left with the task of defending the encampment, and by the time Durotan returned Orgrim had been stalking up and down the camp. “I am so glad you are back,” Orgrim said. “I have no idea how to deal with the realm of the Spirits, and Drek’Thar knows it.”
Drek’Thar was sitting on one of the stones, still and calm. Beside him, decidedly not still and calm, was Nokrar’s youngest, Nizka, who fidgeted and played constantly with her one single, long braid. Currently, she was chewing on it with her tiny teeth. Durotan’s brow furrowed and he turned to the elderly shaman.
“What is going on?” he asked.
Drek’Thar said, “The Spirit of Water has sent us the redjay, as promised.”
“What?”
“Young Nizka saw it first, right after dawn. She and the other children followed it. She tells me that it landed upon a boulder not far from here. We have been awaiting your return before investigating.”
“You promised me a song, great chieftain!” Nizka piped up. Standing behind her, but not taking any attention away from their daughter, stood Nokrar and Kagra. For a moment, Durotan couldn’t place a finger on what was different, and then, when he understood, he almost stumbled.
Everyone was smiling.
Without thinking, he found himself turning to look for Draka. She, too, looked astonished, but happy. Her smile widened when her eyes met his. It was with difficulty that Durotan returned his attention to Nizka.
“You deserve a song,” he said, “and what is more, I think you deserve to come with me and Drek’Thar as we go to this stone the redjay guided you to.” He swung Nizka atop his unarmored shoulder and she shrieked with laughter. How long had it been since he had heard the sound?
Spirit of Water, he thought, please do not toy with
us. Not now. “So, tell me, little Sharp-Eyes, where did this redjay fly?”
“That way,” Nizka said, pointing before sticking her braid back in her mouth. Palkar assisted Drek’Thar in rising, and the four set off in the direction the child had indicated. They were not alone. Draka fell into step beside Durotan, smiling at him and the obviously delighted child. Geyah, too, accompanied them, and before Durotan knew what was happening, he had a small crowd in tow.
Nizka led them to a pile of stones in the midst of the flat area between the poisoned lake and the tree. “That one. No, no, not that one, the other one, over there. The one that looks like a sleeping duck.”
It did not look like a sleeping duck to Durotan, and his steps slowed as they approached. What was this? It was just a rock in the middle of nowhere, one they had noticed but had never paid attention to. There seemed to be nothing special about it; he knew there was no water here.
Draka stepped beside him, offering silent support. Orgrim strode up to the rock, puzzled. Palkar leaned over and described the scene in Drek’Thar’s ear.
Drek’Thar looked annoyed. “The Spirit of Water has sent us a sign,” the shaman insisted. “It is up to us to interpret it. Nizka, child, where did the bird land?”
“Just on top,” Nizka said. Durotan handed the girl to her father and strode up to the boulder. Carefully, he examined it, searching for some fissure through which the precious fluid might trickle. He found nothing. He knelt beside it and pressed his hand to the bare earth. No moisture. The rock was not merely sitting atop the earth, it was partially buried in it.
Straightening, he turned to Orgrim. Their gazes locked. His old friend knew him so well, Durotan needed to say nothing. Standing beside one another, brothers in spirit if not in blood, they placed their shoulders to the boulder, and shoved.
Nothing happened. Again, they tried, and again.
All at once, Draka was there, positioning her own body against the massive rock. She was strong for a female, but she lacked the bulk, the sheer physical power, of a male orc. Nothing she could do would help shift the boulder. He started to say something to her, to ask her to step back, and her head whipped around. The determination in her eyes was absolute. He nodded. The three tried again.
“We have been deemed worthy!” came Drek’Thar’s voice. “The Spirit of Water tells me that you have shown faith in its word. I had been forbidden to help, until now.”
Drek’Thar was on his feet, and as Durotan watched, he walked toward the boulder, moving his staff from side to side in front of him. Sliding the staff gently against the curve of the great rock, he inserted the end about a hand’s breadth into the sandy soil beneath the boulder. The earth was too hard for him to do more than that. Even if he had managed to dig deeper, the staff was a small, slender thing, barely the width of a sapling. The only thing Drek’Thar would get for his effort was a broken staff. And even though Durotan knew this, he knew it, he found himself hoping he was wrong.
As he watched, hardly daring to breathe, Drek’Thar leaned on the staff. The wood bowed beneath the pressure. Durotan braced himself for the inevitable heartbreaking snap. But then… the boulder shifted. Drek’Thar continued to push, and, impossibly, the great stone was torn from the earth in which it had been nestled for years beyond counting.
It teetered. Durotan, Orgrim, and Draka sprang forward, pushing with renewed strength, and abruptly the huge rock rolled a few feet to the side. Panting from the exertion, Durotan turned to the crater it had left.
He was startled to see not dry, frozen soil, but mud. He fell to his knees and began shoveling out great chunks of sodden earth. Puddles started to form. A gift indeed from the Spirit of Water—and the Spirit of Earth as well, which had kept this source hidden and, thus, protected it from the ravages of the falling ash.
As carefully as he could, Durotan caught as much clean water in his huge hands as possible. Rising, he saw Nizka, her eyes wide with excitement. He got to his feet and went to her.
“This little one saw the sign from the Spirit of Water,” he said to all those gathered. “She followed it here. She will be the first to drink from it, then Drek’Thar, who had the vision.”
Nizka licked parched lips, looked longingly at the water, then said, “No. It should be Drek’Thar. He is our elder. I’d never have known to look for the redjay if he hadn’t told us to.”
Durotan’s eyes burned. When he spoke, he had to struggle to keep his voice from breaking. “Nizka, daughter of Nokrar, son of Gozek… you are a true Frostwolf.”
Nizka stood very straight, her eyes shining with pride, as Durotan turned to Drek’Thar and offered the slightly muddy water to him. Palkar guided the shaman’s hands to Durotan’s. Drek’Thar drank eagerly, then lifted his wet face.
“Pure and clean,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion. “Save for a trace of our beloved Earth,” he added, laughing. The last bit of tension dissolved, and everyone broke into relieved laughter and cheers. Little Nizka was swept up and passed from one pair of loving arms to the next, the hero of the day…
“Everyone, drink your fill!” Durotan said. “Then we will return to the encampment and bring the bowls we have carved. We will drink till we can drink no more. Although we were driven from our home by the death of Greatfather Mountain, the Spirits of Water and Earth have shown us that we are not forgotten.”
He stepped back and watched them, his heart fuller than it had been at any time during these long, dark weeks. Clean water would mean fewer illnesses. It would mean endurance for longer journeys in search of food. When they widened this source, the beasts would come here to drink as well, which meant food for bellies that had long been far too empty.
“Today is a good day,” said Draka, who had come to stand beside him.
“It is,” he said. “One we will remember on days that are not.” He turned to her. “You put your shoulder to the stone, when you had no hope of moving it,” he said.
She shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I felt called to do so. And Drek’Thar had no hope of moving it, either.”
“Drek’Thar walks a different path than the rest of us. He has the companionship and advice of the Spirits. You had nothing.”
Draka regarded him evenly, shaking her head so that her long braids danced. “You are wrong. I had you, my chieftain.”
Her words touched him profoundly. Suddenly, he wanted her to know something that he had shared with no one, not even Geyah or Orgrim. If she understood this, Durotan knew, she would understand him. He was unused to being vulnerable, to giving someone the power to hurt him. But he sensed that Draka would never abuse the trust he was about to place in her.
Durotan took a deep breath. “It has been difficult since my father’s death,” he said. “You may have heard the whisperings.”
Draka cocked her head, uncertain as to where the conversation was going. “I have heard, yes,” she said, honestly. “That he did not even lift his weapon at the end.”
“It is not that he was afraid to fight,” Durotan said, and, quietly, while others celebrated around him and went to follow his orders, he told Draka about the strange malady with which his father wrestled prior to his death. Geyah and Drek’Thar knew, of course, as they had been present during Garad’s sickness. But Durotan had told no one, not even Orgrim. Draka listened intently, not interrupting, as he told her what had happened, and how it had driven him to do all he could to remove the stain from his father’s memory.
“So,” she said at last, when he had fallen silent, “not only have you had to deal with the loss of a father, and challenges and hardships we have never before encountered… but you do so with the extra burden of trying to honor Garad’s legacy. The true strength of a clan lies in its ability to support one another. I am glad you have had your mother and Orgrim to help you, Durotan, but even so, you have been tested beyond what anyone could expect to endure.”
Durotan had always been treated with respect. And, he now realized, he had lived, until Garad’s deat
h, an easier life than the rest of the clan. He was not used to being refused. But now, he felt nervous as he reached for Draka’s hand, so very small in his.
“I have been blessed, yes,” he said, “with the wisdom of the elders and with a friend who could not be dearer to me if we had shared the same womb. But you are right. There is much that lies heavy on my shoulders.”
Durotan looked over at his clan. Someone had already brought back tools and several orcs were hard at work widening the precious reservoir.
He turned back to Draka, his eyes on her small hand in his palm. He didn’t want to see her expression until he had finished saying all that was in his heart. “Draka… your wits are sharp when good counsel is needed. Your heart is kind when the clan is hurting. I have been reluctant to speak. I felt that I have so little to give. There was a time when being the wife of a chieftain meant honor and ease. In these times, I can offer neither. You will know burdens, and be forced to watch as I make difficult decisions. But… I think my decisions would be better if you helped me reach them. I think my heart would be stronger if it held your love. And…”
Now he risked taking a look at her. Her eyes had widened as he spoke and her breath came quickly, and she had not pulled away her hand. “I would do everything in my power to be a good husband to you. Even with all the burdens I bring. Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish… will you have me?”
Her expression softened. Her warm, dark eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh,” she said, “You are right. This is a dark and frightening time for us. You are laden with many burdens. No one knows what new challenge awaits us on the morrow. And that is why—”
Durotan braced himself for her rejection.
“—You are an idiot for not speaking sooner. And I will have you for as long as you let me speak truth to you.”
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