Warcraft

by Christie Golden

  Geyah nodded that he might proceed. As Durotan resumed his seat, Kovogor stepped forward and knelt in front of him.

  “I once thought as you did. I sided with my chieftain when he was skeptical of Gul’dan’s magic, and when he talked of orcs forming a single, mighty Horde. It made no sense to us. Surely, we would overhunt an area. We would have quarrels. It could never work even in times of plenty, and in a time when every scrap of food was precious, it would be disaster.”

  He looked over at Gul’dan. “Except… it did work. Not at first, certainly. There was many a mak’gora. But we found that we each knew different things. One clan knew how to make a call to summon boar. Another knew how to make white leather. We could teach throwing techniques,” and here he smiled knowingly at Durotan, “and share the knowledge that starflower—”

  “—was good for sleep,” Draka interrupted.

  Kovogor’s head turned to her, his face surprised and delighted. Geyah scowled. Draka had not been given leave to speak, but Durotan reached to cover his mate’s hand with his own. “My wife, Draka, understands what you say better than most,” he said.

  Garona’s eyes widened as they flickered to Draka. The slave’s tiny fingers crept to her throat, touching the collar that encircled it, then she lowered her hand. Always before, Garona had seemed aloof, as if she were trying to distance herself from her situation. Now, she gazed with open curiosity at Draka, and, to Durotan’s surprise, a slight smile curved her thin lips. What is so interesting to her about Draka? Durotan wondered briefly before turning his attention back to Kovogor.

  “Then Draka has likely told you of things that have been useful in this bleak time,” Kovogor said. “So it was with the Horde. We learned that the enemy was not another clan. The true enemy was starvation. Thirst. Violence directed at each other, not at solving problems. This understanding, this sense of unity, is what Gul’dan has given to us.” His eyes searched Durotan’s. “Do you remember, when we met, when our clans hunted together? I recall that time fondly.”

  “As do I,” Durotan was forced to admit.

  “I had never thought to enjoy the friendship of anyone who was not of my clan, but I did. That connection, that sense of working together for a common goal—this is what drives the Horde. We are working, together, to prepare to enter this new land, which will have enough for all of us to prosper.”

  Durotan looked searchingly at the orc he had once, for a brief time, considered a friend. Draka had already opened his eyes to possibilities. Now Kovogor was confirming that this Horde was doing the same thing she had done, except on a scale he could barely grasp. He returned his gaze to Gul’dan. Could it be that this warlock, who seemed so dark, whom the Spirits shunned—could it possibly be that he was putting the sense of cooperation, of unity, into play not just for a few orcs, but for them all?

  Was this what it meant to be part of the Horde?

  Gul’dan said he had returned because he had seen Durotan’s interest in this precise thing. And the Frostwolf chieftain realized Gul’dan had also been right about Draenor’s troubles only growing worse.

  “So, you have come to the Frostwolves because we are the only clan that has not yet joined the Horde?”

  Gul’dan frowned. “No. There are others like you, who refuse to join us,” he confessed. “Some have become Red Walkers, like the ones who slew your noble father. Others simply keep to themselves. And they are dying because of it. I said before, and I will say it again: the Frostwolves are known throughout Draenor as proud, individualistic, and strong. If you joined my Horde, you would show by example that there is no shame in doing so. You would be able to feed your people. Your children would eat good meat, and grow strong and healthy. The Frostwolves will be given a place of honor in my Horde. You will help me lead them, for where you lead, Durotan, these stragglers, these who hold out—they will follow. I am asking you to be to these other clans what Kovogor has been to you today—a voice of reason, one they will respect.”

  “And you need them.”

  “I need you to convince them to lay their pride aside—for the good not only of the Horde, but of themselves. They need us,” Gul’dan insisted. “They will soon find themselves facing a choice: join my Horde, join the Red Walkers, or die. This world is dying, Durotan. You are not a fool, you must see it!”

  A moment before, he had looked benevolent, almost avuncular, while Kovogor spoke. Now, irritation slitted those strange green eyes. Durotan looked from the warlock to his slave: small and bird-boned compared to true orc females like Draka and Geyah. But so very proud.

  No. Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh, was not a fool. He had almost been one, though. He had almost been taken in by Kovogor’s words about the unity of the Horde, the things they could accomplish. He had almost turned his back on traditions that were nearly as old as Greatfather Mountain. He had come too close to debilitating a clan that was, and had always been, free, proud, and passionate.

  He had almost become a slave, and worse, he had almost enslaved his own people.

  Gul’dan’s words had betrayed him. It was not “the Horde,” or even “our Horde.” It was “my Horde.” For all his talk of caretaking, of saving orcs from hardship and perhaps extinction, Gul’dan was no kindly uncle, selflessly gathering devastated clans to his breast to nurture them. He wanted something from them. He needed something from them. And if the Spirits did not wish his company, then the Frostwolves did not, either.

  Durotan believed that the rewards of which Kovogor had spoken were true. But what had been the cost? Yes, the orcs were working together toward finding this new land. But what if this promise was a lie? Or what if the rewards were only for a select few? Even if it were true, the Spirits had taken care of the Frostwolves. They had guided them to pure water. And the clan had survived the winter.

  Garad might have refused Gul’dan out of a desire to preserve Frostwolf tradition. Durotan would make the same decision out of a desire to preserve the Frostwolves.

  Gul’dan’s sickly coloring and strange eyes, his lack of clan ties, his penchant for keeping slaves—none of that would nourish Frostwolves. Durotan would not gamble his people’s spirits and, in the end, their lives on the promises of this… creature.

  “My father said to you, that we do not suffer,” Durotan said. The memory of the words was as clear, as strong, as if he had heard them but a moment past. “We endure. And we will continue to do so.”

  Garona understood him before her master did, and her delicate nostrils flared with surprise. Her eyes had been fixed on Durotan, but now they darted to Draka.

  “Draka! Jeskaa daletya vas kulduru!”

  All eyes now turned to Garona in utter shock and disbelief. Until now, Durotan hadn’t even been certain that the slave had a tongue in her head, so silent she had been. But now, she was speaking—directly to his wife. Durotan turned to look at Draka. She stood, her hand clutching her necklace.

  The purple crystal given to her by the Draenei.

  “Kulshuri kazshar,” Draka said. And then he understood. Both his wife and Gul’dan’s hitherto silent slave were conversing in the draenei tongue! Durotan regarded the slave with new respect.

  Gul’dan, however, was angry. His eyes narrowed. The green flame in them grew in intensity, and his lip curled as his gnarled green hands tightened on the staff.

  “What did you say to her?” he hissed at Garona.

  “Your—Garona said, that my mate was a fool to refuse you.” Draka’s voice was calm, measured. “My apologies, husband, but those were her words.”

  Durotan kept his face impassive. He did not know the Draenei language.

  But he knew that Draka was lying.

  “My slave is right,” Gul’dan said, his voice soft and sinister. “You are a fool, as your father was. No doubt if you conceive children, they too will be fools. Honor and duty are noble concepts, Durotan. You would have seen them embodied in my Horde, had you chosen to join it. Honor cannot feed your people when there is no food to b
e found, when the growing things wither and the beasts drop in their tracks. Duty cannot shelter them when snowstorms freeze them where they stand, or when mountains crack open and bleed fire. Only my magics can do that—magics that will make the orcs mighty once more!”

  His eyes gleamed fiercely, and Durotan wanted to draw back from them. He forced himself to stay seated, unmoving. Behind him, he heard Geyah and Draka both take quick, swift breaths.

  “Do you truly not comprehend how powerful I am? Do the Frostwolves, and the Red Walkers, and a handful of others wish to be the only orcs left behind to die in a barren wasteland? I could have saved you, stubborn son of Garad!”

  And then he sighed. The flames in his eyes subsided to green embers. “And I may yet save you. I have never turned away an orc who asked to join me, and I will not make you the first, much as I wish to at this moment. When you are ready to see wisdom, head south, to what was known as the Tanaan Jungle.” He smiled bitterly, the gesture twisting his mouth. “It is now a desert, utterly devoid of life. It is there that we prepare. It is there you may find us. But do not tarry overlong. This world is sick. And its death throes may take you with it sooner than you bargained for.”

  He turned to leave. Geyah cried out, “The test of the blade! You cannot leave without our promise of safety!”

  Gul’dan turned around slowly and impaled Geyah with a contemptuous look. “I need no promise of safety,” he snarled. “Neither your son nor your mate could have laid a finger on me and lived to boast of it.”

  He jerked sharply on the chain in his ire. Even though Garona was clearly expecting it, the action forced a sharp hiss of pain from her and was so strong that she fell forward.

  Draka was there so swiftly Durotan marveled at it. The chieftain’s mate knelt in the snow beside the slave, helping her up. Garona jerked back at first, then hesitated and allowed herself to be raised. Draka smiled at her, kindly, then regarded Gul’dan with a scornful look. The warlock merely tugged on the chain a second time and Garona followed, turning at one point to regard Durotan searchingly before falling into step behind her master.

  Kovogor was the last to leave. Unlike Gul’dan, he did not look offended. His eyes were sad and his brow furrowed in concern. Durotan longed to speak to him, but the time for words had passed, and they both knew it. Kovogor flipped the hood of his cloak over his head, and turned away to follow his chieftain.

  The sun had almost set. Under other circumstances, Durotan would have invited Gul’dan and his retinue to stay, to share a meal and shelter with the Frostwolves, after he had traveled so long to reach them. But Gul’dan’s scathing comments had rendered that impossible.

  Most of his clan glared angrily at the departing warlock. Most, but not all. Some regarded their chieftain and Draka instead, and Durotan wondered if perhaps Gul’dan had managed to plant seeds of discontent on fertile ground after all.

  As soon as he could he walked with Draka away from the others and whispered, “What did Garona really say?”

  Draka answered equally softly. “She said, ‘My master is dark and dangerous.’”

  Garona was not only proud, she was smart. She had seen the crystal, realized that Draka had been in contact with the draenei at some point, and guessed she might know some of their language. She had given Durotan’s clan a warning—at great risk to herself.

  “And what did you reply?”

  “I told her, ‘We know.’”

  16

  No one, it turned out, was happy with how the meeting with Gul’dan had gone. After the clan had eaten—another meager meal of birds and rodents boiled in an earthenware pot that satisfied neither taste nor hunger—Durotan spoke with his advisors.

  Geyah was livid at Gul’dan’s disregard for the ritual. “It is ancient,” she said. “Sacred to all orcs. Who are we if we forget everything? He comes to our encampment with this talk of unity, and then leaves unhindered after insulting us!”

  It was more than the warlock’s rudeness that was upsetting his mother, Durotan realized. The terrible strain had affected all of them. Geyah in particular had lost so much since the last meeting with Gul’dan: her mate, her home, the Frostwolf scrolls that were so old and fragile they had to be handled with exquisite care. No doubt, they had gone up like kindling from the simple heat of the fire-river as it consumed their village. Her identity and ability to contribute, as both mate of the chieftain and Lorekeeper of the clan, had been dealt devastating blows. It made Durotan’s chest ache to see her so frustrated and uncertain.

  Gently, he placed a large hand on her arm, pained to discover how fleshless it was. “You once said the dishonor is his,” he reminded her. “We honored the rituals, Mother. The shame is Gul’dan’s alone to bear.”

  “Shame it is, indeed,” Drek’Thar said, “and you showed wisdom, Durotan.” He shook his head. “The darkness around him has only grown. I would have had grave misgivings had you decided to follow him.”

  Durotan and Draka exchanged glances.

  “When I see him and hear him speak, I have an urge to throttle him,” Orgrim muttered. “My fingers itch just thinking about doing so. But I wonder if perhaps…” He trailed off.

  “Speak, old friend,” Durotan said, “your bluntness is at the heart of you. I would hear all views.”

  Orgrim looked at his chieftain. “We have struggled day to day, heartbeat to heartbeat,” he said. “Your father met the challenge with faith that it would change. You have met it with cunning and innovation—and you have outsmarted it. So far.”

  Durotan felt a prickle of unease. Beside him, Draka scowled. “Go on.”

  “Before the river of fire, we could plan; dry flesh and fish; store nuts and seeds. But now, we have no nuts and seeds, and if we tried to dry fish for a later time, we would not eat at all. There is…” he groped for the word.

  Draka found it. “Immediacy,” she said quietly.

  “Yes. An immediacy now that we did not have then. How much longer can we outsmart disaster? We hang on by the most slender thread of spiders’ silk to existence. You and I both knew Kovogor. He would not lie. And he has faith in Gul’dan.”

  Durotan did not answer at once. He turned to his wife. Garona had reached out to her, not to him; he would let her decide what she wished to share. “Draka,” he said, “your knowledge of things beyond our experience has helped us. You have been a major reason why we have survived this long. There is much that Gul’dan said that was familiar to me because of you.”

  Draka shook her head firmly. “He and I may both understand that orcs can work together,” she said, “but it is the how of it that is as different as night and day.” She paused, looking at them, measuring her words before speaking. “I feel kinship with the slave, Garona. We have never seen her like before; she must be a stranger to this place. I, too, have been alone among strangers.”

  She lifted a hand to forestall their protests. “You will tell me there is a difference. I was never forced to walk about on a chain, never ‘owned’: I have always been a Frostwolf. And yes, this distinction is true. But I do know what it is like to be other. Garona has spirit. Intelligence. And courage—she told me, in the draenei tongue, that her master is dark and dangerous. Gul’dan dominates Garona. I feel he would dominate us all.”

  Durotan looked from face to face in turn: at his mother’s, drawn and tight; at Orgrim’s, concerned and open; at Drek’Thar’s, his sightless eyes focused on something Durotan couldn’t see; and finally, at his wife’s.

  He would dominate us all.

  “No beings who can think, who can feel, who can understand what is happening around and to them, should be enslaved. We see how Gul’dan treats her. I believe you are right, wife. And I promise you all: Frostwolves will never be dominated. Our own spirits, and the elemental ones as well, reject this green orc and his promises.”

  But even as he said those words and later lay with his mate in his arms, Durotan wondered if his decision was the right one.

  * * *

&nbs
p; Six days after Gul’dan’s arrival, and two days after a late spring snow, Durotan and his hunting party were returning to the encampment, empty-handed and frustrated. When he saw a small group of orcs assembled awaiting their return, he assumed the worst and urged the exhausted Sharptooth to hasten toward them.

  “What has happened?” he said.

  The orcs exchanged glances. “Nothing… yet,” Nokrar said. Durotan looked at their faces. The orcs seemed determined but oddly furtive. No one but Nokrar would meet their leader’s questioning gaze.

  Weariness draped Durotan like a cloak. “If nothing has happened,” he said, “both we and our wolves require food, water, and rest.” He made to ride past them, but Nokrar stepped into Sharptooth’s path. It was a bold move—but contentious.

  “We all require these things, Chieftain,” Nokrar said. “And… some of us think we know how to get them.”

  Durotan was bone-weary. The fact that they had found no prey to bring back—not even a few birds to toss into a pot with old, worm-chewed grain—sharpened his ire. He should have dismounted and asked Nokrar to walk with him, listened to his concerns, but Durotan suspected he knew well enough what they were.

  “Unless the Spirits have called you to their service, Nokrar, or you have a new method of finding game or harvesting food, you know all the ways that I know. Those who have spent the last six days tracking meat for you to eat should be allowed their rest, and Sharptooth is short-tempered.”

  “We want to join the Horde.”

  So, it had finally come.

  Durotan had been expecting this, but not quite so soon. Until now, aside from Nokrar’s group, nobody in the bustling encampment had paid much attention to the returning hunting party, but he could see a few heads turn at the word “Horde.” “I know you want to be a good mate and father,” he said, as kindly as he could manage. “I know you fear for them. I have a little one on the way myself. After a fashion, the clanspeople are also my children, and I have the same concerns for all of you. You know I will listen to all reasonable suggestions. Come to me later today, when I am not so weary, and we will talk.”