Nokrar shifted his weight. Durotan also knew that Nokrar’s family had been close to Grukag’s. He had taken the deaths of Purzul and Margah hard, and Durotan suspected he still had not recovered fully.
Have any of us recovered fully from what we have been through? he wondered. Will we ever? And should we ever?
“We think… you chose wrongly,” Nokrar said at last. He stuck his chin out and drew himself up to his not inconsiderable height. More Frostwolves were wandering over, listening to the conversation.
Durotan stared at Nokrar, unblinking, and straightened as well. “I am your chieftain, Nokrar,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Tread carefully.”
Nokrar was impulsive and passionate. He had raised his voice before on behalf of his mate and younglings. Durotan wanted him to back down, now, not simply for his own reasons, but for Nokrar’s safety. Durotan was a patient orc. But even he would have to do something he had no desire to do if Nokrar persisted.
But Nokrar could not see that. He tossed his hair out of his eyes and met Durotan stare for stare. “Let those of us who want to go depart.”
At least two dozen Frostwolves had gathered now. They watched both Durotan and Nokrar intently. More clan members emerged from their shelters and joined the crowd.
“And take precious food and supplies with you, only to be lost when you die within seven suns? I am not so foolish as that.” Durotan tried one last time, keeping his voice calm. “Stay, Nokrar. I understand why you feel thus, and we can—”
“Let us go, or…” Nokrar stopped abruptly, as if only now, when it was too late, he realized what he had done. His eyes widened slightly.
Quietly, Durotan asked, “Or what?”
Nokrar swallowed. “Or I will challenge you to the mak’gora.”
Durotan closed his eyes. “You just did.”
17
The argument had drawn attention as it escalated, and now nearly the half the clan had assembled. Gasps rose, and Nokrar turned pale for a moment, before the hot blood of anger rushed into his face.
“Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh—I challenge you to the duel of honor. Do you accept—or refuse?”
“I accept,” Durotan said. There was no other option. “We will meet by the spring pool. Prepare, Nokrar. Gather your family. Tell them you love them. And apologize for depriving them of a mate and father because of your own arrogance!”
Durotan stormed off toward the chieftain’s small hut. He was shaking, but with anger, not fear. Anger at Nokrar, for being so stupid. Anger at what he now must do if he were to continue to command respect. Anger at Gul’dan for inciting this. And even anger at the Spirits, for the difficulties and tragedies that had driven a Frostwolf to the worst possible error.
Durotan began to divest himself of his armor, flinging it down in frustration. The crude door opened and Orgrim, who had overseen the camp in his absence, entered, followed by Geyah and Draka.
“You are angry,” he said.
“Do you think so?” Durotan was not fond of sarcasm, but he could not bite back the retort.
“You could do nothing other than what you have done.” Geyah’s voice was cold and unemotional, but her cheeks were dark with outrage. “No Frostwolf has challenged a chieftain for generations. The insult could not be allowed to pass unaddressed.”
“Geyah is right,” Draka said, though there was a trace of sorrow in her voice. Of course she knew what he was thinking, she knew him better than anyone. She could see through the rage to the grief that fueled it. He reached for her and drew her close, then pressed his forehead to hers.
For her ears alone, he whispered, “I do not wish to kill a Frostwolf.”
She closed her eyes, then opened them. Tears stood in them. One hand crept to her swelling belly, caressing the child within.
“I do not wish to search for stones to cover my husband’s body,” she murmured.
He winced. She pulled back slightly, one small hand on his cheek. “The challenge was made in full view of the clan,” she said. “No one thinks you come to this duel with hate in your heart. Do what you must.”
Durotan grasped her hand tightly and pressed it to his chest for a moment. Everyone here knew that, unless the Spirits willed otherwise, he would win the battle. Although weary from the fruitless hunt, he was larger and a more experienced fighter than Nokrar. He was not concerned for his own life. He was concerned for Nokrar’s.
He emerged a few moments later. Word had spread, and now he saw that the entire clan was present. The gathering was subdued. Durotan recalled the one mak’gora he had witnessed, when Grukag had been challenged by a foolish Thunderlord orc over something as trivial as a slain talbuk. Then, there had been anger, as offense had truly been given, and cheering as Grukag fought to an easy victory.
But Grukag’s family was dead now. And there was no one to cheer for when Frostwolf fought Frostwolf.
Nokrar stood with Kagra and Shaksa beside him. In his arms he cradled his youngest daughter, little Nizka, who had followed the redjay to fresh water. When he caught sight of Durotan, Nokrar gave the little girl to Kagra. Nizka began to cry and reached out for him, but Nokrar gently pushed both her and her mother to the side and strode forward. Shaksa was openly weeping.
They stood facing one another as Drek’Thar was led forward. The elderly shaman halted and released Palkar’s arm. “I am glad my eyes cannot see today,” he said, “if they would witness a battle to the death between two Frostwolves. It pains me, and it pains the Spirits, who have watched our struggles. I have known you both since you drew your first breaths. My heart aches to think one of you draws your last today. I will bless both of you, for only the Spirits will decide the outcome of this imprudent battle.”
He reached into his pouch and withdrew a vial of oil. “Nokrar, give me your hands,” he said. Nokrar did so. Gently, Drek’Thar placed a drop in each huge palm. “Spirits of Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Life guide you to your destiny. Greet it well, as a Frostwolf should. While life is to be valued, death is not to be feared.”
He repeated the ritual with Durotan. When Drek’Thar had finished the blessing, Durotan rubbed his hands together, then placed them on his heart, letting the sweet scent waft up to his nostrils.
Drek’Thar bowed his head and let Palkar lead him away. The younger shaman threw a backward glance over his shoulder. Once the two were safely away, Durotan and Nokrar looked at each other. Durotan wanted to urge Nokrar to withdraw the challenge, but that was impossible. He would appear weak for doing so, and Durotan would appear weak for allowing it.
Oh, Spirits, has it truly come to this?
Durotan had barely had time to form the thought when, head lowered, howling a wordless cry, Nokrar charged him like a raging clefthoof bull. Durotan leaped to the side, striking the still-hard earth and rolling. Nokrar’s forward momentum carried him several paces before he was able to turn. Durotan was on his feet in a fighter’s stance, ready to leap in whichever direction served him best.
He let his focus narrow to himself and Nokrar. It was almost, but not quite, a trance, this hypersensitivity to his opponent. He had learned it from his father when he began to hunt, and had honed it in battle since then. Durotan could still not believe he was using those skills now against a fellow clan member.
Nokrar grunted, taking a breath to size up his opponent. Durotan took advantage of the pause and leaped forward, angling himself so that his right shoulder slammed into Nokrar’s upper chest while his left arm snaked upward. He tangled his fingers in Nokrar’s long hair and yanked hard. Nokrar howled as his head was hauled down. Durotan continued his forward motion, letting his body roll over Nokrar’s back and relentlessly driving the other orc forward down into the dirt.
But Nokrar rolled too, jerking his head free as he hit the ground on his side, rather than his front. Durotan was left holding nothing but a bloody chunk of hair and scalp. The sudden release of tension threw him off balance, and Nokrar was able to slam his fist into Durotan�
��s face. Durotan felt teeth break and tasted blood as he stumbled backward. He stayed on his feet, but Nokrar slammed into him and they both went down.
Nokrar shouted wordlessly as he punched his chieftain’s face, once, twice—
Durotan shoved both hands up and between Nokrar’s swinging fists. He cupped Nokrar’s jaw in the heels of his palms and snapped his arms upward so violently that Nokrar’s head jerked and he was flung backward.
A heartbeat later, Durotan was on his feet. But so was Nokrar. The two orcs snarled and slammed into one another. Their bodies, slick with sweat and blood, collided, and Durotan felt a rib crack. Judging by Nokrar’s yelp, he too had been injured. Growling deep within his throat, Durotan let the bloodlust take him. He had been challenged. He had to win, or die.
Lok’tar ogar.
Instead of pulling away or attempting to attack, Durotan forced himself to go limp, bent his knees, and wrapped his arms around his opponent’s waist.
“Gyaaaahhhhhh!” he bellowed, lifting up the other orc and hurling him a distance away. Nokrar struck the ground hard and struggled to rise.
Durotan was there. He curled his fingers into a fist and put all his force behind the blow as his hand crashed into Nokrar’s square, bony jaw. He felt bone snap beneath the force. One tusk had been knocked loose and now dangled from a bit of skin. Durotan drew back his arm for another blow. Nokrar was wounded, nearly unconscious. Blood now covered his face. One solid strike would end him. End the mak’gora.
Durotan stayed his hand.
Through the mask of gore, Nokrar’s eyes stared up at Durotan.
Durotan had been challenged. He had been offered no choice. The law, ancient and always obeyed, was clear. The honor duel was to the death.
Slowly, he uncurled his fist and leaned back. He stumbled to his feet, his enormous chest heaving as he sucked in air, calming himself. He heard the murmuring, but did not look at the crowd. He kept looking at Nokrar.
Nokrar’s chest continued to rise and fall, but he was beaten. He struggled to rise and failed, finally collapsing back and waiting for the death blow.
It did not come. Durotan turned to the silent, watchful crowd and spoke.
“We have suffered greatly,” he said. “First, the longer winters and shorter summers. The decrease of the herds, and their sickness. We survived. Then Greatfather Mountain wept a river of fiery blood, destroying our ancestral home. We survived. We have endured poisoned lakes, withered trees and grasses, and lack of shelter and food. We have buried those whose struggles were not successful, and we mourn them. This world offers us challenges aplenty to show our courage, to prove that we are worthy to dwell in it. Challenges that should make us stronger—not set us at each other’s throats.
“Our numbers are small, and they dwindle. I fight to lead you. To protect you. To keep you alive. I will not, by my own hand, add another Frostwolf’s name to the list of the dead. My wife is with child—the only one of our clan at this time. Nokrar is a father himself. Nizka, Shaksa, and our other children are the future of this clan, and we must do all we can to be there for them. We will fight, yes—fight to protect them and the rest of the clan. Fight prey, for food, and fight against the ravages of the elements. But to fight one another is folly of the highest order, and I refuse to do it.
“I am Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh. I lead this clan. And I will never turn down a challenge. But I will not see one of us die for daring to make one. Does anyone else wish to fight?”
His eyes roamed the faces he had known all his life. Some looked angry. Some relieved. Draka’s eyes shone with pride, and she gave him a subtle nod. His mother, the Lorekeeper, looked distressed, but said nothing.
No one accepted his challenge.
Durotan wanted to reach down and help Nokrar rise, but he knew the gesture would not be welcomed. Nokrar needed to keep what Durotan had left him of his pride, and Durotan could not afford to be seen as weak—or, perhaps, weaker than he already seemed to some.
So instead, Durotan strode back to his shelter without a backward glance. Once the door had closed and he was inside, he let himself wince at the pain and sink into a chair. Draka and Geyah entered, followed soon by Orgrim, and, leaning on Orgrim’s arm, Drek’Thar.
“You fought well, my heart,” Draka said as she reached for a small earthenware pot and filled it from a container of water. “And you chose well, to spare Nokrar. He will nurse injuries and a sore ego, but he will live to strengthen the clan.” She lit the fire and set the pot to boil.
Geyah glanced at Draka, then at her son. “You should have told me what you intended to do,” Geyah snapped. “Our traditions have already been eroded—nay, attacked and almost destroyed—by what has happened over the last few years. Now you attack what shreds remain!”
“Mother,” Durotan said tiredly, “I did not know myself what I would do. Take a look around you. Nokrar is a strong warrior and will be again, when he heals. I have seen him bring down a clefthoof by himself. With him, we have one more hunter to bring home food. Should I deprive the clan of that simply for tradition?”
“Simply for—”
“Geyah,” interrupted Drek’Thar. “Your son’s choice was in line with all I have been able to learn from the Spirits—when they choose to visit me.” He sighed. “There is enough destruction and death all around us. The Spirit of Life urges us not to feed that fire. There is… an interconnection I cannot yet grasp. But rest assured that Durotan did the right thing.”
“I am more than happy to be your second-in-command in these times,” Orgrim said.
Durotan chuckled, even though it made him wince. “In these times? In other times, you’d prefer to be chieftain?”
Orgrim reached to shove his friend playfully, then, mindful of Durotan’s injuries, stopped just short of doing so. “It would keep you from getting fat and lazy if you knew I was always ready to challenge you.” He grinned. Then, more seriously, he added, “What you did… it would not have occurred to me. And yet, I, too, think the choice was sound.”
Draka had tossed a handful of herbs in the boiling water. Now, she strained them and set them aside to cool. As they did, she dipped cloths into the herb-scented water and cleaned her mate’s wounds. What was left would be mixed with starflower and given to Durotan so that he might sleep deeply. The strained herbs would be mixed with animal fat and made into a poultice for his injuries, and later, Drek’Thar would ask the Spirits for aid in healing the clan’s chieftain. Elsewhere, Durotan knew, another shaman was tending to Nokrar in the same manner.
Durotan smiled at her gratefully as she tended to him. “Let us hope you are all correct. Rather than letting the clan fall into chaos, I will take a life, if I must. But I ask the Spirits that it will not come to that.”
The hot poultice felt good and smelled better. Orgrim and Draka eased Durotan to his sleeping furs. Within moments of drinking the starflower concoction, Durotan drifted into sleep as Drek’Thar chanted over him.
* * *
He awoke in the morning to his wife’s voice.
“Durotan,” Draka was saying, her voice low and urgent, “wake up. We need you!”
The starflower had left him groggy, and Durotan struggled to clear his head. He sat up with only a little pain, pausing to offer gratitude to the Spirits and to Drek’Thar, their vessel. Draka’s expression made his heart sink.
“What is it? What has happened?”
“Nokrar is gone. And he took his entire family with him.”
18
Drek’Thar had been the last to visit the missing family, checking in on Nokrar after tending to Durotan. Nokrar, Drek’Thar said, had been sullen and embarrassed, as was only to be expected.
“I am sorry, Chieftain,” the shaman said. “I had no suspicion they would try to leave.”
Draka snorted as she helped a still-aching Durotan into his armor. “Of course you didn’t. You, like the rest of us, assumed that Nokrar and Kagra had some sense in their thick skulls. It would see
m we gave them greater credit than they deserved.”
“Them, Grukag, Delgar, and Kulzak as well,” said Orgrim as he entered. “Five adults and three children, in all. I say let them go,” he growled, though he, too, was clad in armor and ready to depart with his friend. “They will not catch up with Gul’dan, nor will they likely be able to even follow him. That last snow saw to that. Let them starve to death. Or mayhap they will run across some stray Red Walkers who will do the job more swiftly than hunger.”
“You forget, Orgrim,” snapped Durotan, fastening Sever to his back, “they have taken children. I will not allow them to die because their parents are foolish. These are Frostwolf children, the future of our clan, and they are in danger. Our duty to them is clear.”
“What of their parents?”
Durotan hesitated. He was furious at Nokrar’s stubbornness. His decision, and that of the others who had had accompanied him, had not only put the children at risk, it had necessitated that a whole party be sent to hunt them, instead of food. For a brief moment, he regretted his decision to spare Nokrar, but he pushed that thought aside as quickly as it had come.
“I will decide what to do with them when we find them. I will do nothing to jeopardize the clan.” Perhaps a night spent alone at the mercy of the elements might have changed Nokrar’s demeanor. A clanking sound drew his attention from his dark thoughts and he looked up to see Draka reaching for her own armor.
“Wife,” Durotan stated, “you will stay behind.”
She paused and arched an eyebrow. “Husband,” she replied, “I will ride with you, as I have always done.”
“You are with child, my heart,” he said, rising and laying a gentle hand on her belly. It was only slightly softer, as the child was still new. “And one of the reasons we ride is to recover these precious little ones. If we do not find them, our child will be one of a mere handful; no one else is carrying one.”
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