Quietly, Kagra began to weep. Draka put an arm around her. Durotan had to force himself not to rage at Kagra and the others. He knew they were suffering enough.
“Frostwolf children are strong and smart,” Draka said confidently. “They have Shaksa with them. She is the same age I was when I was Exiled, and I survived. We will return on the morrow with the whole clan to search for them.” She looked at Durotan. “Won’t we, my heart?”
“We will,” Durotan promised. He didn’t trust himself to say anything further.
The ride back was cold, long, and silent. Durotan could not recall his heart ever being so heavy, not even when Garad had been slain before his eyes. Draka rode by his side while Durotan brooded, trying to make sense of what he had just seen.
Except… he couldn’t. This was not an orc clan. This was a hive of madness. He was fiercely glad for a moment that his father was dead and could not bear witness to a depravity Durotan had never even conceived of. What in the name of the Sprits were these Red Walkers? Could they even truly be called orcs any longer? For an orc to kill another was not unusual. Disrespect for the body was rarer, but it happened on occasion.
But to feed upon it…
“Durotan!” The voice belonged to Orgrim and snapped Durotan out of his dark reverie. His second-in-command had ridden out to meet them. “You found them!”
“Not all,” Durotan said heavily. “We lost Nokrar and Gurlak. And… and the children had already fled before we arrived.”
Orgrim’s face fell at the mention of Nokrar and Gurlak, but brightened, inexplicably, at the mention of the children. “Yes,” Orgrim said, “they did.”
“Mama!” came a shriek of delight.
“Nizka! Shaksa, Kelgur—”
Durotan stared in astonishment as wolves bearing the three missing children raced from the encampment. The two littlest ones launched themselves at their mother, leaping with the fearless trust of the young straight from the backs of their wolves to be caught in a loving embrace. Shaksa vaulted from her wolf and ran to Kagra. Durotan felt a stab of sorrow as the girl asked, “But… where is Papa?” and saw Kagra’s face crumple.
Geyah stood at the edge of the firelight, awaiting them. “I am so pleased you have returned, my son,” she said. “I have not been sure how to handle our visitors.”
Durotan was utterly confused. “Visitors?” Why would she call returned children “visitors?”
“There is nothing in the lore about this situation,” Geyah continued. “Drek’Thar says they were sent by the Spirits, and considering they have returned our children to us, I have made them welcome.”
Durotan had thought he had received more than enough shocks today, but it seemed there was a final one in store for him as he looked past his mother to the three shapes she indicated.
They rose on legs that curved backward like those of a talbuk, standing taller than even the tallest orc. The firelight caught the gleam of horns and illuminated their blue faces and their glowing, sky-colored eyes.
Those faces wore shy, happy smiles.
“Draenei,” Durotan breathed.
20
Durotan had only ever caught fleeting glimpses of the draenei. He knew they were tall, and blue, with tails, horns, and hooves. But he had not appreciated how physically intimidating they were, even as they stood, outnumbered in an orcish camp, smiling down at him. The males seemed to be as massively powerful as any orc, and even the female was muscular and toned—and half a head taller than he.
“They saved us!” Nizka said. “When the… the bad orcs attacked us, Papa told us to run. And we did. The draenei found us almost right away!” She looked at Durotan hesitantly. “I thought about running away from them, too, but Papa always said they wouldn’t hurt us. And what was chasing us…”
Her voice trailed off and her face crumpled as she recalled the horror. Durotan was relieved that she had been spared the worst of it. She had not had to witness the sight of her beloved father lying butchered like a talbuk in the snow.
He called over Grukag and murmured to him, “Take the children. Give them a draft of starflower, so they may sleep deeply tonight. Tell them only that Nokrar and Gurlak fell. Do not tell them how.” Shaksa, at least, would soon need to know, as she was of an age to fight in battle, and deserved to know the truth about her enemy. But the youngest two needed no further horrors to haunt their dreams.
“Say good night and thank your rescuers again, then go with Grukag,” Durotan said. Kelgur, the youngest, carried in his mother’s arms, reached out to hug one of the draenei females around her long, slender neck. The draenei’s face lit up with tenderness, and Durotan shook his head wonderingly. This world, surely, was not as it once had been. For ill… and, at least in this case, for good.
The male draenei had recognized Draka, calling out her name in a rolling, musical tone. She went to him, taking his outstretched hand warmly, and said a few halting words in his language. He made some exaggerated gestures, pointing up at the sky, pretending to run. Now, she listened carefully to his reply and, once the children had left the tight circle around the fire, she spoke.
“Deskaal says that they saw the—” She had been about to say “deserters,” but after what had happened, clearly she, like Durotan, could not find it in her to speak ill of them. “They saw Nokrar and the others last night. They knew Red Walkers were in the area, and were worried when they saw detishi… children. So they followed, and when the children ran, they were there.”
“Detishi,” Deskaal repeated, and placed his hands over his heart. Durotan recalled Draka’s words from a few months past, when they fled Frostfire Ridge: That is something Frostwolves share with the draenei. They love their children, and would die for them.
Or risk their lives for any child, he thought. Would we have done the same for them? He knew the answer, and felt a flush of shame.
“Detishi,” he repeated, imitating the draenei’s gesture. “Children.”
“Ch-cheeldrrren,” Deskaal repeated, and nodded. He looked sad and said something else, pointing at the rescued orcs, then shaking his head.
“They regret they could not save the others, but there were only three of them, and they could not risk the lives of the little ones.”
“Tell them we understand, and are grateful.”
Draka made a wry face. “I’ll try.” She seemed to succeed, for the draenei looked pleased and smiled warmly at her and Durotan. The draenei had never been the orcs’ enemy. Nor were they friends now, not precisely. But right now, that did not matter to him.
“Sit,” he told them, suiting action to word, and they did so hesitantly. “Share our food and our fire as thanks for our detishi.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Geyah perched on a stone at the very edge of the firelight, her arms crossed in front of her, and a look as hard as stone on her face.
* * *
No one was allowed to leave the encampment alone, and the patrols were doubled. The extra tension manifested itself in the clan with arguments, fights, and—due to the need for more patrols to stand guard—fewer hunts, which meant fewer opportunities for food. Still, after the horror of what had happened that night, no one objected.
The spring went from cold and gray to bright and scorching almost overnight. The flat area surrounding the encampment did not have enough green to be properly called a meadow, only here and there erratic patches of shoots stretching forth that were soon scorched by the sun. The lake continued to be unwholesome, and the baking heat—strange this far north—seemed to want to suck it dry. As the water level grew lower, more decayed bodies—mercifully only those of animals—came to light and began to stink.
Thankfully, the spring that had lain hidden beneath the boulder continued to provide water, though it was muddier than it had been in the past. While there was no longer any sign of larger prey, smaller creatures provided enough meat to feed the clan. For now, anyway. Durotan said to Draka once that she was the only orc in the clan getting bigg
er instead of smaller. Unruffled, she had shot back that if the child she carried did not box Durotan’s ears for the comment one day, she’d do so for him—or her. They had laughed and Durotan had pulled her close, and for a time they escaped the world and its troubles in each other’s arms.
While there was no longer any talk of leaving the clan or formal challenges to Durotan’s leadership, he did not need to hear unhappy words to know his people were suffering. He sought out Drek’Thar, begging him to contact the Spirits and ask what to do. “There is one source of water, and one source of food,” Durotan said. “If we lose these, the clan will die. We have no fruit, no grains or seeds. We need aid, Drek’Thar!”
The old orc, who so seldom lost his patience, lost it then. “The Spirits are not wolves to come when we call for them, son of Garad!” Drek’Thar snapped. “They are the essence of the elements, and we are fortunate that they come at all! I am a shaman. My task is to listen to them when they appear, and to tell you, my chieftain, what they tell me. What to do with that information—or what to do when it is not forthcoming—is your duty, not mine.”
It was true, and Durotan’s face grew hot to hear the words spoken so bluntly. But he had exhausted all his options. He called his counselors to him, and held nothing back as he outlined the full gravity of the situation. Orgrim scowled and drew shapes in the dirt with a stick. Geyah sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, letting her son speak, as was his right. Drek’Thar appeared to be exhausted, and leaned heavily on his staff even though he was seated. Draka sat beside her mate, one hand on her swelling belly, listening and offering silent support.
“The Spirits once sent us a sign in the form of a redjay,” Durotan said. He could hear how disheartened he sounded, how he was grasping at the faintest of hopes. “Drek’Thar, have any of your shaman seen anything to guide us? I speak not of visions or messages, but more earthly signs. Ants or birds heading a certain direction, perhaps, or patterns of plant growth?”
Drek’Thar sighed, rubbing his temples as if his head hurt. Palkar spoke in his stead. “We have been paying close attention to what has been growing, as we use the herbs for medicine. We’ve… well, it’s almost as if it’s still winter. Or perhaps autumn—I have noticed some mushrooms, and they usually only grow in the fall.”
Durotan wondered for a moment how it was that mushrooms, which liked water, were growing when there had been no rain, but he shrugged it off. The shaman seemed unconcerned, and they knew much more about such things than he did.
“I do not care when or where or what mushrooms grow on if I can eat them,” Orgrim said. “Can I eat them?”
Palkar shook his head. “I have never seen ones like these before. I would not risk it.”
Disappointment knifed through Durotan. Only one thing seemed to be growing, and that might be poisonous. He sighed deeply. “Well,” he said, “if something can grow, even if it is of no use to us, perhaps something else will grow, too.”
* * *
Nothing did. So it was that when word came of a flock of birds passing over to the northeast, Durotan announced that there would be another hunting party assembled to follow them. The birds might be heading to water, and water could mean chances for larger game. If not, at least the archers might be able to shoot a few birds for roasting. It was the most hopeful sign they had seen in some time.
“I will go with you,” Draka said when he spoke of the idea.
“Not this time,” Durotan said firmly.
“I am as fine a warrior as any you have,” she said, and it was true. She might not have the physical strength of an orc male, but she was stronger than any female he knew, and quicker than a snake.
They lay on their sleeping furs, and Durotan rolled onto his side to look at her. “Draka,” he said quietly, “I know you can defend yourself. And ordinarily I would say, ‘Wife, hunt till the baby drops, and then hand him a spear.’”
She chuckled. “I like that. She would take that spear and promptly kill a talbuk.”
“I’ve no doubt she would,” Durotan said, smiling down at her. The smile faded. “But there seems to be no talbuk for her—or him—to kill. Draka, these are no ordinary times. There are no other females with child but you. I worry enough that you will lose this child to things like poor water and lack of food. To think of a Red Walker attacking you—”
“I understand your fear. I share it. These are troubling times. You are correct—I should not engage in fighting until our child arrives.”
Relief washed through him. “So you will not come.”
“I will come as an archer, and promise to attack from a distance.”
He paused. For a moment he was furious, and then he started to laugh.
* * *
The idea of a hunt was well-received. Durotan assembled a group of ten, half of them archers, as they might discover only birds, and there was much laughing and talking as they milled about before departing.
“It almost looks like the old days,” Orgrim said. His eyes were on the hunters, saying farewell to their loved ones with smiles instead of grim, determined expressions.
“Nothing looks like the old days anymore,” Durotan said. “Still, it is good to see.”
Orgrim squinted up at the sun. “We have more sun here than we had in Frostfire Ridge,” he said. Durotan had noticed it, too, but had said nothing. What was there to say?
For a moment, he despaired, despite the happy sounds surrounding him. Was this all there was to life? Simply hanging on from one day to the next? He remembered a childhood full of stories, of play, of sound sleep and full bellies and four full, true seasons. Winter was a lean time, but spring always came. It had been a good childhood. What would his son’s—or daughter’s—be like? Would he or she even live to see it? He did not tell Draka, but he worried constantly for her, that she was not getting enough of the right food, enough clean water… enough of anything.
He had scorned Gul’dan’s offer, understanding that the promise of betterment came with a price and with no certainty. Even Garona had warned him against her master. But what was their life now? There was no certainty here, and he had already paid a grim price.
His people were excited about the opportunity for flesh in their meals, even bird flesh. They needed it. Lack of food was no longer just a hardship—it had become life or death. Durotan suspected that many of the older Frostwolves were sneaking food to the younger clan members, becoming themselves little more than skin and bones, kept alive seemingly only by water and will.
And it was not enough, not even for Frostwolves. Stones to cover bodies were more plentiful than anything growing in the ground, and that bitter harvest grew with each passing day. Since they had arrived, the hitherto flat area now had seventeen cairns. Durotan shook off the gloom. It would not serve him. Who knew what possible bounty awaited them if they followed the flock of birds? The spring was a symbol that there was always hope.
The thought of the spring reminded him. “Send them to fill up their waterskins before we depart,” Durotan told Orgrim. “We cannot count on finding fresh water elsewhere.”
Orgrim nodded, turning Biter back toward the milling group of wolves and hunters. Most of them went off right away toward the spring. Orgrim lingered behind, waiting for Durotan, who in turn was waiting on Draka.
She was having trouble with Ice. The great wolf sat on his haunches, refusing to allow Draka to mount him. She glanced up at Durotan as he approached her, exasperation plain on her face.
“If it were you,” Draka said, “I would cuff him on the ear.”
“If it were me, that would be fine.” Frostwolves were rough on each other; even displays of affection could leave bruises. But they never laid a hand on the great wolves who bonded with them.
“Maybe you can talk some sense into him,” Draka muttered. Durotan went to the wolf that had served his father since puppyhood. He scratched Ice behind his ears and the wolf whimpered, jerking his head away and sniffing the air intently.
&nbs
p; Durotan reached to pet him again, and then his hand froze mid-motion. He recalled the awful howling of the wolves on the night when Greatfather Mountain had spewed forth a river of fiery blood, and their home had been destroyed.
He whirled, looking at the other wolves in the pack. Now he saw that all of them seemed to be in some form of distress. Some sat stubbornly, like Ice, forcing their riders to dismount. Others who had ranged further toward the edge of the field were now racing back, ears flat against their skulls, ignoring their riders’ protests to halt or turn around.
“The earth is hungry!”
The eerie, awful cry barely sounded like Drek’Thar. He had retired to his hut a few hours ago, saying that he felt unwell and needed to rest. Now, he stumbling out unescorted and screaming the single phrase. “The earth is hungry! The earth is hungry!”
Durotan spun back toward the hunters. Beside him, Ice yowled and crouched down low. The great wolf was trembling. Durotan cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted, “Come back! Come back now!”
Some of the watering party did, turning their wolves back toward the encampment. Some of them tried to, and others found that their wolves, like Ice, were so terrified they wouldn’t move.
“The earth is hungry!”
And so it was. As Durotan and the rest of the clan watched in sick, helpless horror, there came a low, grinding noise that sounded almost like… chewing.
The ground simply vanished beneath four of the clan’s hunters and their wolf mounts. They were there, then they were not, and all that remained was a perfect circle, and the desperate shrieks of the dying.
The earth had been hungry, and it had devoured them.
21
Those who were closest to the disaster rushed to lend aid, but the hole continued to widen. More soil, grass, orcs, and wolves toppled in. Durotan saw Grukag scrabbling at the edge for just a moment, his eyes wide and frantic, before the lip crumbled. The hole opened like the massive mouth of some hidden creature.
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