Those who could scattered in all directions, fleeing the growing sinkhole. Still it widened, and more victims vanished into the depths. Durotan realized that although the hole had opened some distance away, it was expanding so swiftly that the encampment itself was in danger. Others saw it too. Jolted from their frozen horror, they turned and began to run as far away from the monstrous gaping void as possible.
Sharptooth quivered beneath Durotan, suppressing his natural desire to flee. Ice still huddled, refusing to move. Durotan reached out a hand and hauled his pregnant wife onto Sharptooth’s back, forced to abandon his father’s frost wolf to find his own courage, or die.
As he rode away, Durotan glanced around and saw that others, like Ice, were paralyzed with fear. His clan was a brave one. They faced their foes with courage. But who would have ever thought the earth directly below their feet, the earth that grew food and nurtured them, would become an enemy?
Draka held on tightly. When Durotan thought she would be safe, he lifted her off Sharptooth’s back. She uttered no word of protest, sliding down and landing lithely. The life of the child within her was more important to Draka than her pride. But as Durotan wheeled Sharptooth back to try to save others of the clan, she called after him, “Strength and honor!”
She had been an Exile, yet Draka was more of a Frostwolf than any Durotan had ever known. He would return to her, and their child. Grimly he pushed Sharptooth to disobey the clamor of his own instincts, and his friend obeyed. Durotan scooped up Kagra, who clutched Nizka, and raced back to solid ground with them both. Others followed their chieftain’s example, conquering their fears and rushing to aid their clan members.
Still the mouth gaped wider, hungry for more. Durotan was reminded of an orc from another clan describing the motion of the sea; the tides that rushed forward, then retreated. Except this “tide” moved only in one implacable direction—outward.
Hungry.
Durotan snatched up more Frostwolves, his wolf never slowing. As he urged Sharptooth back for another run, the chanting of the shaman reached a fevered pitch. Drek’Thar had stretched himself out on the earth and was now silent. Durotan didn’t know if that was for good or ill.
He came upon a running little boy—Kelgur. Durotan bent and caught him up with one huge brown arm and the child sprawled in front of him. He wasn’t crying; Durotan could see by the blank expression in the boy’s enormous eyes he was too frightened for that.
And then—the awful, rhythmic chewing noise stopped. The only sounds were the chanting of the shaman and the howling of the wolves. The wolf song, too, died down, until all that remained were the prayers of the shaman to the Spirit of Earth, begging it to be still, to leave the Frostwolves their lives and their home.
Durotan thrust Kelgur into Kagra’s arms and turned to look back, his skin slick with sweat, his lungs heaving for air with exertion and, yes, fear.
Nothing else fell into the gargantuan maw. The earth’s hunger, it would seem, was sated.
Quiet sobs of relief went up, marked by keening wails of loss. Durotan’s breathing slowed. He saw with a fresh burst of nervous sweat that there was but a few feet of still-solid ground between the hole’s mouth and the outlying stones that comprised the encampment.
“Ropes!” Durotan shouted. “We must rescue our fallen brothers!”
“No!” Drek’Thar cried as Palkar helped him up. “Durotan! Where is he? He must not let anyone go near it!”
Durotan and Sharptooth raced over to the shaman. “But they may still be alive!”
Drek’Thar shook his head. “No,” he said, brokenly. “Even if they are alive, they are dead. Earth has told me its hunger was too great. It is starving… like we ourselves are starving. The Frostwolves have fallen too deep, and if any survived, Water has borne them away to the dark places in the center of our world. They have become one with the Spirits of Earth and Fire, far beyond our reach. So the Spirit of Earth tells me, and so I believe.”
Durotan slipped off Sharptooth’s back. For the shaman’s ears alone, he asked quietly, “Has the Spirit of Earth become as the Spirit of Fire, then? Turned to destruction?”
His mind went back to something Draka had said, that Midsummer night when she had returned from her Exile. There is a blight there that is not here, not yet. Sickness. Ugliness. Things not just dying, but being twisted first.
Drek’Thar reached out blindly for Durotan, who caught his hands in his own. “Fire called out to me, that night,” he said. “I heard its cry in time for us to flee with our lives, if not our way of life. But recently, the Spirits’ voices have become faint. I do not feel them when I seek them out. Earth tried hard, so hard, to warn us, but I… I could not hear…”
The wolves had heard. As wild things themselves, closer to the Spirits even than the orcs who venerated them, they had known. Both times. From this moment on, Durotan vowed, he would look to the wolves for warning as he did to the shaman.
“What has happened to them, Drek’Thar?” Durotan demanded. “To Fire, and to Earth? Are they… are they dead?”
Drek’Thar shook his head. “No, not dead. But silent. And in torment. Even Water’s voice is faint, now, and Air… Air is in pain.”
A chill brushed Durotan. Water. What could live without water? “What was it you said about Water? That it had borne away the Frostwolves who fell? Taken them to the dark places deep inside Earth?”
“Water,” murmured Drek’Thar. “Water. It was Water that made Earth hungry. It was Water that ate away at Earth, beneath the surface, and then Earth needed to feed…”
“The spring,” Durotan said. Now, too late, he recalled the sudden increase in mushrooms, which thrived in damp areas. Water had tried to warn them of what it was doing to Earth. Had tried, and failed, and now more Frostwolves and their beloved mounts were gone. Swallowed up as unwitting offerings to Earth’s twisted appetite. “We cannot go near the spring, can we?”
“Hole,” was all Drek’Thar could say, but the single word told Durotan everything he needed to know.
Orgrim had come to stand beside his chieftain and friend. Draka was with him. “There is water further north,” Orgrim said. “Snow.”
“Nothing lives in the snow,” said Draka.
Durotan thought hard about what he knew of the north. “Some creatures live,” he said. “They must have something to feed on.”
“Other creatures,” said Orgrim.
Durotan was nodding. “The fox must eat, so there must be rabbits. Mice. And they must eat roots and… and moss. There will be water, and fish in those waters. We will survive.”
Palkar had been speaking quietly with Drek’Thar while Durotan spoke with Orgrim. The older shaman seemed calmer, more himself. Now, he spoke up.
“Yes,” he said. “We will go north. As north as north can be. We will go to the Seat of the Spirits, as the long-ago Frostwolf chieftain did. We mustn’t go south.” Drek’Thar shook his head firmly. “The Spirits will not be found there. They are in the north, they have retreated as far as they can. We must retreat there as well.” He turned his blind face in Durotan’s direction. “My chieftain… perhaps we can help them. Heal them.”
Hope surged in Durotan’s heart at the words. “Heal the Spirits? It had never occurred to him that perhaps the Spirits themselves needed help. And yet, Drek’Thar had insisted they were in pain.
“How could we possibly help them?”
“I do not know. But if we can…”
“Then,” Durotan finished, his voice hushed with awe, “perhaps they can heal the world.”
22
The shaman’s work in soothing the Spirit of Earth had saved the vast majority of the clan. The total loss of life was seven, and thankfully, there were no children among the dead. Mercifully too, there were no sounds from the sinkhole. Durotan was not sure that he would have been able to stop himself or others from attempting a rescue if anyone had been calling for help from the depths.
The hole still loomed, an enormous grave
beside the place that had once been a haven for Draka and the draenei. It had been the Frostwolves’ home for many months. Now, they would need to press on. Again.
There had been moments when Durotan had revisited his decision to refuse Gul’dan. He knew the whispers were racing around the encampment now, but this time, there was an answer. After the initial wave of grief over the tragedy had passed, and the orcs were calmer, he called them all together and shared what Drek’Thar had said.
“Our wise shaman believes that if we go south, if we join the Horde and ally with the warlock Gul’dan, the Spirits may never be able to speak with us again,” he told the listening crowd. “But if we travel north, to the Seat of the Spirits, it may be that we can help them.”
“Us? Help the Spirits?” Kagra asked. “Why would they need us?”
“These disasters—the hard winters, Greatfather Mountain, the sinkhole—we thought they came because the Spirits had turned against us. But we were wrong. They’ve been crying out for us to help them. They’ve been falling ill, somehow. Spinning out of control.” He took a deep breath. “Drek’Thar thinks it’s possible that they could be dying, the way the grasses and trees are dying”
“What?” cried Shaksa. “How can this be? They are the Spirits of the elements! They cannot die!”
Drek’Thar pounded his staff on the ground. “Listen, please listen to me!” When the clan quieted, he continued. “I am but a humble shaman. I have always listened with open heart, and the Spirits have spoken to me for most of my life. They warned me of the fire-river, and they warned me today, but not in time. Like Fire was, Earth and Water now are sick. And just as Fire did, they are manifesting as tainted and violent. They are asking for our help.”
“But… the north,” someone muttered.
Durotan stepped forward again. “If beasts can live in the far north, so can Frostwolves,” he said. “We will find a way. It will be difficult, but we have no choice. We cannot stay here, and we should not go south.”
He looked from face to face. Quietly, he said, “I know you are heartsore,” he said. “I know it seems that for the last several years, all we have known is loss. We are forced to keep moving, to keep starting over, each time with fewer friends, or mates, or children. I would surrender my life to give you a place to call home that can truly nourish us. But I do not trust one whom the Spirits do not trust. And I would not see Frostwolves turn away from the Spirits when they cry out for our aid.”
They looked up at Durotan with bleak, sad eyes, but he saw heads nodding in agreement. “Good. Then we will gather up all that we may, and on the morrow, we will head north. As north as north can be, to the Seat of the Spirits, just as a Frostwolf chieftain did long ago. And we will go, as always, with honor.”
That night, the Frostwolves prepared to leave their homes for the second time. How many lok’vadnods, he brooded, had been written since he had taken over as chieftain? How many since the winters had first starting growing too long?
Action was needed lest he fall too far into a foul mood, and there was plenty to do. First, Durotan held a strategy meeting with his counsel. Geyah, surprisingly, was more than firm on the idea of heading north.
“Your father would do whatever was necessary to take care of the clan,” she said, “and we Frostwolves have always been associated with the north. The Seat of the Spirits is mentioned frequently in the scrolls, and while the Spirits are honored by all orcs, we have always had a unique relationship with them. I think we will be glad of this journey.”
Drek’Thar nodded in agreement. “We will be able to help one another. The Spirits are in need, and so are we.”
Orgrim sighed. “This place was never meant to be a home. I don’t know how we will survive in the north, but I do know that with a poisoned lake and a hungry earth, anywhere is better than here.”
“Most clans have an ancestral homeland,” Draka said, “but not all. Some clans are nomadic, as the scrolls say we once were, following the herd animals they hunt across Draenor during their migrations. I have met a few of them, and I will be happy to show you how they traveled.”
Geyah looked at Draka. “You have given me an idea,” she said. “I will search through the scrolls, to see if they can tell us anything about our nomadic heritage.”
Between Draka’s experience and Geyah’s research, the clan soon had many ideas for how to make the journey. Geyah found a scroll that contained sketches depicting how the trunks of smaller trees could be fashioned into poles and placed together, touching at the top, wide at the bottom. Other scrolls had different designs for larger buildings to shelter several orcs at once.
“Then, they draped hides about this structure,” Geyah said. Durotan peered at the illustrations.
“Yes!” Draka confirmed excitedly. “I have seen these! And some of the poles—or, sometimes, the tusks of great beasts—have a second use when they are following the herds,” she said. She reached for two small pieces of kindling to show them as she spoke. “They take two of the poles and lay them alongside one another, narrow at the top, wider at the bottom, to form a triangle. The narrow part, here, they strap to their wolves. The ends trail on the ground. And between the poles, they lash an animal skin to hold whatever they want to bring.”
“Why not simply lash items to the wolves?” Durotan asked.
“The weight is better distributed,” Draka replied, “and this way the wolf can transport things that might be too awkward to be placed atop a moving creature. And over difficult terrain like stones or snow, this is better.”
Orgrim looked at the twig construction, then at the scroll, then at the two females. “Durotan,” he said, “If we are both killed in battle, as long as the clan has these two, they won’t miss us at all.”
“I will not say you are wrong,” Durotan said.
Armed with this new information, Durotan went from family to family, helping each of them for a while. He laughed at little jokes some of the children told, offered his advice on which weapons to bring and which were beyond repair and should be left behind, and helped them to begin assembling the carry-poles.
The wolves did not like the feeling of having the poles tied to their bodies, but they grudgingly accepted them. The going was slow at first, particularly since they were all too aware that what seemed to be solid earth might open up and swallow them at any moment.
But that did not happen, and the further they traveled from the poorly named “Haven,” the lighter Durotan’s heart grew. This felt right to him in a way that the flight from Frostfire Ridge had not. Then, they had been forced to run as fast as possible, able to take only a few precious items. They had lost a home they had never imagined leaving, and the winter had been upon them.
Now, they were choosing to leave a place they had never truly felt was home. They had time to pack carefully, and a new method of taking things with them. The days were hot and long, but that was preferable to the icy darkness. Though the clan’s number was reduced and the losses greatly mourned, there were enough wolves so that everyone could ride, with a few left over to, albeit with whimpered protest, pull the carry poles. And most important, Durotan thought, they were going to something, not simply from something.
As he rode in thoughtful silence beside Draka, Durotan’s mind raced with ideas for survival. At the Edge of the World, the true, final north, he had heard there was only snow and ice. Was that where the Seat of the Spirits was? If so, the orcs could not live there, but they could travel there temporarily. Just south of this world of ice and snow, though, was a place called the tundra. There, they could live. There, with the blessing of the Spirits, they could make a home.
* * *
As the weeks passed, the Frostwolves watched the forests thin, until there were no trees at all. Pausing at one point, Durotan looked about and observed that there was a clear demarcation where the trees ceased to grow—a line, it seemed, they would not cross. Durotan wondered if orcs, too, should cross it—it seemed like such a clear boundary. But
Drek’Thar assured him they should press on.
“If there are no trees, what will we burn in the winter?” Orgrim wanted to know.
“We will discover what can burn and what cannot,” Drek’Thar assured him. “The Spirits will guide us.” He alone of the Frostwolves had seemed to grow in confidence and even physical vigor as they drew ever closer to the elusive Seat of the Spirits. Though he didn’t understand it, Durotan respected it, and many a night as they journeyed it was the only thing that allowed him to drift off to sleep.
They rested at the edge of the forest for a few days, replenishing waterskins, carving new poles or spears or arrow shafts, and snaring small rodents.
The song of the frost wolves’ wild brethren was heard as the journey progressed, but the answering response deterred any packs from attacking the orcs. Even so, Durotan ordered that everyone should be in armed groups of at least three when they stopped to find water or food. There had been stories of great bears, as white as the frost wolves, who experienced no fear, but their homes were believed to be even further to the north.
The hunters were sent not just to look for prey, but to discover other things that were wholesome to eat. They learned that the strange, hard moss that grew on stones was nourishing when boiled. They learned to observe the white foxes, and set snares where they hunted.
Then, one day, the sky, which had been very clear and almost painfully blue, began to pale as it met the horizon ahead. As they pushed forward, Durotan noticed the wolves sniffing the air more than usual. He inhaled deeply, but could smell nothing amiss.
A few hours later, Drek’Thar frowned. “Is there a fire?” he asked, worry in his voice.
“Not that I can see,” Durotan told him, “though there is a whitish haze on the horizon.”
“I smell… smoke, but not of a sort that is familiar to me. And I can taste it. Like metal, somehow. Or soil.”
Durotan and Draka exchanged worried glances. Durotan urged Sharptooth over to the finest fighters in the clan, Delgar, Kulzak, and Zarka. “You three,” he said. “Ride on ahead and report back. Drek’Thar smells smoke, and I think the wolves do, too.”
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