Durotan stared at the natural raft. It bumped up against the shore with each gentle wave, awaiting them. The orcs looked at one another, humbled. Durotan, their chieftain, stepped forward first. He called Sharptooth to him, but the wolf would not come. It looked anxiously at the ice floe, ears unhappily flat, whimpering.
Durotan made a decision. “I dislike leaving you here, but I would dislike it even more if you panicked and we all fell into the water,” he said. The other wolves, too, looked more than willing to be left behind. Besides, this might give them a chance to hunt something to eat. They would not travel out of earshot, and would come quickly enough when the orcs returned. Durotan gave his friend a pat, and turned to step onto the ice floe.
It bobbed dangerously, and he froze, letting it settle. He reached out a hand to Geyah. Zarka and Kulzak each took one of Drek’Thar’s arms, guiding him carefully. Delgar was the last to step onto the ice.
There were no poles with which to steer the “raft,” nor were any poles likely to reach the bottom of this water. But Durotan did not worry. He let his shoulders relax and his heart open as the ice floe now moved against the direction of the waves, borne swiftly on the dark blue toward the glittering, towering mountain that housed the Seat of the Spirits.
Durotan found himself having to crane his neck as the blue-white peaks rose in his field of vision. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. Even Greatfather Mountain, when snow wrapped him in its white blanket, had not looked like this. Durotan wondered if this were truly a mountain at all, or if this entire sacred site were completely carved out of ice.
Their raft slowly came to a halt, and the Frostwolves jumped off onto the snow with great care, lest they capsize their transport. In this environment, to become wet was to become dead. Up ahead, an entrance into the heart of the ice beckoned. Piles of snow, each half as high as an orc, seemed to mark a trail leading up to it. Durotan did not expect to be able to glimpse inside—a cave ought to be dark, after all—but he found to his surprise that this one was not.
A soft gasp of pure awe and reverence escaped him. The Seat of the Spirits was painted in every shade of blue his mind could imagine, and some he had never dreamed of. He saw the faint glow of other colors, and wondered what magic had illuminated it. It pulled at something deep in his bones and his soul.
He realized he had been wrong when he had thought the Frostwolf ancestral home destroyed when the fire-river washed so cruelly over Frostfire Ridge. This was their true home.
Durotan dragged his gaze from the beautiful, luminous opening and turned to Drek’Thar, gently placing his hand under the older orc’s arm to guide him. Drek’Thar smiled sightlessly at him and began to speak. Then he froze as if he had been turned to stone, his mouth still hanging open.
“Drek’Thar?” Durotan asked anxiously. “What is wrong?”
“They… something is not right.” He groaned and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples, grimacing.
“Are they in danger?” Durotan asked. He glanced at Geyah, who shrugged helplessly. The others all drew their weapons, but looked about uncertainly. There was no sound of an enemy, no telltale scent. All was white, and cold, and still, and clean.
“No, no, no,” moaned Drek’Thar. “They say… we are!”
There was a flurry of motion. Something erupted from the snow hummocks Durotan had thought were markers, their pristine whiteness now a vile riot of colors: the gray-black of animal-fur cloaks, the blinding yellow-white glint of the sun striking metal, the revolting hue of dark, dried blood covering screaming faces as the Red Walkers—who, Durotan realized with sick horror, had been expecting them—attacked.
25
For a precious and irrecoverable heartbeat, the Frostwolves were so stunned they did not move. It cost them dearly. Delgar was the closest target, and he had barely lifted his axe when a hammer smashed into his skull. Durotan’s focus was heightened and he saw every detail—the shape of the hammer’s head, the mottled colors of black and red on the Red Walker’s hand, how the chunk of stone descended, and the look of shock on Delgar’s face before that face was obliterated.
The snow had masked their scent, but now that the Red Walkers had revealed themselves, their stench assaulted Durotan’s nostrils like an enemy itself. He choked on the smell, coughing and turning to position Drek’Thar behind him. He heard the shaman calling out to the Spirits for aid, but there was no time to squander waiting to see if the ailing Spirits would help them now. Delgar had already lost his life; his blood was pumping out on the snow, turning it into a puddle of steaming black-red fluid.
On instinct, Durotan raised Sever just in time to stop a crashing blow. He let his legs bend slightly, allowing the Red Walker’s momentum to carry him a step too far. Stepping away, Durotan used the full force of his turning body, Sever an extension of his massive, powerful arms, as he sliced almost entirely through the Red Walker. Fresh blood poured from the wound, spilling over the dried crust of a victim’s blood as the Red Walker stumbled. His hammer fell from his limp hands and his eyes glazed over. He was dead when he hit the snow.
Geyah had brought a spear, and, despite her age, was whirling as deftly as she danced beside the Midsummer bonfire. The length kept her foe’s mace away from her, and her smaller frame enabled her to move more swiftly than he could. The Red Walker lunged, trying to smash her weapon as if it were a twig, but before the massive club could shatter the spear, Geyah’s weapon had found its mark in his throat. He gurgled, and his body spasmed as Geyah yanked the weapon free and turned back to the fray.
Drek’Thar was still chanting. One of the Red Walkers spotted him and snarled. The gesture cracked the old blood on her face and small flakes of gore fluttered to the snow. She and two other Red Walkers headed straight for Drek’Thar.
“Drek’Thar!” Durotan shouted, but the shaman ignored him. He stood as if rooted to the earth, his blind face turned toward his enemies. Then, as Durotan watched, fully expecting to see this orc whom he revered above all others cut down before his horrified gaze, Drek’Thar lifted his staff, uttered a string of words Durotan didn’t understand, and brought the staff down.
With a groan that sounded like it issued from a living throat, a zigzag crack appeared in the snow. It grew wider and wider, opening like a hungry mouth, and the three Red Walkers toppled into it. Their screams echoed for a long time before they were silenced.
Durotan caught Zarka’s and Kulzak’s eyes. With one mind, the three of them went after the two remaining Red Walkers, hacking and screaming at them, driving them back until they, too, toppled into the fissure.
“Durotan!” It was Geyah’s voice, from inside the entrance to the Seat of the Spirits. “There are more in here! Hurry!”
Durotan threw Drek’Thar an agonized glance. “Drek’Thar, the fissure is an arm’s length in front of you. I cannot find a way to cross!”
“Kill our enemies! I will be all right out here!” Drek’Thar called back. And after seeing the very earth crack open in response to the shaman’s plea, Durotan believed him.
“We will return for you!” he promised, and raced after Kulzak and Zarka into the cavern.
It was heart-stoppingly exquisite, even more so than the first glimpse had promised, but Durotan could spare no thought for beauty. He was focused on the ugliness, the obscenity of the presence of Red Walkers in this hallowed place. He permitted bloodlust born of righteous fury to fill him, to guide his hand, as he bore down upon them.
He felt blood spatter his face, tasted it in his mouth. His arm seemed to only grow stronger as he swung, parried, struck… severed. He heard the sound of battle all around him, the cries of triumph, the death rattle in the throat, the crack of breaking bones and skulls, and the spurt of blood and slither of entrails.
At last, it was done. Durotan whirled, seeking out new enemies, but they all lay stiffening on the icy floor. Panting, he lowered his arms, only now aware that they quivered with exhaustion. Everything was still, so still, in the cavern.
He looked for his comrades. Geyah looked drained, but as her eyes met his, she smiled. Kulzak stood nearby, also taking stock of the situation. Just as Durotan had turned to hasten to Drek’Thar, the old shaman entered, escorted by Zarka.
“How…?” began Durotan.
“The fissure closed when it was no longer needed,” said Drek’Thar simply, as if such a thing were not astounding. Then again, this was the Seat of the Spirits.
The wonder of the place struck him all over again. He thought of the tale of that long-ago chieftain’s visit. The exploits of the clan’s hero had been the focus, and the Spirits themselves portrayed as giving in to the stubborn Frostwolf’s will. Durotan now understood that, if that chieftain had been kept waiting for three days and three nights, it would have been an easy thing, with so much beauty to feed the senses.
The cavern they were in was only the beginning. Another entrance at the back of the ice chamber told them where they needed to go, and Durotan once again felt himself called to wander down its softly radiant passages. He could see now that the illumination came not, as he had first assumed, from the stones embedded in the soil, but from the lichen that grew on their surfaces. So much ice gave much reflection, so that each eerily glowing patch lit up a wide area.
And then, Durotan felt pain replace the wonder. The Red Walkers—and the Frostwolves—had shown the ultimate disrespect to the Spirits by shedding blood here.
“How could this have happened?” Geyah asked aloud, pained even more than her son.
“It looks as though they have lived here for a while,” Kulzak said, shoving a corpse with the toe end of his boot.
“They came when the Spirits were at their weakest,” Durotan said. As he spoke, he felt the outrage gather again in his chest, like some physical thing that sat there, hunched and smoldering. “The Spirits could not defend themselves. Drek’Thar, do you think this was why they called for help?”
Could it have been this simple—yet this brutal? Had the Frostwolves been needed only to remove the ugly stain that was the Red Walkers from this sacred place?
“I do not know,” Drek’Thar said, frowning. “They still clamor for us.” He cocked his head. “For me… and for Geyah.”
Durotan understood. He could not say he wasn’t disappointed. But he accepted that the Spirits would need to speak more with their shaman rather than a clan leader. Perhaps this was a rebuke as well, for defiling their Seat with bloodshed.
“Go. We will stay here and do what we can to purify this outer sanctum.”
Geyah slipped her arm through Drek’Thar’s and led him away, moving slowly so as not to slip on the ice-slicked earth. Durotan watched them go, envious. But he had another task, hopefully one as pleasing to the Spirits. He, Zarka, and Kulzak turned back and looked at the carcasses.
Durotan looked down, his lip curling in disgust, at the filthy, blood-covered bodies of the Red Walkers.
“We have always burned our honored dead, who fell in battle. When we could no longer do so, we mindfully gathered stones to cover their bodies. This is how we show respect. These… things do not deserve such treatment. We will feed them to the water’s creatures,” he said. He could think of nothing more offensive to an orc than to slowly bloat and decay in the water while being nibbled upon by small fish.
“Ha! Fitting,” Kulzak said, nodding approvingly. “What about Delgar?”
Durotan grew somber. “He fell outside, his blood pouring onto the snow. It is in the snow that we will bury him. But let us remove these foul things from the Seat of the Spirits.”
“At once,” Kulzak readily agreed. He reached down and grasped the legs of one of the Red Walkers, preparing to drag it out, but Durotan stopped him.
“No,” he said, wishing he could say otherwise but having no choice. “We must carry them out. Their blood must not be allowed to further desecrate this place.”
The other two looked as unhappy as he felt, but did not argue. Durotan grimaced as he lifted a body in his arms, bringing the dead flesh within inches of his nose and feeling the blood smear his leather armor. It was vile, they were vile, and he was pleased to give them so dishonorable a resting place. He hoped the Spirits would approve.
They moved all the bodies outside, and then, one by one, heaved them into the icy depths. The corpses were wearing mismatched armor, no doubt scavenged from the draenei and orcs they had first butchered and then consumed. Durotan could not help but shudder at the image as he watched the hideous bodies, thus weighted down, sink without a trace.
No one had suggested taking the armor for themselves. A Frostwolf would prefer death to wearing the armor of a Red Walker.
These monsters had met a more honorable end than their dishonorable lives had deserved. Durotan nodded, satisfied. Disposing of the carcasses had been the easy part. Now, he, Zarka, and Kulzak turned their hands toward the task of purifying the area.
They began with the outside area first. They scooped up the blood-touched snow and earth, using items they found inside such as baskets and other containers, and emptied it all into the accepting waters. After this was done, they covered their fallen comrade with clean snow. Here, near the Spirits, Delgar would rest, his grave an oblong mound of pure white.
Solemnly the three moved into the large, ice-embraced chamber, into which the violence had spilled. Durotan took a moment to look around, trying to determine how best to proceed.
He frowned. Something was not right here. For a moment, he was tempted to brush away the feeling. Of course something was not right—the sanctity of this place had been violated. But it wasn’t that. It was something else.
The Red Walkers had been hiding here, perhaps because they were feeding, in a way, on the Spirits’ energies. The camp was somewhat more orderly than he would have expected from these crazed creatures. It looked, truth be told, like an ordinary orcish encampment. There were sleeping furs, clothing, weapons…
…many weapons.
Many sleeping furs.
Too many.
And suddenly, with all the visceral impact of a blow to the gut, Durotan realized what the Red Walkers’ true plan had been.
26
There were steps carved into the layers of first ice, then rock, forming a narrow, winding path. The lichen on the walls provided sufficient illumination as they passed, but up ahead was utter darkness. Drek’Thar’s grip on Geyah’s arm was strong but trusting. She knew she was not as good a guide as Palkar, who had spent years tending to Drek’Thar, but she was careful and patient, pausing as he felt ahead with his staff for each step.
Geyah was well aware that the shaman was anxious to open himself to the Spirits and give them whatever aid they needed—although she was baffled by the thought that such powerful entities needed anything at all from a small, isolated orc clan. It was humbling… and alarming.
Down they went, through the twists and turns of their peculiar path, and she felt the air grow warmer. She thought she heard a faint sound, strange after the constant silence.
“Water,” Drek’Thar said, his ears identifying it more quickly than hers. “A spring, of some sort, it sounds like.” Geyah thought of the melted snow they had drunk, and her mouth was suddenly parched at the thought of a bubbling spring. How cool and clean the water would be, tasting of the minerals of the earth.
They kept going. The air began to feel fresher on their faces, and after another turn, the stairs opened onto a vast underground chamber.
Geyah gasped.
“Tell me,” Drek’Thar said, his voice almost, but not quite, begging.
Geyah blinked. The chamber above had been astoundingly beautiful, but what opened up to her here made the ice cavern look like a dark, dingy hut. She began to speak, trying her best, knowing she could not adequately describe the wonder.
The chamber was underground, but not made of ordinary dirt or stone. It had been carved, if such a word could be used, out of what appeared to be solid crystal. It still gave the appearance of ice: blue a
nd white and a thousand shades in between, smooth and cool to the touch. But, impossibly, so far away from the sun, this chamber, this… grotto was still so full of light that her eyes blinked as they grew accustomed to it.
Before her stretched a blanket of healthy, green grass, dotted here and there with flowers of every color. In the center, the spring which had revealed its presence to them with its cheerful sound splashed and sang. Geyah wondered if she were beholding the last grass and flowers in the world. Beside the spring were apples, berries, pears, cherries, all manner of fruit. She described them to Drek’Thar, but there really was no need: both of them could smell the heavenly scent and Geyah’s mouth, parched just a moment ago, now flooded with moisture as hunger stabbed at her. Nestled in a corner was what seemed to be a welcoming hearth fire, but as Geyah looked at it, she saw no smoke rising, nor did the fire seem to require any fuel. Yet the flame flickered and danced cheerfully.
When she had finished speaking, Drek’Thar inhaled swiftly. His hand squeezed her arm. “We must first cleanse our faces and hands of the blood we have shed. Then, we are invited to partake of the food and water offered by Earth and Water, to warm ourselves beside Fire’s gift, and breathe deep of the sweet, fresh Air. All these things will nourish us. And then—we must listen.”
Moving in a daze, Geyah guided Drek’Thar to the water. She dipped her hands in and then, almost as if driven, frantically scrubbed at her skin until all the blood, all the taint from the Red Walkers, was gone. The water took the old blood and sweat and soil into itself. For a moment, the pool was cloudy and dark, and then all the soil began to disappear until the spring was as clear as if it had never been sullied.
Drek’Thar unwrapped the cloth that hid his eyes from the world. Geyah had known the shaman when he still had his sight, but since the wolf attack he had been careful not to show his ravaged face to anyone but Palkar. Her heart ached as she saw her friend’s face for the first time since that awful battle. She gazed at the puckered scars, the ruination of one eye, the blank gaze of the other, as Drek’Thar bathed his hands, arms, and face. For one breathless, hopeful moment, she wondered if the Spirits would restore Drek’Thar’s vision, but all she saw on his face was a gentle easing of tension and a soft smile.
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