The chieftain of the abominable clan, for so Draka suspected him to be, carried two axes. He hacked left and right, his head swiveling back again and again to check Orgrim’s location. In the swirl of close-quarters combat, Draka couldn’t get a clear shot at him and growled in frustration.
The Red Walker slashed—swiftly, violently, almost casually, and a Frostwolf screamed. She clutched her sword arm, blood flowing between her fingers. She was easy prey, but the Red Walker did not press his advantage. Instead, he kicked out, catching the injured female in the stomach. Draka’s body tightened in sympathy, thinking of the tiny life she housed. The Frostwolf stumbled backwards, falling.
But still alive.
Why—
She heard her mate’s voice in her mind. The Red Walkers needed to kill the wolves outright, and swiftly. That was the greatest threat…
For an instant, Draka felt as cold as winter. Chills chased each other around her skin, then anger surged through her, a rage so hot she began to sweat. “You monsters,” she muttered. “Spirits, guard my baby!” And Draka turned Ice toward the fray.
“Orgrim!” she shouted. “Orgrim!” He turned briefly, caught her eyes, and scowled.
“Get back, Draka!”
Orcs could be overcome, subdued, and made to walk under their own power…
“They’re trying to wound us, not kill us!” Draka persisted. Orgrim’s scowl deepened. She understood his confusion. It made no sense at all. Why wound an enemy when you could kill them?
The others, including the children, they have taken prisoner.
Food for later.
Draka saw comprehension flow over Orgrim’s face like water. His features contorted into a mask of absolute fury. “Kill them, Frostwolves!” Orgrim shouted. “Kill them all!”
And then Draka heard a sound that made her heart leap and tears sting her eyes. It was the glorious sound of frost wolves howling—from the north.
* * *
The Spirit of Life’s gift had been manifold. The Frostwolves felt as refreshed as if they had slept deeply for days. As strong as if they had feasted upon nourishing food their entire lives. Their senses grew almost as sharp as the newly energized wolves upon which they rode. Even as he felt calmness and focus descend upon him, Durotan wondered if this was how the members of the despised Red Walker clan felt with their stolen strength. But he chose to let the thought intensify his resolve, rather than cause him despair. The latter would not help him save his clan—his wife—his child.
The gift will not last, the Spirit told Drek’Thar. But it may last long enough. Go, and save your people.
The wolves ran as never before: smoothly, steadily, without tiring. Their riders did not speak to one another. There was no need to. The Spirit of Life had entered them for a short while, and though they could not read one another’s thoughts, they were in harmony.
They had arrived too late to prevent the battle, but a quick glance showed Durotan that, while his clan was outnumbered, they seemed to be holding their own. The returning Frostwolves did not slow their pace, charging into the thick of the fight with weapons swinging and war cries bursting from their lips.
Never in his life had Durotan felt more righteous than he did at this moment. The Red Walkers were things that should never have been, and wiping them from the face of Draenor would be like cutting out rotting tissue. He leaped off of Sharptooth, freeing the wolf to attack separately, and grinned fiercely at the luckless Red Walker who charged him. She bore two small axes. One she swung high, at his face, and she brought the second across her body in a horizontal sweep.
Sever flashed, and chopped, and both her arms—their hands still gripping the axes—fell to the ground. She stared at the spurting stubs in astonishment before her head joined them.
Durotan sensed another behind him and whirled, driving Sever into the Red Walker’s chest. A bellow of rage alerted him to a third, and he drew back the axe to strike again. But before he could do so, an arrow suddenly sprouted from the Red Walker’s eye, and he tumbled down.
Durotan recognized the fletching, and a moment later, his heart called out to him.
“Durotan!” Draka shouted. “Orgrim fights their chieftain!”
Durotan glanced around. He saw Zarka and Kulzak fighting almost lazily, yet Red Walkers were tumbling to the earth left and right. Geyah fought like one half her age, leaping and dancing, wielding the spear as if it were nothing at all. Even the Frostwolves who had not received the Spirit’s blessing were heartened to see their chieftain’s return and were fighting with renewed vigor.
But where was Orgrim, and the Red Walkers’ chieftain?
And then he saw them: Orgrim, massive, bald, determined, wielding the enormous Doomhammer as calmly as if it were a child’s toy; and the chieftain—bigger than Orgrim, as densely muscled, wielding two axes so swiftly they were blurs. Durotan was torn. He did not want to deprive Orgrim of the honor of killing the leader of this monstrous clan, but neither did he wish his friend dead—and the chieftain alive.
He would go to the aid of his second-in-command, and intervene if necessary. Another Red Walker, wielding a morning star with blooded barbs, leaped into his path. Durotan ducked as the morning star whirred harmlessly over his head, and swung Sever upward. The Red Walker opened his mouth as if to protest. Blood gushed forward. Disgusted, Durotan yanked his blade free, and pressed on.
He was close now. The two were evenly matched. Durotan realized that his intervention would not be needed. Though Orgrim was tiring, as he had received no blessing, he was holding his own.
Senses alert for any attack, Durotan let his gaze roam the battlefield. Many Frostwolves were down, but he could see they were only wounded. The Red Walkers, however, did not move, and he saw two more fall before his eyes—one slain by another arrow, perhaps Draka’s, perhaps not, and another one gasped out his life at the end of Geyah’s spear. Unable to believe it, Durotan turned in a tight circle. Only a handful of Red Walkers remained alive! His heart full, he sent a grateful prayer to the Spirits.
Durotan turned to look at the battle between his second-in-command and the Red Walker chieftain. It was almost over, he realized. The Red Walker’s left arm dangled, completely useless. Durotan could see that his hand was pulverized. He still fought with the one axe; a single-bladed weapon that looked small against the Doomhammer. Brave, but futile.
Orgrim bellowed, and lifted the Doomhammer. Durotan smiled.
Once Orgrim killed the chieftain, then—
Killed the chieftain.
“No,” Durotan whispered. “No. Orgrim! Orgrim! Take him alive! Do you hear me? We must take him alive!”
29
The chieftain of the Red Walker Clan struggled against Orgrim and Kulzak, but they had him pinned to the earth. “Give me the honor of separating his ugly head from his shoulders, my chieftain,” Orgrim grunted.
“No,” Durotan said, “Not yet. Take him away and bind him, for now. We need to tend to the wounded. Then I will speak with him.” He could feel the gift of the Spirit ebbing from him, and he was suddenly unspeakably weary. Sever hung abruptly heavy in his hands. He, like every Frostwolf, burned to slay this creature that now lay before him, pinned and helpless if not yet broken.
He would do so. But Durotan wanted answers first. Grudgingly, Orgrim and Kulzak obeyed their chieftain’s order, trussing the last living Red Walker up like the animal he was. Even so, the blood-covered monster met Durotan’s gaze impudently as he was led away ungently.
“My heart,” came Draka’s voice. Turning, Durotan embraced her tightly. He held her for a long moment, then released her. “Tell me what happened.”
“There is much to say, and much I have yet to hear,” Durotan said. “For now, tell me what happened with our clan.” He listened as Draka explained how their attackers had descended like a foul-smelling wave, and how she had noticed that they were injuring the Frostwolves, not killing them outright.
“They thought to enslave us, then feed upon
us,” she snarled, “but they did not understand that we must be dead in order to not be a threat!” The tactic, in the end, had doomed the Red Walkers.
Most of the injured could walk, and soon the shaman were busy stitching wounds closed, preparing drafts, and applying poultices to injuries. Durotan called for Zarka, ordering her to return to the Seat of the Spirits, and bring back Drek’Thar and whatever wolves had survived.
His clan was being tended to.
It was time to speak to the Red Walker chieftain.
* * *
Orgrim stood guard over the captive. Not to make certain he didn’t escape; it was clear that Orgrim had ensured that would not happen. No, Durotan suspected it was to keep the chieftain alive. Every Frostwolf in the camp doubtless wished him dead.
The Red Walker glanced up as Durotan’s shadow fell over him, and smiled. Durotan glared at him, Thunderstrike in his hand, searching for the orc inside the monster.
He couldn’t find it.
“You violated the Seat of the Spirits,” Durotan said.
“You Frostwolves are not the only ones with stories,” the chieftain replied.
“And you knew we would come.”
“Eventually, yes, you would. After our failure, when you killed our hunting party, we went to the north to wait for you. This time, you would come to us. We had scouts to keep an eye on you, and simply waited.” He smiled. It was a hideous sight. “We took our strength from the Spirits while you wandered right to us.”
I must not kill him. Not yet.
I want to understand how this happened,” Durotan said at last. “The Red Walkers were an orc clan, like the rest of us. You faced the same challenges we did. Gul’dan says you refused to join him, as we did. What happened to you? How did you descend into—into this collective madness? Commit such atrocities?” He shook his head, almost pityingly. “Your clan,” he said, “went insane.”
The chieftain stared at him for a moment, then began to laugh. It was a dreadful sound, starting low, deep in the throat, and then rising to a full belly laugh before at last it subsided. Tears of mirth moistened the orc’s eyes.
“Insane,” he said, his voice deep and rich and compelling. “Crazy. Mad. Devoid of reason. I assure you, Frostwolf, I am none of these things. Nor are those who follow me.”
“You hunt draenei—you hunt your own kind—and call us prey. You slaughter us and carve us up and roast us on a spit! These are not the actions of sane orcs!”
“We are far from insane,” the Red Walker continued. His calmness threatened to drive Durotan to a near-madness of his own, but he restrained himself. “We are saner, more rational, than you Frostwolves.”
Durotan could no longer control himself. He backhanded the orc and did not curb the force of his blow. The Red Walker’s head jerked to the side, but then he merely chuckled again. Blood dripped down his chin, mingling with that of murdered and devoured orcs.
“We are more alike than you think, Durotan, son of Garad,” he said, and Durotan froze at the mention of his name and that of his father. “We are both intelligent enough to know that casting in our clan’s lot with Gul’dan would be a foolish and dangerous choice. And so, we made another choice altogether. We decided that we would survive on our own. We would not be talbuks. We would be orcs. You have made that same choice—to stay orcs. You are not of the soft south. You would not become one of Gul’dan’s creatures. The only difference between us is that you have survived—thus far—by moving from place to place, each spot a poorer landing than the next, trying to eke out an existence on what little is there.”
“I will silence your insulting—” Orgrim began, lifting the Doomhammer. But Durotan’s hand shot out, forestalling the blow. His eyes bored into those of the other chieftain. They were light brown… and clear.
“Go on,” Durotan said. His voice was devoid of emotion.
The other smiled. “How has this choice served your clan, Durotan?” He gestured with his shattered hand. It had to have been painful, but he gave no sign of it. “Do you prosper? Do you thrive? Is this life something to be savored? Or do you just exist, stumbling forward aimlessly?” He shook his head. “Did you know, we all secretly admired you?”
That startled Durotan. Although, had not Gul’dan said as much?
“I had thought better of the Frostwolves. What a disappointment you turned out to be.”
The words sounded mad—and yet, there was a terrible sort of reason to it. He was fascinated and repelled by what this orc was saying… but Durotan needed to know more.
“I know why we chose as we did,” Durotan said. “But why did you choose to become…” He couldn’t even speak the word.
Those unnervingly rational eyes searched his, and then the chieftain spoke. His voice was calm, almost bored, as if he were reciting a well-known story. “We, like you, refused the call to join the Horde. We, like you, struggled with finding enough food to survive. We took to covering ourselves with the blood of animals to frighten other orcs from stealing what was ours.”
So simple a beginning for something so atrocious. A tactic—nothing more.
“We tracked some draenei encroaching on our territory. They frightened the talbuk herd, and in a rage, we slew them all. As was our habit by then, we covered ourselves with the blood.” He mimed the gesture, touching his face. “And some of it got into our mouths.”
His tongue crept out to lick his large lower lip. “And it was sweet.”
Durotan thought of the gentle, smiling faces of the draenei who had shared his fire. Of how they had risked their own lives to save the children of the orcs, placing themselves in potential danger by bringing those children home. He felt sick in body and soul as the memories played across his mind.
“They chased away our rightful food. And so they became our rightful food.” The chieftain shrugged. “When next we won a battle against orcs, it was not much different. Flesh is flesh. You will discover that.”
Durotan jerked as if struck. “What did you say?”
“It is your only choice, if you wish to stay a true orc. We are predators, Frostwolf. There are predators, and there is prey. There are victors, and there are the defeated. There are orcs, and there are talbuks. We scorned the aid of others, and became the stronger for it.”
He lifted his face closer. The reek of old blood filled Durotan’s nostrils. “The bodies of my Red Walkers lie strewn about. Your people need not go hungry tonight. Let us build a new clan. We will grow strong, while others weaken.”
He smiled. Durotan could smell blood on his breath. “Take the step, Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh. Become the chieftain of the Red Wolves. Be a true orc!”
The words exploded from Durotan like the fire-river from Greatfather Mountain, as violent and as hot.
“We will never be like you!”
The chieftain laughed. “Won’t you? Look around. There’s nothing left here but dust and bones. You will eat—or you will die.”
“Eat him, then!” It was Kagra. Durotan had not realized that, as he had spoken with the Red Walker, his clan had quietly come to listen. Kagra shouldered her way through the press of Frostwolves, snarling in her rage.
“Kill him, Durotan! He deserves to die a thousand times over for what he and his kind have done. Give him the death that he gave my Nokrar! Better yet, let him suffer! Devour him piece by piece!”
As if her words had burst a dam, it seemed as though all the rage and fear and desperation that had been building up was suddenly released. Howls of fury, threats, promises, filled the air.
“Kill him! Eat his flesh! Remember what they have done!” came the cries.
Durotan heard them all. He knew they were grieving, and vengeful in this moment. But still he stood, his gaze locked with the Red Walker chieftain. The other’s wet, bloody mouth curved in a knowing grin as he listened to the Frostwolves clamoring for his blood.
The raging cries fell away. Durotan thought of his father’s initial refusal of Gul’dan’s summons. H
e had wanted to keep the Frostwolves’ proud, independent identity. He had not wished for the Frostwolves to leave their ancestral lands, or to abandon the old ways. He wanted them to stay in the north, and endure.
He thought of his child, yet unborn, who might have perished today. He thought of that precious little life entering a world where insane behavior, like that of the Red Walkers, might well be the only sane option for survival. Where the earth was dead, nothing grew, the water and air were tainted, and even the ground caught fire.
His clan was angry now, yes. But they were not Red Walkers. They would never become Red Wolves.
Some orc clans are cruel, his father had said, so long ago. They enjoy tormenting and torturing their prey… and their enemies. A Frostwolf takes no joy in suffering.
Not even in the suffering of our enemies.
“We are Frostwolves,” Durotan said simply, and—quickly, cleanly—he drove Thunderstrike home.
30
“We have no ocean into which to toss the remains,” Kulzak said, “but at least we can leave the Red Walkers to rot.”
But his chieftain shook his head. “No,” he said. “I have come to believe our treatment of them was wrong, at the Seat of the Spirits. I… understand them a little better. Whatever they did, they were orcs. We will treat them with the respect they did not show others. And by doing so, remind ourselves of what we will never become.”
His clan did not like the decision, but they obeyed. Durotan understood their reluctance. He hoped, with time, they would understand what had been behind his change of heart, and he himself helped to gather the rocks for the task.
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