Warcraft
Page 21
Everyone’s spirits lifted when the Zarka returned with not only Drek’Thar, but a limping frost wolf who had managed to survive. The elderly shaman joined his brethren in tending the wounded.
Night approached at last. There was only lichen soup to be eaten, but no one seemed to care. There was a steadiness about the Frostwolves that had not been there before.
Now, at last, there had come a moment for Durotan to sit with his council. As they partook of the simple meal, Drek’Thar spoke of his experience in the Seat of the Spirits. Durotan’s chest tightened with sorrow as Drek’Thar described the slow decline of the Spirits and shared with them the Spirit of Life’s words of comfort and sadness both. He tried to comprehend the idea of something that was death, but not death, and what that would mean for Draenor, and for his clan.
For a long time, they sat in silence, finishing their meager meal. Durotan reflected on all that had happened that had led to this moment: Gul’dan’s visit, his father’s death, Draka’s return from Exile, and the journey the clan had been forced to undertake since Greatfather Mountain had destroyed Frostfire Ridge. The Red Walkers, Garona’s warning, the hungry earth, the dead grasses and trees, the haunting, unforgettable beauty of the Seat of the Spirits. And the final words of the Red Walker chieftain.
He put his bowl down and regarded those around him: Draka, Drek’Thar, Geyah, and Orgrim. Friends and family who had never failed him. He had been blessed, he realized, even through all the dark things that had happened. And his heart, which had been so full of pain for so long, was suddenly at peace.
Durotan finally understood what he needed to do.
“Come with me,” he said simply. Without question, they rose and followed him as he strode to the center of the encampment. The rest of the clan, clustered in small family groups, fell silent at their chieftain’s approach.
He looked at the gathered Frostwolves. So few left, now. Each one of them was precious. He would behave as a chieftain should, and make the best choice to protect them.
“The Red Walker chieftain was right,” he said. He spoke clearly and quietly, but his voice was heard in the expectant silence. “He and his clan were not insane. They faced the same challenges we did, and made the same choice we made: to stay here, in Draenor, and somehow find a way to survive. Their way was monstrous, but it was successful. Successful in a world where, we now know, the Spirits will no longer be truly present.”
Concerned murmuring rippled through the crowd. Durotan held up a hand and continued.
“Our shaman Drek’Thar spoke with the voice of the Spirit of Life. It gave us the strength to overcome our enemy, and it gave us the reassurance that wherever there was earth, air, fire, water, and life… there, also, would they be.
“My father and I both refused to join Gul’dan. We felt that he was wrong. That there would be danger to our clan if we followed him. The slave Garona even warned us about him. So, what is a chieftain to do?”
He spread his hands. “Whatever the lore says about what was done in the past, whatever the rituals stipulate, whatever rules or laws or traditions there may be—there is one law, one tradition, which must not be violated. And that is that a chieftain must do whatever is truly best for the clan.”
Durotan watched Geyah as he spoke. Her eyes widened briefly, then grew sad.
“Our world is all but dead, and it will never recover. We know this now—we have heard it from the Spirit of Life itself. The Red Walkers chose to feed upon their own kind. Their chieftain said we would do the same. He was wrong. We will never become like them. But neither will we become Gul’dan’s creatures.”
He surveyed them, looking each member of the Frostwolf clan in the eyes. “We will journey to this new land Gul’dan’s magics have discovered. We will find earth, air, water, fire, and life there, and they will know us. We will survive… as Frostwolves!”
“My chieftain!” It was Geyah, and Durotan tensed. He had thought she had accepted his decision, but perhaps not. “May I speak?”
He nodded, bracing himself. Geyah got to her feet, standing straight and proud, as was her right as wife and mother of chieftains, as a shaman, as Lorekeeper. “You know I follow our traditions. They are important to us. Our actions make us who we are, not our words, but the words have bonded to the actions down through time.”
She turned to look at her son. “I loved Garad, and I know he was wise. He honored the traditions, and he led us well until the day he died.” Her breath caught for a moment, but she continued. “I saw his son part with tradition again, and again, and again. And now, he wishes us to leave our home for a strange new land. This was not the way of Garad.”
Her voice softened. “But Durotan is not Garad, and Durotan has led us well. I held on to the decisions, the choices of my husband, because it was all he had left to us—to me. But Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh—like the Spirits, Garad is gone, but not yet gone. He lives in you. And he would be proud of the choices you have made—and are making now.”
Durotan thought, but was not sure, he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes. Geyah made a fist of one hand and thumped it on her chest. “I will follow my chieftain!”
“And I!” Orgrim bellowed, imitating Geyah.
“You are my husband,” Draka said quietly to Durotan, for his ears, “whatever happens.”
One by one, all the Frostwolves, even those who had once rebelled against Durotan, followed suit. The cold night air was filled with a rhythmic sound, as of the beating of a hundred hearts.
No chieftain, Durotan thought, has ever led a finer clan than this.
He raised Thunderstrike. “Tomorrow, the sun will show its face on the first steps of our next journey. A new homeland awaits.”
Durotan took a deep breath.
“Tomorrow—the Frostwolves march to join the Horde!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many chefs participated in this dish, and I value them all. At Blizzard, thanks to James Waugh, my friend and touchstone for this project, Cate Gary, and Sean Copeland. At Titan, much appreciation for my excellent editor, Natalie Laverick. And at Legendary, shout-outs to Jamie Kampel for her enthusiasm and patience with script queries, Anna Nettle for cheerfully supplying research photos no matter how often I asked, and Barnaby Legg for his game-changer of an idea and his no-holds-barred enthusiasm for my work. Truly a pleasure to work with you all. I’ll do it again any time, anywhere, any project.
Special thanks go to Tyler Kerr, for educating me on how environments can die, and to my fellow authors, William H. Kirby and Mark Anthony, for a writing retreat and suggestions that resulted in all kinds of (literary) destruction. I couldn’t have ruined Draenor quite so effectively without you, guys.
Finally, heartfelt gratitude to the readers, who have supported my writing since that fateful day when Lord of the Clans hit the bookshelves.
Strength and honor!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning and seven-time New York Times bestselling author Christie Golden has written over forty novels and several short stories in the fields of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Among her many projects are over a dozen Star Trek novels, nearly a dozen for gaming giant Blizzard’s World of Warcraft and StarCraft novels, and three books in the nine-books Star Wars series, Fate of the Jedi, which she co-wrote with authors Aaron Allston and Troy Denning.
Born in Georgia with stints in Michigan, Virginia, and Colorado, Golden has returned South for a spell and currently resides in Tennessee.
Follow Christie on Twitter @ChristieGolden or visit her website: www.christiegolden.com.
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