Velen could not go with them. He had unique abilities, and if the draenei were to survive, he needed to as well. But he had used the crystal to watch every moment of the battle, and the pain he felt was scaring and
yet purifying. Not one of these people would have died in vain.
The ores did not know about the Zangarmarsh. They had not yet sniffed out this hiding place, and if Velen had anything to say about it, they never would. Here, the best draenei minds would continue to devise ways to harness energies and direct them, to keep safe the handful who had survived. Here, they would regroup and recover, heal and wait and pray they had at last tricked Kil’jaeden the Deceiver and escaped his terrible gaze.
The ores had captured three of the stones, but Velen still had four: Fortune's Smile, Eye of the Storm, Shield of the Naaru, and, of course. Spirit's Song, And although his link with the Naaru was tenuous, K’ure yet lived.
Even as tears spilled down his white face to drop on the surface of the violet crystal, even as he grieved the utterly tragic loss of so many lives, Velen, prophet of the draenei, felt hope stirring inside him.
TWENTY-ONE
We had lost everything by this point. We had abandoned balanceand harmony in our world, and thus the elements had abandoned us. Demons guarded the entrance to Oshu'gun, cutting us off from the ancestors. Our physical bodies and our very souls had become corrupted from the blood that, in their eagerness for power and strength, most of the ores had gladly imbibed. And then, then—when we had done all this to ourselves under the "guidance"of GuYdan. Kit'jaeden abandoned us. Thuscame what has been called the Dying Time. May its like never visit us again.
"What do I do?" Gul'dan could not believe the words were coming from his own lips, but he was so terrified that advice, any advice, seemed better than this sick fear he lived with.
Ner’zhul regarded him with contempt. "You made this choice."
"It's not as if you are blameless yourself!" Gul'dan snapped,
"Of course not. I made choices for myself, for my own advancement. But I never threw away the future of my people—my world—for it. Where is the power you were promised now. Gul'dan? The power that you bartered our people for?"
Gul'dan turned away, trembling. There was no power, and Ner’zhul knew it. which was why his words bit so deeply.
Far from rewarding his loyal servant with glories and godhood, Kil’jaeden had simply vanished. All that was left of his presence in this world were the warlocks and their demons, a maddened Horde, and a ravaged land.
No, he thought. No, that was not all that was left.
There was still the Shadow Council. There was still Blackhand. the ideal puppet precisely because he did not realize he was one such. And while the Horde was now infused with the blood of demons, and craved violence and destruction more than meat and drink, they had not gotten out of control. At least, not yet.
He would summon the Council to meet in their beautiful Black Temple. Doubtless the)', too, would be searching for ways to salvage what power was left.
Yes. There was still the Shadow Council.
"The land is dead," Durotan said quietly as he stood with his old friend surveying what had once been vcrdant meadows and foothills, Durotan scuffed at the dirt with his boot. Powdery sand and rock were revealed as he kicked away the dead yellow grass. Wind, no longer blocked by trees, whistled past them.
Orgrim said nothing for a long time. His eyes told him Durotan was right. He looked to the riverbed where he and Durotan had swum in one of their many challenges, and saw no hint that water had ever flowed in it. What water remained in the land was filthy, clogged with animal corpses and sediment. To drink it was to risk illness; not to drink was to die.
No water, no grasses. Here and there were places that still managed to survive, such as the Terokkar forest, ancestors knew how. The ores were growing thin, for no grasses meant no herd animals. The last three years had seen more orcish deaths from starvation and disease than from the battles against the draenei,
"More than the land is dead." Orgrim said at last. His voice was thick and heavy. He turned to face Durotan. "How is the Frostwolf's grain supply?"
To his eyes, he and Durotan looked green. Next to others, such as Grom and Blackhand, they still were more brown than green, but the damage was being done, Durotan had theorized that it was the warlock powers that were doing this to them and their world. Certainly those who had directly drunk whatever potion Gul'dan had concocted for them were a more vivid hue than others. Strange, Orgrim thought. There was irony in that while the land turned brown when it
should be green, the ores turned green when they should be brown,
Durotan grimaced. "Several barrels were stolen in the attacks."
"Which clan?"
"Shattered Hand."
Orgrim nodded. The Frostwolf clan was bearing the brunt of the recent flurry of attacks. After the Horde had taken Shattrath. sightings of the draenei had dwindled. It had been a full six months since anyone had reported even glimpsing one of the elusive blue-skinned beings. let alone killing one, Durotan had made the Frostwolf clan a clear target when he refused to drink from the chalice the night Shattrath fell. And even before then, his reluctance to attack the draenei had not gone unnoticed. Now that the draenei—the only focus the ores had as an outlet for their vastly increased bloodlust—were becoming scarce, many felt that somehow Durotan was responsible. Never mind that it was quite likely that the draenei had simply been hunted to extinction—that the initial goal of wiping them off the face of the earth had been achieved.
"I will bring some the next time I see you," Orgrim said.
"I will not take charity."
"If my clan were in your position, you would beat me nearly senseless and shove the food down my throat rather than let me refuse it," Orgrim said. Durotan laughed and seemed surprised that he did so. Orgrim let himself grin. For a moment, if he could ignore the dead land around them, the unnatural hue of their skins, it was as if the horrors of the intervening years had not happened.
Then Durotan's laughter faded, and die present returned. "For the sake of the children. I will accept it." He turned his head, again looking out over the wasteland. New names were cropping up—harsher names, darker names. The Citadel was becoming known as the Hcllfirc Citadel, the entire area the Hcllfirc Peninsula.
"The destruction of the draenei will lead to that of the ores as well if something is not done," Durotan said. "We are turning against each other. Stooping to stealing food from the mouths of children because the land is so wounded it can no longer nourish us. The demons capering at die heels of the warlocks can destroy and torment, but they cannot heal or feed the starving."
Orgrim asked in a low voice. "Has anyone . . . tried to work with the elements?" Such activities were still forbidden, but Orgrim knew that desperation was causing some to rethink the old ways,
Durotan nodded. "It was a failure. We have been met with stony silence. Demons guard Oshu'gun. We can find no hope there."
"Then... We are finished," Orgrim said quietly. He glanced down at his hammer, its shaft leaning against his leg as they stood. He wondered if the prophecy of the Doomhammer was being fulfilled even now; if he
was trie last of his line. Had he already brought salvation and then doom by using this weapon to drive the draenei to extinction? And how could it possibly be used now to bring justice?
When all was dying... How could everything change again?
The will to survive was powerful, Gul'dan thought as he readied himself for sleep. He had taken to sleeping in the Black Temple, in a room he had had redesigned specifically for him. In it. he placed in a ritualized fashion all the trinkets and tools he needed to properly command the demons he summoned: shards from draenei souls, certain stones for the larger creatures, potions to help him keep his energy up when it flagged. There were skulls, too, and bones, and other signs of dominance. Certain herbs were burned in containers, their pungent or sweet aroma inducing visions.
Gul'dan dreamed, as he had not done since Kil'jaeden's departure. And even while in the strange, dark place that was the vision, he knew it to be true. The vision was that of a vaguely orc-shaped being, dad in a long cloak that obscured his face. He was slender, even more slender than an orc female, but somehow Gul'dan immediately sensed that it was male. Delicately built as he seemed to Gul'dan's eyes, the sense of power that radiated from the stranger all but buffeted Gul'dan. A shiver shook him. When the stranger spoke in his mind, the voice was masculine, oddly pleasant, and profoundly compelling.
"You are feeling adrift and alone," said the stranger.
Gul'dan nodded, cautious and eager at the same time.
"Kil’jaeden promised you power... strength... godhood. Things that your world has never even seen," continued the smooth voice from a mouth that remained hidden in the shadow of the cloak's hood. The words caressed Gul'dan. lulled him, and frightened him at the same time. But he felt more angry than frightened as he spoke.
"He abandoned me," Gul'dan said. "He caused us to ruin our world, and then left us to die with it. If you come from him. then—"
"Nay, nay," soothed the stranger in that oddly compelling voice. "I come from one even greater," His eyes glittered, deep within the shadow of the hooded cloak. "I come from... his master."
Gul'dan's skin prickled. "His ... master?"
And he fell back as his mind was assaulted with images: images of Kil’jaeden and Velen and Archimonde,
as they were long ago. He saw the transformation of the beings known as eredar into monsters and demigods, and he sensed, though never saw. a great presence behind it all.
"Sargeras!"
He still could not see the stranger's face, but Gul'dan knew that he smiled.
"Yes. The one who rules over all. The one we serve. You will soon understand, Gul'dan, that destruction and oblivion are beautiful and pure. That it is the direction in which all things must go. You can resist it and be destroyed, or aid it and be rewarded."
Gautiously, still worried about this cloaked figure and his honeyed words, Gul'dan asked, "What is being asked of me?"
"Your people are dying," the figure said bluntly. "There is nothing left in this world for them to destroy. There is nothing left for them to survive on. They must go elsewhere. Where there is ample food and drink, and worthy prey to slaughter. The ores hunger now for so, so much more than food. Give them the blood they crave."
Gul'dan narrowed his eyes. "That sounds like a reward, not a task to which I am set," he said.
"It is both... but that is not the only reward my master offers. You rule the Shadow Council, and you have tasted power. You are the greatest warlock that exists among your people, and you know how that fills you. Imagine if you were... a god." Gul'dan trembled. Such had been promised before, but somehow, he knew that this Sargeras was much better able to fulfill such extravagant vows. He thought ol extending a hand and making the earth tremble, of clenching it hard and stopping a heart. He thought of the eyes of thousands trained upon him, their voices raw from shouting his name. He thought of tastes and sensations he could not yet even imagine, and his mouth watered.
"We have a mutual foe," the stranger continued. "I would see them dead. You would see your people sated with slaughter and killing." And now Gul'dan could make out just the barest hint of features, of pale skin and a thin-lipped mouth framed by black hair that curved in a smile. "It is a partnership that would benefit us both."
"Indeed," Gul'dan breathed. He realized that he was moving toward the stranger as if drawn, then stopped and added, "but I cannot believe that this is all you would ask of me."
The stranger sighed. "Sargeras will give you all this and more. Only ... he lies imprisoned. He needs assistance to escape. His body is trapped in an ancient tomb, lost beneath a roiling ocean of darkness. He hungers for his freedom, the power that once was his to express, as your ores hunger for bloodshed, as you hunger for power. Bring your ores into this verdant, unspoiled new world. Give them soft flesh into which their axes can bite. Defeat the denizens of this place, strengthen your
people, and with this vast green tide of warriors join me in liberating our master. His gratitude—"
Again the sly smile, the glint of white teeth in the beard. And again that powerful buffet of power, mitigated only by the stranger's will.
"'... well. It is likely beyond even your imaginings, Gul'dan."
Gul'dan considered. As he thought, the image of the stranger shifted and faded. Gul'dan gasped as he stood in a beautiful meadow, the wind tousling his braided hair. Beasts he had never seen before grazed their fill. Along the horizon, healthy tiecs towered. Strange beings, similar to ores but with pinkish skin, as slender as the stranger, tended fields and livestock.
Perfect.
The image shifted again. Suddenly he was underwater, swimming down, his lungs not burning for air despite the depth. Kelp swayed in the current, obscuring but not entirely hiding tumbled columns and a slab that bore strange writing, eroded somewhat by time and the ceaseless, gentle caress of water. A shudder passed through him as he realized that this was where Sargeras lay. Release him from this prison, and then ... and then...
It seemed like a good partnership. Anything would be better than staying here in this world, which would mean a slow death. A beautiful, ripe land, ready for plunder, would all by itself make this bargain worthwhile. And there was so, so much more to come. He gazed at the stranger raptly. "Tell me what to do."
Gul'dan awoke sprawled on the floor. Beside him on the cold stone was a parchment covered with instructions, written in his own hand. He scanned it quickly: Portal. Azeroth. Humans.
Medivh.
Gul'dan began to smile.
TWENTY-TWO
Can a thing be at once a blessing and a curse? A salvation and a doom? For such I hold what happened next in the history of my people. From every account, the demonic energies, used so freely and with no heed given as to their cost, leeched all that was wholesome and life-giving from the world of Draenor. Kil'jaeden had wanted to increase the number of orcs,so that we would become a formidable army, and he had done so, forcing the growth of our younglings and robbing them of their childhood. Now, the orc population was larger than it had ever been, and there was no way to feed the hungry. It is clear to me, as it must have been clear to those living through those terrible times, that if we had remained on Draenor, our race would likely have died out.
But how we left... and why we left... this world still bleeds from the wound of that. I do what I can to heal while still safeguarding the interests of this new Horde I have made, but I wonder if these wounds will ever really close. Life for my people: a blessing. How we obtained it: a curse.
The Shadow Council had been nervous, almost as worried sick as Gul'dan had been at Kil’jaeden's departure. But now they had a direction. He called the Council and shared with them the words of the mysterious stranger who called himself Mcdivh. He spoke of the fertile fields, clean water, healthy, glossy-coated prey animals. And he spoke even more glowingly of the beings called "humans" who would fight enough to be a challenge, but who would inevitably fall to the superiority of the Horde.
"Water, food, killing. And power to those who agree to help bring it about," Gul'dan said, his voice seductive, almost purring. He had gauged them correctly. Their eyes, some red and glowing, some still brown and intense, were focused on him and he saw hope... and greed... on their faces.
The work began.
First, they had to redirect the attention of the starving Horde. Gul'dan was well aware that, with decreasing food s
upplies and a burning thirst for violence that no longer had an outlet, the ores had started attacking one another. He had Blackhand send out decrees to all the clans, submitting their finest warriors for controlled, one-on-one or small party fights in public display. The winners would receive food from the losing clan, and a supply of pure water as well as honor and fame. Frantic for something, anything, to case the pain of their dual hunger, for food and for blood, the ores responded well to the suggestion, and Gul'dan was relieved. Mcdivh wanted an army to attack the humans. It would not do if all the ores had slaughtered one another before the invasion.
Durotan continued to give him trouble. The leader of the Frostwolf clan, likely emboldened by the fact that Gul'dan did not cut him down the night of the attack on Shattrath, had begun speaking out more publicly. He decried the staged battles as demeaning. He called for a way to try to heal the land, stopping just short of dirccdy blaming the warlocks for it. In other words, he danced as close to the line as was possible, and sometimes crossed it.
And, as had always been the case, some were listening. While the Frostwolf clan was the only one whose leader had not drunk the blood of Mannoroth, there were other ores in lower positions who had also refused. The one who worried Gul'dan the most was Orgrim Doomhammer. That one could be trouble. Orgrim had never much liked Blackhand; one day, he might do something about that dislike. But for the moment, he did not side publicly with the Frostwolves, and indeed was one of the regular victors in the champion battles.
The visions continued. Mcdivh had a very clear idea of what he wanted: a portal between the two worlds. one that could be created with the Shadow Council and its warlocks on one side, and Mcdivh and whatever magics he was controlling on his side.
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