Velen was an excellent host. He asked questions and seemed genuinely interested in the responses: How old would the boys be before they could hunt ogres? Choose a mate? What was their favorite thing to cat? Their favorite weapon? Orgrim. even more than Durotan, warmed to the conversation and began talking of his prowess. To his credit, he did not need to embellish his stories.
"When my father passes, I will inherit the Doomhammcr." Orgrim said proudly. "It is an old and honorable weapon, passed down from father to eldest child."
"You will swing it well. Orgrim," said Velen. "But I trust that it will be many years before you take on the name of Doomhammer."
The fact that his father would have to die before he
would become Orgrim Doomhammer seemed to have momentarily escaped the young ore. and he abruptly grew solemn. Velen smiled, with. Durotan thought, a hint of sorrow. At the movement, fine cracks appeared in Velen's face, the subtlest of spidcrwebs on that smooth white surface.
"But describe this hammer to me. It must be a mighty weapon."
Orgrim brightened again. "It is enormous! The stone is black and blunt and powerful, and the shaft is made of carefully crafted wood. Over the years, the shaft has had to be replaced, but the stone itself has not a chip on it. It is called the Doomhammer because when its owner takes it into battle, it spells doom for the enemy."
"I sec," said Velen, still smiling.
Orgrim was warming to his task. "But there is also another prophecy," he continued. "It is said that the last of the Doomhammer line will use it to bring first salvation and then doom to the orc people. Then it will pass into the hands of one who is not of the Blackrock clan, all will change again, and it will once again be used in the cause of justice."
"That is a powerful prophecy," said Velen. He said no more, but Durotan felt a shiver. This man was dubbed "Prophet" by his people. Did he know if the Doomhammer prophecy would come true? Did Durotan dare to ask?
Orgrim continued, describing the Doomhammer in loving detail. Durotan, who had seen the weapon in question, ceased listening to Orgrim's chatter and focused on Velen, Why was this being so interested in them?
Durotan was a sensitive youth, he knew. He had overheard some snippets of conversation from his parents, who were worried about such sensitivity, and from Mother Kashur. who scoffed at them and told them to worry about important things and to "leave the boy to his fate." Durotan knew fcigncd interest when he saw it. and felt that he'd recognize it even in a draenei. But Velen's brilliant blue eyes were bright and focused, his kind if ugly face open, his questions sincere. He wanted to hear about the ores. And the more he heard, the sadder he seemed to become.
/ wish Mother Kashur could be here instead of me, Durotan thought suddenly. She would appreciate this opportunity more than Orgrim or I could.
When Orgrim had finished describing the Doomhammer. Durotan asked, "Can you tell us of your people. Prophet? We know so litdc. In the last few hours I have learned more than any of my people have over the last hundred years, I think."
Velen turned glowing blue eyes to Durotan. Durotan wanted to quail from that gaze, not because he was afraid of it. but because he had never before felt so...seen.
"The draenei have never withheld information, young Durotan. But... I believe you may be the first who has ever asked. What do you wish to know?"
Everything, Durotan wanted to stay, but instead focused his question. "The ores had never met the draenei until two hundred summers past. Restalaan said you came here in a great vessel that can travel the skies. Tell me more of this."
Velen took a sip of the beverage that tasted like summer to Durotan and smiled. "To begin with, 'draenei' is not our true name. It is a term that means ... 'exiled ones.
Durotan gaped.
"We disagreed with others in our world. We chose not to sell our people into slavery, and for that we were exiled. We have spent much time finding a suitable place to dwell—a place to call our own. We fell in love with this land, and We call it Dracnor."
Durotan nodded. He had heard the term before. He liked how it sat on his tongue when he spoke it, and the ores did not have a name for this place other than "world."
"It is our term, We have not the arrogance to think the ores would use it as well. But such We have dubbed it, and We love Dracnor deeply. It is a beautiful world, and We have seen many,"
Orgrim gasped. "You have seen other worlds?"
"Indeed We have. And We have met many people."
"People like the ores?"
Velen smiled gently. "There is no one like the ores," he said, respect resonant in his voice. "You are unique in our travels." Durotan and Orgrim looked at each other and sat up a little straightcr in their chairs.
"But yes, we had been traveling for some time before we found this land. Here we are. and here we will stay."
Durotan burned to ask more—to ask how long they had been traveling, what their homeland had been like, why they had left it. But there was something in Velen's timeless face that told him that although he had been invited to inquire, the draenei leader would not tell him that particular talc.
So instead he asked about how they had tamed the nature of their weapons and magic. "Our magic comes from the earth." Durotan said. "From the shaman and the ancestors."
"Our magic comes from a different source." Velen said. "I do not think you will understand it if I explained it.
Orgrim said indignantly, "We are not stupid!"
"Forgive me, I did not mean to imply that," Velen said at once. It was a graceful and sincere apology, and again Durotan was impressed. "Your people are wise and you two are obviously bright. But... I am not sure I have the words in your language. I have no doubt that if I had the time and vocabulary you would understand."
Even in the explanation he seemed to grope for the words. Durotan thought of the sort of magic that could disguise a city, thought of the soft, uncanny metal somehow melded with gems of the earth and
solid stone, and realized that Velen was right. There did not breathe an orc who could have grasped all of this in a single evening, though he suspected Mother Kashur would have an intrinsic comprehension, and he again wondered why it was that the two races did not interact more.
The conversation turned to more mundane topics. The two youths learned that deep in the Terokkar forest was a spot, sacred to the draenei, called Auchindoun. Here, the dead were laid to rest, placed in the ground instead of being burned on pyres. Privately, Durotan thought this odd, but held his tongue. Telmor was the closest town to this "city of the dead," and Velen had come on a sad mission, to lay to rest some who had died fighting the same ogre that had almost claimed Orgrim and Durotan earlier that day.
Normally. Velen explained, he lived in a beautiful place called the Temple of Karabor. There were other draenei towns, but the largest was to the north, a place called Shattrath.
At last, the meal was over. Velen sighed, and his eyes rested on his empty plate, but Durotan felt certain the Prophet did not see it.
"You will excuse me." Velen said, rising. "It has been a long day, and I must meditate before I sleep. It has been an honor to meet you, Durotan of the Frostwolf clan, and Orgrim. of the Blackrock clan. I trust you will sleep well and deeply, safe within these walls, where none of your people has been before." Durotan and Orgrim rose with the others and bowed. Velen smiled with, Durotan thought, a hint of that strange sorrow he had glimpsed in the draenei leader earlier.
"We will meet again, young ones. Good night." The two ores left shortly afterward. They were escorted to their rooms and indeed slept well, though Durotan had a dream of an old orc sitting quietly by his side, and wondered what it meant.
"Bring him," the old orc said to Mother Kashur.
Mother Kashur, the eldest shaman of the Frostwolf clan, slept deeply. Because of her high position of honor, her tent was second in lavishncss only to that of Garad, the clan leader. Thick rugs of clefthoof fur kept her old bones from the cold of the earth, and a loyal
and loving granddaughter tended to her needs, cooking and cleaning and keeping the fire stoked on cold days for the clan's "mother." Mother Kashur's duty was to listen to the wind and water and fire and grass, and drink the bitter herbal beverage each night that opened her mind to visits from the ancestors. She gathered information for her clan the way the others gathered fruits and firewood, and this gift nourished them as deeply.
The old orc was not present, and yet she knew he was real. He was in her dream, and that was enough for her. In this dream state, she was young and vibrant, could see her ruddy skin glowing with health, knew
her form to be sleek and knotted with muscle. The old orc was the age at which he had died, the age at which his wisdom had been at its height. His name had been Tal'kraa in life, but now, although he was many generations distant from her, she called him only Grandfather.
"You received the message," Grandfather told the young, vibrant dream-Kashur. She nodded, her dark hair flowing with the movement.
"He and the Blackrock boy are with the draenei," she said. "They will be safe. I can feel it."
Grandfather Tal'kraa nodded, his thick jowls shaking with the movement. His tusks were yellowed with age and one had been broken off in a battle long since forgotten.
"Yes, they are safe. Bring him."
It was the second time he had said this, and Kashur was not certain as to what he meant.
"He will come to the mountain in a few months, when the trees shed their leaves to sleep," she said. "So yes, I will bring him."
Tal'kraa shook his head fiercely, his brown eyes narrowed in annoyance, Kashur smothered a smile; of all the spirits that honored her with their presence. Grandfather Tal'kraa was one of the least patient.
"No, no," Tal'kraa growled. "Bring him to us. Bring him to the caverns of Oshu'gun. I would look upon him there."
Kashur inhaled swiftly. "You ... wish me to take him to meet the ancestors?" "is that not what I just said? Foolish girl! What has happened to the shaman these days?"
It was a rant he went on frequently and it troubled Kashur not in the slightest. She was too stunned by the import of what he had just said. Sometimes the ancestors had wanted to see a child before; it was infrequent, but it had occurred. Usually it meant that the child in question was destined for the shamanic path. She had not thought Durotan's feet would walk that road; it was rare that a shaman led a clan. There would be too much pulling him in each direction for him to be an effective leader. To both listen to and honor the spirits and to guide one's people well were more than most ores could manage. One who could do both would be a remarkable orc indeed.
When Kashur did not reply. Grandfather growled and slammed his staff on the ground. Kashur jumped slightly.
"I will bring him on his initiation day," Kashur assured her ancestor.
"At last, you understand," Tal'kraa said, shaking his staff at her. 'And if you fail me, I will take my staff to your head instead of the innocent earth."
He could not completely hide a smile as he said it, and Kashur smiled back as her dream-self closed her eyes. For all his bluster and short temper, Tal'kraa was wise and kind and loved her deeply. She wished she had known him when he was alive, but he had died almost a hundred years ago.
Kashur's eyelids fluttered open, and she sighed as her spirit returned to her current, real body ... as old as Tal'kraa had been when he died, hands and feet curled up with joint pain, body weak, hair stark white. She knew in her heart that the time would soon come when she would be able to leave this body, this shell, for the final time and be with the ancestors in the sacred mountain. Drek’Thar, her apprentice, would then be the advisor to Garad and the rest of the Frostwolf clan. She had every confidence in him, and actually looked forward to the day when she would be pure spiritual energy.
Although, she mused as the sunlight trickled in and the birdsong caressed her cars, she would miss the things that being alive granted her, the simple things like birdsong and hot food and the loving touch of her granddaughter.
Bring him, Grandfather had said.
And so she would.
FOUR
Last night, with the moon full overhead and the stars gleaming as if in approval, a young male was initiated into adulthood. It was the first time I have had the chance to be part of this ritual, the Om'riggor. In my earlier years, I was cut off from the rites and traditions of my people; and truth be told, all ores had been cut off from such rites for too long. And once I had set my feet on my destiny's path, I had become embroiled in battle. War consumed me. Ironically, the need to protect my people from the Burning Legion and to give them a place where our traditions could again flourish took me far away from these things.
But now, Durotar and Orgrimmar are established. Now, there is a peace, tenuous though it might be. Now there are shaman reclaiming the ancient ways, young males and females coming of age who, if the spirits will it, may never know the ashy taste of war.
Last night, I participated in a timeless ritual that had been denied an entire generation.
Last night, my heart was filled with joy and the sense of connection for which I had always longed.
Durotan's heart hammered in his chest as he stared at the talbuk. It was a mighty beast, worthy prey, its horns not for mere decoration but sharp and dangerous. Durotan had seen at least one warrior gored to death, impaled upon the twelve prongs as surely as if upon a spear.
And he was to take it down with only a single weapon and no armor.
There had been the whispers, of course. Any mature talbuk will do to satisfy the needs of the ritual, he had heard someone murmur in his car as he sat blindfolded in the waiting tent. They are all fierce fighters, but at this season, the males have shed their horns.
Other whispers: You may only carry one weapon, Durotan, son of Garad; but you could hide armor in the wilderness where no one would know.
And, most shameful of all: Theshaman will determine if you are successful by tasting the blood upon your face; the blood from a long-dead talbuk tastes exactly like that of one freshly slain.
He ignored all the temptations. Perhaps there had been other ores who had succumbed to them, but he would not be among them. Durotan would seek out a female, who was quite well equipped with horns at this time of year; he would take the one weapon he was permitted, and it would be the blood of the beast hekilled, steaming in the cold air, that would anoint his checks.
And now. standing in the early, unexpected fall of snow, his axe growing ever heavier in his hand, Durotan shivered. But he never faltered.
He had been tracking the talbuk herd for two days now, surviving only on what he could gather, creating meager fires in the twilight that bathed the snow in a rich lavender hue and sleeping in what shelter he stumbled upon. Orgrim had already completed his rite of passage. Durotan envied the fact that his friend had been born in summer. He had thought it would still not be too difficult in early autumn, but winter had decided to come ahead of time and the weather was bitter.
It seemed as if the talbuk herd, too, was taunting him. He could come upon their tracks and droppings easily enough, see where they had scraped the snow for dried grass or pulled bark from the trees. But they always seemed to elude him. It was late afternoon on the third day when it appeared as though the ancestors had decided to reward his determination. Twilight was coming, and Durotan had thought with a sinking heart that he would have to again seek shelter to mark the end of a fruidess day. Then he realized that the small pellets of dung were not frozen hard, but fresh.
They were close.
He began to run, the snow squeaking beneath his fur boots, a new warmth filling him. He followed the tracks as he had been taught, cleared a rise—
And beheld a herd of the glorious creatures.
Immediately he crouched behind a large boulder and peered around to gaze at the beasts. They were still dark brown against the white snow, their winter coats not yet upon them. There were at least two dozen, maybe more, mostly females. It was good t
hat he had found the herd, but now he had another problem. How would he take down just one? Talbuk. unlike many prey animals, would protect others in their herd. If he attacked one. the rest would come to defend it.
Shaman accompanied the hunters in order to distract the animals. Durotan was alone, and suddenly he felt very vulnerable.
He frowned and rallied himself. He had been searching for these creatures for almost three days, and now here they were. Nightfall would see a fresh haunch of meat devoured by a hungry orc youth, or it would see a stiffening orc corpse in the snow.
He watched them for a while, aware that the shadows were lengthening, but not wanting to hurry and make a fatal mistake. The talbuk were diurnal creatures, and they were busy digging hollows in the snow in which to curl up. He knew they did such a thing, but now he watched in dismay as they settled in tightly against one another. How would he separate one?
Movement caught his eye. One of the females, young and healthy from a gentle summer spent feasting on sweet grass and berries, seemed to be in a feisty mood. She stamped and tossed her head—crowned with a glorious set of horns—and almost danced around the others. She did not seem inclined to join them, but like one or two others, opted to sleep on the outside of the cluster of furry bodies.
Durotan began to grin. What an offering from the spirits! It was a good omen. The liveliest, healthiest doc in the herd, the one who did not need to follow mindlessly, but chose her own path. While that choice would likely be her death, it would also give Durotan a chance to win his honor and right to be treated as an adult. The spirits understood the balance of such things. At least, he was told they did.
Durotan waited. Twilight came and went, and the sun sank below the mountains. With the sun went even the feeble warmth it had hitherto provided. Durotan waited with the patience of the predator. Finally, even the edgiest of the herd tucked up its long legs and bedded down with its fellows.
Rise of the Horde Page 5
