"My mate ... I do not know that I trust Ner’zhul," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded. "But we both trust Drek'Thar, and he has confirmed what Ner’zhul has said. The draenei have been plotting against us. Ner’zhul says that Velen has even insisted on entering Oshu'gun."
Again, the chieftain of the Frostwolf clan regarded the letter. "I am pleased that Ner’zhul has not asked me to slay Velen. Perhaps, once we have him in our power, we can convince him to change his ways, have him explain why they are so bent on harming us. Perhaps we can negotiate a peace."
The thought seized his heart and squeezed it hard. As glorious as his life with Draka was. as proud as he was of his clan, how much happier would he be simply doing as his father had done—hunting the beasts of the woods and fields, dancing in the moonlight at Kosh'harg festivals, listening to the old tales and basking in the loving warmth of the ancestors. He had not said anything to Draka, but he was secretly glad that they had not yet conceived a child. This was not a time that was easy on the young ores. Their childhood had been stolen from them; adult duties had been placed on shoulders still not quite broad enough to bear them. If Draka were to bear a child. Durotan would not hesitate to have his son or daughter trained as other children were. He would ask nothing of other parents that he would not do himself, but he was glad that he was not faced with that decision quite yet.
Draka watched him with intense, narrowed eyes. It was as if she could read his thoughts.
"You have met Velen before," she said. "I watched you try to reconcile your memories of that encounter with the news that they were trying to destroy us all. It was not easy for you."
"Nor is it now," he replied. "Perhaps it is just as well that I am assigned this task. Velen will remember that night, of that I am certain. He may be willing to treat with me, whereas he might not be so willing to treat with Ner’zhul. I wish I had seen the letter he had sent."
Draka sighed and got to her feet. "I think that would have been most enlightening," she said.
Durotan emulated her. "I will tell the courier that his master may rest content. I will not shirk my duty."
He felt her worried gaze boring into his back as he left.
Velen held the violet crystal close to his heart. The red and yellow ones rested at his side as he sat in meditation, casting a soft glow upon his alabaster skin. The four others were placed elsewhere in draenei territory, their great powers serving his people as needed. But the violet one never left him.
Its power opened the mind and spirit, and in a way, it was almost like being in direct communication with the Naaru. Velen always felt stronger, cleaner, his soul honed to a keen edge, when he meditated with the violet crystal. Although each of the seven crystals was precious and powerful, this was the one he treasured the most.
He strained to hear the soft whispers of K’ure. but he could not. Velen's heart ached. He bowed his head.
He heard voices and opened his eyes. Restalaan was speaking to one of the acolytes, and Velen waved him forward.
"What news, old friend?" Velen inquired. He indicated a pot of hot herbal tea.
Restalaan waved his hand, declining the offer. "Good and bad. my Prophet," he said. "I deeply regret to inform you that the courier you sent to the shaman leader Ner’zhul was killed by a group of ores."
Velen closed his eyes. The violet crystal grew warmer for a moment, as if trying to offer comfort.
"I sensed his death," Velen said heavily. "But I had hoped it was an accident. You are certain he was murdered?"
"Ner’zhul says so. and offers no apology." Restalaan's voice conveyed his anger and affront at the incident. He was kneeling beside Velen, next to the red crystal. Velen's dark blue eyes darted to the crystal as it pulsed once, briefly, responding to Restalaan's emotions.
"So much for your theory that they would not attack an unarmed man," Restalaan continued bitterly.
"I had so hoped for better," Velen said quietly. "But you said there was some good news to mitigate these sad tidings?"
Restalaan grimaced. "If you can call it that. Ner’zhul says that an orc contingency will meet with us at the base of the mountain."
"He ... is not coming?"
Restalaan dropped his gaze and shook his head. "No, my Prophet," he said quietly.
"Who docs he send in his stead?"
"The letter docs not say."
"Give it to me." Velen stretched out a white hand and Restalaan placed the parchment in his palm. Velen uncurled the parchment and read the letter quickly.
Your courier is dead. It is fortunate that those who slew him thought to search the body for his missive. I have read it, and I will agree to send a contingency of ores to speak with you. I guarantee nothing—not your safety, not a truce, nothing. But we will hear you out.
Velen sighed deeply. This was not the response his soul had longed for. What had happened to the ores?
Why in this world or any other were they suddenly so bent on harming the draenei, who had never opposed them in any fashion?
I guarantee nothing, Ner’zhul had said, writing in a strong, bold hand.
"Very well," said Velen quietly. "Then nothing is guaranteed," He smiled at Restalaan. "Rather like life."
The day was inappropriately bright and cheerful, Durotan thought, squinting against the bright early summer light that danced down. Surely, on a day when his soul felt so bleak and unhappy, the weather ought to reflect it. Clouds, at the very least. More appropriately, a cold, drizzling rain. But the sun did not care about an ore's heavy hcait, or even the fate of an entire race of people. It shone down as merrily as if all was right every place its rays touched. Oshu'gun almost seemed to be on fire, so bright was the light that reflected off its multifaceted, crystalline surface.
Durotan had chosen a position of strength. From where he had positioned his warriors, he would be able to see Velen's traveling party long before they spotted the ores. He had decided to wait and let the Prophet of the draenei come directly to him, although he had strategically positioned his warriors so that if the draenei attempted to flee, no avenue of flight would be open to them. And all the ores who waited patiently on this offensively glorious day were armed to the teeth, with shaman at the ready. With her sharp eyes and superb fighting skills, Draka was highly useful to him as a scout. He had positioned her as one of the lookouts in the first group of warriors. The instant that Velen was visible, she would send word to her mate via a spell cast by Drek’Thar.
Drek’Thar himself, though, was standing beside Durotan, As the most powerful shaman in the clan, his place was to protect the clan's leader. The two stood on a rock outcropping just above the entrance to the gleaming sacred mountain. Dozens of warriors waited with arrows, hand axes, and javelins at the ready. Others had spent days maneuvering large boulders into position. At a word from Durotan, a simple movement would send death in the form of huge stones crashing down upon the draenei.
The threat of death, in fact, was everywhere on this lovely mountain, on this beautiful sunny day.
A breeze stirred Durotan's black hair and a bird sang brightly. Drek’Thar looked at his chieftain with concern.
"My chieftain, you are doing what you have been told to do," Drek’Thar said earnestly. "These beings are our enemies."
Durotan nodded and wished he could believe it as easily as every other orc seemed to.
The breeze brushed his check again, more insistently, and this time he heard words on the wind. Draka's message, borne to him by Drek’Thar's bond with the elements. They are coming. Five of them. None of
them is wearing armor or carries any visible weapons. They walk serenely.
The wind wafted her words away, and he knew it went to touch the cars of all the ores assembled. When the time was right, Drek’Thar would harness the wind to give orders to Durotan's troops. Durotan straightened, and his heart beat more swiftly. His hand gripped his battle-axe tightly.
"There they are," said Drek’Thar grimly
. Durotan followed his gaze.
Draka's report had been accurate, right down to her interpretation of the manner in which the draenei approached. The five draenei did not wear the strange blue and silvery armor that Durotan remembered from his single encounter with them. They were dressed instead as they had been for the meal, in robes of beautiful hues that caught the breeze and fluttered behind them like banners. Walking at the very front of the little group was Prophet Velen himself. He was unmistakable; his simple tan robes contrasted with those of his entourage, and of course his strange white skin was unique. Durotan grinned a little despite the dircness of the situation. The draenei were so garishly clad that only a blind orc would have failed to spot them from a great distance.
The smile faded at what that had to represent. They wanted to be spotted immediately. They wanted the ores to be confident that they carried no weapons and were on what Mother Kashur would have called a pilgrimage. Or was it all just an elaborate trick? Shaman needed no spears to destroy. Neither did the draenei. Durotan remembered the magical nets that scared and blackened flesh on contact—nets of energy, alien to the orcs, that had come from nowhere.
No, even unarmed, the draenei were far from harmless.
He had briefed his warriors and knew they would obey. They understood they were not to fire a warning shot—not to utter even an insult—without Durotan's express command. But they knew how the draenei fought, and would not be taken unawares. Durotan could smell the tension emanating from those warriors closest to him; he wondered if the draenei could, too.
Durotan watched as the groups he had set farthest away came out of hiding to close ranks behind the draenei. They were far enough back so that Durotan hoped the draenei would not notice. If they did, they gave no sign, but merely continued with that steady, confident... serene . . . pace.
Durotan and Drek’Thar made no attempt to disguise themselves. After several long minutes, Velen lifted his head and looked up, right into Durotan's eyes. Durotan did not break the gaze, but stood waiting for his enemies to continue their approach. They reached the base of the mountain, but before they could continue farther, dozens of ores moved purposefully out of hiding to surround them.
Velen did not look in the least bit surprised. He glanced around, smiling a little, and then returned his gaze to Durotan. Slowly, Durotan descended until he stood face-to-face with the draenei prophet.
"Long has it been since you and I last stood so, Velen," Durotan said in a calm voice. He deliberately did not use the draenei's title.
"Long indeed, Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan," Velen said in that rich, smooth voice that Durotan remembered. "Are you friends with Orgrim still?"
"Indeed I am," Durotan replied. "He carries the Doomhammer now, and is second in his own clan."
Sorrow flitted across the pale face, a sorrow that was deep and unquestionably genuine. Again, Durotan remembered that night so long ago, when this being had sat with them and talked of orcish ways, of the Doomhammer and the cost at which Orgrim would buy it.
"I hope his father and yours passed with great honor," Velen said.
"We are not here today to speak of the past," Durotan said, more forcefully than he intended. He did not like to remember that night. "We are here because you have informed us that you dare trespass on our most sacred place."
There it is, then, he thought. Let us not mince words.
Velen held Durotan's gaze and nodded. "I had sent a missive to Ner’zhul, not to you, Durotan. He has dcclincd to meet with mc. I wonder . . . did he share this missive with you?"
"There was no need for me to read it." Durotan replied, "I was asked to come in his stead. And I have done so."
Durotan saw the broad shoulders slump a little. Velen sighed deeply. "I sec," he said. "He may not have told you why I wished to come today."
"I do not need to know your purpose, draenei," Durotan said.
"But you do. or else this conversation will be for nothing." The voice was clear and crisp, and there was nothing old or frail about it despite Velen's obviously ancient age. Durotan raised an eyebrow. That Velen was a wise elder was immediately apparent. But now, for the first time. Durotan caught a glimpse of the sheer strength of will that had buoyed Velen for coundess years.
"This this mountain is sacred to your people. We know this, and we have respected it. But it is also sacred to us." Velen took a step forward, his gaze locked on Durotan's. The orc warriors around him shifted, murmured, but otherwise did not move.
"Deep inside the mountain is a being that has long cared for the draenei people," Velen continued. "It is older by far than anything cither of our minds can grasp. And more powerful. But even old and powerful things can die, and it is dying now. There is wisdom and grace and reconciliation We can have from it. your people and mine. We—"
"Blasphemer!"
Durotan started. The bitter cry had sprung from the throat not of some short-tempered warrior in the crowd, but from the orc who stood beside him. Drek’Thar's eyes were wide and his body trembled with outrage. Veins stood out on his neck and he shook his fist at Velen. Durotan was so shocked by the outburst that he did not silence it as quickly as he should have, and Drek’Thar continued.
"Oshu'gun belongs to us! It is the home of the beloved dead, cradlcr of their spirits, and your hideous cloven feet are not fit to take one step up its blessed sides!"
Velen. too. seemed surprised at the outburst. He turned his attention to the shaman and stretched out a hand imploringly.
"Your sprits are housed within these walls, it is true, and I would never say it was not so." Velen cried. "But they are drawn there because of this being. It seeks to—"
It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Drek’Thar bellowed in outrage. Other cries went up, and before Durotan realized quite what was happening, he saw his warriors surge forward. Draka moved toward them, trying to stop the attack, but she might as well have been trying to hold back the incoming tide. Durotan spun and struck Drek’Thar hard across the face. The shaman whirled, snarling. "Protect them!" Durotan cried. "You will obey my orders, and we must take them alive. Protect them, curse you!"
Drek’Thar's eyes flashed in fury, but only for an instant. He lifted his hands and closed his eyes, and suddenly a huge circle of flame sprang up around the five draenei. A wind sprang up, whipping the fire even higher and physically buffeting the ores. The warriors stepped back, and to Durotan's horror some of the archers began nocking arrows on their bowstrings.
"Hold!" bellowed Durotan, the wind taking his order and bearing it to his warriors' cars. "I will slay anyone who fires!"
Between his command and Drek’Thar's powerful, if reluctant, abilities, the draenei were unharmed. Durotan raced down the mountainside to his prisoners, for such they now were. Drek’Thar was at his heels.
"Dismiss fire," Durotan told Drek’Thar. At once, the sheets of flame that almost singed Durotan's eyebrows dissipated. He stood face-to-face now with Velen, and a wave of an emotion he could not properly name rose inside him as he realized that the draenei elder was still as calm and serene as he had been when they had simply been talking.
"Velen, you and your people are now prisoners of the Frostwolf clan," Durotan said in a soft, dangerous voice.
Velen smiled, sweetly, sadly. "I expected nothing less." he said.
He and the other four somehow maintained their composure while Durotan ordered them stripped and searched. Their glorious robes were taken and given to Durotan's top warriors, and the draenei were clad now in sweat-stiff tunics. His stomach turned at the jeers, insults, and spits that came their way at the humiliation, but he did not stop it. As long as no physical harm came to the prisoners—and Durotan watched closely to ensure that none would—he would let his warriors have their sport. Beside him, Draka looked angry at the behavior of her fellow Frostwolves and whispered, "My mate, can you not silence them?"
He shook his head. "I want to see how the draenei react. And . . . the warriors ha
ve stayed their hands when they might have been expected to kill. I will not silence their tongues as well."
Draka looked at him searchingly, then nodded and withdrew. He knew she did not approve, and he did not like what he was seeing cither. But he was walking a delicate line, and he knew it.
"My chieftain!" cried Rokkar, Durotan's second in command. "Come see what they have brought us!"
Durotan went to Rokkar's side and peered into the sack he had opened. His eyes widened. Nestled inside, swathed in soft fabric, were two exquisitely beautiful stones. One was red, the other was yellow. Durotan ached to touch them, but did not. He looked up and met Velen's gaze. "Long ago, Restalaan showed us a crystal similar to this one," he said. "That one protected a city. What do these do?"
"Each has its own strength. They are part of our legacy. They were bequeathed to us by the being that dwells in the sacred mountain."
Durotan growled softly. "You would do well not to mention that again," he said. To Rokkar, he said, "Feed them, bind their hands, and put them on wolves, with shaman to guard them. Give the stones to Drek’Thar. We will take the draenei back with us and deliver them to Ner’zhul. He should have been here in my stead today."
He turned and stalked off, not wanting to look at Velen's odd, glowing blue eyes, not wanting to see the disapproval in Draka's.
During the long ride back, Durotan wrestled with his emotions. On the one hand, he shared Drek’Thar's offense. Oshu'gun was sacred to the ores. The idea that something other than the ancestors dwelt inside it, indeed, as Velen claimed, was so powerful that it lured the ancestors to it, struck him to the core. He could only imagine how the shaman felt about such a declaration. Everything seemed to point to Ner’zhul's being correct, that the draenei were a blight upon the world and should be eliminated.
What nagged at him was why. He would get an answer to that question tonight.
With everyone, including the five captives, mounted, they made good time. The sun was only starting to set when they returned. Durotan had sent outriders ahead with the good news, and the clan was waiting eagerly for their arrival. On his right were Drek’Thar and Rokkar, who shared the sentiments of the Frostwolves. On his left was Draka, who had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the entire event. Durotan knew that he did not want to hear what she had to say; he was already being pulled in too many directions as it was.
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