Rise of the Horde

by Christie Golden

  The prisoners were ungraciously shoved into two tents and an immediate guard was set up around them. Four seasoned warriors and Drek’Thar's most trusted shaman stood proudly, pleased with the duty entrusted to them. Durotan had ordered Velen isolated; he wanted to speak with the draenei prophet alone.

  After the excitement had settled down somewhat, Durotan took a deep breath. He was not looking forward to this conversation, but it had to be done. He nodded to the guards and entered the small tent that hosted Prophet Velen.

  Since he had ordered Velen bound, he expected to see the elder with his hands tied. Instead, he saw that whoever had carried out his order had done so with excessive zeal.

  The tent had been erected around a sturdy tree, and Velen was now bound to the trunk. His arms had been yanked back at an awkward angle, the ropes around the white flesh of his wrists tied so tightly that even in the dim light of twilight Durotan could see that they were turning a darker shade. A rope tied, thankfully loosely, around his neck forced him to keep his head up or risk choking. A diity cloth had been shoved in his mouth. He was on his knees, and his hooves, too, were bound behind him.

  Durotan uttered a deep oath and drew a dagger. Velen gazed at him with no sign of fear in those deep blue eyes, but Durotan did notice that the draenei looked surprised when the orc used the weapon to cut the bonds rather than his throat. Velen made no sound, but a flicker of pain passed over his ghostly white face as blood returned to his limbs.

  "I told them to bind you, not truss you up like a talbuk," Durotan muttered.

  "Your people are very eager, it would seem."

  Durotan passed the elder a watcrskin and watched him closely while he drank. Sitting before him in filthy clothing, gulping at tepid water, his white flesh raw from the bonds, Velen did not look like much of a threat. How would he feel, he wondered, if he had gotten word of the draenei treating Mother Kashur so? Everything about this felt wrong. Yet Mother Kashur herself had assured Drek’Thar that the draenei were a threat so dire as to be almost unimaginable.

  There was a bowl of cold blood porridge on the ground. With his right foot, Durotan shoved it toward the prisoner. Velen eyed it, but did not cat.

  "Not quite the feast you served Orgrim and me when we dined in Telmor," Durotan said. "But it is nourishing."

  Velen's lips curved in a smile. "That was a memorable evening."

  "Did you get what you wanted from us that night?" Durotan demanded. He was angry, but not with Velen. He was angry that it had come to this, that one who had shown him nothing but courtesy was now his captive. And so he took it out on the Prophet.

  "I do not understand. We merely wished to be good hosts to two adventuresome boys."

  Durotan got to his feet and kicked over the bowl. Congealed porridge oozed onto the earth. "Do you expect me to believe this?"

  Velen did not rise to the bait. He replied calmly, "It is the truth. It is your choice as to whether you believe it."

  Durotan dropped to his knees and shoved his face into Velen's. "Why are you trying to destroy us? What have we ever done to you?"

  "I might ask you the same question," said Velen. A flush had come to his white face. "We have never lifted a finger to harm you, and now over two dozen draenei are dead from your attacks!"

  The truth of the comment made Durotan even angrier. "The ancestors do not lie to us," he snarled. "We have been warned that you are not what you would seem—that you are our enemies. Why did you bring those crystals if not to attack us?" "We thought it might help us better communicate with the being in the mountain." Velen spoke quickly, as if trying to get the words out before Durotan could silence him. "It is not an enemy to the orcs,nor are We. Durotan, you are intelligent and wise. I saw this in you that night so long ago. You are not one to blindly follow like an animal to slaughter. I know not why your leaders lie to you, but they do. We have ever sought to interact peaceably with you. You are better than this, son of Gar .id. You are not like the others!"

  Durotan's dark brown eyes narrowed. "You are wrong, draenei," he spat. "I am proud to be an ore. I embrace my heritage."

  Velen looked exasperated. "You misunderstand. I do not malign your people. I merely—■

  "Merely what? Merely tell us that the only reason We are seeing the beloved dead is because of your . . . your god trapped in the mountain?"

  "It is not a god, it is an ally, and would be one to your people as well if you would permit it to be."

  Durotan swore and rose, stalking about the tent, his hands clenching and unclenching. Then he uttered a long, deep sigh, the anger in him burning down to ashes.

  "Velen, your words are but wood on the fire of our wrath," he said quietly. "Your claim is arrogant and offensive. It will support those who are already prepared to slay your people on the word oi our ancestors. I do not understand myself—but you are asking to choose

  between people I trust, traditions I have been raised on, and your word."

  He turned and faced the draenei. "I will choose my people. You need to know this. If you and I come face-to-face on the field of battle, I will not stay my hand."

  Velen looked only curious. "You .. . will not take me to Ner’zhul, then?"

  Durotan shook his head. "No. If he wanted you, he should have come for you himself. He appointed me to treat with you, and I have carried out my duties as I saw fit."

  "You were supposed to deliver a prisoner to him," Velen said.

  "I was to meet with you and listen to your words," Durotan said. "Had I captured you in battle, stricken a weapon from your hands, and wrested you to the earth, then yes, you would be a prisoner. But there is no honor in binding a foe who extends his hands willingly for the rope. We are at an impasse, you and I. You insist that you have no ill will toward the ores. My leaders and the ghosts of my ancestors tell me otherwise."

  Again, Durotan knelt before the draenei. "They call you Prophet—do you know the future then? If so, then tell me what you and I can do to avert what I fear will unfold. I would not shed innocent life, Velen. Give me something, anything, I can take to Ner’zhul that will prove that what you say is true!"

  He realized he was pleading, but the fact did not distress him. He loved his wife, his clan, his people. He hated what he was seeing: an entire generation rushing headlong to adulthood with only blind hate in their hearts. If begging before this strange being could change this, then beg he would.

  The strange blue eyes held an unspeakable empathy. Velen extended a pale hand and placed it on Durotan's shoulder.

  "The future is not like a book one can read," he said quietly. "It is ever changing, like the rush of water, or the swirl of sand. I am granted certain insights, but nothing more, I felt very strongly that I needed to come unarmed, and behold, I am greeted not by the ores' greatest shaman, but by one who has slept safely under my roof. I do not think this an accident. Durotan. And if anything can be done to avert this, it lies with the orcs, not with the draenei. AH I can do is tell you what I have already said. The river's course can be changed. But you are the ones who must change it. That is all I know, and I pray it is enough to save my people."

  The look on his ancient, oddly cracked face and the tone of his voice told Durotan what his words did not: that Velen did not, indeed, think it would be enough to save his people.

  Durotan closed his eyes for a moment, then stepped back. "We will keep the stones," he said. "Whatever power they have, the shaman will learn how to harness."

  Velen nodded sadly "Such I assumed," he said. "But I had to bring them. I had to trust that we could find a way past all of this."

  Why was it, Durotan wondered, that he felt closer at this moment to one he had been told was an enemy than to the spiritual leader of his own people? Draka might know. She had known all along. She had said nothing, understanding with a wisdom he could not comprehend that he had to come to this moment on his own. But he would speak to her tonight, alone in their tent.

  "Get up." he said, speaking roughly to hide hi
s emotions, "You and your companions may leave safely." He grinned suddenly. "As safely as you might, in the darkness, with no weapons. If you come to your deaths this night when you are past our territory, it will not be on my head."

  "That would be convenient for you," agreed Velen, getting to his feet. "But somehow. I think it is not what you want."

  Durotan did not reply. He marched out of the tent and told the waiting guards. "Velen and his four companions are to be safely escorted to the borders of our lands. Then, they will be released, to return to then-city. No harm is to befall them, is that clear?"

  The guard looked as if he was about to protest, but another, wiser warrior shot him a fierce glance.

  "Very clear, my chieftain," the first guard murmured. As they went to fetch the other draenei, Drek’Thar hurried up to Durotan.

  "Durotan! What are you doing? Ner’zhul expects prisoners!" "Ner’zhul can take his prisoners himself," Durotan snarled. "I was in command, and this is my decision. Do you question it?"

  Drek’Thar looked around and walked Durotan away from prying cars. "I do," he hissed. "You heard what he said! He claims the ancestors are—are like moths to a torch around this god of his! The arrogance! Ner’zhul is right. They must be eliminated. We have been told so!"

  "if it is to be, then it will be," said Durotan. "But not this night, Drek’Thar. Not this night."

  As he and his companions walked slowly over the dew-drenched grasses of die meadows, past the towering black silhouettes of the trees of Terokkar forest, toward the nearest city, Velen's heart was heavy.

  Two of the ata'mal crystals were now in the possession of the ores. He had no doubt but that Durotan's words were correct, and that their shaman would shortly unlock their secrets. But they had missed one.

  They had missed it because it did not wish to be found, and when it came to the crystals, light obeyed its wishes and bent itself so that the violet crystal remained hidden from the view of the searching ores. He held it close to his heart now, feeling its warmth seep into his ancient flesh.

  He had gambled, and failed. Not completely; that he and his friends were alive and walking toward safety was testimony to that. But he had hoped the ores

  would listen, that they would at least accompany him into the heart of their own sacred mountain, and behold something that did not negate their faidi, not in the slightest, but had in fact given birth to it.

  The oudook was grim. As he had walked into the camp, he had observed what was happening. Younglings were being trained so hard they were dropping from exhaustion. Forges were going even so late at night. For all that he was walking freely now, Velen knew that the incidents of today had done nothing to avert what would come. The orcs,even the ones led by the insightful, slow to anger Durotan, were not just preparing for the possibility of war. They were convinced of the certainty of it. When the sun showed her yellow head tomorrow morning, she would look upon the inevitable.

  The crystal he held so close to his heart pulsed, sensing his thoughts. Velen turned to his companions and looked upon them sorrowfully.

  "The ores will not be dissuaded from this path," he said. "And therefore, if we are to survive . . . we, too, must walk the path to war."

  Far in the distance, broken, dying, resting as peacefully as possible deep below the waters of the sacred pool, the being known as K’ure uttered a deep, agonized cry.

  Velen started, recognizing the voice, and bowed his head. The Frostwolf ores gasped at the sound and turned to regard the perfect triangle of Oshu'gun.

  "The ancestors are angry with us!" a young shaman cried. "Angry for letting Velen go!"

  Durotan shook his head. He ought to rebuke the youngster, and on the morrow, if such words were uttered again, he would. But now. his heart was full of sorrow. It was not a cry of anger that came from the sacred mountain. It was the wrenching sound of ultimate grief, and he shuddered inside as he wondered why the ancestors mourned so very, very deeply.

  ELEVEN

  Ner'zhul... Gul'dan. Two of the darkest names ever to sully the history of my people. And yet, Dreh'Thar tells me that once Ner'zhul was admired, even beloved, and truly cared for the people whose spiritual leader he was. It is hard to reconcile those words with what Ner'zhul has become, but I try. I try because I want to understand. And yet, try as I might... I do not.

  "What?"

  Ner’zhul's shriek of outrage made his apprentice Gul'dan wince, Durotan did not bat an eye.

  "I released the Prophet Velen," the chieftain of the Frostwolf clan said calmly.

  "Your orders were to take him and the others prisoner!" Ner’zhul's voice climbed with each word. It had been so plain, so easy. What had Durotan been thinking? To toss away this opportunity like bones when the meat had been devoured! How much information could they have extracted from Velen? What kind of bargaining power over the draenei would he have bought them?

  But that thought was dwarfed by the overwhelming horror of how Kil’jaeden would react. What would he do when he learned that Velen had not been captured? The beautiful being had been seemingly well pleased at the prospect, when Ner’zhul told him of the plan. Flushed with pride at his cleverness, thinking victory already assured. Ner’zhul had even dared to offer Velen to Kil’jaeden as a sort of present. Now what would happen? The realization that he felt fear rather than chagrin at bringing disappointing news was not lost on the shaman.

  "You put me in charge of the capture, and capture them I did," Durotan replied. "But there is no honor in a prisoner taken willingly. You want us to be strong as a people, rather than as individual clans, and we cannot do that without a code of honor that is inviolable, that is—"

  Durotan continued speaking in his gruff, deep voice, but Ner’zhul was no longer listening. At that instant, that frozen space in time. Ner’zhul had a sudden realization that Kil’jaeden might not be the benevolent spirit he presented himself as. Durotan, lost in his own voice speaking words to explain his decision, did not notice the shaman's shift in attention. But Ner’zhul felt Gul'dan's gaze upon him. and another fear welled up inside him that Gul'dan was bearing witness to his master's first hints of doubt.

  What is the right thing to do? How can I best serve?

  Why is Rulkan no longer coming to me?

  He blinked and came back to himself when he realized tfrat Durotan had ceased speaking. The large chieftain was regarding Ner’zhul intently, waiting for the shaman to speak.

  How best to handle this? Durotan was well regarded among the clans. If Ner’zhul punished Durotan for his decision, there would be many who would respond with sympathy to the Frostwolf clan. It could cause a rift in the fabric Ner’zhul was trying to weave, the tightly knit fabric of a united orc nation ... a Horde, if you will. On the other hand, if he condoned Durotan's actions, it would be a severe and insulting blow to those who had fervently supported his previous position that the draenei must die.

  He could not decide. He stared at Durotan, who began to frown slightly.

  "My master is so overcome with rage that he cannot speak," came Gul'dan's smooth voice. Both Durotan and Ner’zhul turned to look at the younger shaman. "You have disobeyed a direct order from your spiritual leader. Return to your camp, Durotan, son of Garad. My master will send you a letter shortly conveying his decision."

  Durotan glanced back at Ner’zhul, his dislike of Gul'dan plain on his broad face. Ner’zhul gathered himself and stood tall, and this time, when he reached for words, he found them. "Begone, Durotan. You have displeased me. and worse, you have displeased the being who has shown us such favor. You will hear from me soon enough."

  Durotan bowed, but did not leave immediately. "There is one thing I do bring you," he said. He extended a small bundle to Ner’zhul. The shaman accepted it with hands that shook, and hoped desperately that both Durotan and Gul'dan would interpret the trembling as fury and not fear.

  "We took these off the prisoners," Durotan continued. "Our shaman believe that they may hold power that we can use aga
inst the draenei."

  He hesitated a moment longer, as if waiting for further word from Ner’zhul. When the silence stretched long and uncomfortably between them, he bowed again and left. For a long moment, neither master nor apprentice spoke.

  "My master, please forgive me for interrupting. I saw you were so overcome that you could not speak, and I feared that the Frostwolf boy would misinterpret your anger as hesitancy."

  Ner’zhul shot him a searching look. The words sounded sincere. Gul'dan's face looked sincere. And yet-There was once a time when Ner’zhul would have confessed his doubt to his apprentice. He had trusted and trained him for years. But now, at this moment, although battered by uncertainties as if by opposing winds, Ner’zhul knew one thing very clearly. He did not want Gul'dan to see any weakness in him.

  "I was indeed overcome with rage," Ner’zhul lied. "Honor serves nothing if it hurts your people."

  He realized he was clutching the bundle Durotan had given him. Gul'dan was staring at it almost hungrily.

  "What did Durotan give you, to offset your anger with him?" Gul'dan inquired.

  Ner’zhul looked at him with a superior air. "I will examine it first, and share it with Kil’jaeden, apprentice," he said coolly. He was looking for a reaction, and dreaded seeing it.

  For the briefest of moments, anger flitted across Gul'dan's face. Then the younger orc bowed deeply and said contritely, "Of course, my master. It was arrogant of me to expect— I am merely curious, that is all, to see if the Frostwolf chieftain has contributed anything of worth."

  Ner’zhul softened somewhat. Gul'dan had served him well and loyally for many years now, and indeed, would succeed Ner’zhul when the time came. He was jumping at shadows.