Rise of the Horde

by Christie Golden

  "Of course," Ner’zhul said, more gently. "I will let you know if I learn anything. After all, you are my apprentice, are you not?"

  Gul'dan brightened. "I serve you in all things, my master." Looking happier, he bowed again and left Ner’zhul alone.

  Ner’zhul sat heavily on the skins that served him for a bed. He cradled the bundle in his lap and said a prayer to the ancestors that if Durotan had failed to deliver the leader of the draenei, perhaps at least the Frostwolf chieftain had managed to obtain something of value.

  He took a deep breath, unwrapped the bundle, and gasped. Nestled against soft fur were two glowing gems. Gingerly, Ner’zhul touched the red one and gasped again.

  Energy, excitement, and a sense of power flowed through him. His hands wanted to grip a weapon, although he had had no need of one for years, and he yearned to swing it. Somehow he knew that if this crystal were on his person, his aim would be true. What a gift this was to the ores! He would have to see how he could turn this hot, red passion for fighting that lurked in the center of this stone to his purposes.

  It took a great effort of will for him to release the red crystal. He breathed deeply, calming himself as his mind cleared.

  The yellow one next.

  Ner’zhul grasped it. This time, he had some idea of what to expect. Again, he felt it emanating warmth and a sensation of power. But this time, there was no excitement, no urgency. As he held the yellow crystal, his mind cleared and he realized that he had hitherto been seeing things as if in a fog-dense valley. He could not find the words to describe it, but there was a purity, a clarity, a precision to everything. It was, in fact, so keen, so clear that Ner’zhul began to perceive this opening of his mind as pain.

  He dropped the crystal back into his lap. The brilliant clarity, knife-sharp, faded somewhat.

  Ner’zhul smiled. If he did not have Velen himself to present to Kil’jaeden. at least he had these precious items to offer to appease the magnificent being.

  Kil’jaeden was furious.

  Ner’zhul quaked before that anger, prostrating himself on the earth, murmuring, "Forgive me ..." as Kil’jaeden raged. He squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating pain such as he had never experienced to suddenly start shooting along his body, when abruptly the raging ceased.

  Cautiously, Ner’zhul risked a glance at his benefactor, Kil’jaeden was once more looking serene, poised, and calm and bathed in radiance.

  "I am . . . disappointed," the Beautiful One murmured. He shifted his weight from one enormous cloven foot to the other. "But I know two things. The Frostwolf clan leader is the one responsible. And you will never, ever, trust him with an important task again."

  Relief swept through Ner’zhul and he almost fainted from the sensation, so powerful was it. "Of course not, my lord. Never again. And . . . we did find these crystals for you."

  "They are of little use to mc," said Kil’jaeden. Ner’zhul winced. "But I think your people might find them helpful in your battle to crush the draenei. That is your battle, is it not?" Fear again clenched hard at Ner’zhul's heart. "Of course, lord! It is the ancestors* will."

  Kil’jaeden looked at him for a moment, his brilliant eyes emanating flames. "It is my will." he said simply, and Ner’zhul nodded frantically.

  "Of course, of course, it is your will, and I obey you in all things."

  Kil’jaeden seemed satisfied by the response and nodded. Then he was gone, and Ner’zhul sank back, wiping a face greasy with the sweat of terror.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of something white. Gul'dan had seen everything.

  We have been planning an attack for some time now, and last night, when the Pale Lady did not shine, we descended in force upon the sleeping little town. Not a one was left alive, not even the few children we found. Their supplies—food, armor, weapons, some strange items we know nothing of and shun—this bounty is now shared between the two unified clans. Their blood, blue and thick, dries now upon our faces, and we dance in celebration.

  There was more to the missive, but Ner’zhul did not read it. He did not have to. Although the details might be different, the essence of the letters was always the same. A successful attack, glory in the killing, the ecstasy of blood spilled. Ner’zhul glanced at the pile of letters he had received just that morning: seven of them.

  With each month that passed, even throughout the long, hard winter months, the ores grew more skilled at killing draenei. They had learned much about their foe with each victor)'. The stones that Durotan had given Ner’zhul proved to be valuable indeed, Ner’zhul worked with them, alone at first, and then in the company of other shaman. The red stone they dubbed the Heart of Fury, and they found that when the leader of a raid carried it. not only did he fight with more energy and skill, but everyone under his command benefited as well. The stone was passed from clan to clan at each new moon, and was highly coveted. Yet Ner’zhul knew no one would dare to steal it for himself.

  The second stone he called the Brilliant Star, and he found that when a shaman carried the crystal, he or she experienced a profound focus and clarity. While the Heart of Fury roused the emotions, the Brilliant Star calmed them. The thought process was swifter and more precise, and concentration was not easily broken. The result was powerful magic, precisely controlled ... another key to an orcish victor)'. The delicious irony that they were using the draenei's own magic against them further improved morale among the ores.

  But all these things did not hearten Ner’zhul. The sudden flash of doubt that had shuddered through him when he had spoken with Durotan had shaken him to the bone. He fought back the suspicions, terrified that somehow Kil’jaeden was able to read his thoughts. But they came, like maggots writhing from a corpse, to haunt his sleeping and waking thoughts. Kil’jaeden looked very, very similar to the draenei. Was it possible that they were somehow the same? And was he, Ner’zhul, being used in some sort of civil war?

  One night, he found he could no longer bear it. Silently, he dressed and roused his wolf Skychascr, who stretched and blinked at him sleepily

  "Come, my friend." Ner’zhul said affectionately as he settled on the great creature's back. He had never before ridden to the sacred mountain. Always, he had walked, as was tradition. But he needed to return before he was missed, and he was certain that the urgency of his mission would mitigate his offense with the ancestors.

  It was almost spring, almost time for the Kosh'harg festival, but spring seemed far away as the cold wind bit at Ner’zhul's cars and nose. He huddled down, grateful for the warmth of the massive wolf, and shielded himself as best he could from the wind and now snow.

  The wolf pressed on through the drifts, making steady if not swift progress. At last. Ner’zhul looked up and saw the perfect triangle of the Mountain of Spirits, and a great weight suddenly lifted from his heart. For the first time in months, he truly felt as if he was doing the right thing.

  Skychascr would have difficulty climbing, so with a command to "stay" he settled down, burrowing into a drift and curling up tightly. Ner’zhul did not imagine he would be more than a few hours, and hurried to climb

  the mountain with more alacrity than he had felt in a long time, his sack heavy with watcrskins and his heart full of anticipation.

  He should have done this long ago. He should have gone right to the source of wisdom, as shaman before him had done. He had no idea why he had never thought of this before.

  At last he came to the entrance and paused before the perfect oval. As anxious as he was to reach the ancestors, he knew the ritual must be honored. He lit the bundle of dried grasses he carried and let its sweet scent calm and purify his thoughts. Then he stepped forward, murmuring a spell to light the torches that lined the walk. Ner’zhul had walked this path more times than he could recall, and his feet moved steadily as if of their own accord. Down twined the smooth path, and Ner’zhul's heart raced with hope as he stepped forward into the darkness.

  It seemed to take longer than usual for him to
become aware of the increase in light. Ner’zhul stepped into the cavern, and thought that somehow, the light emanating from the sacred pool seemed dimmer than it had been in the past. The thought unsettled him.

  He took a deep breath and chided himself. He was bringing his own external fears to this sacred space, nothing more. He stepped to the pool, removed the watcrskins from his pack, and poured out the contents. The soft splashing of water was the only sound, and it seemed to echo. His offering complete, Ner’zhul sat by the water's edge and waited, gazing into the radiant depths.

  Nothing happened.

  He did not panic. Sometimes the ancestors took their time about responding.

  But when more time had passed, uncase began to stir in Ner’zhul's heart. Moved, he spoke aloud.

  "Ancestors . . . beloved dead ... I, Ner’zhul, shaman of the Shadowmoon clan, leader to your children, have come seeking . . . no. begging wisdom. I—I have lost my way to your light. The times are dark and fearful even as we grow stronger, more united as a people. I question the path I am on. and I beseech your guidance. Please, if ever you loved and cared for those who have followed in your footsteps, come to me now and advise me, that I may lead them well!"

  His voice quavered. He knew he sounded lost and pathetic, and for a moment stubborn pride made him flush with shame. But then that feeling was chased away by the knowledge that he did care for his people, he did want to do what was right for them, and at this moment he had no idea what that might be.

  The pool began to glow. Ner’zhul leaned forward eagerly, his eyes roaming the surface, and in the water, he saw a face looking back at him.

  "Rulkan," he breathed. For a moment quick tears mercifully blurred her image. He blinked and his heart lurched with pain as he saw the look in her ghostly eyes.

  It was hatred.

  Ner’zhul recoiled as if struck. Other faces began to appear in the water, dozens of them. All of them had the same expression. Nausea welled in him and he cried out, "Please! Help me! Grant me your wisdom that I may win favor again in your eyes!"

  Rulkan's severe features softened somewhat, and it was with a trace of compassion in her voice that she spoke. "There is nothing you can do, not now. not in a hundred years, to win favor in our eyes. You are not a savior of your people, but their betrayer."

  "No!" he shrieked. "No, tell me what to do and I will do it. It is not too late, surely it is not too late—"

  "You are not strong enough," said another rumbling voice, this one male. "If you were, you would never have walked so far down this path. You would not have been so easily gulled into doing the will of one who bears no love for our people."

  "But— I do not understand," Ner’zhul murmured. "Rulkan, you came to me! I heard you! You, Grekshar—you advised me! Kil’jaeden was the one you wanted me to embrace! The Great Friend to all the ores!

  She said nothing in response to this; she did not have to. Even as the words tumbled from his lips he understood how profoundly he had been misled.

  The ancestors had never appeared to him at all. It had all been a trick concocted by Kil’jaeden, whoever— whatever—he was. They were right not to trust Ner’zhul now. Any shaman who would be so easily deceived could never be trusted to put things right again. All was an elaborate web of lies and deceit and manipulation. And he, Ner’zhul, had been the first foolish insect to become inextricably trapped in it.

  Nearly a hundred draenei were dead. There was no turning back, no requesting aid from the ancestors. He could not trust any of his visions ever again, except to understand that they were likely to be lies. Worst of all, he had delivered his people into the hands of one who, despite his fair appearance and his honeyed words, did not have their best interests in whatever passed for his heart.

  Even as he stared into the ghostly eyes of his beloved, she turned away from him. One by one, the myriad faces reflected in the water followed suit.

  Ner’zhul trembled with the horror of what he had done. There was nothing he could do to make it right. Nothing he could do except continue on this path that Kil’jaeden had so carefully contrived for him to walk, and pray to ancestors who no longer listened to him that somehow, some way, things would turn out all right. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

  Crouching in the darkness in a bend in the tunnel, Gul’dan listened to the sound of his master sobbing, and smiled to himself.

  Kil’jaeden would be grateful for the information.

  TWELVE

  We are all weak, in one way or another. It does not matter the species. Sometimes that weakness is a strength in disguise. Sometimes it is our utter undoing. Sometimes it is both. The wise man understands his weakness and seeks to find a lesson from it. The fool lets it control and destroy him.

  And sometimes, the wise man is a fool.

  As he rode back atop Skychaser, hands so cold that he wondered if he would ever be able to unclench them entwined in the thick black fur, Ner’zhul wished for the dark night to swallow him. How could he return to his people, knowing what he had done to them? On the other hand, how could he flee — and where could he possibly go that Kil’jaeden would not find him? He longed bitterly for the courage to take the ritual knife he carried at all times and drive it into his heart, but knew that he could not. Suicide was not regarded with honor among his people; it was a coward's answer to the problems that came at him. He would not be permitted to live on as a spirit if he took that seductive way to escape the horrors that confronted him.

  He could continue to pretend that he suspected nothing, and even perhaps subtly undercut Kil’jaeden. Despite his massive powers, there had been no evidence that the so-called "Beautiful One" had the ability to read thoughts. The thought brightened Ner’zhul somewhat. Yes... he could mitigate the damage this interloper was trying to do to his people. That was how he could continue to serve.

  Exhausted both physically and emotionally, Ner’zhul stumbled into his tent in that faint hour before dawn, looking forward to simply collapsing on the skins and sleeping in an effort to forget, for at least a brief while, the agony of what he had brought about.

  Instead a bright light nearly blinded him and he fell to his knees.

  "You would betray me, then?" said the Beautiful One.

  Ner’zhul threw up his hands, trying vainly to protect his eves from the awesome radiance. His stomach roiled and he feared he was about to be sick in his terror. The light dimmed somewhat and he lowered his hands. Standing beside Kil’jaeden was Ner’zhul's apprentice, grinning darkly.

  "Gul'dan," whispered Ner’zhul sickly. "What have you done?"

  "I have informed Kil’jaeden of a rodent," Gul'dan said calmly. That dreadful smile never left his face. 'And he will decide what to do with the vermin who would so turn against him."

  There was still snow on Gul'dan's shoulders. Dully, Ner’zhul realized what had happened. His apprentice, hungry for power—how was it Ner’zhul had closed his eyes to the obvious for so long?—had followed him. Had heard the ancestors' words. And still he clung to Kil’jaeden, after hearing the same things Ner’zhul had heard? For a moment, his own fear and selfishness went away, and Ner’zhul felt only a wave of pity for an orc who had fallen so far.

  "It wounds me," Kil’jaeden said. Ner’zhul looked at him, startled. "I chose you, Ner’zhul. I gave you my powers. I showed you what you need to do to advance your people and ensure that they are never second in this world."

  Ner’zhul spoke without thinking. "You have deceived me. You have sent me false visions. You have maligned the ancestors and all they stood for. I don't know why you are doing this, but I know that it is not out of love for my people."

  "And yet they flourish. They are united, for the first time in many centuries."

  "United under a lie," Ner’zhul said. He was giddy in his rebellion. It felt good. Perhaps if he continued, Kil’jaeden would lose patience with him and slay him, and Ner’zhul's problem would be solved. But Kil’jaeden did not respond with deadly fury as Ner’zhul hoped he w
ould. Instead the being sighed deeply and shook his head, like a parent disappointed in a wayward child.

  "You may yet regain my favor, Ner’zhul," Kil’jaeden said, "I have a task for you. If you complete it, your lapse of faith will be overlooked."

  Ner’zhul's lips moved. He wanted to shout out his rebellion again, but this time the words would not come. He realized that the moment had passed. He did not want to die, any more than any sane, living being wanted to die, and so he remained silent.

  "What happened with the Frostwolf chieftain troubles mc," Kil’jaeden continued. "Not least because he is not the only one who has murmured against what is happening. There are others—the one who wields the Doomhammer, some among the Bladcwind and Rcdwalker clans as well. It would be one thing if these opposing voices belonged to those of no consequence, but many of them do not. There must be no risk to the success of my plan. Therefore, I will guarantee their obedience.

  "It is not enough for them to swear loyalty," Kil’jaeden continued. He tapped his check with one long red finger thoughtfully. "Too many seem enamored of changing what 'honor' and 'oath' mean. We must . . . ensure their cooperation, for now, and for all time."

  Gul'dan's small eyes glinted. "What is it you suggest. Great One?"

  Kil’jaeden smiled at Gul'dan. Already, Ner’zhul could see the bond between them—sec how like Kil’jaeden Gul'dan was in a way that Ner’zhul had never been. Kil’jaeden had been forced to use seductive lies and trickery in order to pull Ner’zhul to his cause; with Gul'dan, he could speak openly.

  "There is such a way," Kil’jaeden said, speaking to both orc shaman now. "A way to make them forever bound to us. Forever loyal."

  Ner’zhul had thought that he had become inured to horror after what the ancestors had revealed to him, but now he realized that he was capable of experiencing an entirely new level of shock as he listened to Kil’jaeden outline the plan. Forever bound. Forever loyal.