Rise of the Horde wow-2 Read online

  With startling speed and yet an agonizing slowness, an intricate web was created. When at last the day came, and the eredar who had chosen to follow Velen assembled atop the tallest mountain of their ancient world. Velen saw that their number was sickeningly small. They numbered only in the hundreds, these who were the only ones Velen truly trusted. He did not dare risk all by contacting those he thought would possibly turn against him.

  Only a short time ago, Velen had taken the ata'mal crystal from its place. He had spent the last few days fabricating a false one, so that no alarm would be sounded when it was discovered missing. He had carved it from simple rock crystal with the utmost care, casting a glamour upon it so that it would glow. But it remained dead to the touch. If someone brushed this false crystal with his or her fingers, the theft would be revealed.

  The true ata'mal crystal he now held close to his heart as he watched his people climbing the mountain, their strong legs and sure hooves finding easy purchase. Many had already arrived and looked at him expectantly, the question clear in their eyes if not on their lips. How, they were wondering, would they escape?

  How indeed, Velen thought. For a moment he despaired, but then he recalled the radiant being who had linked its thoughts with his. They would come. He knew it. In the meantime, everymoment that passed meant they were closer to being discovered. And so many were not yet here, not even Talgath.

  Restalaan, another old and trusted friend, smiled at Velen. "They" will be here soon," he said reassuringly.

  Velen nodded. More than likely, Restalaan was right. There had been no sign that his old friends and now enemies Kil’jaeden and Archimonde had been alerted to this outrageously bold plan. They had been far too consumed with anticipating their future power.

  And yet, and yet.

  The same deep instinct that had warned him to mistrust Sargeras now nagged at his mind. Something was not right. He realized he was pacing.

  And there they were.

  Talgath and several others had cleared a rise, smiling and waving, and Velen exhaled in relief. He started down to meet them when the crystal he held sent a powerful surge through his body. His blue fingers clenched tightly around the gem as his mind opened to its warning. Velen's knees buckled as the mental stench assaulted him.

  Sargeras had already begun. He had already started creating his hideous legion, taking eredar who had been foolish or trusting enough to listen to Kil’jaeden and Archimonde and distorting them into the man'ari Velen had seen in his vision. There were thousands of man'ari of everyphysical description and ability, lying just beyond his sight and sensing. They were disguised. somehow. If he had not been holding the ata'mal crystal, he never would have sensed them until it was far, far too late.

  It might already be too late.

  He turned a shocked gaze to Talgath, suddenly aware that the taint was emanating from his old friend as well as from the multitude—the Legion—of monsters who lurked beyond his sight. A prayer, wrenched from the utter depths of his despairing soul, shivered up in his mind:

  K'ure! Help us!

  The man'ari were scrambling up the mountain now, sensing that they had been exposed and closing in like hungry predators for the kill. Except Velen knew that death would be preferable to what these distorted eredar would do to him and those who followed him. At his wit's end, Velen gripped the ata'mal crystal and thrust it upward to the sky.

  As if the heavens themselves were cracking open, a pure shaft of radiant white light appeared. Its glory shone directly onto the crystalline prism, and before Velen's stunned gaze, splintered the white light into seven distinct rays of various hues. Pain stung Velen as the crystal he held shattered. The sharp edges sliced his fingers. He gasped and instinctively released the fractured crystal, watching enraptured as the pieces hovered in the air, each transforming itself into a perfect sphere, and taking on the seven radiant hues of the light that had once been a single, perfect shaft of pure white radiance. The seven crystals—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet—shot upward, then sped to form an enclosure of light around the frightened forms of the gathered eredar.

  At that precise instant, Talgath raced toward him, naked loathing in his gaze. He slammed into the circle of multicolored lights as if into a stone wall and tumbled backward. Velen whirled and saw the man'ari descend, snarling, drooling, their claws scrabbling on a wall, made only of light, which yet protected Velen and his people.

  A deep, thrumming sound raced along Velen's nerves, more felt than heard. He looked upward and on this day of wonders saw something that surpassed even the miracle of the seven stones of light. He beheld what looked at first like a descending star, so bright he almost could not bear looking upon it. As it drew closer, he saw that it was nothing so elusive as a star in the night skies, but a solid structure, its center as soft and round as the orbs, adorned with jutting, crystalline triangles. Velen wept openly as a mental touch brushed his mind:

  / am here, as I promised I would be. Prepare to abandon this world. Prophet Velen.

  Velen extended his arms upward, almost like a child begging a loving parent to be swept up into an affectionate embrace. The orb above him pulsed, and then Velen felt himself being lifted gently into the air. He floated upward, and saw that the others too were rising toward the . . . vessel? For such Velen now understood it to be, though it also vibrated with a living essence that he could not yet comprehend. In the midst of the quiet joy, Velen heard the shrieks and screams and bellows of the man'ari as their prey escaped. The base of the ship opened, and a few seconds later Velen found himself standing on something solid. He knelt on the floor, if such it could be called, and watched as the rest of his people floated toward safety. When the last one had arrived. Velen expected the door to close and this ship—-this ship that was made of metal that was not metal, flesh that was not flesh, and what Velen suspected was the very essence of K’ure—to depart.

  Instead, he felt a whisper in his mind: The crystals— where there was one, there are seven. Recover them, for you will need them.

  Velen leaned over the opening and extended his hands. With shocking speed, the seven crystals surged upward toward him, striking his palms so hard he gasped. He gathered them close, ignoring the incredible heat they emanated, and threw himself backward. At once, the door disappeared as if it had never been present. Clutching the seven ata'mal crystals, his mind stretched so far he felt he was brushing the edge of madness. Velen hung suspended for an endless instant between hope and despair.

  Had they done it? Had they escaped?

  From his position at the head of the army. Kil’jaeden had an unobstructed view as the mountain was swarmed by his slaves. For a glorious moment, he tasted victory, almost as sweet as the hunger Sargeras had planted in his mind. Talgath had done his job well. It had only been pure luck that Velen had been holding the crystal at the moment of the onslaught; had he not, his body would be lying on the ground, torn into a handful of fleshy bits.

  But Velen had been holding the ata'mal crystal, and he had been warned. Something had happened—some strange lights had sprung up protectively around the traitor, and something had come for them. Now as Kil’jaeden watched, the peculiar vessel shimmered and ... disappeared.

  He had escaped! Curse him, damn him, Velen had escaped!

  The man'ari, whose delight had filled Kil’jaeden just seconds earlier, were now full of consternation and disappointment. He touched all of their minds; they knew nothing. What was this thing that had come to snatch Velen from Kil’jaeden's very grasp? Fear now shuddered through Kil’jaeden. His master would not be pleased with these developments.

  "What now?" asked Archimonde. Kil’jaeden turned to look at his ally

  "We find them," growled Kil’jaeden. We find them and destroy them. Even if it takes a thousand years."

  ONE

  My name is Thrall. The word means "slave" in the human tongue, and the story behind the naming is a long one, best left for another time. By the grace of the sp
irits and the blood of heroes before me that runs in my veins, I have become Warchief of my people, the orcs, and the leader of a group of races known as the Horde. How this came to be, too, is another tale. The one I wish to set to parchment now, before those who lived it pass to dwell with the honorable ancestors, is the story of my father and those who believed in him; and of those who betrayed him and indeed, all our people.

  What might have become of us had these events not unfolded, not even the wise shaman Drek'Thar can say. The s of Fate are many and varied, and no sane being should ever venture down the deceptively pleasant one of "if only. What happened, happened; my people must shoulder both the shame and the glories of our choices.

  This is the tale not of the Horde as it exists today, a loose organization of ore, tauren, forsaken, troll, and blood elf, but of the rise of the very ftrst Horde. Its birth, like that of any infant, was marked by blood and pain, and its harsh cries for life meant death to its enemies.

  For such a grim and violent tale, it begins peacefully enough, amid the rolling hills and valleys of a verdant land called Draenor...

  The heart-beat rhythm of the drums lulled the younger ores to sleep, but Durotan of the Frostwolf clan was wide awake. He lay with the others on the hard-packed dirt floor of the sleeping tent. A generous padding of straw and a thick clefthoof pelt protected him from the chill of the bone-cold earth. Even so, he felt the vibrations of the drumming travel up through the earth and into his body, as his cars were caressed by the ancient sound. How he longed to go out and join them!

  Durotan would have another summer before he would be able to participate in the Om 'riggor, the rite of adulthood. Until that much-anticipated event, he would have to accept being shunted off with the children into this large group tent, while the adults sat around the fire and talked of things that were doubtless mysterious and significant.

  He sighed and shifted on the pelt, it was not fair.

  The ores did not fight among themselves, but neither were they particularly sociable. Each clan kept to itself, with its own traditions, styles and manner of dress, stories, and shaman. There were even variations

  of dialect that differed so much that some ores could not understand one another unless they spoke the common tongue. They almost seemed as different to one another as the other sentient race who shared the bounty of the field, forest, and streams, the blue-skinned, mysterious draenei. Only twice a year, spring and autumn, did all the orc clans come together as they were doing now, to honor that time when day and night were the same length.

  The festival had officially started last night at moon-rise, though ores had been gathering at this spot for several days now. The Kosh'harg celebration had been held on this sacred spot in the land the ores called Nagrand, "Land of Winds," which lay in die benevolent shadow of the "Mountain of Spirits," Oshu'gun, for as long as anyone could remember. While ritual challenges and combat were not unusual during the festival, true anger or violence had never erupted here. When tempers flared, as they sometimes did when so many were gathered together, the shaman encouraged the parties involved to work it out peaceably, or else they were to leave the holy area.

  The land in this place was lush and fertile and calming. Durotan sometimes wondered if the land was tranquil because of the willingness of the ores to bring peace to it, or if the ores were peaceful because the land was so serene. He often wondered such things, and kept them to himself, for he heard no one else voicing such odd ideas.

  Durotan sighed quietly, his thoughts racing, his heart thumping in answering rhythm to the voice of the drums outside. Last night had been wonderful, stirring Durotan's soul. When the Pale Lady cleared the dark line of trees, in Her waning phase but still bright enough to cast a powerful light that was reflected on the blankets of white snow, a cheer had gone up from the throat of every one of the thousands of orcs assembled—wise elders, warriors in their prime, even children held in their mother's strong arms. The wolves, both companions and mounts to the orcs,had joined in with exultant howls. The sound shivered along Durotan's veins as the drumming did now, a deep, primal cry of salutation to the white orb who commanded the night skies. Durotan had glanced around to behold a sea of powerful beings raising their brown hands, silvered in the light, to the Pale Lady, all with one focus. If any ogre had been foolish enough to attack, it would have fallen in a matter of heartbeats beneath the weapons of this vast sea of single-minded warriors.

  Then had come feasting. Dozens of beasts had been slain earlier in the season, before the winter had set in, and dried and smoked in preparation for the event. Bonfires had been kindled, their warm light merging with the fey, white glow of the Lady, and the drumming had begun and had not stopped since.

  He, like all the other children—lying on his clefthoof pelt, Durotan sniffed dismissively at the term—had

  been permitted to stay up until he had eaten his fill and the shaman had departed. The shaman of every clan left, once the opening feast had been consumed, to climb Oshu'gun, which stood careful watch over their festivities, enter its caverns, and be advised by the spirits and their ancestors.

  Oshu'gun was impressive even from a distance. Unlike other mountains, which were irregular and rough in their shape, Oshu'gun erupted from the ground with the precision and sharp point of a spearhead. It looked like a giant crystal set into the earth, so clean were its lines and so brightly did it glisten in the sun- and moonlight. Some legends told that it had fallen from the sky hundreds of years ago, and it was so unusual that Durotan thought those tales might be right.

  Interesting though Oshu'gun might be, Durotan always thought it a bit unfair that the shaman had to stay there for the entire Kosh'harg festival. The poor shaman, he thought, missed all the fun. But then again, he suspected, so did the children.

  During the day, there were hunts and game playing and retelling of the heroics of the ancestors. Each clan hadits own stories, and so in addition to the familiar tales Durotan had heard as a youngling, there were new and exciting adventures to listen to.

  Entertaining as these were, and as much as Durotan enjoyed them, he burned to know what the adults discussed after the children were drowsing in the sleeping tent, after their bellies were stretched full of good food and pipes had been smoked and various brews had been shared.

  He could stand it no longer. Quietly, Durotan sat up, his cars straining for any sounds to indicate that anyone else was awake. He heard nothing, and after a long minute, he got to his feet and began to move slowly toward the entrance.

  It was a long, slow progression in the darkened tent. Sleeping children of all ages and sizes were sprawled everywhere in the tent, and one wrong move could awaken them. His heart racing with excitement at his daring, Durotan stepped carefully between the only faintly glimpsed shapes, placing each large foot with the delicacy of the long-legged marsh birds.

  It seemed to take an eternity before Durotan finally reached the flap. He stood, trying to calm his breathing, reached out—

  And touched a large, smooth-skinned body standing right beside him. He jerked his hand back with a surprised hiss.

  "What are you doing?" Durotan whispered.

  "What are you doing?" the other orc shot back. Abruptly Durotan grinned at how foolish they sounded.

  "Same thing you arc," Durotan replied, his voice still soft. All about them, the others slept on. "We can cither keep talking about it or do it."

  Durotan could tell by the size of the faint shape in front of him that the orc was a large male, probably

  close to his own age. He couldn't place the scent or the voice, so it wasn't one of the Frostwolf clan. It was a daring thought—not only to do something so forbidden as to leave the sleeping tent without permission, but to do so in the company of an orc not of his own clan.

  The other orc hesitated, the same thoughts no doubt running through his head. "Very well," he said at last. "Let's do it."

  Durotan reached out again in the darkness, his fingers brushing the hide of th
e flap and curling around its edge. The two orc youths pulled back the flap and stepped out into the frosty night.

  Durotan turned to look at his companion. The other orc was brawnier than he, and stood a bit taller. Durotan was the largest of his age in his clan, and unused to others being taller than he. It was a bit disquieting. His ally in mischief turned to look at him, and Durotan felt himself being assessed. The other nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw.

  They did not risk words. Durotan pointed to a large tree close to the tent, and silently the two headed for it. For a moment that was probably not as long as it felt, they were in the open, exposed to any adult who chose that instant to turn his head and see diem, but they were not spotted. Durotan felt as exposed as if he were in bright sunlight, so powerful was die moon's glow reflected off the crystalline snow. And surely the sound of the snow squeaking beneath their feet was as loud as the bellow of an enraged ogre. At last they reached the tree and sank down behind it. Durotan's breath misted as he finally exhaled. The other orc turned to him and grinned.

  "I am Orgrim, line of Telkar Doomhammer, of the Blackrock clan," the youth said in a proud whisper,

  Durotan was impressed. While the Doomhammer line was not the line of a chieftain, it was well known and honored.

  "I am Durotan. line of Garad. of the Frostwolf clan." Durotan replied. Now it was Orgrim's turn to react to the fact that he was sitting with the heir to another clan. He nodded approvingly.

  For a moment they simply sat, reveling in the glory of their daring. Durotan began to feel the cold and wetness seep through his thick hide cape, and got to his feet. Again, he pointed at the gathering, and Orgrim nodded. They carefully peered around the tree, straining to listen. Surely now they would hear the mysteries for which they both hungered. Over the crackling sound of the huge bonfire and the deep, steady beating of the drums, voices floated to them.