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  Durotan had assured his clan that they would always stay Frostwolves, even if they joined together with other orcs in the Horde. The thought of meat, fruit, water, clean air—things the clan badly needed—was heartening. The trouble, Durotan realized, was that the clan—and, truth be told, he himself—had departed thinking that their troubles would be over soon. The journey’s hardships had beaten that out of them.

  He looked over his shoulder at his clan. They shuffled, they did not stride; and there was a bone-weariness about them that made his heart ache to see.

  The light touch of his mate’s hand on his shoulder drew his attention back to her. He gave her a forced, weary smile.

  “You look like you should be riding, not me,” she said, gently.

  “There will be time enough for all of us to ride,” he said, “when we have enough meat that our wolves stretch out with bulging bellies beside us.”

  Her gaze flickered from her own stomach back to his and her eyes narrowed teasingly. He laughed, surprised by the mirth, almost convinced he had forgotten how to. Draka always knew how to calm him, whether with laughter, love, or the occasional punch to help him get his head back on his shoulders. And their child—

  The real reason, he knew, why he had left Frostfire Ridge. Draka was the only Frostwolf who was pregnant. And in the end, Durotan could not find a way to justify bringing his child—any orc child—into a world that could not nourish it.

  Durotan reached to touch the belly he had teased her about, laying his enormous brown hand on it and the small life within. The words he had told his clan, on the eve of their departure, flitted through his mind: Whatever the lore says about what was done in the past, whatever the rituals stipulate we do, whatever rules or laws or traditions there are—there is one law, one tradition, which must not be violated. And that is that a chieftain must do whatever is truly best for the clan.

  He felt a strong, rapid pressure against his palm and grinned in delight as his child seemed to agree that his decision had been the right one. “This one would march beside you already,” Draka said.

  Before Durotan could respond, someone shouted for him. “Chieftain! They they are!!”

  With a final caress, Durotan turned his attention to Kurvorsh, one of the scouts he had sent on ahead. Most Frostwolves kept their hair; it was only prudent in the frigid north. But Kurvorsh, like many others, had opted to shave his skull once they had traveled south, leaving only a single long lock he tied off. His wolf halted in front of Durotan, her tongue lolling from the heat.

  Durotan tossed Kurvorsh a water skin. “Drink first, then report.” Kurvorsh swallowed a few thirsty gulps, then handed the skin back to his chieftain.

  “I saw a line of structures along the horizon,” he said, panting a little as he caught his breath. “Tents, like ours. So many of them! I saw smoke from dozens… no, hundreds of cook fires, and watchtowers positioned to see us coming.” He shook her head in wonder. “Gul’dan did not lie when he said he would gather all the orcs in Draenor.”

  A weight that he’d never even acknowledged lifted from Durotan’s chest. He had not let himself dwell on the possibility that they had been too late, or even that the entire gathering had been an exaggeration. Kurvorsh’s words were more of a comfort to the weary chieftain than he could know.

  “How far?” he asked.

  “About half a sun’s walk. We should reach there with enough time to make camp for the evening.”

  “Maybe they will have food,” Orgrim said. “Something freshly killed, roasting on a spit. Clefthooves do not come this far south, do they? What do these southlanders eat, anyway?”

  “Whatever it is, if it is freshly killed, roasting on a spit, I do not doubt you will eat it, Orgrim,” Durotan said. “Nor,” he added, “would anyone in this camp refuse. But we should not expect it. We should not expect anything.”

  “We were asked to join the Horde, and we did.” The voice was Draka’s, and it was at his side rather than above him. She had dismounted. “We bring our weapons, from spears to arrows to hammers, and our hunting and survival skills. We come to serve the Horde, to help all grow strong, and eat. We are Frostwolves. They will be glad we have come.”

  Her eyes flashed and her chin lifted slightly. Draka had once been Exiled, when she was young and frail. She had returned one of the fiercest warriors Durotan had ever seen, and had brought the Frostwolves knowledge of other cultures, other ways, that would now, no doubt, be all the more valuable.

  “My mate is right,” Durotan said. He made as if to lift her back onto Ice’s back, but she put out a hand, no.

  “She is right,” Draka agreed, smiling a little, “and she will walk beside her chieftain and mate into this gathering of the Horde.”

  Durotan looked toward the south. For so long, the sky had been mercilessly clear, with no chance of rain in the offing. But now, he saw the smudge of a gray cloud. As he regarded it, the billowing mist was abruptly lit from within by lightning that glowed an ominous shade of green.

  * * *

  Kurvorsh had calculated their travel speed well. The sun was low on the horizon when they arrived at the encampment, but there would still be plenty of light for the clan to prepare the evening meal and erect their tents.

  The sound of so many voices talking was foreign to Durotan, and there were so many unfamiliar sights to behold it was exhausting. His gaze swept over the large, circular tents, similar to the one he and Draka shared, and came to rest on the field that had been roped off so that children from different clans could play together. He took in all the scents and sounds—conversation, laughter, the rough music of a lok’vadnod being sung, the pounding of drums, so many that Durotan could feel the earth tremble beneath his feet. Smells: of fires, and grain cakes cooking and flames roasting meats, stews bubbling, and the strong but not unpleasant musk of wolf fur and orc teased his nostrils.

  Kurvorsh had not exaggerated; if anything, he had minimized the absolute vastness of this seemingly endless stretch of leather and wood structures. The Frostwolves were among the smallest of the clans, Durotan knew. But for a moment, he was so overwhelmed he couldn’t speak. Finally, words came.

  “So many clans in one place, Orgrim. Laughing Skull, Blackrock, Warsong… all have been summoned.”

  “It will be a mighty warband,” his second-in-command said. “I just wonder who’s left to fight.”

  “Frostwolves.”

  The voice was flat, almost bored, and Durotan and Orgrim turned to see two tall, burly male orcs marching up to them. They were unusually large and well muscled, given that the land was dying and many orcs had too little food. Unlike the Frostwolves, who had only a few pieces of mail or plate armor, relying mostly on spike-studded leather to protect them, these orcs wore undented pieces of shiny plate on their shoulders and even on their chests. They carried spears and moved with a united sense of purpose.

  But it was not their healthy, muscle-laden forms, nor their shiny new armor, that drew Durotan’s eye.

  These orcs were green.

  It was a subtle shade, much less obvious than the nearly leaf-colored hue of Gul’dan, the leader of the Horde, who had ventured to the north with his equally green-skinned slave, Garona. This was darker, more like the typical brown color of orc skin. But the tint, that strange, unnatural tint, was still there.

  “Who among you is the chieftain?” one of them demanded.

  “I have the honor of leading the Frostwolves,” Durotan rumbled, stepping forward. The orcs looked him up and down, then glanced appraisingly at Orgrim. “You two. Follow me. Blackhand wishes to see you.”

  “Who is Blackhand?” Durotan demanded.

  One of them stopped in mid-stride and turned around. He grinned. It was an ugly sight.

  “Why, Frostwolf pup,” he said, “Blackhand is the leader of the Horde.”

  “You lie,” snapped Durotan. “Gul’dan is the leader of the Horde!”

  “It is Gul’dan who brought us all here,” the second orc s
aid. “He is the one who knows how to take us to a new land. He has chosen Blackhand to lead the Horde in battle, so that we will triumph over our enemies.”

  Orgrim and Durotan exchanged glances. There had been no mention of a battle for this “new land” when Gul’dan had spoken to his father, Garad, or to him. He was an orc; and more than an orc, he was a Frostwolf chieftain. He would fight whomever he had to in order to ensure a future for his people. For his unborn child. But that Gul’dan had not seen fit to mention it disturbed him.

  He and Orgrim had been friends since childhood, and could all but read one another’s thoughts. Both orcs held their tongues.

  “It is Blackhand who left instructions for when you arrived,” the first orc said, adding with a sneer, “if you had the courage to leave Frostfire Ridge.”

  “Our home is no more,” Durotan said bluntly. “Just as yours is no more, whatever your clan.”

  “We are Blackrocks,” the second orc said, chest swelling with pride. “Blackhand was our chieftain before Gul’dan saw fit to give him the glory of leading the Horde. Come with us, Frostwolf. Leave your female behind. Where we go, only warriors will follow.”

  Durotan’s brows drew together and he was about to make a scathing retort when Draka’s voice came, deceptively mild. “You and your second-in-command go and meet with Blackhand, my heart,” she said. “The clan will await your return.” And she smiled.

  She knew when to pick the battle. She was every bit the warrior he was, but realized that, in her present condition, she would be dismissed by those who seemed to crave conflict more than food for their people.

  “Find us a place to camp, then,” he said. “I will meet with this Blackhand, of the Blackrock clan.”

  The guards led him and Orgrim through the encampment. Families with children, surrounded by cooking tools and sleeping furs, gave way to orcs with scars and hard eyes cleaning, mending, and forging weapons and armor. The ring of hammer on metal came from a blacksmith’s tent. Other orcs chiseled stones into wheels. Still others fletched arrows and sharpened knives. All spared a glance for the two Frostwolves, and their gazes flickered over Durotan like something physical.

  The sound of steel on steel and the cry of “Lok’tar ogar!” reached Durotan’s ears. Victory, or death. What was going on here? Heedless of his escorts, he moved toward the source of the sound, shoving his way through to behold a vast ringed area where orcs were fighting one another.

  Even as he watched, a lithe female armed only with two wicked-looking knives darted beneath the arm of a male orc swinging a morning star, her blades drawing a twin line of reddish-black across his ribs. She had the chance for a clean kill, but did not take it. Durotan’s gaze traveled to another cluster of orcs—four-on-one here, another one-on-one pairing there.

  “Training,” he said to Orgrim, and his body relaxed slightly. He frowned. A full third of the orcs practicing before him had that same dull green tinge to their brown skin.

  “Frostwolves, eh?” came a booming, deep voice behind him. “Not quite the monsters I expected.”

  The two turned to see one of the largest orcs Durotan had ever beheld. Neither he nor Orgrim were small specimens—indeed, Orgrim was the burliest Frostwolf for several generations—but this one forced Durotan to look up. His skin, a dark, true brown with no hint of green, glistened with either sweat or oil and was adorned with tattoos. His massive hands were completely black with ink, and his eyes gleamed with amused appraisment as he regarded them.

  “You will see we live up to our reputation,” Durotan said quietly. “You will have no finer hunters in your new Horde, Blackhand of the Blackrock clan.”

  Blackhand threw his head back and laughed. “We will not need hunters,” he said, “we will need warriors. Are you equal to those who came before you, Durotan, son of Garad?”

  Durotan glanced over at the still-bleeding orc, who had been caught off guard. “Better,” he said, and it was true. “When Gul’dan came to ask the Frostwolves to join the Horde… twice… he made no mention of fighting for this promised land.”

  “Ah,” Blackhand said, “but what is to savor in simply walking onto a field? We are orcs. We are now a Horde of orcs! And we will conquer this new world. At least,” he added, “those of us who are brave enough to fight for it. You are not afraid, are you?”

  Durotan allowed himself the barest of smiles, his lips curving around his lower tusks. “The only things I fear are empty promises.”

  “Bold,” Blackhand approved. “Blunt. Good. There is no place for bootlickers in my army. You have come just in time, Frostwolf. Another sun, and you would have been too late. You would have been left behind with the old and the frail.”

  Durotan frowned. “You would leave some behind?”

  “At first, yes—Gul’dan has ordered so,” Blackhand said.

  Durotan thought of his mother, the Lorekeeper Geyah, the clan’s elderly shaman, Drek’Thar, the children… and his wife, heavy with child. “I never agreed to this!”

  “If you protest, it would give me great pleasure to fight a mak’gora.”

  The mak’gora was an ancient tradition, one known and practiced by all orcs. It was an honor battle, one on one, a challenge issued, and accepted. And it was to the death. A few months ago, Durotan, mindful of how the numbers of his clan were dwindling, had refused to slay a fellow Frostwolf he had defeated in a mak’gora. Blackhand obviously had no such reservations.

  “Gul’dan will lead the way to the new homeland tomorrow at sunrise,” Blackhand said. “This first wave, which will wash over our enemies, will be made up only of warriors. The best the Horde has to offer. You may bring those among your clan who are young, healthy, quick, fierce—who are your best warriors.”

  Durotan and Orgrim exchanged glances. If indeed this land had dangers that could threaten those most vulnerable, it was a sound strategy. It was what the strong should do.

  “You speak sense, Blackhand,” he said reluctantly. “The Frostwolves will obey.”

  “Good,” Blackhand said. “Your Frostwolves may not look like monsters, but I would hate to have to kill you without at least being able to watch you all fight first. Come, I will show you the might the orcs will bring when we descend upon this unsuspecting land.”

  2

  Darkness had fallen by the time Orgrim and Durotan returned. Under Draka’s direction, the clan had been busy erecting their makeshift traveling tents. Frostwolf banners, depicting the clan’s symbol of a white wolf on a blue background, hung limp in the still, dry air outside each one. Durotan looked around at the veritable sea of structures; not just theirs, but those of other clans as well. They, too, had banners that looked as worn out as Durotan felt.

  Abruptly the banners stirred and the faint breeze carried the welcome scent of roasting meat to Durotan’s nostrils. He clapped Orgrim on the back. “Whatever betides us on the morrow, we have food tonight!”

  “My belly will be grateful,” Orgrim replied. “When was the last time we ate something larger than a hare?”

  “I cannot remember,” Durotan said, sobering almost at once. Game had been almost scarcer on the journey than it had been in the frozen north. Most of their meat sources were small rodents. He thought about talbuks, the delicate but fierce gazelle-like creatures, and the huge clefthooves, which were more than a challenge to kill, but once fed the clan well. He wondered what sort of beasts Gul’dan had found here, in the desert, and decided he did not wish to know.

  They were greeted with the welcome sound of laughter as they approached the Frostwolf camp. Durotan strode forward to find Draka, Geyah, and Drek’Thar sitting around one of the fires. Together with Orgrim Doomhammer, these three comprised Durotan’s council of advisors. They had always given him sound advice, and Durotan felt resentment stir as he recalled Blackhand’s orders. If the tattooed orc commander had his way, everyone except Orgrim would be forced to remain behind. Other families clustered over similar small fires. Children drowsed nearby, exhausted. But Durot
an saw that their bellies were rounded with food for the first time in months, and he was glad.

  In the center of the fire were several spits of smaller animals. He gave Orgrim a rueful look. It would seem that they were still to feed on animals no larger than the size of their fists. But it was meat, and it was fresh, and Durotan would not complain.

  Draka handed him a spit from the fire and Durotan tore into it. It was still hot and his mouth burned, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t realized just how long it had been since he had eaten fresh meat. When the first edge of his hunger had been blunted, Durotan told them what he and Orgrim had witnessed, and what Blackhand had told them. For a moment, there was silence.

  “Who will you take?” Drek’Thar asked quietly. Orgrim looked away at the question. His expression told Durotan that his friend was relieved that he was not chieftain and thus not forced to deliver the bad news.

  Durotan spoke the list he had been composing in his mind since he and Orgrim had left their meeting with Blackhand. Draka, Geyah, and Drek’Thar were not on it. There was a lengthy silence. Finally, Geyah spoke.

  “I will not argue your decision, my chieftain,” she said. “For my part, I will stay behind. When Drek’Thar and I were visited by the Spirit of Life, it told me that I would need to stay with the clan. Now, I understand what it meant. I am a shaman, and I fight well, but there are others who are younger, stronger, and faster than I. And I am the Lorekeeper. Spirits guard you, but if this vanguard should fall, at least the history of our people will be kept alive.”

  He smiled at her gratefully. She sounded resigned, but he knew how badly she wanted to fight at her son’s side. “Thank you. You know I will come for all of you as soon as it is safe.”

  “I understand as well,” Drek’Thar said, sorrow tinging his voice. He gestured to the cloth he always wore to hide his ruined eyes. “I am blind, and old. I would be a liability.”