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  They had. Two years ago, a Frostwolf hunting party had allied with a group of orcs from the Warsong clan. The Warsongs had been tracking a talbuk herd. Unfamiliar with the ways of the beautiful, graceful creatures, they did not know that it was impossible to cull a single animal from the herd. The striped talbuks were much smaller and more delicately boned than the clefthooves. While an adult clefthoof could be forced away from the herd, its size meant it could more than adequately defend itself. Talbuks relied on one another for protection. When attacked, initially they would not flee. Instead, they defended their targeted brother or sister as a group, presenting predators with myriad curved horns and hooves. The Frostwolves knew how to frighten the talbuks, heroic as they were, into surrendering the lives of a few. By choosing to hunt together, the Frostwolves and the Warsong were able to feed both hunting parties and their mounts, with much meat left over.

  As they feasted together, one of the Warsongs mentioned an orc with strange powers, like a shaman but different. Warlock, was the term they had used; a word Durotan had not heard before or since—until tonight.

  Garad’s face hardened. “So, it was you they spoke of,” he said. “Warlock. I should have known the moment I saw you. You deal in death, but you hope to convince me to join you with talk of life. An odd juxtaposition.”

  Durotan glanced over at Drek’Thar, mindful of the old shaman’s words: Shadows cling to this orc. Death follows him. And his own response: Shadows lie long on the hills in winter, and I myself brought death today. These things do not bad omens make, Drek’Thar… Let us listen to what he has to say before we decide he has come as a harbinger of death, life, or nothing at all.

  He, Garad, and the rest of the clan were still listening.

  Gul’dan gestured with one hand to his green-tinted skin. “I have been endowed with strong magic. It has permeated me, and turned my skin this color. It has marked me for its own. And yes, the magic grows strong when it is fed with life. But look me in the eye, Garad, son of Durkosh, and tell me true: have you never left a life bleeding on the snow to thank the Spirits for their blessing? Slain a clefthoof in exchange for a new child safely delivered into the world, perhaps, or left one creature to lie where it fell when a dozen talbuks succumbed to your spears?”

  The listening clan shifted uneasily, though Garad appeared unmoved. All knew that what Gul’dan said was true.

  “We are nourished by that kind of sacrifice,” Garad confirmed. “We are fed by that life so ended.”

  “And so am I fed, but in a different way,” said Gul’dan. “You are fed with the creature’s flesh, clothed with its hide. I am fed with strength and knowledge, and clothed… in green.”

  Durotan found his gaze drawn to the slave. She, too, was green, however it was obvious that she was not only a slave, but a roughly treated one. He desperately wanted to ask questions—Why was she green? Why had Gul’dan brought her with him?—but this was his father’s meeting, not his, so he bit his tongue.

  So too, it seemed, did his father. Garad made no further comment, and his silence was an invitation for Gul’dan to continue.

  “Draenor is not as it was. Life flees it. The winters are longer, the springs and summers briefer and less bountiful. There is little game to hunt. There—”

  Garad waved an impatient hand. The firelight danced on his features, revealing a scowl of impatience. “Orc of No Clan, you tell me nothing I do not already know. Such things are not unheard of. Legends tell of cycles in our world. All is ebb and flow, darkness and light, death and rebirth. The summers and springs will again lengthen once this cycle has run its course.”

  “Will they?” The green fire in Gul’dan’s eyes flickered. “You know of the north. I come from the south. For us, this so-called cycle is more than longer winters and fewer beasts. Our rivers and lakes run low. The trees that yield the fruits we feast on in summer have ceased to put forth new shoots, and bear small, bitter fruit if they bear any at all. When we burn wood, it does not smell wholesome. The grain rots on the stalk, or lies dormant when we seed it in soil that does not nourish it. Our children are born sickly—and sometimes not at all. This is what we have seen in the south!”

  “I care not for the suffering of the south.”

  An ugly, crafty smile twisted Gul’dan’s lips around his tusks. “No, not yet. But what has happened there will happen here. This is more than a bad season, or ten bad seasons. I tell you, this world is dying. Frostfire Ridge may not have seen what we have, but time knows no distance.”

  He extended a hand to the slave without even looking at her. Her movements obedient even as her eyes glittered, she handed him a small wrapped bundle.

  He unfolded the fabric. A spherical red object was nestled within. “A blood apple,” he said, holding it up. It was indeed small and sickly-looking. Its skin was mottled, not the bold crimson that had given it its name, but neither was it dry or rotting, as it would have been had it been harvested much earlier. With all eyes on him, Gul’dan extended a sharp-nailed finger and sliced it open. It fell apart into to two halves, and the watching orcs gasped softly.

  The apple was dead inside. Not rotten; not eaten by worms or disease. Just dead—desiccated and brown.

  There were no seeds.

  3

  There was stunned silence for a moment, but Garad broke it. “Let us play a game,” he said. “Let us pretend that you are right, and Draenor—our entire world—is dying. And yet somehow, you and you alone have been granted the ability to lead us to a special new land where this death does not happen. If such a tale were true, it seems to me that you would be better served by simply traveling to this new land with fewer, rather than greater, numbers. Why do you trek to the north, when winter is barely past, to make such a generous offer to the Frostwolves?” Garad’s voice dripped cynicism.

  Gul’dan slid his sleeve up, displaying peculiar bracelets and more of his disconcertingly green skin. “I bear the mark of magic,” he said simply. “I speak the truth.”

  And somehow, Durotan knew that he did not lie. His gaze again wandered to Garona, the warlock’s slave. Was she, too, magical? Did Gul’dan keep her chained not because she was subservient, but because she might be dangerous?

  “I spoke earlier of a clan,” Gul’dan continued. “It is not a clan into which I was born, but a clan I have founded. I have created it, my Horde, and those who have joined it have done so freely and gladly.”

  “I do not believe any orc chieftain, no matter how desperate, would order his clan to follow you and forsake his true allegiance!”

  “I do not ask that of them,” Gul’dan said, his calm voice a contrast to Garad’s rising one. “They keep their chieftains, their customs, even their names. But whereas the clans answer to the chieftains, those chieftains answer to me. We are part of a great whole.”

  “And everyone you have spoken with has swallowed this tale down like mother’s milk.” Garad sneered openly now. Durotan wondered how long it would be before he violated the parley banner and tore out Gul’dan’s green throat, as he had threatened earlier.

  “Not all, but many,” Gul’dan said. “Many other clans, who are suffering and whose numbers are dwindling. They will follow me to this verdant new land and they do so without surrendering their clan affiliations, but merely taking on an additional one. They are still Warsong, or Laughing Skull, or Bleeding Hollow, but are also now members of the Horde. My Horde. They follow me, and will go where I lead them. And I will lead them to a world that teems with life.”

  “More than one clan follows you? Warsong, Bleeding Hollow, Laughing Skull?” Garad seemed incredulous, as well he might. Durotan knew that while orcs sometimes cooperated for a single goal such as a hunt, they always disbanded when it was accomplished. What Gul’dan was telling them all seemed improbable at best, if not as fanciful as a child’s story.

  “All but a few,” Gul’dan replied. “Some stubborn clans still choose to cling to a world that no longer succors them. Some seem to be barely orcs
at all, anointing themselves with the blood of their prey and reveling in decay. We shun these, the Red Walkers, and they will die at some point, mad and in despair. All I ask of you is your loyalty as we travel together to leave behind a dying husk. Your knowledge, your skills, your strength.”

  Durotan tried to imagine a huge sea of brown skin, weapons in hand, used not against one another but against beasts for food to share, against the land to hew shelters and homes. All this in a world of green-leafed trees heavy with ripe fruit, animals strong and fat and healthy, and water fresh and clean. Impulsively, he leaned forward and asked, “Tell me more of this land.”

  “Durotan!”

  Garad’s voice cracked like lightning. Blood rose hot in Durotan’s face, but after the one outburst, his father’s attention was focused not on his presumptuous son, but on the stranger in their camp, even as that stranger smiled slowly at Durotan.

  “So you have come to rescue us, have you?” Garad said. “We are Frostwolves, Gul’dan. We do not need your rescue, your Horde, your land which is only a promise. Frostfire Ridge has been the home of the Frostwolves for as long as any tale can tell, and it will stay that way!”

  “We honor our traditions,” said Geyah, her voice and mien hard. “We do not forsake who we are when times grow difficult.”

  “Others may run to you like mewling children, but we will not. We are made of sterner stuff than those who dwell in the softer south.”

  Gul’dan did not take umbrage at Garad’s contemptuous words. Rather, he regarded Garad with an expression that was almost sad.

  “I spoke earlier of orc clans that did not join the Horde,” he said. “They, too, told me when I approached them that they needed no aid. But the loss of food, of water, of shelter—all that is required to exist—has taken a dreadful toll on them. They have become nomads, roaming from place to place, forced in the end to abandon their homelands. They are shadows of orcs, and they have become so, and suffer, needlessly.”

  “We do not ‘suffer,’” said Garad. “We endure.” He sat back slightly, straightening his large, powerful frame. Durotan knew what that gesture meant.

  The parley was over.

  “We will not follow you, green orc.”

  Gul’dan did not strike Durotan as one who was accustomed to refusal. He wondered if the warlock would summon these mysterious magics he claimed to have at his disposal and break the parley protection by challenging Garad to the mak’gora—a battle to the death between two individual orcs. His mother might know the proper way to respond to that; Durotan did not.

  He had witnessed the mak’gora only once before. An orc from the Thunderlord clan decided not to cede his prey to the Frostwolves as had been agreed upon. Instead, he had challenged Grukag, who had claimed the beast in question. It had struck Durotan as odd and disruptive; until that point, the Thunderlords and Frostwolves had been cooperating well for several days. Durotan had even made a friend, of sorts. His name was Kovogor, and the two were of an age. Kovogor was funny, pleasant, and very good with a throwing axe. When the merged hunting party camped at night, Kovogor taught Durotan how to properly throw the weapon so it would embed itself in the flesh of its target.

  Grukag had won that battle. Durotan recalled his heart slamming against his chest, his blood pumping. He had never felt more alive. There was no time to think, to wonder, when he was in combat himself. But to watch another was to experience something else entirely.

  Yet when it was done, and Grukag had bellowed a Frostwolf victory while standing in blood-soaked snow, Durotan had felt a strange emotion along with the shared euphoria. He had later recognized that it was a sense of loss. The other orc had been strong and proud, but in the end, his pride had been deeper than his strength, and the Thunderlords returned with one less warrior to provide their clan with food. And there was now a coldness between the clans, one that made it impossible for Durotan to even say farewell to Kovogor.

  But it seemed there would be no mak’gora today. Gul’dan merely sighed and shook his head.

  “Perhaps you do not believe this, Garad, son of Durkosh, but I sorrow at what I know will come to pass. The Frostwolves are proud and noble, but not even you can stand against what is to come. Your people will discover that pride and nobility mean little when there is no food to eat, or water fit to drink, or air good to breathe.”

  He reached into the folds of his robe—and drew out a knife.

  Roars of fury tore from every orc’s throat at the betrayal.

  “Hold!”

  Geyah’s voice was strong as she leaped to position herself between Gul’dan, who wisely froze in mid-motion, and anyone who would do him harm.

  What is she doing? Durotan wondered, but like the others, he stayed where he was, although his body cried out to leap atop Gul’dan.

  Geyah’s eyes scanned the crowed. “Gul’dan came under the banner of parley,” she shouted. “What he is doing is part of the rite. We will let him continue… whatever we think of him.”

  Her lip curled and she took a step back, allowing Gul’dan to finish drawing the wicked-looking blade. Garad had obviously been prepared for this moment, and watched as Gul’dan inclined his head and extended his hand, palm upward, the knife balanced atop it.

  “I offer the test of the blade to you, who hold my life in your hand,” Gul’dan said. “It is as sharp as the wolf’s tooth, and I abide by its decision.”

  Durotan watched with rapt attention as his father’s enormous fingers—fingers that had once throttled a talbuk whose charge had knocked Garad’s spear from his hand—closed over the knife. Firelight glittered on the long blade. Garad held it up for all to see, then drew it across the back of his lower arm. Reddish-black blood welled up in its wake. Garad let it drip to the earth.

  “You came with a blade that was sharp and keen, a blade that could take my life, yet you did not use it,” he said. “This is true parley. I accept this blade as an acknowledgement of this, and I have shed my own blood as a sign that you will have safe passage from this place.”

  His voice had been strong, carrying clearly on the cold night air, heavy with import. He let the words linger there for a moment.

  “Now get out.”

  Durotan again tensed, as did Orgrim beside him. That Garad had behaved with such open contempt told his son how deeply offended the Frostwolf chieftain had been by Gul’dan’s proposal. Surely Gul’dan would demand a chance to repudiate such discourtesy.

  But again, the green orc merely inclined his head in acceptance. Planting his grisly staff firmly, he got to his feet, his unnaturally glowing eyes regarding the silent, hostile gathering for a moment before he moved forward. He tugged at the chain that ended at the female orc-thing’s neck and she rose with supple grace. As she passed Durotan, she met his gaze openly.

  Her eyes were fierce and beautiful.

  What are you… and what are you to Gul’dan? Durotan supposed he would never know.

  The Frostwolves parted for the warlock—not out of respect, Durotan realized, but out of a desire to avoid physical contact with him in any manner, as if touching someone who was so aligned with death could harm them.

  “Well, well,” Orgrim said with a grunt as the pair went to their waiting wolves. “And to think we had expected a boring feast to celebrate the hunt.”

  “I think my mother would have been happy to make a feast of him,” Durotan said. He watched as the darkness swallowed up the green orc and his slave, then turned to look at Drek’Thar. His skin crawled.

  The blind shaman was still as a stone. His head was cocked to one side as if he was straining to listen to something. Everyone else’s attention was still fixed on the departing interloper, and so Durotan was certain that he was the only one who saw tears dampen the fold of fabric that covered Drek’Thar’s sightless eyes.

  4

  “We are three entire suns on from the parley, yet it seems as though no one can speak of anything else,” Orgrim lamented as he sat, face long and disgruntled, atop B
iter.

  “Including you, it would seem,” Durotan said. Orgrim scowled and fell silent, looking slightly embarrassed. The two had ranged a league from the village in search of firewood. It was not the worst task one could have, but it was not as exciting as a hunt, though necessary. Firewood kept the clan alive in winter, and it took time to age and dry properly.

  But Orgrim was right. Garad, certainly, had been thinking about the visit. He had not emerged from his hut the following morning, though Geyah had. At Durotan’s curious look when she passed him, his mother said, “Your father was disturbed by what Gul’dan said. He has asked me to find Drek’Thar, that the three of us might discuss how what the green stranger said will affect the Spirits and how our traditions might best be used.”

  It was a lengthy response to a question offered only by a raised eyebrow, and Durotan was instantly alert. “I will come to the meeting as well,” he said. Her hair, braided with bones and feathers, flew as she shook her head.

  “No. There are other duties you must attend to.”

  “I thought Father had no interest in Gul’dan,” Durotan said. “Now you tell me there is a meeting. As son and heir, I should be present.”

  Again, she waved him away. “This is a conversation, nothing more. We will bring you in as needed, my son. And as I said, you have other duties.”

  Gathering firewood. Granted, no duty that even the lowest member of the clan performed was considered beneath a chieftain, as Frostwolves believed that everyone had a voice and a value. But still. Something was going on. Durotan was being excluded, and he didn’t like it.

  His mind went back to a time when, as a boy, he had been told to gather fuel for the cooking fire. He had complained loudly, wanting instead to practice sword-fighting with Orgrim. Drek’Thar had chastised him. “It is both careless and dangerous to cut down trees when we do not need large timber for dwellings,” the shaman had told him. “The Spirit of Earth does not like it. It provides enough branches for our needs, and the needles are dry and catch fire quickly. Only lazy little orcs would whimper like wolf pups at having to take a few extra steps to honor the Spirit.”