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“No,” said Draka, her voice hard. “My heart, reconsider taking Drek’Thar. He is a shaman, and the Spirits told us they would be there, in this world we are about to enter. As long as there is earth, air, fire, water, and life, you will need a shaman. Drek’Thar is the best we have. He is a healer, and,” she added, “you may need his visions.”

  A chill ran along Durotan’s skin, lifting the hairs on his arm. More than once, Drek’Thar’s visions had saved lives. Once, a warning from the Spirit of Fire had spared the entire clan. How could he not bring Drek’Thar? “You will not fight with us,” he said. “Only heal, and advise. Have I your word?”

  “Always, my chieftain. It will be honor enough to go.”

  Durotan looked at Draka. “I know, my heart, that you can fight, but—” He broke off, rising to his feet, one hand going to Sever’s hilt.

  The visitor was almost as large as Blackhand. The firelight cast shadows on a physique as sculpted as if it had been chiseled from stone. Blackhand had impressed him, but this orc was, if not as large, more muscled, more powerful looking. Like Blackhand, he too wore tattoos, but whereas the commander’s hands had been inked solid black, it was this orc’s jaw that was dark as midnight. His long black hair was pulled back in a topknot, and his eyes glittered in the fire’s glow.

  “I am Grom Hellscream, Chieftain of the Warsong,” the orc announced, his eyes sweeping the newcomers. “Blackhand told me that at long last, the Frostwolves had come.” He grunted in amusement and dropped a sack of something at Durotan’s feet. “Food,” he said.

  The bag twitched and moved, bulging out here and there. “Insects,” Grom said. “Best eaten live, and raw.” He grinned. “Or dried and ground into flour. The taste is not bad.”

  “I am Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh,” Durotan said, “and Grom Hellscream, Chieftain of the Warsong, is welcome at our fire.”

  Durotan decided not to introduce the other members of the clan assembled around the fire, as he did not want to draw undue attention to them—not if he planned to take Drek’Thar with him at sunrise. He caught Draka’s eye and she nodded. She rose, quietly touching Drek’Thar and Geyah on the shoulders and taking them to another fire.

  Durotan indicated the vacant seats, and Grom dropped down beside him and Orgrim. He accepted a spit from the embers and bit into the dripping meat with gusto.

  “Though you and I have never met,” Durotan said, “some members of your clan once hunted alongside mine, years past.”

  “I remember our clan members said the Frostwolves were good hunters, and fair,” Grom acknowledged. “If perhaps a bit too…” He groped for the word. “Reserved.”

  Durotan refrained from telling Grom what the Frostwolves had thought of the Warsong. The words impulsive, loud, fierce and crazy had been used. Sometimes, admittedly, with admiration, but not always. Instead, he said, “It seems as though Gul’dan has managed to unite all the clans, now.”

  Grom nodded. “You were the last to join,” he said. “There was one other, but they are gone, now. So Gul’dan says.”

  The Frostwolves shifted uneasily. Durotan wondered if Grom spoke of the Red Walkers. If, in truth, the clan was dead down to the last member, it was a good thing, and he would not mourn.

  “We,” Grom said with pride, “were among the first. When Gul’dan came to us and told us he knew of a way to travel to another land, one rich in game and clean water and enemies to battle, we agreed right away.” He laughed. “What more could an orc want?”

  “My second-in-command, Orgrim, and I met with Blackhand upon our arrival,” Durotan said. “He told me of his plans to take a wave of warriors to this land first. We spoke of weapons and those who wield them, but I am curious as to Gul’dan’s preparations.”

  Grom took another bite, finishing off the meat. He tossed the stick into the fire. “Gul’dan has found a way for us to enter another land,” Grom said. “An ancient artifact, long hidden in the earth. His magicks led him to it, and when we arrived here, we began to dig. We have unearthed it at last, and tomorrow, we will use it.”

  Durotan’s brows rose. “A hole in the ground?”

  “You’ll see it soon enough,” Grom assured him.

  The more Durotan learned of these plans, the less he liked them. “It sounds like a grave.”

  “No,” Grom assured him. “If anything, it is a rebirth for our people. It’s the path to a new world!”

  “You believe this?” Orgrim asked. He sounded more skeptical than hopeful.

  Grom eyed Orgrim for a moment. Then he lifted one powerful arm and leaned forward, extending it closer to the fire. In the firelight, Durotan saw what the shadows had obscured earlier. Like many of those he and Orgrim had seen training, Grom Hellscream’s skin was tinged with green. And when he spoke, his words were addressed to Orgrim, not Durotan.

  “I believe in Gul’dan. I believe in the fel. His death magic has made me powerful.” He flexed his arm, and his bicep, large as a melon, bulged. “You’ll see. You’ll feel the strength of five.”

  “Blackhand seems strong enough without it,” Durotan said bluntly.

  Grom’s bright eyes darted to the Frostwolf chieftain. “Why be strong enough when there is stronger still?” His lips curled away from his tusks in a grin that was as sinister as it was savage, and Durotan could not but wonder if “stronger still” would ever become “strong enough” to appease the Warsong.

  * * *

  By the time Durotan retired to his tent, Draka was stretched out, asleep on the furs they had brought from the north.

  Once, she would have rested on a pile of thick, warm clefthoof skins, and her hut would have been the chieftain’s hut—a solid, stable construct of timber and stone. She would have had plenty of good, healthy food to nourish the body housing not only her warrior’s spirit, but the small life that now curved her belly; the only soft part of her strong, hard physique. Now, all that separated her flesh from the hard rock was rabbit fur, and the clan had walked the last several leagues with no food at all.

  Geyah had insisted Durotan and Draka take what they could from Frostfire Ridge to remind them of the clan’s heritage. So this makeshift shelter, a bit more solid than most, contained the Frostwolf crest and decorative wards constructed and blessed by the shaman to augment battle prowess and ward off dangers. Inside, a variety of weapons lay within easy reach: spears, axes, hammers, maces, bows and arrows, swords. And, of course, Thunderstrike. Durotan unfastened Sever and placed it beside the furs as he sat and regarded his mate.

  A wave of tenderness washed over him as his gaze roved her body, from her fierce, strong face and long black hair, to the swell of her belly as she lay on her side, breathing evenly. Her lids still closed, she reached out a hand to him.

  “I can feel your eyes.” Draka’s voice was low and throaty, warm with affection and amusement.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was.” She shifted her swollen body to lie on her back, searching unsuccessfully for a comfortable position. Her husband’s hand moved to her belly, his massive fingers and palm almost completely covering it, silently connecting with his child. “Dreaming of a hunt through the snow.”

  Durotan closed his eyes and sighed. It was almost painful to recall the sharp, familiar bite of the winter, the cold challenging their bodies as they attacked prey that fought to survive. The shouts, the smell of fresh blood, the taste of nourishing flesh. Those years had been good ones. Durotan stretched beside her on the furs, recalling the first night Draka had returned from her Exile. He had pushed her for stories of her travels, and they had lain beside one another as they did now, on their backs, but not touching. Looking up at the stars, watching the smoke rise up.

  And he had been content. “I’ve thought of a name,” Draka continued.

  Durotan grunted. He was angry with himself for his nostalgia. Where Draka’s dream was just that—a true, honest dream, not wistful, deliberate recollection—the time he yearned for was gone, never to return.

&nbs
p; He took her hand in his as he teased, “Well, keep it to yourself, wife. I’ll choose the name when I’ve met him… or her.”

  “Oh?” There was amusement in her voice. “And how will the great Durotan name his son, if I do not travel with him?”

  “A son?” He propped himself on an elbow, regarding her, his mouth slightly open. Always before, he had accepted that he might have a daughter or a son. The gender was less important to him than ensuring that the baby was healthy. Frostwolf females were fierce warriors—Draka was a perfect example of that. Tradition, though, held that the chieftainship could only pass to a male. He blinked at her. “Are you having visions like Drek’Thar now?”

  She smiled and shrugged. “I just… feel it.”

  He thought again of that first night, and all the others they had shared with one another since. He did not want to think of a long stretch of nights when they would be without each other; did not want to think of his son being born without his father present.

  “Can you hide your fat belly?” he said, grinning in anticipation of her retort.

  Draka, who knew him all the way to his bones, punched him in the shoulder—lovingly, but quite firmly. “Better than you can hide your fat head.”

  Hearty laughter burst from him, a balm to his spirit, and his wife laughed with him. Again they lay back together, Durotan’s hand once more protectively over their son. They would face this new world together.

  Whatever happened.

  3

  The next morning, as Draka strategically strapped a small, circular shield adorned with tusks over her stomach, she caught Durotan’s eye and he nodded slightly, somewhat reassured that she was able to hide her swollen belly and protect their unborn son at the same time. The last several years had been so difficult that Draka had not been able to gain any weight that had not gone directly to the developing child. No softening of her muscles, no roundness to her face revealed her pregnancy once her belly had been covered. It was useful now, but he felt a stab of regret that she had been so deprived.

  Drek’Thar wore a hooded cloak pulled low to hide his white hair and the cloth that covered his disfigured face. Another shaman, Palkar, who had tended him for years, would be guiding him. Durotan walked over to them both as they assembled, awaiting the call to march toward the “hole in the ground.”

  “I cannot promise you will not be discovered,” Durotan told them. “If this is a risk you choose not to take, no one would blame you.”

  “We understand,” Drek’Thar said. “All is as the Spirits will it.”

  Durotan nodded. Draka had already said her farewells to Geyah and now stepped aside. Durotan placed his hands on his mother’s shoulders. “You will be in charge of the clan while Orgrim and I are gone,” he told her. “I can think of no finer hands in which to leave the Frostwolves than those of their Lorekeeper.”

  Her eyes were dry, and she stood tall and strong. “I will protect them with my life, my son. And when you return, we will gladly come join you in this verdant new land.”

  Everyone knew that there might not be a return. So much was unknown about this promised place. They were getting there by magic, with no idea what awaited them save what Gul’dan had told them. What if he was wrong? What if he’d lied? What if there were dangers so great that not even an orc could face them? In the end, it didn’t matter. What was here could not be borne.

  “I am certain we will conquer swiftly,” he said, and hoped his voice was as solid as he wished it to be.

  Horns blew, summoning them. Durotan embraced Geyah. She clung to him for a moment, then released him and stepped back. Durotan looked over his clan, at the children, the orcs, male and female, who were artisans and shaman, not warriors. He had done everything he could for them.

  Now, it was time to discover if Gul’dan’s word could be trusted.

  Blackhand’s orcs directed them, funneling the clans into a single channel of brown and green skin, glinting steel, and dull white bone that trudged downward through the dust. Yet again, Durotan marveled at seeing so many orcs marching shoulder to shoulder, united in a single purpose. Hope swelled inside him. They were orcs! What could they not do? Whatever creatures awaited them, they would fall beneath racing feet, swinging weapons, and the bellowed cries of “Lok’tar ogar!”

  He glanced at Draka, who grinned at him. She clasped his hand once, quickly, then let it go. No one gave her a second glance. Durotan strode forward carrying Thunderstrike, Sever strapped to his back.

  One of Blackhand’s orcs jogged along the line, calling out instructions. “Veer to the right!” Durotan and Draka obeyed.

  And there it was.

  “Hellscream was right,” Durotan murmured. “It is not just a hole in the ground.”

  Durotan’s entire clan would have taken up only the smallest fraction of the expanse that had been unearthed, and all could have run shoulder to shoulder through the large stone structure that had lain hidden by sand. It towered up, huge and imposing, a great, winged serpent coiled atop it and two carved, hooded figures, each the height of a hundred orcs, standing to either side. The right figure and the pillar from which it was carved stood freely. The left side of the gate was still connected to the earth. Scaffolding cluttered parts of it, and lift mechanisms ferried orcs who looked no larger than a flea as they scurried about their business, working on the great gate even now. There had not been much of a semblance of order to begin with, and as more warriors beheld the sight of this gargantuan carved edifice, what little there was began to dissolve. Everyone started talking. Durotan saw Blackhand’s orcs with angry, frazzled looks on their faces as they repeatedly shouted out orders that went unheeded. Orcs were fierce, wild, and strong. They obeyed their clan leaders, but clearly, the commander was going to have his black-inked hands full trying to manage this many individuals.

  “Durotan!” Draka called. “Look!” She pointed up at the topmost step of the portal. It was Gul’dan, his green skin unmistakable. Seeing him, Durotan felt as if no time at all had passed since Gul’dan had first come to Frostfire Ridge. He looked as he had then, leaning on a staff decorated with small skulls and bits of bone. His cloak’s cowl partially obscured his lined face, but even at this distance Durotan could see Gul’dan’s white beard and unmistakable eyes, glowing that sickly, luminous green shade. Spikes had been affixed to his cloak, and impaled on them were more tiny skulls. Then, as now, Durotan shivered with a sense of intense dislike. He recalled Drek’Thar’s words upon first encountering the warlock: Shadows cling to this orc. Death follows him.

  Walking behind the stooped warlock, an exaggeratedly heavy chain attached to her slender neck, was his slave, the half-breed Garona. Durotan remembered her as well. She had been with her master the two times Gul’dan had made the arduous trek north to speak with the Frostwolves. The second time, she had managed to give Durotan’s clan a warning: My master is dark and dangerous. For a slave, the way she carried herself was not obsequious. Indeed, if it were not for the contemptuous glances thrown her way when any orc deigned regard her at all, Durotan might have thought that it was she who was the master, not the warlock.

  It was then that he realized that the two were walking past cages constructed from twisted, dead tree branches. They were crowded to overflowing with blue-skinned forms.

  Draenei prisoners.

  One of them, a female, reached out an imploring hand and seized Garona’s hand. She looked like she was begging the strange half-orc for something, but Garona detached herself and spoke to Gul’dan.

  “What did they do?” Draka wondered. Her voice was shot through with pain and horror. Unlike most orcs, who usually scorned the blue-skinned, goat-legged draenei, she had actually traveled with a group of them for a time. She had told Durotan they were not cowardly; they simply avoided confrontation. Durotan himself knew that the draenei had courage—they had selflessly rescued, and returned, three Frostwolf children.

  Now, Gul’dan had imprisoned them.

  “Does it matter?�
�� Durotan hated the scathing tone of his own voice. “Gul’dan is sending us through this portal, to attack whatever lies on the other side and take their land for our own. We need this land—and we need him. Right now, he can do what he pleases.”

  Draka gave him a searching look, but then closed her eyes. There was no arguing with the ugly truth. Doubtless, the draenei had done nothing at all. He knew some other orc clans killed them for sport. Perhaps there was to be a display of some sort before Gul’dan permitted the orcs to enter this much-vaunted new land.

  A snatch of the draenei’s shouting came to him, just one word. Durotan did not know much of their language, but he knew this.

  “Detish!” the female sobbed, still reaching imploringly after Garona.

  Detish.

  Child.

  Durotan and Draka exchanged horrified looks.

  There came a rumble of thunder. The very hue of the sky had shifted, to the yellow-green of a fading bruise. A line of bright emerald now limned the interior of the portal, and green lightning flickered in the sky. “What is that?” Draka asked.

  “Gul’dan’s magic,” Durotan replied, grimly. And as he uttered the words, the warlock spread his arms wide as he surveyed his army.

  “Death. Life. Death. Life. Do you hear it?” He lifted a hand to his ear and his lips curved in a smile around his tusks. “The beat of a living heart. The fuel for my magic is life. We may only have enough prisoners to send through our strongest warriors, but that will be enough. The enemy is weak. When we arrive, we will take them as fuel! We will build a new portal, and when it is complete, we will bring through all of the Horde!”

  Durotan again looked at the imprisoned draenei. His father, Garad, had spoken of a time in his youth when the Frostwolves had sacrificed the life of an animal to thank the Spirits for a good hunt. Gul’dan had said that his death magic was similar. You are fed with the creature’s flesh, clothed with its hide. I am fed with strength and knowledge, and clothed… in green.

  Gul’dan turned to face the gate. Holding his skull-crowned staff aloft in one gnarled hand, he spread his arms and arched his back. From everywhere and from nowhere, a voice arose. But it was like no voice that Durotan had ever heard. It was deep, thrumming along the bones, rasping and harsh and piercing, and everything in Durotan wanted him to cover his ears and cease listening to it. He tensed against the desire and took deep breaths to steady himself, although his heart was racing. With fear? Anger?