The Shattering Page 5

  Thrall’s heart suddenly hurt. He had lost so many dear to him—Taretha Foxton, the human girl who had shown him that loving friendship could exist between the races; Grom Hellscream, who had taught him so much about what it meant to be an orc; and perhaps soon now Drek’Thar, who, according to the orc who attended him, was growing frail and whose mind was drifting away. The thought of having to say the final farewell to Cairne, who had been so close for so many years, was painful.

  He turned his attention to Garrosh. The young Hellscream, Gorehowl across his lap, ate and drank and laughed raucously, fully enjoying himself and utterly present in the moment. But now and then he, too, paused and looked out on those assembled with shining eyes and a chest swelled with pride. Thrall had not missed the enthusiasm with which the population of Orgrimmar had received Garrosh. Not even he, Thrall, had been so completely adored during any kind of ceremony. That was as it should be, Thrall thought. Not all of his decisions were welcome ones among his people, but he knew he led them well and they respected him. Garrosh, however, seemed to have tasted nothing but approbation and the love of his people.

  Garrosh caught Thrall looking at him and smiled. “It is good to be here,” he said.

  “Good to enjoy the accolades you have earned?” Thrall asked.

  “Of course. But it is also good to see the orcs. To see them remembering, as I did, what it means to be an orc. To fight the just battle, to defeat your foes, to celebrate your victory with the same passion that let you earn it.”

  “The Horde is more than just orcs, Garrosh,” Thrall reminded him.

  “Yes. But we are its core. Its center. And if we hold firmly to that, to what it means—then you will see more victories from your Horde, Warchief. You will see more than that. You will see chests swell with pride at being who they are. And their war cry of ‘For the Horde!’ will come not just from their lips, but from their hearts.”

  Everyone but Thrall, Garrosh, and Cairne sat on the floor, the stone cushioned by thick, soft hides. All three races were used to being close to nature, and the hall was heated by braziers, fires, and body heat. Thrall noticed that only Magatha and her Grimtotem looked put out. Everyone else settled in, happy to be here at this feast, happy to simply be alive after so much pain and hardship and battle.

  There was ceremony, but Thrall well knew that humans or elves would not recognize it as such. Servants brought in huge trays heaped high with delicacies. The food was eaten with the hands, and it was simple but nourishing: boar ribs basted in beer, roasted bear and venison, grilled haunch of zhevra turning on a spit, hearty bread to sop up the savory juices, and beer and wine and rum with which to wash it all down. Grommash Hold was filled with much laughter and cheer as the guests ate and drank. The servants cleared out the trays and, sated, those assembled turned their full attention to their warchief.

  Now, thought Thrall, the less than celebratory part begins.

  “We are glad and grateful that so many of our brave warriors have returned safely home, to bring what they have learned to serve the Horde here,” Thrall began. “It is right to celebrate and honor their achievements. But war is not without its costs, both in the lives of the fallen, and in the financial costs to provide for the soldiers as they do battle. Due to the peculiar storm at sea that destroyed several of our vessels, we have lost both soldiers and sorely needed supplies.

  “The storm not only cost us these precious things, but the strange nature of the event has not been the only one recorded. From all over Kalimdor and indeed in the Eastern Kingdoms, I have heard reports of similar phenomena. Those of you who, like me, call Orgrimmar home need no reminding of the drought that has had so devastating an impact. And we have felt the earth itself tremble beneath our feet from time to time.

  “I have spoken with many of my most trusted shaman, and members of the Earthen Ring.” Another pang went through him as he thought of the one shaman he had most trusted, whose judgment was now as unreliable as that of a small child. Drek’Thar, I have never had greater need of your insight than now, and it is too late for you to share it with me.

  “We are doing everything to discover what, if anything, is troubling the elements. Or, conversely, to determine if this is all simply nature going through a completely normal cycle.”

  “Normal?” came a gruff voice from the back of the crowd. Thrall could not see the speaker, but it sounded like an orc. “Droughts in some areas, floods in others, earthquakes—how is this normal?”

  “Nature has its own rhythms and reasons,” Thrall said, completely unperturbed by the interruption. He welcomed challenges; they kept him sharp, showed that he was approachable, and oftentimes made him explore avenues previously unthought-of. “It does not adapt to suit us—we must change to accommodate it. A fire may destroy a city, but it also clears space for new and different kinds of plants to thrive. It burns off disease and harmful insects. It returns nutrients to the soil. Floods deposit new types of minerals in places that have never had them. And as for earthquakes, well …” He smiled. “Surely the Earth Mother is allowed to grumble from time to time.”

  There was a ripple of laughter, and Thrall felt the mood change. He himself was not entirely certain that what was being reported was normal; in fact, he was beginning to feel from what connections he could make that it was quite the opposite. The elements seemed … chaotic, distressed. They were not speaking clearly to him as they usually did, and he was worried. But there was no need to spread his worry among his people until such time as it was necessary for them to know. He could simply be too distracted by other things to listen as well as he needed to. And, ancestors knew, there were certainly plenty of other things for the warchief of the Horde to be distracted by.

  “It is true that this land of Durotar, the new homeland of the orcs, is a harsh place. But that is nothing new. It has always been a difficult environment in which to dwell. But we are orcs, and this land suits us. It suits us because it is so harsh, because it is brutal, because few beings other than orcs could wrest a living from it. We came to this world from Draenor, after warlock magics had rendered most of it lifeless. And we could have done the same to this one. When I rebuilt the Horde, I might indeed have taken a more fertile land. But I did not.”

  Murmurs rippled throughout the hall. Cairne looked at him with narrowed eyes, no doubt wondering why Thrall was choosing to remind his people that Durotar was a difficult land at best. He nodded almost imperceptibly to his old friend, reassuring him that he knew what he was doing.

  “I did not, because we had wronged this world. And yet, we were here in it, we had a right to live. To find a homeland. I chose a place that we could make our own—a land that asked of us all we could give. Living here has done much to cleanse us of the curse that so damaged us as a people. It has made us even stronger, hardier—more orclike than living in a soft land ever would.”

  Cairne’s posture eased as the murmurs turned approving. “I stand by that choice. I well know what the sons and daughters of Durotar were able to give in Northrend. But our land gave, too. No one could have expected the high cost of supplies for the campaign in Northrend. And yet, could we have turned away from the call?”

  No one spoke. No one present would have turned away, whatever the cost might be. “And thus it is that our land has given, as we have; given until it has almost given out. The war to the north is over. We must now turn our attention to our own lands, and our own needs. It is an unfortunate consequence of the events of the Wrath Gate that the Alliance has a fresh reason to oppose us. While I realize that to some of you this means nothing, and others are glad of it, I assure you that no one is glad of the fact that the night elves have, for the moment, shut down all trade avenues with us.”

  Everyone present knew what that meant—no fresh lumber for building, no hunting rights in Ashenvale, no safe passage anywhere the Sentinels patrolled. There was silence for a moment, then unhappy murmuring.

  “Warchief, if I may?”

  It was Cairn
e, in his slow, calm voice. Thrall smiled at his old friend. “Please. Your advice is always welcome.”

  “Our people have a connection with the night elves that the other races of the Horde do not,” Cairne continued. “We are both followers of the teachings of Cenarius. We even have a joint sanctuary, the Moonglade, where we meet in peace and converse, sharing what knowledge and wisdom we have obtained. While I understand that they are angry with the Horde, I do not think that all bonds will be severed. I think the druids might be good ambassadors for reopening discussions. Archdruid Hamuul Runetotem knows many kaldorei.”

  He nodded at the archdruid, who rose to speak. “Indeed, Warchief. I have friendships with them that are years in the making. They may, as a race, resent us, but would take no pleasure in the thought of children starving to death, even the children of their so-called enemy. I have a high position in the Cenarion Circle. Negotiations could potentially be reopened, especially in light of the cooperation we have received with the treaty. If the warchief would permit me to approach them, perhaps we could prevail upon them to—”

  “Prevail upon them? Negotiate? Pagh!” Garrosh actually spat on the floor as he spoke. “I am ashamed to hear such mewling words come from the mouth of any member of the Horde! What happened at the Wrath Gate harmed us all, or has everyone here already forgotten Saurfang the Younger and the many who died with him—and who were later obscenely raised as the walking dead to fight against us? The elves have no greater claim to being attacked than we!”

  “Impertinent youth,” growled Cairne, turning on Garrosh. “You use the name of Saurfang the Younger to your advantage when you openly disrespect the wisdom of his bereaved father!”

  “Just because I disagree with Saurfang’s tactics does not mean I belittle his son’s sacrifice!” Garrosh retorted. “You, who have seen so many battles in your many, many years, should understand that! Yes, I disagreed with him. I said to him as I say to you, Warchief Thrall, let us not fret and whimper like kicked dogs about the night elves’ oh-so-delicate feelings. Let us move into Ashenvale now, before my troops are scattered, and simply take what we need!”

  The two had been leaning to their sides, shouting over Thrall as if he were not there. Thrall had permitted it because he wanted to judge the relationship between the two, but now he lifted a commanding hand and his voice was biting.

  “It is not that simple, Garrosh!”

  Garrosh turned to protest, but Thrall narrowed his blue eyes in warning, and the younger orc closed his mouth and sat sullenly silent.

  “High Overlord Saurfang knows that,” Thrall continued. “Cairne and I and Hamuul know that. You have had your first taste of battle and proved more than worthy at such a noble endeavor, but you will soon learn that nothing is black and white in this world.”

  Cairne leaned back in his chair, apparently mollified, but Thrall could see that Garrosh was still seething. At least, Thrall thought, he was listening and not talking.

  “Varian Wrynn’s stance against our people is becoming increasingly militaristic.” He did not add, thanks to you, because he knew Garrosh would hear the unspoken words. “Jaina Proudmoore is his friend and is sympathetic to our cause.”

  “She is still Alliance scum!”

  “She is still Alliance, yes,” Thrall said, his voice deepening and growing louder, “but anyone who has served with me or who has bothered to read a single historical scroll over the last few years knows that she is a human with integrity and wisdom. Do you think Cairne Bloodhoof disloyal?”

  Garrosh seemed taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. His eyes darted to Cairne, who sat up straighter and snorted.

  “I—of course not. No one here questions his devotion and service to the Horde.” He spoke carefully, looking for the trap. Thrall nodded. Although his tone was defensive, Garrosh’s words did seem sincere to him.

  “They would be a fool to do so. Jaina’s loyalty to the Alliance does not preclude her working toward peace and prosperity for all who dwell in Azeroth. Nor does Cairne’s loyalty to the Horde. His proposition is a sound one. It costs us little and could gain us much. If the night elves agree to open negotiations, well and good. If not, then we pursue other avenues.”

  Cairne looked over at Hamuul Runetotem, who nodded and said, “Thank you, Warchief. It is my deeply held belief that this is the right path, both to honor the Earth Mother, who seems so distressed, and to obtain what is needed for the Horde to recover from this terrible war.”

  “As always, my friend, I thank you for your service.” Thrall turned to Garrosh. “Garrosh, you are the son of one who was very dear to me. I have heard you called the Hero of Northrend, and I think that an apt title. But I personally have found that sometimes after war, it is difficult for the warrior to find where he belongs. I, Thrall, son of Durotan and Draka, promise you that I will work with you to find a suitable position where your skills and abilities can best be used to serve the Horde.”

  He had meant this exactly as he said it. He did admire Garrosh’s work in Northrend. But those talents were limited, and he needed time to think about where best to position Garrosh to work for the Horde.

  Apparently, though, Garrosh did not understand Thrall’s intention. His eyes narrowed and he growled softly beneath his breath.

  “As the warchief wills, of course. With your permission, great Thrall, I find the air in here a bit stuffy.”

  Without waiting for the sarcastically requested permission, Garrosh rose, gave Thrall a nod that was only barely courteous enough, and strode outside.

  “That boy is a kodo disliking the bridle,” Cairne murmured.

  Thrall sighed. “But too valuable to give up on.” He lifted his arm and, pitching his voice to carry, announced, “The air is close. More liquid to wet dry throats!”

  A cheer went up, and the crowd was momentarily distracted. Thrall thought about Cairne’s words and his own, and wondered how in the world he would tame the wild kodo without breaking him.

  But Garrosh’s role in the Horde, while an important concern to Thrall, was not uppermost in his mind. What troubled him most were the good of his people, of the Horde as a whole, and the unhappiness of the elements. His people were clamoring for more wood to build homes, but the very world itself seemed troubled.

  He had chosen Durotar for the exact reasons he had spoken—because it enabled his people to atone for the harm they had done, and because this land had toughened and strengthened them. But he had never anticipated that so many rivers would dry up; that so much of what little forest there was would be denuded by a war that, while utterly necessary, was also utterly damaging.

  No, Thrall thought as he sipped at a mug of beer. The taming of a single rebellious kodo was the least of his worries now.

  FIVE

  Garrosh gulped the night air gratefully. It was dry and warm even after nightfall, so unlike the cold, damp air of Northrend. But this was his home now, not the Borean Tundra, not Nagrand back in Draenor. This arid, inhospitable land, the city named for Orgrim Doomhammer, the land for Durotan, Thrall’s father. He reflected on that a moment, nostrils flaring with irritation. The only thing named after him was a tiny strip of shoreline constantly hammered at by false ghosts.

  He came to a stop beneath the skull and armor of Mannoroth and felt his agitated spirit calm somewhat. He did feel a swell of pride at looking at what his father had done. It was good to have learned he could be proud of his heritage, but he wanted to make his own path, not ride along in the wake of his father’s deeds. Gorehowl, so newly his, was strapped to his back. He reached for it and held the weapon that had killed the great foe of his people, brown hands closing over the shaft.

  “Your father was just what the Horde needed, when it needed it,” came a gravelly, deep, feminine voice behind him. Garrosh turned to see an elderly tauren. It took him a moment—her fur was dark, and in the night only the glitter of starlight on her intent eyes and the four stripes of white paint on her muzzle were immediately visible. As his e
yes adjusted, he could see that she wore formal robes that marked her as a shaman.

  “Thank you, um … ?” He waited for her to identify herself. She smiled.

  “I am Elder Crone Magatha of the Grimtotem tribe,” she said.

  Grimtotem. He had heard the name. “Interesting that you speak of what the Horde needs when yours is the only tauren tribe that has refused to officially join it.”

  She chuckled softly, her rough voice oddly musical. “The Grimtotem does what it will, as it will. Perhaps we have not yet joined the Horde because we do not have sufficient reason to.”

  Garrosh took umbrage. “What? This is not sufficient?” He stabbed a thick brown finger at the skull and armor of a pit lord. “Our war against the Burning Legion was not? The Warsong offensive was not enough to impress the mighty Grimtotem?”

  She regarded him steadily, not in the least put out by his ranting. “No,” she said mildly. “It did not impress me. But the tales of what you did in Northrend … well, those are the deeds of a hero indeed. We Grimtotem watch. And wait. We know strength and cunning and honor when we see it. It could be that you, Garrosh Hellscream, like your father, are just what the Horde needs, when it needs it. And when the Horde figures this out as well, I think you may count on Grimtotem support.”

  Garrosh wasn’t sure what she was getting at, but one thing was clear. She’d liked what she’d heard inside the keep. Which could mean that she approved of how he wanted to see things happen. That could be good. Maybe somebody could finally start getting something done around here.

  “Thank you, Elder Crone. I appreciate your words now, and I hope that shortly I’ll be worthy of more than words of support.”