Rise of the Horde Page 6

  At last, Durotan moved. His limbs were stiff and he almost stumbled. He crept slowly from his hiding place behind the boulder and went down the slope, his eyes on the drowsing female. Her head drooped on its long neck, and her breathing was regular. He could see small white puffs appearing in front of her muzzle.

  Slowly, placing his feet as carefully as he could, he moved toward his quarry. He did not feel the cold; the heat of anticipation, the powerful focus, drove any sensations of discomfort away. Closer still he came, and still the talbukdoc dreamed.

  He lifted his axe. He swung it down.

  Her eyes opened.

  She tried to scramble to her feet, but the death blow had already come. Durotan wanted to scream the battle cry he had heard his father utter so many times, but he bit it back. It would not do to slay the talbuk only to be slain himself by a dozen of her herd in retaliation. He had sharpened the blade to shocking keenness, and it sliced through the thick neck and vertebrae as if slicing through cheese. Blood spurted, the warm sticky fluid spattering Durotan gently, and he smiled fiercely. Anointing himself with the blood of his first solo kill was part of the ritual; the talbuk doc had done it for him. Another good omen.

  Silent though he had tried to be, he heard the sounds of the awakening herd. He whirled, breathing heavily, and let loose with the blood-chilling battle cry his throat had been aching to utter. He held his axe, the gleam of its metal blade now obscured with crimson blood, and bellowed again.

  The talbuk hesitated. He had been told that if it was a clean kill, they would flee rather than attack, intuiting on some primal level that they could no longer help their fallen sister. He hoped this was true; he might be able to take down one or two, but would fall beneath their padded feet if they chose to attack.

  Moving as one, they began to back away, and then finally whirled and turned to run. He watched them gallop over the rise to disappear, their pawprints in the pristine snow the only evidence that they had been here.

  Durotan lowered his axe, panting with exertion. He raised it again and let out a cry of triumph. His empty belly would be full tonight; the spirit of the talbuk would enter his dreams. And on the morrow he would return to his people an adult male, ready to take his place in serving the clan.

  Ready to one day become its leader.

  "Why do we not ride?" Durotan asked petulantly, glowering like a child.

  "Because that is not the way it is done," Mother Kashur said curtly. Irritated, she cufFcd the boy. Durotan was young and fit; the lengthy hike to the sacred mountain of the ancestors was as nothing to him. She, on the other hand, would have deeply appreciated being able to ride atop her great black wolf Drcamwalkcr. But the traditions were ancient and specific, and as long as she was able to walk, walk she would. Durotan bowed his head in acknowledgment as Theycontinued on.

  Despite the fact that each trip exhausted her more than the previous one, Mother Kashur felt a sense of excitement that helped temper the pain and weariness. She had taken many a youngling—both male and female, for each was as valued as the other—on this final part of their rite of adulthood. But never before had she been asked to bring one before the ancestors. She was not too old to be curious.

  It was less than a few hours for the young, about a day for the older bones to make the trip. Evening was coming and they were almost there. Mother Kashur looked up at the familiar shape of the mountain and smiled. Unlike other mountain ranges, whose angles seemed to be random. Oshu'gun's spire was a perfect triangle. Gleaming like crystal, its facets catching the sun. it resembled the surrounding terrain not at all. It had come from the heavens, long ago, and the spirits had been drawn to it. It was for this reason the ores had settled here, in its sacred shadow. Whatever squabbles and petty differences they had as living beings, they were as one here, inside this mountain. She would go there again soon, she knew, but not as a hobbling, elderly woman. This was her last visit in such a broken vessel. The next time Kashur approached Oshu'gun, she would come as a spirit, floating in the air as the birds did, her heart light and clean and made new.

  "What's wrong, Mother?" Durotan asked, concern in his young voice. She blinked, coming out of her reverie, and smiled at him.

  "Not a thing," she assured him truthfully.

  The shadows had chased away the sunlight by the time they reached the foot of the mountain. They would sleep here tonight and begin their ascent at dawn. Durotan fell asleep first, wrapped in the hide of the talbuk doc he himself had slain not too long ago, and Mother Kashur watched him fondly as he slept the deep sleep of the innocent. She herself would have no dreams; her mind needed to be clear if she was to be ready to receive visions on the morrow.

  The climb was a long, tiring one, harder by far than the simple hike to reach the mountain, and Kashur was grateful both for her sturdy staff and Durotan's strong hand. But today, Kashur's feet seemed to move more surely her lungs work more efficiently as she and her young charge climbed. She felt as if the ancestors were pulling her forward, aiding her physical body with the power of their spirit ones.

  They paused at the entrance of the sacred cave. It was a perfect oval in the smooth surface of the mountain, and as always, Kashur felt as though she were entering the womb of the earth. Durotan tried to look brave, but succeeded only in looking slighdy nervous. Mother Kashur did not smile at him. He should be nervous. He was about to enter sacred space at the specific request of one of his long-dead ancestors. Even she was not unmoved.

  She lit a bundle of dried grasses that gave off a sweet, pungent scent, and waved the smoke over him to purify him. Then she marked him with the blood his own father had shed for this moment, kept carefully in a small stoppered leather bag. Kashur placed her withered hand upon his smooth, low brow, murmured her blessing, and then nodded.

  "You well know that few are called before the ancestors who do not walk the path of the shaman," she said

  gravely. Brown eyes wide, Durotan nodded. "I do not know what will happen. Maybe nothing. But if something occurs, you know to behave with honor and respect to the beloved dead."

  Durotan swallowed and nodded again. Then he took a deep breath and stood straight and tall, and in the yet-unmolded body of the boy, Kashur saw a hint of the clan chieftain to come.

  Together, they went inside, Mother Kashur going first to light the torches that lined the walls. The orange illumination showed them the downward twining path, worn smooth by years of bare or booted orc feet. Here and there steps had been carved, to make those pilgrim's feet more secure. It was always cool inside this tunnel, warmer than it was outside in winter. Kashur let her hand brush the sides of the wall, remembering the first time she had come here long ago, the blood of her mother wet on her own face, her eyes wide, her heart racing.

  Finally, the long, gentle downward slope cased. There were no more torches on the wall to light, and Durotan looked at her, puzzled.

  "We will not need to bring fire to come before the ancestors," Kashur said. They continued on a level surface, traveling into darkness. Durotan was not frightened, but he did look confused as they left the comfort of fire behind.

  Now it was completely dark. Kashur reached out a hand and grasped Durotan's to guide him. His strong. stubby fingers folded gently around hers. Even now, when he might be expected to clutch my hand, he remembers how it aches, she thought. The next Frostwolf chieftain would have a considerate heart.

  They continued without speaking. And then ... subtly, like the arrival of dawn after a long, dark night, light began to grow around them. Now Kashur could dimly see the shape of the youth who stood beside her, so much younger than she and yet already walking in the body of a grown male. She watched him as they moved forward; the miracle of the cave of the ancestors was familiar to her, but Durotan's reaction was not.

  His eyes widened and he inhaled swiftly as he looked around. The glow emanated from a pool in the center of the cavern, casting a soft white light over everything. All was smooth and soft and dimly radiant; there were
no sharp angles or rough places, and Kashur felt the familiar sensation of deep peace wash over her. She let Durotan look his fill in silence. The cavern was huge, larger than the main drumming and dancing area at the Kosh'harg festival, and branching tunnels led to places that Kashur had never dared explore. It would have to be so large, would it not, to be able to host the spirit of every orc who had lived and died? She walked to the water and he followed her, watching her closely. She removed the pack she carried and gestured that he do likewise. Carefully, Kashur removed several watcrskins, opened them, and with a soft prayer added their water to the glowing liquid.

  "You asked about the watcrskins as we departed," she said quietly to Durotan, "The water in here is not native to this place. Long ago, we began offering blessed water to the spirits. Every time we come, we contribute to the sacred pool. And even so, I know not how, the water docs not dissipate as it would in an ordinary hollow. Such is the power of the Mountain of Spirits."

  Once she had emptied the watcrskins, she sat down with a soft grunt and peered into the luminous depths. Durotan emulated her. She knew the angle at which she could see her reflection and made sure they were both positioned correctly. At first, all she could see was her own face and that of Durotan. Their features looked spectral themselves, reflected in a white pool rather than a dark one.

  Then a third figure joined them, as if Grandfather Tal'kraa were standing right beside her shoulder, his reflection as clear as theirs. Their eyes met, and Kashur smiled.

  She craned her neck to look up at him, but Durotan continued to gaze into the water as if searching for the answers there. Kashur's heart sank a little, but immediately she reprimanded herself. If Durotan was not of the shamanic path, then he was not of the shamanic path. Surely his destiny would be an honorable one regardless, born to lead his clan as he had been.

  "My many times great granddaughter," Tal'kraa said with more gentleness than Kashur had ever heard from him before. "You have brought him, as I asked." Leaning heavily on a staff as insubstantial as he, the spirit of the Grandfather moved in a slow circle around Durotan as the young orc continued to look into the water. Kashur watched both Frostwolf males closely. Durotan shivered and looked about, no doubt wondering where the sudden chill came from. Kashur smiled to herself. He could not see his ancestor's spirit, but he knew, somehow, that Tal'kraa was there.

  "You cannot see him," she said a bit sadly,

  Durotan's head came up and his nostrils flared. Swiftly, he got to his feet. In the eerie light, his tusks looked blue and his skin had a green cast to it.

  "No, Mother. I cannot. But ... is an ancestor present?"

  "Indeed he is," Kashur said. She turned her attention to the ghost. "I did bring him here, as you requested. How do you find him?"

  Durotan swallowed hard, but remained standing straight and tall as the spirit circled him thoughtfully.

  "I sensed . . . something," Tal'kraa said. "I had thought he would be a shaman, but if he cannot see me now, then he never will. But although he will not see spirits or summon the elements, he is born to a great destiny. He will be an important asset to the Frostwolf clan ... indeed, to all his people."

  "He will be ... a hero?" Kashur asked, her breath catching. All ores strove to uphold a code of courage and honor, but only a few were powerful enough to have their names engraved upon the memory of their

  descendants. At her words Durotan inhaled swiftly, and she could see the wanting on his face.

  "I cannot tell," said Tal'kraa, frowning a little. "Teach him well, Kashur, for one thing is certain: From his line will come salvation."

  In a gesture of tenderness the likes of which Kashur had never seen, Tal'kraa reached out and brushed an insubstantial finger across Durotan's check, Durotan's eyes went wide and Kashur could see he had to fight the natural instinct to draw back, but Durotan did not quail beneath the spectral caress.

  Then, like mist on a hot day, Tal'kraa was gone. Kashur stumbled a little; she always forgot how the energy of the spirits fed her. Durotan stepped forward quickly to catch her arm, and she was grateful for his youthful strength.

  "Mother, are you all right?" he asked. She gripped his arm and nodded. His first concern was for her, not for what the ancestor might or might not have said about him. Even as she pondered the words, she decided not to tell Durotan of them. Level-headed and great-hearted though he was, such a prophecy could corrupt even the truest of orcish hearts.

  From his line will come salvation.

  "I am all right," she reassured him, "But these bones are no longer young, and the energy of the spirits is powerful,"

  "I wish I could have seen him," Durotan said a bit wistfully. "But. .. but I know I felt him." "You did, and that is more than most are honored with." Kashur said.

  "Mother . . . can you tell me what he said? About— about me being a hero?"

  He was trying to act calm and mature, but a note of pleading crept in. She did not blame him. All wanted to live on in glorious memory, through tales told of their adventures. He would not be an orc if he did not share that desire.

  "Grandfather Tal'kraa said it was uncertain," she said bluntly. He nodded and hid his disappointment well. That much was all she had planned to say, but something moved her to add, "You have a destiny to fulfill, Durotan, son of Garad. Be not a fool in battle and die before you can fulfill it."

  He chuckled then. "A fool docs not serve his clan well, and that is what I wish to do."

  "Then, future chieftain," said Kashur, chuckling also, "you had best be about finding a mate."

  And she laughed out loud as, for the first time on their journey together, Durotan looked completely unnerved.

  FIVE

  Upon reflection, so Drek'Tliar tells me, this time in our history was as a perfect day in early summer. We ores had everything we truly needed: a hospitable world, the ancestors to guide us, the elements to aid us as they saw fit. Food was plentiful, our enemies were fierce but not invincible, and we were rich with blessings. If the draenei were not necessarily our allies, neither were they foe. They shared their knowledge and their bounty whenever they were asked; it was we, the orcs,who always held back. And it is we, the orcs,who would unwittingly be twisted to serve another's end.

  Hate is powerful. Hate can be eternal. Hate can be manipulated.

  And hate can be created.

  In the darkness visible, ageless, timeless, Kil’jaeden dwelt. The power surged and throbbed through him, better than blood now, more nourishing than meat or drink, heady and calming at the same time. He was not omnipotent, not yet, or else worlds would fall before him with a thought rather than through battle and destruction, and on the whole, he was content with this.

  But they yet lived, die exiles. Kil’jaeden could sense them, though centuries had passed according to those to whom time still mattered. They were lying low, Velen and die rest of the fools. Too cowardly to face him and Archimonde, who had worked as his friend and ally through the . . . changes ... as he had when they were simple beings.

  He, Archimonde, and the others no longer thought of themselves as "credar." Velen would call them "man'ari," but they called themselves the Burning Legion. Sargeras's army. The chosen ones.

  He extended a scarlet hand, long and elegant and clawed, into the nothingness that was everything and felt it ripple beneath his inquiry. Scouts had been dispatched the moment the enemy had escaped, scouts who reported nothing but failure. Archimonde wanted them to die for their lack of success, but Kil’jaeden opted otherwise. Those who feared, fled, he had good cause to know. Those who sniffed reward and their lord's approval stayed, hungering for it. So while Kil’jaeden made his disapproval known, those who had failed him usually got a second chance. Or third, if he believed them to be doing all they could and not simply coasting on his goodwill.

  Archimonde disagreed on this obsession that occupied Kil’jaeden.

  "There are worlds aplenty to conquer and devour, in service to our master Sargeras," Archimonde rumbled.
The blackness glowed around them as his voice pierced it. "Let the fool go. We would sense it if he used his talents on any level that would pose a threat. Let him rot on some world, bereft of everything that mattered to him."

  Kil’jaeden slowly turned his massive head to regard the other demon lord.

  "It is not about rendering him powerless," Kil’jaeden hissed. "It is about destroying him and those foolish enough to have followed him. It is about crushing him for his lack of faith. For his stubbornness. For his refusal to think about what was best for all of us."

  The large, clawed hand turned into a fist and the sharp nails dug into the palm. Molten fire poured forth, then the flow stopped as it hit what passed for air, leaving a thick ridge like a scar. Kil’jaeden's body was covered with many such welts; he took pride in them.

  Archimonde was powerful, elegant, smooth, intelligent. But he lacked the burning desire for utter obliteration that Kil’jaeden nursed. He had explained it time and again, and now simply sighed and opted not to discuss the matter further. For centuries now, they had had this argument; no doubt they would continue to have it for centuries more ... or until Kil’jaeden succeeded in the destruction of the being who had once been his closest friend. Perhaps that was it. Kil’jaeden mused with a sudden enlightenment. Archimonde had never had particular feelings for Velen other than as a fellow leader of the eredar. Kil’jaeden had loved Velen as a brother, closer than that, loved him almost as another aspect of himself

  And then . ..

  Again the huge hand clenched, and again unholy fire poured forth in lieu of blood.

  No.

  It would not be enough to think of Velen sitting on some backwater world, nursing his hurt pride, living off the land in some cave. Kil’jaeden once would have said he wanted blood. But blood, powerful in its own way as it was, would not satisfy him now. He wanted the essence of shame, of utter and complete humiliation. That would be even sweeter than the copperytaste of life flowing from Velen and his stupid followers.