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  Orgrim snorted derisively. "For myself as well, but when I left the camp, Blackhand was still raging against the shaman. He does not see what you and I do."

  It was not Durotan's place to speak ill of another clan leader, but neither was it any secret what most ores thought of Blackhand. He was certainly a powerful ore, fully in his prime, bigger and stronger than any orc Durotan had ever seen. And he was also certainly not stupid. But there was an air about him that raised Durotan's hackles. Durotan decided to hold his tongue.

  "I see your struggle even in the darkness, my old friend," Orgrim said quietly. "You do not have to speak for me to know what you would say. He is my chieftain, I have sworn loyalty to him and I will not break that oath. But even I have my misgivings."

  The admission startled Durotan. "You do?"

  Orgrim nodded. "I am torn, Durotan; torn between my loyalties and what my mind and heart tell mc. May you never be put in such a position. As second, I can help moderate him somewhat, but not much. He is clan leader, and he has the power. I can only hope that he will listen to others tomorrow and not stubbornly sit on his wounded pride."

  Durotan fervently shared that hope. If things were indeed as bad as Ner’zhul's expression seemed to indicate, the last thing he wanted to see was the leader of one of the most powerful clans behaving like a spoiled child.

  His eye fell upon a dark shape on Orgrim's back. Pride and sorrow both flooded him as he spoke. "You carry the Doomhammer now. I did not know of your father's passing."

  "He died bravely and well," Orgrim said. He hesitated, then said, "Do you remember that day long ago when We ran afoul of the ogre and the draenei saved us?"

  "I could never forget it," Durotan said.

  "Their prophet spoke of the time when I would receive the Doomhammer," Orgrim said. "I was so excited at the thought of wielding it in the hunt. That was the first time ! understood—I mean really understood—that the day it became my weapon would be the day I would be fatherless."

  He unstrapped the weapon from his back and hoisted it. It was like watching a dancer. Durotan thought—a balance of power and grace. The moon shone down upon Orgrim's strong body as he moved, crouched, sprang, swung. Finally, breathing heavily and sweating, Orgrim replaced the legendary weapon.

  "It is a glorious thing." Orgrim said quietly. "A weapon of power. A weapon of prophecy. The pride of my lineage. And I would shatter it into a thousand pieces with my own hands if it would bring my father back."

  Without another word, Orgrim strode back toward the small cluster of twinkling fires. Durotan made no move to follow. He sat for a long time, staring up at the stars, sensing deep within his soul that the world he would behold upon awakening tomorrow would be radically different than the one he had known all his life.

  SEVEN

  I know well that we lost more than we gained, we ores. At that point, our culture was unspoiled, innocent, pure. We were like children who had always been safe, loved, and protected. But children need to grow up, and we as a people were too easily manipulated.

  There is a place for trust; no one can accuse me of not knowing this. But we must also be careful. Those who have fair faces can deceive, and even those whom we believe in with all our souls can beguiled.

  It is the loss of our innocence that I lament when I think back to what those days must have been like. And it was our innocence that led to our downfall.

  It was a long line of solemn faces that turned to look at die gathered leaders of the orc clans. Durotan stood next to Draka, his arm about her waist in a protective gesture, although he was not sure why he felt she needed defending. His eyes widened as they met Drek’Thar's and he saw in his friend and advisor's face something that chilled him to the bone.

  He wished he could stand with Orgrim, They were of different clans and different traditions, but other than his intended, there was no one Durotan trusted more. But Orgrim, of course, stood beside his chieftain Blackhand, who looked around at the gathered shaman with thinly concealed annoyance.

  "He has been too long away from the hunt, that one," Draka murmured, nodding in Blackhand's direction. "He is spoiling for a fight."

  Durotan sighed. "He may well get it. Look at their faces."

  "I have never seen Drek’Thar so, not even when Mother Kashur's body was broken," Draka said.

  Durotan did not reply, merely nodded and continued to observe.

  Ner’zhul strode forward into the center of the gathered crowd. Everyone moved back to give him room. He began to walk sunwise in a circle, murmuring. Then he paused and lifted his hands. Fire burst forth in front of him, leaping skyward in a display that brought soft sounds of appreciation even from those who had seen such things many times before. It stood, towering over them for a long moment, then subsided, settling down to become a traditional bonfire, albeit a magical one.

  "As the darkness falls, in more ways than one, sit you beside the fire," Ner’zhul commanded. "Let each clan

  sit to itself, with its own shaman, and I will call you forth to speak when the time is right."

  "Perhaps you wish us to fetch a slain beast for you, too," came a fierce, angry voice. "And lie obediently at your feet at night!"

  Durotan knew that voice; he had heard it raised often enough at the Kosh'harg festivals in his youth, and had heard its owner utter cries to chill the blood during hunts. It was distinctive and unmistakable. He turned to look at Grom Hcllscream, the youthful leader of the Warsong clan, and hoped that the outburst would not overly delay whatever it was Ner’zhul had to tell them all.

  Hcllscream stood in the front of his clan, more slender man most orcs,but still tall and imposing. The Warsong colors were red and black, and while Hcllscream wore no armor, the simple learners in those strong hues served to send an imposing message nonetheless. He folded his arms and glared at Ner’zhul.

  Ner’zhul did not rise to the bait, merely sighed deeply. "Many of you feel your honor is offended, this I know. Give me leave to speak, and you will be glad that you are here. Your children's children will be glad of it."

  Hcllscream growled and his eyes flashed, but he said no more. He stood for a moment longer, then with a shrug, as if to indicate that it was by his own will, he sat. His clan followed his lead.

  Ner’zhul waited until there was quiet, and then began to speak. "I have had a vision." he said, "from one of the ancestors whom I trust more than I can possibly say. She has revealed to me a threat, lurking like a poisonous scorpion under a flowering bush. All the other shaman can attest to this, and the)I will, once they have opportunity to speak. It grieves and infuriates me that we have been so duped."

  Durotan hung on the shaman's words, his heart racing. Who was this mysterious enemy? How had so dark a foe escaped their notice?

  Ner’zhul sighed, looking down on the ground, then shook himself. His voice was deep and confident, if laced with sorrow.

  "The enemy of which I speak," he said heavily, "is the draenei."

  Chaos erupted.

  Durotan stared, disbelieving. He looked around, seeking Orgrim's gaze, and stared into his friend's wide, gray eyes, seeing there the same stunned shock that he himself felt. The draenei? Surely something was wrong. The gronn, yes, perhaps they had stumbled across some secret knowledge to use against the hated ores .. . but no. Not the draenei.

  They were not even fighters on the level that the ores were. They hunted, yes, that was true, but they needed meat as much as any orc in order to survive. They could stand against the gronn, and sometimes had assisted a hunting party a time or two. Durotan's thoughts went back to the day when two young ore

  children were fleeing before an ogre whose footsteps made the earth tremble, and the tall, blue figures that had appeared out of nowhere to save them.

  Why would they risk themselves to save two boys if they were truly as methodically evil as Ner’zhul believed? It made no sense. Nothing about any of this made sense.

  Ner’zhul was clamoring for silence, and not getting it. B
tackhand was on his feet, veins standing out in his thick neck, while Orgrim was doing what he could to placate his chieftain. Then a terrible noise pierced the air, shattering the cars and almost stopping the heart. Grom Hcllscrcam stood as well, his head thrown back, his chest thrust forward and his black jaw open so wide it seemed almost to have unhinged itself like a snake's. Nothing could compete with Hcllscrcam's war cry, and stunned silence ensued.

  Grom opened his eyes and grinned at Ner’zhul, who seemed completely nonplussed at having a former antagonist become an ally so quickly.

  "Let the shaman continue." Hcllscrcam said. So utter was the silence after his outburst that the words were heard by all, even though they were spoken in a conversational tone. "I want to hear more of this new, old enemy."

  Ner’zhul smiled gratefully. "I know this startles you. It shocked me as well. But the ancestors do not lie. These seemingly benevolent people have been waiting for years until the time is right to attack us. They sit safely behind their strange buildings made of materials we do not understand, and they harbor secrets that could benefit us greatly."

  "But why?" Durotan spoke even before he himself realized he had. Heads turned to look at him, but he did not back down. "Why do they want to attack us? If they harbor such vast secrets, what do they need from us? And how could we possibly defeat them if this is true?"

  Ner’zhul looked discomfited. "That, I do not know, but I do know that the ancestors are concerned."

  "We outnumber them," Blackhand growled.

  "Not by that much," Durotan shot back. "Not against their superior knowledge. They came here on a ship that sails between worlds. Blackhand. Think you they will fall to arrows and axes?"

  Blackhand's heavy brows drew together. He opened his mouth to retort.

  "This has been simmering like a stew on the fire for many decades," Ner’zhul interrupted, forestalling the argument. "Resolution and eventual victory will not come overnight. I do not ask you to go to war this moment, but simply to be aware. To prepare. To discuss with your shaman the right course of action. And to open your minds and hearts to a union that will ensure triumph."

  He spread his hands imploringly. "We are separate clans, yes, each with its own traditions and heritage. I am not asking you to give up that proud history, merely asking you to open your minds to a unity that

  takes clans that are strong alone and turns them into an unstoppable force. We are all orcs! Blackrock, Warsong, Thundcrlord, Dragonmaw . . . don't you see how little those distinctions matter? We are the same people! In the end, we want safe homes for our young, success in the hunt, mates who love us, honor among the ancestors. We are more alike than different."

  Durotan knew this to be true and glanced over at his friend. Orgrim stood behind his chieftain, tall and imposing and solemn. Yet when he felt Durotan's gaze on him, he met that gaze and nodded.

  There had been those who had protested this unusual friendship between two adventuresome and, Durotan had to admit, trouble-prone youths. But Durotan would not be who he was today if he had not drawn from Orgrim's steady strength; and he knew in his bones that Orgrim felt the same about him.

  But the draenei...

  "May I speak?"

  The voice belonged to Drek'Thar, and Durotan turned, surprised. The question seemed to be addressed not only to his chieftain, but to the shaman who had been a mentor to all of them. Ner’zhul looked at Durotan, who nodded.

  "My chieftain," Drek'Thar said, and to Durotan's shock his voice trembled, "my chieftain, what Ner’zhul has said is true. Mother Kashur confirmed it."

  The other Frostwolf shaman nodded. Durotan stared at them. Mother Kashur? If there was anyone Durotan trusted, it was that wise old ore. His mind went back to the moment when he stood in the cavern, feeling the cold air that was not air on his face, listening and watching with every fiber of his being as Mother Kashur spoke to someone he could not see but who he knew was there,

  "Mother Kashur said the draenei are our enemies?" he asked, hardly able to believe his cars,

  Drek’Thar nodded.

  "It is time for the clan chieftains to listen to their own shaman, as Durotan has done," said Ner’zhul. "We will reconvene at twilight, and the chieftains will tell me their thoughts. These are the people you know and trust. Ask them what they have seen,"

  The gathered crowd began to disperse. Slowly, looking at one another cautiously, the Frostwolf clan wandered back to their own encampment. As one, they sat in a circle and turned their attention to Drek’Thar, who began to speak slowly and carefully.

  "The draenei are not our friends," he said. "My chieftain ... I know you and the Doomhammer Blackrock stayed with them one night, I know that you spoke well of them, I know that it appears that they saved your life. But let me ask you . . . did nothing strike you amiss?"

  Durotan recalled the ogre bearing down on them, bellowing in fury, its club swinging. And with an uncomfortable sensation, he recalled how very, very quickly the draenei appeared to rescue him and Orgrim. How they could not return home as it was so conveniently close to twilight.

  He frowned. It was an uncharitable thought, and yet...

  "Your brow furrows, my chieftain. I take it, then, that your youthful faith in them is now starting to wane?"

  Durotan did not answer, nor did he look at his clan's head shaman. He stared down at the earth, not wanting to feel this way, but unable to stop the doubt from creeping into his heart, like the cold fingers of a frosty morning.

  In his memory, he again spoke to Restalaan, telling the tall blue draenei, "We were not as we are now."

  "No, you are not," Restalaan had said. "We have watched the ores grow in strength and skill and talent. You have impressed us,"

  He felt again a sharp sting, as if the compliment were a carefully crafted insult. As if the draenei thought they were superior .. . even with their strange, unnatural blue skin, their legs shaped like those of common talbuks, with long, reptilian tails and shiny blue hooves instead of decent feet like the ores had—

  "Speak, my chieftain. What do you recall?"

  Durotan told him in a rough and heavy voice of the fortuitous arrival of the draenei, of Restalaan's near arrogance, "And . . . and Velen, their prophet, asked many questions about us, and he was not making idle conversation. He truly seemed to want to know about the ores." "Of course he did," Drek’Thar said. "What an opportunity! They have been plotting against us since they arrived. And to find two—forgive me. Durotan. but two young and naive children to tell them everything they wanted to know? It must have been quite an event."

  The ancestors would not lie to them, especially about something so important. Durotan knew this. And now that he recalled the events of that day and night in this new light of knowledge, it was obvious how suspicious Velen's actions had been. And yet . . . was Velen such a master of deceit that the sensation of trust both Orgrim and Durotan had felt had been all a lie?

  Durotan bowed his head.

  "There is part of me that doubts yet, my friends," he said quietly. "And yet, I cannot stake the future of our people on such thin ice as my own personal doubts. Ner’zhul did not propose an assault tomorrow. He asked for us to train, and watch, and prepare, and draw closer as a people. This I will do, for the good of the Frostwolves and the good of the ores."

  He looked at each worried face in turn, some merely friends, some, like Drek’Thar and Draka, known and loved.

  "The Frostwolf clan will prepare for war."

  EIGHT

  How easily the mind can be turned to hate from a place of fear—an instinctive, natural, protective response. Instead of focusing on the things that unite us, we focus on what divides us. My skin is green; yours is pink. I have tusks; you have long ears. Mysfein is bare;yours is covered with fir. I breathe air; you do not. If we had dung to such things, the Burning Legion would not have been defeated, for I would never have wished to ally with Jaina Proudmoore, or fight alongside elves. My people would then not have survived to befriend the ta
uren, or the forsaken.

  So it was with draenei. Our skin was reddish-brown then; theirs was blue. We had feet, they had hooves and a tail. We lived mostly in the open, they lived in enclosed spaces. We had a fairly short life span; no one knew how long-lived they were.

  Nevermind that they had shown us nothing but courtesy and openness. That they had traded with us, taught us, shared whatever they were asked to share. That had no bearing now. We had heard from the ancestors, and we saw with our own eyes how different they were.

  My prayer, every day, is for wisdom to guide my people. And in that prayer is couched a plea, never to be blinded by such trivial differences.

  The training began. It had always been custom among nearly every clan to begin training the younglings once they celebrated their sixth year, but previously, the training had been serious but relaxed. Weapons were for hunting animals, not sentient beings who had their own weapons and skills and technological advantages, and there were plenty of hunters who could easily bring down prey. A young orc learned at his or her own pace, and there was plenty of time for play and enjoying simply being young.

  No longer.

  The plea for unity among the ores was answered. The couriers exhausted their beasts riding to and fro between clans carrying messages. At one point some bright fellow came up with the idea of training bloodhawks to carry the letters. It took some doing and did not happen overnight, but gradually, Durotan grew used to seeing the scarlet birds fluttering to Drek’Thar and others in the clan. He approved of the idea; every warm body was needed if battle plans were to be successful.

  While spears, arrows, axes, and other weapons worked well against the animals of the fields and

  forests, they would need to be supplemented with other types of weapons if they were to be used against the draenei. Protection would be vital, and whereas before the smiths and lcathcrcraftcrs focused on armor that would blunt attacks from claws and teeth, now they had to create things that would save the wearer if he were impaled or slashed by a sword. Those who understood the craft of smithing had been few previously; now, the master smiths found themselves teaching dozens at a time. The forges rang day and night with the sound of hammers and the hiss of hot metal being plunged into water barrels. Many spent long days swinging picks, forcing the earth to yield the necessary minerals for crafting weapons and metal armor. Hunts, which had been conducted as the need arose, now were daily events, as food needed to be dried and preserved and skins were required for armor.