“Khadgar’s right,” Terenas said as they watched her walk away. “We’ll each need to rally our troops and gather supplies, and right away.” The other kings nodded. Even Greymane was quietly compliant—the thought of the Horde returning had shocked any griping clean out of him. Together they moved toward the doors, heading back into the courtyard and from there toward the massive front archway they had first passed under not an hour before.
“Aye, go,” Khadgar whispered as he watched the kings depart. “Go, and rouse the Sons of Lothar. I just pray it is not too late.”
CHAPTER THREE
The axe shrieked as it arced downward, catching the light and glinting brightly, thirsting for blood. Its wielder laughed in a manic harmony, opening his black-tattooed jaw almost impossibly wide in the scream that had given him his name. Long black hair whipped behind him as he moved, red eyes glowing, slashing at the imaginary foe again and again, honing his moves so that in a real battle, his enemy would be so much raw meat. Grom Hellscream grunted and whirled and turned, sheer power tempered by skill, until the sound of his name being called pulled him from the red haze that descended at such times, even in a mere exercise such as this.
“Grom!”
Grom Hellscream lowered Gorehowl, panting only slightly from the vigorous exertion, and glanced up to see an older but imposing figure stomping toward him.
“Kargath,” he replied, waiting until the Shattered Hand chieftain had reached him. They clasped hands—right hands; Kargath’s left hand had been severed long ago and replaced with a wicked-looking scythe’s blade.
“Well met.”
“Well met to many, it seems,” the older chieftain said, nodding to where more orcs were gathering. “Ner’zhul sent emissaries to every clan, or so I was told.” Grom nodded, his black-tattooed jaw setting into a grim line. Some of those emissaries had been his, sent at the old shaman’s request.
“He is planning something.” Grom shouldered the massive axe and together the two leaders turned and walked across the valley, toward the ruins of the Dark Portal, passing warriors from both clans. Glares and sharp words were flying here and there, but at least no one was fighting. Yet. “But what?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kargath replied. “Anything is better than this!” He ran his fingers absently along his scythe’s edge. “These past two years we’ve sat and done nothing. Nothing! And why? Because the Alliance defeated us? So what? Because the portal was destroyed? Surely they can craft another! There has to be someone we can fight, else we’ll sit and molder like so much rotten meat!”
Grom nodded. Kargath was a creature of combat, pure and simple—he lived to fight and to kill. Grom could appreciate that, and what Kargath said had merit. They were a combative race, the orcs, and constant struggle honed their wits and strengthened their limbs. Without that they grew soft. He had kept his own people sharp by warring against the other clans, and he suspected Kargath had done the same, though their two clans had not skirmished. Still, one could attack patrols and scouting parties only so often before it led to true war, and warring against his own kind did not interest him. When Ner’zhul had formed the Horde, he had united the clans into a single massive unit. And even after all this time Grom still thought of them that way. When his Warsong warriors fought the Thunderlords or the Redwalkers or the Bladewinds, they were battling their fellow warriors, orcs they should have been fighting alongside instead of against. During combat he still felt the same bloodlust, the same savage joy as Gorehowl tore a shrieking path through his foes, but afterward he felt empty, hollow, and slightly unclean.
What had happened? he wondered as they approached the ruins and the figure standing before them. Where had the Horde gone wrong? They had outnumbered the blades of grass that had once covered the plains and the drops of water comprising the ocean! When they marched, the thunder of their footsteps shattered mountains! How could such an army fail?
It was Gul’dan’s fault. Grom was sure of it. The lifeless plains that had once been covered in grain and grass, the trees that had withered and blackened, the skies that had grown dark and red as blood—all that had been caused by the warlocks and their quest for powers never meant for orcish hands. But it was more than that. They had doomed Draenor, all of them, but Gul’dan had been behind the warlocks’ every move. And it was his fault that the Horde had failed to conquer that other world and claim it as their own. After all, the wily warlock had convinced Grom to stay behind on Draenor during the first battle, instead of taking his rightful place at the vanguard.
“We need you here,” Gul’dan had claimed. “You and your Warsong clan are some of our finest, and we need to hold you in reserve, just in case. We also need someone to stay here on Draenor and protect our interests, someone powerful, someone we can trust. Someone like you.” Grom had been a fool, letting the warlock’s flattery lure him from his path. He had watched as Blackhand and Orgrim Doomhammer led the Horde through the portal into that strange place called Azeroth. And he had watched as reports came back, reports of their initial successes and then of their ultimate failures.
Grom growled softly beneath his breath. If only he had been there! He could have turned that final battle around, he was sure of it—with his help Doomhammer could have conquered that human city by the lake and still sent forces to crush the traitorous Gul’dan and his cohorts. Then they could have claimed Lordaeron and spread out from there, sweeping across the land until no one was left to stand against them.
Grom shook his head. The past was past. Blackhand was dead, his old friend Durotan was dead, Doomhammer was captured, the Dark Portal was destroyed, Gul’dan was gone, and the Horde was a shadow of its former glory.
But perhaps some of that was about to change.
He and Kargath had reached the portal now, and he could see the waiting figure clearly. Ner’zhul’s hair was completely gray now, but otherwise the Shadowmoon chieftain and former Horde leader looked as powerful as ever. Then he turned in Grom’s direction.
The Warsong clan leader growled and jerked in surprise as he got his first good look at the shaman’s face. White paint adorned Ner’zhul’s cheeks, upper lip, nose, brow, and forehead, turning them white as bone. And that was clearly the intent, Grom realized. The old shaman had masked his face to resemble a skull.
“Grom Hellscream and Kargath Bladefist!” Ner’zhul called out, his voice still strong and clear. “Welcome!”
“Why have you summoned us?” Kargath said bluntly, wasting no words.
“I have news,” the shaman answered. “News, and a plan.”
Grom snorted. “For two long years you have hidden away from us. How can you have news?” he said, anger and doubt in his voice. He gestured at Ner’zhul’s painted face. “You let Gul’dan supplant you, you refused to drink from the chalice, and you sulk like a marmot in its burrow. Now you announce you have a plan, and emerge from your seclusion wearing the face of the dead—I do not think I want to hear what sort of plan that involves.”
He could hear the pain in his own voice. Despite all that had happened with Gul’dan, despite his distrust of advisers and shaman and warlocks alike these past few years, he wanted Ner’zhul to still be the shaman Grom remembered from his youth, the strong, stern, wise orc who had forged the fractious clans into a single fighting unit. Despite his scathing words, Grom wanted to be proven wrong.
Ner’zhul touched the white skull on his face and sighed deeply. “Long have I dreamed of death. I have seen him, spoken with him. I have seen the death of my people, the death of all I have loved. And this—this image I wear to honor that. I did not wish to come forth, but I now believe that I owe it to my people to lead them once more.”
“Lead as you did before?” Kargath cried. “Lead us to betrayal? To defeat? I will send you to that death which you are so enamored of with this very hand if you attempt to so lead us, Ner’zhul!” He brandished his scythe-hand at the shaman.
Ner’zhul began to reply but stopped as he spotted something
behind them. Turning, Grom saw a hulking figure approaching, an ogre judging by the way it towered over the orcs it passed.
“What news, Dentarg?” Ner’zhul called out as his assistant crossed the clearing that separated the portal ruins from the orcs milling about. “I sent you to locate the other clans and summon them here—as I told you two to do as well,” he reminded Grom and Kargath. “Yet I see only Shadowmoon, Warsong, and Shattered Hand in this valley. Where are the rest?”
“Lightning’s Blade said they would attend,” Grom assured him. “They have a long way to travel, so it may take them another day or two.” He shook his head. “Neither Thunderlord nor Laughing Skull listened, however.” He growled. “They were too busy slaughtering each other.”
“This is precisely why we need to act!” Ner’zhul cried. “We are killing ourselves and each other if we sit and do nothing!” He bared his teeth in a grimace. “All the work we did—all that I did—to forge the Horde is crumbling away, the clans splintering off and fighting with one another. If we do not act soon we will be reduced to the old ways once more, with the clans meeting only in battle save the yearly gatherings—if that!”
“What did you expect to happen while you hid away for two years?” Grom snapped. “We understand that you were wounded by the explosion. But then, even after your wounds had healed, you never came out. Long we waited for your counsel, but it never came. Of course we went our own ways! Of course we began fighting with one another. You abandoned us so you could dream your dreams of death, Ner’zhul. And this is the result.”
“I know,” Ner’zhul said softly, in pain. Grom’s further angry words died on his lips in the face of that grief and shame.
“The Bladewind clan will join us,” Kargath continued, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “But Redwalker refused. They said the Horde is nothing but a memory now, and each clan must look out for itself instead.” He snarled. “I would have slaughtered their chieftain then and there, if you had not ordered otherwise.”
“You would have been killed in return,” Ner’zhul pointed out, “or you would have slaughtered the entire clan making good your escape. I did not want to risk you, or lose them when there was a chance they might be persuaded.” He pursed his lips. “We will deal with them soon, however, never fear.” He glanced around. “What of the others?” His eyes narrowed. “What of the Bonechewers?”
That brought a snarl to Grom’s lips. “I sent emissaries to Hurkan Skullsplinter,” he said curtly. “He sent back assorted limbs.”
“They would be a great asset in battle,” Kargath mused, idly stroking his scythe. “The Bonechewers are a powerful force on the field.” Then he shook his head. “They have grown even wilder since the portal fell, however. They cannot be controlled, or trusted.”
Ner’zhul nodded. “What of the Whiteclaw clan?” he asked Dentarg.
The ogre frowned. “Dead, most of them,” he replied. “Mostly wiped out by other clans before the truth about Gul’dan and his warlocks came to light. Even after Durotan’s exile and death, the Whiteclaws never hid their sympathy for the Frostwolves, and it made them a target. Those who survived are scattered.” He shook his head. “In truth, it is a clan no more.”
Ner’zhul felt a shiver of guilt at the mention of Durotan. He had warned the now-dead leader of the Frostwolves once, seeking to undo some of the damage he had done, but in the end, it had been no use. Gul’dan’s Shadow Council had found Durotan, and slain one of the noblest orcs Ner’zhul had ever known.
But regret and self-pity would not serve. He focused again on Dentarg’s words, and let himself grow angry.
“The Whiteclaw clan was one of our oldest and proudest! Now they are little more than clanless savages? Is this what our race has fallen to? No more! We must rebuild the Horde and renew the bond between all orcs! Only as a united race can we have any hope of survival, of honor, and of glory!”
Dentarg dropped to his knees. “You know I live to serve you, master,” he said simply.
Grom gazed at the elderly orc, his brow knitting. “Tell us this plan of yours, Ner’zhul,” he stated, making sure his words carried to the orcs beyond the clearing. “Tell us—and if it is sound, we shall follow you.”
Kargath inclined his head. “I cast my word with Hellscream’s,” he said.
Ner’zhul regarded the three of them solemnly for a moment, then nodded. “We will wait until the Lightning’s Blade and Bladewind clans arrive,” Ner’zhul said. “Then we will go to the others again, the Thunderlord and the Laughing Skull and the Redwalker and even the Bonechewer clans. Our people must be united.”
“What if they refuse still?” Kargath growled.
“Then we will persuade them,” Ner’zhul replied, his grim tone leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Kargath roared his approval, raising his scythe high so it caught the light. Ner’zhul turned to Grom. “And you, Grom,” he said softly. “While we wait for the other clans, I will tell you my plan, and set you to a task.”
Grom’s red eyes glittered. “Tell me what you would have me do, and why.”
Ner’zhul smiled, the death mask on his face making it a rictus.
“There is something I need you to find.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Warsong, attack!”
Grom held Gorehowl high, letting the sunlight play along its blade. Then he leaped forward, swinging the axe in a great arc, the hollow space behind the haft shrieking as the blade cut through the air. Behind him his warriors waved and swirled and swung their own weapons, creating the unsettling shrieks and whistles and whoops for which the clan was named. Many began to sing as well, chanting tunes that were less about the words than about the rhythms, the pulse-pounding beats that fired their blood and at the same time made their enemies quail.
Except that, this time, the enemy wasn’t quailing—in part because many of them were too unaware to do so.
The first foe came within range, bellowing something inarticulate. Gorehowl caught him in the neck, slicing smoothly through flesh and bone and tendon. The head flew off, mouth still open in a shriek, the foam at its lips now joined with bloody spittle. The green body collapsed, though it made a feeble attempt to swing its hammer even as it fell. Blood spattered on Grom’s face like warm red rain. He grinned, his tongue snaking out to lick it from his lips. One less Bonechewer to worry about.
All around him the Warsong warriors were carving into the Bonechewer clan. Normally the Bonechewer orcs were crazed enough to strike fear into any heart, but Grom had prepared his warriors. “They are like wild beasts,” he had warned them. “They are savage and strong and know no fear or pain. But they have no sense, either, and they do not coordinate or even consider. They simply attack on instinct. You are the better fighters. Focus your minds, watch your flanks, work with your brothers, and we will sweep through them like a wind through the grass, laying waste to all before us.” His people had cheered, and so far it seemed they were remembering his words. But he wondered how long they could go before their own bloodlust took control, pushing aside all rational thought and causing them to abandon strategy just as their Bonechewer cousins had.
He felt it himself, that sweet hot feeling that quickened his pulse and made him thrum with energy. As Gorehowl split a charging Bonechewer from shoulder to hip, Grom felt the joy and rage swirling within him, dulling his mind, charging his senses, threatening to sweep him away on a tide of raw exultation. He wanted to surrender himself, to give in to the song of combat, to lose himself in the thrill of death and destruction and victory.
But he would not. He was Grom Hellscream, chieftain of the Warsong. He had his duty. And he would require a clear head to fulfill it.
A flurry of activity caught his eye. A massive orc lifted one of his warriors and hurled him bodily at a cluster of Warsong, then grabbed one of the fallen and wrenched an arm free to use as a gore-dripping club. This was the one Grom sought. Swift as thought, he closed the distance between them, cutting down any Bonechewer in his way and sho
ving his own warriors aside as well. At last he was facing the crazed orc with only a single body-length between them.
“Hurkan!” he bellowed, swinging Gorehowl in front of him both to clear a space and so its shrieking would cut through the combat sounds all around them. “Hurkan Skullsplinter!”
“Grom!” the Bonechewer chieftain shouted back, holding high the limb in his hands. It still spasmed slightly. “Look, I have one of your orcs! Part of him, anyway!” Hurkan laughed uproariously, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Call off your warriors, Hurkan!” Grom demanded. “Call them off or we will kill every last one of them!”
Hurkan raised the severed arm high in response, and around him many of his warriors stilled to hear what their leader had to say. “Do you think we fear death?” Hurkan asked with surprising calm.
“I know you don’t,” Grom replied. “But why throw your lives away here, fighting your own kind, when you could instead spend them slaughtering humans on Azeroth?”
That made the Bonechewer chieftain tilt his head. “Azeroth? The portal fell, Hellscream—or don’t you remember?” He grinned, a nasty expression that revealed his many broken teeth. “Not that you were ever allowed to set foot on that other world, of course.”
Grom’s head pounded and his vision turned red for a moment. He desperately wanted to wipe that sneer off Hurkan’s face, preferably with Gorehowl’s blade. But he knew his fellow chieftain was deliberately goading him, and used that knowledge to help resist the fury that so wanted to boil to the surface.
“You weren’t either,” he retorted, though he had to grit his teeth not to shout the words or simply spit them. “But now we will get our chance. Ner’zhul says he can open the portal again. The Horde will return to that world and conquer it at last.”
Beyond the Dark Portal Page 3