The wolf did not immediately rush forward. She took her time, ears twitching, dark eyes examining every orc present. Most of them already had companions, but many did not, particularly the younger ones. Uthul, who had become Thrall’s fast friend once Thrall had rebelled against his cruel treatment, now tensed. Thrall could tell that he wanted this lovely, graceful beast to Choose him.
The wolf’s eyes met Thrall’s, and it was as if a shock went through his entire body.
The female loped toward Thrall, and lay down at his side. Her eyes bored into his. Thrall felt a warm rush of kinship with this creature, although they were from two different species. He knew, without understanding quite how he knew, that she would be by his side until one of them left this life behind.
Slowly, Thrall reached to touch Snowsong’s finely shaped head. Her fur was so soft and thick. A warm wave of pleasure rushed over him.
The group grunted sounds of approval, and Uthul, though keenly disappointed, was the first to clap Thrall on the back.
“Tell us her name,” said Drek’Thar.
“Her name is Snowsong,” Thrall replied, again, not knowing how he knew. The wolf half-closed her eyes, and he sensed her satisfaction.
Drek’Thar finally revealed the reason for Durotan’s death one evening toward the end of winter. More and more, when the sun shone, they heard the sounds of melting snows. Thrall stood by that afternoon and watched respectfully as Drek’Thar performed a ritual to the spring snowmelt, asking that it alter its course only enough to avoid flooding the Frostwolf encampment. As always now, Snowsong stood at his side, a white, silent, faithful shadow.
Thrall felt something stir inside him. He heard a voice: We hear Drek’Thar’s request, and find it not unseemly. We shall not flow where you and yours dwell, Shaman.
Drek’Thar bowed, and closed the ceremony formally. “I heard it,” Thrall said. “I heard the snow answer you.”
Drek’Thar turned his unseeing eyes toward Thrall. “I know you heard it,” he said. “It is a sign that you are ready, that you have learned and understood all that I have to teach. Tomorrow, you will undergo your initiation. But tonight, come to my cave. I have things to say that you must hear.”
When darkness fell, Thrall appeared at the cave. Wise-ear, Drek’Thar’s wolf companion, whined happily. Drek’Thar waved Thrall inside.
“Sit,” he ordered. Thrall did so. Snowsong went to Wise-ear and they touched noses before curling up and quickly falling asleep. “You have many questions about your father and his fate. I have refrained from answering them, but the time has come that you must know. But first, swear by all you hold dear that you will never tell anyone what I am about to tell you, until you receive a sign that this must be said.”
“I swear,” said Thrall solemnly. His heart was beating fast. After so many years, he was about to learn the truth.
“You have heard that we were exiled by the late Gul’dan,” said Drek’Thar. “What you have not heard is why. No one knew the reason but your parents and myself, and that was as Durotan wished it to be. The fewer people who knew what he knew, the safer his clan.”
Thrall said nothing, but hung on Drek’Thar’s every word.
“We know now that Gul’dan was evil, and did not have the best interest of the orc people in his heart. What most do not know is how deeply he betrayed us, and what dreadful price we are now paying for what he did to us. Durotan learned, and for that knowledge he was exiled. He and Draka — and you, young Thrall — returned to the southlands to tell the mighty orc chieftain Orgrim Doomhammer of Gul’dan’s treachery. We do not know if your parents reached Doomhammer, but we do know that they were murdered for that knowledge.”
Thrall bit back the impatient cry, What knowledge? Drek’Thar paused for a long moment, then continued.
“Gul’dan only ever wanted power for himself, and he sold us into a sort of slavery to achieve it. He formed a group called the Shadow Council, and this group, comprised of himself and many evil orc warlocks, dictated everything the orcs did. They united with demons, who gave them their vile powers, and who infused the Horde with such a love of killing and fighting that the people forgot the old ways, the way of nature, and the shaman. They lusted only for death. You have seen the red fire in the eyes of the orcs in the camps, Thrall. By that mark, you know that they have been ruled by demon powers.”
Thrall gasped. He immediately thought of Hellscream’s bright scarlet eyes, of how wasted Hellscream’s body was. Yet Hellscream’s mind was his own. He had acknowledged the power of mercy, had not given in to either mad bloodlust or the dreadful lethargy he’d seen at the camps. Grom Hellscream must have faced the demons every day, and continued to resist them. Thrall’s admiration of the chieftain grew even more as he realized how strong Hellscream’s will must be.
“I believe that the lethargy you reported seeing in the camps is the emptiness our people are feeling when the demonic energies have been withdrawn. Without that external energy, they feel weak, bereft. They may not even know why they feel this way, or care enough to ponder it. They are like empty cups, Thrall, that were once filled with poison. Now they cry out to be filled with something wholesome once again. That which they yearn for is the nourishment of the old ways. Shamanism, a reconnection with the simple and pure powers of the natural forces and laws, will fill them again and assuage that dreadful hunger. This, and only this, will rouse them from their stupor and remind them of the proud, courageous line from which we have all come.”
Thrall continued to listen raptly, hanging on Drek’Thar’s every word.
“Your parents knew of the dark bargain. They knew that this bloodthirsty Horde was as unnatural a construct as could be imagined. The demons and Gul’dan had taken our people’s natural courage and warped it, twisted it for their own means. Durotan knew this, and for that knowledge his clan was banished. He accepted that, but when you were born, he knew he could no longer remain silent. He wanted a better world for you, Thrall. You were his son and heir. You would have been the next chieftain. He and Draka went into the southlands, as I have told you, to find their old friend Orgrim Doomhammer.”
“I know that name,” said Thrall. “He was the mighty Warchief who led all the clans together against the humans.”
Drek’Thar nodded. “He was wise and brave, a good leader of our people. The humans eventually were the victors, Gul’dan’s treachery — at least a pale shadow of its true depths — was discovered, and the demons withdrew. You know the rest.”
“Was Doomhammer killed?”
“We do not believe so, but nothing has been heard from him since. The odd rumor reaches us now and then, that he has become a hermit, gone into hiding, or that he has been taken prisoner. Many think of him as a legend, who will return to free us when the time is right.”
Thrall looked carefully at his teacher. “And what is it you think, Drek’Thar?”
The old orc chuckled deep in his throat. “I think,” he said, “that I have told you enough, and that it is time for you to rest. The morrow will bring your initiation, if it is meant to be. You’d best be prepared.”
Thrall rose and bowed respectfully. Even if the shaman could not see the gesture, he made it, for himself. “Come, Snowsong,” he called, and the white wolf padded obediently into the night with her life’s companion.
Drek’Thar listened, and when he was certain they had gone, he called to Wise-ear. “I have a task for you, my friend. You know what to do.”
Although he had tried to get as much rest as he could, Thrall found sleep elusive. He was too excited, too apprehensive, about what his initiation would bring. Drek’Thar had told him nothing. He wished desperately he had some kind of idea as to what to expect.
He was wide awake when the gray dawn filled his cave with faint light. He rose and made his way outside, and was surprised to find that everyone else was awake and gathered silently outside his cave.
Thrall opened his mouth to speak, but Drek’Thar held up a commanding hand.
“You are not to speak again until I give you leave,” he said. “Depart at once, to go alone into the mountains. Snowsong must stay. You are not to eat or drink, but think hard about the path upon which you are about to set foot. When the sun has set, return to me, and the rite will begin.”
Obediently, Thrall turned at once and left. Snow-song, knowing what was expected of her, did not follow. She did throw her head back and begin to howl. All the other wolves joined in, and the savage, sweet chorus accompanied Thrall as he went, alone, to meditate.
The day passed more swiftly than he would have expected. His mind was filled with questions, and he was surprised when the light changed and the sun, orange against the winter sky, began to move toward the horizon. He returned just as its last rays bathed the encampment.
Drek’Thar was waiting for him. Thrall noticed that Wise-ear was nowhere to be seen, which was unusual, but he assumed that this was part of the rite. Snowsong was also not present. He approached Drek’Thar and waited. The old orc gestured that Thrall follow.
He led Thrall over a snow-covered ridge to an area that Thrall had never seen before. In answer to the unvoiced question, Drek’Thar replied, “This place has always been here, but it does not wish to be seen. Therefore, only now, when it welcomes you, is it visible to you.”
Thrall felt nervousness rise in him, but refrained from speaking. Drek’Thar waved his hands, and the snow melted right before Thrall’s eyes, leaving a large, circular, rocky platform. “Stand in the center, Thrall, son of Durotan,” said Drek’Thar. His voice was no longer raspy and quavering, but was filled with a power and authority Thrall had never heard from him before. He obeyed.
“Prepare to meet the spirits of the natural world,” said Drek’Thar, and Thrall’s heart leaped.
Nothing happened. He waited. Still nothing happened. He shifted, uneasily. The sun had fully set and the stars were beginning to appear. He was growing impatient and angry when a voice spoke very loudly inside his head: Patience is the first test.
Thrall inhaled swiftly. The voice spoke again.
I am the Spirit of Earth, Thrall, son of Durotan. I am the soil that yields the fruit, the grasses that feed the beasts. I am the rock, the bones of this world. I am all that grows and lives in my womb, be it worm or tree or flower. Ask me.
Ask you what? thought Thrall.
There was a strange sensation, almost as of a warm chuckle. Knowing the question is part of your test.
Thrall panicked, then calmed himself, as Drek’Thar had taught. A question came calmly into his mind:
Will you lend me your strength and power when I need it, for the good of the Clan and those we would aid?
Ask, came the reply.
Thrall began to stamp his feet. He felt power rising inside him, as he always did, but for the first time it was not accompanied by bloodlust. It was warm and strong and he felt as solid as the bones of the earth themselves. He was barely aware of the very earth trembling beneath him, and it was only when an unbearably sweet scent filled his nostrils that he opened his eyes.
The earth had erupted into enormous fissures, and on every inch of what was rock, flowers bloomed. Thrall gaped.
I have agreed to lend you my assistance, for the good of the Clan and those you would aid. Honor me, and that gift shall always be yours.
Thrall felt the power recede, leaving him trembling with shock at what he had summoned and controlled. But he had only a moment to marvel at it, for another voice was in his head now.
I am the Spirit of Air, Thrall, son of Durotan. I am the winds that warm and cool the earth, that which fills your lungs and keeps you alive. I carry the birds and insects and dragons, and all things that dare soar to my challenging heights. Ask me.
Thrall knew what to do this time, and asked the same question. The sensation of power that filled him was different this time: lighter, freer. Even though he had been forbidden to speak, he could not help the laughter that bubbled forth from his soul. He felt warm winds caress him, bringing all manner of delicious scents to his nostrils, and when he opened his eyes, he was floating high above the ground. Drek’Thar was so far below him he seemed as a child’s toy. But Thrall was not afraid. The Spirit of Air would support him; he had asked, and it had answered.
Gently, he floated down, until he felt the solid stone beneath his feet. Air caressed him with a gentle touch, then dissipated.
Power again filled Thrall, and this time it was almost painful. Heat churned in his belly, and sweat popped out on his green skin. He felt an almost overpowering desire to leap into the nearby snowbanks. The Spirit of Fire was here, and he asked for its aid. It responded.
There was a loud crackling overhead, and Thrall, startled by the sound, looked up. Lightning danced its dangerous dance across the night sky. Thrall knew that it was his to command. The flowers that had strewn the broken earth exploded into flames, crisping and burning to ashes in the space of a few heartbeats. This was a dangerous element, and Thrall thought of the pleasant fires that had kept his clan alive. At once, the fires went out, to re-form in a small, contained, cozy area.
Thrall thanked the Spirit of Fire, and felt its presence depart. He was feeling drained by all this strange energy alternately coursing through him and then departing, and was grateful that there was only one more element to acknowledge.
The Spirit of Water flowed into him, calming and cooling the burn the Spirit of Fire had left behind. Thrall had a vision of the ocean, though he had never seen one before, and extended his mind to probe its darkling depths. Something cold touched his skin. He opened his eyes to see that it was snowing thick and fast. With a thought, he turned it to rain, and then halted it altogether. The comfort of the Spirit of Water within him soothed and strengthened, and he let it go with deep, heartfelt thanks.
He looked over at Drek’Thar, but the shaman shook his head. “Your test is not yet completed,” he said.
And then suddenly Thrall was shaken from head to toe with such a rush of power that he gasped aloud. Of course. The fifth element.
The Spirit of the Wilds.
We are the Spirit of the Wilds, the essence and souls of all things living. We are the most powerful of all, surpassing the quakes of Earth, the winds of Air, the flames of Fire, and the floods of Water. Speak, Thrall, and tell us why you think you are worthy of our aid.
Thrall couldn’t breathe. He was overwhelmed by the power churning within and without him. Forcing his eyes to open, he saw pale white shapes swirling about him. One was a wolf, the other a goat, another an orc, and a human, and a deer. He realized that every living thing had spirits, and felt despair rise up in him at the thought of having to sense and control all of them.
But faster than he could have dreamed, the spirits filled and then vacated him. Thrall felt pummeled by the onslaught, but forced himself to try to focus, to address each one with respect. It became impossible and he sank to his knees.
A soft sound filled the air, and Thrall struggled to lift a head that felt as heavy as stone.
They floated calmly around him now, and he knew that he had been judged and found worthy. A ghostly stag pranced about him, and he knew that he would never simply be able to bite into a haunch of venison without feeling its Spirit, and thanking it for the nourishment it provided. He felt a kinship with every orc that had ever been born, and even the human Spirit felt more like Taretha’s sweet presence than Blackmoore’s dark cruelty. Everything was bright, even if sometimes it embraced the dark; all life was connected, and any shaman who tampered with the chain without the utmost care and respect for that Spirit was doomed to fail.
Then they were gone. Thrall fell forward, utterly drained. He felt Drek’Thar’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him. The old shaman assisted Thrall in sitting up. Thrall had never felt so limp and weak in his life.
“Well done, my child,” said Drek’Thar, his voice trembling with emotion. “I had hoped they would accept . . . Thrall, you must know. It has been years, nay, decades, since the spirit
s have accepted a shaman. They were angry with us for our warlocks’ dark bargain, their corruption of magic. There are only a few shamans left now, and all are as old as I. The spirits have waited for someone worthy upon whom to bestow their gifts; you are the first in a long, long time to be so honored. I had feared that the spirits would forever refuse to work with us again, but . . . Thrall, I have never seen a stronger shaman in my life, and you are only beginning.”
“I . . . I thought it would feel so powerful,” stammered Thrall, his voice faint. “But instead . . . I am so humbled. . . .”
“And it is that which makes you worthy.” He reached and stroked Thrall’s cheek. “Durotan and Draka would be so proud of you.”
FOURTEEN
With the Spirits of Earth, Air, Fire, Water and the Wilds as his willing companions, Thrall felt stronger and more confident than ever in his life. He worked together with Drek’Thar to learn the specific “calls,” as the elder called them. “Warlocks would term them spells,” he told Thrall, “but we — shamans — term them simply ‘calls.’ We ask, the powers we work with answer. Or not, as they will.”
“Have they ever not answered?” asked Thrall.
Drek’Thar was silent. “Yes,” he answered slowly. They were sitting together in Drek’Thar’s cave, talking late at night. These conversations were precious to Thrall, and always enlightening.
“When? Why?” Thrall wanted to know, then immediately added, “Unless you do not wish to speak of it.”
“You are a shaman now, although a fledgling one,” said Drek’Thar. “It is right that you understand our limitations. I am ashamed to admit that I asked for improper things more than once. The first time, I asked for a flood to destroy an encampment of humans. I was angry and bitter, for they had destroyed many of our clan. But there were many wounded and even women and children at this place, and Water would not do it.”
“But floods happen all the time,” said Thrall. “Many innocents die, and it serves no purpose.”
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