Warcraft

by Christie Golden

  One orc, the largest and most physically intimidating of the group, stood in the center, a few paces ahead of the others. Garad assumed he was their leader. His head was shaved, and he wore no helmet.

  Garad gazed at him with contempt. These Red Walkers, if such they were, would not long survive in the north. Warriors kept their hair, and covered their skulls, here in the cold lands. Orgrim was the only Frostwolf who rebelled. Hair and helmets helped preserve warmth—and the skull in question atop one’s shoulders. Garad would remove that bald head, watch it land in the snow and melt it with hot blood.

  Earlier, Geyah had urged him to stay out of the fray; begged, almost. She had never done so before, and her fear alarmed him more than his illness did. She was the most courageous orc he had ever known, but he saw now that he was her one weakness. They had been a mated pair for so long, Garad could not imagine life without her charging into the fight by his side. But here he was, and he knew why she had chosen to stay behind.

  This wasting sickness was unbecoming of an orc, and it would not stand. He would not let it.

  He would not condemn his Geyah to riding without him.

  He growled low in his throat, summoning all his strength and channelling it toward two things—raising Sever, and opening his mouth to shout a battle cry.

  His voice was almost immediately joined by the other Frostwolves. He was flanked by his son and Orgrim, and as they and Geyah had done many times before, they rode forward as a unit, tight and terrifying, their wolves so close they touched, before each broke off and headed toward his own target.

  Garad focused on the leader. As he watched, the other smiled and nodded. He held an axe that shone with something sticky—tree sap. Doubtless, this disrespectful orc had used it earlier to hack the limbs off the trees. Garad let his anger at the act fuel him, and he felt energy starting to rise within him—real energy, if bought from bloodlust.

  The bald orc cried out and raced torward him, thick legs propelling him forward as swiftly as the snow would permit. But an orc on foot was no match for a mounted Frostwolf, and Garad bore down upon his enemy, grinning.

  Ice, too, was ready to fight. His jaws were open, red tongue lolling over sharp white teeth. Garad lifted Sever, both hands wrapped around its hilt, timing the moment when he would lean over and slice off the enemy’s head.

  But then, the orc shouted, “Mak’gora!”

  Abruptly Garad shifted his weight and Ice veered off awkwardly. Garad had never heard of an orc issuing the mak’gora in the middle of a battle. The Red Walkers were facing certain defeat. To ask for the outcome to be decided by single combat was pure cowardice. Had it been the Frostwolves with so few, they would know they claimed honor by fighting to their deaths against overwhelming odds. They would never try to alter the outcome by reducing it to a one-on-one fight!

  Garad’s disgust with this Red Walker grew, but concern flickered through him as well. Ordinarily, he would likely be more than a match for this southlander. But this was not an ordinary time, and his limbs were already threatening to turn traitor. He could not rely on his strength remaining.

  But how could he pretend he didn’t hear the challenge? If others heard it and saw he did not honor the mak’gora, the shame would be Garad’s, not the interloper’s. His enemy saw the conflict on Garad’s face, and a cruel grin twisted his mouth around his tusks.

  The insolence was too much to be borne. Garad leaped off Ice. He stumbled ever so slightly, but recovered quickly, setting his will to it. You are strong, he told himself. This sickness will pass. It will not claim you. You are a chieftain, and it is nothing. You will defeat this challenger, and your Frostwolves will wipe out the Red Walkers.

  “I accept,” he snarled, and charged.

  As if the mighty Sever was nothing more than a child’s training toy, the bald orc’s sap-fouled axe struck it and shoved it aside with shocking ease. Garad recovered, gripping the weapon tightly, striving not to fall. To lose his footing would be death.

  The Red Walker went on the offensive now, and Garad grunted with the effort of simply lifting Sever to block the deadly blows. It was all he could do; there was no strength remaining in his arms, his legs, anywhere in his body to mount an attack. Too late, he understood that he had chosen poorly in allowing himself to be goaded into this. Anguish and rage flowed through him, enough for him to rally, heft the great axe, and bring it down in a final strong horizontal strike.

  But the other orc was not there. He had leaped aside, and now laughed openly at Garad’s efforts. Elsewhere, the Frostwolves were the clear victors in this battle. The Red Walkers fought well, but they were struggling in the snow and faced greater numbers. The bald orc looked around, smirking.

  “I had best end this quickly,” he said, “as only you and I know this is a mak’gora.”

  He lifted his axe. Garad grunted angrily, and struggled to lift Sever in return. Helplessly, he watched his arms quiver as he raised the axe only a few inches before it fell from his weak fingers.

  Even so. Let it be thus, Garad thought. I will die in a fair—

  And suddenly, he understood. Garad’s enemy had known he would be easy to defeat.

  The knife—Gul’dan’s blade…

  His gut went as cold as winter with stark comprehension.

  And the Red Walker’s axe descended.

  6

  Ice needed no rider other than the corpse of his master.

  The great frost wolf had howled piteously when Garad fell, and had rushed in to swiftly and bloodily dispatch his murderer. Now Ice stood, trembling, as Durotan lashed his father’s body to the wolf’s strong back. Orc and wolf eyes met, and Durotan saw his own grief reflected in Ice’s great amber orbs. Most orc clans regarded the wolves they rode as mere beasts—mounts and nothing more. Less important, in some cases, than a weapon borne into battle, because living things could die and not be bequeathed to one’s offspring.

  The Frostwolves had never felt so. These animals chose their masters, not the other way around, and they stayed with them until their bond was broken by death. Ice would grieve, not as an orc would, but it would be true grief nonetheless. Durotan wondered if Ice would ever permit himself to be ridden again. Compassion for the great beast, and for his mother, to whom he must bear the wrenching news, threatened to crush Durotan’s heart. He allowed himself a single moment to feel the loss: Father. Friend. Teacher. Chieftain.

  Life was harsh in Frostfire Ridge, and had only grown harsher with the passage of time. It was not unnatural for a father to pass before a child. It was the manner of Garad’s passing that was the heaviest burden to bear. Garad had been a wise, strong, successful leader of his people for many years. He did not deserve to have such a cloud over him.

  Durotan, and many others, had borne witness as Garad died unable to keep his grip on Sever.

  Durotan was now the leader of the Frostwolves—for the moment, at least—and they were all looking to him. Once he felt his father was secured for his final ride back to Frostfire Ridge, he turned away from Ice to survey the party.

  “Today, we rode to meet a challenge,” he said. “And meet it we did. We were victorious. Our foes lie stiffening in the snow, and we have eliminated a threat to our clan. But this victory was not without cost. We have lost Garad, son of Durkosh, son of Rokuk—our clan leader. He died as he, as any, Frostwolf warrior would wish: In battle, courageously protecting his clan from a clear enemy.”

  He paused, his nostrils flaring, ready to quash any wayward comment to the contrary. There was none, though the snow groaned softly as some orcs shifted uneasily, not meeting Durotan’s gaze.

  “We will bear him home in silence. As his son, I am his heir, unless the Spirits deem me unworthy.” Or unless I am challenged, he thought. He did not say it aloud. He could not help it if that idea had already occurred to anyone, but he would not plant the seed himself.

  But even so, the shadow was there. Garad had fallen when he should not have, and that presaged poorly for Durotan—
and for the Frostwolves.

  Determination chased away his grief. As Durotan leaped atop Sharptooth, in the midst of all the swirling chaos, he knew one thing: He would do all that was within his power to honor and clear the name of a great orc.

  * * *

  Garad had been a long-lived chieftain, and therefore few present had witnessed the ritual that was about to unfold. Every member of the Frostwolf Clan, from the grayest orc to the smallest suckling child, had gone to the special circle that Drek’Thar had instructed be designed. It was not too far from the village, but a distance away, in an open area that was large enough so that all could bear witness. Durotan realized with a pang that while the area would see grief tonight, it was the same site where the clan would be dancing to celebrate Midsummer.

  Garad’s body had been placed on a pyre. It had required most of the wood the clan had stockpiled. Durotan mused bitterly on the irony that it had been a search for firewood that had led to the need for it now.

  It all felt so horribly wrong. Four days ago, they had never heard of a green orc named Gul’dan. Only this morning, Garad had yet breathed, and the clan was blissfully ignorant of the true horror of the Red Walkers. Durotan wondered if he would ever be able to get the stench of dried blood out of his nostrils.

  Garad’s body had been bathed, but the hole in his chest still yawned open. Like scars on living flesh, the wounds of the slain granted them honor. If an orc fell fighting—in battle or in the hunt—the injuries that took his or her life were left to show everyone what had been endured for the clan’s well-being. Garad wore the armor in which he had fallen, damaged from the blows that had claimed his life. It sent a pang through the young orc to see his father’s limbs so very motionless.

  The younger shaman who served Drek’Thar were placing stones in a ring around the pyre, leaving a space for Durotan to enter. The stones were held, chanted to, and laid down with great reverence. Durotan could feel the energy building, increasing as each clan member came to sit around the circle, in silence.

  Finally, the circle was almost complete. Drek’Thar had been standing quietly to the side, one hand on Wise-ear. Now, the wolf moved into the ring of sanctified stones, guiding his master inside. Drek’Thar dismissed the wolf with a soft word and a pat, then straightened.

  “Frostwolves!” he cried. “We know that our way of life is worth fighting for, and today our warriors did so. Most returned to us victorious. But one did not live to join us again in this life. For any warrior who died, we would mourn and honor his sacrifice. And this we will do, but we are gathered for another reason as well. The orc who fell today was our chieftain, Garad, son of Durkosh, son of Rokuk. And so we must also seek the blessing of the Spirits of Earth, Air, Water, Fire, and Life, upon his son, Durotan, that he might lead us as well and wisely as his father did.”

  There were no murmurs, not quite. The rite was too profound for such disrespect. But there was an aversion of eyes, a subtle shift of movement among the crowd that made Durotan’s anger rise. He ignored it, keeping his gaze fixed on Drek’Thar and awaiting the signal to move into the circle.

  But it was for Durotan’s mother that the shaman called first. His voice was gentle as he said, “Geyah, daughter of Zungal, son of Kerzug. You were Garad’s mate in life. The hand that loved best is the one that must light the fire.”

  Geyah’s normally braided hair hung long and unbound, falling almost to her waist. Her body was straight as the pines as she strode forward. Only Durotan, who knew her so well, could see the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. Later, she would weep; later, they both would, alone with their pain. But for now, with this bitter pall like a stain upon the memory of a beloved mate and father, they had to embody strength.

  If the Spirits feel as some members of the clan do…

  No. He would not give such thoughts even a heartbeat’s worth of attention. Garad had been a great orc chieftain. Durotan knew he had done nothing himself to disrespect his family, his clan, or the Spirits. All would be well.

  It had to be.

  His fingers curled into fists.

  “Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh. Come forward into the circle. Be judged by the Spirits our people have honored since time began, and which will be, even when we are forgotten and no mouths sing our names.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Durotan saw Orgrim staring intently at him. The other orc slowly, deliberately, put his fist to his broad chest and lifted his chin in a show of respect. After a moment, a few others followed, then still more, until, by the time the younger shaman had closed the circle with sacred stones, the entire clan had saluted Garad’s son. Durotan threw Orgrim a grateful look, then settled himself for what would come.

  Drek’Thar had told him nothing of the experience, saying, logically enough, that as it had never happened to him, he could not properly say. “And I suspect that it is different for everyone,” he had added. One thing Durotan did know was that while the Sprits would be evaluating him, they would simultaneously be in communication with Drek’Thar.

  Drek’Thar held a bundle of smokeleaf. Dried and tightly braided, the plant gave off a sweet scent when burned. It burned now, slow to be consumed, and the smoke wafted lazily upward. Durotan approached and knelt before the shaman, who held the braid of long grass with one hand and waved the smoke over Durotan with the other.

  It smelled good—clean, and fresh. Drek’Thar handed the smokeleaf to Palkar, his attendant shaman. A third shaman, Relkarg, extended a cup to Durotan. He drank it down. The liquid was hot and thick, sweet from the sap that the trees wept. He returned the empty cup to Relkarg, and waited for more instructions.

  “Sit, now, young one,” Drek’Thar said. There was great affection in his voice. He and Garad had been close, and the shaman, too, was doubtless wrestling with how to manage the sudden void. “The Spirits come when they will.”

  Durotan obeyed. Now, he felt his eyelids growing heavy. He let them close.

  Then they flew open.

  In years past, Durotan had seen the night skies in winter shimmer with colors that seemed made of mist. The visions before him, undulating with equal tranquility, resembled that exquisite celestial display, but only as a sapling resembled an ancient tree. Durotan gasped in awe, reaching without thinking, as a child might, toward the phantasms.

  Green, red, blue, and yellow, they danced before him, but he knew they were not physically present. They were in his mind, in his ears and eyes and blood and bone. They darted and hovered, so very real, but he knew that what he experienced was for him alone.

  In his vision, the snow beneath him evaporated, and the dancing colors faded, melting along with it. Durotan sat on good, solid earth, held and supported as a babe in his mother’s arms. Wonderingly, he placed his hands on the ground and dug in his fingers deeply. His hands came up with rich loam.

  Durotan smiled, then gave a surprised, unrestrained laugh as a sprightly breeze came out of nowhere and scattered the handfuls of soil. The zephyr, laden with the scent of fresh, new grass, caressed him. He felt his lungs release their tightness as he breathed in.

  The air whirled and began to take on colors. They were not the same soft, fey tones that had danced before his eyes earlier, but bright, strong hues: sharp flickers of red, orange, white, and blue formed, and a fire suddenly crackled around him. His face had been growing numb from the cold, and Durotan welcomed the warmth of the flames. Without fire, no Frostwolf could survive. It was dear to them, and the Spirit of Fire seemed to know that.

  Something wet touched his cheek. Fat, white flakes drifted down, and the flames spat and hissed at them. Though he missed the fire’s warmth, Durotan was content to let it surrender its place to the Spirit of Water. What was a Frostwolf without frost, anyway? Ice and snow were part of what made them unique—made them strong. Water cleansed and purified. It quenched thirst, and even filled one’s eyes, and slipped down one’s face, as it did now. Water soothed, and healed, and Durotan accepted its gentleness in this form as h
e accepted its harshness in others.

  The shimmering hues that were real-not-real began to swirl, chasing one another as a pup chased its tail, so fast that they soon began to blur. A white brilliance exploded in front of Durotan, so strong and beautiful that he could not bear to look upon it.

  Earth, Air, Fire, Water—they had all come, and now they welcomed the greatest of all: the Spirit of Life.

  He had been numb since his father’s fall. Since he had watched, unable to reach Garad in time, as the Frostwolf chieftain died weaponless, he had tamped his emotions down to appear strong in front of the clan, but now he could do so no longer. His senses were vibrantly, painfully alive. His heart swelled with love and torment, so much that he thought he could not bear it. How could any single being—

  But you are not, came a whisper in his mind. You are experiencing life with all its joys and fears and horrors and losses and blessings and power. You wish to stand as chieftain for your people—hold all this, just for a moment, and you will be worthy of them. They fear, and lust, and laugh, and weep, and live—know it, Durotan, son of Garad. Know it, and honor it!

  Durotan felt himself being stretched, reshaped, molded to hold more than he had ever been meant to He was but one orc. But what else was a chieftain, if not the caretaker of his people? And how could he act for them, if he did not truly feel them? Trembling with fear, Durotan accepted the test of Life. He was filled, more than filled, he had become so vast that he—

  And then it was gone.

  They were all gone.

  He opened his eyes to a world that seemed oddly flat and devoid of color. His heart slammed against his chest, his lungs heaved, but Durotan was himself again, alone. For a moment, the isolation was too much to take; it was as hard to endure as the fullness of his clan had been, but eventually, that sensation, too, dissipated.

  His gaze focused. He saw his mother, standing by his father’s pyre, a slight smile curving her lips. Her eyes were no longer wet with grief, but fierce with pride. Durotan, dizzy as the Spirits left him, took in the sight of faces that were as familiar as his own reflection in a pool of water, but now also strange to him, new in their sudden precious beauty, their vibrant essence of life.