Warcraft

by Christie Golden

  The Frostwolves had followed his father. Now, they would follow him. He would do what was best for them, as Garad had always striven to do. Durotan tried to speak, but his heart was so full of a tumult of emotions that he couldn’t find the words.

  “The Spirits have accepted you, Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh,” came Drek’Thar’s voice. “Do you, Frostwolves?”

  The answering cheers were deafening. Durotan got to his feet. He raised his hands, curled into fists, into the air, arching backward as he cried out in joy and hope.

  After the cry had subsided, the new Frostwolf chieftain, his ears ringing and his heart overflowing, turned to Drek’Thar. It was only as he gazed at the shaman’s solemn visage that Durotan realized that, although they had approved of him, all was not well in the world of the Spirits.

  7

  After the ceremony, Geyah lit the fire that would take her husband’s body. She and her son stood vigil as the flames caught the tinder, then grew higher, creating a wall of light and heat to stand against the cold and the darkness of evening’s encroaching shadows. Durotan recalled the leap of the Spirit of Fire and all its myriad hues, seeing them again in his mind’s eye as he gazed at the pyre’s flames. Members of the clan approached throughout the night to lay wood on the fire, so that it would remain hot enough to burn Garad’s body to ashes. When the sun showed its head, it was done. Fire had consumed Garad. Air had scattered his ashes. Water would bring them back to Earth, which would accept them into the welcoming soil. Life had ended, and yet still went on.

  When it was over, Durotan moved toward his mother, discovering his body had grown stiff from standing so long beside the pyre. But before he could speak, she said, “I have arranged to have your things moved into the chieftain’s hut. I will move into yours, now.”

  Of course, Durotan realized. He had dwelt in his own hut since his first hunt. Now, as chieftain, he would return to the hut where he had entered the world, under somber circumstances that he wished had not come quite so soon.

  “You always see to things before I have even thought of them,” he said, sadly.

  She struggled to smile. “I am the Lorekeeper. It is my duty to remember what is customary. And you will have more than enough to keep you busy for some time.”

  “Do not worry, Geyah,” came Orgrim’s voice. “I will see that he sleeps, if I have to knock him out myself.”

  Geyah moved silently toward what would be her hut now, where she could grieve privately. Durotan watched her go, then turned to Orgrim. “Mother said I would have many duties in the next few days.” Orgrim chuckled. “If by ‘many’ she meant ‘a few hundred,’ then yes,” he replied.

  “I will need someone to help me with them,” Durotan said. “Someone I can trust completely. Someone,” he said, “who would lead the clan if anything were to happen to me.”

  Orgrim was strong, steady, and capable. Little seemed to disturb him. But now, his eyes widened. “I… Durotan, I am honored. I…”

  Durotan laid a hand on his friend’s enormous, sloping shoulder. “I am heartsore and weary of words and rituals, and the Lorekeeper has gone to her hut. Please… just say yes.”

  Orgrim laughed. And then, he said yes.

  Next, Durotan met with Drek’Thar, who told the young chieftain what he himself had experienced during the ritual. The Spirits had no quarrels with Durotan. But there was, as Durotan had suspected, something amiss.

  “Gul’dan is not to be trusted,” Drek’Thar stated bluntly. “The Spirits…” he groped for words, then shook his head. “I would say, ‘fear’ him, but such terms, such concepts, cannot be applied to them. They would not go near him, although… About some things, this warlock—” Drek’Thar spat the word “—does not lie. The world is changing, my young chieftain. You follow in your father’s footsteps at what is perhaps the darkest time in our clan’s history. These hardships will not abate. They will only grow worse.”

  “But the Spirits do approve of me,” Durotan pressed. He hoped that Drek’Thar would take the words as he meant them—as evidence of his concern, not a need for reassurance.

  “That is clear, yes.”

  “Then I must be worthy of their confidence. My father led well—well enough for Gul’dan to make a long and difficult journey for the sole purpose of asking us to ally with him. I do not think he did so out of the goodness of his heart, but rather because we have something he wants. Our strength. Our ability to endure. My father refused to join him, because such virtues are not for southlanders, but for us—for Frostwolves—to benefit from. I will lead as he did.”

  He reached to lay a reassuring hand on Drek’Thar’s arm, still strong with muscle beneath his shaman’s leather garb. “I will take care of our people.”

  * * *

  The gift of the Spirits had been an unexpectedly tender, if fierce, one. After they had both had a little time to rest, Durotan went to his mother, and together they wept for his father. There was no shame in it. He told her of the gift of the Spirits, and his determination to protect the clan.

  “They granted you the understanding of the love a parent has for a child, my son,” she said, smiling through the tears still wet on her face. “Nothing is stronger. I am still, and always will be, your mother, but you are now my chieftain. I will advise you as best I can, as a shaman and the Lorekeeper. Command, and we will all obey.”

  That night, he fell asleep on his father’s sleeping skins so exhausted that he had no dreams.

  The next morning, Durotan summoned the clan’s finest hunters—not just those in peak physical condition, but those who in the past had brought down fierce prey with skill and renown. He told them all they were free to speak—even disagree and argue if need be, but were to work together to discover which weapons were truly the finest at hunting which prey. They were to show him, and indeed everyone, where the talbuks were most likely to be found by using the burned ends of sticks to draw maps on dried, scraped hides. They were to indicate which lakes stocked which fish, and what those fish best liked to eat.

  “But, my chieftain,” Nokrar had said, eyeing a fragile-seeming orc, “all know these things.”

  “Do we?” Durotan had demanded. “Does everyone here know? Or do we keep secrets, so that we may be deemed valuable when food is scarce?” A few orcs flushed at that, but he continued. “We must think of what is best for all, not just one, or one family. All. We are Frostwolves—we are skilled, and wise, and brave. Do as I say, and all will eat.”

  For several days, he repeated this pattern with various groups. He spoke with the warriors about setting up patrols. Hitherto, few outsiders had troubled the Frostwolves. Greatfather Mountain had discouraged all but the occasional trespasser. But no one in the clan, least of all Durotan, wished to see the Red Walkers return. They had killed the orc who had slain Garad, and his party, but Durotan suspected that their clan numbered more than that handful. By that evening, the warriors were taking watches, patrolling by both sun- and moonlight.

  Durotan called the shaman, wanting to learn about healing herbs, and asked them to ponder if there might be a way to create a magical light, so that plants might be cultivated even in months when the sun shone little. To the skinners and leatherworkers, to those who harvested and dried the fruits, he spoke as well, and urged them to share their techniques. Durotan even sat with the children and played with them, observing their games and watching to see who the natural leaders were.

  There was some resistance at first. But Durotan was stubborn and persevered, and his people did as he bade. Though the spring had been feeble, the Midsummer feast was one of the most bountiful the Frostwolves had seen in some time. The Midsummer bonfire was lit at dawn, and was fed until well into the night. The joke was always that it was tended to until everyone fell asleep—whether that sleep came from exhausted dancing or the cider that flowed as freely as the melting snow.

  At one point, during the laughing, drinking, dancing, and drumming, Durotan stepped away from the festivities
and looked out across the wide meadow that lay to the west of the village.

  “There is still green here,” said Orgrim, as he stepped next to his friend. “And not the green of Gul’dan or his slave.”

  Durotan emitted a bark of surprised laughter. Orgrim joined him. Sobering, Orgrim said, “My old friend, you have made a good chieftain these past several months. Take a look at your people. Their bellies are full. Their children play in safety. They are warm when they sleep.”

  “That ought to be the very least a chieftain should do,” Durotan said, uncomfortable with the praise.

  “But these days… it means more than it used to,” Orgrim said. “Why do you stand here? Come dance! A chieftain needs a mate, and I tell you, there are many who would be more than willing to be yours.”

  Durotan laughed, glancing back toward the dancing taking place in the meadow. Sure enough, several females boldly gazed back at him. There was no denying their strength and beauty. “There is time for that yet. I… Orgrim, I keep thinking of those we have Exiled. I wonder if any will ever return.”

  Orgrim shrugged. “Some do, if they are strong enough. Some don’t. Why do you care? It is the way of our people.”

  Durotan thought about the old orcs who had been fierce warriors, but who had been largely ignored, left to nod by the fires and wait for death. He had invited them to speak, to share their memories, and the clan had benefitted. Why had such knowledge ever been allowed to escape the clan? What had been lost in years past? Would Draka, and others who had been born weak, still have had something to contribute, had they been permitted to stay? Or would they simply have taken precious resources from those who had the ability to contribute?

  He sighed. He could not share these thoughts with Orgrim. Not yet; not until he understood them himself. “It has not been easy, Orgrim,” he confided. “Being chieftain. Father made it seem so effortless.”

  “He was a great Frostwolf,” Orgrim agreed. “A great orc. Do not worry, Durotan. He would be proud of you.”

  Durotan hoped so, but he could not say for certain. He only knew, as he gazed out over the meadow, that he wished he could see an Exiled Frostwolf striding home.

  But he did not.

  * * *

  With each day that passed, Gul’dan’s grim warnings seemed to recede. The patrols continued, although as the moons came and went, some of the clan began to complain of the duty.

  Nokrar, in particular, thought them a waste of time. “Your father’s death has been avenged,” he said to Durotan. “We have seen no sign that any survived. Warriors like myself and the others would be more useful sent on extra hunts.”

  Durotan prided himself on listening to all reasonable requests. While Nokrar’s comment verged on an insult, Durotan had to admit to himself that there was at least some truth in it. His father’s death did haunt him. But was a daily patrol truly necessary? Although Gul’dan had spoken of them with contempt, he did not seem to particularly fear them. He believed the Red Walkers would die off soon enough. Besides, if there were any Red Walkers still in the area, it might be that the hunting parties themselves would discover them.

  “You are a skilled hunter, Nokrar. Perhaps a daily patrol is not necessary.” He reduced the patrols to once every five days, and increased the number of hunts.

  The summer was still too short, and the fall harvest meager, but spirits were high. Although looked as though Nokrar’s idea had been sound, as more hunts did result in more food, Durotan would not allow himself to slacken. He consulted with Drek’Thar, who heeded the visions of the Spirits, and found himself issuing orders that seemed contrary.

  To Durotan, it seemed foolish to ask his people to hoard nuts and seeds through the winter when they could be eaten, but he listened to an old female who advised him to do exactly this. Fish and meat were best fresh caught. Their flesh was sweeter, and a fitter food for warriors. But he instructed his clan to hunt more often, restrain themselves from gorging, and salt fish and meat to preserve it for the lean times. For every bite they ate now, he urged them to lay aside three. He did not need to remind them that there was no way to tell how long the winter would last this year.

  “They do not truly understand,” Orgrim said to Durotan one evening. “We are orcs. Danger and death come at the end of a spear. That is what we are made for—fighting, not—” he eyed the pile of salt in front of him “—this.”

  “There are no lok’vadnods sung for those who starve,” Durotan agreed, “but it does not mean they are any less missed when they die.”

  “It annoys me when you speak truth sometimes,” Orgrim muttered. “But truth it is.”

  “This is why I am chieftain, and not you,” Durotan grinned. “But I have a task for you, to shut your mouth. Kurg’nal’s party has just returned. He says they found tracks, just a few days old. The party had to return before they could follow. Take a fresh group out with you tomorrow, and bring home some juicy meat.”

  “Ha! If it means no more of this stink for a while, I will make sure we are successful.”

  8

  Orgrim hand-picked those who would ride with him. Kurg’nal told him exactly where his party had found the prints. “I wish I could go with you,” the older orc said.

  “Let others have some glory, too,” Durotan said. It was his custom to rotate rest with activity, for several reasons—not least of which was every orc wanted the honor of bringing home a kill. Privately, he wished he, too, were riding out with his friend. “Orgrim needs something to restore his pride. He is losing his edge.”

  “He has no edge,” quipped Nokrar, “he has the Doomhammer!”

  Everyone laughed. Durotan could feel the shift in energy among his clan. Fresh meat would lift everyone’s spirits—and give everyone strength. Orgrim’s party was cheered when they rode out shortly afterward.

  They would not return for at least two days. He hoped they would be successful. Even the supply of dried fish was becoming depleted. He instructed an orc called Delgar to round up a few others to bundle up against the elements and fish in the ice, deflecting the complaints calmly.

  Geyah watched them go. “You lead well, my son,” she said. “Your father would have had to threaten a mak’gora to make Frostwolf warriors go fishing!”

  “Fishing is hunting too,” he said. “At least, now it is.”

  “I will be visiting the outskirts,” she told him, speaking of the scattered huts farther away from the communal fire in the heart of the village. “I have been promised some dried roots for a stew tonight. Perhaps it will be fish stew.”

  * * *

  The attack came at midday.

  Durotan was in the shaman hut, speaking with Drek’Thar, when he heard the wolves howling. It took him an instant to realize that the howls were not in the center of the village, but to the south—the fringes of the Frostwolf encampment Geyah had gone to visit. A heartbeat later, he had seized Thunderstrike and was atop Sharptooth, speeding south toward the savage noises.

  There were half a dozen Red Walkers, all covered with those sinister, bloody handprints, and they attacked with a savage vigor. Two Frostwolves lay motionless on the ground. Geyah was screaming battle cries, brandishing a small hand axe as she charged one of the strange orcs, who was laden down with a sack of ground nuts. Other Frostwolves, most of whom were artisans or older children, had snatched up makeshift weapons and were charging their attackers with a courage that made Durotan’s heart simultaneously soar and break.

  He bore down on the Red Walker stealing the sack and ran him through with Thunderstrike. The orc stared at him blankly, spitted like a talbuk’s haunch on the fire.

  Another one seemed infuriated by the attack and ran at some of the children. They jumped on him, attacking him with small carving knives, holding him off until Kagra, Nokrar’s mate, came after him with a mace and crushed his head.

  Geyah hurled her small hatchet at another Red Walker. It caught him between the neck and the shoulder and he stumbled. Snarling, she leaped on him
, worked the hatchet free, and dispatched him. Other Frostwolves were riding from the center of the village now, armed with axes and hammers and their righteous fury. Another Red Walker fell before them. The remaining two panicked and turned to flee. One clutched an armload of fur, the other a barrel of salted fish.

  Grukag and Durotan ran them down. As he stared down at the still-twitching corpses, panting, Durotan realized two things.

  One: None of the Frostwolves living on the fringes of the village were safe. All would need to move in as close to the center as possible.

  And two: The attack had come when nearly all the warriors had been gone, either fishing or hunting. Which meant that the Red Walkers had been observing the encampment for some time.

  He looked up at Geyah. Their eyes met, and he realized she understood as well. “Everyone,” he said, “pack your belongings. You all will dwell close to the main fire from now on.”

  * * *

  The fishing and hunting parties were recalled by riders sent after them by Durotan, instructing them all to return to aid their fellow clan members as they moved their lodgings.

  At last, the final families arrived with their simple belongings—a few pieces of furniture, hides, and their allotted winter stores. Other orcs would take them in until new huts could be built. Durotan and Orgrim set down the last items, accepted the families’ thanks, and went to join Drek’Thar by the communal fire pit.

  “The children are older,” Durotan observed.

  “That happens with children,” Orgrim deadpanned. The appetizing scent of roast talbuk wafted into the crisp late autumn air; though interrupted, Orgrim’s hunt had been at least somewhat successful.

  A flicker of amusement rippled through Durotan. He shoved his friend, who laughed, snorted, and reached to cut another hunk of meat as it turned on the spit. Then the young chieftain grew somber.