Warcraft

by Christie Golden

  “What do you think it means?” Geyah asked.

  Drek’Thar shook his head. He was still trembling, Durotan observed. “It is a warning. This much is clear. A warning about the spring!”

  “But we all thought that it was a good sign,” Durotan said. His heavy brow knit in worried confusion.

  “If it was, it is blood and ash now, and death is all around,” Drek’Thar said. He lifted his blind face to Durotan’s. “The clan must leave, while there is still time!”

  “Leave?” Geyah stared at him. “We cannot leave! Frostfire Ridge has been our home for as long as we have been Frostwolves! The Spirits themselves gave us the Stone Seat. Greatfather Mountain has guarded us. Our roots are here!”

  “It was roots that kept me from fleeing in the vision,” Drek’Thar reminded her. “It was roots that doomed me.”

  The hair on the back of Durotan’s neck and arms lifted at the words. He had never given much thought to what it must be like to be a shaman, and when he did, he had envied them their deep connection with the Spirits. Now, listening to Drek’Thar with increasing horror, for the first time he was grateful beyond words that such had not been his fate.

  Geyah turned to him. “This is our home, Durotan,” she said. “It is possible Drek’Thar might be misinterpreting this vision. The spring has brought us nothing but good things. Would you abandon all that we have known for generations simply because of a single dream?”

  “You wound me, Geyah,” Drek’Thar said. “Though if I am wrong in this, I would be joyful.”

  Durotan sank back on his haunches, torn. Both orcs before him were wise and had earned his respect and that of the clan. Both had ancient traditions to support them. Never before had the weight of the chieftaincy sat heavier upon him. He loved his mother and trusted her. But Drek’Thar could speak with the Spirits, and in the end, the urgency, the raw, gut-twisting certainty of the shaman’s words, was what decided Durotan.

  “Mother,” he said quietly, “get Orgrim. Remind him of the map Draka drew, of the Haven the draenei showed her. We will leave our home. If Drek’Thar is wrong, then we will return, with no loss other than our time. If he is right, and we stay…” He couldn’t even speak the words.

  Geyah gave her son an anguished, angry look. Her lips twisted around her tusks, but she nodded curtly. “You are my chieftain,” she said, stiffly, and went to obey.

  He sat a little longer with Drek’Thar, making sure the shaman had told him every chilling detail, then told Palkar to prepare Drek’Thar and the other shaman for evacuation. Durotan stepped outside the shaman hut to find Geyah and Orgrim arguing with a cluster of Frostwolves.

  “We respect Drek’Thar, but perhaps this is a simple dream?” Grukag asked.

  “We’ll need time to move all the barrels of grain and salt fish,” Gurlak said firmly. “Everyone should be working to do that first.”

  “No,” came Nokrar’s voice, “we will need our weapons first. If we are to move we must defend ourselves.”

  Fury descended upon Durotan, as red and hot as the river Drek’Thar had described. He strode forward, but before he could speak, Draka’s voice came to him from the crowd.

  “Your chieftain has given you orders!” she cried. “Since when did Frostwolves mutter and disobey, like milk-toothed wolf pups nipping at one another? It is not your place to argue. Even I, who have been away for two years, remember that!”

  Even at this moment, when tempers were high, Durotan felt something warm and strong surge inside him at Draka’s fierceness. Orgrim was right. He had never met a worthier female. Indeed, he wondered if he were the one who might be unworthy of her.

  “Here I am,” he said loudly, stepping forward so that he could better be seen in the firelight. “I am Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh. The Spirits have accepted me, and you did as well. Now they have sent a warning to our wisest, most experienced shaman that might save our lives. Did I hear my orders being questioned?”

  No one replied. He met Orgrim’s eyes and nodded. Orgrim raised a fist. “Warriors and hunters, to me. We will prepare our weapons.”

  “I will speak with those who have harvested the seeds and dried foodstuffs,” Draka said.

  “I have birthed a child,” Geyah said. “Those who wish to assist in tending them, come to me. We will bring them to my hut and watch them while the others—”

  A long, haunting cry filled the cold night air, starting low, then rising, and then falling again. Durotan tensed, listening, trying to understand what was happening. Was this Greatfather Mountain’s cry of pain, of which Drek’Thar had spoken? He realized almost at once that it was something much more familiar, if no less alarming.

  Every frost wolf in the village was raising its voice in an eerie harmony of dread.

  A heartbeat later, Durotan felt a sudden blast of heat on his face, although his back was to the fire. He flung up his hands to shield himself and turned away, utterly at a loss to comprehend what was happening. The nearly unbearable heat came from the south. He turned his head and opened his eyes the barest slit, trying to find the source of—

  Fluid fire, glowing the bright red-orange of the blacksmith’s forge, spurted from the highest peak of Greatfather Mountain. The liquid climbed high into the sky, illuminating the angles and crags of the mountain’s edifice before pattering down to trickle a meandering path that outlined the mountain’s shape in stripes of molten stone.

  A river of blood.

  A moment later, the night exploded.

  The keening cry of the frost wolves was drowned by a deafening boom. The orcs cried out, clutching at their ears. Many of them fell to their knees. Durotan’s face contorted in pain and he, too, covered his violated ears.

  Glowing globules of molten stone rained down around them. Durotan heard terrified, agonizing cries and smelled burned flesh. He inhaled a breath of the heated air and was about to shout orders when another voice rose up, strong and calm.

  “Spirit of Air! Hear our cry for aid!”

  The voice was Drek’Thar’s, and Durotan turned from the hypnotic, horrifying sight of Greatfather Mountain’s agony to see the shaman, standing in a row, arms spread and backs arched as they pointed their staffs toward the sky.

  The night had been still, but now a wind came from the north. Cold as death and icy with moisture, it buffeted Durotan and the other Frostwolves and they shivered violently. He turned to look at the exploding mountain bleeding orange fire-blood, and saw thick gray smoke spreading upward from the still-spurting peak. He watched as the invisible wave of cold, wet air forced the smoke to retreat. Misshapen lumps of stone continued to slam down around them, but they were cool, though still smoking.

  “Spirit of Water! Lend us your tears!”

  Now the air was laden with fat, white flakes, borne by the Spirit of Air toward the fire-mountain. Durotan’s heart surged with gratitude toward the other Spirits as they worked together to shield the Frostwolves from their now-dangerous brother Fire. Even so, he knew this was but a temporary respite. Fire was fighting back, and fire-blood flowed implacably toward the Frostwolf village.

  There would be no time for an orderly, calm evacuation. Durotan moved forward, his feet liberated from the roots of the fear that had anchored him. Fiercely hot air scalded his lungs.

  “Orgrim!” he shouted, looking around at the frightened chaos. “Geyah! Draka!”

  “Here, Durotan!” Orgrim’s voice trembled ever so slightly, but the big warrior pushed his way toward his chieftain. “Give me your orders!”

  “Find the warriors and hunters. Each of you take a wolf, a weapon, and someone to ride with you. Then head north. Find the Haven Draka told us about. You have seen the map. Do you think you can you find it?”

  “But—”

  Durotan grabbed his second-in-command’s arm, shoving him around so Orgrim faced Greatfather Mountain. “The fire-river is coming fast. The shaman can only hold it back for so long. I ask again, do you remember where she said it was?”

&
nbsp; “Yes. I do.”

  “Good. One weapon each! Go!”

  Orgrim nodded curtly and pushed his way through the crowd, bellowing for the warriors. Coughing, Durotan turned to Geyah and Draka. The shaman’s wind wall held back the worst of the smoke and gases, and the snow calmed the heat of what the orcs did inhale, but Durotan’s words to Orgrim were true. Already, the shaman’s defense was starting to weaken.

  “Mother—find Singer, then go to the shaman. Your task is to recover the scrolls and healing herbs while they hold back the fire. You’re our Lorekeeper, you know which are the most precious. But,” and he squeezed her shoulder, “do so swiftly. Gather only what you can easily carry. Listen to Drek’Thar. When he orders the retreat, go. And if he refuses to go—make him!”

  She winced at his words, but nodded. He understood that the thought of losing the clan’s histories broke her heart. But she was a Frostwolf, and knew well that the clan’s survival came before everything else.

  Another loud crack. Durotan whirled to see a huge chunk of Greatfather Mountain’s face simply slide down as cleanly as if chopped off by Sever. A fresh wave of fire spewed forth, like blood pouring from a wound.

  A hand closed on his arm. He turned to Draka, and their gazes connected. A heat that was not of the fire-blood passed between them, but every moment counted. “Round up the wolves,” Durotan told her. “Search every hut and give every two people a wolf. More if they have children. Make sure no one is left behind. Then—”

  “Due north, to the Haven,” she interrupted, speaking quickly and urgently. He realized she still gripped his arm. For a heartbeat, he covered her hand with his own, then jerked his head toward the huts. Without another word, Draka sprang like an arrow loosed from the bow.

  Once, the north had been the Edge of the World, even for the Frostwolves. It was there that the Spirits dwelt; it was there that life was harshest, sometimes impossible. The southlands had always been the lush, fertile parts of Draenor, overflowing with luxuries and ease granted to its denizens that Frostwolves would never taste. But now it was the south that was sick, the southern mountains that were being tortured by Fire, and it was the north which offered a chance of survival.

  Durotan took another breath of scorching air. The pain in his damaged lungs was agonizing, but necessary. “Frostwolves!” he shouted. “Do not despair! Drek’Thar’s vision warned us! Our brave shaman now hold back the fire-blood of Greatfather Mountain so that we might find our families and head north. Orgrim and Draka will come among you with wolves to bear you to safety! They speak with my voice. Obey them, and we will live through this night!”

  As if Fire itself were mocking him, there came another barrage of head-sized stones. Some were turned by the shaman’s spells, but others struck the ground and huts. Fresh cries of terror rent the already tattered night.

  “Listen to me!” Durotan shouted, though his throat felt as though he had drunk the fire-blood. “You are not talbuks! You are not prey, to scatter and panic in the face of danger! Listen to Draka, Orgrim, and the shaman. Stay calm. Go north! You are Frostwolves! Now, more than ever, remember what that means!”

  “Frostwolves!” came a lone voice in the back of the crowd. “Frostwolves!” another one echoed, and then the cry was picked up by others. It rose and swelled, defying the steady, awful roar of a mountain being consumed by fire. The word was no ritual chant uttered by shaman, but it had a magic and a power all its own. The crowd no longer clustered together in a tight knot like a clefthoof herd, but began to move—not with the rush of panic, but the swift step of purpose.

  Durotan stood for a few heartbeats, watching Draka calm a small, frightened group and see to it that they had the steadiest mounts. Elsewhere, he heard battle cries uttered by the warriors he had ordered Orgrim to seek out. Durotan darted into his own hut for a moment, to collect Sever, Thunderstrike, and the map Draka had made of her travels. Before he called for Sharptooth, he did the same thing that he had told Draka to do: he visited every hut.

  His heart felt raw at the sight of spilled drinks, rumpled sleeping furs, abandoned wooden toys. So many things would not be coming with the Frostwolves. The Stone Seat, the meadow where for time immemorial his people had danced on Midsummer; soon all this would be buried beneath the river of fire-blood. But the Frostwolves would endure.

  They always had. They always would.

  12

  Durotan had left the doomed village first, leading the largest wave of the clan. He had instructed Orgrim and his warriors to depart soon after to defend the rear. Draka and Geyah, who would bring any stragglers and the shaman, would follow as soon as they could. Durotan’s group rode north on wolves that needed no urging to go at their top speed. But even so, the smoke gave chase, stinging their eyes and utterly obliterating the night sky, even the tops of the trees. There was no way to navigate by the stars, whose faces were hidden from them by the choking gray blanket.

  But Durotan had the map, and did not need the stars and moon. He was able to locate the place Draka had called the Haven. It was several hours’ hard riding due north. According to Draka, there was a large, freshwater lake at the Haven. Where there was water, there were animals, and soil that could be cultivated. There would be shelter from the elements, too, she had assured him: huge stones, some squat boulders, others longer and thinner, had tumbled down over the eons to form natural chambers. The fact that the stones were in the center of a wide, clear area meant that they would have an excellent view both of prey and of encroaching enemies. Finally, there were trees, and trees meant fuel.

  She had marked landmarks on the map as well: here a tree struck by lightning, there an old river bed. As he passed them on the journey, Durotan’s heart lifted for the first time since the wolves had started howling.

  At last, they found Haven. There were indeed dozens of clustered boulders whose positions provided the promised shelter. He sent a small group to gather firewood, instructing them to cut limbs if need be. He would ask Drek’Thar to beg forgiveness from the Spirit of Earth later for the transgression. Durotan’s lips twisted at the irony; a river of fire had destroyed their village and forced their evacuation, but a small, contained fire would mean life.

  Many members of the clan were exhausted from fear and the grueling ride. Durotan urged those who could do so to sleep. Those, like him, who could not would tend the fire and keep watch.

  Shortly after Durotan had lit the fire, Orgrim arrived with his warriors. All had survived, and despite their chieftain’s firm orders, they had burdened their wolves with more, sometimes much more, than one weapon each. He chastised them for their disobedience, but was secretly glad of it. Everything had happened so quickly there had been time to bring little more than their own bodies, but now that the threat—the immediate threat of the fire river, at least—was over, every weapon would count.

  The hours ticked by. At last, Geyah and Draka arrived. His heart lifted to see them, and the group they led. Geyah slipped off Singer and her legs quivered for a moment before she strode to her son. He embraced her fiercely.

  “I am glad you are here, Mother,” he said. He looked around at the shaman, so weary they could barely dismount. “But… where are Drokul and Relkarg?”

  “They would not come,” she said, quietly. “They chose to stay, and hold back the fire river to the last moment. All the others wanted to stay as well. Palkar and I had to struggle to convince Drek’Thar to leave.”

  It had been foolish to hope that the clan could escape without loss, Durotan knew, but he had done so anyway. “Their sacrifices will be remembered in a lok’vadnod. As for Drek’Thar and the other shaman who are still with us, we will need them now more than ever. What of the medications? The scrolls?”

  The lines of sorrow that creased his mother’s features deepened. “Most are lost,” she replied. “I could bring only a few.” The scrolls were ancient and irreplaceable. The shaman had sacrificed their lives to save their fellow Frostwolves; Geyah would have died to preserve th
e scrolls, but nothing she or anyone could have done would have saved them.

  Someone called for her, and she turned. Durotan let her go, his gaze searching the crowd of newly arrived orcs for Draka. Their eyes met. Only now did Durotan realize how concerned he had been for her.

  She had her arm around a weeping Shaksa, but when she saw Durotan, Draka said something to the girl and embraced her before making her way toward her chieftain. Her face was grim, and she wasted no words.

  “We lost clan members,” she said.

  “Geyah told me of the shaman,” Durotan began, but fell silent when Draka shook her head.

  “We lost Kelgrim, Pagar, and all their children.”

  Durotan felt like he had been kicked in the gut by a clefthoof. “What? The whole family? How…”

  “I led the group,” she said, and there was self-loathing in her voice. “The fault is mine. Shaksa just now told me. The family was in the rear. Shaksa said that the youngest, Zagu, had forgotten a toy.” Draka’s voice trembled slightly. “He slipped off the wolf and ran back for it. The family followed. They promised Shaksa they would catch up.” Pain flitted across her face. “I did not even know they had gone.”

  Durotan placed his hand on her shoulders. “You only have two eyes, Draka. If no one came to the front to tell you, how could you have known? As for Pagar and Kelgrim… I cannot imagine such a choice as they faced. I do not believe that you could have stopped them from turning back, Draka, even if you had been aware that Zagu had fled.”

  He empathized with her. Logically, the right thing for the parents to have done would have been to press on, abandoning one child to save the others. But as he looked at Draka, he found himself imagining how he would feel, had he fathered a child with this remarkable female. Would he have been able to make that choice? Or would he, too, have gambled everything to save his son? A small, unique life, born from love and a true bond?

  His emotions were both compelling and uncomfortable. He forced his voice to convey a calmness he was far from feeling. “We are Frostwolves. Other orcs might have found this an easy choice, but not us. And now more than ever, children are precious to us. Could you have ridden on, Draka?”