His people were still on the verge of starvation. Their shelter was insufficient, and no one ever grew fully warm. Until just a few moments ago, they had no reliable source of water. But none of that mattered as Durotan gazed into Draka’s sweetly sly, loving face.
“It is because you speak truth that I love you,” he said simply. “And I will unto my last dying breath. Whatever happens.”
“Whatever happens,” she agreed.
* * *
The Frostwolves, already rejoicing over the fresh water, received the news with thundering approval. Though initially Draka had been looked upon as a curiosity, she had swiftly proved her value to the clan with her knowledge and skills. They were bonded that very night in a small, private shelter of stone and wood that had been quickly constructed for the new couple. The setting was, Durotan lamented aloud as she lay in his arms, far from what Draka deserved. She shoved him, just hard enough, and said that all she needed was him.
They had one another, and the clan had them—a united, devoted, and determined pair. They would both serve the Frostwolves as best they could for as long as breath was granted to them.
Whatever happened.
14
Through the winter, the Spirits were venerated with a fresh urgency. Although Fire had caused the destruction of their Frostfire Ridge home, it was welcomed every moment of every day through the long, dark, lean months. The underground spring the clan had discovered thanks to the redjay sent by Water was tended so that it did not freeze. As Durotan had predicted, fresh, readily available water attracted game, so there was more to eat as well as more to drink. At least, there was at first. But as time passed, fewer animals came, and those who did seemed smaller and frailer than any Durotan had seen before. He was reminded of Kurg’nal’s tale of “green” talbuks, and while no such were seen, thank the Spirits, it was clear that sickness was rampaging through the herd animals. Determinedly, the Frostwolves began to recreate what had been lost in the frantic flight—clothing, tools, weapons, all crafted with cold fingers in the weak winter light.
One terrible night, a snowstorm swept in. There was no warning: moments before, the sky was clear, and there was no wind. It was actually even warmer than many days they had seen. But when the storm struck, it was merciless.
Two hunting parties found themselves stranded and survived only by huddling with one another and their wolves. Two orcs, a mother and son, who had been en route to the spring became lost mere steps from the safety of the encampment, blinded by the snow, disoriented by the wind that pulled them this way and that and snatched away the voices of those calling out to them. Those still in the encampment were snowed in. It took days to recover from the abrupt, seemingly random onslaught.
Durotan was forced to forbid any attempt to respectfully attend to the dead until spring. To recover and clean the bodies and gather stones to cover them would take more energy than anyone could spare.
“This is my wife!” cried Grukag. “My only child!” Grukag was known for his level emotions as well as his physical prowess. Even when he had challenged the Thunderlord to the mak’gora so many years ago, he had done so because it was an affront to clan honor, not because he was hot-blooded and angry. But now, his heart was open and raw for all to see. He had just lost all the family he had.
“I do not belittle your pain,” Durotan said. “I know your bond was strong. We are becoming so few that each loss hurts the clan—each loss hurts us, as individuals. But would Margah and Purzul want you to die just so you could cover their bodies with stones? Would they want any Frostwolf to die doing this?”
Grukag clearly wanted to protest, but there was no arguing. While there was some food and water to be had, there was precious little of it, and even through his pain, he understood. He simply stared at Durotan for a long moment, nodded bleakly, and turned away.
That night, Durotan could not sleep. Draka lay beside him, her hand tenderly stroking his chest, letting him think. At last, he spoke, and his words were blunt.
“I am lost,” he said. “The black wolf of despair is only ever a heartbeat away. How can I lead my people well when I can predict nothing? When all I have learned, all my father taught me, could be destroyed by a single snowstorm? If more of the clan had been away from the shelter—”
“But they were not.” Draka propped herself up on an elbow and regarded her husband. “It is easy to have dark thoughts in dark times, when the sun does not show its face.” Then, she smiled, which struck him as incongruous. “But even when the world seems dead, there is life.”
Durotan snorted. “Lives were lost today. Even the Spirits are barely speaking to us. The Spirit of Life is—”
Draka took his large hand and placed it on the flat plane of her belly.
“Is here,” she finished for him, softly, her voice trembling.
Durotan stared at her, hardly daring to believe what she was telling him, then he took her in his arms and embraced her tightly.
* * *
Spring arrived, sullen and cold. The children climbed trees in search of birds’ eggs, but more often than not returned to the ground empty-handed. Creatures that had once gravitated to the area for what little grazing there was seemed to have disappeared, traveling on to other feeding grounds.
During the winter, a grim resignation had settled upon the clan. Now, with the thaw, there was a restlessness, a need to move, to do.
But when the feeble spring returned, so did Gul’dan.
A runner sent word ahead that the “Gul’dan, Leader of the Horde, would parley with Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh, Chieftain of the Frostwolves.”
Durotan regarded the orc atop the lean gray wolf for a long moment before replying. “How does it happen that Gul’dan knows that my father is no longer chieftain?”
The runner shrugged. “Gul’dan is a warlock,” he replied, “and he has ways of discovering what he wishes to know.”
The words sent a shiver down Durotan’s spine. Gul’dan had not bothered to display his power to Garad when he had last visited, and Durotan expected he would not do so this time, either. He recalled Geyah’s dislike of the warlock, and Drek’Thar’s insistence that the Spirits disliked Gul’dan. Durotan debated refusing the warlock a second audience under the parley banner, but he had to admit to some curiosity. The Frostwolf clan could not have been easy to locate. Why had Gul’dan gone to so much effort to meet with him? What was he offering this time?
And more importantly, what did he want from Durotan and the Frostwolves?
More than ever, Durotan was interested in the idea of orcs working together. Draka had spent time away from the clan, and had hunted side by side not only with other orcs, but even with the strange draenei. The experience had done nothing but enrich her—it had taught her skills and in some cases kept her alive. He thought about the horrors of the night when Greatfather Mountain had bled a river of fire, spouting smoke and ash into a sky that still suffered. Of herds of weak, sickly creatures, bitter fruit that would not ripen, and grass that refused to grow green and lush. Of those who had not had enough food to make it through the winter, or who had perished in the blizzard mere steps from safety.
“I will parley with Gul’dan,” he told the runner. “But I make no promises.”
Geyah, Drek’Thar, and Orgrim were not pleased with their chieftain’s decision. They sat with Durotan and Draka in his new shelter, which had been improved since the night of the pair’s joining. It was still a cramped space for so many, but they had crowded in together so that they could converse unheard. Geyah spoke up almost before they had all arranged their cloaks and extended their cold hands to the comforting flames. “He has already been refused by a Frostwolf once,” she said.
“Durotan is not his father,” Orgrim pointed out reasonably, “and much has happened since Gul’dan first approached the Frostwolves. Perhaps he thinks Durotan will have a different response for him.”
“Durotan is his father’s child, and a true Frostwolf,”
Geyah said. “Our clan has suffered so much.” She turned imploringly to her son. “Surely you will not abandon our ways now?”
“I am not my father. Orgrim is right about that. But I do believe in the ways of our clan, and my father led us well. There is no harm in listening. Perhaps this time, he brings us solid proof of this fertile land he spoke of.”
“Where the animals fight to be your dinner,” added Draka. They shared a smile. “I confess, I am glad you have decided to meet with him. I have never seen this warlock, but I have heard much about him.” She sobered as she touched his arm lightly. “Be careful, my heart. I joke about him, but from what I know, he is dangerous.”
“I think,” Durotan said, staring into the crackling flames and remembering a river of fire, “that I have learned to be respectful of danger.”
* * *
The Frostwolves did their best to display at least some semblance of tradition and formality when Gul’dan rode into the encampment. Drummers started striking their instruments’ taut hides as soon as Gul’dan’s party came into view, pounding out a steady, heartbeat rhythm. Durotan stood to meet their guest wearing an outfit that had bone and bright-colored feathers painstakingly gathered by the children on the calmer days sewn into it. A long cloak fell from his shoulders. In one hand, he grasped Thunderstrike. Sever was strapped to his back. If the cloak was of rabbit fur, and the bones those of small animals, it was of no matter. Whether he wore the skin of a clefthoof or a rabbit, if it was new or stained and worn, he was Durotan, and he was chieftain of the Frostwolf clan.
Draka stood beside him, a necklace of bone and feathers about her dark brown throat. She wore ritual beads braided into her thick black hair, the same beads that had adorned Geyah’s hair two years past, when the Lorekeeper had been the wife of the Frostwolf chieftain. Orgrim stood, massive and silent, on Durotan’s left. Geyah stood next to Draka, and Drek’Thar, leaning on the staff that had, with the aid of the Spirits, unearthed a boulder, was beside Orgrim.
Gul’dan, “Leader of the Horde” came, this time, with more retinue in tow than he had when Garad was chieftain; a half-dozen surprisingly healthy-looking orcs, who had doubtless helped him to travel safely through the ravaged land. They wore cloaks with heavy cowls, so their faces could not be glimpsed, but their bodies seemed to be fit and strong.
But these newcomers were in addition to, not in place of, the peculiar, reed-slender female slave Garona. Why did he persist in bringing her? Surely it was risky, unappealingly delicate as she was. Durotan felt as if he could snap her arm between his thumb and forefinger. Yet twice, the warlock had felt compelled to bring her. She must have some value to him.
Gul’dan slid off his wolf, and came forward. Durotan’s gaze flitted over him, observing everything. He was more stooped, but bulkier than Durotan remembered. The green skin was darker, too; or perhaps that was just a trick of the weak, late-afternoon light. But Gul’dan’s smile—that confident, sly, slightly sinister smile—had not changed.
Nor had his clothing. He still wore the cloak of spines and tiny skulls, and still strode with the aid of a carved staff. And those eyes burned with the same green fire that made Durotan’s skin crawl.
He heard Draka growl softly, so low that only he could hear it, and saw that his mate was staring not at the imposing but repugnant Gul’dan, but at Garona. Durotan could now see the huge collar about the peculiar half-breed’s too-thin neck had rubbed so often that it had left scars. Even so, she still had that upright, defiant expression, as if the abrasive collar were a beautiful necklace. Durotan felt a jolt of surprise as he recognized it. It was the same expression Draka had borne for so long, when she was still newly returned. He recalled that, even then, thoughts of Draka had been in his mind when he had first seen Garona. He wondered if his wife, too, could see herself in this fierce-eyed slave. Had it been only two short years ago when all his questions, it seemed, had been about Garona? Why was she green? Why was she so important to Gul’dan? He had not voiced these questions. It had been his father’s meeting, not Durotan’s, but now that the meeting was indeed his own, he realized—as, doubtless, his father had—that there were more pressing matters.
The drumming ceased when Gul’dan came to a halt in front of Durotan. Gul’dan leaned on his staff and shook his head, chuckling slightly.
Durotan returned the warlock’s gaze confidently. He had seen and learned—and lost—so much since his last encounter with Gul’dan that the older orc did not intimidate him as he once had. Geyah had briefed him on what to say to properly enact the ritual, and he spoke clearly and with the authority that he had earned over the last two years.
“The ancient banner of parley has come to the Frostwolves, borne by Gul’dan, son of No Orc and of No Clan.”
Gul’dan wagged a chiding finger at him. “Chieftain of the Horde,” he corrected.
A muscle tightened in Durotan’s jaw, but he continued in the same voice. “Gul’dan, son of No Orc, Chieftain of the Horde. You have come with respect for the puissance of the Frostwolves, demonstrating veneration for the praxis of our people. For your bearing of the banner, you have safety. For your deference, we will feed and shelter you and yours like our own. Our ears we will turn to you, for as shedding blood shows our prowess in battle, listening shows our prowess in reason.”
The sneer never left Gul’dan’s face. When it was his turn to speak, he said, “Custom and the ancient rites that stay your hand compel me to tell you three things: Who I am. What I offer. And what I ask.” He lifted his hunched shoulders in a shrug. “I think you already know these things.”
“The ritual demands it,” Geyah said, her voice icier than the winter.
Gul’dan sighed. “You have my name. I offer to you, Durotan, what your father spurned: Life. And I ask that you accept this offer.”
Durotan did not reply, but he nodded to the two rough-hewn wooden chairs by the fire. Gul’dan eased his twisted frame into one, mindful of the spines that had been attached to his cloak. Even in daylight, Durotan couldn’t see how they had been sewn on. Gul’dan jerked Garona’s chain, and she knelt beside him in the snow. Her back was as straight as one of the great trees.
“As you said, my father spurned your offer of some mystical new land,” Durotan said as he took his own seat. “But I am not my father, and I will listen to you and judge for myself what is best for the Frostwolf clan.”
“So I saw in you, then, Durotan. I am pleased by these words.”
“Wait until you hear my decision before you speak so,” Durotan cautioned.
Gul’dan chuckled, his voice low and deep. Draka’s hand, resting on her husband’s shoulder as she stood behind him, tightened, her sharp fingers digging in.
“When last I visited your people,” said Gul’dan, “your father told me that the hardships we suffered were merely part of a cycle. He spoke eloquently of legends that told us this, of ebb and flow, life and death. He told me that he believed things would change. Then, your troubles were lesser, were they not? All you feared was longer winters, thinner herds, decreased harvests.”
He lifted his arms, covered with bracelets of braided hide and hair, and indicated their surroundings. “Garad was right. Things have changed. Now, the noble, confident Frostwolves no longer dwell on Frostfire Ridge. Your ancestral home is covered by once-molten stone, gone beyond recovering even in a thousand years. Your people were forced to flee north. Your water is poisoned, your shelter crude. The grass does not turn green, even though spring has come. The trees bear no buds.”
He turned his glowing green gaze to the clan members clustered about to watch. “I see fewer Frostwolves before me,” he said, his voice sad. “And children… I see fewer still. Tell me, Durotan. If you love your people, why do you stay here?”
“Silence, you twisted monster!” came a cry from the back. “You know nothing of what it means to be a Frostwolf!”
Durotan shot to his feet, his gaze raking the gathered clan. “Frostwolves, for shame! This is a guest
who has come under the banner of parley! You will not speak so to him,” he said, adding, “No matter what you think.”
Gul’dan nodded his appreciation. “I am not a Frostwolf,” he agreed, “and I imagine I must seem a monster to those who do not understand. I appear as I do because of the power I have been given. The power to take every single one of you to safety. Tell me,” he continued, “even if this is a cycle, as your father believed… can your clan survive until it changes? What good would longer summers be, if all the grass does is grow over Frostwolf graves?”
Draka’s nails dug deeper into Durotan’s cloaked shoulder as the Frostwolves murmured angrily. Durotan held up a hand, and the muttering subsided.
“You said it was worse in the south. Is this still so?”
“It is,” Gul’dan replied.
“Then why should we leave here at all? How do we know this is not a lie of some sort?”
It was an extraordinarily disrespectful comment, but it needed to be said. To Durotan’s surprise, Gul’dan smiled. “When I came to your clan before, I brought a blood apple with no seeds. This time, I bring something even better: the word of someone you know.”
He gestured, and one of the orcs who had accompanied him stepped forward. Flipping back the cowl from his face, he regarded Durotan with a smile.
Durotan’s eyes widened in recognition.“Kovogor!”
15
The other orc made as if to bow to Durotan, but the Frostwolf chieftain had risen and gone to him, gripping his forearms tightly. “Kovogor! By the Spirits, it is good to see you!”
“And you, Durotan. Chieftain, now,” Kovogor said. His grin was wide and his eyes were bright. He looked older, though Durotan supposed they all did; the years since the Frostwolves and Thunderlords had joined together to hunt had not been kind to anyone. But there was the calm patience in his mien that Durotan remembered. “Although it pains me to see the hardships the Frostwolves endure. With respect, Lorekeeper,” and he turned to Geyah, “I would speak of what I know of how the south fares, and how Gul’dan leads the Horde.”
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