They nodded. “Red Walkers?” Zarka asked.
“Possibly. Whatever it is, I do not wish to take my people there without knowing what we face. Don’t exhaust your wolves. Return before sunset.” He gave them a rough smile. “And if what we face is something good to eat, bring it back with you.”
They gave him tired smiles in return. “As my chieftain wills,” said Kulzak. He and the others urged their wolves ahead of the pack.
They returned well before sunset. There were no birds or small beasts thrown over their wolves, and Durotan’s heart sank at their expressions. He rode out to meet them, anxious to hear their report before telling the rest of the clan.
“What is it?” he asked. “Who created the fire?”
They exchanged glances, and finally Delgar spoke. “I would not have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes, but…”
“Tell me.”
“My chieftain… the soil itself is on fire.”
23
Durotan wanted to rage. To scream. To kill. But he forced himself to shove the fury down, deep inside, and to breathe slowly even as he clenched his fists. “Do you mean a wildfire?” he asked.
They shook their heads. “The smoke… it’s coming up from the ground. There were places where the wolves couldn’t even walk,” Zarka said.
Draka rode up beside him, saying nothing, just giving him strength with her simple, calm presence. Then, unexpectedly, Drek’Thar moved Wise-ear toward the hushed voices. “Is there a path through this burning ground?”
“I—” Zarka looked unsure. “There were some areas where we could go, yes. But—”
“Then we must continue.”
“Drek’Thar,” Durotan began, “we use soil to put out a fire. If the soil itself can burn—”
“This is but more of the same, Durotan,” Drek’Thar said. “Fire becomes a river. Water turns hot. Air becomes poison. Earth itself burns or swallows us whole, and plants die at the very root. The elements are sick, and they turn upon one another as well as us in their illness. This danger—and I know that it is danger, we have seen that it is—is a symptom of something they are begging us to cure. Would you turn your mother away if, in a fever, she were to strike you or say terrible things?”
“Of course not!”
Drek’Thar smiled. “No, you would never do so. You would know she did not intend for these things to harm you, but she was ill and unable to control herself. So it is now with the elements. They are like our parents, our family. They make it possible for us to survive in this world. I understand now that the darker things become, the more imperative it is that we continue to press forward despite our fears, despite the dangers.”
Durotan looked back over the clan. He tried to see them, not as he thought of them, but as they truly were, free from the gentling cloud of his love for them. They were painfully thin, bedraggled. Filthy. Their clothing was poor and nearly worn out. Some had no boots, and had merely wrapped scraps of fur around their feet. The children did not laugh and play, but lay unnaturally quiet on the wolves they rode.
They could go no further. Not without hope.
No.
He had kept holding out hope, both for himself and for his people. We are Frostwolves, he had told them. We will endure. And they had. His heart swelled with pride in them. They had indeed endured, making new things to replace what was lost, creating songs, loving their children, learning to eat the poorest fare imaginable and pronouncing it good.
They deserved better. They deserved more than hope, they deserved everything that he had promised them.
“Drek’Thar is right,” he said, his voice raw. “We must press on. For as long as time, the Spirits have taken care of us. And like good children, when they are ill or weak, we must take care of them.”
He turned to look at Draka, Orgrim, and Geyah. “But as chieftain, I am also a father to my people. I must look after their needs, as well. And so, Drek’Thar and I will go to the Seat of the Spirits… alone. The rest of you will stay behind, and protect the Frostwolf clan.”
“No.” Draka’s response was swift and strong. “I swore to be by your side, Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh. I will not leave you.”
He smiled at her. “And to our child,” he said, “I am also a father. I would not take his life before he has had a chance to live it. This time, you will not sway me. I need you and our child here. Orgrim, you as well.”
“But—”
“You are my second-in-command,” Durotan said. “You must stay here, with Draka. I do not know what awaits me.”
“You sound like you are not planning to return.” Draka’s voice was controlled, but he could see her trembling. He reached out and took her hand.
“With a wife like you waiting for me? I most definitely do plan on returning,” he said, teasing her softly. “But I would know that you are safe. All of you.”
“You will not ride alone,” Orgrim rumbled. “If you forbid me, then I demand that our finest warriors ride along with you and Drek’Thar.”
“And me,” Geyah said. All heads turned to regard her. More white streaks had appeared in her hair over the last long months, and hardship had etched lines along her mouth and forehead he had not noticed until now. He recalled how the four of them—he, Geyah, Garad, and Orgrim—would ride as a unified front, to then veer off to chase down their targets. Those were good days. Sweet days.
They were days that had gone, and would never return. Wishing would not make the world right again.
But maybe—just maybe—what he and Drek’Thar were doing would. And all of a sudden he understood why Geyah wanted to come with them.
She was a Lorekeeper, in a world where lore now meant nothing. She had made a lifetime practice of honoring the Spirits, and seeing to it that others knew about them and honored them, too. Drek’Thar did this by sharing his visions. Geyah did so with words: not with the original or new words of a first-sung lok’vadnod, but with ancient words, worn to perfection like supple leather.
“Yes,” he said, surprising even himself. “You should be part of this, too, Mother.” He saw her relax slightly, and wondered, if she had objected to his quest, if he’d have been able to win that particular argument. He suspected not. “And yes to your request, too, Orgrim. It would not do for the possible saviors of the Spirits to fall short of their goal by running afoul of an angry winter bear.”
“It would take a little more than that,” Draka said grudgingly.
“It would take a whole legion of bears to keep me from returning to you,” Durotan said, and he was not teasing this time. He could not imagine an enemy so fierce that he could not slay it, if it would mean being with Draka and his child.
She saw it in his eyes, and her face softened.
“So,” Durotan said. “I, Drek’Thar, Geyah, Delgar, Kulzak, and Zarka will ride over the ground that burns to the Seat of the Spirits.”
“Do you want to speak to the clan before you depart?” Orgrim asked.
Durotan looked back at his people, and shook his head. “Speeches are to inspire our people to battle, or to comfort them when disaster strikes. This is neither of these times. Tell them only that we have gone ahead, to see what is there. If we do not return, then you know what to do.” He looked from Orgrim to Draka. “Both of you. Orgrim—take them back to where we last found clean water. Let them rest until I return.”
“It will be done. When should we look for you?”
That, Durotan did not know. “Drek’Thar? Can you tell us?”
The old shaman cocked his head, as if listening to a distant voice. “Not far, not far,” he said, almost humming the words. “They know we approach. They are anxious. We must save them. Half a day’s ride, no more, to the Seat of the Spirits.”
Durotan thought a moment. He had no idea what awaited them. Surely they would need to stay for at least some time. “Three suns at the utmost,” Durotan said. “Someone will come. With luck, we will have found a safe, new home. Without it… in f
our suns, you will be the Frostwolf chieftain.”
“I will protect the Frostwolves as you would,” Orgrim said, “but you will return. Being chieftain would sorely cut into my drinking time.” The two exchanged a laugh, though alcohol had been a luxury abandoned with Frostfire Ridge. Then Orgrim turned to the three warriors who would accompany Durotan. “Come,” he said, “let us find you some provisions for the journey.”
Draka slipped off Ice and looked up at Durotan, confused that he still sat astride Sharptooth. “Will you not dismount and embrace me, my heart?” she asked.
“No,” Durotan said. “I will leave that as further incentive to return.”
She reached up to him regardless, and they clasped one another’s hands tightly. “I can see you are certain of the rightness of this,” Draka said.
“I am,” he said. “Draka… I believe that all of the trials, all the losses, all our suffering… they were meant to bring us here, to meet with the Spirits.”
“Meet with them, you shall,” Draka said, “and then come back to your wife.”
He leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers, then he let her go.
24
Something had settled in Durotan’s soul. Whatever the outcome of this pilgrimage, for such he realized it was, he was content. He had become chieftain during the worst time in this world’s history, and had tried to lead as best he could. Now he, together with two shaman, one the eldest of the clan and one its Lorekeeper, would be going where, if legend was to be believed, only one other orc had ever been. And that orc, too, had been a Frostwolf chieftain.
It felt so right, so appropriate, that he found he could lay aside, at least, for the moment, that which had gnawed at him since his father’s death: the question of what would happen if he failed.
It was an odd sensation, given their sinister surroundings. Delgar had not exaggerated: the earth itself—not anything on it—was on fire. Devoid of trees and grasses, the ground emitted wisps of smoke that slithered close to the earth like fog. Here and there, Durotan glimpsed glowing patches and the occasional small flame. Breathing was possible, but difficult. There was no sign of snow or ice to offer water or douse the deeply embedded, sullenly smoking fire. His mind wrestled with the idea: how could earth burn?
It did not matter. How could a mountain emit liquid fire, or the ground open up beneath them? How could any of these things happen? Drek’Thar had given him the answer: the Spirits were sick.
As they rode, taking care to avoid the smoldering spots, Durotan glanced from time to time at Geyah and Drek’Thar. They, too, seemed calm, with a strangely youthful eagerness about them. Geyah had suggested that Palkar be left behind. She would guide the elderly shaman, she said. It would be less risk, and if for some reason they did not return, Palkar knew most of what both of them did, and would be able to carry on the Lorekeeper tradition.
“What are we looking for?” Durotan had asked Drek’Thar as they had embarked on the journey.
“We will know,” Drek’Thar said, somewhat distantly. It was a frustrating answer, but considering the source—the Spirits themselves—Durotan reasoned that it was likely the best answer the shaman could provide.
He tried another tactic, asking his mother about the story of the Frostwolf chieftain and the Stone Seat that was in the scrolls. “While legends are often based on true events,” she told him, “the language used to record them is…” She cocked her head, searching for the word.
“Flowery,” Zarka grunted. Durotan laughed, and even Geyah had to smile.
“I would say, either embellished or too sparse,” she said. “Too sparse, in this case. It is said ‘he went as north as north could be, up to the very Edge of the World, and found there the Seat of the Spirits. And there he entered, and there he sat, for three days and three nights, until the Spirits came unto him.’”
“I had forgotten it was that long,” Durotan said. “I told Orgrim we’d be back sooner.”
Drek’Thar grunted. “Their situation is dire, so I think it is safe to say the Spirits will come to us sooner rather than later. Their needs, and ours, are urgent.”
They pressed on, and the sun made its way across the sky. This far north, night would last only a few hours. Durotan wondered if his eyes were dazzled when he began seeing a line of white along the horizon, but then Kulzak said, “Chieftain… I believe that is snow up ahead.”
Durotan licked his parched lips. He had been conservative in his consumption of water, not knowing if there would be a fresh source—indeed, any source—awaiting them. To see snow and ice was a relief.
Drek’Thar tensed atop Wise-ear’s back. “There,” he said, and it gave Durotan a chill to see that the blind shaman was pointing directly at the white line. “They will be there. Beyond the snow and the ice is the Edge of the World.”
No one moved. They sat astride their devoted wolf mounts, faces turned as north as north could be, somehow knowing that if they took one more step, everything would change.
Durotan took a deep breath. “Let us not keep the Spirits waiting,” he said, and urged Sharptooth forward.
Soon, the wolves’ paws fell on snow instead of burning earth. The group drank from their waterskins freely and filled them with clean snow to melt when they stopped to eat from their rations. Delgar had lashed some fuel to the back of his wolf, and fire was quickly lit. They melted the snow and drank it warm, and the heat in his belly heartened Durotan. They ate quickly and poured the rest of the heated liquid into their waterskins; no one wanted to linger, not with the destination so close.
The white snow that marked the horizon began to develop a blue tinge in the center. Durotan heard a strange noise, almost like rhythmic breathing. The wind picked up, and he shivered, drawing his cloak more tightly around his frame as the chill threatened to knife through him. He sniffed the air.
“Salt,” Kulzak said.
“We are close,” Drek’Thar said, his voice trembling with excitement.
The wolves pricked up their ears, their black, moist noises working at the strange scents, but moved forward at their masters’ urging. The snow seemed to change consistency beneath their feet. Durotan looked down, confused. The earth mixed in with the snow was not brown, but pale. He dropped lightly down to pick some up, sifting it through his hand. It felt rough, like ground nuts.
He looked up. The others were staring, silent, out at the horizon. At first, he couldn’t understand what they were looking at. He saw white snow, white earth—
—and blue water. Blue water that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction save the south, behind them. It moved, creating the soft, breathing sound they had heard, and now he recognized it. He had heard the gentler counterpart of this sound, the lapping of lake water. This vast expanse of water had to be the ocean.
Huge, flat chunks of white ice floated atop it. And beyond these, a mountain of white jutted from the sea. The sun was on its downward arc, but still would not set for some time. Light struck the ice mountain at such an angle it reflected off it with searing brightness, and Durotan found he could not look at it directly. Even an indirect gaze caused spots to dance before his eyes.
He knew at once what it was.
No one said anything. Drek’Thar startled them all when he slipped off Wise-ear and, to Durotan’s shock, raced heedlessly down to within an arm’s length of the highest reach of the water. He lifted a hand and, blind though he was, pointed straight at the ice mountain.
“There,” he said. “They await us there. They are in danger. We must hurry!”
Durotan spoke very gently. “Drek’Thar, what lies between us and them is a vast stretch of water. It is too cold for us to swim, and we have no boats. How do we get there?”
Drek’Thar’s face grew grey as he listened. His body sagged and he dropped to his knees, his head in his hands. “Please,” he begged. “Please, Spirit of Water, help us so that we may help you.”
The only answer was the implacable, rhythmic sound of the w
ater lapping on the shore.
This can’t be, thought Durotan. We’ve come so far, endured so much. He clenched his fists in fury and turned to Geyah, who looked at him helplessly. Zarka, Delgar, and Kulzak stayed silent.
Durotan threw his head back and roared. The sound carried in the clear air, a cry of pure grief and anger and hopelessness, and when his lungs were empty, he inhaled a great gulp of the frigid air and bellowed, “Spirits! Hear me! Fire, you destroyed our village! Earth and Water, you swallowed our people! We have marched across dead ground that burns and taste air that we can barely breathe. We see Life dwindling all around us, as our own numbers dwindle. And even so, even with all that you have done to us, you asked us for our aid, and we have come. Where are you, then? Where are you?”
The last words echoed and then died, until only the sound of the wind remained. Durotan slumped against Sharptooth’s side. Geyah went to him and gently touched his shoulder.
“My son,” she said, her voice trembling, “behold.”
Durotan lifted his face from the warm, rough comfort of the wolf’s fur and gazed with dull eyes. “I see what I have seen before,” he sat, flatly. “The blue water, too cold and deep. The ice mountain, out of our reach. The chunks of—” His eyes widened. He stepped away from Sharptooth, staring at the water.
The great, flat pieces of ice were moving. Not simply rocking in the water, but moving purposefully toward the shore, as if they were rafts of logs being steered by an unseen hand. The hairs at the back of his neck prickled as he realized that was exactly what they were.
The Spirits had sent them a way to cross.
Geyah smiled up at her son, looping her arm through his as she guided him, almost in a daze, to the shoreline. Zarka was describing the scene to Drek’Thar, who beamed and stood up straight and tall, lifting his staff in a salute to the Spirits, who had not deserted them after all.
Warcraft Page 17