Tears stung her own eyes as she cupped her purified hands and gulped down the water. Cool and sweet, it quenched her thirst and calmed her as she drank, then she reached for the fruit nestled in the grass. Famished though she was, she almost did not wish to eat it, it was so perfect.
Drek’Thar sat back, water streaming from his face. “Give me your hand, old friend,” Geyah said, and placed a blood apple, red and round, into his palm. They ate in grateful silence. The apples were juicy and crisp, the berries so ripe they all but burst on the tongue. Geyah did not want to leave. Well could she imagine the Frostwolf chieftain of legend more than happy to sit and wait upon the arrival of the Spirits.
The food sated their hunger more rapidly than was natural, but Geyah did not question that. She took Drek’Thar over to the fire, and they held out their hands to the flames, knowing somehow that even were they to walk into its center, here, in this place, it would never harm them.
“The Spirits…” Drek’Thar began, then frowned as a shadow fell over his naked face. “The… the Spirit of Life wishes to speak… to both of us.”
He sank down by the fire almost as if his legs had given way. Concerned, Geyah caught his arm, but he waved her off and stretched out on the soft green grass. He reached for her hand, guided it to his heart, then covered it with his other hand.
He opened his mouth. And although it was his voice, Geyah knew instantly that it was not Drek’Thar speaking. A shiver ran through her.
“Once before have the Frostwolves come,” said the Spirit of Life. “They came with an arrogance that was endearing in its innocent ignorance of all the complexities of the world. And we, Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Life, gave a blessing to the Frostwolves. Stubborn and strong, you have honored us ever, even when others used our powers for their own.”
Geyah realized that any questions fell to her to ask. She was not prepared, as she had assumed Drek’Thar would be the one speaking to the Spirits. Instead, he spoke for them. She desperately hoped her questions were the right ones.
“Spirits, Drek’Thar has said you are in need of our help. We have come. What may we do, to thank you for aiding us for so many generations?”
“You have come, and here, at the end, you have cleansed our sacred place. For that, we are grateful. But you are too late, Lorekeeper,” said Drek’Thar’s voice, with such a deep sense of sorrow that tears filled Geyah’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “The Blooded Ones remembered the old legends, and came to claim our Seat for their own. We were able to defend this, the heart of our Seat, but even though they could not enter here, they drained us greatly. We have been dying, slowly, and now we are all but gone. We reached out to all the Draenor shaman. We begged for aid. Most could not hear us. Some did, but they turned away their faces, unwilling to believe what was truly happening. Still others rejected us outright, choosing to follow Gul’dan and his warlock magic of death instead of us, and our magic of life. You, the Frostwolves, almost heard us in time. Almost,” the Spirit of Life said sadly, its borrowed voice trailing off. “But this one, even wise as he is, did not fully understand.”
“This can’t be true!” Geyah felt her heart cracking in the middle of her chest. “I see Fire, Water, Earth, all here, now—you cannot be dead!”
“Not dead,” the Spirit of Life assured her. “But weak. Too weak. First Fire, then Earth and Water. Air still holds on, but barely. Life will be the last to let go and surrender.”
Surrender? How could a Spirit surrender? None of the scrolls had prepared her for this. Not a single legend, or phrase, or teaching, or ritual. Her panicked heart fluttered in her ribcage like a trapped bird. She trembled, clinging to Drek’Thar’s limp hand as if to a lifeline.
“You… you are forsaking us? What will we do?” She suddenly recalled Drek’Thar’s words on the night of Garad’s pyre, the night her son would become chieftain: 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.
Anger abruptly replaced fear and she demanded, “If it was too late, then why have you called us here? Just to sit and watch you all die?”
Drek’Thar’s voice was gentle as it spoke the words of the Spirit of Life. “No, dear one. You have always been strong. Drek’Thar has always been devoted. Your clan will need this. You must be sure to stay with them. We do not die, as you understand the term. But neither can we continue to aid you. You have listened, and come to us, and have purged us of the barbarism that was the Red Walkers. We wished you to know that wherever there is earth, air, fire, water, and life… there also are we, even if we are no more.”
“This makes no sense!” shouted Geyah. She realized she was sobbing. “I do not understand!”
“You will,” the Spirit of Life promised. “But for now, we must go, and conserve what little is left to us. Your clan will have a final gift from us, and you will need it. Your son needs you now, Geyah. Go to him. Hurry. And… do not forget us.”
Drek’Thar’s chest fell with an exhalation of breath, and then rose again. But this time, Geyah somehow realized that the Spirit of Life was no longer speaking through him.
“Drek’Thar, did you—”
“Yes,” he said, sitting up. “I heard everything. And I felt…” He shook his head. “I will tell you later. But for now, what I felt was the Spirit’s urgency. Durotan needs us—now!”
They went up the steps faster than they had come down. Drek’Thar and Geyah were fueled by fear and urgency. As they neared the top, a hand shot out and seized Drek’Thar’s arm, hauling him up the last two steps.
Durotan, who had always, ever, been respectful of his elders, now grabbed Drek’Thar and Geyah both. His eyes were wild, full of fury—and fear.
“This was a trap,” he said. “Dozens of Red Walkers have been living here. Only a few of them stayed behind to delay us so that the rest of them could go on ahead.”
Still reeling from the words of the Spirit of Life, Geyah asked, “Go ahead to where?”
Durotan’s face contorted in anguish as he spoke words that nearly broke her.
“To destroy the Frostwolves.”
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“Did they tell you anything that could help us?” Durotan persisted, looking from Drek’Thar to Geyah and back. He tried not to stare at Drek’Thar’s face, which he had never seen before. Somehow, despite all logic, he felt the shaman would know.
“The Spirit of Earth said that they would grant us a final gift,” Drek’Thar said.
Durotan felt the blood drain from his face. “Final?”
Despite the terrifying implications of his words, Drek’Thar looked curiously placid. He shook his head and said, “There is too much to tell now. And none of it will matter if the clan is exterminated. We must go, right away, and trust in the word of the Spirits, and hope that we are not too late. The Red Walkers have been living here for some time. They have absorbed some of the Spirits’ energies.”
“They outnumbered us, and yet we defeated them with few injuries,” Zarka pointed out. “They fought well enough, but they did not seem so strong to me.”
But Durotan understood. “Think, Zarka. They left their weakest behind.”
Her eyes widened.
“We will overtake them,” Durotan reassured her—and himself. “We have wolves. They do not. Come. Let us spill more of the blood of those who would wear ours.”
The ice floe was there, awaiting them. While it still amazed Durotan to be ferried across the water in such complete safety, he was chafing against any restraint. And, as the further shore came into clearer view, he beheld a sight that caused him to drop to his knees in despair. Beside him, Kulzak let out a cry of pain.
Six white shapes could be seen on the white snow; shapes that reminded Durotan of the snow-hidden Red Walkers who had ambushed them. Except these white forms were furred, and far too still.
“What do you see?” asked Drek’Thar.
“Our friends,” said Durotan in a broken
voice. “The Red Walkers have killed our wolves.”
The pain was twofold; first, and most pressing, they now no longer had an advantage over the murderous cannibals who were bearing down on their clan. But more than that, each of them had lost an ally—as Durotan had said, a friend. He had loved Sharptooth.
But Drek’Thar was shaking his head. “No,” he said. “Not dead. Not yet. Not all.”
How could he tell? Durotan could see no sign of movement from any of the still, white shapes. Then one of them lifted its head weakly before it fell back onto the snow. Hope surged in Durotan, and he leaped onto the bank and rushed to Sharptooth. His old friend whimpered, and Durotan’s heart broke as the wolf tried to wag his tail.
Durotan cocked his head as if listening. “One is dead. Two I fear are past saving,” Drek’Thar said. “Three yet live that the Spirit of Life will permit me to heal. The Red Walkers do not have mounts, but because of the time they have spent here, they are unnaturally swift. You will not catch them, but you will not be far behind them, either. You will be able to lend your might to the battle.”
“But… three wolves cannot carry five,” Kulzak said. “Not if they are still recovering, and not for so long a run.”
“They will have to,” Durotan said shortly.
“No,” Drek’Thar said quietly. “I will stay behind, and keep the dying frost wolves company. I will be all right. The Spirit of Life assures me of this.”
Durotan was torn. He wanted to order Drek’Thar to accompany them, but knew in his heart that Kulzak was right. “Tell me what you think is best, Drek’Thar, and I will obey. You have spoken with the Spirits, not I.”
Drek’Thar moved forward. Wise-ear scented him and made a sad little sound. Drek’Thar placed his hands on his old friend’s muzzle, opening it slightly, and gently breathed into the wolf’s mouth. Durotan watched, awestruck, as the wounds in the beast’s sides closed. A few heartbeats later, Wise-ear leaped up, whining and licking his master’s face.
Next, Drek’Thar’s hands reached for Sharptooth, and Durotan exhaled in relief as the wolf responded, bounding toward Durotan excitedly. Last was Drift, Zarka’s wolf. Sadly, Durotan regarded his mother. She knelt beside Singer, who had been her companion for most of Durotan’s life. Now she held the beloved wolf’s head between her hands, looked deep into the golden eyes, and murmured, “Thank you.” To Drek’Thar, she said, “Ease him into the final sleep,” then she rose.
There was no weakness in weeping for one’s wolf companion. The bond was strong, true, and lifelong. The weakness, Durotan thought, would be in failing to weep. He vaulted atop Sharptooth’s back and extended a hand to Geyah.
“Ride with me, Mother,” he said, “and we will use the Spirit of Life’s gift to save our clan.”
She leaped up behind him. As he crouched low over Sharptooth’s neck and said, “Run, my friend,” Durotan could only hope that, few as they were, they would be in time, and able to help.
* * *
“Do not sulk,” Draka told Orgrim.
“I am not sulking,” Orgrim said, “I am contemplating.”
She folded her arms and regarded him as he rewrapped the shaft of the Doomhammer. “You are sulking. I am, too. We are warriors, and we do not do well when we are not allowed to be such.”
“It is not that,” Orgrim said. Then he smiled ruefully. “Well, not just that. Durotan does not understand how strong a leader he is. He has been what the clan needs in this strange and terrible time. I worry that if anything happens…” He gestured to the Frostwolves around him. Most of them, as he was, were performing tedious chores of maintenance. Some of the children were playing with the wolves, who mock-growled and harmlessly snapped the air around them. “Could I lead them, as he did?”
Draka sat next to Orgrim, still awkward in her changing, larger body. The child would be born within the next two moons. She had been feeling it kick for some time now. The child of Draka and Durotan would be a strong one, she knew. She only hoped that she would not have to raise it alone. Ice was never far, and when he saw his master sit, he plopped down beside her and laid his head on his paws.
“The answer is no. You could not lead as he does.” One hand wandered to the swell of her belly. “You are not Durotan. You are Orgrim. Of course you would lead differently. The question becomes: would you lead well?”
He looked at her then. Draka had observed him since she had returned from her Exile, and she knew, as her husband must, that beneath Orgrim’s hulking size and bluff attitude, there was a fierce and complicated mind. And a good heart. “And the answer to that question is: yes. I believe you would lead well.” She punched his arm. “But not for a long time. Right now, you get to lead a Frostwolf clan that is resting and repairing their armor and clothes. Are you up to that challenge, Orgrim Doomhammer, son of Telkar, son of Ruvash?”
He laughed heartily. “Durotan chose well when he chose you.”
“That he did.”
“Well,” he said, “no one has died yet from mending and sitting, so I believe I am an excellent chieftain.” He finished the wrapping and hefted the Doomhammer, feeling the new leather against his callused, thick fingers. “I feel the need to move. To fight. I wish to destroy some terrifying rocks.”
“Rocks?” Draka feigned horror. “Truly, you would make an admirable chieftain, to wage battle against so solid an enemy. I promise we will sing a lok’vadnod for—”
A low growl interrupted her. Ice’s head was up and his ears were swiveled forward. Draka rose, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun, and looked where the wolf was staring. She could glimpse a blur on the horizon.
It could not be Durotan’s return. The wolves would know his scent, and if they reacted at all it would be to go greet the party.
It seemed as if Orgrim was about to discover how well he could lead the Frostwolves after all.
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By now, others had noticed the distant figures as well. They were all on their feet, calling their agitated wolves to them. Draka fully expected Orgrim to attack immediately, without identifying who—or what—was approaching, but he did not.
“Lugar,” he shouted, “Krogan—ride with me!” He shouted for Biter, and the wolf appeared, snarling and seemingly eager for a fight. Draka turned to mount Ice, but Orgrim’s voice halted her. “Draka, you stay here,” he ordered. “Protect yourself and your child.”
She whirled on him. “I am a Frostwolf! It is an honor to fight for my clan, and die if I must!”
“Durotan does not think so, nor do I. I will face whatever is out there before I tell him I let his wife and child rush out to battle. I will never let harm come to you or the baby, Draka, not if I can prevent it. Know that as truth. Stay and defend yourself, as I know you can, but leave this first line of attack to others!”
She roared in frustrated fury, but she had to admit he was right. While every clan member would lay down his or her life to protect Draka’s unborn child, she could not make that sacrifice herself. Cursing, she sought her bow and arrow. She spied a small round shield and an idea flashed into her head. Seizing the shield, she strapped it around her swollen belly.
“There, little one,” she said, “protection.” She leaped onto Ice and, using only her muscular legs, steered him indirectly toward the approaching threat, veering slightly off to the side. At that moment, Orgrim shouted something that froze her to her bones.
“Red Walkers!”
For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. In the back of her mind, Draka had always known the Red Walkers would come for them. In her dreams, she would relive the memory of coming across Nokrar’s mutilated body. The sight was branded into her brain. She would never have wished for them to descend upon the encampment, but now that they had, she saw her opportunity to expunge that memory once and for all. We will put an end to them, Draka thought fiercely, and channeled the frisson of fear into hot, gleeful bloodlust.
A cursory glance told her that the Red Walkers outnumbered the Frostwolves at leas
t three to one, perhaps more. But they had no wolves, and they were attacking the last bastion of a clan that had nothing to lose. Her lips curved around her tusks with a smile. With Ice at a dead run, Draka nocked the arrow, raised her bow, and fired.
The first arrow caught a Red Walker in his eye, and he dropped. The second caught one in her unprotected throat. She fell to her knees, clawing at the wound, then toppled. Draka noticed how heavily muscled these Red Walkers were, compared to the ones they had encountered earlier, and to their own hunger-worn bodies. They moved quickly, easily, without tiring. Had their horrifying choice of sustenance proven so abundant?
Draka heard an arrow whizz past her with the sound of an angry insect and cursed herself. She had been so angry, she had lost focus. If they had archers as well, she would need to be more careful—and she would do her best to take them out first.
She ceased firing, bringing Ice around in a broad sweep to assess the situation. She was not surprised to see Orgrim Doomhammer more than holding his own. Draka knew that to fight with a hammer, one had to attune oneself to it, to maximize the arcs. It was almost like a dance as Orgrim let his body follow where the Doomhammer went. He had to keep moving, or else he would stumble over the corpses he piled up.
Some of the Frostwolves were down. A quick count told Draka that no fewer than three of the great wolves had been killed, their crimson blood staining their white fur. Their riders, though, were alive, albeit injured. Draka frowned, even as she lifted her bow again and sought another target.
One Red Walker was fighting his way directly toward Orgrim. He stood almost a full head taller than any of the others, and moved with an implacable sense of purpose. His head was shaved bald save for a single swinging braid, stiff with blood. He wore only the barest scraps of armor, choosing instead to reveal a broad chest and powerful arms that, like the braid, had been coated in blood. It was as if, Draka thought, he did not care who attacked him. Does he think himself invincible? Draka wondered. If so, Orgrim or I will soon teach him otherwise.
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