Rise of the Horde

by Christie Golden

  Forever enslaved.

  He looked up into Kil’jaeden's blazing eyes, and words would not come. A nod would suffice, he knew, but he could not even bring himself to do that. Instead he simply stared, transfixed, like a bird before a snake.

  Kil’jaeden heaved a deep sigh. "You refuse your chance at redemption in my eyes, then?"

  As he heard Kil’jaeden speak, it was as if a spell had been removed from Ner’zhul. The words that had been stuck in his throat came rushing out, and although he knew they would mean his doom, the shaman made no move to stop them.

  "I refuse utterly to forever doom my people to a life of slavery," he cried. Kil’jaeden listened, then nodded his massive head. "This is your choice. You have also chosen the consequences. Know this, shaman. Your choice averts nothing. My desires will still be carried out. Your people will still be slaves. But instead of leading them and lingering in my favor, you will be forced to be a helpless observer. I think that will be sweeter than if I simply slew you."

  Ner’zhul opened his mouth to speak, but he could not. Kil’jaeden narrowed his great eyes, and Ner’zhul could not even move. Even his heart, slamming wildly in his chest, beat only by the will of Lord Kil’jaeden, and he knew it.

  How had he been such a gullible fool? How had he not seen through the lies?

  How could he have mistaken an illusion sent by this.. , this monster to be the spirit of his beloved mate? Tears welled in his eyes and slipped down his checks, only, he knew, because Kil’jaeden permitted it.

  Kil’jaeden smiled at him, then slowly, deliberately turned his attention to Gul’dan. Even in his wretched state, Ner’zhul took the faintest comfort in the knowledge that he had not turned to Kil’jaeden with the expression Gul’dan now wore, that of a hungry pup eager for praise.

  "There is no need to trap you with pretty lies, is there, my new tool?" said Kil’jaeden, speaking almost fondly to Gul’dan, "You do not shrink from the truth."

  "Indeed, no. lord. I live to do your bidding."

  Kil’jaeden chuckled. "If I will do away with lies, so

  must you. You live for power. You hunger for it. You thirst for it. And over the last few months, your skill has grown to where I can make proper use of you. Ours is not a partnership of adoration or respect, but one of convenience and selfish benefit. Which means that it will likely last."

  Various emotions flitted across Gul'dan's face. He did not seem to know how to react to the words, and Ner’zhul took pleasure in his former apprentice's discomfiture.

  "As . . . you will." Gul’dan stammered finally, then with more confidence, "tell me what you would have me do, and I swear, it will be done."

  "You have no doubt perceived that I wish to exterminate the draenei. Why I do so is no concern of yours. You need only know that I wish it. The orcs are doing moderately well in this, but they can do better. Theyshall do better. A warrior is only as good as his weapons, and, Gul’dan, I intend to give you and your people weapons such as you have never conceived. It will take a little time; you must be educated first, before you are fit to teach the others. Are you ready and willing?"

  Gul'dan's eyes shone, "Begin the lessons. Glorious One. and you will see how apt a pupil of yours I am."

  Kil’jaeden laughed.

  Durotan was covered with blood, much of it his own. What had gone wrong? Everything had progressed as normal. They had found the hunting party, descended upon them, initiated the attack, and waited for the shaman to use their magic to fight the draenei.

  They did not do so. Instead Frostwolf after Frostwolf fell beneath the shining blades and blue-white magics of the draenei. At one point, fighting for his very life, Durotan saw that Drek’Thar was fighting desperately, using nothing but his staff.

  What had happened? Why had the shaman not come to his aid? What was Drek’Thar thinking? He could wield a staff hardly better than a child—why did he not use his magic?

  The draenei fought furiously, seizing the opportunities the shaman's inexplicable inaction had given them. They pressed their attack harder than Durotan had ever seen, their eyes glinting as for perhaps the first time they sensed victory. The grass was slippery with blood, and Durotan's feet went out from under him. He fell, and his attacker raised his sword.

  This was the moment, then. He would die in glorious battle. Except he did not feel that this was a glorious battle. By instinct alone, he raised his axe to parry the blow that would come, although his arm had been deeply cut at the joint of the armor and his limb quivered. He looked up into the eyes of the one who would slay him.

  And recognized Restalaan.

  At that moment, the draenei captain of the guard's own glowing blue eyes widened in recognition and he

  stayed his blow. Durotan gasped for breath, trying to summon the energy to rise and continue the fight. Restalaan uttered something in his ululating tongue, and every draenei halted almost in mid-swing.

  As Durotan got to his feet, he realized that there were only a handful of his warriors left alive. Two more moments of battle and the draenei would have slaughtered the entire party, with only two or three casualties on their own side.

  Restalaan whirled on Durotan. Various expressions warred on his ugly face: compassion, disgust, regret, determination. "For the act of compassion and honor you showed our prophet, Durotan, son of Garad, you and those of your clan who yet live have been spared. Treat your wounded and return to your homes. But do not think to receive such mercy from us again. Honor has been satisfied."

  Durotan weaved as if he had had too much to drink as blood dripped from deep wounds. He forced himself to stay on his feet by sheer will as the draenei turned and disappeared over the horizon. Once they were out of sight, he could force his legs to hold him no longer and he fell to his knees. Several ribs had been cracked or broken, and each inhalation sent a stabbing pain through him.

  "Durotan!"

  It was Draka. She, too, had been badly injured, but her voice was strong. Relief washed over Durotan. Thank the ancestors, she yet lived. Drek’Thar hurried up to him and placed his hands on Durotan's heart, murmuring under his breath. Warmth flooded Durotan and the pain cased. He took a deep, nourishing breath.

  "At least they will let me heal," said Drek’Thar, so softly that Durotan was scarce certain he heard the words.

  "Tend to the others, and then we will speak," Durotan said. Drek’Thar nodded, not meeting his chieftain's eves. He and the other shaman hastened to magically heal what wounds they could, and treat with salves and bandages what they could not. Durotan still had injuries, but nothing life-threatening, and he assisted the shaman.

  When Durotan had done all he could, he rose and looked around. No fewer than fifteen bodies were stiffening on the green grass, including Rokkar, his second. Durotan shook his head in stunned disbelief.

  He would have to return with litters, to bear the fallen back to their lands. They would burn on a pyre, their bodies given to fire, their ashes to air, to be consumed by water and earth. Their spirits would go to Oshu'gun, and the shaman would converse with them on matters of profound importance.

  Or would they? Something terrible had happened, and it was time he found out what.

  Sudden anger flooded him at the waste. Despite what the ancestors had told him, something inside Durotan continued to whisper that this attack on the

  draenei was a grave mistake. He whirled on Drek’Thar, and with a deep growl seized the smaller orc where he sat gulping water and hauled him to his feet.

  "This was a slaughter!" Durotan cried, shaking him furiously. "Fifteen of our kin lie dead before us! The earth drinks deeply of their blood, and I never saw you or any of the others lend your skill to the fight!"

  For a moment, Drek’Thar could not speak. The meadow was deathly silent as every Frostwolf watched the confrontation. Then, in a faint voice, Drek’Thar replied, "The elements—they would not come this time."

  Durotan's eyes narrowed. Still clutching Drek’Thar by the front of his leather jerkin, h
e demanded of the wide-eyed, silent shaman, "Is this true? They would not lend their aid to the battle?"

  Looking stunned and sick, the shaman nodded. One said in a quavering voice, "It is true, great chieftain. I asked all of them in turn. They said . .. they said it was out of balance, and they would no longer permit us to use their powers."

  Durotan's shock was broken by an angry hiss. He turned to see Draka's scowling face. "This is more than a sign! This is a shout, a battle cry, that what We are doing is wrong!"

  Slowly, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened, Durotan nodded. If it were not for the mercy Restalaan had shown him, he and every last member of the war party would be lying on the earth. their bodies growing colder by the moment. The elements had refused their assistance. They had condemned what the shaman were asking of them.

  Durotan took a deep breath and shook his head, as if to physically shake away the dark thoughts. "Let us get the injured back to their homes as swiftly as we may. And then . . . then I will send out letters. If what I fear is true—that it is not only the shaman of the Frostwolf clan who are shunned by the elements for what we are doing to the draenei—then we must confront Ner’zhul."

  THIRTEEN

  How is it we did not see? It is easy to lay the blame on the charismatic Kil'jaeden, or the weak Ner’zhul, or the power-hungry Gul'dan for our fall. But they asked of each individual orc to pretend that hot was cold, that sweet was sour, and even when everything in us screamed against what we were being told, we followed. I was not there, I cannot say why. Perhaps I, too, would have obeyed like a whipped cur. Periiaps thefearwas so great, or the respect for our leaders so ingrained. Perhaps.

  Or perhaps I, like my father and others, would start to see the flaws. I would like to think so.

  Blackhand looked out from under his bushy eyebrows, frowning. He always looked like he was frowning, perhaps because he almost always was.

  "I do not know about this. Gul'dan." he rumbled. His oversized hand went to the hilt of his sword, fondling it in an uneasy gesture.

  When Gul'dan had asked to meet with Blackhand a fortnight ago, and to bring his most promising shaman but to tell no one of what they were to be doing, he had agreed. Blackhand had always liked Gul'dan better than Ner’zhul, although he was not sure why. When Gul'dan sat down with him over a lavish meal and explained the current situation, Blackhand was very glad he had come. Now he knew why he liked Gul'dan so much; the former apprentice, now master, was like Blackhand himself. He had no use for ideals, only practicalities. And power, good food, lavish armor, and bloodshed were things both ores craved.

  Blackhand was chieftain of the Blackrock ores. He could rise no higher. At least. . . not until now. When the clans were separate, the greatest glory was to lead one's clan. But now . . . now they were working together. Now Blackhand could see the glint of greed in Gul'dan's small eyes. He could almost smell the hunger wafting off the other ore, a hunger he shared.

  "Ner’zhul is an honored and valued advisor," Gul'dan said as he chewed dried fruit, extending a claw to pick a chunk where it had gotten lodged between his teeth. "He has great wisdom. But ... it has been decided that I would be a better choice to lead the ores from this point on."

  Blackhand grinned savagely. Ner’zhul was nowhere to be seen.

  "And a wise leader surrounds himself with trusted allies," Gul'dan continued. "Those who are strong and obedient. Who will fulfill their obligations. And who, for their loyalty, will be held in high regard and richly rewarded."

  Blackhand had begun to bridle at the description "obedient," but was mollified when Gul'dan mentioned "high regard" and "richly rewarded." He glanced over at the eight shaman he had brought to Gul'dan. They were sitting huddled over a second fire some distance away, being attended to by Gul'dan's servants. They looked wretchedly unhappy, and were conveniently out of earshot.

  Blackhand said, "You asked for the shaman. I assume you know what is happening with them?"

  Gul'dan sighed and reached for a talbuk leg. He bit deeply into it, the juices running down his face. He wiped hisjuttingjaw absently, chewed, swallowed, and answered.

  "Yes, I have heard. The elements are no longer obeying them."

  Blackhand watched him intendy. "Some air beginning to mutter that it is because what we are doing is wrong."

  "Do you think that?"

  Blackhand shrugged his massive shoulders. "I don't know what to think. This is all new territory. The ancestors say one thing, but the elements won't come."

  He was harboring a growing suspicion about the ancestors as well, but held his tongue. Blackhand knew that many thought him a fool; he preferred to let them think he was nothing mote than a strong arm and a powerful sword. It gave him distinct advantages.

  Gul’dan perused him now. and Blackhand wondered if the new spiritual leader of the ores had sensed there was more to the orc leader than met the eye.

  "We are a proud race." Gul’dan said. "It is sometimes painful to admit that We do not know everything. Kil’jaeden and the entities he leads . . . ah. Blackhand, the mysteries they harbor! The power they wield—power they are willing to share with usl"

  Gul'dan's eyes sparkled now with excitement. Blackhand's own heart began to race. Gul’dan leaned forward and continued to speak in an awed whisper.

  "We air as ignorant children before them. Even you—even I. But they are willing to teach us. Share with us some of their power. Power that is not dependent upon the whim of the spirits of air. earth, fire, and water." Gul’dan made a dismissive gesture. "Power such as that is feeble. It is not reliable. It can desert you in the middle of a battle and leave you helpless."

  Blackhand's face hardened. He had witnessed this very thing, and it had taken all the strength of his warriors to snatch victory when the shaman had begun yelping in terror that the elements were no longer working with them.

  "I am listening," he growled softly.

  "Imagine what you could do if you led a group of shaman who controlled the source of their powers, in

  stead of begging and scraping for it," Gul’dan continued. "Imagine if these shaman had servants who could also fight on your side. Servants who could, say, send your enemies fleeing helplessly in terror. Suck their magic dry as the insects in the summer suck blood. Distract them so that their attention was not on battle."

  Blackhand lifted a bushy eyebrow. "I can imagine success under those conditions. Success almost every time."

  Gul’dan nodded, grinning. "Exactly."

  "But how do you know this is true, and not some false promise whispered in your car?"

  Gul'dan's grin widened. "Because, my friend ... I have experienced this. And I will teach your shaman over there everything I know."

  "Impressive," rumbled Blackhand.

  "But that is not all that I can offer. The warriors—I know a way to make you and everyone who fights at your side more powerful, fiercer, deadlier. All this can be ours if We but claim it."

  "Ours?"

  "I cannot continue to waste my time speaking with every single leader of every single clan every time they have a complaint." Gul’dan said, waving his hand imperiously. "There are those who are in agreement with what you and I think is the best way to proceed . . . and those who are not."

  "Go on," said Blackhand.

  But Gul’dan did not, at least not right away. He was silent, gathering his thoughts. Blackhand grasped a stick and poked at the fire. He knew well that most of the orcs,even those of his own clan, thought him hotheaded and impetuous, but he knew the value of patience.

  "I envision two groups of leaders of the ores. One, a simple governing council to make decisions for the whole, its leader elected, its business conducted openly for all to see. The second ... a shadow of this group. Hidden. Secret. Powerful," Gul'dan said quietly. "This . . . this Shadow Council will be comprised of ores who share our vision, and who are willing to make the necessary sacrifices to obtain it."

  Blackhand nodded. "Yes . . . yes, I s
ec. A public leadership . .. and a private one."

  Gul'dan's mouth stretched in a slow grin. Blackhand regarded him for a moment, then asked the question.

  "And to which one shall I belong?"

  "Both, my friend," Gul'dan answered smoothly. "You are a born leader. You have charisma, strength, and even your enemies know you are a master strategist. It will be case itself to have you elected as leader of the ores."

  Blackhand's eyes flashed. "I am no puppet," he growled softly.

  "Of course not," said Gul'dan. "Which is why I said you would belong to both. You would be the leader of this new breed of ore, this ... this Horde, if you will. And you will be on the Shadow Council as well. We cannot work together unless we can trust one another, can we?"

  Blackhand gazed into Gul'dan's glinting, clever eyes

  and smiled. He did not trust the shaman in the least bit, and he suspected that Gul'dan felt the same about him. It didn't matter. They both wanted power. Blackhand knew he did not possess the talents and skills that would enable him to wield the sort of power for which Gul'dan lusted. And Gul'dan did not want the sort of power Blackhand craved. They were not in competition, but in league; what benefited one would benefit the other, not rob him of a thing.

  Blackhand thought of his family—his mate, Urukal, his two sons. Rend and Maim, his daughter Grisclda. He did not dote on them the wav that the weak Durotan doted on his mate Draka, of course, but he cared for them. He wanted to see his mate bedecked in jewels, his sons and daughter revered, as befitted the children of Blackhand.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. Turning, he beheld Ner’zhul, once the powerful and now the discarded, slipping out of the door of the tent.

  "What about him?" Blackhand asked.

  Gul'dan shrugged. "What about him? He means nothing now. The Beautiful One wishes him kept alive for the moment. He seems to have something . . . special in mind for Ner’zhul. He will still be a figurehead; love of Ner’zhul is too ingrained in the ores to cast him aside just yet. But do not worry, he is no threat to us."