Christie Golden - Rise of the Horde

He sighed, sifting through the images in his mind while filling his eyes with the delights of the glorious sunset. The years came and went, and gave their blessings, and demanded their sacrifices.

He went to his small hut, which he had once shared with a mate who had passed to the ancestors several years ago. Rulkan visited him from time to time, imparting no words of wisdom, but filling his heart with tenderness and opening him afresh to the needs of his people each time her spirit brushed his. He missed her rough laughter and her warmth beside him at night, but he was content. Perhaps, he mused, Rulkan would come to him in a vision tonight.

He prepared a potion, chanting over it softly, then drinking it slowly. It would not actually cause a vision; nothing would unless the ancestors willed it, and sometimes visions came upon him when he least expected them. But over many long years the shaman had learned that some herbs opened the mind while one slept, so mat if one was indeed granted the gift of a vision, one would remember it more clearly the following morning.

Ner’zhul closed his eyes, and then opened them again almost immediately, although he knew he was fast asleep.

They were standing on a mountaintop, he and his beloved Rulkan. At first he thought they were observing the sunset together, then realized that the sun was rising, not descending into slumber for the night. The sky was glorious, but in a way that roused and moved him rather than calmed and comforted him. The colors were scarlet and purple and orange, almost violent, and Ner’zhul’s heart lifted.

Rulkan turned to him, smiling, and for the first time since she had exhaled her final breath as a living being, she spoke to him.

“Ner’zhul, my mate, this is a new beginning,”

He gasped, trembling, overcome with love for her, flooded with a simmering excitement roused by the vibrant colors of the sunrise. A new beginning?

“You have led our people well,” she said. “But the time has come to deepen the old ways, take them further, for the good of all.”

Something rose inside his mind to nudge at his conscious thought. Rulkan had not been a shaman. She had not been a chieftain. She had only been her wonderful self, which had been more than enough for Ner’zhul, but she had held no position in life that would make it likely that she would speak so authoritatively. Annoyed at his lack of faith, Ner’zhul pushed the voice down. He was not a spirit. He was only flesh and blood and though he understood the spirit ways more than most, he also knew that there was much he would never understand until he stood with them. Why wouldn’t Rulkan speak for the ancestors?

“I am listening,” he said.

She smiled. “I knew you would,” she said. “There are dark and dangerous times ahead for the orcs. Hitherto, we have only come together at the Kosh’harg festivals. Such isolation must end if we are to survive as a race.

Rulkan looked into the sunrise, her face thoughtful and shadowed. Ner’zhul ached to hold her, to take her burdens as his own as he always had in life. But now, he knew he could not touch her, nor force her to speak. So he sat silently, drinking in her beauty, ears straining for her voice.

“There is upon this world a blight,” Rulkan said quietly. “It must be eliminated.”

“Say it, and it will be done,” Ner’zhul swore fervently. “I will always honor the advice of the ancestors.

She turned to him then, her eyes searching his as the light grew brighter. “When it is eliminated, our people will stand proud and tall … even more than they are now. Power and strength will be ours. This world will be ours. And you … you, Ner’zhul, will lead them.”

Something in the way she said the words made Ner’zhul’s heart leap. He was already powerful. He was honored, perhaps even revered, by his own clan, the Shadowmoon dan. He was the leader of all the orcs, in fact if not in name. But now desire stirred in his heart for more. And fear stirred in him too, dark and unpleasant, but something that must be faced.

“What is this threat that must be eliminated before the orcs can claim what is rightfully theirs?”

She told him.

“What does this mean?” Durotan asked.

He broke his fast with the two people in his clan he trusted most: Draka, his intended, whom he would wed with full ceremony at the next full moon, and Drek’Thar, the new head shaman of the clan.

Durotan, along with everyone else, had mourned the passing of Mother Kashur. Durotan knew in his bones that she had intended to die that day, and wished to make a good death. She would be missed, but Drek’Thar had proved himself a worthy successor. Fighting back his personal grief, he had stepped in as the primary healer of the hunt then and subsequently. Kashur would have been proud. Now the three sat and ate in the chieftain’s tent, where Durotan, chieftain since his father’s death in battle against the gronn and their ogres, now dwelt.

Durotan was referring to the letter that had recently arrived, borne by a long, lean courier on a long, lean black wolf. He again perused its contents as he ate porridge made from blood and grain.

Unto Durotan, Chieftain of the Frostwolf clan, the shaman Ner’zhul gives greetings. I have been granted visions by the ancestors that concern us all, as orcs, rather than as individual clan members. I would speak with the leaders of all the clans on the twelfth day of this moon, as well as every shaman of every clan. You are to come to the foot of the sacred mountain. Meat and drink will be provided. If you cannot attend, I will take it as a sign that you do not care for the future of our people and act accordingly. Forgive my brusqueness, but this matter is of the utmost urgency. Please respond via my courier.

Durotan had made the courier wait while he discussed the matter. The courier seemed quite put out, but agreed to stay for a brief time. The aromatic smell of the porridge, wafting from a large cauldron, perhaps helped convince him.

“I do not know, other than that obviously Ner’zhul feels this is of extreme importance,” Drek’Thar admitted. “Such a thing has never happened outside of the Kosh’harg ceremonies. Always the shaman have a meeting then, in the presence of the ancestors who wish to attend. But never outside of that. And I have never heard of anyone summoning the chieftains. But I have known Ner’zhul all my life. He is a wise and great shaman. If the spirits were to speak to any of us about something that threatens us all, they would speak through him.”

Draka growled, “Summoning you like you are pets to come at his call.” she muttered. “I mislike this. Durotan. It smacks of arrogance.”

“I do not disagree with you,” Durotan said. His hackles had risen at the tone of the letter and at first he had been inclined to refuse. But as he read it again, he looked past the haughty words to the intent of the letter. Something was definitely troubling the one orc everyone respected, and surely that was worth a few days’ travel.

Draka watched him, her eyes narrowing. He looked at her and smiled.

“I will go, then. And all my shaman.”

Draka frowned. “I will come with you.”

“I think it would be best if—”

Draka snarled. “I am Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish. I am your intended, soon to be your life partner. You will not forbid me to accompany you!”

Durotan threw back his head and laughed, warm inside at the display of Draka’s spirit. He had chosen well, all right. From one born weak had come strength and fire. The Frostwolf clan would flourish with her by his side.

“Call in the courier, then, if he has finished his meal,” Durotan said, humor still lacing his deep voice. “Tell him that we will come to this strange meeting of Ner’zhul’s, but we had best be assured of its necessity when we are there.”