Christie Golden - Rise of the Horde

Suddenly, their deep dreaming was disrupted. A tremor went through them. Pain savaged them and they cried out for aid from the Other, who could not help them, who could not help itself The dark unholy things that had once been beings of beauty were coming. The ancestors sensed their approach. They came inexorably, joining their powers, creating a ring of darkness and severance around the base of the mountain. Darkness visible danced from the twisted things who had followed Sargeras, lured by the promise of power, fed now with the promise of the obliteration of everything. The ancestors felt the seething, focused hatred coalesce into a manifestation of greenish-black energy, whipping around like severed tentacles, seeking a dreadful union. Slowly, inexorably, their stranglehold increased until a rope of shadow power choked the mountain, sealed it shut, preventing any lost orc from entering, any frantic soul from departing.

And now, the Other, too, cried out in grief as the circle was sealed shut. For without the shaman to bring it water, it could not even continue to attempt to heal itself. And without the Other, there would eventually be no ancestors.

Far away, in their sleep, the few orcs who still secretly thought of themselves as shaman trembled and wept, their dreams corrupted into nightmares of endless torment and an inescapable doom.

I am one of the second wave of shaman, just as I am the leader of the second, and I pray better and wiser, incarnation of the Horde. I have spoken with the elements and spirits, and I have felt them working in harmony with me many times, and refusing their aid almost as often.

But I have never seen the spirits of the ancestors, not even in my dreams; my soul yearns for such a connection. Until very recently, those who once walked the path of the shaman did not even dream of being able to walk it again, and yet they do.

Perhaps one day, the barriers between us and the beloved dead, too, will be lifted.

Perhaps.

But I wonder, if they truly knew how far we wandered from their loving teachings, if they saw what we had done in Draenor, done to Draenor … perhaps even now they would turn their backs on us and leave us to our fates. And if they so chose, I cannot say that I would blame them.

“I don’t understand.” Ghun said. He was the youngest of the clan’s warlocks, and still, Durotan mused with bitterness, an idealist. He had seen Ghun’s nose wrinkle at the strange creatures he was forced to utilize in the battle against the draenei. He had seen the youth’s face filled with regret as his enemy writhed in agony before him. Drek’Thar had brought the boy to Durotan’s attention after the declaration from Gul’dan had been issued. “What is wrong in hoping that the elements will one day work with us again? And why can I not go to Oshu’gun?”

Durotan had no real answers for him; the decree that no one must ever again practice the shamanic arts on pain of severe punishment—or exile or death for repeated violations—had seemingly come out of nowhere. True, most of those who had walked the shamanic path had turned from it when die elements abandoned them. But what about the ancestors? Why in the world, in this time of crisis and need, did Gul’dan forbid the orcs their most sacred place?

And because he had no answers for a youth who deserved them, Durotan grew angry. His voice was gruff and deep.

“In order to triumph over the draenei, our Warchief has made certain allies. These allies have given us the warlock powers you control. Do not lie to me, I know you are pleased with the results.”

Ghun’s sharp-nailed, long fingers had been working in the dead earth and had dislodged a stone. He tossed it up and down in his palm. Durotan frowned, looking at the boy’s skin. The dryness of this place and the harsh conditions under which they had been laboring for nearly two years now were taking a toll. Normally smooth brown skin, stretched tight over toned muscle, was dry and flaky. Absently Ghun scratched at a patch of rough skin. Durotan glanced at the new skin underneath.

It had a greenish tint.

For a moment, mindless, animal panic washed over Durotan. Durotan forced himself to be calm and look again. There was no mistaking it—the skin was indeed slightly green. He had no idea what it meant, but it was new, and it was strange, and he instinctively did not like it. Ghun seemed not to have noticed. He hurled the rock with a grunt, watching it sail into the distance.

Had Ghun been older, he would have noticed the warning in the tone of voice his clan chieftain used earlier. But he was young and wrapped up in his own concerns, and did not heed the warning.

“The spells … the creatures who obey me … I am pleased with the efficiency. But not with how it is efficient. It feels—it feels wrong, my chieftain. Killing is killing, and the elements used to give me powers that killed my foe just as dead. But I never felt this way about it when they gave me the power. We are in this war because the ancestors told us we needed to kill the draenei,” Ghun continued. “So why is Gul’dan now saying we can’t go talk to them?”

Something inside Durotan snapped. He let out a furious bellow and hauled the boy to his fret. He gripped the fabric of Ghun’s shirt and brought his face to within an inch of the shocked young warlock’s.

“It doesn’t matter!” he cried. “I will do what is best for the Frostwolves, and now that means doing what Gul’dan and Blackhand tell us to do. Obey this new order!”

Ghun stared up at him. As abruptly as it came the white-hot fury departed, leaving sorrow in its wake. Durotan added in a harsh whisper meant for the boy’s ears alone, “I won’t be able to protect you if you don’t.”

Ghun looked up at him, an odd, orange gleam in his eyes for an instant, then he looked down and sighed.

“I understand, my chieftain. I will not bring dishonor upon the Frostwolf clan.”

Durotan let him go. Ghun stepped back, straightened his clothes, bowed, and departed. Durotan watched him go, conflicted. Ghun, too, sensed the wrongness in the way things were unfolding. But a single youth attempting to contact the elements could not stand against it.

Nor, Durotan thought bitterly, could a single chieftain.

A sacred site was the next to fall beneath the might of the Horde.

Hard on the heels of the proclamation banning shamanism was the order to march on a place the draenei called the Temple of Karabor. Although it lay close to the Shadowmoon Valley, the ancestral lands of Ner’zhul’s own clan, who had taken the name Shadowmoon from that same valley, no orc had ever seen it before. It was a sacred place, and as such had been respected by the orcs. At least it had been respected until now, when Blackhand stood before his assembled army and ranted against the so-called “spirituality” of the draenei.

“The cities we have taken so far were mere practice,” Blackhand declared. “One day soon, their capital will be destroyed. But before we shatter their most important city, we will shatter them as a people. We will storm this site! Smash their statues. Destroy everything that means anything to them. Slaughter their spiritual leaders. They will lose heart and then … then claiming their city will be as easy as killing a blind wolf pup.”

Durotan, who stood with the other armed and mounted warriors, glanced at Orgrim. As was almost always the case, his old friend stood at Blackhand’s side, Orgrim had become a master at keeping his face impassive, but he could not completely hide his feelings from Durotan. He, too, knew what this meant. The temple was Velen’s home. The Prophet had only been visiting Telmor that day when Orgrim and Durotan had met him; his place was in the temple, where he prayed and meditated and served as a prophet and guide to his people. They would very well slay him this day, if he was there. It had been hard enough to kill Restalaan. Durotan would have prayed that he would not be forced to kill Velen, too … had there been anyone to pray to.