Christie Golden - Rise of the Horde

He hurried to Draka, the one person in the world he dared share this information with. Her eyes widened as she read.

“Who else knows of this?” she said quietly, fighting to keep her face impassive.

“Only you,” he said, equally softly.

“Will you tell Orgrim?”

Durotan shook his head. Pain laced his heart. “I dare not. He is oath-bound to tell Blackhand.”

“Do you think Blackhand knows about this?”

Durotan shrugged. “I have no idea who knows what. I only know that I must protect my people. And I will do so.”

Draka looked at him long and hard. “If we as an entire clan do not do this thing … we will attract attention. You risk punishment. Maybe even exile or death.”

Durotan stabbed a finger at the letter. “Any one of those things is better than what will happen if we obey No. I have sworn to protect my clan. I will not give them over to—”

He realized belatedly that his voice had risen and some heads were starting to turn. “I will not give them over to this.”

Draka’s eyes filled with quick tears and she gripped his arm hard. Her nails dug into his flesh. “That,” she said fiercely, “is why I became your mate. I am so proud of you.”

I am proud of my heritage. I am proud that I can name Durotan and Draka as my parents. I am proud that Orgrim Doomhammer called me friend and trusted me with the leadership of the people he loved.

I am proud of my parents’ courage … and at the same time, I wish there had been more they could do. But I am not in their place. It is easy to sit back, secure in my position and comforts in this life, decades after the fact, and say, “You should done this,” or “You should have said that.”

I offer no judgment on anyone save a handful of individuals who knew full well what they were doing, knew that they were trading the lives and destiny of their people for gratification in the moment, and did so gleefully.

For the others … I can only shake my head and be grateful that I was not forced to make the choices they did.

Gul’dan was so excited he could hardly contain himself. He had looked forward to this moment ever since Kil’jaeden had first spoken of it. He had wanted to move forward even faster than his master did, but Kil’jaeden had chuckled and counseled patience.

“I have seen them, and they are not quite ready yet. Timing is everything, Gul’dan. The same blow delivered too early or too late does not kill, only wounds.”

Gul’dan thought it an odd metaphor, but understood what Kil’jaeden meant by it. But now, at last, Kil’jaeden thought the orcs ready for the final step.

The Black Temple had a central courtyard open to the night sky When the temple belonged to the draenei, this area had been a lush garden, with a rectangular pool at the center. The conquerors had drunk their fill of the sweet, pure water over the last few weeks with no care about replenishing it, and now the pool was nothing more than an empty space of stone and tiles. The trees and flowering plants that had surrounded it had long since died, withering with astonishing speed. At Kil’jaeden’s request, Ner’zhul and Gul’dan now stood beside that empty pool. Neither of them knew what to expect.

For long hours they stood in utter silence. Gul’dan wondered if perhaps he had displeased his lord in some way. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat, and he glanced nervously at Ner’zhul. He wondered if perhaps tonight the defiant shaman was going to be slain for his disobedience, and he perked up a bit at the thought. His mind was wandering, considering various torments that might be imposed upon Ner’zhul, when a sudden loud crack of thunder made them both gasp aloud. Gul’dan looked up at the sky. Where there had hitherto been a host of stars, now there was only a black emptiness. He swallowed hard, his eyes riveted on the darkness.

Suddenly the darkness began to churn. It looked like a thunderhcad, black and pulsing. Then it began to swirl in a spiral. The spiraling picked up speed. A wind lifted Gul’dan’s hair and stirred his robes, gently at first, then more fiercely, until he felt the wind scouring his skin. The earth beneath his feet rumbled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ner’zhul’s lips move, but he could not hear what if anything was said. The wind was too loud, the trembling of the earth beneath his increasingly unsteady feet too intense.

The sky cracked open.

Something bright and blazing screamed to earth directly in front of Gul’dan and Ner’zhul. It struck the ground so hard that Gul’dan was knocked off his feet. For a long, terrifying minute, he could not breathe; he simply lay on the earth and gasped like a fish until finally his lungs remembered how to function and he inhaled a great surge of air.

He got to his feet, his body shaking uncontrollably, and lost his breath again at what he beheld.

It towered over him. Chunks of earth flew as it shook four legs that ended in hooves and flapped large, leathery wings in annoyance. Its hair was more of a mane, flowing in green tendrils over its neck and down its back. Green eyes glittered like fiery stars and its swooping tusks caught the dim light as it opened its mouth. It seemed to have row after row of sharp teeth, and its bellow made Gul’dan want to drop to the earth and weep in utter terror. Somehow, he remained standing and silent before the monstrosity. It raised its clenched fists and shook them fiercely, then lowered its head and looked around at the huddled, quaking orcs.

What is that thing? Gul’dan screamed silently.

Suddenly. Kil’jaeden appeared, looking down at Gul’dan and grinning fiercely.

“Behold my lieutenant, Mannoroth. Well has he served me and well shall he continue to serve. On other worlds, they call him the Destructor. But here, he is the savior. Gul’dan,” purred Kil’jaeden, and suddenly Gul’dan felt weak and sick again. “You know what I am offering your people.”

Gul’dan swallowed hard. He did not dare glance at Ner’zhul, whose gaze he felt boring into his back.

Yes, he knew well what Kil’jaeden was offering. Power beyond imagining … and slavery for eternity. Kil’jaeden had offered the former to Ner’zhul in exchange for the latter, and Ner’zhul, the coward, had balked. He had not wanted to doom his people.

Gul’dan was untroubled by such scruples. All he could think of was the reward Kil’jaeden had promised. “I do know. Great One,” Gul’dan said, surprised by the strength and steadiness of his voice, “I know, and I accept my lord’s most generous offer.”

Kil’jaeden smiled. “Excellent,” he said. “You are wiser than your predecessor.”

Confident and elated, Gul’dan turned to gloat at Ner’zhul. The elder shaman stared at his former apprentice imploringly He did not dare to speak, of course, but he did not need to. Even in the dim light of the stars, his expression was plain to read.

Gul’dan’s lips curled around his tusks, and he turned back to regard Mannoroth. He was still terribly imposing, but Gul’dan’s fear had retreated in the face of his overwhelming desire for power. He gazed at the being, knowing that it, like he himself, was highly regarded by the one they both served. They were brothers in arms.

“Only a special blade can do what I ask of you, Gul’dan,” rumbled Kil’jaeden. He extended his hand. The dagger seemed tiny in comparison to the huge palm upon which it rested, but it was quite large when Gul’dan curled his own fingers around it.

“This has been forged in the fires of the mountain in the distance,” Kil’jaeden said, pointing to the smoking mountain. “My servants have worked long and hard to craft it. You know what to do, Mannoroth.”