Christie Golden - Rise of the Horde

A cheer went up. Durotan and Draka did not participate.

“Under his shrewd guidance, and with the blessings of the beings who have chosen to ally with us, we have grown strong. We have grown proud. We have advanced further in skills and technology in the last two years than we have in two centuries. The threat that once loomed over us has been broken, and it will take only a final push to see it forever crushed. But first … first, we will pledge ourselves to this cause and receive blessings in return.”

He bent and held up a strange chalice. It looked to be carved from the horn of some creature, but Durotan had never seen even a clefthoof sport so large a horn. Too, it was curved and yellowed. Strange glyphs had been inscribed on it, and as the night closed in around them, the inscriptions seemed to glow faintly. Whatever the cup contained glowed as well. As Gul’dan held it before him, an eerie yellow-green light lit his face from beneath, casting grotesque shadows.

“This is the Cup of Unity,” Gul’dan said in a reverent voice. “This is the Chalice of Rebirth. I offer this to the leader of every clan, and he in turn may offer it to anyone in his clan whom he wishes particularly blessed by the beings who have been so very, very good to us. Who will come forth first, to pledge his loyalty and receive his blessings?”

Gul’dan turned a little to his right, toward Blackhand. The other orc grinned and opened his mouth to speak when a savage, familiar voice rent the night air.

No, Durotan thought. No … not him …

Draka’s hand clamped down hard on Durotan’s arm. “Will you warn him?”

Durotan’s throat worked. He could not speak. He shook his head: No. Once, he had counted the slender but imposing orc who strode boldly forward as a friend. But he could not risk revealing that he knew what was going on.

Not even for Grom Hellscream.

The chieftain of the Warsong clan had made his way through the crowd to stand in front of Gul’dan. Blackhand looked a bit put out at Hellscream. Clearly, both Gul’dan and Blackhand had anticipated that the Warchief would drink first.

Gul’dan’s mouth quirked in a smile. “Ever one to seize the moment, dear Grom.” he said, bowing a little as he handed the cup filled with the swirling green fluid to Grom. Waves of heat and light rose up from the chalice, and Grom’s face—already decorated to inspire fear in his enemies and respect from his allies—looked even more alarming.

Grom did not hesitate. He brought the cup to his lips and drank deeply. Durotan watched, straining to see the reaction. Perhaps, after all, the letter had not been sent by someone who wished him good; perhaps it had been a trap—

Gul’dan barely had time to take the chalice from Grom before the other orc stiffened and shuddered. He doubled over for a moment, and the crowd murmured in worry. Durotan stared, horrified, as Grom’s hunched-over body pulsated and quivered. Before his eyes, Grom’s shoulders, slender for an orc’s, broadened. His armor creaked as it settled over this newly powerful body. Slowly, Grom straightened. Tall as ever he had been, reshaped by the green liquid to be stronger and thickly muscled, he looked out over the crowd.

What Durotan could see of his face was smooth and healthy and, save for the tattooed jaw … completely green.

Grom threw his head back and shrieked again. The cry was louder than Durotan had ever heard it. It was almost like a knife made of sound that ripped through one’s body and left one shattered and bleeding. Durotan covered his ears, as did nearly everyone else, but he could not tear his gaze from Grom’s face.

Grom’s eyes now glowed red.

“How do you feel, Grom Hellscream, of the Warsong clan?” asked Gul’dan with a peculiar mildness.

Grom’s expression of ecstasy was so keen it was almost pain, and he seemed to grope for words. “I feel … magnificent! I feel …” He broke off and screamed a third time, as if only the primal cry would do. “Give me draenei flesh to tear and rip! Draenei blood on my face … I will drink it down until I can hold no more! Give me their blood!”

His chest heaved with the passion of his emotions, his fists clenching and unclenching. He looked prepared to attack an entire city with nothing but his bare hands … and Durotan thought he would win that battle. Hellscream motioned to his clan.

“Voices of the Warsong! Come forth! Not a one of you will be denied this ecstasy!”

The Warsong warriors rushed forward, all eager to feel what their chieftain was feeling. The cup was passed around, and one by one, they drank. Each one shuddered for a moment in deep pain; each one passed through that pain to apparent delight and obviously increased strength. And the eyes of every one who drank turned a blazing red. Blackhand watched, his frown increasing. When the last of the Warsongs had drunk from the cup, he grunted. “I will drink!” he demanded, seizing the cup and swigging down a great gulp. Blackhand clutched his throat for a moment, but stayed completely silent while whatever dark magic was in the cup did its hellish duty. He had removed his armor, and the muscles rippling and growing beneath his taut green skin were clearly visible. Red eyes glowed when he finally looked up. He motioned to his sons, and Maim and Rend shoved other orcs perfunctorily out of their way as they rushed forward. Durotan saw Griselda, Blackhand’s only daughter, hesitate before she, too, stepped up to drink. Blackhand sneered at her.

“Not you,” he snarled. Griselda drew back as if struck. Durotan, who had always been fond of the girl, breathed a sigh of relief. Blackhand intended to shame her. Instead, he was unwittingly giving her a great gift. Blackhand motioned to Orgrim.

“Come, friend Orgrim! Drink with me!”

Even now, even as his best and oldest friend was being summoned to drink the dark liquid, Durotan could not speak. But thankfully, he did not need to. Orgrim bowed his head.

“My chieftain. I will not take that glory from you. I am your second, not chieftain, and I do not seek that position.”

Durotan sagged with relief. Orgrim saw what Durotan had seen, even though he was not privy to the information Durotan had been given. He was not a fool. He owned his own soul, and he would not surrender it for the sort of power that racked the body and made the eyes burn with such a sinister gleam.

Now the other clan chieftains lined up, anxious for this blessing that had so excited two of their most famous and respected chieftains. Durotan did not move. Drek’Thar leaned in and whispered, “My chieftain—do you not wish the blessing?”

Durotan shook his head. “No. Nor will I permit any of my clan to drink.”

Drek’Thar blinked, shocked. “But … Durotan, it is obvious that this drink grants great power and passion! You would be a fool not to drink it!”

Durotan shook his head, recalling the contents of the letter. He had been skeptical at first; now he was certain. “I would be a fool if I did,” he said quickly, and when Drek’Thar tried to protest, he silenced the former shaman with a look.

Unbidden and unexpected, words from the draenei prophet Velen floated back to Durotan: We chose not to sell our people into slavery, and for that we were exiled. Durotan knew in his bones that once the orcs had drunk from this chalice, their will was no longer theirs. Gul’dan was doing exactly what the leaders on die draenei’s home world had done. He had sold his people into slavery. History was repeating itself; now it was Durotan who defied his leaders for the sake of his people. Perhaps he and his clan, like the draenei, would soon be “exiled ones.” It did not matter. What he was doing was right. He realized that now all the chieftains save he had drunk, and the moment he had dreaded was upon him.