Christie Golden - Rise of the Horde

Gul’dan waved him forward. “The mighty Durotan! The hero of Telmor!” Durotan forced his face to remain still. “Come and join with the other chieftains. Drink your fill from the chalice!”

“Nay, Gul’dan, I will not do so.”

In the light of the torches. Durotan could see that a muscle twitched near Gul’dan’s right eye.

“You refuse? Do you think you are better than the others? Do you think you do not need the blessing?”

The other chieftains were frowning now, their breathing labored as if they had been running, their brows glistening with sweat.

Durotan did not rise to the bait. “It is my choice.”

“Perhaps others in your clan feel differently,” Gul’dan said, sweeping his arms to include the Frostwolf clan in his expansiveness. “Will you let them drink, then?”

“No. I am the chieftain of die Frostwolf clan. And this is what I choose.”

Gul’dan stepped down from the obsidian slab and strode to Durotan. He leaned in and whispered in the chieftain’s ear. “What do you know and how did you know it?”

It was no doubt meant to be an intimidating gesture, but instead Durotan was filled with new hope. Gul’dan felt threatened. But instead of sending an assassin in the night to dispatch someone he regarded as an inconvenience, he was trying to bully Durotan into submission. He had just confirmed the truth of the contents of the mysterious letter, and revealed that he had no idea who its author was. Durotan realized he could survive this and still protect his clan.

He said, equally quietly, “I know enough. And you will never discover how I learned it.”

Gul’dan pulled back and forced a smile. “It is indeed your choice, Durotan, son of Garad. And if you choose to deny yourself such a blessing, then you must bear the consequences.”

The words were double-edged, but Durotan didn’t care. Another day, he might need to worry about what Gul’dan had planned for him.

But not tonight.

Gul’dan returned to his position and cried out to the crowd. “All who wish the blessing of the mighty Kil’jaeden, our benefactor, have received it. Think of this place as hallowed ground, for here the orcs took steps to become something far greater dian what we were born as. Think of this mighty mountain as Kil’jaeden’s throne, where he sits and watches and blesses us as we do work that will purge us still further of anything other than the best of which we are capable.”

He stepped back and nodded to Blackhand. His eyes glowing red, his armor catching the flickering of the torches, Blackhand lifted his arms and cried, “Tonight We make history. Tonight We attack the last remaining stronghold of our enemy. We will tear limbs from bodies. We will bathe in blood. We will storm through the streets of their capital like their worst nightmare. Blood and thunder! Victory to the Horde!”

Durotan stared. Tonight? There had been no strategy discussed. This was not some little hamlet or village Blackhand was talking about, but the draenei capital. This was their place of last refuge, and he was certain they would fight more fiercely than they had ever before, like cornered animals. He recalled the huge engines of war that had been built, and knew that Blackhand had ordered them moved—where, neither Durotan nor the others knew.

Madness. This was madness.

And as he looked at the screaming bodies surrounding him, their eyes all twin pinpricks of crimson light, he realized that the word was truer than he thought.

Those who had drunk from the tainted cup had indeed gone mad. Grom Hellscream danced closer to the fire, waving his newly muscular arms and throwing his head back, the firelight dancing on once-brown skin that had now turned green. Durotan, sick and dazed with horror, looked into glowing red eyes that were so akin to those of the enslaved creatures the warlocks commanded; that green skin, the same green hue that was already tainting the skins of the warlocks, like Ghun, was even starting to taint Durotan’s own skin and that of the one he loved with all his heart.

He thought of the contents of the letter, written in an archaic tongue that few but the highly educated—the shaman and the clan leaders—would know:

You will be asked to drink. Refuse. It is the blood of twisted souls, and it will twist yours and those of all who imbibe. It will enslave you forever. By the love of all we once held dear, refuse.

The ancient language had a single word for “twisted souls.”

These were the things that were held in check by the warlock’s will, but just barely. The fluid that had passed the lips of those Durotan had called both friend and foe had been the blood of one such. And Durotan watched as the twisted souls that the orcs now were somehow bound to danced insanely in the torchlight before racing down the mountains to run, fueled with unnatural rage and energy, to attack the most fortified city this world had ever seen.

Twisted souls.

Dae’mons. Demons.

I have spoken to many who were there at the destruction of the city of Shattrath. When I ask them about the event, their minds are clouded and their recall is poor. Even Drek’Thar, who remembers so much with astonishing clarity, stammers and hesitates when asked to recall the details. It is as though with demonic blood fresh in their mouths, those who drank can remember only the fury they felt and not what they did in its grasp. And even those who did not drink, that small handful of which Drek’Thar is a member—even they cannot summon the details to mind. It is as if such an atrocity was so horrific that it wants to be forgotten.

That some draenei survived the assault is not in doubt; I have seen the sad, pathetic things that were once the glorious draenei with my own eyes, wandering forlornly here in Azeroth, soft and shattered, crying for home. These “lost ones” are to be pitied.

So it is that this account is vague, and I regret it. Such a moment, dark though it may be, should not be forgotten or glossed over. But such is the chronicler’s challenge.

The orcs charged down the trail, burning with a feral need to destroy. Some were so overflowing with rage and hatred that they took swipes at the very rocks as they passed them. Sonic bellowed their fury. Others were grimly, deathly silent, all their energies contained and simmering, ready to be released at the proper moment.

During that long run, Durotan was more afraid of his own people—of individuals that he had once called friend—than of any ogre wielding a club or any herd of talbuks … or any enraged, attacking draenei. He was cold with sweat, shaking in his boots, but not from any fear for himself. His fear was for what would happen next—not to the draenei, for their destiny was surely already written, but to the orcs. He could not bring himself in those moments as they were running to Shattrath to call them the Horde.

At one point, a horrible rumbling knocked them all off their feet. As they clambered upright, they turned and looked back to where they had come.

It looked as if the mountain had exploded. Liquid fire was belched into the night sky, hurtling upward, then falling and splattering down the jagged peak —it radiated and glowed like the demon blood that the orcs had just drunk, though its hue was orange-yellow and not an eerie green. More and more molten stone was spewed from the mountain. It was a glorious, mesmerizing, and horrific sight.

The orcs took it as a sign, and a cheer erupted from their ranks. After a few moments of celebrating at the very mountain, the Throne of Kil’jaeden, blessing their endeavor, they turned and continued their race toward slaughter.

A mile outside the city, they slowed. An area had been cleared, and recently too, and for a moment the first orcs to arrive at this site simply stared in confusion. This was where they had been told to assemble; this was where their war engines were supposed to have been quartered.