Christie Golden - Rise of the Horde

Then, with no warning, something materialized right in front of their eyes. The orcs drew back, hissing. Then in the face of all sanity and logic, they started snarling at the huge being. It towered over them, three times taller than the tallest ogre, red from its cloven hooves to the tip of its lashing tail, from its jutting horns to its sharp black nails. Its size was like nothing they had ever seen, but its shape … Durotan stared at it, thinking that it looked like nothing so much as a gigantic, crimson-skinned draenei. The sudden realization that the orcs had been plunged into a personal conflict that should never have concerned them crashed over him like a tidal wave.

“You have nothing to fear and everything to celebrate, you who have sworn your allegiance to me!” it cried, its voice penetrating to the very bone, “I am Kil’jaeden, the Beautiful One, the one who has been with you since the beginning. And I am with you now as you head to the most glorious battle yet. Once, the wicked draenei plotted against you, hiding an entire city from your eyes. But you have destroyed that city, and others, and vanquished their temple. All that remains is this one final battle, and then the threat will be eliminated.

“The green stone that once hid the city of Telmor from you now hides their doom from them. Kehla men samir, solay lamaa kahl!”

And the illusion was dispelled. Before them were dozens of catapults, battering rams, siege weapons of all varieties. Standing beside the engines of war were the ogres, still and silent, their stupid faces filled with determination. They bore weapons suited to their size, and Durotan realized that there were at least three dozen of them ready to fight. They made the huge weapons look like toys.

“There is more …” Kil’jaeden said, and waved his hands. The warlocks all cried out and grasped their heads for a moment, then blinked and grinned. “New spells have flooded your minds. Use them well. Take the draenei now!”

As if he had opened a gate, the bloodthirsty orcs leaped into motion. Some of them made for the weapons by which a walled city would fall, pushing them forward with a strength which Durotan had never before seen them display. The ogres immediately went to the others, moving the enormously heavy weapons at a brisk pace. Other orcs were too far sunk in bloodlust, and simply raced forward in the direction of the city. What they would do when they got there Durotan did not know, but he and his clan followed dutifully.

The war machines propelled by the ogres and the orcs rumbled steadily on. But even before they were maneuvered into position, the walls that protected the city were under attack. Enormous, green-glowing rocks fell from the sky to slam into the city. Towers and citadels that had risen above the wall level cracked and shattered, and the wall itself was starting to crumble in several places. But it was not just boulders falling from the sky that comprised the attack—it was what rose from them once they had landed.

Moving deliberately but with sickening speed, creatures that appeared made of the same glowing green stone got to their feet and charged. They hammered at the wall, joined now by more mundane stones hurled by the catapults and huge tree trunks rammed into the great gate door. Two ogres were pounding on the door with their clubs, and the timber shuddered. From within, Durotan could hear cries of fury and horror as the draenei tried to battle the creatures—“infernals,” as he heard one warlock refer to them. Most of the warlocks were using these new servants, but a few still had the smaller, more familiar creatures obeying their commands.

The city could not last long under such an assault. With a mighty crash, an entire section of stone wall crumbled. The tide of crazed orcs and bellowing ogres swarmed through the breech thus created, shrieking and swinging weapons. Durotan remained where he was, rooted to the earth, watching as the orcs fought and killed and died.

The rage and fury he had seen them display before in the thick of battle was nothing compared to what he saw now. There was no strategy, no attempt at defense, no calls for retreat when retreat was necessary. This was nothing more than murder and slaughter, dealing death and receiving it, stupidly rushing into dead ends where traps had been laid. Such was to be expected from the ogres, and as they fell heavily, blood streaming from their bodies, Durotan did not mourn them. But the orcs … they were beyond caring about anything but the sensation of their own blood singing in their veins and the battle cries pouring from their throats.

Dozens … no, no, hundreds would die this night. The casualties would render the city unlivable. Come sunrise, blue and green bodies would litter the streets. But for now, it was carnage and chaos and the very depths of insanity. Durotan swung his axe because it was fight or die, and even now, even though he knew his people were on a dark road, he did not wish death.

Kil’jaeden and Mannoroth stood together, watching the green meteors that housed infernals crashing to the earth. “They swarm like insects,” grunted Mannoroth. Kil’jaeden nodded, pleased. “Indeed. It is beautiful to watch, I am well pleased.”

“What next?”

Kil’jaeden turned eyes of mild surprise on his lieutenant. “Next? There is no next, at least not here. The orcs have fulfilled my purpose. They burn with your blood, my friend. It will consume them eventually unless they have an outlet for it, and that outlet is only to be found in slaughtering every last draenei on the face of this world.”

He watched as fire joined the glowing green hue in the distance.

“It is well that you are done here,” Mannoroth said. “Archimonde mutters that you are wasting time, and our master wishes us elsewhere.”

Kil’jaeden sighed. “You speak the truth. Sargeras hungers, and he has been very patient with me. I do regret one thing—that I won’t be watching as they gut Velen. Ah well. Enough to know that it happened. Let us leave this place.”

He gestured, and both he and his lieutenant disappeared.

“What do you mean, he was not there?” Gul’dan shrieked. This could not be.

“What I said,” Blackhand growled. “We scoured the city. Velen was nowhere to be found.”

“Perhaps an overeager grunt found him first and mutilated the body,” Gul’dan said nervously. This was not good news. He had instructed Blackhand to find the corpse of the prophet Velen and bring the draenei’s head to Gul’dan. It was to be a present to Kil’jaeden.

“Possible. Even likely,” Blackhand said. “But from what you told me, even if his body had been hacked to pieces, he could not have been mistaken for an ordinary draenei.”

Gul’dan shook his head, feeling worried and slightly sick. The draenei had blue skin and black hair. Velen, their prophet, had pale white skin and white hair. As long as a piece of his skin remained whole, he could be identified.

“You scoured the city?”

Blackhand’s brows drew together. “I told you we did,” he said darkly. His breath started to quicken and his eyes turned even redder as anger rose in him.

Gul’dan nodded. Besotted though the orcs were by bloodlust, they would not have failed to search for the body most coveted by their leader. The reward would be too great, the anger if it were overlooked and discovered later too furious.

Somehow, Velen had escaped. That meant that there were probably other draenei out there. In a sudden panic that made his heart race, he wondered just how many he had let slip through his fingers … and where in this wide, wide world they had gone.

Once Velen had had an entire temple, filled with acolytes and priests and servants, in which to meditate and pray. Now, he was in a small room, one of only a handful who even had their own room. He held the violet crystal in his hand and tears poured silent and unheeded down his face.