Christie Golden: Rise of the Horde

He watched the fall of the city. He had wanted to stay, to lend his own not inconsiderable magic to the fray, but that path would have meant death—not merely his own, but that of his people. They did not need a marshal now. The orcs, their systems permeated with demonic blood, burned with a lust for killing that would not be sated even if they slew every last draenei in Draenor, would never be sated until death stiffened their corpses. Kil’jaeden’s and Sargeras’s Burning Legion of demonic forces owned them now. The orcs had numbers, ogres, warlocks, and a fury that would take them physically and emotionally to places where no rational mind would dare travel. There was nothing Velen could do but let the city fall, for there was nothing he could do that could possibly save it.

Nor could the orcs be saved. The only flicker of hope for the eventual redemption of the Horde lay in the single clan who had not drunk the blood, had not made the pact, whose minds and hearts were still their own. Some eighty orcs, and that was all. Eighty, to stand against over a dozen other clans, most much larger than their, whose Warchief was the worst of them all. The orcs would be treated as maddened beasts now, whenever any draenei chanced upon them; things to be put down quickly and mercifully, with the understanding that while the orcs did not fully know what they did, they must die regardless.

Velen had wanted to abandon the city, to have it standing empty when the orcs descended. Wanted to save as many draenei lives as he could. But Larohir, the quick-speaking, intelligent general who had succeeded Restalaan after the latter’s murder, had convinced him it would not work.

“If there is an insufficient number of draenei to slaughter,” Larohir had said, his voice soft and compassionate but yet hard as steel, “then the lust that consumes them will not even be sated temporarily. They will still hunger and catch our scent while it is new, and track us down. Those who flee will die. They must believe that they have slain most of us. And in order for them to believe that … it must be true.”

Velen had stared in horror. “You would have me send my people to knowingly be slaughtered?”

“All but a handful of us know what we fled on Argus,” said Larohir. “We remember it. We remember what Kil’jaeden did, what happened to our people. We would—we will—happily die to preserve even a handful of our race uncorrupted.”

Velen had looked down then, his heart aching. “If the orcs believe they have slain us, except for a trivial handful, then Kil’jaeden will be satisfied. He will depart.”

“The orcs will suffer greatly,” said Larohir, and did not look displeased. After what the orcs had done to the draenei recently, Velen could not blame him. “They will. And I have no doubt that they will continue to track us down.”

“But the methods they use to track a few dozen will be different than if they suspect there are a few hundred of us remaining,” said Larohir. “It is to our advantage to appear as scattered and helpless as possible.”

Velen had looked up at Larohir, haunted. “It is easy for you to speak so. But the decision is not yours. It is mine. I must be the one to say, ‘You—you and your family will come with me and live. But you, and you, and you—you will stay behind and let demon-crazed orcs tear you to pieces and anoint themselves with your blood.’”

Larohir said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Velen had spoken with each of his people he had chosen to send to die. He had embraced them and blessed them; he had taken items that meant something to them and promised to see that these things survived. He had watched as, stoic and dry-eyed, these walking dead had repaired their armor and sharpened their swords, as if the outcome was actually in question. And he had watched as they marched off, singing the ancient songs, to enclose themselves behind a walled city and wait for mace or axe or spear to end their lives.

Velen could not go with them. He had unique abilities, and if the draenei were to survive, he needed to as well. But he had used the crystal to watch every moment of the battle, and the pain he felt was scaring and yet purifying. Not one of these people would have died in vain.

The orcs did not know about the Zangarmarsh. They had not yet sniffed out this hiding place, and if Velen had anything to say about it, they never would. Here, the best draenei minds would continue to devise ways to harness energies and direct them, to keep safe the handful who had survived. Here, they would regroup and recover, heal and wait and pray they had at last tricked Kil’jaeden the Deceiver and escaped his terrible gaze.

The orcs had captured three of the stones, but Velen still had four: Fortune’s Smile, Eye of the Storm, Shield of the Naaru, and, of course. Spirit’s Song, And although his link with the Naaru was tenuous, K’ure yet lived.

Even as tears spilled down his white face to drop on the surface of the violet crystal, even as he grieved the utterly tragic loss of so many lives, Velen, prophet of the draenei, felt hope stirring inside him.

We had lost everything by this point. We had abandoned balance and harmony in our world, and thus the elements had abandoned us. Demons guarded the entrance to Oshu’gun, cutting us off from the ancestors. Our physical bodies and our very souls had become corrupted from the blood that, in their eagerness for power and strength, most of the orcs had gladly imbibed. And then, then—when we had done all this to ourselves under the “guidance” of Gul’dan. Kil’jaeden abandoned us. Thus came what has been called the Dying Time. May its like never visit us again.

“What do I do?” Gul’dan could not believe the words were coming from his own lips, but he was so terrified that advice, any advice, seemed better than this sick fear he lived with.

Ner’zhul regarded him with contempt. “You made this choice.”

“It’s not as if you are blameless yourself!” Gul’dan snapped.

“Of course not. I made choices for myself, for my own advancement. But I never threw away the future of my people—my world—for it. Where is the power you were promised now. Gul’dan? The power that you bartered our people for?”

Gul’dan turned away, trembling. There was no power, and Ner’zhul knew it, which was why his words bit so deeply.

Far from rewarding his loyal servant with glories and godhood, Kil’jaeden had simply vanished. All that was left of his presence in this world were the warlocks and their demons, a maddened Horde, and a ravaged land.

No, he thought. No, that was not all that was left.

There was still the Shadow Council. There was still Blackhand, the ideal puppet precisely because he did not realize he was one such. And while the Horde was now infused with the blood of demons, and craved violence and destruction more than meat and drink, they had not gotten out of control. At least, not yet.

He would summon the Council to meet in their beautiful Black Temple. Doubtless they, too, would be searching for ways to salvage what power was left.

Yes. There was still the Shadow Council.

“The land is dead,” Durotan said quietly as he stood with his old friend surveying what had once been verdant meadows and foothills, Durotan scuffed at the dirt with his boot. Powdery sand and rock were revealed as he kicked away the dead yellow grass. Wind, no longer blocked by trees, whistled past them.

Orgrim said nothing for a long time. His eyes told him Durotan was right. He looked to the riverbed where he and Durotan had swum in one of their many challenges, and saw no hint that water had ever flowed in it. What water remained in the land was filthy, clogged with animal corpses and sediment. To drink it was to risk illness; not to drink was to die.