Christie Golden: Rise of the Horde

No water, no grasses. Here and there were places that still managed to survive, such as the Terokkar forest, ancestors knew how. The orcs were growing thin, for no grasses meant no herd animals. The last three years had seen more orcish deaths from starvation and disease than from the battles against the draenei.

“More than the land is dead.” Orgrim said at last. His voice was thick and heavy. He turned to face Durotan. “How is the Frostwolf’s grain supply?”

To his eyes, he and Durotan looked green. Next to others, such as Grom and Blackhand, they still were more brown than green, but the damage was being done, Durotan had theorized that it was the warlock powers that were doing this to them and their world. Certainly those who had directly drunk whatever potion Gul’dan had concocted for them were a more vivid hue than others. Strange, Orgrim thought. There was irony in that while the land turned brown when it should be green, the orcs turned green when they should be brown.

Durotan grimaced. “Several barrels were stolen in the attacks.”

“Which clan?”

“Shattered Hand.”

Orgrim nodded. The Frostwolf clan was bearing the brunt of the recent flurry of attacks. After the Horde had taken Shattrath, sightings of the draenei had dwindled. It had been a full six months since anyone had reported even glimpsing one of the elusive blue-skinned beings, let alone killing one, Durotan had made the Frostwolf clan a clear target when he refused to drink from the chalice the night Shattrath fell. And even before then, his reluctance to attack the draenei had not gone unnoticed. Now that the draenei—the only focus the orcs had as an outlet for their vastly increased bloodlust—were becoming scarce, many felt that somehow Durotan was responsible. Never mind that it was quite likely that the draenei had simply been hunted to extinction—that the initial goal of wiping them off the face of the earth had been achieved.

“I will bring some the next time I see you,” Orgrim said.

“I will not take charity.”

“If my clan were in your position, you would beat me nearly senseless and shove the food down my throat rather than let me refuse it,” Orgrim said. Durotan laughed and seemed surprised that he did so. Orgrim let himself grin. For a moment, if he could ignore the dead land around them, the unnatural hue of their skins, it was as if the horrors of the intervening years had not happened.

Then Durotan’s laughter faded, and die present returned. “For the sake of the children. I will accept it.” He turned his head, again looking out over the wasteland. New names were cropping up—harsher names, darker names. The Citadel was becoming known as the Hellfire Citadel, the entire area the Hellfire Peninsula.

“The destruction of the draenei will lead to that of the orcs as well if something is not done,” Durotan said. “We are turning against each other. Stooping to stealing food from the mouths of children because the land is so wounded it can no longer nourish us. The demons capering at die heels of the warlocks can destroy and torment, but they cannot heal or feed the starving.”

Orgrim asked in a low voice. “Has anyone … tried to work with the elements?” Such activities were still forbidden, but Orgrim knew that desperation was causing some to rethink the old ways.

Durotan nodded. “It was a failure. We have been met with stony silence. Demons guard Oshu’gun. We can find no hope there.”

“Then … We are finished,” Orgrim said quietly. He glanced down at his hammer, its shaft leaning against his leg as they stood. He wondered if the prophecy of the Doomhammer was being fulfilled even now; if he was the last of his line. Had he already brought salvation and then doom by using this weapon to drive the draenei to extinction? And how could it possibly be used now to bring justice?

When all was dying … How could everything change again?

The will to survive was powerful, Gul’dan thought as he readied himself for sleep. He had taken to sleeping in the Black Temple, in a room he had had redesigned specifically for him. In it, he placed in a ritualized fashion all the trinkets and tools he needed to properly command the demons he summoned: shards from draenei souls, certain stones for the larger creatures, potions to help him keep his energy up when it flagged. There were skulls, too, and bones, and other signs of dominance. Certain herbs were burned in containers, their pungent or sweet aroma inducing visions.

It was to ajar of such that he turned now. He had lit a small fire in a cauldron and permitted the wood to burn down to glowing embers. Chanting softly, Gul’dan tossed the dried leaves on the fire and forced himself not to cough as the scent filled the air. He went to his bed—he liked to think that perhaps this was the same bed upon which the loathed Velen slept when he was in the temple—and quickly fell asleep.

Gul’dan dreamed, as he had not done since Kil’jaeden’s departure. And even while in the strange, dark place that was the vision, he knew it to be true. The vision was that of a vaguely orc-shaped being, dad in a long cloak that obscured his face. He was slender, even more slender than an orc female, but somehow Gul’dan immediately sensed that it was male. Delicately built as he seemed to Gul’dan’s eyes, the sense of power that radiated from the stranger all but buffeted Gul’dan. A shiver shook him. When the stranger spoke in his mind, the voice was masculine, oddly pleasant, and profoundly compelling.

“You are feeling adrift and alone,” said the stranger.

Gul’dan nodded, cautious and eager at the same time.

“Kil’jaeden promised you power … strength … godhood. Things that your world has never even seen,” continued the smooth voice from a mouth that remained hidden in the shadow of the cloak’s hood. The words caressed Gul’dan, lulled him, and frightened him at the same time. But he felt more angry than frightened as he spoke.

“He abandoned me,” Gul’dan said. “He caused us to ruin our world, and then left us to die with it. If you come from him, then—”

“Nay, nay,” soothed the stranger in that oddly compelling voice. “I come from one even greater,” His eyes glittered, deep within the shadow of the hooded cloak. “I come from … his master.”

Gul’dan’s skin prickled. “His … master?”

And he fell back as his mind was assaulted with images: images of Kil’jaeden and Velen and Archimonde, as they were long ago. He saw the transformation of the beings known as eredar into monsters and demigods, and he sensed, though never saw, a great presence behind it all.

“Sargeras!”

He still could not see the stranger’s face, but Gul’dan knew that he smiled.

“Yes. The one who rules over all. The one we serve. You will soon understand, Gul’dan, that destruction and oblivion are beautiful and pure. That it is the direction in which all things must go. You can resist it and be destroyed, or aid it and be rewarded.”

Cautiously, still worried about this cloaked figure and his honeyed words, Gul’dan asked, “What is being asked of me?”

“Your people are dying,” the figure said bluntly. “There is nothing left in this world for them to destroy. There is nothing left for them to survive on. They must go elsewhere. Where there is ample food and drink, and worthy prey to slaughter. The orcs hunger now for so, so much more than food. Give them the blood they crave.”

Gul’dan narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like a reward, not a task to which I am set,” he said.

“It is both … but that is not the only reward my master offers. You rule the Shadow Council, and you have tasted power. You are the greatest warlock that exists among your people, and you know how that fills you. Imagine if you were … a god.” Gul’dan trembled. Such had been promised before, but somehow, he knew that this Sargeras was much better able to fulfill such extravagant vows. He thought of extending a hand and making the earth tremble, of clenching it hard and stopping a heart. He thought of the eyes of thousands trained upon him, their voices raw from shouting his name. He thought of tastes and sensations he could not yet even imagine, and his mouth watered.