Christie Golden - Rise of the Horde

“We have a mutual foe,” the stranger continued. “I would see them dead. You would see your people sated with slaughter and killing.” And now Gul’dan could make out just the barest hint of features, of pale skin and a thin-lipped mouth framed by black hair that curved in a smile. “It is a partnership that would benefit us both.”

“Indeed,” Gul’dan breathed. He realized that he was moving toward the stranger as if drawn, then stopped and added, “but I cannot believe that this is all you would ask of me.”

The stranger sighed. “Sargeras will give you all this and more. Only … he lies imprisoned. He needs assistance to escape. His body is trapped in an ancient tomb, lost beneath a rolling ocean of darkness. He hungers for his freedom, the power that once was his to express, as your orcs hunger for bloodshed, as you hunger for power. Bring your orcs into this verdant, unspoiled new world. Give them soft flesh into which their axes can bite. Defeat the denizens of this place, strengthen your people, and with this vast green tide of warriors join me in liberating our master. His gratitude—”

Again the sly smile, the glint of white teeth in the beard. And again that powerful buffet of power, mitigated only by the stranger’s will.

“ … well. It is likely beyond even your imaginings, Gul’dan.”

Gul’dan considered. As he thought, the image of the stranger shifted and faded. Gul’dan gasped as he stood in a beautiful meadow, the wind tousling his braided hair. Beasts he had never seen before grazed their fill. Along the horizon, healthy trees towered. Strange beings, similar to orcs but with pinkish skin, as slender as the stranger, tended fields and livestock.

Perfect.

The image shifted again. Suddenly he was underwater, swimming down, his lungs not burning for air despite the depth. Kelp swayed in the current, obscuring but not entirely hiding tumbled columns and a slab that bore strange writing, eroded somewhat by time and the ceaseless, gentle caress of water. A shudder passed through him as he realized that this was where Sargeras lay. Release him from this prison, and then … and then …

It seemed like a good partnership. Anything would be better than staying here in this world, which would mean a slow death. A beautiful, ripe land, ready for plunder, would all by itself make this bargain worthwhile. And there was so, so much more to come. He gazed at the stranger raptly. “Tell me what to do.”

Gul’dan awoke sprawled on the floor. Beside him on the cold stone was a parchment covered with instructions, written in his own hand. He scanned it quickly: Portal. Azeroth. Humans.

Medivh.

Gul’dan began to smile.

Can a thing be at once a blessing and a curse? A salvation and a doom? For such I hold what happened next in the history of my people. From every account, the demonic energies, used so freely and with no heed given as to their cost, leeched all that was wholesome and life-giving from the world of Draenor. Kil’jaeden had wanted to increase the number of orcs, so that we would become a formidable army, and he had done so, forcing the growth of our younglings and robbing them of their childhood. Now, the orc population was larger than it had ever been, and there was no way to feed the hungry. It is clear to me, as it must have been clear to those living through those terrible times, that if we had remained on Draenor, our race would likely have died out.

But how we left … and why we left … this world still bleeds from the wound of that. I do what I can to heal while still safeguarding the interests of this new Horde I have made, but I wonder if these wounds will ever really close. Life for my people: a blessing. How we obtained it: a curse.

The Shadow Council had been nervous, almost as worried sick as Gul’dan had been at Kil’jaeden’s departure. But now they had a direction. He called the Council and shared with them the words of the mysterious stranger who called himself Medivh. He spoke of the fertile fields, clean water, healthy, glossy-coated prey animals. And he spoke even more glowingly of the beings called “humans” who would fight enough to be a challenge, but who would inevitably fall to the superiority of the Horde.

“Water, food, killing. And power to those who agree to help bring it about,” Gul’dan said, his voice seductive, almost purring. He had gauged them correctly. Their eyes, some red and glowing, some still brown and intense, were focused on him and he saw hope … and greed … on their faces.

The work began.

First, they had to redirect the attention of the starving Horde. Gul’dan was well aware that, with decreasing food supplies and a burning thirst for violence that no longer had an outlet, the orcs had started attacking one another. He had Blackhand send out decrees to all the clans, submitting their finest warriors for controlled, one-on-one or small party fights in public display. The winners would receive food from the losing clan, and a supply of pure water as well as honor and fame. Frantic for something, anything, to case the pain of their dual hunger, for food and for blood, the orcs responded well to the suggestion, and Gul’dan was relieved. Medivh wanted an army to attack the humans. It would not do if all the orcs had slaughtered one another before the invasion.

Durotan continued to give him trouble. The leader of the Frostwolf clan, likely emboldened by the fact that Gul’dan did not cut him down the night of the attack on Shattrath, had begun speaking out more publicly. He decried the staged battles as demeaning. He called for a way to try to heal the land, stopping just short of directly blaming the warlocks for it. In other words, he danced as close to the line as was possible, and sometimes crossed it.

And, as had always been the case, some were listening. While the Frostwolf clan was the only one whose leader had not drunk the blood of Mannoroth, there were other orcs in lower positions who had also refused. The one who worried Gul’dan the most was Orgrim Doomhammer. That one could be trouble. Orgrim had never much liked Blackhand; one day, he might do something about that dislike. But for the moment, he did not side publicly with the Frostwolves, and indeed was one of the regular victors in the champion battles.

The visions continued. Medivh had a very clear idea of what he wanted: a portal between the two worlds, one that could be created with the Shadow Council and its warlocks on one side, and Medivh and whatever magics he was controlling on his side.

They could not work in secret; the portal would have to be large in order for the armies Medivh wanted to pass through. Besides, the Horde was feeling defeated. The excitement and challenge of the arena battles and constructing this portal with high ceremony would give them something to focus on.

Medivh was pleased with the idea. In one vision, he assumed the form of a large black bird, perching on Gul’dan’s arm. Claws dug into his flesh and reddish-black blood trickled across green skin, but the pain felt … good. There was a small piece of paper rolled up around the bird’s leg. In his vision, Gul’dan unrolled the paper and saw a design that took his breath away. When he awoke, he sketched it on a large parchment.

He surveyed it, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Beautiful,” he said.

“I do not understand your displeasure,” Orgrim said one day as he and Durotan sat atop their mounts to survey the building of what Gul’dan called the Portal. Everywhere Durotan looked, orcs were working. The males were bare to the waist, the females nearly so, and their green skins glistened with sweat underneath a sun that scorched the land. Some of them chanted rhythmic war cries as they worked, others were focused and silent. The road to this plateau, running in an almost straight line from what was starting to become known as Hellfire Citadel, was already well paved so that construction equipment could be easily moved.