Christie Golden - Rise of the Horde

The shapes of the four large platforms were based on draenei design. The irony did not escape Durotan. The original design had been modified, crowned with the now-familiar spikes and sharp edges that were starting to make orc architecture distinctive. But Durotan could remember walking up similar steps as a boy, and walking up those steps again with the intent of killing all he found atop them. Two obelisks pointed into the sky like sharp spears, and a statue of Gul’dan sat atop another one.

But most forbidding of all was the fourth, set a little way back from the other three. This was to be the framework for the actual Portal that Gul’dan kept promising them would manifest. Two huge slabs of stone towered into the air, a third lying across them to make the most primitive of gateways. Shapes were starting to appear out of the rock, looming shapes of cowled figures on either side, and some sort of serpent undulated atop it.

“Is this not better than having them ride into your camp and slaughter your clansmen?” Orgrim continued.

Durotan nodded. “Yes, in a way,” he said. “But we still do not know what this is a portal to.” Orgrim gestured at the sere landscape. The Hellfire Peninsula was one of the most damaged areas of the world, but far from the only one. “Does it matter? We know what it is a portal from.”

Durotan grunted with a hint of amusement. “I suppose you’re right at that.”

He felt Orgrim’s gray eyes regarding him steadily “Durotan … I have refrained from asking you this, but … why did you refuse your clan the draft Gul’dan offered?”

Durotan looked at his friend, answering one question with another. “Why did you yourself not drink?” he countered.

“There was something … not right,” Orgrim said at last. “I did not like what I saw it doing to the others.”

Durotan shrugged, hoping his friend would not press the point. “You had the same insight as I did.”

“I wonder,” said Orgrim, but he did not question further.

Durotan saw no need to reveal what he knew. He had managed to protect his people from the horrors of what drinking demonic blood would do to them. He had asserted himself to Gul’dan, and thus far, no repercussions had fallen. And Orgrim, ancestors be praised, had had wisdom enough to realize that there was something amiss and had also declined. For now, that was enough for Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan.

“I fight today,” Orgrim said, changing the subject. “Will you come?”

“I know that you do this not for glory, but for your clan,” Durotan said. “You fight to win them food and water. But I will not show my face at these … displays. Orcs should not be fighting orcs. Not even in ritualized combat.”

Orgrim sighed. “You have not changed, Durotan. You were ever afraid of me defeating you.”

There was a hint of mirth in his voice. Durotan turned, and for the first time in many, many long months, grinned with genuine warmth.

The day had come.

All night, while a ring of warlocks stood guard lest any curious onlooker witness the dark ritual, several stonemasons had been hard at work carving the final seal into the portal’s base. Once they had finished, wiping their sweaty brows and turning to smile at one another, they had been quickly slain. The blood of those who had created the seal would prime it, Gul’dan had been informed by Medivh. Gul’dan had no reason to doubt his new ally’s wisdom. But the luckless masons would not be the last to die here.

The dawn was a fiery one, crimson and orange, and the air was thick and stale. While the portal was being completed over the last several days, other tasks had been finished as well. The war machines that had so devastated Shattrath several months earlier now were again pressed into service, repaired, oiled, and tested. Armor that had been neglected was polished, swords were sharpened, dents hammered out of chest pieces and helms.

The great orcish army that had so decimated the draenei was being reformed.

Some clans had been requested to remain behind. Gul’dan had done his best to convince the chieftains of the Shattered Hand. Shadowmoon, Thunderlord, Bleeding Hollow, and Laughing Skull clans that they were needed here. Grom and the Warsong had been particularly hard to convince to remain. For a moment, as the chieftain raged at him, Gul’dan wondered if he had done the right thing in letting Hellscream drink the demon blood. More than most, he seemed to have little control over his emotions; despite Gul’dan’s flattery about how valuable Grom was to him and how he needed him here, it was Grom’s wildness and unpredictability that made Gul’dan want him to stay behind. He could not risk Grom getting some mad idea into his head and defying orders. Medivh would not like that; he would not like that at all.

Blackhand had requested that the entire Horde gather at the Hellfire Citadel. Over the last few days, several who had returned to their ancestral lands, the Frostwolf clan among them, had trickled in and camped in the area. They had obeyed the order to arm themselves as if they were going into battle, although few of them understood exactly what was going on.

They assembled, clan by clan. Each clan wore their traditional colors in the form of a decorative sash or belt over their armor, and on this hot, windy day, their banners snapped proudly.

Gul’dan and Ner’zhul watched the assembly. Gul’dan turned to his former mentor. “You and your clan will be among those staying behind.” he said shortly.

Ner’zhul nodded, almost meekly. “So I assumed,” he said. He did not say much these days, which was just as well with Gul’dan. He had half suspected that the older orc would try to wrest control from him after Kil’jaeden had abandoned them, but apparently Ner’zhul was too crushed to even do that. Gul’dan thought with contempt about the time, not so long ago, when he had idolized and envied Ner’zhul. How foolish he had been then. He had grown and learned, even from the bitterness of deception. Although there were times when he thought he caught a faint glimmer of something in Ner’zhul’s eyes, as now. He looked sharply at the other orc and decided it was just a trick of the light. He returned his attention to the assembling clans and smiled.

Even though his designs went far beyond simple bloodletting, he could not help but be stirred at the sight. They were glorious! The scorching sun glinting on their armor, their banners waving in the wind, their green faces shining with anticipation. If all was as Medivh promised, this could be the turning point to greatness. The drums began. Deep, primal, they shuddered along the earth, through stone, into the bones of the Horde. Many of them threw back their heads and howled as they began to march, falling naturally into step with one another, again a unified people.

Gul’dan made no move to hurry. Once they were all assembled at the Portal, he would be magically transported there by another warlock. He could enjoy watching the parade of his army march down the wide, paved road to the Portal.

Standing in front of the Portal was a draenei child.

Where had they found it? Durotan had not so much as glimpsed a draenei in months; nor had anyone else. They must have considered it great good luck to have found any draenei, let alone a youngling.

They were in the front of the crowd, standing next to the Thunderlord clan and the Dragonmaw clan. The Portal gate had been finished and looked both beautiful and terrifying. Two cloaked figures, whose eyes glowed red either from magic or clever technology, flanked the opening. A carved serpentine creature curled about the top, its maw gaping open, showing pointed carved teeth. It extended sharp, lizardlike claws and had ridges along its long neck and body. Durotan had never seen anything like this, and briefly wondered how such an image had occurred to the masons. A nightmare, possibly? He grimaced. All in all, it was a formidable construction.