Christie Golden: Rise of the Horde

“This is the moment of destiny,” he said. “On the other side, a new beginning awaits. A new enemy to slaughter. You can feel it, can you not? The bloodlust rising? Follow Blackhand! Listen to his orders and you will rule this new world as is your right! It’s your world on the other side of the Portal. Take it!”

The cries were deafening. The crowd surged forward. Even Durotan found himself caught up in the thrill of a new world, so lush and ripe and ready for the taking. Perhaps his worry was misplaced; perhaps this would indeed be a new beginning. Durotan loved his clan, loved his people. He wanted to see them thrive. And he, like all orcs even before this moment, reveled in the kill.

Perhaps it would all be well.

Axe in hand, hope flourishing in his heart, Durotan joined in the race toward the Portal, toward this place called Azeroth. He lifted his arms and raised the cry that was on the lips of every orc as they surged forward:

“For the Horde!”

And so began our people’s history in this world of Azeroth. We thundered out of the Portal like death incarnate, a torrent of blood-mad killers intent on slaughter. It is little wonder the humans hate us so, many of them even now. But perhaps this history I have chronicled will one day be read by human, elven, gnomish, and dwarven eyes. Perhaps they will understand a little better that we, too, knew suffering and victimization.

My father’s suspicion that he and his clan were marked for exile proved correct. It was shortly after the Frostwolf clan entered Azeroth that Gul’dan banished them. They were forced to make their homes in the harshness of the mountains of Alterac. The white wolves who still hunt in this place are descended from the Frostwolves who followed my clan through the Portal and whose loyalty could not be swayed by the words of one who bore a grudge.

When I was born, my father realized he had to tell the other orcs all he knew about what had been done to them. He approached his old friend, Orgrim Doomhammer, who believed him and would have allied with him had not my father been treacherously slain. When I reached adulthood, I became Orgrim’s friend, as had my father before; and it is I who have fulfilled the prophecy of the Doomhammer.

In their honor, this land is named Durotar, its greatest city, Orgrimmar. It is my hope that—

“My chieftain!” The deep, rough voice belonged to Eitrigg.

Thrall stopped in mid-sentence, moving the pen so it did not drip on the parchment. “What is it?” he asked the elderly orc who was one of his most trusted advisors.

“There is news—news from the Alliance. One of our information gatherers has learned something he insists you must know.”

Thrall disliked the term “spy” but he had spies nonetheless, as he was certain Jaina Proudmoore had her spies in his lands. It was to be expected, and was often worthwhile. Seldom had one of his gatherers insisted on seeing him like this. Something important must be happening indeed.

“Show him in, and leave us” he said. Eitrigg nodded and a moment later, a small, scrawny, nondescript human male was brought in. He looked exhausted, undernourished, and terrified.

Thrall rose to his full imposing height without thinking, then realized he might intimidate the human. “Will you take food or drink?” he asked, keeping his voice gentle.

The spy shook his head, then amended. “W-Water, if you please.” in a voice that cracked. The Warchief himself poured a goblet and handed it to the man, who gulped thirstily, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“My thanks. Warchief.” the spy said, sounding a bit calmer.

“Your news.” Thrall said.

The man paled. Thrall sighed inwardly. He would never be so brutal—or so foolish—as to kill a messenger for bringing bad news. Such behavior merely resulted in no one’s wanting to serve as messenger. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion.

“Do not fear. Your news, good or ill, is welcome if it aids me in protecting my people.” he said.

The man looked slightly less distressed. He took a deep breath.

“My lord,” he said. He hesitated, then continued grimly, “The draenei have come to Azeroth.”

Thrall was puzzled. He exchanged glances with Eitrigg, who shrugged.

“Some draenei have been in Azeroth for years.” he said. “They are nicknamed the lost ones. We know about them. This is not news, friend.”

The man looked stricken. “You don’t understand,” he said, urgently. “Not those pathetic creatures—draenei! There—there was ship. From the skies. It crashed like an infernal stone two nights ago.”

Thrall inhaled swiftly. No one had missed seeing that strange object in the night sky, looking like a star crashing to earth. So … it had not been a star, nor even an infernal. It had been a vessel …

The man was still talking. “Proudmoore has agreed to aid them. There is one among them—pale, noble, his presence commanding, though he is not physically strong. They call him Velen.”

Thrall stared. The draenei? The Prophet Velen? Here?

He sank slowly in his chair as the full significance struck him.

The worst enemy the orcs had ever known had come to Azeroth. Had been welcomed into the Alliance.

How could there possibly be peace between Horde and Alliance now?

“Ancestors save us,” Thrall whispered.