Christie Golden - Warcraft

Her eyes were dry, and she stood tall and strong. “I will protect them with my life, my son. And when you return, we will gladly come join you in this verdant new land.”

Everyone knew that there might not be a return. So much was unknown about this promised place. They were getting there by magic, with no idea what awaited them save what Gul’dan had told them. What if he was wrong? What if he’d lied? What if there were dangers so great that not even an orc could face them? In the end, it didn’t matter. What was here could not be borne.

“I am certain we will conquer swiftly,” he said, and hoped his voice was as solid as he wished it to be.

Horns blew, summoning them. Durotan embraced Geyah. She clung to him for a moment, then released him and stepped back. Durotan looked over his clan, at the children, the orcs, male and female, who were artisans and shaman, not warriors. He had done everything he could for them.

Now, it was time to discover if Gul’dan’s word could be trusted.

Blackhand’s orcs directed them, funneling the clans into a single channel of brown and green skin, glinting steel, and dull white bone that trudged downward through the dust. Yet again, Durotan marveled at seeing so many orcs marching shoulder to shoulder, united in a single purpose. Hope swelled inside him. They were orcs! What could they not do? Whatever creatures awaited them, they would fall beneath racing feet, swinging weapons, and the bellowed cries of “Lok’tar ogar!”

He glanced at Draka, who grinned at him. She clasped his hand once, quickly, then let it go. No one gave her a second glance. Durotan strode forward carrying Thunderstrike, Sever strapped to his back.

One of Blackhand’s orcs jogged along the line, calling out instructions. “Veer to the right!” Durotan and Draka obeyed.

And there it was.

“Hellscream was right,” Durotan murmured. “It is not just a hole in the ground.”

Durotan’s entire clan would have taken up only the smallest fraction of the expanse that had been unearthed, and all could have run shoulder to shoulder through the large stone structure that had lain hidden by sand. It towered up, huge and imposing, a great, winged serpent coiled atop it and two carved, hooded figures, each the height of a hundred orcs, standing to either side. The right figure and the pillar from which it was carved stood freely. The left side of the gate was still connected to the earth. Scaffolding cluttered parts of it, and lift mechanisms ferried orcs who looked no larger than a flea as they scurried about their business, working on the great gate even now. There had not been much of a semblance of order to begin with, and as more warriors beheld the sight of this gargantuan carved edifice, what little there was began to dissolve. Everyone started talking. Durotan saw Blackhand’s orcs with angry, frazzled looks on their faces as they repeatedly shouted out orders that went unheeded. Orcs were fierce, wild, and strong. They obeyed their clan leaders, but clearly, the commander was going to have his black-inked hands full trying to manage this many individuals.

“Durotan!” Draka called. “Look!” She pointed up at the topmost step of the portal. It was Gul’dan, his green skin unmistakable. Seeing him, Durotan felt as if no time at all had passed since Gul’dan had first come to Frostfire Ridge. He looked as he had then, leaning on a staff decorated with small skulls and bits of bone. His cloak’s cowl partially obscured his lined face, but even at this distance Durotan could see Gul’dan’s white beard and unmistakable eyes, glowing that sickly, luminous green shade. Spikes had been affixed to his cloak, and impaled on them were more tiny skulls. Then, as now, Durotan shivered with a sense of intense dislike. He recalled Drek’Thar’s words upon first encountering the warlock: Shadows cling to this orc. Death follows him.

Walking behind the stooped warlock, an exaggeratedly heavy chain attached to her slender neck, was his slave, the half-breed Garona. Durotan remembered her as well. She had been with her master the two times Gul’dan had made the arduous trek north to speak with the Frostwolves. The second time, she had managed to give Durotan’s clan a warning: My master is dark and dangerous. For a slave, the way she carried herself was not obsequious. Indeed, if it were not for the contemptuous glances thrown her way when any orc deigned regard her at all, Durotan might have thought that it was she who was the master, not the warlock.

It was then that he realized that the two were walking past cages constructed from twisted, dead tree branches. They were crowded to overflowing with blue-skinned forms.

Draenei prisoners.

One of them, a female, reached out an imploring hand and seized Garona’s hand. She looked like she was begging the strange half-orc for something, but Garona detached herself and spoke to Gul’dan.

“What did they do?” Draka wondered. Her voice was shot through with pain and horror. Unlike most orcs, who usually scorned the blue-skinned, goat-legged draenei, she had actually traveled with a group of them for a time. She had told Durotan they were not cowardly; they simply avoided confrontation. Durotan himself knew that the draenei had courage—they had selflessly rescued, and returned, three Frostwolf children.

Now, Gul’dan had imprisoned them.

“Does it matter?” Durotan hated the scathing tone of his own voice. “Gul’dan is sending us through this portal, to attack whatever lies on the other side and take their land for our own. We need this land—and we need him. Right now, he can do what he pleases.”

Draka gave him a searching look, but then closed her eyes. There was no arguing with the ugly truth. Doubtless, the draenei had done nothing at all. He knew some other orc clans killed them for sport. Perhaps there was to be a display of some sort before Gul’dan permitted the orcs to enter this much-vaunted new land.

A snatch of the draenei’s shouting came to him, just one word. Durotan did not know much of their language, but he knew this.

“ Detish! ” the female sobbed, still reaching imploringly after Garona.

Detish.

Child.

Durotan and Draka exchanged horrified looks.

There came a rumble of thunder. The very hue of the sky had shifted, to the yellow-green of a fading bruise. A line of bright emerald now limned the interior of the portal, and green lightning flickered in the sky. “What is that?” Draka asked.

“Gul’dan’s magic,” Durotan replied, grimly. And as he uttered the words, the warlock spread his arms wide as he surveyed his army.

“Death. Life. Death. Life. Do you hear it?” He lifted a hand to his ear and his lips curved in a smile around his tusks. “The beat of a living heart. The fuel for my magic is life. We may only have enough prisoners to send through our strongest warriors, but that will be enough. The enemy is weak. When we arrive, we will take them as fuel! We will build a new portal, and when it is complete, we will bring through all of the Horde!”

Durotan again looked at the imprisoned draenei. His father, Garad, had spoken of a time in his youth when the Frostwolves had sacrificed the life of an animal to thank the Spirits for a good hunt. Gul’dan had said that his death magic was similar. You are fed with the creature’s flesh, clothed with its hide. I am fed with strength and knowledge, and clothed… in green.

Gul’dan turned to face the gate. Holding his skull-crowned staff aloft in one gnarled hand, he spread his arms and arched his back. From everywhere and from nowhere, a voice arose. But it was like no voice that Durotan had ever heard. It was deep, thrumming along the bones, rasping and harsh and piercing, and everything in Durotan wanted him to cover his ears and cease listening to it. He tensed against the desire and took deep breaths to steady himself, although his heart was racing. With fear? Anger?