Beyond the Dark Portal

Grom shook his head. The past was past. Blackhand was dead, his old friend Durotan was dead, Doomhammer was captured, the Dark Portal was destroyed.

Gul'dan was gone, and the Horde was a shadow of its former glory.

But perhaps some of that was about to change.

He and Kargath had reached the portal now, and he could see the waiting figure clearly. Ner'zhul's hair was completely gray now, but otherwise the Shadowmoon chieftain and former Horde leader looked as powerful as ever. Then he turned in Grom's direction.

The Warsong clan leader growled and jerked in surprise as he got his first good look at the shaman's face. White paint adorned Ner'zhul's cheeks, upper lip, nose, brow, and forehead, turning them white as bone. And that was clearly the intent, Grom realized. The old shaman had masked his face to resemble a skull.

"Grom Hellscream and Kargath Bladefist!" Ner'zhul called out, his voice still strong and clear. "Welcome!"

"Why have you summoned us?" Kargath said bluntly, wasting no words.

"I have news," the shaman answered. "News, and a plan.”

Grom snorted. "For two long years you have hidden away from us. How can you have news?" he said, anger and doubt in his voice. He gestured at Ner'zhul's painted face. "You let Gul'dan supplant you, you refused to drink from the chalice, and you sulk like a marmot in its burrow. Now you announce you have a plan, and emerge from your seclusion wearing the face of the dead — I do not think I want to hear what sort of plan that involves."

He could hear the pain in his own voice. Despite all that had happened with Gul'dan, despite his distrust of advisers and shaman and warlocks alike these past few years, he wanted Ner'zhul to still be the shaman. Grom remembered from his youth, the strong, stern, wise orc who had forged the fractious clans into a single fighting unit. Despite his scathing words, Grom wanted to be proven wrong.

Ner'zhul touched the white skull on his face and sighed deeply. "Long have I dreamed of death. I have seen him, spoken with him. I have seen the death of my people, the death of all I have loved. And this — this image I wear to honor that. I did not wish to come forth, but I now believe that I owe it to my people to lead them once more."

"Lead as you did before?" Kargath cried. "Lead us to betrayal? To defeat? I will send you to that death which you are so enamored of with this very hand if you attempt to so lead us, Ner'zhul!" He brandished his scythe-hand at the shaman.

Ner'zhul began to reply but stopped as he spotted something behind them. Turning, Grom saw a hulking figure approaching, an ogre judging by the way it towered over the orcs it passed.

"What news, Dentarg?" Ner'zhul called out as his assistant crossed the clearing that separated the portal ruins from the orcs milling about. "I sent you to locate the other clans and summon them here — as I told you two to do as well," he reminded Grom and Kargath.

"Yet I see only Shadowmoon, Warsong, and Shattered Hand in this valley. Where are the rest?"

"Lightning's Blade said they would attend,” Grom assured him. "They have a long way to travel, so it may take them another day or two." He shook his head. "Neither Thunderlord nor Laughing Skull listened, however." He growled. "They were too busy slaughtering each other."

"This is precisely why we need to act!" Ner'zhul cried. "We are killing ourselves and each other if we sit and do nothing!" He bared his teeth in a grimace. "All the work we did — all that I did — to forge the Horde is crumbling away, the clans splintering off and fighting with one another. If we do not act soon we will be reduced to the old ways once more, with the clans meeting only in battle save the yearly gatherings — if that!"

"What did you expect to happen while you hid away for two years?" Grom snapped. "We understand that you were wounded by the explosion. But then, even after your wounds had healed, you never came out. Long we waited for your counsel, but it never came. Of course we went our own ways! Of course we began fighting with one another. You abandoned us so you could dream your dreams of death, Ner'zhul. And this is the result."

"I know," Ner'zhul said softly, in pain. Grom's further angry words died on his lips in the face of that grief and shame.

"The Bladewind clan will join us," Kargath continued, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "But Redwalker refused. They said the Horde is nothing but a memory now, and each clan must look out for itself instead." He snarled. "I would have slaughtered their chieftain then and there, if you had not ordered otherwise."

"You would have been killed in return," Ner'zhul pointed out, "or you would have slaughtered the entire clan making good your escape. I did not want to risk you, or lose them when there was a chance they might be persuaded." He pursed his lips. "We will deal with them soon, however, never fear." He glanced around. "What of the others?" His eyes narrowed. "What of the Bonechewers?"

That brought a snarl to Grom's lips. "I sent emissaries to Hurkan Skullsplinter," he said curtly. "He sent back assorted limbs."

"They would be a great asset in battle," Kargath mused, idly stroking his scythe. "The Bonechewers are a powerful force on the field." Then he shook his head. "They have grown even wilder since the portal fell, however. They cannot be controlled, or trusted."

Ner'zhul nodded. "What of the Whiteclaw clan?" he asked Dentarg.

The ogre frowned. "Dead, most of them," he replied. "Mostly wiped out by other clans before the truth about Gul'dan and his warlocks came to light. Even after Durotan's exile and death, the Whiteclaws never hid their sympathy for the Frostwolves, and it made them a target. Those who survived are scattered." He shook his head. "In truth, it is a clan no more."

Ner'zhul felt a shiver of guilt at the mention of Durotan. He had warned the now-dead leader of the Frostwolves once, seeking to undo some of the damage he had done, but in the end, it had been no use. Gul'dan's Shadow Council had found Durotan, and slain one of the noblest orcs Ner'zhul had ever known.

But regret and self-pity would not serve. He focused again on Dentargs words, and let himself grow angry.

"The Whiteclaw clan was one of our oldest and proudest! Now they are little more than clanless savages? Is this what our race has fallen to? No more! We must rebuild the Horde and renew the bond between all orcs! Only as a united race can we have any hope of survival, of honor, and of glory!"

Dentarg dropped to his knees. "You know I live to serve you, master," he said simply.

Grom gazed at the elderly orc, his brow knitting. "Tell us this plan of yours, Ner'zhul," he stated, making sure his words carried to the orcs beyond the clearing. "Tell us — and if it is sound, we shall follow you."

Kargath inclined his head. "I cast my word with Hellscream's," he said.

Ner'zhul regarded the three of them solemnly for a moment, then nodded. "We will wait until the Lightning's Blade and Bladewind clans arrive," Ner'zhul said. "Then we will go to the others again, the Thunderlord and the Laughing Skull and the Redwalker and even the Bonechewer clans. Our people must be united."

"What if they refuse still?" Kargath growled.

"Then we will persuade them," Ner'zhul replied, his grim tone leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Kargath roared his approval, raising his scythe high so it caught the light. Ner'zhul turned to Grom. “And you, Grom," he said softly. "While we wait for the other clans, I will tell you my plan, and set you to a task."

Grom's red eyes glittered. "Tell me what you would have me do, and why."

Ner'zhul smiled, the death mask on his face making it a rictus.

"There is something I need you to find."

CHAPTER FOUR

“Warsong, attack!"

Grom held Gorehowl high, letting the sunlight play along its blade. Then he leaped forward, swinging the axe in a great arc, the hollow space behind the haft shrieking as the blade cut through the air. Behind him his warriors waved and swirled and swung their own weapons, creating the unsettling shrieks and whistles and whoops for which the clan was named. Many began to sing as well, chanting tunes that were less about the words than about the rhythms, the pulse-pounding beats that fired their blood and at the same time made their enemies quail.