The moments crawled by, and the gathered leaders and their companions began to grow restless. Low murmuring broke out among the Forsaken. It seemed to Baine that despite the undead’s frequent, chiding usage of the word, “patience” was not a universal discipline among them. His sharp tauren ears caught a sibilant whisper from Sylvanas, and the muttering subsided.
An orc clad in Kor’kron livery stepped forward. One hand had only three fingers, and a livid scar, pale against the darker hue of his skin, zigzagged across his face and down his throat. Red war paint, looking like streaked blood, adorned face and arms. But it was not these distinctions that made Baine’s eyes narrow at the newcomer. It was the tone of the orc’s scarlet-decorated skin.
Dark gray.
That meant two things. One, that the orc was a member of the Blackrock clan—a clan that had birthed many infamous members. And two, that he had spent years never seeing the light of day; he had dwelt inside Blackrock Mountain, serving Thrall’s enemy.
Names, imparted in dire tones by his father, Cairne, filled Baine’s head. Blackhand the Destroyer, warchief of the Horde and secret member of the Shadow Council, who had offered shaman up to become the first warlocks his people had ever known. That orc’s son Dal’rend, nicknamed “Rend,” had skulked for years in the depths of Blackrock Spire and opposed Thrall’s leadership. There had only been a handful of Blackrock orcs whom Thrall had spoken of with respect. A handful, out of far too many. That this obviously seasoned veteran had the honor of opening the ceremonies—even ahead of the Kor’kron—made Baine uneasy about what was to come.
The veteran gestured imperiously. Several green-skinned orcs stepped forward. They held long, ornately decorated chimaera horns. With precise movements, they lifted the horns to their lips, filled their lungs, and blew. A long, deep, hollow sound reverberated through the chamber, and despite the current situation, Baine felt his spirit respond to the call to order. When the horns’ blast had faded, the orcs who had blown them stepped back into the shadows.
The Blackrock orc spoke. His voice was deep and gravelly, and it carried throughout the chamber.
“Your leader, the mighty Garrosh Hellscream, approaches! Show him all honor!” The orc thumped his intact hand across his massive chest, turning to face the entrance to Grommash Hold.
Garrosh’s brown body was covered with tattoos. Even his lower jaw had been tattooed black. Bare-chested, the orc wore Mannoroth’s mammoth tusks, covered with spikes, on his shoulders. His waist was encircled with a belt that bore a carved skull—evocative of that of the great demon that adorned the throne. He clutched Gorehowl, the legendary weapon of his father, and lifted it high. Shouting and cheers filled the huge chamber, and for a moment, Garrosh stood, drinking it in. Then he lowered the axe and spoke.
“I bid you all welcome,” he said, spreading his arms in an encompassing gesture. “You are true servants of the Horde. Your warchief calls you, and you come.”
Like trained wolves, Baine thought, trying and failing to hide a frown. Thrall had never spoken so to his people.
Garrosh continued. “Much has transpired since I assumed the mantle of warchief. We have faced trials and danger, threats to our world and our way of life. And yet, we persevere. We are the Horde. We will not let anything break our spirits!”
He lifted Gorehowl again, and in response the gathered orcs uttered a great cry. The rest of the Horde joined in, Baine included, for this was in support of the mighty Horde to which they all belonged. Garrosh spoke this much truth: those who called themselves Horde would never let their spirits be beaten down—not by a shattered world, not by an insane former Aspect, not by anything.
Not even by a father’s murder.
Garrosh smiled around his tusks, nodding approvingly as he made his way to his throne, then raised his arms and called for silence. “You do not disappoint me,” he said. “You are the finest representatives of your races—the leaders, the generals. And that is why I called you here.”
He settled himself in his throne, waving to indicate that the assembled crowd, too, could sit. “There is a menace that has been present for too long, which we must now root out without mercy. A threat that has challenged us for years, to which we have, until recently, turned a blind eye in the mistaken notion that tolerance of a little shame will do no harm to the mighty Horde. I have said and say again, any shame is a great shame! Any injury is a great injury! And we will endure it no longer!”
A chill crept over Baine. He thought of Eitrigg’s reaction to his earlier inquiry. Baine had half-suspected what Garrosh wished to say when the order was given for the Horde leaders to congregate. He had hoped he was wrong.
The orc continued. “We have a destiny to fulfill. And there is an obstacle to that destiny—one that we must crush beneath our feet like the insignificant insect it truly is. For far too long—nay, even a moment would be too long!—the Alliance pests, not content with their stranglehold over the Eastern Kingdoms, have wormed their ways into our lands, our territory. Into Kalimdor.”
Baine closed his eyes briefly, pained.
“Chipping away at our resources and sullying the very earth with their presence! They are crippling us, preventing us from growing, from reaching the heights that I know—I know—we are capable of achieving! For I believe in my heart that it is not our fate to bow and scrape and sue for peace before the Alliance. It is our right to dominate and control this land of Kalimdor. It is ours, and we will claim it as such!”
Garrosh’s orcs roared in approval. Most of them, anyway—those who stood with the Kor’kron and the Blackrock orc. Some murmured quietly to themselves. Many Horde members followed the Kor’kron’s example, some bellowing with the same enthusiasm; others, Baine noted, with far less gusto. Baine himself remained seated. A very few of his own tauren applauded and stamped their hooves on the earth. The tauren had not been untouched by the recent changes. The Alliance, expanding from Northwatch Hold under false information that the tauren were planning an attack, had razed Camp Taurajo. The only residents it now had were looters. Many tauren died in the battle; others fled to Vendetta Point, where they sporadically attacked Northwatch Hold scouts, or to Camp Una’fe—the “Camp of Refuge.”
In response to the aggression, Baine did what he felt was best to keep his people safe. The road to Mulgore had once been open; now what had been dubbed the Great Gate shut out any possibility of a massive Alliance incursion. Most tauren were content with the erection of the gate and did not burn for revenge. Others were still aching from the attack. He could not condemn these people. Baine did not rule with a tight grasp; the tauren followed him willingly and with love—perhaps mostly out of respect for his father, but with openness in their hearts nonetheless. Those who disagreed with Baine’s decisions, like many Grimtotem, or the tauren who chose to strike back at the Alliance from Vendetta Point, were expelled from Thunder Bluff but otherwise suffered no repercussions.
He returned his thoughts to the present as the cheering died down and Garrosh resumed.
“To that end, it is my intent to lead the Horde on a mission that will restore us to our rightful path.” He paused, looking over the sea of faces, drawing out the moment. “Our first target will be Northwatch Hold. We will raze it. And once we have reclaimed that land as ours, we will move on to the next step—Theramore!”