“Malkorok,” said Garrosh. “Step down.”
For what seemed an eternity, the Blackrock orc did not move. Baine had no desire for a confrontation—not here, not now. Attacking Garrosh, or this gray-skinned warrior who was clearly appointed specifically to defend him, would only further aggravate the young warchief and make him even more disinclined to listen to reason. At last, expelling air from his nostrils in a snort of contempt, Malkorok did as he was told.
Garrosh moved forward, shoving his face up toward Baine’s.
“This is not a time for peace! The time for war has come—it is long overdue! Your own people have suffered from the expansion of the Alliance into your territory, unprovoked. If anyone should wish to destroy at the very least Northwatch Hold, it should be the tauren! You say that Jaina Proudmoore assisted you once. Are your loyalties now to her and the Alliance, who have killed your people… or to the mighty Horde and me?”
Baine took a long, slow breath and let it out through his nostrils. He bent his head to within an inch of Garrosh’s and said, for that orc’s ears only, “If I were ever to turn my back on the Horde and you, it would have been before this moment, Garrosh Hellscream. If you believe nothing else I say, believe that.”
For a heartbeat, it seemed to Baine that an expression of shame crossed Garrosh’s brown face. Then the scowl returned. Garrosh turned again to address the gathered crowd.
“This is the will of your warchief,” he said bluntly. “This is the plan. First Northwatch Hold, then Theramore, then we drive the night elves before us and take for our own what was theirs. As for any Alliance protests,” he said, sparing a brief glance for Sylvanas, “rest assured, they will be dealt with swiftly. I am grateful for your obedience in these matters, but I expected nothing less from the great Horde. Return now to your homes, and prepare. You will hear from me again soon. For the Horde!”
The cheer, uttered so often and always with such passion, filled the hold. Baine joined in, but his heart was not in it. Not only was Garrosh’s plan dangerously reckless, which surely should have been enough to condemn it, but it was based on treachery and hatred. The Earth Mother could never give her blessing to such an endeavor.
Garrosh waved Gorehowl above his head one final time, letting the weapon sing as the wind whistled through the holes in its blade, then lowered it. The Blackrock orc—Malkorok, Garrosh had named him—right behind Garrosh before even Eitrigg, before even the Kor’kron. The orcs encircling the gathering snapped to attention and followed their leader out of the hold.
The crowd began to disperse. Baine saw the blue-skinned, red-haired troll leader moving toward him and slowed his own steps.
“Ju baited him,” said Vol’jin without preamble.
“I did. It… was not wise.”
“No, it wasn’t. Dat why I stay quiet. Gotta tink about my people.”
“I understand.” The trolls were in more immediate peril from Garrosh’s anger, living as close to Orgrimmar as they did. Baine did not blame Vol’jin. He glanced at the troll. “But I know what your heart is telling you.”
Vol’jin sighed, looking somber, and nodded. “Dis a bad path we be walkin’ down.”
“Tell me, do you know who this Malkorok is?”
The troll scowled. “He be a Blackrock. Dey say he still don’t like da light of Durotar, after bein’ so long in Blackrock Mountain, servin’ Rend.”
“I suspected as much,” growled Baine.
“He denounced his crimes in service to Rend an’ asked for amnesty. Garrosh be givin’ it to him, along wit’ any others who swear to serve him wit’ dere lives. Now da wahchief got a nice big dog wit’ sharp teeth ta protect him.”
“But—how can he be trusted?”
Vol’jin laughed a little. “Some might say, how can da Grimtotem be trusted? Yet you let da ones who swear loyalty stay at Thunder Bluff.”
Baine thought of Tarakor, a black bull who had served under Magatha. Tarakor had led the attack against Baine but had pleaded for reprieve for himself and his family. Tarakor had proven to be as good as his word, as had all the others whom Baine had pardoned. And yet, somehow, to Baine, the Grimtotem seemed different from the Blackrocks.
“Perhaps I am inclined to prejudge,” said Baine. “I think better of the tauren than I do of orcs.”
“Dese days,” Vol’jin said quietly, making sure he was not overheard, “so do I.”
Garrosh waited outside so that those who wished to take this opportunity to swear loyalty to him could do so more conveniently. A goblin female was kneeling before him, nattering on about something, when Malkorok said, “There he is.” Garrosh looked up and spotted Lor’themar.
“Bring him.”
He interrupted the goblin, patted her head, said, “I accept your oath,” and shooed her off as Malkorok approached with the blood elf leader. Lor’themar inclined his pale blond head in a gesture of respect.
“You wish to see me, Warchief?”
“I do,” said Garrosh, steering them off a few steps so that they might speak with more privacy. Malkorok ensured they would not be disturbed by stepping in front of them and folding his massive gray arms. “Out of all the leaders, save Gallywix—who is supportive merely because he sees coins to be made—you are the only one who doesn’t question your warchief. Not even when Sylvanas tries to play upon your sympathy. I respect that, elf. Know that your loyalty to me is duly noted.”
“The Horde embraced and supported my people when no one else would,” Lor’themar replied. “I will not forget that. And so, my loyalty, and that of my people, is to the Horde.”
Unease stirred in Garrosh as he noticed a slight emphasis on Lor’themar’s last word. “I am the Horde’s warchief, Lor’themar. And as such, I am the Horde.”
“You are its warchief,” Lor’themar said, agreeing readily. “Is that all you wish of me? My people are anxious to return home and prepare for the war that is to come.”
“Of course,” Garrosh said. “You may go.”
Lor’themar had said nothing inflammatory, but the unease did not dissipate as Garrosh regarded the sea of red and gold move toward the gates of Orgrimmar.
“That one is worth watching,” he said to Malkorok.
“They are all worth watching,” the Blackrock orc replied.
3
“I recognize that dirty cloak,” the image of Prince Anduin Wrynn said, grinning.
Lady Jaina Proudmoore returned the smile. She and her “nephew,” firmly related by affection if not blood, were conversing by means of an enchanted mirror Jaina kept carefully hidden behind a bookcase. When the proper spell was recited, the reflection of each respective room would vanish, and what had been a simple mirror would become instead a window. It was a variation on the spell that allowed magi to transport themselves and others from one site to another.
Anduin had once shown up unexpectedly when Jaina was returning from one of her secret visits with then-warchief Thrall. Clever lad that he was, the prince had figured out what she had been up to, and now they shared a secret.
“Never could fool you,” Jaina said. “How goes your time among the draenei?” She could guess some of what he would tell her without waiting to hear the answer. Anduin had grown—not just physically. Even in the mirror, which rendered him in a palette of blues, she could see that his jaw was more determined, and his eyes were calmer and wiser.
“It’s been truly amazing, Aunt Jaina,” he said. “There is so much going on in the world that I want to be part of right now, but I know I have to stay here. I’m learning something new almost every single day. It kills me that I can’t help, but—”
“It is the destiny of others to buy us a future for you to grow up in, Anduin,” Jaina said. “It is your destiny to do precisely that—and do so well. Keep studying. Keep learning. You’re right. You’re exactly where you need to be.”