“I cannot tell,” said Tal’kraa, frowning a little. “Teach him well, Kashur, for one thing is certain: From his line will come salvation.”
In a gesture of tenderness the likes of which Kashur had never seen, Tal’kraa reached out and brushed an insubstantial finger across Durotan’s check, Durotan’s eyes went wide and Kashur could see he had to fight the natural instinct to draw back, but Durotan did not quail beneath the spectral caress.
Then, like mist on a hot day, Tal’kraa was gone. Kashur stumbled a little; she always forgot how the energy of the spirits fed her. Durotan stepped forward quickly to catch her arm, and she was grateful for his youthful strength.
“Mother, are you all right?” he asked. She gripped his arm and nodded. His first concern was for her, not for what the ancestor might or might not have said about him. Even as she pondered the words, she decided not to tell Durotan of them. Level-headed and great-hearted though he was, such a prophecy could corrupt even the truest of orcish hearts.
From his line will come salvation.
“I am all right,” she reassured him, “But these bones are no longer young, and the energy of the spirits is powerful,”
“I wish I could have seen him,” Durotan said a bit wistfully. “But … but I know I felt him.” “You did, and that is more than most are honored with.” Kashur said.
“Mother … can you tell me what he said? About—about me being a hero?”
He was trying to act calm and mature, but a note of pleading crept in. She did not blame him. All wanted to live on in glorious memory, through tales told of their adventures. He would not be an orc if he did not share that desire.
“Grandfather Tal’kraa said it was uncertain,” she said bluntly. He nodded and hid his disappointment well. That much was all she had planned to say, but something moved her to add, “You have a destiny to fulfill, Durotan, son of Garad. Be not a fool in battle and die before you can fulfill it.”
He chuckled then. “A fool does not serve his clan well, and that is what I wish to do.”
“Then, future chieftain,” said Kashur, chuckling also, “you had best be about finding a mate.”
And she laughed out loud as, for the first time on their journey together, Durotan looked completely unnerved.
5
Upon reflection, so Drek’Thar tells me, this time in our history was as a perfect day in early summer. We orcs had everything we truly needed: a hospitable world, the ancestors to guide us, the elements to aid us as they saw fit. Food was plentiful, our enemies were fierce but not invincible, and we were rich with blessings. If the draenei were not necessarily our allies, neither were they foe. They shared their knowledge and their bounty whenever they were asked; it was we, the orcs, who always held back. And it is we, the orcs, who would unwittingly be twisted to serve another’s end.
Hate is powerful. Hate can be eternal. Hate can be manipulated.
And hate can be created.
In the darkness visible, ageless, timeless, Kil’jaeden dwelt. The power surged and throbbed through him, better than blood now, more nourishing than meat or drink, heady and calming at the same time. He was not omnipotent, not yet, or else worlds would fall before him with a thought rather than through battle and destruction, and on the whole, he was content with this.
But they yet lived, die exiles. Kil’jaeden could sense them, though centuries had passed according to those to whom time still mattered. They were lying low, Velen and die rest of the fools. Too cowardly to face him and Archimonde, who had worked as his friend and ally through the … changes … as he had when they were simple beings.
He, Archimonde, and the others no longer thought of themselves as “eredar.” Velen would call them “man’ari,” but they called themselves the Burning Legion. Sargeras’s army. The chosen ones.
He extended a scarlet hand, long and elegant and clawed, into the nothingness that was everything and felt it ripple beneath his inquiry. Scouts had been dispatched the moment the enemy had escaped, scouts who reported nothing but failure. Archimonde wanted them to die for their lack of success, but Kil’jaeden opted otherwise. Those who feared, fled, he had good cause to know. Those who sniffed reward and their lord’s approval stayed, hungering for it. So while Kil’jaeden made his disapproval known, those who had failed him usually got a second chance. Or third, if he believed them to be doing all they could and not simply coasting on his goodwill.
Archimonde disagreed on this obsession that occupied Kil’jaeden.
“There are worlds aplenty to conquer and devour, in service to our master Sargeras,” Archimonde rumbled. The blackness glowed around them as his voice pierced it. “Let the fool go. We would sense it if he used his talents on any level that would pose a threat. Let him rot on some world, bereft of everything that mattered to him.”
Kil’jaeden slowly turned his massive head to regard the other demon lord.
“It is not about rendering him powerless,” Kil’jaeden hissed. “It is about destroying him and those foolish enough to have followed him. It is about crushing him for his lack of faith. For his stubbornness. For his refusal to think about what was best for all of us.”
The large, clawed hand turned into a fist and the sharp nails dug into the palm. Molten fire poured forth, then the flow stopped as it hit what passed for air, leaving a thick ridge like a scar. Kil’jaeden’s body was covered with many such welts; he took pride in them.
Archimonde was powerful, elegant, smooth, intelligent. But he lacked the burning desire for utter obliteration that Kil’jaeden nursed. He had explained it time and again, and now simply sighed and opted not to discuss the matter further. For centuries now, they had had this argument; no doubt they would continue to have it for centuries more … or until Kil’jaeden succeeded in the destruction of the being who had once been his closest friend. Perhaps that was it. Kil’jaeden mused with a sudden enlightenment. Archimonde had never had particular feelings for Velen other than as a fellow leader of the eredar. Kil’jaeden had loved Velen as a brother, closer than that, loved him almost as another aspect of himself.
And then …
Again the huge hand clenched, and again unholy fire poured forth in lieu of blood.
No.
It would not be enough to think of Velen sitting on some backwater world, nursing his hurt pride, living off the land in some cave. Kil’jaeden once would have said he wanted blood. But blood, powerful in its own way as it was, would not satisfy him now. He wanted the essence of shame, of utter and complete humiliation. That would be even sweeter than the coppery taste of life flowing from Velen and his stupid followers.
Archimonde tilted his head, a gesture Kil’jaeden recognized. One of his own servants was speaking to him. Archimonde had his own schemes and machinations, all, like Kil’jaeden’s, in service to their dark master and his ultimate conquest. Without a word Archimonde rose to his full, imposing height and departed, his movements lithe and sleek, belying his size.
At that moment as well, Kil’jaeden felt a slight scratching inside his head. He recognized it as once: it was Talgath, ever his right hand, seeking contact. And the sensation emanating from the thought was one of cautious hope.
What is it, my friend? Speak! Kil’jaeden commanded in his mind.
My great lord, I do not wish to plant false hope, but … I may have found them.
Tempered delight rose inside Kil’jaeden. Like the being he hunted, Talgath was ever the cautious one of his minions. Only a little lower in rank than Kil’jaeden himself, he had proved his loyalty over the centuries. He would not say even this guarded statement without good cause.