Where? And what makes you sense this?
There is a small world, primitive and insignificant. And I have sensed their peculiar brand of magic Minting the area. It is possible that they may have come and gone. Such, alas, has happened before.
Kil’jaeden nodded, even though Talgath was not present to see the gesture. Some things from his past yet lingered, he thought, smiling a little at the ancient movement that betokened agreement in nearly every sentient species he had encountered.
You speak truly, he acknowledged. Many times before, Kil’jaeden’s forces had arrived on some world or other, lured by the sweet essence of eredar magic, only to find that somehow Velen and his wretched followers had gotten wind of the approach and escaped. But I remain hopeful. I will find them and twist them to my purposes, and I have eternity in which to do so.
A thought occurred to him. So often before, Kil’jaeden’s forces had descended upon a world where Velen was thought to be, only to have him escape. Kil’jaeden had nursed his insulted pride by destroying such worlds, but the slaughter of primitive races—though pleasant—did not slake his demonic thirst for complete and total revenge.
He would not behave that way this time. He would not send Talgath at the head of the Burning Legion. Velen had once been the strongest of them, the wisest, the most attuned to magic and science. Kil’jaeden could not imagine that his old friend would have dropped his guard, not after such a relatively brief time. Velen would be constantly on the alert, ready to flee in the face of so obvious a threat.
But … what about a less obvious threat?
Talgath … I want you to investigate this world for me.
My lord? Talgath’s mental voice was smooth and poised, but puzzled.
We have descended upon worlds in force before, and to no avail. Perhaps this time, only one is sent. One only, but one who can be trusted completely.
Kil’jaeden sensed unease and pride warring in Talgath’s thoughts.
There are more ways to destroy one’s enemy than with an army. Sometimes, those ways are better.
You—you wish me to find such a better way, then?
Precisely. Visit this place on your own. Learn about it. Investigate. Tell me if the exiles are truly there, and if so, what their state is. Tell me what they live on, if they are fat and settled like tamed livestock or lean and edgy, like prey animals. Tell me what their world is like, what other peoples live there, what creatures, what seasons. Investigate, Talgath. Do nothing without express orders from me.
Of course, my lord. I shall prepare at once. Still puzzled, but obedient and intelligent. Talgath had served the man’ari master well in the past. Now he would serve well again.
Kil’jaeden’s face, though it little resembled what it had been before he had cast his lot with the great lord Sargeras, was still able to twist into the facsimile of a smile.
Durotan, like all his people, had been ready to begin training with weapons at the age of six. His body was already tall and filling out, and the usage of weaponry came naturally to his people. At twelve, he had gone with the hunting parties. And now, after the rite that marked him as an adult, he had been able to join in the hunt for the ogres and their obscene, twisted masters, the gronn.
This year, as the autumn Kosh’harg came, he joined the adults in the circle after the children had been sent to bed. And as he and Orgrim had learned years before, being an adult and being able to attend the fireside circle was not very interesting.
However, the one thing he did find interesting, as he watched with observant brown eyes, was interacting with those whose names he had known for many years, but who never spoke much to him because of his youth. Mother Kashur, of course, was from his own dan. He knew she had high standing among the shaman of the other clans, and he took pride in that fact. He noticed her huddled by the fire on this first night, a woven blanket wrapped around a frame that seemed to him little more than bone and skin. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that this would be her last Kosh’harg celebration, and the thought saddened him more than he had expected.
Next to her, younger than she but older still than Durotan’s parents, was Kashur’s apprentice Drek’Thar. Durotan had not spoken much with Drek’Thar, but the older orc’s sharp tongue and sharp eyes were deserving of much respect. Durotan’s brown eyes continued to roam over the assembled company. Tomorrow, the shaman would be gone, departing for their meetings with the ancestors in the cavern of the sacred mountain. Durotan shivered as he again recalled his visit there, and the cold breeze that felt like a draft, but was nothing so ordinary.
Over there was Grom Hellscream, the young and slightly manic chieftain of the Warsong clan. Only a few years older than Durotan and Orgrim, he was new to his position. There had been mutterings about the mysterious circumstances under which the former chieftain had died, but the Warsong clan did not challenge Grom’s leadership. Durotan thought it no wonder. Though youthful, Grom was intimidating. The dancing, flickering light of the fire only served to make him look more menacing. Thick black hair flowed down his back. Upon his ascension to chieftainship, Grom’s jaw had been tattooed a uniform shade of black. Around his neck hung a necklace of bones. Durotan knew their meaning: Among the Warsong, it was tradition that a young warrior wear the bones of his first kill, inscribed with his personal runes.
Beside Grom was the enormous, imposing Blackhand of the Blackrock clan. Next to Blackhand, munching in silence, was the chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan, Kargath Bladefist. In lieu of a hand, he had a scythe embedded in his wrist, and even now as an adult Durotan found himself unsettled as the blade glinted in the firelight. Next to him was Kilrogg Deadeye, chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow clan. The name was not a familial one, but one he had taken for himself. One eye flitted over the assembled company; the other sat, mangled and dead in truth, in its socket. If Grom was young for a chieftain, then Kilrogg was old for one, but it was clear to Durotan that despite his years and grizzled appearance, Kilrogg was far from done with either life or leadership.
Uneasily Durotan turned his attention elsewhere.
On Drek’Thar’s left was the famous Ner’zhul of the Shadowmoon clan. For as long as Durotan could remember, Ner’zhul had led the shaman. Once, Durotan had been permitted to attend a hunt at which Ner’zhul had been present, and the mastery this shaman had over his skills was shocking. While others grunted and labored to contact the elements, directing them powerfully but without grace, Ner’zhul remained tranquil. The earth shook beneath him when he asked it; lightning came from the skies to strike where he directed. Fire, air, water, earth, and the elusive Spirit of the Wilds all called him companion and friend. He had not seen Ner’zhul interact with the ancestors, of course; no one but shaman were witness to such things. But it was clear to Durotan that if the ancestors had not favored Ner’zhul, he would not have serenely carried power all this time.
Ner’zhul’s apprentice, however, Durotan did not like. Orgrim was sitting next to his boyhood friend, and, seeing where Durotan’s gaze led, leaned over and whispered, “I think that Gul’dan would better serve his people if he were set out as bait.”
Durotan looked away so that no one else would see him smile. He did not know how experienced Gul’dan was as a shaman; surely he must have some ability or else Ner’zhul would not have taken him on to succeed him. But he was not a very prepossessing orc. Shorter than many, softer than most, with a short, bushy beard, he did not exemplify the orc as a warrior. But Durotan supposed that one did not have to be a hero to contribute.