At that instant, before the great jaws could close upon his face, Durotan heard a war cry. There was a flurry of movement in the corner of his eye. Draka sprang upon the beast, her long, ornamented spear preceding her. The wolf’s head snapped back as the spear pierced its midsection. In the instant of inattention, Durotan hefted his axe again and brought it down as hard as he could. He felt it cut through the animal’s body, down, down, striking earth, going deep, lodging so firmly he could not pull it out immediately.
He stepped back, panting. Draka stood beside him.
He felt her warmth, her energy, her passion for the hunt as powerful as his. Together they stared at the mighty beast they had slain. They had been taken unawares by an animal that usually required several seasoned orcs to bring it down, and they were still alive. Their foe lay dead, blood pooling beneath it, sliced in two by Durotan’s axe, Draka’s spear protruding from its heart. Durotan realized he would never be able to tell which of them had struck the true killing blow, and the thought made him ridiculously happy.
He sat down hard.
Draka was there, quickly washing the blood from his lacerated arm, only to mutter under her breath as more came. She tended him with healing salves and tightly wrapped bandages, along with some bitter-tasting herbs she added to the water and ordered him to drink. After a few moments, the dizziness went away.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
She nodded, not looking at him. Then a smile quirked one corner of her mouth.
“What is so funny? That I was not able to stand?”
His voice was harsher than he had intended and she looked up quickly, surprised at his tone.
“Not at all. You fought well, Durotan. Many would have dropped their axe after such a blow,”
He felt oddly pleased by her comment, delivered as a factual statement rather than flattery. “Then … what amuses you?” She grinned, meeting his eyes evenly. “I know something, and you do not know it. But … after this … I think I will tell you.”
He felt himself smiling too. “I am honored.”
“I told you yesterday that I was not of age for a courtship hunt.”
“True.”
“Well … when I said that, I knew I would soon come of age.
“I see,” he said, though he didn’t, not quite. “Well … when will you come of age?”
Her smile broadened. “Today,” she said simply.
He looked at her for a long moment, then, with no word, pulled her to him and kissed her.
Talgath had been observing the orcs for some time. Now, he withdrew from them, their bestial nature offending him. Being a man’ari was better. Except for the female creatures with the leathery wings and tail, man’ari slaked their lust with violence, not coupling. He preferred it that way. He would, in fact, have preferred to have slain the two on the spot, but his master had been quite clear about intervening. There would be questions asked if these two did not return to their clan, and though they were as unimportant as flies to him, flies could become a nuisance. Kil’jaeden wanted him only to observe and report back, nothing more. And so Talgath would.
Revenge, mused Kil’jaeden, like fruit on a tree, was sweetest when allowed to fully ripen. There had been moments over the long stretch of years when he had harbored doubts about being able to locate the renegade eredar. The more Talgath shared with him, however, the more confident and delighted Kil’jaeden grew.
Talgath had served him well. He had observed the pathetic, so-called “cities” the once-mighty Velen and his little handful of eredar had created. He had observed how they lived, hunting like the creatures who called themselves “orcs,” putting grain in the ground with their own hands. He had watched them trade with the hulking, barely verbal creatures, treating them with a courtesy that was positively laughable. Talgath sensed some echoes of former grandeur in their buildings and limited technology, but overall, Talgath felt that Kil’jaeden would be pleased with how low his former friend had fallen.
“Draenei,” they called themselves now. The exiles. And they had named the world Draenor.
Kil’jaeden realized that Talgath was perplexed when, rather than focusing on Velen himself, Kil’jaeden wanted to know more about the orcs. How were they organized? What were some of their customs? Who were their leaders, and how were they chosen? What was important to them as a society, as individuals?
But Talgath’s job was to report, not to evaluate, and he answered his master to the best of his ability. When at last Kil’jaeden had learned everything that Talgath had learned, right down to the names of the two beasts rutting after their kill together, he was satisfied—for the moment at least.
At long last, revenge would be his. Velen and his upstart companions would be punished. But not quickly, not with an army of enhanced eredar to rend them to pieces of bloody pulp. That would be too merciful. Kil’jaeden wanted them dead, yes. But he wanted them broken. Humiliated. Crushed as utterly and completely as an insect beneath a booted foot.
And now, he knew exactly how to do it.
6
The lessons from that time were bitter, bought with blood and death and torment. But ironically, the thing that nearly destroyed us was the thing that would redeem us later: a sense of unity. Each clan was loyal to itself, fiercely dedicated to its members, but not to others. What we united under, and against, was dreadfully wrong and for that, we are atoning stilt Generations after me will still pay for those mistakes. But the unity itself was glorious. And it is that lesson I wish to recover from the ashes. It is that lesson that caused me to speak with the leaders of so many seemingly different peoples, to work together toward goals we can all be proud of.
Unity. Harmony That is the good lesson of the past. I have learned it well.
Ner’zhul looked up into the twilight sky, content. The sunset was brilliant tonight. The ancestors must be pleased, he mused, taking a small amount of pride in the thought. Another Kosh’harg had come and gone. They seemed to him to come much harder on each other’s heels than they had in the past, and each time the celebration occurred, there was something to rejoice in, and something to mourn.
His old friend, Kashur—he understood that her clan, the Frostwolves, had addressed her reverently as “Mother”—had passed to the ancestors. From what he had heard, she had died bravely. She had insisted on joining a hunt, something she had not done for years. The Frostwolves had hunted clefthooves, and the ancient Mother had been in the vanguard of the charging warriors. She had been trampled to death before anyone could intervene to save her, and Ner’zhul knew that even as her clan mourned her, they celebrated her life and how she had chosen to depart it. Such was the way of the orcs. He wondered if he would see her, and then chided himself for the thought. He would see her if she saw fit to reveal herself to him. Death was not the vast desert of sorrow to a shaman that it was to other orcs, for they had the privilege to again be in the presence of the beloved dead, learn their wisdom, feel their affection.
The Frostwolves had had a double tragedy, for the intervening time between Kosh’hargs had claimed their leader Garad as well. The Frostwolves had had the misfortune on one deceptively sunny day to stumble across no fewer than three ogres and one of their monstrous masters. The hideous creatures were stupid but fierce, and the gronn was a cunning foe. The orcs were victorious, but at a grave cost. Despite all the healers could do, Garad and several others died from their injuries that black day.
But in the sorrow of losing a leader, and one that Ner’zhul had known and respected, was the joy of seeing new blood come into its own. Kashur had spoken well of young Durotan, and from all Ner’zhul had seen, the youth would make a fine leader. He had watched as Durotan was named chieftain, and had noticed an attractive, fierce-looking female looking on with more than simple clan interest in the proceedings. Ner’zhul felt certain that by the next Kosh’harg, the lovely Draka would be the mate of the new Frostwolf chieftain.