The Frostwolf leader and shaman were among the first to arrive. Ner’zhul himself greeted them, and the moment Durotan laid eyes on the shaman he knew that he had been right to come. While Ner’zhul was not a young orc, Durotan thought he had aged years in the few months since the last Kosh’harg. He looked … thinner, almost wasted, as if he had not been eating for some while. And his eyes looked haunted. He grasped Durotan’s broad shoulders with hands that trembled, and his thanks were sincere.
This was no arrogant play for power, but a genuine feeling of threat. Durotan inclined his head, then left to see his people settled in.
Over the next few hours, as the sun sank toward the horizon, Durotan watched a steady stream of orcs progress to the flat meadowlands at the base of the sacred mountain, almost as if gathering there for the Kosh’harg festival. He saw the bright banners that announced every clan fluttering in the breeze, and he felt a smile curve his face when he saw the symbol of the Blackrock clan—Orgrim’s clan. Since they had become adults, the two boyhood friends had found their time together limited, and while Orgrim had attended Durotan’s chieftain ceremony, they had not seen one another since, Durotan was pleased but not altogether surprised to see that Orgrim marched only a step behind Blackhand, the hulking and intimidating leader of the Blackrock clan. Durotan’s old friend was now second in command, then.
Draka followed her future mate’s gaze and grunted, also pleased. She got along very well with Orgrim, for which Durotan was grateful. He was fortunate that the two people who mattered the most to him could be friends with one another.
While Blackhand was speaking with Ner’zhul, Orgrim threw Durotan a glance and a wink. Durotan grinned back. He was troubled by Ner’zhul’s appearance, but at the very least, this gathering would give him a chance to visit with Orgrim. Even as Durotan had that thought, however, Blackhand turned away with a snort and waved for Orgrim to follow. Durotan felt the smile on his face ebb; if Blackhand demanded that Orgrim attend him throughout this meeting, then even that pleasure would be denied him.
Draka, who knew him so well, reached for his hand and squeezed it. She said nothing, she did not have to. Durotan looked down at her and smiled.
Word came from the same long, lean courier that Ner’zhul would not hold the meeting until tomorrow, as various clans would still be trickling in through the night. The Frostwolf encampment was smaller than most but more harmonious than many They had brought traveling tents and furs, and the courier had seen to it that they had been given plenty of meat, fish, and fruit. A haunch of talbuk now turned slowly over the fire, its tantalizing scent keeping the appetite sharp even as the orcs feasted on raw fish. There were a total of eleven—Durotan, Draka, Drek’Thar, and eight of his shaman. Some of them looked very young to Durotan, but while shaman certainly could grow in skill over time, once the ancestors had appeared to them in visions they were all accorded equal honor and respect.
A shadowy form appeared beyond the ring of the fire’s illumination. Durotan got to his feet and drew himself to his full imposing height, just in case the visitor had had too much to drink and had come with belligerent intent. Then the wind shifted and he laughed as he caught Orgrim’s scent.
“Welcome, my old friend,” he cried as he went to roughly embrace the other orc. Tall as Durotan was, Orgrim was still bigger, as he had been in their youth. As he regarded the Blackrock second in command, Durotan privately marveled how he had been able to best Orgrim in anything.
Orgrim grunted and clapped Durotan on the shoulder. “Your gathering is small, but it smells the best of any of them,” he said, looking at the roasting meat and sniffing appreciatively.
“Then tear off a hunk of talbuk and leave your duties behind for a while,” Draka said. “Would that I could,” Orgrim sighed, “but I do not have much time. If the Frostwolf chieftain would walk with me a bit, I would be honored.”
“Let us walk, then,” Durotan replied.
They left the encampment and walked in silence for a time, until the campfires were small, twinkling lights in the distance and they were assured that there were no prying eyes or ears to witness them. Both orcs sniffed the wind as well. Orgrim stood silently for a while, and Durotan waited with the patience of the true hunter.
At last, Orgrim spoke. “Blackhand did not want us to come,” he said. “He thought it demeaning, that Ner’zhul would summon us like we were pets to his call.”
“Draka and I had that reaction as well, but I am glad we did. You saw Ner’zhul’s face. One look at him was all I needed to determine that we had been right to come.”
Orgrim snorted derisively. “For myself as well, but when I left the camp, Blackhand was still raging against the shaman. He does not see what you and I do.”
It was not Durotan’s place to speak ill of another clan leader, but neither was it any secret what most orcs thought of Blackhand. He was certainly a powerful orc, fully in his prime, bigger and stronger than any orc Durotan had ever seen. And he was also certainly not stupid. But there was an air about him that raised Durotan’s hackles. Durotan decided to hold his tongue.
“I see your struggle even in the darkness, my old friend,” Orgrim said quietly. “You do not have to speak for me to know what you would say. He is my chieftain, I have sworn loyalty to him and I will not break that oath. But even I have my misgivings.”
The admission startled Durotan. “You do?”
Orgrim nodded. “I am torn, Durotan; torn between my loyalties and what my mind and heart tell me. May you never be put in such a position. As second, I can help moderate him somewhat, but not much. He is clan leader, and he has the power. I can only hope that he will listen to others tomorrow and not stubbornly sit on his wounded pride.”
Durotan fervently shared that hope. If things were indeed as bad as Ner’zhul’s expression seemed to indicate, the last thing he wanted to see was the leader of one of the most powerful clans behaving like a spoiled child.
His eye fell upon a dark shape on Orgrim’s back. Pride and sorrow both flooded him as he spoke. “You carry the Doomhammer now. I did not know of your father’s passing.”
“He died bravely and well,” Orgrim said. He hesitated, then said, “Do you remember that day long ago when We ran afoul of the ogre and the draenei saved us?”
“I could never forget it,” Durotan said.
“Their prophet spoke of the time when I would receive the Doomhammer,” Orgrim said. “I was so excited at the thought of wielding it in the hunt. That was the first time ! understood—I mean really understood—that the day it became my weapon would be the day I would be fatherless.”
He unstrapped the weapon from his back and hoisted it. It was like watching a dancer. Durotan thought—a balance of power and grace. The moon shone down upon Orgrim’s strong body as he moved, crouched, sprang, swung. Finally, breathing heavily and sweating, Orgrim replaced the legendary weapon.
“It is a glorious thing.” Orgrim said quietly. “A weapon of power. A weapon of prophecy. The pride of my lineage. And I would shatter it into a thousand pieces with my own hands if it would bring my father back.”
Without another word, Orgrim strode back toward the small cluster of twinkling fires. Durotan made no move to follow. He sat for a long time, staring up at the stars, sensing deep within his soul that the world he would behold upon awakening tomorrow would be radically different than the one he had known all his life.
7
I know well that we lost more than we gained, we orcs. At that point, our culture was unspoiled, innocent, pure. We were like children who had always been safe, loved, and protected. But children need to grow up, and we as a people were too easily manipulated.