But as he rode alongside his lord to where a small hunting party had been reported. Orgrim had misgivings. What if the draenei had been odd? Surely the orcs must have seemed odd to them when they first arrived. Was death truly an appropriate punishment for being different? When had there been a single attack on an orc by the draenei? A single insult or offense, even? Now eighteen Blackrock warriors, armed to the teeth, their bodies coated in protective metal, were riding to slaughter a group of the blueskins who were doing nothing more threatening than gathering food for their people. Unexpected and unwanted, an image rose in Orgrim’s mind of the young draenei girl who had smiled shyly at them. Was it her father or mother who would die here on this gloriously sunny day?
“You look lost in thought Orgrim,” said Blackhand in his gravelly voice, startling Orgrim momentarily. “What fills your mind, my second?”
The face of an orphan, thought Orgrim, but did not say. Instead, he said gruffly, “I was wondering what color draenei blood was.” Blackhand threw back his oversized head and laughed heartily. Orgrim heard a harsh caw and the sound of frantic wingbeats as the very crows took flight at the noise of the Blackrock chieftain’s laughter.
“I will make sure your face is painted in it,” Blackhand said, chuckling.
Orgrim’s jaw tightened and he said nothing. The ancestors do not lie, he thought grimly. A child is innocent, always, but its parents have earned death, if they are plotting against us as the spirits have said.
They came upon them with ridiculous ease, not bothering to hide their approach. The scout had said the hunting party numbered eleven, six males and five females, and they had encountered a herd of cleft-hooves. While the great, shaggy beasts were strong and difficult to bring down, they did not have the aggressiveness of a roused herd of talbuks, and the draenei hunting party had already managed to isolate a young bull. It roared, pawing the earth and lowering its head, aiming its single horn at its attackers, but the outcome was assured.
Or it would have been, had it not been for the arrival of the orcs.
Blackhand drew his company to a halt on a ridge. Orgrim could smell the excitement from his kinsmen. Their bodies quivered with anticipation in their newly crafted armor, their hands clenched and unclenched, wanting to curl about the weapons that were only now becoming familiar. Blackhand held up a mailed fist, his small eyes fastened on the activity below, waiting for the right moment to swoop down like a hawk on a meadow rat.
The Blackrock chieftain turned to his shaman, who were in the back. They, too, wore armor, but carried no weapons; they did not need to. They would heal their brethren as they fell, and also direct the immense power of the elements toward their foe.
“You are ready?” he asked.
The eldest among them nodded. His eyes glowed fiercely and his lips were curved in a smile. He, too, wanted to see draenei blood shed this day.
Blackhand grunted and brought his fist down. The Blackrock warriors charged.
They uttered their battle cries as they came, and the blueskins turned, startled. At first, only surprise registered on those faces. No doubt they merely wondered why such a great number of mounted orc warriors were coming to aid them in the kill. It was only when Blackhand, atop his monstrous wolf, brought his two-handed broadsword down in a smooth blow that severed their leader in half that the draenei realized that the orcs had come not for the clefthoof, but for them.
To their credit, they did not stare in stunned horror at the sight, but sprang immediately into action. Voices that held only the faintest tremor of fear uttered words in a liquid-sounding, alien tongue. Although Orgrim did not recognize the words—Durotan had the gift of recall for such things, not he—the sound was familiar. He knew what to expect from that long-ago day when the draenei had rescued him and Durotan, and had prepared his kinsmen. So when the sky crackled with unnatural blue and silver lightning, the shaman were ready. They blasted the strange bolts of light with lightning of their own. The brightness was almost blinding, and Orgrim looked down quickly, his focus on the draenei warrior in front of him wielding a staff that glowed and sparked. He roared and lifted the Doomhammer over his head and brought it crashing down upon his enemy. The armor the draenei warrior wore could not withstand such an attack and crumpled like a thin tin bracelet. Blood and brains spattered the ground.
Orgrim looked up, searching for his next target. Some of the Blackrocks were held in the magical netting created by the draenei’s foul, unnatural lightning. They were proud and strong warriors, but they screamed in agony as the netting burned its way into their skin. The acrid odor of burning flesh mixed with the reck of blood and fear in Orgrim’s nostrils. It was an intoxicating smell.
He felt a wind brush his face, chasing away the scents of battle and infusing his lungs with energy. Orgrim selected the one he would next kill and raced toward the warrior, a female who had no weapon but who was wreathed in pulsating blue energy. Orgrim grunted in surprise as the Doomhammer struck die field and bounced off, the shock shivering up the weapon into his arms and jarring him to the bone. One of the shaman stepped in, the crackling sound of lightning vying with the mysterious, magical energies of the draenei, and Orgrim cheered as he saw the good, natural lighting beat back that blue field. He swung again, and this time the Doomhammer crunched down on the blueskin’s skull most satisfactorily.
It was all but over now. Only two remained standing, and in a heartbeat they had fallen beneath a mass of armored brown bodies. A few more shouts and grunts and the unmistakable sound of bladed weapons sinking into flesh, and then all was silent.
The cornered clefthoof had escaped.
Orgrim caught his breath, his blood singing in his ears, aflame with the excitement of the kill. He had always enjoyed the hunts, but this … he had never experienced anything like this. Sometimes the beasts he attacked fought back, but prey such as the draenei—intelligent, powerful, who fought in the same way he did and not with tooth and claw—was new to him. He threw back his head and laughed, and wondered if somehow he had become drunk on the sensation.
The cheers and rough, deep bellows of laughter from the victorious orcs were the only sound in the glade. Blackhand strode to Orgrim and embraced him as best he could through the armor they both wore.
“I saw the Doomhammer, but it was so fast it was only a blur to my eyes,” the Blackrock chieftain rumbled, grinning. “You fought well today, Orgrim. I was wise to name you my second.” He stooped over the mage that had been Orgrim’s last kill and removed his mailed gloves. The skull had been completely shattered, and blue blood was everywhere. Blackhand dipped his fingers in the slain draenei’s life-fluid and carefully painted Orgrim’s face with it. Deep inside, something shifted in the orc. He remembered doing this himself at his first kill, the blood red and warm; he remembered having this done to him when he went to the sacred mountain as part of the Om’riggor ritual, with his father’s blood on his face. And now, his leader had anointed him again, with the blood of the beings that were their enemy.
A bit of the dark blue liquid trickled down his check into the corner of his mouth. Orgrim extended his tongue, tasted the fluid, and found it sweet.
The bloodhawk settled on its master’s arm, its talons digging deep into the protective leather. Ner’zhul paced while the hawkmaster unrolled the message and delivered it to him. Quickly, he scanned the small piece of parchment.