So easy. It had been so easy. Not a single casualty, although some had been injured, of course. Their first foray and the orcs had been completely victorious. Blackhand spoke contemptuously of how swiftly they had descended upon the party and broken their skulls. It was all unfolding as Rulkan had promised him. Surely, surely now the being with whom Rulkan had allied would appear. The orcs, led by Ner’zhul, had certainly proven their worth with this decisive triumph.
He again read the missive. Blackhand and the Blackrock orcs had indeed been the right choice to send against the draenei. They were powerful and violent, but unlike the Warsong or some other clans, they were completely under the control of their chieftain.
That night, he had a victory feast prepared for the Shadowmoon clan, and they ate and drank and laughed and sang until at last Ner’zhul trundled to his bed and fell into a deep, profound sleep.
And the being came.
It was glorious, radiant, so bright that even with his vision-eyes Ner’zhul could not bear to look upon it at first. He fell to his knees, shaking with the joy and awe that washed through him.
“You have come,” he whispered, feeling tears well up in his eyes and slip down his face. “I knew that if we pleased you, you would come.”
“Indeed you have, Ner’zhul, shaman, soul-tender of the orcs.” The voice rumbled through his bones and Ner’zhul closed his eyes, almost giddy at the sensation. “I have seen your masterful handling of your people, how you brought disparate clans together with a common purpose, a glorious goal.”
“One that was inspired by you. Great One,” murmured Ner’zhul. He thought of Rulkan and briefly wondered why she was no longer appearing to him, then dismissed the thought of her. This great entity was far superior to even the shade of his beloved mate. Ner’zhul craved more words from this magnificent being.
“You came to us and revealed the truth.” Ner’zhul continued. “We did what was needed.”
“You did indeed, and I am well pleased with you. Glory and honor and sweet victory will continue to be yours if you do as I say.”
“Of course I will, but … Great One, this humble petitioner would beg a favor.”
Ner’zhul risked a glance up at the being. It was enormous, radiant and red, with a powerful torso and legs that ended in cloven hooves and curved backward like a talbuk’s …
… or a draenei’s … .
Ner’zhul blinked. There was silence for a moment after he voiced his request and he thought he felt a sudden chill. Then the voice spoke again in his mind and in his ears, and it was still smooth and sweet as honey.
“Ask, and I will decide if you are worthy.”
Suddenly Ner’zhul’s mouth was dry and the words would not form. With an effort, he spoke. “Great One … do you have a name by which we may call you—
A chuckle rumbled through Ner’zhul’s blood. “A simple favor, easily granted. Yes, I have a name. You may call me … Kil’jaeden.”
9
It is easy to understand why so many of my contemporaries prefer to let this history die. Let it sink into oblivion silently, slipping beneath the waters of time until the surface of the lake is once again unruffled, and no one knows of the shame lurking in the depths. I, too, feel that shame, though I was not alive when this occurred. I see it in Drek’Thar’s face as he recounts his part of the tale in a shaking voice. I saw the weight of it on Orgrim Doomhammer. Grom Hellscream, friend and traitor and friend again, was ravaged by it.
But to pretend it did not exist is to forget how dreadful the impact was. To make ourselves into victims, rather than claiming our participation in our own destruction. We chose this path, we orcs. We chose it right up until it was too late to turn back. And having made that choice once, we can, with the knowledge that we have of the end of that dark and shameful road, choose not to take it.
So I wish to hear the testimony of those who placed one foot in front of the other on a road that spelled near obliteration of our kind. I want to understand why they took each step, what had to happen for it to seem logical and good and right.
I want to know this so when I see it unfolding again, I will recognize it.
Humatis have two sayings that are wise beyond imagining.
The first is, “Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it.”
And the second is … “Know your enemy.”
Velen was deep in meditation when Restalaan reluctantly approached him. He sat in the central courtyard of the Temple of Karabor, not on the comfortable benches that flanked the rectangular pool, but on the hard stone. The air was filled with the scent of the flowering bushes of the lush garden, and the water murmured softly as it circulated. Trees, their leaves moving in the wind, added their own quiet sounds. It was a tranquil scene, but Velen’s attention was inward.
Long, long had the draenei and the Naaru trusted one another. The luminous beings who so seldom opted to take solid form had been first caretakers of the exiled eredar, then teachers, and then friends. They had traveled together and beheld many worlds. Each time the Naaru, particularly the one that called itself K’ure, had been instrumental in helping the draenei flee when the man’ari uncovered their hiding place. And each time, Kil’jaeden and the monstrous creatures who had once been eredar had come closer to capturing them. Velen grieved every time he and his people had to depart a world to save themselves, knowing that any beings they left behind would be as changed as the eredar had been. Kil’jaeden, always eager for more to join the Legion he was creating for his dark master Sargeras, would overlook no possible recruit.
K’ure, as sorrowful as Velen, grieved with him. But it spoke in Velen’s mind with the unalterable logic that Kil’jaeden, Archimonde, and Sargeras would have destroyed another world in the same amount of time. All worlds, all beings, all races were horrifically equal in Sargeras’s eyes. They all needed to be obliterated in a ghastly festival of carnage and fire, Velen’s death at the hands of beings who had once been his dearest friends would save none of the luckless innocents, whereas his life possibly would one day.
“How?” Velen had raged once, “How is my life more important, worthier, than theirs?”
The gathering is slow, K’ure had admitted. But it continues. There are other Naaru like me, who are reaching out to the younger races. When they are ready, they will all be brought together. Sargeras will eventually fall beneath the will of those who yet believe in what is good and true and harmonious, what is the timeless balance of this universe.
Velen had no choice but to either believe this being who had become his friend, or turn his back on those who had trusted him and be twisted into man’ari. He chose to believe. Now, though, he was confused. The orcs had begun attacking lone hunting parties. There seemed to be no reason for the aggression; none of the shaken guards to whom Velen had spoken reported anything out of the ordinary. And yet, three hunting parties had been killed down to the last draenei. Restalaan, who had investigated the slaughter, had reported that the bodies were not simply killed … they were butchered.
So Velen had come to the temple, created in the earliest years of the draenei on this world. Here, surrounded by four of the seven ata’mal crystals that had sprung into being so very long ago, he could hear the faint voice of his friend in his mind, but as yet, K’ure had no answers for him.
There would be no flight for them this time if things went wrong. K’ure was dying, trapped in the very vessel that it had provided when it had crashed into this world two hundred years past.