The look on his ancient, oddly cracked face and the tone of his voice told Durotan what his words did not: that Velen did not, indeed, think it would be enough to save his people.
Durotan closed his eyes for a moment, then stepped back. “We will keep the stones,” he said. “Whatever power they have, the shaman will learn how to harness.”
Velen nodded sadly “Such I assumed,” he said. “But I had to bring them. I had to trust that we could find a way past all of this.”
Why was it, Durotan wondered, that he felt closer at this moment to one he had been told was an enemy than to the spiritual leader of his own people? Draka might know. She had known all along. She had said nothing, understanding with a wisdom he could not comprehend that he had to come to this moment on his own. But he would speak to her tonight, alone in their tent.
“Get up.” he said, speaking roughly to hide his emotions, “You and your companions may leave safely.” He grinned suddenly. “As safely as you might, in the darkness, with no weapons. If you come to your deaths this night when you are past our territory, it will not be on my head.”
“That would be convenient for you,” agreed Velen, getting to his feet. “But somehow. I think it is not what you want.”
Durotan did not reply. He marched out of the tent and told the waiting guards. “Velen and his four companions are to be safely escorted to the borders of our lands. Then, they will be released, to return to then-city. No harm is to befall them, is that clear?”
The guard looked as if he was about to protest, but another, wiser warrior shot him a fierce glance.
“Very clear, my chieftain,” the first guard murmured. As they went to fetch the other draenei, Drek’Thar hurried up to Durotan.
“Durotan! What are you doing? Ner’zhul expects prisoners!” “Ner’zhul can take his prisoners himself,” Durotan snarled. “I was in command, and this is my decision. Do you question it?”
Drek’Thar looked around and walked Durotan away from prying ears. “I do,” he hissed. “You heard what he said! He claims the ancestors are—are like moths to a torch around this god of his! The arrogance! Ner’zhul is right. They must be eliminated. We have been told so!”
“if it is to be, then it will be,” said Durotan. “But not this night, Drek’Thar. Not this night.”
As he and his companions walked slowly over the dew-drenched grasses of die meadows, past the towering black silhouettes of the trees of Terokkar forest, toward the nearest city, Velen’s heart was heavy.
Two of the ata’mal crystals were now in the possession of the orcs. He had no doubt but that Durotan’s words were correct, and that their shaman would shortly unlock their secrets. But they had missed one.
They had missed it because it did not wish to be found, and when it came to the crystals, light obeyed its wishes and bent itself so that the violet crystal remained hidden from the view of the searching orcs. He held it close to his heart now, feeling its warmth seep into his ancient flesh.
He had gambled, and failed. Not completely; that he and his friends were alive and walking toward safety was testimony to that. But he had hoped the orcs would listen, that they would at least accompany him into the heart of their own sacred mountain, and behold something that did not negate their faith, not in the slightest, but had in fact given birth to it.
The outlook was grim. As he had walked into the camp, he had observed what was happening. Younglings were being trained so hard they were dropping from exhaustion. Forges were going even so late at night. For all that he was walking freely now, Velen knew that the incidents of today had done nothing to avert what would come. The orcs, even the ones led by the insightful, slow to anger Durotan, were not just preparing for the possibility of war. They were convinced of the certainty of it. When the sun showed her yellow head tomorrow morning, she would look upon the inevitable.
The crystal he held so close to his heart pulsed, sensing his thoughts. Velen turned to his companions and looked upon them sorrowfully.
“The orcs will not be dissuaded from this path,” he said. “And therefore, if we are to survive … we, too, must walk the path to war.”
Far in the distance, broken, dying, resting as peacefully as possible deep below the waters of the sacred pool, the being known as K’ure uttered a deep, agonized cry.
Velen started, recognizing the voice, and bowed his head. The Frostwolf orcs gasped at the sound and turned to regard the perfect triangle of Oshu’gun.
“The ancestors are angry with us!” a young shaman cried. “Angry for letting Velen go!”
Durotan shook his head. He ought to rebuke the youngster, and on the morrow, if such words were uttered again, he would. But now, his heart was full of sorrow. It was not a cry of anger that came from the sacred mountain. It was the wrenching sound of ultimate grief, and he shuddered inside as he wondered why the ancestors mourned so very, very deeply.
11
Ner’zhul … Gul’dan. Two of the darkest names ever to sully the history of my people. And yet, Drek’Thar tells me that once Ner’zhul was admired, even beloved, and truly cared for the people whose spiritual leader he was. It is hard to reconcile those words with what Ner’zhul has become, but I try. I try because I want to understand. And yet, try as I might … I do not.
“What?”
Ner’zhul’s shriek of outrage made his apprentice Gul’dan wince, Durotan did not bat an eye.
“I released the Prophet Velen,” the chieftain of the Frostwolf clan said calmly.
“Your orders were to take him and the others prisoner!” Ner’zhul’s voice climbed with each word. It had been so plain, so easy. What had Durotan been thinking? To toss away this opportunity like bones when the meat had been devoured! How much information could they have extracted from Velen? What kind of bargaining power over the draenei would he have bought them?
But that thought was dwarfed by the overwhelming horror of how Kil’jaeden would react. What would he do when he learned that Velen had not been captured? The beautiful being had been seemingly well pleased at the prospect, when Ner’zhul told him of the plan. Flushed with pride at his cleverness, thinking victory already assured. Ner’zhul had even dared to offer Velen to Kil’jaeden as a sort of present. Now what would happen? The realization that he felt fear rather than chagrin at bringing disappointing news was not lost on the shaman.
“You put me in charge of the capture, and capture them I did,” Durotan replied. “But there is no honor in a prisoner taken willingly. You want us to be strong as a people, rather than as individual clans, and we cannot do that without a code of honor that is inviolable, that is—”
Durotan continued speaking in his gruff, deep voice, but Ner’zhul was no longer listening. At that instant, that frozen space in time. Ner’zhul had a sudden realization that Kil’jaeden might not be the benevolent spirit he presented himself as. Durotan, lost in his own voice speaking words to explain his decision, did not notice the shaman’s shift in attention. But Ner’zhul felt Gul’dan’s gaze upon him, and another fear welled up inside him that Gul’dan was bearing witness to his master’s first hints of doubt.