There was more to the missive, but Ner’zhul did not read it. He did not have to. Although the details might be different, the essence of the letters was always the same. A successful attack, glory in the killing, the ecstasy of blood spilled. Ner’zhul glanced at the pile of letters he had received just that morning: seven of them.
With each month that passed, even throughout the long, hard winter months, the orcs grew more skilled at killing draenei. They had learned much about their foe with each victory. The stones that Durotan had given Ner’zhul proved to be valuable indeed, Ner’zhul worked with them, alone at first, and then in the company of other shaman. The red stone they dubbed the Heart of Fury, and they found that when the leader of a raid carried it, not only did he fight with more energy and skill, but everyone under his command benefited as well. The stone was passed from clan to clan at each new moon, and was highly coveted. Yet Ner’zhul knew no one would dare to steal it for himself.
The second stone he called the Brilliant Star, and he found that when a shaman carried the crystal, he or she experienced a profound focus and clarity. While the Heart of Fury roused the emotions, the Brilliant Star calmed them. The thought process was swifter and more precise, and concentration was not easily broken. The result was powerful magic, precisely controlled … another key to an orcish victory. The delicious irony that they were using the draenei’s own magic against them further improved morale among the orcs.
But all these things did not hearten Ner’zhul. The sudden flash of doubt that had shuddered through him when he had spoken with Durotan had shaken him to the bone. He fought back the suspicions, terrified that somehow Kil’jaeden was able to read his thoughts. But they came, like maggots writhing from a corpse, to haunt his sleeping and waking thoughts. Kil’jaeden looked very, very similar to the draenei. Was it possible that they were somehow the same? And was he, Ner’zhul, being used in some sort of civil war?
One night, he found he could no longer bear it. Silently, he dressed and roused his wolf Skychaser, who stretched and blinked at him sleepily.
“Come, my friend.” Ner’zhul said affectionately as he settled on the great creature’s back. He had never before ridden to the sacred mountain. Always, he had walked, as was tradition. But he needed to return before he was missed, and he was certain that the urgency of his mission would mitigate his offense with the ancestors.
It was almost spring, almost time for the Kosh’harg festival, but spring seemed far away as the cold wind bit at Ner’zhul’s ears and nose. He huddled down, grateful for the warmth of the massive wolf, and shielded himself as best he could from the wind and now snow.
The wolf pressed on through the drifts, making steady if not swift progress. At last. Ner’zhul looked up and saw the perfect triangle of the Mountain of Spirits, and a great weight suddenly lifted from his heart. For the first time in months, he truly felt as if he was doing the right thing.
Skychaser would have difficulty climbing, so with a command to “stay” he settled down, burrowing into a drift and curling up tightly. Ner’zhul did not imagine he would be more than a few hours, and hurried to climb the mountain with more alacrity than he had felt in a long time, his sack heavy with waterskins and his heart full of anticipation.
He should have done this long ago. He should have gone right to the source of wisdom, as shaman before him had done. He had no idea why he had never thought of this before.
At last he came to the entrance and paused before the perfect oval. As anxious as he was to reach the ancestors, he knew the ritual must be honored. He lit the bundle of dried grasses he carried and let its sweet scent calm and purify his thoughts. Then he stepped forward, murmuring a spell to light the torches that lined the walk. Ner’zhul had walked this path more times than he could recall, and his feet moved steadily as if of their own accord. Down twined the smooth path, and Ner’zhul’s heart raced with hope as he stepped forward into the darkness.
It seemed to take longer than usual for him to become aware of the increase in light. Ner’zhul stepped into the cavern, and thought that somehow, the light emanating from the sacred pool seemed dimmer than it had been in the past. The thought unsettled him.
He took a deep breath and chided himself. He was bringing his own external fears to this sacred space, nothing more. He stepped to the pool, removed the waterskins from his pack, and poured out the contents. The soft splashing of water was the only sound, and it seemed to echo. His offering complete, Ner’zhul sat by the water’s edge and waited, gazing into the radiant depths.
Nothing happened.
He did not panic. Sometimes the ancestors took their time about responding.
But when more time had passed, uncase began to stir in Ner’zhul’s heart. Moved, he spoke aloud.
“Ancestors … beloved dead … I, Ner’zhul, shaman of the Shadowmoon clan, leader to your children, have come seeking … no, begging wisdom. I—I have lost my way to your light. The times are dark and fearful even as we grow stronger, more united as a people. I question the path I am on, and I beseech your guidance. Please, if ever you loved and cared for those who have followed in your footsteps, come to me now and advise me, that I may lead them well!”
His voice quavered. He knew he sounded lost and pathetic, and for a moment stubborn pride made him flush with shame. But then that feeling was chased away by the knowledge that he did care for his people, he did want to do what was right for them, and at this moment he had no idea what that might be.
The pool began to glow. Ner’zhul leaned forward eagerly, his eyes roaming the surface, and in the water, he saw a face looking back at him.
“Rulkan,” he breathed. For a moment quick tears mercifully blurred her image. He blinked and his heart lurched with pain as he saw the look in her ghostly eyes.
It was hatred.
Ner’zhul recoiled as if struck. Other faces began to appear in the water, dozens of them. All of them had the same expression. Nausea welled in him and he cried out, “Please! Help me! Grant me your wisdom that I may win favor again in your eyes!”
Rulkan’s severe features softened somewhat, and it was with a trace of compassion in her voice that she spoke. “There is nothing you can do, not now, not in a hundred years, to win favor in our eyes. You are not a savior of your people, but their betrayer.”
“No!” he shrieked. “No, tell me what to do and I will do it. It is not too late, surely it is not too late—”
“You are not strong enough,” said another rumbling voice, this one male. “If you were, you would never have walked so far down this path. You would not have been so easily gulled into doing the will of one who bears no love for our people.”
“But—I do not understand,” Ner’zhul murmured. “Rulkan, you came to me! I heard you! You, Grekshar—you advised me! Kil’jaeden was the one you wanted me to embrace! The Great Friend to all the orcs!
She said nothing in response to this; she did not have to. Even as the words tumbled from his lips he understood how profoundly he had been misled.
The ancestors had never appeared to him at all. It had all been a trick concocted by Kil’jaeden, whoever—whatever—he was. They were right not to trust Ner’zhul now. Any shaman who would be so easily deceived could never be trusted to put things right again. All was an elaborate web of lies and deceit and manipulation. And he, Ner’zhul, had been the first foolish insect to become inextricably trapped in it.
Nearly a hundred draenei were dead. There was no turning back, no requesting aid from the ancestors. He could not trust any of his visions ever again, except to understand that they were likely to be lies. Worst of all, he had delivered his people into the hands of one who, despite his fair appearance and his honeyed words, did not have their best interests in whatever passed for his heart.