Kil’jaeden smiled at him, then slowly, deliberately turned his attention to Gul’dan. Even in his wretched state, Ner’zhul took the faintest comfort in the knowledge that he had not turned to Kil’jaeden with the expression Gul’dan now wore, that of a hungry pup eager for praise.
“There is no need to trap you with pretty lies, is there, my new tool?” said Kil’jaeden, speaking almost fondly to Gul’dan, “You do not shrink from the truth.”
“Indeed, no, lord. I live to do your bidding.”
Kil’jaeden chuckled. “If I will do away with lies, so must you. You live for power. You hunger for it. You thirst for it. And over the last few months, your skill has grown to where I can make proper use of you. Ours is not a partnership of adoration or respect, but one of convenience and selfish benefit. Which means that it will likely last.”
Various emotions flitted across Gul’dan’s face. He did not seem to know how to react to the words, and Ner’zhul took pleasure in his former apprentice’s discomfiture.
“As … you will.” Gul’dan stammered finally, then with more confidence, “tell me what you would have me do, and I swear, it will be done.”
“You have no doubt perceived that I wish to exterminate the draenei. Why I do so is no concern of yours. You need only know that I wish it. The orcs are doing moderately well in this, but they can do better. They shall do better. A warrior is only as good as his weapons, and, Gul’dan, I intend to give you and your people weapons such as you have never conceived. It will take a little time; you must be educated first, before you are fit to teach the others. Are you ready and willing?”
Gul’dan’s eyes shone, “Begin the lessons. Glorious One, and you will see how apt a pupil of yours I am.”
Kil’jaeden laughed.
Durotan was covered with blood, much of it his own. What had gone wrong? Everything had progressed as normal. They had found the hunting party, descended upon them, initiated the attack, and waited for the shaman to use their magic to fight the draenei.
They did not do so. Instead Frostwolf after Frostwolf fell beneath the shining blades and blue-white magics of the draenei. At one point, fighting for his very life, Durotan saw that Drek’Thar was fighting desperately, using nothing but his staff.
What had happened? Why had the shaman not come to his aid? What was Drek’Thar thinking? He could wield a staff hardly better than a child—why did he not use his magic?
The draenei fought furiously, seizing the opportunities the shaman’s inexplicable inaction had given them. They pressed their attack harder than Durotan had ever seen, their eyes glinting as for perhaps the first time they sensed victory. The grass was slippery with blood, and Durotan’s feet went out from under him. He fell, and his attacker raised his sword.
This was the moment, then. He would die in glorious battle. Except he did not feel that this was a glorious battle. By instinct alone, he raised his axe to parry the blow that would come, although his arm had been deeply cut at the joint of the armor and his limb quivered. He looked up into the eyes of the one who would slay him.
And recognized Restalaan.
At that moment, the draenei captain of the guard’s own glowing blue eyes widened in recognition and he stayed his blow. Durotan gasped for breath, trying to summon the energy to rise and continue the fight. Restalaan uttered something in his ululating tongue, and every draenei halted almost in mid-swing.
As Durotan got to his feet, he realized that there were only a handful of his warriors left alive. Two more moments of battle and the draenei would have slaughtered the entire party, with only two or three casualties on their own side.
Restalaan whirled on Durotan. Various expressions warred on his ugly face: compassion, disgust, regret, determination. “For the act of compassion and honor you showed our prophet, Durotan, son of Garad, you and those of your clan who yet live have been spared. Treat your wounded and return to your homes. But do not think to receive such mercy from us again. Honor has been satisfied.”
Durotan weaved as if he had had too much to drink as blood dripped from deep wounds. He forced himself to stay on his feet by sheer will as the draenei turned and disappeared over the horizon. Once they were out of sight, he could force his legs to hold him no longer and he fell to his knees. Several ribs had been cracked or broken, and each inhalation sent a stabbing pain through him.
“Durotan!”
It was Draka. She, too, had been badly injured, but her voice was strong. Relief washed over Durotan. Thank the ancestors, she yet lived. Drek’Thar hurried up to him and placed his hands on Durotan’s heart, murmuring under his breath. Warmth flooded Durotan and the pain cased. He took a deep, nourishing breath.
“At least they will let me heal,” said Drek’Thar, so softly that Durotan was scarce certain he heard the words.
“Tend to the others, and then we will speak,” Durotan said. Drek’Thar nodded, not meeting his chieftain’s eves. He and the other shaman hastened to magically heal what wounds they could, and treat with salves and bandages what they could not. Durotan still had injuries, but nothing life-threatening, and he assisted the shaman.
When Durotan had done all he could, he rose and looked around. No fewer than fifteen bodies were stiffening on the green grass, including Rokkar, his second. Durotan shook his head in stunned disbelief.
He would have to return with litters, to bear the fallen back to their lands. They would burn on a pyre, their bodies given to fire, their ashes to air, to be consumed by water and earth. Their spirits would go to Oshu’gun, and the shaman would converse with them on matters of profound importance.
Or would they? Something terrible had happened, and it was time he found out what.
Sudden anger flooded him at the waste. Despite what the ancestors had told him, something inside Durotan continued to whisper that this attack on the draenei was a grave mistake. He whirled on Drek’Thar, and with a deep growl seized the smaller orc where he sat gulping water and hauled him to his feet.
“This was a slaughter!” Durotan cried, shaking him furiously. “Fifteen of our kin lie dead before us! The earth drinks deeply of their blood, and I never saw you or any of the others lend your skill to the fight!”
For a moment, Drek’Thar could not speak. The meadow was deathly silent as every Frostwolf watched the confrontation. Then, in a faint voice, Drek’Thar replied, “The elements—they would not come this time.”
Durotan’s eyes narrowed. Still clutching Drek’Thar by the front of his leather jerkin, he demanded of the wide-eyed, silent shaman, “Is this true? They would not lend their aid to the battle?”
Looking stunned and sick, the shaman nodded. One said in a quavering voice, “It is true, great chieftain. I asked all of them in turn. They said … they said it was out of balance, and they would no longer permit us to use their powers.”
Durotan’s shock was broken by an angry hiss. He turned to see Draka’s scowling face. “This is more than a sign! This is a shout, a battle cry, that what we are doing is wrong!”
Slowly, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened, Durotan nodded. If it were not for the mercy Restalaan had shown him, he and every last member of the war party would be lying on the earth, their bodies growing colder by the moment. The elements had refused their assistance. They had condemned what the shaman were asking of them.
Durotan took a deep breath and shook his head, as if to physically shake away the dark thoughts. “Let us get the injured back to their homes as swiftly as we may. And then … then I will send out letters. If what I fear is true—that it is not only the shaman of the Frostwolf clan who are shunned by the elements for what we are doing to the draenei—then we must confront Ner’zhul.”