Blackhand gazed into Gul’dan’s glinting, clever eyes and smiled. He did not trust the shaman in the least bit, and he suspected that Gul’dan felt the same about him. It didn’t matter. They both wanted power. Blackhand knew he did not possess the talents and skills that would enable him to wield the sort of power for which Gul’dan lusted. And Gul’dan did not want the sort of power Blackhand craved. They were not in competition, but in league; what benefited one would benefit the other, not rob him of a thing.
Blackhand thought of his family—his mate, Urukal, his two sons. Rend and Maim, his daughter Griselda. He did not dote on them the way that the weak Durotan doted on his mate Draka, of course, but he cared for them. He wanted to see his mate bedecked in jewels, his sons and daughter revered, as befitted the children of Blackhand.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. Turning, he beheld Ner’zhul, once the powerful and now the discarded, slipping out of the door of the tent.
“What about him?” Blackhand asked.
Gul’dan shrugged. “What about him? He means nothing now. The Beautiful One wishes him kept alive for the moment. He seems to have something … special in mind for Ner’zhul. He will still be a figurehead; love of Ner’zhul is too ingrained in the orcs to cast him aside just yet. But do not worry, he is no threat to us.”
“The Blackrock shaman … you say you will train them in these new magics? The magics that you yourself have studied? That they will be invincible?” “I will train them myself, and if they adapt well to the new arts. I will place them first among my new warlocks,”
Warlock. So that was the name of this new type of magic. It had an interesting sound to it. Warlock. And the Blackrock warlocks would be the first ones chosen.
“Blackhand, chieftain of the Blackrock clan, what say you to my proposal?”
Blackhand slowly turned toward Gul’dan. “I say, hail to the Horde—and hail to the Shadow Council.”
It was an angry crowd that showed up at the foot of the sacred mountain. Durotan had sent out messages to others he trusted, and had received confirmation that the elements indeed had shunned the shaman. One particularly painful report came from the Bonechewer clan. Their entire party had fallen to the draenei, their annihilation remaining a mystery until a few days later when a shaman who had stayed behind tried to heal a sick child.
Now they were coming, the clan leaders and their shaman, to meet with Ner’zhul and demand an explanation.
Ner’zhul came out to greet them, waving his hands and asking for silence.
“I know why you have come today,” he said. Durotan frowned. Ner’zhul was so far away that he seemed a mere speck, and yet Durotan could hear him perfectly. He knew that usually, Ner’zhul achieved this feat by asking the wind to bear his words so that all could hear him. Yet, if the elements had indeed refused the shaman, how was that possible? He exchanged glances with Draka, but both remained silent.
“It is indeed true that the elements no longer answer the shaman’s call for aid.” Ner’zhul kept speaking, but his words were drowned out by angry shouts. He looked down for a moment, and Durotan regarded him closely. The spiritual leader of the orcs looked more frail, more downtrodden, than Durotan had ever seen. Of course, Durotan thought.
After a few moments, the shouting died down. The orcs assembled were angry, but they wanted answers more than they wanted to vent their rage.
“Some of you have, upon discovering this, leaped to a conclusion that what we are doing is wrong. But that is incorrect. What We are doing is achieving power the likes of which We have never seen. My apprentice, the noble Gul’dan, has studied these powers. I will let him answer any questions you have.”
Ner’zhul turned and, leaning heavily on his staff, stepped aside. Gul’dan bowed deeply to his master. Ner’zhul did not seem to notice. He stood, his eyes closed, looking old and frail.
In contrast, Durotan had never seen Gul’dan looking better. There was a new energy about the orc, a strong sense of confidence in his bearing and in his voice when he spoke. “What I am about to tell you may be hard for you to accept, but I have faith that my people are not close-minded when it comes to ways to better themselves,” he said. His voice was clear and strong. “Just as we were surprised and awed to learn that there were powerful beings other than the ancestors and the elements, we have discovered that there are ways to harness magic other than cooperating with the elements. Power that is not predicated on asking or begging or pleading … power that comes because we are strong enough to demand it to come. To control it when it does. To force it to obey us, bend to our will, rather than the other way around.”
Gul’dan paused to let this sink in, looking around at the gathered orcs. Durotan glanced at Drek’Thar.
“Is this possible?” he asked his friend.
Drek’Thar shrugged helplessly. He looked completely startled at Gul’dan’s words. “I have no idea,” he said, “But I tell you, after that last battle … Durotan, the shaman were doing the work of the ancestors! How could the elements refuse us under those circumstances? And how could the ancestors allow such a thing?”
His voice turned bitter as he spoke. The shock and shame was still upon him. Durotan understood that the shaman felt like a warrior who had reached confidently for his axe and found it turning to smoke in his hands—an axe a trusted friend had given him, an axe he had been asked to use in a good cause.
“Yes! Yes, I see you understand the value of what I—what the Beautiful One who has taken us under his wing is offering,” Gul’dan said, nodding. “I have studied with this great entity, as have these few noble shaman,”
He stepped back and several shaman, dressed in some of the most beautifully tooled leather armor Durotan had ever seen, stepped forward.
“They are all Blackrock orcs,” Draka murmured, her brows drawing together in a frown. Durotan had noticed that too.
“What they have learned,” Gul’dan continued, “will be taught to every single shaman who wishes to be instructed. This, I swear to you. Follow me now to the open lands where our Kosh’harg rituals have been held as far back as anyone can remember. I will have them demonstrate their formidable skills.”
For some reason he could not fathom, Durotan felt suddenly ill, Draka squeezed his arm reassuringly, noticing his abrupt paleness.
“My mate, what is it?” she asked quietly as, along with everyone else assembled, the two moved toward the Kosh’harg festival grounds.
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said in an equally soft voice. “I just … I feel as though something terrible is about to happen.”
Draka grunted. “I have been feeling that way for a long time now.”
Durotan kept his face neutral with an effort. He was responsible for the welfare of his people, and his position with Ner’zhul and likely now Gul’dan was already precarious. Durotan was well aware that if either shaman sought to discredit him or his clan, it would be easier than it had been in the past. With the clear focus on union, for the Frostwolf clan to be exiled or in any way cut off could spell extinction for them. Durotan did not like the direction in which things were going, but he could protest only so much. For himself, he did not care. But he could not permit his clan to suffer.
And yet—his blood raced, his heart shook, his body trembled with foreboding. He said a quick prayer to the ancestors that they would continue to guide his people wisely.
They reached the flat river valley that for generations had played host to the Kosh’harg festival. As his feet touched the sacred ground. Durotan felt himself relaxing slightly. Memories came back to him, and he smiled as they brushed his mind. He recalled that fateful night when he and Orgrim had both decided to fly in the face of tradition and dared to spy on the adults as they spoke—and how disappointed both had been at the mundane conversations. Wiser now, he was sure that he and Orgrim, bold though they had thought themselves at the time, had likely not been the first to be so daring, nor were they likely to be the last.