There was to be another meeting in two days. At that time, the chieftains would elect a leader who would speak for them all. Make decisions for them all. They would select one who would be called Warchief.
A soft hand stroked his hair. He looked up to see Draka reading over his shoulder.
“You might as well stay home,” she said gruffly. “The outcome is decided anyway.”
He smiled sadly at her. “You did not use to be so cynical, beloved.”
“I did not use to live in such times,” was all she said. In his heart, he knew she was right. There was only one orc who was well-known enough, charismatic enough to win sufficient votes to be elected Warchief. Grom Hellscream might give Blackhand a bit of a challenge, but Hellscream was too impulsive to be trusted with such a task. Blackhand had been a visible figure from the very start, at first opposing and then supporting Ner’zhul. It was his shaman who had become the first warlocks. He had won more victories in his attacks against the draenei than anyone else.
Draka, as she was so often, was right in this as well. And two days later, Durotan watched with dull eyes as the votes of the clan chieftains were tallied, and as Blackhand of the Blackrock clan was chosen. He felt several glances come his way as Blackhand’s name was announced by Gul’dan, and as the big orc stood and with false modesty accepted the title. Durotan did not even bother to object. What would be the point? He was already being watched closely for suspicion of disloyalty. No word he could possibly utter would change anything.
At one point, he looked over at Orgrim. To all other eyes, the second in command of the Blackrock clan looked steady and supportive of his leader. But Durotan knew Orgrim better than anyone, and he saw the slight frown that furrowed his friend’s brow, the tightness around the lips that indicated that Orgrim was perhaps as unhappy with the decision as Durotan. But he, too, was in no position to object. Durotan hoped that perhaps Orgrim’s position, so close to Blackhand, would help mitigate the damage he was certain Blackhand would do.
Blackhand now stood in front, waving and smiling at the cheering crowd. Durotan could not object, but neither could he bring himself to cheer for an orc who exemplified everything he despised.
Orgrim stood behind his leader on Blackhand’s right. Gul’dan, whom Durotan was certain was manipulating things but was unsure as to how, stood back and gazed at Blackhand respectfully.
“My orcish brothers and sisters!” Blackhand cried. “You honor me, I will prove a worthy Warchief of this vast sea of noble warriors. Day by day, we improve our weapons and our armor. And now, we reject the unpredictable elements and embrace true power—power that our warlocks control and wield without groveling or scraping to anyone or anything. This is liberation! This is strength! We are of one purpose, one clear focus. We will wipe the draenei from our lands. They will be unable to resist this tide of warriors and warlocks, this sweeping Horde. We are their worst nightmare. To battle!”
He lifted his arms and shouted, “For the Horde!”
And thousands of impassioned voices cried, “For the Horde! For the Horde! For the Horde!
Durotan and Draka returned home shortly after the election of Blackhand, too disgusted to remain longer. The shaman stayed behind for training. When they returned several days later, Durotan saw they stood tall and proud once again. This new magic had given them back their faith in themselves—something that had evaporated like morning mist when the elements deserted them. For that, Durotan was grateful. He loved his clan, and knew them to be good people. He did not like seeing them broken and disheartened.
They practiced their skills on beasts at first, joining the hunting parties and sending their strange creatures after clefthoof and talbuk. Durotan was still troubled at the agony the attacked creatures suffered. As time passed, the creatures suffered less—not because the pain was decreased, but because the warlocks were learning to kill faster and more efficiently. The addition of the strange “helpers,” or “pets,” as some warlocks fondly referred to the beings firmly under their control, seemed to make all the difference.
Blackhand seemed to enjoy his newfound position. Scrolls came almost daily from couriers whose wolves and whose selves seemed to wear more ornate adornment each time they rode into camp. Durotan had to admit that knowing what was going on with the other clans was useful information.
But one day, someone other than the courier came into the encampment. Durotan recognized the raiment; the approaching orc, mounted on a wolf with a particularly glossy black cloak, was one of Blackhand’s personal warlocks, Kur’kul. He halted his wolf, dismounted, and bowed before Durotan.
“Chieftain, a word with you from the Warchief,” he said in a surprisingly pleasant voice. Durotan nodded and motioned that the warlock walk with him. They strode until he felt certain they would not be overheard. “What is it, that Blackhand sends one of his most important warlocks to me?” he asked.
Kur’kul smiled around his tusks. “I am riding to all the clans,” he said, clearly intending for Durotan to be put in his place. The Frostwolves were not being particularly honored, it would seem. Durotan grunted and folded his arms across his chest, waiting.
“The most important factor in our eventual and glorious victory over the draenei is numbers,” Kur’kul continued. “They are few, we are many. But we need to be more.”
“So what is it Blackhand wishes?” growled Durotan. “Shall we leave off fighting for mating?”
Kur’kul did not blink. “Not leave off fighting, but yes … encourage your warriors to procreate. You will receive accolades for each child that is born to your clan. That will help. But unfortunately, we need more warriors right now, not six years from now.”
Durotan stared, stunned. He had meant the comment as a crude joke. What was going on?
“Children begin training at age six,” Kur’kul continued. “They are strong enough to fight at age twelve. Summon all your younglings.”
“I do not understand,” Durotan said. “Summon them for what?”
Kur’kul sighed as if Durotan were a foolish child, “I have the ability to accentuate their growth,” he said. “We will … push them forward a bit. If we take all the children that are between six and twelve now and age them to twelve, we will increase the numbers of warriors on the field by almost fifty percent.”
Durotan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Absolutely not!”
“I’m afraid it’s not a choice. It’s an order. Any clan who refuses will be branded a traitor to the Horde. The clan will be exiled, and their leader and his mate … executed.”
Durotan stared, stunned. Kur’kul handed him a scroll. He read it, shaking with anger, and saw that the warlock had spoken truly. He and Draka would be put to death, and the Frostwolf clan exiled.
“You would rob them of their childhood, then,” he said stonily.
“For their future? Yes. I will drain a little of their lives … only six years’ worth. They will come to no harm. The Blackrock children certainly didn’t. Black-hand insisted his own three young ones be the first to be so honored. And in return, they will be able to fight for the glory of the Horde now, when they can make a difference.”
Durotan was not in the least surprised that Black-hand had permitted this to be done to his children. For the first time, Durotan was grateful that there were so few children in his clan. There were only five of them older than six and younger than twelve. He again read the missive, feeling furious and sickened at the same time. These children ought to be able to simply be children. The warlock waited calmly. Finally. Durotan said in a voice he made deliberately harsh to hide his pain, “Do what you must do.”