By daybreak, the war party—a small army of orcs—was on the move. They passed into the meadows that surrounded the Terokkar forest, where so long ago Orgrim and Durotan had raced as youths and been startled by the appearance of an ogre.
No lumbering giants troubled the vast wave of orcs as they moved steadily toward their destination this morning. Durotan was in the front, riding beside Orgrim on Nightstalker. They were silent, but Durotan did not miss the fact that Orgrim’s gray eyes lingered on the site where two boys had been rescued by draenei warriors.
“The years have been long since we passed this way,” Durotan said.
Orgrim nodded. “I am not even sure we have the right direction. The forest and fields have changed and grown, and there were precious few landmarks originally—”
Durotan said heavily, “I remember the way.” He wished he did not. A pile of stones here, a strange-shaped outcropping there was enough to guide him. It looked like nothing to anyone else. Blackhand had told his troops that the draenei were able to disguise their city. Even so, Durotan’s sharp ears caught slight murmurings of concern. He frowned.
“We are drawing close,” he said. “We must be quiet. There is an excellent chance that We will have been seen and reported already.”
The war party grew silent then. With a few gestures, Orgrim dispatched some of his outriders to scout the area. Durotan’s mind went back to that twilight, when he, too, was worried about where they were going and what the draenei had planned for him.
He brought his wolf to a halt and dismounted. Nightstalker shook his head and scratched his ears absently. It was here … or close to here … . Durotan felt a desperate hope that perhaps the draenei remembered that they had exposed their secret to him, that they had changed the hiding place of the magical stone upon which their protection depended.
There was no telltale rock beneath which the green gem was secreted. Durotan’s memory would have no aid in uncovering it. He concentrated, walking slowly, hearing the jangling of tack and the soft clinking of armor as the others watched and waited. He closed his eyes to aid his concentration, saw again Restalaan kneeling on the ground, moving aside leaves and pine needles to uncover—
Durotan opened his eyes and moved a few steps to his left. He said a quick prayer to the ancestors; whether it was asking for help in finding the stone or in not finding it, he was not certain. Mailed hands reached down and brushed away layers of detritus and then touched something cool and hard.
There is no turning back now. Durotan closed his fingers around the gem and picked it up.
Even in his distraught state of mind, he could sense the stone emanating a comforting energy. It nestled in his palm as if it belonged there. Durotan ran his left index finger over it, drawing out this moment before everything would change irrevocably.
“You found it.” breathed Orgrim, who had silently stepped up to his friend. Durotan was overcome with emotion and could not speak for a moment. He merely nodded, then tore his gaze from the beautiful, pulsating stone and looked up at the awestruck faces gazing at the treasure he held.
Orgrim nodded brusquely. “Get into position,” he said, “We have been fortunate that there has been no advance warning.”
The stone was so calming to hold, Durotan wanted nothing better than to simply stand and look into its depths, but he knew that he had already made his choice. He took a deep breath and spoke the words that Restalaan had spoken so long ago in this same place.
“Kehla men samir, solay lamaa kahl.”
He wanted to believe that his thick, orcish accent would not activate the stone. That he was able to fulfill his obligation to his people without storming a small city full of civilians. But apparently the words were understood by whatever force controlled the green gem. The illusion was already dissipating, the trees and boulders shimmering into insubstantiality, and before the orcish war party a wide, paved road stretched as if in invitation.
They needed no urging. The glorious city of the draenei lay before them, and with cries torn from over a hundred throats, the orcs descended upon it.
15
Drek’Thar speaks in a broken voice of glories ruined, of beauty destroyed, of the slaughter of children. Through his tale runs the unspoken excuse: It seemed so right at the time. I imagine it did seem right. It did seem just. I can only pray to the ancestors that I am never placed in the same position as my father—torn between what I know in my heart is right and the defense of my people. It is why I continue to strive to uphold the tenuous peace between us and the Alliance.
Because few offenses and insults in this or any other world are sufficient to warrant the slaughter of children.
Later, Durotan would wonder how the city of Telmor had received no advance notice of a wave of mounted orcs. He would never be able to speak with a draenei to find out. He could only assume that the draenei were so certain in their illusionary camouflage that the idea that it could be breached never occurred to them.
The quiet air was rent with the sound of war cries and wolf howls as the riders stormed the streets of the city. Several unarmed draenei were cut down in the first few seconds of the assault. The white pavement was soon blue with spilled blood, but it did not take very long for the city guards to counterattack.
Durotan had shoved the stone into his pack the moment he had finished using it; it would join the red and yellow stones he had taken from Velen. He mounted quickly and rode with grim determination, his axe at the ready. While he had made his own private vow that he would not attack an unarmed foe or a child, he had also made his choice, and was prepared to kill or die for it.
The first wave flooded the city. A river of orcs forked into streams, pouring into the large, spherical public buildings that branched off to either side of the main street, surging up the wide stone steps. The warlocks brought up the rear. Their creatures were silent and obedient, save the small ones that muttered constantly under their breaths. They waited for the right moments to bring down the rain of fire, the bolt of shadows, the various curses of torment. The warriors emerged covered with blood, their boots tracking it down the wide steps as they continued on to the next building, and the next.
The draenei guards were in the streets now, casting their own magics. Durotan turned in his saddle barely in time to deflect a blow from a sword that blazed with blue energy. The sword clanged against the head of his axe and jarred his arm to the bone. But that was nothing compared to the shock he felt at recognizing his attacker.
For the second time, he and Restalaan were meeting in battle, Durotan had spared Velen, and in return. Restalaan had spared him when he was helpless before the draenei warrior. Durotan saw recognition in the other’s eyes, then those glowing blue orbs narrowed.
All debts between them were paid. This time, there would be no quarter given, on either side.
Restalaan cried something in his musical tongue. Instead of attacking again, he hauled Durotan from his saddle. Durotan was taken by surprise, and before he knew what was happening, he lay on the ground before his enemy. He reached for his axe as Restalaan swung his sword, thinking even as his fingers closed about the hilt that he would not be swift enough.
Nightstalker, however, was trained almost as well as the orc who rode him. The instant the wolf felt his rider leave his back he whirled on Restalaan. Huge teeth crunched down on the draenei’s arm. Had it not been for the protective armor Restalaan wore, his arm would have been severed instantly. As it was, the pressure was enough to cripple him and make him drop the sword. With a grunt, Durotan swung his axe as hard as he could. It slammed into Restalaan’s midsection, its keen edge cleaving through the armor to bite deep into his flesh.