He could not say the words he had planned: In its quest to wipe out the draenei. Instead he added somewhat awkwardly, “In its quest. We are an army. An army marches on its stomach. We need to be well led, well watered, healed, rested, protected. Orgrim—you take a group and start at this end. Guthor, you take a group and head back to the gates. Work your way up the main road until you meet Orgrim’s group. Anyone who has any healing knowledge, report to Drek’Thar and do exactly what he tells you to do.”
“What of any draenei we find alive?” asked someone.
What, indeed? There was no infrastructure to take care of prisoners, and in truth, the only purpose of a prisoner would be for negotiations. Since it had been made quite clear that the sole purpose of the Horde was total extermination of the draenei race, there was no reason to host prisoners.
“Kill them.” Durotan said hoarsely. He hoped the raggedness of his voice would be interpreted as raw fury rather than the agonizing pain it was. “Kill them all.”
As the orcs he commanded hurried to obey his orders, Durotan found himself wishing that Nightstalker had not been so quick to protect him. It would have been easier had he perished by Restalaan’s hand this day than speak the words he had just uttered.
With any luck, during this horrific campaign to obliterate a species who had never raised a hand to them, death would find Durotan sooner rather than later.
16
The Shadow Council. Even now, so many years on, we know so little about who they were and what they did. Gul’dan carried many, many secrets to his grave. May he rot there in torment. It is difficult enough for me to understand how one or two may become so corrupted that they would doom their descendants for power in their lifetimes; that there were so many—the number is not even known for certain—is beyond the scope of my limited imagination.
Yet even these numbers would not have mattered had it not been for the demons who held them in their grasp. Their pain, I rejoice in; what they did to others who obeyed them because they trusted them, I condemn with every fiber of my being.
“That was an excellent test,” Kil’jaeden approved, smiling at his subjects, Gul’dan bowed, his eyes bright with his master’s approval. Ner’zhul hunkered down, his eyes on the floor. But even so, he was listening.
“I confess. I was surprised Durotan was able to carry out our orders,” Gul’dan said. “I expected him to resist, or at least put shackles on what his orcs could and could not do. But the city lies claimed and broken, my lord. All the draenei who once lived there are gone—most of them dead.”
“‘Most’ is not good enough. Gul’dan. You know that.”
Gul’dan flinched slightly at the criticism. He wondered, not for the first time, about the connection between Kil’jaeden and the draenei, and why the Beautiful One so despised them. “It was our first attempt at taking the battle to them, rather than attacking lone hunting parties. Great One.” the warlock replied, a little surprised at his own daring. Kil’jaeden cocked his horned red head, considered, then nodded.
“True. And there is yet time.”
It had been several days since the fall of Telmor. Gul’dan, impressed with the job Durotan had done, had tried to give the city to the Frostwolf clan as a reward, but Durotan had declined the offer. The Frostwolves, he stated, would continue to live in their ancestral lands.
The Blackrocks, however, had not been so foolish. Blackhand and his family now slept in the beds where the magister of the city had once slept. At first, the orcs had not known what to make of the trappings of the draenei, but now they were beginning to incorporate their victims’ way of life into their own. They sat in chairs, ate at tables, analyzed and trained with draenei weaponry, adapted the armor for bulkier orcish frames. Some of the females and not a few of the males of the Blackrock clan had taken to wearing draenei clothing, incorporating it with traditional orcish tunics, robes, and breeches.
Gul’dan knew that many wondered why he or Ner’zhul had not taken the city for themselves. It was tempting, but Gul’dan had been well advised by his master. Creature comforts were pleasant, but power was sweeter, and the less Gul’dan claimed for himself publicly, the greater his reach would be in secret. Kil’jaeden would not let him down, as long as Gul’dan did his master’s work well. A few items were brought to this new place he called home—an enormous, circular table carved of wood inlaid with softly glowing shells and stones, along with several beautiful chairs.
Gul’dan stepped forward to the massive table, running his hands over the polished surface, smiling to himself. All that remained was to summon those whom Gul’dan had reason to believe would answer. Some names were immediately obvious to him. Others came only with extended thought. But he had a list of names now that was long enough to be comprehensive, should enough to be … managed.
Soon, sooner that he had even hoped, the Shadow Council would form. While on the outside. Gul’dan was advancing the orcs as a race, giving them power and eliminating the “enemy” that was the draenei, a handful of orcs almost as corrupt and power hungry as he would pull the strings.
It was not about the orcs as a race.
It had never been about the orcs as a race.
It was about power—getting it, wielding it, and keeping it. Ner’zhul had never understood that. He liked the power, but was not willing to feed it the meat it craved. The end Kil’jaeden demanded.
Deceit, lies, manipulation—even Blackhand, who thought he was initiated into Gul’dan’s ultimate schemes, hadn’t grasped the vastness of Gul’dan’s ambitions. It was as huge as Kil’jaeden’s desire to destroy the draenei. It was as enormous as the sky, as deep as the oceans, and knife-sharp as hunger.
Gul’dan looked at Ner’zhul with contempt as the older orc who had once been a mentor sat huddled in a corner. His gaze traveled to the blazing eyes of Kil’jaeden, and the great being nodded.
“Summon them.” Kil’jaeden said. His lips parted in a smile, showing sharp white teeth. “They will come when you call. And they will dance to your tune. I will see to that.”
Allies.
They needed allies.
Gul’dan wondered how Kil’jaeden had not foreseen this. The orcs were mighty indeed, especially when controlled and directed properly. The long months, over a year now, that this war had stretched had only made them more so. Their best brains had gotten to work on understanding the technology of the draenei as best they could. Building had begun on a center fortress, which Gul’dan called the Citadel, where a standing army could be conveniently quartered, trained, and equipped. The orcs had never before attempted anything like this, and Gul’dan was proud that he had suggested the idea. There were warriors, there were shaman—now, of course, warlocks—there were healers, there were craftsmen. The first three had clear roles and no lack of opportunity to perform their duties. The craftsmen were contributing on a different level, creating the armor and weapons and buildings to support those who had the glory of slaughtering draenei until their bodies were sticky with spilled blood.
Some would call these laborers a lower class of orc. Privately, Gul’dan felt that way himself. But he was wise enough to know that their work, while hardly glamorous or likely to gain them recognition, was as necessary as a warrior’s willingness to kill or a warlock’s mastery of curses. Those who provided food, shelter, weapons—the warriors and warlocks would not get very far without them. So Gul’dan had made a show of praising the craftsmen, the pleasant result being that they were inspired to work harder and continually improve.