“Greetings,” Gul’dan said as he slipped into his chair at the head of the table. As always, Ner’zhul lurked in a corner, never invited to sit with the others, but permitted to hear their conversations, Kil’jaeden had so instructed, and while Gul’dan was unsure as to why his benefactor desired this, he wanted nothing more than to stay in Kil’jaeden’s good graces and did not demur.
The Council murmured perfunctory greetings, and Gul’dan got down to business. “How are the various clans reacting to the idea of ogres as allies? Kargath, let’s start with you.”
The chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan grinned and grunted. “They are primed for bloodshed, and they don’t care who helps them slit open draenei throats,”
Rough laughter filled the cavern as many of the Council nodded in agreement. In the dim light provided by the torches, their eyes seemed to Gul’dan to glow orange. A few, however, scowled and did not join in the merriment.
“I have heard protests from some in the Whiteclaw clan.” one said. “And Durotan of the Frostwolves still bears watching, for all that he led the attack on Telmor.”
Gul’dan held up a hand. “Do not fear, I have had Durotan in my mind for some time.”
“Why has he not been eliminated?” Kargath growled angrily. “It would be easy to replace him with another more in line with our plans. Durotan is becoming well known for disagreeing with Blackhand’s position—and yours as well.”
“That is precisely why I still need him alive,” Gul’dan said, watching to see who understood without further explanation. He saw comprehension register on a few faces, while others still looked puzzled and angry.
“Because he is known for a more moderate stance,” Gul’dan continued, regretful that he had to spell it out for anyone on the Council, “when he does Finally go along, everyone else who might have doubts goes with him. He speaks for many who do not dare speak for themselves. If Durotan agrees, so goes their logic, then it must be all right. As Kargath mentioned, the Frostwolf clan is not the only one who appears to have reservations,”
“But … what if there comes a time that he does not agree? Some line he is not willing to cross?”
Gul’dan smiled frostily. “Then we will deal with him in a way that best advances our power without placing it at risk. As we always do.” Gul’dan decided it was time to change the subject. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. “Speaking of those who have reservations. I have heard that there are some who continue to attempt to contact the elements and the ancestors.”
One of the members looked uncomfortable. “I have attempted to dissuade them, but I cannot see how I can punish them for it. It was, after all, belief that the ancestors wanted us to attack the draenei that even made this possible.”
He sounded a bit defiant. Gul’dan smiled reassuringly “Yes indeed. That was the bait that hooked them so deeply.” He glanced over at Ner’zhul. The older shaman met his eyes and then glanced down quickly. Such had been the bait that had hooked Ner’zhul as well—bait that did not hold the same appeal for Gul’dan.
“But that is no longer necessary,” Gul’dan continued. “We must make sure that there is no turning back to the old ways. We have been lucky indeed in our campaign, and with the ogres success is likely to continue. But if there are any setbacks, any battles that go poorly, then those who still hold shamanism close to their hearts may find an appreciative ear. That won’t do at all.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We must do more than simply encourage warlock practices. We must actively discourage shamanism. It would be unfortunate if for some reason the ancestors actually were able to communicate with their descendants.”
Again, he glanced at Ner’zhul. It had only been when Ner’zhul had traveled to the sacred mountain that he had been able to speak with the ancestors and discover what had really been going on. Until that point, even as powerful a shaman as he was, Ner’zhul had been tricked by illusions. The answer, therefore, seemed simple.
Deep in the disembodied dreaming floated the beings that were made of light. They had the memories of what had gone before, and they had glimpses into the future. Long had they dwelt here, fed by the Other, who was like them, but not like them, and who they sensed was well into the heart of a slow passing. Until recently, they had dwelt in this state of being-not-being in peace and tranquility. But now, defilement and hatred and danger had come. They could not reach the sleeping, beloved living any longer. And the beloved living did not come as they used to, to replenish the sacred pool and unintentionally keep the Other alive. Only the Greatly Deceived One had come, weeping and begging, but too far lost in the deception to be aided.
Suddenly, their deep dreaming was disrupted. A tremor went through them. Pain savaged them and they cried out for aid from the Other, who could not help them, who could not help itself The dark unholy things that had once been beings of beauty were coming. The ancestors sensed their approach. They came inexorably, joining their powers, creating a ring of darkness and severance around the base of the mountain. Darkness visible danced from the twisted things who had followed Sargeras, lured by the promise of power, fed now with the promise of the obliteration of everything. The ancestors felt the seething, focused hatred coalesce into a manifestation of greenish-black energy, whipping around like severed tentacles, seeking a dreadful union. Slowly, inexorably, their stranglehold increased until a rope of shadow power choked the mountain, sealed it shut, preventing any lost orc from entering, any frantic soul from departing.
And now, the Other, too, cried out in grief as the circle was sealed shut. For without the shaman to bring it water, it could not even continue to attempt to heal itself. And without the Other, there would eventually be no ancestors.
Far away, in their sleep, the few orcs who still secretly thought of themselves as shaman trembled and wept, their dreams corrupted into nightmares of endless torment and an inescapable doom.
18
I am one of the second wave of shaman, just as I am the leader of the second, and I pray better and wiser, incarnation of the Horde. I have spoken with the elements and spirits, and I have felt them working in harmony with me many times, and refusing their aid almost as often.
But I have never seen the spirits of the ancestors, not even in my dreams; my soul yearns for such a connection. Until very recently, those who once walked the path of the shaman did not even dream of being able to walk it again, and yet they do.
Perhaps one day, the barriers between us and the beloved dead, too, will be lifted.
Perhaps.
But I wonder, if they truly knew how far we wandered from their loving teachings, if they saw what we had done in Draenor, done to Draenor … perhaps even now they would turn their backs on us and leave us to our fates. And if they so chose, I cannot say that I would blame them.