Grom did not hesitate. He brought the cup to his lips and drank deeply. Durotan watched, straining to see the reaction. Perhaps, after all, the letter had not been sent by someone who wished him good; perhaps it had been a trap—
Gul’dan barely had time to take the chalice from Grom before the other orc stiffened and shuddered. He doubled over for a moment, and the crowd murmured in worry. Durotan stared, horrified, as Grom’s hunched-over body pulsated and quivered. Before his eyes, Grom’s shoulders, slender for an orc’s, broadened. His armor creaked as it settled over this newly powerful body. Slowly, Grom straightened. Tall as ever he had been, reshaped by the green liquid to be stronger and thickly muscled, he looked out over the crowd.
What Durotan could see of his face was smooth and healthy and, save for the tattooed jaw … completely green.
Grom threw his head back and shrieked again. The cry was louder than Durotan had ever heard it. It was almost like a knife made of sound that ripped through one’s body and left one shattered and bleeding. Durotan covered his ears, as did nearly everyone else, but he could not tear his gaze from Grom’s face.
Grom’s eyes now glowed red.
“How do you feel, Grom Hellscream, of the Warsong clan?” asked Gul’dan with a peculiar mildness.
Grom’s expression of ecstasy was so keen it was almost pain, and he seemed to grope for words. “I feel … magnificent! I feel …” He broke off and screamed a third time, as if only the primal cry would do. “Give me draenei flesh to tear and rip! Draenei blood on my face … I will drink it down until I can hold no more! Give me their blood!”
His chest heaved with the passion of his emotions, his fists clenching and unclenching. He looked prepared to attack an entire city with nothing but his bare hands … and Durotan thought he would win that battle. Hellscream motioned to his clan.
“Voices of the Warsong! Come forth! Not a one of you will be denied this ecstasy!”
The Warsong warriors rushed forward, all eager to feel what their chieftain was feeling. The cup was passed around, and one by one, they drank. Each one shuddered for a moment in deep pain; each one passed through that pain to apparent delight and obviously increased strength. And the eyes of every one who drank turned a blazing red. Blackhand watched, his frown increasing. When the last of the Warsongs had drunk from the cup, he grunted. “I will drink!” he demanded, seizing the cup and swigging down a great gulp. Blackhand clutched his throat for a moment, but stayed completely silent while whatever dark magic was in the cup did its hellish duty. He had removed his armor, and the muscles rippling and growing beneath his taut green skin were clearly visible. Red eyes glowed when he finally looked up. He motioned to his sons, and Maim and Rend shoved other orcs perfunctorily out of their way as they rushed forward. Durotan saw Griselda, Blackhand’s only daughter, hesitate before she, too, stepped up to drink. Blackhand sneered at her.
“Not you,” he snarled. Griselda drew back as if struck. Durotan, who had always been fond of the girl, breathed a sigh of relief. Blackhand intended to shame her. Instead, he was unwittingly giving her a great gift. Blackhand motioned to Orgrim.
“Come, friend Orgrim! Drink with me!”
Even now, even as his best and oldest friend was being summoned to drink the dark liquid, Durotan could not speak. But thankfully, he did not need to. Orgrim bowed his head.
“My chieftain. I will not take that glory from you. I am your second, not chieftain, and I do not seek that position.”
Durotan sagged with relief. Orgrim saw what Durotan had seen, even though he was not privy to the information Durotan had been given. He was not a fool. He owned his own soul, and he would not surrender it for the sort of power that racked the body and made the eyes burn with such a sinister gleam.
Now the other clan chieftains lined up, anxious for this blessing that had so excited two of their most famous and respected chieftains. Durotan did not move. Drek’Thar leaned in and whispered, “My chieftain—do you not wish the blessing?”
Durotan shook his head. “No. Nor will I permit any of my clan to drink.”
Drek’Thar blinked, shocked. “But … Durotan, it is obvious that this drink grants great power and passion! You would be a fool not to drink it!”
Durotan shook his head, recalling the contents of the letter. He had been skeptical at first; now he was certain. “I would be a fool if I did,” he said quickly, and when Drek’Thar tried to protest, he silenced the former shaman with a look.
Unbidden and unexpected, words from the draenei prophet Velen floated back to Durotan: We chose not to sell our people into slavery, and for that we were exiled. Durotan knew in his bones that once the orcs had drunk from this chalice, their will was no longer theirs. Gul’dan was doing exactly what the leaders on die draenei’s home world had done. He had sold his people into slavery. History was repeating itself; now it was Durotan who defied his leaders for the sake of his people. Perhaps he and his clan, like the draenei, would soon be “exiled ones.” It did not matter. What he was doing was right. He realized that now all the chieftains save he had drunk, and the moment he had dreaded was upon him.
Gul’dan waved him forward. “The mighty Durotan! The hero of Telmor!” Durotan forced his face to remain still. “Come and join with the other chieftains. Drink your fill from the chalice!”
“Nay, Gul’dan, I will not do so.”
In the light of the torches. Durotan could see that a muscle twitched near Gul’dan’s right eye.
“You refuse? Do you think you are better than the others? Do you think you do not need the blessing?”
The other chieftains were frowning now, their breathing labored as if they had been running, their brows glistening with sweat.
Durotan did not rise to the bait. “It is my choice.”
“Perhaps others in your clan feel differently,” Gul’dan said, sweeping his arms to include the Frostwolf clan in his expansiveness. “Will you let them drink, then?”
“No. I am the chieftain of die Frostwolf clan. And this is what I choose.”
Gul’dan stepped down from the obsidian slab and strode to Durotan. He leaned in and whispered in the chieftain’s ear. “What do you know and how did you know it?”
It was no doubt meant to be an intimidating gesture, but instead Durotan was filled with new hope. Gul’dan felt threatened. But instead of sending an assassin in the night to dispatch someone he regarded as an inconvenience, he was trying to bully Durotan into submission. He had just confirmed the truth of the contents of the mysterious letter, and revealed that he had no idea who its author was. Durotan realized he could survive this and still protect his clan.
He said, equally quietly, “I know enough. And you will never discover how I learned it.”
Gul’dan pulled back and forced a smile. “It is indeed your choice, Durotan, son of Garad. And if you choose to deny yourself such a blessing, then you must bear the consequences.”
The words were double-edged, but Durotan didn’t care. Another day, he might need to worry about what Gul’dan had planned for him.
But not tonight.
Gul’dan returned to his position and cried out to the crowd. “All who wish the blessing of the mighty Kil’jaeden, our benefactor, have received it. Think of this place as hallowed ground, for here the orcs took steps to become something far greater dian what we were born as. Think of this mighty mountain as Kil’jaeden’s throne, where he sits and watches and blesses us as we do work that will purge us still further of anything other than the best of which we are capable.”
He stepped back and nodded to Blackhand. His eyes glowing red, his armor catching the flickering of the torches, Blackhand lifted his arms and cried, “Tonight We make history. Tonight We attack the last remaining stronghold of our enemy. We will tear limbs from bodies. We will bathe in blood. We will storm through the streets of their capital like their worst nightmare. Blood and thunder! Victory to the Horde!”