Durotan stared. Tonight? There had been no strategy discussed. This was not some little hamlet or village Blackhand was talking about, but the draenei capital. This was their place of last refuge, and he was certain they would fight more fiercely than they had ever before, like cornered animals. He recalled the huge engines of war that had been built, and knew that Blackhand had ordered them moved—where, neither Durotan nor the others knew.
Madness. This was madness.
And as he looked at the screaming bodies surrounding him, their eyes all twin pinpricks of crimson light, he realized that the word was truer than he thought.
Those who had drunk from the tainted cup had indeed gone mad. Grom Hellscream danced closer to the fire, waving his newly muscular arms and throwing his head back, the firelight dancing on once-brown skin that had now turned green. Durotan, sick and dazed with horror, looked into glowing red eyes that were so akin to those of the enslaved creatures the warlocks commanded; that green skin, the same green hue that was already tainting the skins of the warlocks, like Ghun, was even starting to taint Durotan’s own skin and that of the one he loved with all his heart.
He thought of the contents of the letter, written in an archaic tongue that few but the highly educated—the shaman and the clan leaders—would know:
You will be asked to drink. Refuse. It is the blood of twisted souls, and it will twist yours and those of all who imbibe. It will enslave you forever. By the love of all we once held dear, refuse.
The ancient language had a single word for “twisted souls.”
These were the things that were held in check by the warlock’s will, but just barely. The fluid that had passed the lips of those Durotan had called both friend and foe had been the blood of one such. And Durotan watched as the twisted souls that the orcs now were somehow bound to danced insanely in the torchlight before racing down the mountains to run, fueled with unnatural rage and energy, to attack the most fortified city this world had ever seen.
Twisted souls.
Dae’mons. Demons.
20
I have spoken to many who were there at the destruction of the city of Shattrath. When I ask them about the event, their minds are clouded and their recall is poor. Even Drek’Thar, who remembers so much with astonishing clarity, stammers and hesitates when asked to recall the details. It is as though with demonic blood fresh in their mouths, those who drank can remember only the fury they felt and not what they did in its grasp. And even those who did not drink, that small handful of which Drek’Thar is a member—even they cannot summon the details to mind. It is as if such an atrocity was so horrific that it wants to be forgotten.
That some draenei survived the assault is not in doubt; I have seen the sad, pathetic things that were once the glorious draenei with my own eyes, wandering forlornly here in Azeroth, soft and shattered, crying for home. These “lost ones” are to be pitied.
So it is that this account is vague, and I regret it. Such a moment, dark though it may be, should not be forgotten or glossed over. But such is the chronicler’s challenge.
The orcs charged down the trail, burning with a feral need to destroy. Some were so overflowing with rage and hatred that they took swipes at the very rocks as they passed them. Sonic bellowed their fury. Others were grimly, deathly silent, all their energies contained and simmering, ready to be released at the proper moment.
During that long run, Durotan was more afraid of his own people—of individuals that he had once called friend—than of any ogre wielding a club or any herd of talbuks … or any enraged, attacking draenei. He was cold with sweat, shaking in his boots, but not from any fear for himself. His fear was for what would happen next—not to the draenei, for their destiny was surely already written, but to the orcs. He could not bring himself in those moments as they were running to Shattrath to call them the Horde.
At one point, a horrible rumbling knocked them all off their feet. As they clambered upright, they turned and looked back to where they had come.
It looked as if the mountain had exploded. Liquid fire was belched into the night sky, hurtling upward, then falling and splattering down the jagged peak —it radiated and glowed like the demon blood that the orcs had just drunk, though its hue was orange-yellow and not an eerie green. More and more molten stone was spewed from the mountain. It was a glorious, mesmerizing, and horrific sight.
The orcs took it as a sign, and a cheer erupted from their ranks. After a few moments of celebrating at the very mountain, the Throne of Kil’jaeden, blessing their endeavor, they turned and continued their race toward slaughter.
A mile outside the city, they slowed. An area had been cleared, and recently too, and for a moment the first orcs to arrive at this site simply stared in confusion. This was where they had been told to assemble; this was where their war engines were supposed to have been quartered.
Then, with no warning, something materialized right in front of their eyes. The orcs drew back, hissing. Then in the face of all sanity and logic, they started snarling at the huge being. It towered over them, three times taller than the tallest ogre, red from its cloven hooves to the tip of its lashing tail, from its jutting horns to its sharp black nails. Its size was like nothing they had ever seen, but its shape … Durotan stared at it, thinking that it looked like nothing so much as a gigantic, crimson-skinned draenei. The sudden realization that the orcs had been plunged into a personal conflict that should never have concerned them crashed over him like a tidal wave.
“You have nothing to fear and everything to celebrate, you who have sworn your allegiance to me!” it cried, its voice penetrating to the very bone, “I am Kil’jaeden, the Beautiful One, the one who has been with you since the beginning. And I am with you now as you head to the most glorious battle yet. Once, the wicked draenei plotted against you, hiding an entire city from your eyes. But you have destroyed that city, and others, and vanquished their temple. All that remains is this one final battle, and then the threat will be eliminated.
“The green stone that once hid the city of Telmor from you now hides their doom from them. Kehla men samir, solay lamaa kahl!”
And the illusion was dispelled. Before them were dozens of catapults, battering rams, siege weapons of all varieties. Standing beside the engines of war were the ogres, still and silent, their stupid faces filled with determination. They bore weapons suited to their size, and Durotan realized that there were at least three dozen of them ready to fight. They made the huge weapons look like toys.
“There is more …” Kil’jaeden said, and waved his hands. The warlocks all cried out and grasped their heads for a moment, then blinked and grinned. “New spells have flooded your minds. Use them well. Take the draenei now!”
As if he had opened a gate, the bloodthirsty orcs leaped into motion. Some of them made for the weapons by which a walled city would fall, pushing them forward with a strength which Durotan had never before seen them display. The ogres immediately went to the others, moving the enormously heavy weapons at a brisk pace. Other orcs were too far sunk in bloodlust, and simply raced forward in the direction of the city. What they would do when they got there Durotan did not know, but he and his clan followed dutifully.
The war machines propelled by the ogres and the orcs rumbled steadily on. But even before they were maneuvered into position, the walls that protected the city were under attack. Enormous, green-glowing rocks fell from the sky to slam into the city. Towers and citadels that had risen above the wall level cracked and shattered, and the wall itself was starting to crumble in several places. But it was not just boulders falling from the sky that comprised the attack—it was what rose from them once they had landed.