Orgrim asked in a low voice. “Has anyone … tried to work with the elements?” Such activities were still forbidden, but Orgrim knew that desperation was causing some to rethink the old ways.
Durotan nodded. “It was a failure. We have been met with stony silence. Demons guard Oshu’gun. We can find no hope there.”
“Then … We are finished,” Orgrim said quietly. He glanced down at his hammer, its shaft leaning against his leg as they stood. He wondered if the prophecy of the Doomhammer was being fulfilled even now; if he was the last of his line. Had he already brought salvation and then doom by using this weapon to drive the draenei to extinction? And how could it possibly be used now to bring justice?
When all was dying … How could everything change again?
The will to survive was powerful, Gul’dan thought as he readied himself for sleep. He had taken to sleeping in the Black Temple, in a room he had had redesigned specifically for him. In it, he placed in a ritualized fashion all the trinkets and tools he needed to properly command the demons he summoned: shards from draenei souls, certain stones for the larger creatures, potions to help him keep his energy up when it flagged. There were skulls, too, and bones, and other signs of dominance. Certain herbs were burned in containers, their pungent or sweet aroma inducing visions.
It was to ajar of such that he turned now. He had lit a small fire in a cauldron and permitted the wood to burn down to glowing embers. Chanting softly, Gul’dan tossed the dried leaves on the fire and forced himself not to cough as the scent filled the air. He went to his bed—he liked to think that perhaps this was the same bed upon which the loathed Velen slept when he was in the temple—and quickly fell asleep.
Gul’dan dreamed, as he had not done since Kil’jaeden’s departure. And even while in the strange, dark place that was the vision, he knew it to be true. The vision was that of a vaguely orc-shaped being, dad in a long cloak that obscured his face. He was slender, even more slender than an orc female, but somehow Gul’dan immediately sensed that it was male. Delicately built as he seemed to Gul’dan’s eyes, the sense of power that radiated from the stranger all but buffeted Gul’dan. A shiver shook him. When the stranger spoke in his mind, the voice was masculine, oddly pleasant, and profoundly compelling.
“You are feeling adrift and alone,” said the stranger.
Gul’dan nodded, cautious and eager at the same time.
“Kil’jaeden promised you power … strength … godhood. Things that your world has never even seen,” continued the smooth voice from a mouth that remained hidden in the shadow of the cloak’s hood. The words caressed Gul’dan, lulled him, and frightened him at the same time. But he felt more angry than frightened as he spoke.
“He abandoned me,” Gul’dan said. “He caused us to ruin our world, and then left us to die with it. If you come from him, then—”
“Nay, nay,” soothed the stranger in that oddly compelling voice. “I come from one even greater,” His eyes glittered, deep within the shadow of the hooded cloak. “I come from … his master.”
Gul’dan’s skin prickled. “His … master?”
And he fell back as his mind was assaulted with images: images of Kil’jaeden and Velen and Archimonde, as they were long ago. He saw the transformation of the beings known as eredar into monsters and demigods, and he sensed, though never saw, a great presence behind it all.
“Sargeras!”
He still could not see the stranger’s face, but Gul’dan knew that he smiled.
“Yes. The one who rules over all. The one we serve. You will soon understand, Gul’dan, that destruction and oblivion are beautiful and pure. That it is the direction in which all things must go. You can resist it and be destroyed, or aid it and be rewarded.”
Cautiously, still worried about this cloaked figure and his honeyed words, Gul’dan asked, “What is being asked of me?”
“Your people are dying,” the figure said bluntly. “There is nothing left in this world for them to destroy. There is nothing left for them to survive on. They must go elsewhere. Where there is ample food and drink, and worthy prey to slaughter. The orcs hunger now for so, so much more than food. Give them the blood they crave.”
Gul’dan narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like a reward, not a task to which I am set,” he said.
“It is both … but that is not the only reward my master offers. You rule the Shadow Council, and you have tasted power. You are the greatest warlock that exists among your people, and you know how that fills you. Imagine if you were … a god.” Gul’dan trembled. Such had been promised before, but somehow, he knew that this Sargeras was much better able to fulfill such extravagant vows. He thought of extending a hand and making the earth tremble, of clenching it hard and stopping a heart. He thought of the eyes of thousands trained upon him, their voices raw from shouting his name. He thought of tastes and sensations he could not yet even imagine, and his mouth watered.
“We have a mutual foe,” the stranger continued. “I would see them dead. You would see your people sated with slaughter and killing.” And now Gul’dan could make out just the barest hint of features, of pale skin and a thin-lipped mouth framed by black hair that curved in a smile. “It is a partnership that would benefit us both.”
“Indeed,” Gul’dan breathed. He realized that he was moving toward the stranger as if drawn, then stopped and added, “but I cannot believe that this is all you would ask of me.”
The stranger sighed. “Sargeras will give you all this and more. Only … he lies imprisoned. He needs assistance to escape. His body is trapped in an ancient tomb, lost beneath a rolling ocean of darkness. He hungers for his freedom, the power that once was his to express, as your orcs hunger for bloodshed, as you hunger for power. Bring your orcs into this verdant, unspoiled new world. Give them soft flesh into which their axes can bite. Defeat the denizens of this place, strengthen your people, and with this vast green tide of warriors join me in liberating our master. His gratitude—”
Again the sly smile, the glint of white teeth in the beard. And again that powerful buffet of power, mitigated only by the stranger’s will.
“ … well. It is likely beyond even your imaginings, Gul’dan.”
Gul’dan considered. As he thought, the image of the stranger shifted and faded. Gul’dan gasped as he stood in a beautiful meadow, the wind tousling his braided hair. Beasts he had never seen before grazed their fill. Along the horizon, healthy trees towered. Strange beings, similar to orcs but with pinkish skin, as slender as the stranger, tended fields and livestock.
Perfect.
The image shifted again. Suddenly he was underwater, swimming down, his lungs not burning for air despite the depth. Kelp swayed in the current, obscuring but not entirely hiding tumbled columns and a slab that bore strange writing, eroded somewhat by time and the ceaseless, gentle caress of water. A shudder passed through him as he realized that this was where Sargeras lay. Release him from this prison, and then … and then …
It seemed like a good partnership. Anything would be better than staying here in this world, which would mean a slow death. A beautiful, ripe land, ready for plunder, would all by itself make this bargain worthwhile. And there was so, so much more to come. He gazed at the stranger raptly. “Tell me what to do.”
Gul’dan awoke sprawled on the floor. Beside him on the cold stone was a parchment covered with instructions, written in his own hand. He scanned it quickly: Portal. Azeroth. Humans.
Medivh.
Gul’dan began to smile.