22
Can a thing be at once a blessing and a curse? A salvation and a doom? For such I hold what happened next in the history of my people. From every account, the demonic energies, used so freely and with no heed given as to their cost, leeched all that was wholesome and life-giving from the world of Draenor. Kil’jaeden had wanted to increase the number of orcs, so that we would become a formidable army, and he had done so, forcing the growth of our younglings and robbing them of their childhood. Now, the orc population was larger than it had ever been, and there was no way to feed the hungry. It is clear to me, as it must have been clear to those living through those terrible times, that if we had remained on Draenor, our race would likely have died out.
But how we left … and why we left … this world still bleeds from the wound of that. I do what I can to heal while still safeguarding the interests of this new Horde I have made, but I wonder if these wounds will ever really close. Life for my people: a blessing. How we obtained it: a curse.
The Shadow Council had been nervous, almost as worried sick as Gul’dan had been at Kil’jaeden’s departure. But now they had a direction. He called the Council and shared with them the words of the mysterious stranger who called himself Medivh. He spoke of the fertile fields, clean water, healthy, glossy-coated prey animals. And he spoke even more glowingly of the beings called “humans” who would fight enough to be a challenge, but who would inevitably fall to the superiority of the Horde.
“Water, food, killing. And power to those who agree to help bring it about,” Gul’dan said, his voice seductive, almost purring. He had gauged them correctly. Their eyes, some red and glowing, some still brown and intense, were focused on him and he saw hope … and greed … on their faces.
The work began.
First, they had to redirect the attention of the starving Horde. Gul’dan was well aware that, with decreasing food supplies and a burning thirst for violence that no longer had an outlet, the orcs had started attacking one another. He had Blackhand send out decrees to all the clans, submitting their finest warriors for controlled, one-on-one or small party fights in public display. The winners would receive food from the losing clan, and a supply of pure water as well as honor and fame. Frantic for something, anything, to case the pain of their dual hunger, for food and for blood, the orcs responded well to the suggestion, and Gul’dan was relieved. Medivh wanted an army to attack the humans. It would not do if all the orcs had slaughtered one another before the invasion.
Durotan continued to give him trouble. The leader of the Frostwolf clan, likely emboldened by the fact that Gul’dan did not cut him down the night of the attack on Shattrath, had begun speaking out more publicly. He decried the staged battles as demeaning. He called for a way to try to heal the land, stopping just short of directly blaming the warlocks for it. In other words, he danced as close to the line as was possible, and sometimes crossed it.
And, as had always been the case, some were listening. While the Frostwolf clan was the only one whose leader had not drunk the blood of Mannoroth, there were other orcs in lower positions who had also refused. The one who worried Gul’dan the most was Orgrim Doomhammer. That one could be trouble. Orgrim had never much liked Blackhand; one day, he might do something about that dislike. But for the moment, he did not side publicly with the Frostwolves, and indeed was one of the regular victors in the champion battles.
The visions continued. Medivh had a very clear idea of what he wanted: a portal between the two worlds, one that could be created with the Shadow Council and its warlocks on one side, and Medivh and whatever magics he was controlling on his side.
They could not work in secret; the portal would have to be large in order for the armies Medivh wanted to pass through. Besides, the Horde was feeling defeated. The excitement and challenge of the arena battles and constructing this portal with high ceremony would give them something to focus on.
Medivh was pleased with the idea. In one vision, he assumed the form of a large black bird, perching on Gul’dan’s arm. Claws dug into his flesh and reddish-black blood trickled across green skin, but the pain felt … good. There was a small piece of paper rolled up around the bird’s leg. In his vision, Gul’dan unrolled the paper and saw a design that took his breath away. When he awoke, he sketched it on a large parchment.
He surveyed it, eyes bright with anticipation.
“Beautiful,” he said.
“I do not understand your displeasure,” Orgrim said one day as he and Durotan sat atop their mounts to survey the building of what Gul’dan called the Portal. Everywhere Durotan looked, orcs were working. The males were bare to the waist, the females nearly so, and their green skins glistened with sweat underneath a sun that scorched the land. Some of them chanted rhythmic war cries as they worked, others were focused and silent. The road to this plateau, running in an almost straight line from what was starting to become known as Hellfire Citadel, was already well paved so that construction equipment could be easily moved.
The shapes of the four large platforms were based on draenei design. The irony did not escape Durotan. The original design had been modified, crowned with the now-familiar spikes and sharp edges that were starting to make orc architecture distinctive. But Durotan could remember walking up similar steps as a boy, and walking up those steps again with the intent of killing all he found atop them. Two obelisks pointed into the sky like sharp spears, and a statue of Gul’dan sat atop another one.
But most forbidding of all was the fourth, set a little way back from the other three. This was to be the framework for the actual Portal that Gul’dan kept promising them would manifest. Two huge slabs of stone towered into the air, a third lying across them to make the most primitive of gateways. Shapes were starting to appear out of the rock, looming shapes of cowled figures on either side, and some sort of serpent undulated atop it.
“Is this not better than having them ride into your camp and slaughter your clansmen?” Orgrim continued.
Durotan nodded. “Yes, in a way,” he said. “But we still do not know what this is a portal to.” Orgrim gestured at the sere landscape. The Hellfire Peninsula was one of the most damaged areas of the world, but far from the only one. “Does it matter? We know what it is a portal from.”
Durotan grunted with a hint of amusement. “I suppose you’re right at that.”
He felt Orgrim’s gray eyes regarding him steadily “Durotan … I have refrained from asking you this, but … why did you refuse your clan the draft Gul’dan offered?”
Durotan looked at his friend, answering one question with another. “Why did you yourself not drink?” he countered.
“There was something … not right,” Orgrim said at last. “I did not like what I saw it doing to the others.”
Durotan shrugged, hoping his friend would not press the point. “You had the same insight as I did.”
“I wonder,” said Orgrim, but he did not question further.
Durotan saw no need to reveal what he knew. He had managed to protect his people from the horrors of what drinking demonic blood would do to them. He had asserted himself to Gul’dan, and thus far, no repercussions had fallen. And Orgrim, ancestors be praised, had had wisdom enough to realize that there was something amiss and had also declined. For now, that was enough for Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan.
“I fight today,” Orgrim said, changing the subject. “Will you come?”
“I know that you do this not for glory, but for your clan,” Durotan said. “You fight to win them food and water. But I will not show my face at these … displays. Orcs should not be fighting orcs. Not even in ritualized combat.”