“Gul’dan, what have you done to us!” Durotan shrieked, but his protest was lost in the roar of the enraged mob of orcs. The Frostwolves had sprung into action to defend their chieftain, and the shouts of battle were almost deafening. Durotan’s breath was knocked out of his lungs as his attacker—he could not tell from what clan—resumed the fight. In defense, Durotan lifted his axe and swung. The other dodged, moving more swiftly than Durotan had expected, came up, and—
The tenor of the cries abruptly changed as the earth rumbled beneath their feet and a deep, piercing sound shuddered along their bones. The fighting stopped and as one the orcs turned to gaze at the Portal. Moments before, one could look into the area outlined by the pillars and simply see more of the Hellfire Peninsula landscape. Now there was a blackness and a swirl of stars, as if one were looking into a night sky gone mad. Even Durotan’s eyes were riveted on the sight. As he watched, the blackness shimmered and reformed itself into a scene that both startled and puzzled him.
Gul’dan had spoken of a beautiful land, rich with fat preybeasts, fertile fields, blue skies. Durotan was indeed looking at a place he had never seen before, but it was a far cry from the idyllic realm Gul’dan had described. It was as moist as Draenor now was arid. A thick haze floated above brackish water and swaying marshland grasses. A buzzing, chirping sound filled the air. At least, thought Durotan, there was life in this strange place.
Unhappy murmurs ran through the crowd. This was where Gul’dan wanted to send them? It was not much better on first glance than their own land. But then again, Durotan realized, water meant life. Orange though the sky was, not blue, and drenched though the land was not filled with flowers and meadows, it could support life.
He turned to look at Gul’dan as the murmuring rose in volume. Gul’dan was obviously trying to cover his own shock. He waved his arms for silence.
“Azeroth is a large world, as is our own!” he cried. “You know how different the land can be from place to place. I am certain it is the same here. This place … does not look as inviting as I was …” His voice trailed off and he shook himself, visibly recovering. “But behold, this is in truth another land! It is real! You!”
Gul’dan pointed at two dozen fully armored orcs who stood beside the Portal. They snapped to attention. “You have been chosen to be the first to investigate this new land. Go forth, in the name of the Horde!”
The orcs hesitated only an instant, then grimly ran forward into the Portal.
The scene vanished.
Durotan’s head whipped around to stare at Gul’dan. The warlock was doing his best to stay composed, but clearly he had been rattled.
“They are our scouts” Gul’dan said. “They will return with news of this world.”
And before the gathered orcs could truly begin to grow worried, the image of the swamp reappeared and the orcs hurried through. They were grinning from ear to ear. More than half of them carried the carcasses of large animals. One was a reptile of some sort, scaly, long-tailed, with stubby legs and huge jaws. The other was a four-legged, furry thing, with claws on all four of its feet, a long tail, small rounded ears and spots on its yellow, glossy coat. Both were obviously healthy specimens.
“We have slain and eaten both type of creatures,” the leader of the scout said. “Their flesh is wholesome. The water there is pure. We do not need a beautiful land. We need one that will feed and sustain us. This Azeroth will do so admirably, Gul’dan.”
A murmur went through the crowed. Despite himself, Durotan felt his gaze drawn to the beasts the scouts had brought through and his stomach growled. It had been two days since he had eaten. Gul’dan visibly relaxed. He looked over at Durotan, and his eyes narrowed. Durotan tasted apprehension, sharp and bitter, in his throat.
He and his clan were needed. He knew that. He also knew that his defense of the child—and the reaction it had provoked among the other clans, many of whom had come to the defense of the Frostwolves—would not be forgotten. He had half suspected that Gul’dan would order his execution or banishment, but apparently Durotan and the Frostwolves yet had some use to Gul’dan and Blackhand.
So be it. For now, he would fight alongside his brethren. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself. Whatever betided, Durotan knew he would die with his honor intact.
Gul’dan looked back over the crowd of expectant orcs and took a deep breath.
“This is the moment of destiny,” he said. “On the other side, a new beginning awaits. A new enemy to slaughter. You can feel it, can you not? The bloodlust rising? Follow Blackhand! Listen to his orders and you will rule this new world as is your right! It’s your world on the other side of the Portal. Take it!”
The cries were deafening. The crowd surged forward. Even Durotan found himself caught up in the thrill of a new world, so lush and ripe and ready for the taking. Perhaps his worry was misplaced; perhaps this would indeed be a new beginning. Durotan loved his clan, loved his people. He wanted to see them thrive. And he, like all orcs even before this moment, reveled in the kill.
Perhaps it would all be well.
Axe in hand, hope flourishing in his heart, Durotan joined in the race toward the Portal, toward this place called Azeroth. He lifted his arms and raised the cry that was on the lips of every orc as they surged forward:
“For the Horde!”
Epilogue
And so began our people’s history in this world of Azeroth. We thundered out of the Portal like death incarnate, a torrent of blood-mad killers intent on slaughter. It is little wonder the humans hate us so, many of them even now. But perhaps this history I have chronicled will one day be read by human, elven, gnomish, and dwarven eyes. Perhaps they will understand a little better that we, too, knew suffering and victimization.
My father’s suspicion that he and his clan were marked for exile proved correct. It was shortly after the Frostwolf clan entered Azeroth that Gul’dan banished them. They were forced to make their homes in the harshness of the mountains of Alterac. The white wolves who still hunt in this place are descended from the Frostwolves who followed my clan through the Portal and whose loyalty could not be swayed by the words of one who bore a grudge.
When I was born, my father realized he had to tell the other orcs all he knew about what had been done to them. He approached his old friend, Orgrim Doomhammer, who believed him and would have allied with him had not my father been treacherously slain. When I reached adulthood, I became Orgrim’s friend, as had my father before; and it is I who have fulfilled the prophecy of the Doomhammer.
In their honor, this land is named Durotar, its greatest city, Orgrimmar. It is my hope that—
“My chieftain!” The deep, rough voice belonged to Eitrigg.
Thrall stopped in mid-sentence, moving the pen so it did not drip on the parchment. “What is it?” he asked the elderly orc who was one of his most trusted advisors.
“There is news—news from the Alliance. One of our information gatherers has learned something he insists you must know.”
Thrall disliked the term “spy” but he had spies nonetheless, as he was certain Jaina Proudmoore had her spies in his lands. It was to be expected, and was often worthwhile. Seldom had one of his gatherers insisted on seeing him like this. Something important must be happening indeed.