With that in mind, Doomhammer sought out another of his lieutenants, finding him at last in what had once been a great hall, feasting upon the food and drink they had found there.
"Zuluhed!" The orc shaman glanced up as Doomhammer shouted his name and quickly stood, pushing away the goblet and platter before him. Though old and thin and shriveled, Zuluhed's red—brown eyes were still sharp beneath his tattered gray braids.
"Doomhammer." Unlike Gul'dan, Zuluhed did not snivel or bow, and Doomhammer respected that. But then Zuluhed was a chieftain in his own right, the head of the Dragonmaw clan. He was also a shaman, the only shaman to have accompanied the Horde. And it was those abilities and what they might provide that interested Doomhammer.
"How goes the work?" Doomhammer did not bother with pleasantries, though he did accept the goblet Zuluhed offered him. The wine within it was fine indeed, and the traces of human blood that had spilled into it only enhanced the flavor.
"The same," the Dragonmaw leader replied, disgust written plainly across his features.
Months ago Zuluhed had approached, telling Doomhammer of strange visions that had plagued him. Visions of a particular mountain range, and of a mighty treasure buried deep beneath it—a treasure not of wealth but of power. Doomhammer respected the older chieftain and remembered the power of a shaman's visions from their own world. He had approved Zuluhed's request to lead his clan in search of that mountain and the power it concealed. It had taken weeks but at last the Dragonmaw clan had found a cavern deep in the earth, and within it a strange object, a golden disc they had named the Demon Soul. Though Doomhammer had not seen the artifact himself, Zuluhed had assured him that it radiated immense age and incredible power. Unfortunately, that power was proving difficult to obtain.
"You assured me you could trigger its power," Doomhammer reminded, tossing the empty goblet aside. It struck the far wall with a dull crunch.
"And I shall," Zuluhed assured him. "The Demon Soul contains immense resources, enough power to let us shatter mountains and tear open the sky!" He frowned. "But thus far it has resisted my magics." He shook his head. "But I will find the key! I know it! I have seen it in my dreams! And once we can tap its power, we shall use it to enslave our chosen servants! And with them beneath us we shall rule the skies, and rain fire down upon all those who stand against us!"
"Excellent." Doomhammer clapped the other orc on the shoulder. The shaman's fanaticism worried him from time to time, especially since Zuluhed did not seem to live entirely in this world, but he had no doubts of his loyalty. That was why he had supported the old orc's quest, when he had spurned Gul'dan's request to embark on a similarly vision—based search for power. Doomhammer knew that, whatever else happened, Zuluhed would not turn against him or against their people. And if this Demon Soul could do half what Zuluhed had promised, if it enabled the shaman to make his visions a reality, it would indeed ensure the Horde's superiority in battle. "Send word when all is ready."
"Of course." Zuluhed saluted him with his own goblet, which he refilled from a blood—smeared golden pitcher. Doomhammer left the shaman to his celebration and resumed his wanderings through the fallen city. He liked to see what his warriors were doing firsthand, and he knew that seeing their leader walking among them gave the others a sense of him as one of them, bonding them to him ever more tightly. Blackhand had known that as well, making sure his orcs saw him as a fellow warrior as well as a chieftain and later warchief, and it was one of the lessons Doomhammer had learned well from his predecessor. His meeting with Zuluhed had wiped away the sour taste Gul'dan had left in his mouth, and as he stalked through the streets Doomhammer found his spirits high. His people had achieved a great victory here and deserved to celebrate. He would let them enjoy themselves for a few days. Then they would move on to the next target.
Gul'dan watched Doomhammer from a few buildings away.
"What are he and Zuluhed planning?" he demanded, not turning away from glaring at the Warchief's retreating back.
"I do not know," Cho'gall admitted. "They have been secretive about it. I know it involves something the Dragonmaw found in the mountains. Half their clan is there now but I do not know what they are doing."
"Well, it does not matter." Gul'dan frowned, rubbing absently at one tusk as he thought. "Whatever it is, it serves to keep Doomhammer distracted, and that works to our advantage. It would not do for him to uncover our own plans before we can set them in motion." He grinned. "And then—then it will be too late for him."
"Will you replace him as warchief?" Cho'gall's other head asked as they moved away, returning to the quarters that had been set aside for them.
"Myself? No." Gul'dan laughed. "I have no desire to march through the streets with an axe or a hammer, meeting my foes in the flesh," he admitted. "My path is the far greater one. I shall meet them in spirit and crush them from afar, devouring them by the hundreds and the thousands." He smiled at the thought. "Soon all that was promised me shall be mine, and then Doomhammer will be as nothing against me. Even the might of the Horde will pale before me, and I shall stretch out my hand and wipe this world clean, to remake it in my own image!" He laughed again, and the sound came back to him from the tumbled walls and torn buildings, as if the dying city were laughing with him.
CHAPTER THREE
Khadgar watched quietly from one side of the throneroom. Lothar had wanted him present both as a witness and, Khadgar suspected, as a familiar face in this strange land, and Khadgar's own curiosity had compelled him to accept the invitation. But he knew better than to present himself to these men as an equal—despite the power he now wielded personally, every one of them was a ruler and capable of having him killed in seconds. Besides, Khadgar felt he had been in the center of things too much of late. As a youth he had been more accustomed to watching and waiting and studying before he acted. It was nice to return to old habits again, if only for the moment.
He recognized many of the men present, at least by description. The large, bearish man with the thick features, the heavy black beard, and the black and gray armor was Genn Graymane. He ruled the southern nation of Gilneas, and Khadgar had heard he was far more clever than his appearance suggested. The tall, slender man with the weathered skin and the green naval uniform was of course Admiral Daelin Proudmoore. He ruled Kul Tiras, but it was his position as commander of the world's largest, fiercest navy that made even Terenas treat him as an equal. The quiet, cultured—looking man with the graying brown hair and hazel eyes was Lord Aiden Perenolde, master of Alterac. He was glaring at Thoras Trollbane, king of neighboring Stromgarde, but the tall, gruff Trollbane was ignoring him, his leathers and furs apparently shielding him as well from Perenolde's anger as they did from his mountain home's fierce weather. Instead Trollbane's craggy features were turned toward a short, stout man with a snow—white beard and a friendly face. He needed no introduction anywhere on the continent, even without his ceremonial robes and staff—Alonsus Faol was the archbishop of the Church of Light and revered by humans everywhere. Khadgar could see why—he had never met Faol himself but just watching him created a sense of peace and wisdom.