But it was not their healthy, muscle-laden forms, nor their shiny new armor, that drew Durotan’s eye.
These orcs were green.
It was a subtle shade, much less obvious than the nearly leaf-colored hue of Gul’dan, the leader of the Horde, who had ventured to the north with his equally green-skinned slave, Garona. This was darker, more like the typical brown color of orc skin. But the tint, that strange, unnatural tint, was still there.
“Who among you is the chieftain?” one of them demanded.
“I have the honor of leading the Frostwolves,” Durotan rumbled, stepping forward. The orcs looked him up and down, then glanced appraisingly at Orgrim. “You two. Follow me. Blackhand wishes to see you.”
“Who is Blackhand?” Durotan demanded.
One of them stopped in mid-stride and turned around. He grinned. It was an ugly sight.
“Why, Frostwolf pup,” he said, “Blackhand is the leader of the Horde.”
“You lie,” snapped Durotan. “Gul’dan is the leader of the Horde!”
“It is Gul’dan who brought us all here,” the second orc said. “He is the one who knows how to take us to a new land. He has chosen Blackhand to lead the Horde in battle, so that we will triumph over our enemies.”
Orgrim and Durotan exchanged glances. There had been no mention of a battle for this “new land” when Gul’dan had spoken to his father, Garad, or to him. He was an orc; and more than an orc, he was a Frostwolf chieftain. He would fight whomever he had to in order to ensure a future for his people. For his unborn child. But that Gul’dan had not seen fit to mention it disturbed him.
He and Orgrim had been friends since childhood, and could all but read one another’s thoughts. Both orcs held their tongues.
“It is Blackhand who left instructions for when you arrived,” the first orc said, adding with a sneer, “if you had the courage to leave Frostfire Ridge.”
“Our home is no more,” Durotan said bluntly. “Just as yours is no more, whatever your clan.”
“We are Blackrocks,” the second orc said, chest swelling with pride. “Blackhand was our chieftain before Gul’dan saw fit to give him the glory of leading the Horde. Come with us, Frostwolf. Leave your female behind. Where we go, only warriors will follow.”
Durotan’s brows drew together and he was about to make a scathing retort when Draka’s voice came, deceptively mild. “You and your second-in-command go and meet with Blackhand, my heart,” she said. “The clan will await your return.” And she smiled.
She knew when to pick the battle. She was every bit the warrior he was, but realized that, in her present condition, she would be dismissed by those who seemed to crave conflict more than food for their people.
“Find us a place to camp, then,” he said. “I will meet with this Blackhand, of the Blackrock clan.”
The guards led him and Orgrim through the encampment. Families with children, surrounded by cooking tools and sleeping furs, gave way to orcs with scars and hard eyes cleaning, mending, and forging weapons and armor. The ring of hammer on metal came from a blacksmith’s tent. Other orcs chiseled stones into wheels. Still others fletched arrows and sharpened knives. All spared a glance for the two Frostwolves, and their gazes flickered over Durotan like something physical.
The sound of steel on steel and the cry of “Lok’tar ogar!” reached Durotan’s ears. Victory, or death. What was going on here? Heedless of his escorts, he moved toward the source of the sound, shoving his way through to behold a vast ringed area where orcs were fighting one another.
Even as he watched, a lithe female armed only with two wicked-looking knives darted beneath the arm of a male orc swinging a morning star, her blades drawing a twin line of reddish-black across his ribs. She had the chance for a clean kill, but did not take it. Durotan’s gaze traveled to another cluster of orcs—four-on-one here, another one-on-one pairing there.
“Training,” he said to Orgrim, and his body relaxed slightly. He frowned. A full third of the orcs practicing before him had that same dull green tinge to their brown skin.
“Frostwolves, eh?” came a booming, deep voice behind him. “Not quite the monsters I expected.”
The two turned to see one of the largest orcs Durotan had ever beheld. Neither he nor Orgrim were small specimens—indeed, Orgrim was the burliest Frostwolf for several generations—but this one forced Durotan to look up. His skin, a dark, true brown with no hint of green, glistened with either sweat or oil and was adorned with tattoos. His massive hands were completely black with ink, and his eyes gleamed with amused appraisment as he regarded them.
“You will see we live up to our reputation,” Durotan said quietly. “You will have no finer hunters in your new Horde, Blackhand of the Blackrock clan.”
Blackhand threw his head back and laughed. “We will not need hunters,” he said, “we will need warriors. Are you equal to those who came before you, Durotan, son of Garad?”
Durotan glanced over at the still-bleeding orc, who had been caught off guard. “Better,” he said, and it was true. “When Gul’dan came to ask the Frostwolves to join the Horde… twice… he made no mention of fighting for this promised land.”
“Ah,” Blackhand said, “but what is to savor in simply walking onto a field? We are orcs. We are now a Horde of orcs! And we will conquer this new world. At least,” he added, “those of us who are brave enough to fight for it. You are not afraid, are you?”
Durotan allowed himself the barest of smiles, his lips curving around his lower tusks. “The only things I fear are empty promises.”
“Bold,” Blackhand approved. “Blunt. Good. There is no place for bootlickers in my army. You have come just in time, Frostwolf. Another sun, and you would have been too late. You would have been left behind with the old and the frail.”
Durotan frowned. “You would leave some behind?”
“At first, yes—Gul’dan has ordered so,” Blackhand said.
Durotan thought of his mother, the Lorekeeper Geyah, the clan’s elderly shaman, Drek’Thar, the children… and his wife, heavy with child. “I never agreed to this!”
“If you protest, it would give me great pleasure to fight a mak’gora.”
The mak’gora was an ancient tradition, one known and practiced by all orcs. It was an honor battle, one on one, a challenge issued, and accepted. And it was to the death. A few months ago, Durotan, mindful of how the numbers of his clan were dwindling, had refused to slay a fellow Frostwolf he had defeated in a mak’gora. Blackhand obviously had no such reservations.
“Gul’dan will lead the way to the new homeland tomorrow at sunrise,” Blackhand said. “This first wave, which will wash over our enemies, will be made up only of warriors. The best the Horde has to offer. You may bring those among your clan who are young, healthy, quick, fierce—who are your best warriors.”
Durotan and Orgrim exchanged glances. If indeed this land had dangers that could threaten those most vulnerable, it was a sound strategy. It was what the strong should do.
“You speak sense, Blackhand,” he said reluctantly. “The Frostwolves will obey.”
“Good,” Blackhand said. “Your Frostwolves may not look like monsters, but I would hate to have to kill you without at least being able to watch you all fight first. Come, I will show you the might the orcs will bring when we descend upon this unsuspecting land.”