2
Darkness had fallen by the time Orgrim and Durotan returned. Under Draka’s direction, the clan had been busy erecting their makeshift traveling tents. Frostwolf banners, depicting the clan’s symbol of a white wolf on a blue background, hung limp in the still, dry air outside each one. Durotan looked around at the veritable sea of structures; not just theirs, but those of other clans as well. They, too, had banners that looked as worn out as Durotan felt.
Abruptly the banners stirred and the faint breeze carried the welcome scent of roasting meat to Durotan’s nostrils. He clapped Orgrim on the back. “Whatever betides us on the morrow, we have food tonight!”
“My belly will be grateful,” Orgrim replied. “When was the last time we ate something larger than a hare?”
“I cannot remember,” Durotan said, sobering almost at once. Game had been almost scarcer on the journey than it had been in the frozen north. Most of their meat sources were small rodents. He thought about talbuks, the delicate but fierce gazelle-like creatures, and the huge clefthooves, which were more than a challenge to kill, but once fed the clan well. He wondered what sort of beasts Gul’dan had found here, in the desert, and decided he did not wish to know.
They were greeted with the welcome sound of laughter as they approached the Frostwolf camp. Durotan strode forward to find Draka, Geyah, and Drek’Thar sitting around one of the fires. Together with Orgrim Doomhammer, these three comprised Durotan’s council of advisors. They had always given him sound advice, and Durotan felt resentment stir as he recalled Blackhand’s orders. If the tattooed orc commander had his way, everyone except Orgrim would be forced to remain behind. Other families clustered over similar small fires. Children drowsed nearby, exhausted. But Durotan saw that their bellies were rounded with food for the first time in months, and he was glad.
In the center of the fire were several spits of smaller animals. He gave Orgrim a rueful look. It would seem that they were still to feed on animals no larger than the size of their fists. But it was meat, and it was fresh, and Durotan would not complain.
Draka handed him a spit from the fire and Durotan tore into it. It was still hot and his mouth burned, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t realized just how long it had been since he had eaten fresh meat. When the first edge of his hunger had been blunted, Durotan told them what he and Orgrim had witnessed, and what Blackhand had told them. For a moment, there was silence.
“Who will you take?” Drek’Thar asked quietly. Orgrim looked away at the question. His expression told Durotan that his friend was relieved that he was not chieftain and thus not forced to deliver the bad news.
Durotan spoke the list he had been composing in his mind since he and Orgrim had left their meeting with Blackhand. Draka, Geyah, and Drek’Thar were not on it. There was a lengthy silence. Finally, Geyah spoke.
“I will not argue your decision, my chieftain,” she said. “For my part, I will stay behind. When Drek’Thar and I were visited by the Spirit of Life, it told me that I would need to stay with the clan. Now, I understand what it meant. I am a shaman, and I fight well, but there are others who are younger, stronger, and faster than I. And I am the Lorekeeper. Spirits guard you, but if this vanguard should fall, at least the history of our people will be kept alive.”
He smiled at her gratefully. She sounded resigned, but he knew how badly she wanted to fight at her son’s side. “Thank you. You know I will come for all of you as soon as it is safe.”
“I understand as well,” Drek’Thar said, sorrow tinging his voice. He gestured to the cloth he always wore to hide his ruined eyes. “I am blind, and old. I would be a liability.”
“No,” said Draka, her voice hard. “My heart, reconsider taking Drek’Thar. He is a shaman, and the Spirits told us they would be there, in this world we are about to enter. As long as there is earth, air, fire, water, and life, you will need a shaman. Drek’Thar is the best we have. He is a healer, and,” she added, “you may need his visions.”
A chill ran along Durotan’s skin, lifting the hairs on his arm. More than once, Drek’Thar’s visions had saved lives. Once, a warning from the Spirit of Fire had spared the entire clan. How could he not bring Drek’Thar? “You will not fight with us,” he said. “Only heal, and advise. Have I your word?”
“Always, my chieftain. It will be honor enough to go.”
Durotan looked at Draka. “I know, my heart, that you can fight, but—” He broke off, rising to his feet, one hand going to Sever’s hilt.
The visitor was almost as large as Blackhand. The firelight cast shadows on a physique as sculpted as if it had been chiseled from stone. Blackhand had impressed him, but this orc was, if not as large, more muscled, more powerful looking. Like Blackhand, he too wore tattoos, but whereas the commander’s hands had been inked solid black, it was this orc’s jaw that was dark as midnight. His long black hair was pulled back in a topknot, and his eyes glittered in the fire’s glow.
“I am Grom Hellscream, Chieftain of the Warsong,” the orc announced, his eyes sweeping the newcomers. “Blackhand told me that at long last, the Frostwolves had come.” He grunted in amusement and dropped a sack of something at Durotan’s feet. “Food,” he said.
The bag twitched and moved, bulging out here and there. “Insects,” Grom said. “Best eaten live, and raw.” He grinned. “Or dried and ground into flour. The taste is not bad.”
“I am Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh,” Durotan said, “and Grom Hellscream, Chieftain of the Warsong, is welcome at our fire.”
Durotan decided not to introduce the other members of the clan assembled around the fire, as he did not want to draw undue attention to them—not if he planned to take Drek’Thar with him at sunrise. He caught Draka’s eye and she nodded. She rose, quietly touching Drek’Thar and Geyah on the shoulders and taking them to another fire.
Durotan indicated the vacant seats, and Grom dropped down beside him and Orgrim. He accepted a spit from the embers and bit into the dripping meat with gusto.
“Though you and I have never met,” Durotan said, “some members of your clan once hunted alongside mine, years past.”
“I remember our clan members said the Frostwolves were good hunters, and fair,” Grom acknowledged. “If perhaps a bit too…” He groped for the word. “Reserved.”
Durotan refrained from telling Grom what the Frostwolves had thought of the Warsong. The words impulsive, loud, fierce and crazy had been used. Sometimes, admittedly, with admiration, but not always. Instead, he said, “It seems as though Gul’dan has managed to unite all the clans, now.”
Grom nodded. “You were the last to join,” he said. “There was one other, but they are gone, now. So Gul’dan says.”
The Frostwolves shifted uneasily. Durotan wondered if Grom spoke of the Red Walkers. If, in truth, the clan was dead down to the last member, it was a good thing, and he would not mourn.
“We,” Grom said with pride, “were among the first. When Gul’dan came to us and told us he knew of a way to travel to another land, one rich in game and clean water and enemies to battle, we agreed right away.” He laughed. “What more could an orc want?”
“My second-in-command, Orgrim, and I met with Blackhand upon our arrival,” Durotan said. “He told me of his plans to take a wave of warriors to this land first. We spoke of weapons and those who wield them, but I am curious as to Gul’dan’s preparations.”
Grom took another bite, finishing off the meat. He tossed the stick into the fire. “Gul’dan has found a way for us to enter another land,” Grom said. “An ancient artifact, long hidden in the earth. His magicks led him to it, and when we arrived here, we began to dig. We have unearthed it at last, and tomorrow, we will use it.”