Durotan emulated her. “I will tell the courier that his master may rest content. I will not shirk my duty.”
He felt her worried gaze boring into his back as he left.
Velen held the violet crystal close to his heart. The red and yellow ones rested at his side as he sat in meditation, casting a soft glow upon his alabaster skin. The four others were placed elsewhere in draenei territory, their great powers serving his people as needed. But the violet one never left him.
Its power opened the mind and spirit, and in a way, it was almost like being in direct communication with the Naaru. Velen always felt stronger, cleaner, his soul honed to a keen edge, when he meditated with the violet crystal. Although each of the seven crystals was precious and powerful, this was the one he treasured the most.
He strained to hear the soft whispers of K’ure, but he could not. Velen’s heart ached. He bowed his head.
He heard voices and opened his eyes. Restalaan was speaking to one of the acolytes, and Velen waved him forward.
“What news, old friend?” Velen inquired. He indicated a pot of hot herbal tea.
Restalaan waved his hand, declining the offer. “Good and bad, my Prophet,” he said. “I deeply regret to inform you that the courier you sent to the shaman leader Ner’zhul was killed by a group of orcs.”
Velen closed his eyes. The violet crystal grew warmer for a moment, as if trying to offer comfort.
“I sensed his death,” Velen said heavily. “But I had hoped it was an accident. You are certain he was murdered?”
“Ner’zhul says so, and offers no apology.” Restalaan’s voice conveyed his anger and affront at the incident. He was kneeling beside Velen, next to the red crystal. Velen’s dark blue eyes darted to the crystal as it pulsed once, briefly, responding to Restalaan’s emotions.
“So much for your theory that they would not attack an unarmed man,” Restalaan continued bitterly.
“I had so hoped for better,” Velen said quietly. “But you said there was some good news to mitigate these sad tidings?”
Restalaan grimaced. “If you can call it that. Ner’zhul says that an orc contingency will meet with us at the base of the mountain.”
“He … is not coming?”
Restalaan dropped his gaze and shook his head. “No, my Prophet,” he said quietly.
“Who does he send in his stead?”
“The letter does not say.”
“Give it to me.” Velen stretched out a white hand and Restalaan placed the parchment in his palm. Velen uncurled the parchment and read the letter quickly.
Your courier is dead. It is fortunate that those who slew him thought to search the body for his missive. I have read it, and I will agree to send a contingency of orcs to speak with you. I guarantee nothing—not your safety, not a truce, nothing. But we will hear you out.
Velen sighed deeply. This was not the response his soul had longed for. What had happened to the orcs?
Why in this world or any other were they suddenly so bent on harming the draenei, who had never opposed them in any fashion?
I guarantee nothing, Ner’zhul had said, writing in a strong, bold hand.
“Very well,” said Velen quietly. “Then nothing is guaranteed,” He smiled at Restalaan. “Rather like life.”
The day was inappropriately bright and cheerful, Durotan thought, squinting against the bright early summer light that danced down. Surely, on a day when his soul felt so bleak and unhappy, the weather ought to reflect it. Clouds, at the very least. More appropriately, a cold, drizzling rain. But the sun did not care about an orc’s heavy gait, or even the fate of an entire race of people. It shone down as merrily as if all was right every place its rays touched. Oshu’gun almost seemed to be on fire, so bright was the light that reflected off its multifaceted, crystalline surface.
Durotan had chosen a position of strength. From where he had positioned his warriors, he would be able to see Velen’s traveling party long before they spotted the orcs. He had decided to wait and let the Prophet of the draenei come directly to him, although he had strategically positioned his warriors so that if the draenei attempted to flee, no avenue of flight would be open to them. And all the orcs who waited patiently on this offensively glorious day were armed to the teeth, with shaman at the ready. With her sharp eyes and superb fighting skills, Draka was highly useful to him as a scout. He had positioned her as one of the lookouts in the first group of warriors. The instant that Velen was visible, she would send word to her mate via a spell cast by Drek’Thar.
Drek’Thar himself, though, was standing beside Durotan, As the most powerful shaman in the clan, his place was to protect the clan’s leader. The two stood on a rock outcropping just above the entrance to the gleaming sacred mountain. Dozens of warriors waited with arrows, hand axes, and javelins at the ready. Others had spent days maneuvering large boulders into position. At a word from Durotan, a simple movement would send death in the form of huge stones crashing down upon the draenei.
The threat of death, in fact, was everywhere on this lovely mountain, on this beautiful sunny day.
A breeze stirred Durotan’s black hair and a bird sang brightly. Drek’Thar looked at his chieftain with concern.
“My chieftain, you are doing what you have been told to do,” Drek’Thar said earnestly. “These beings are our enemies.”
Durotan nodded and wished he could believe it as easily as every other orc seemed to.
The breeze brushed his check again, more insistently, and this time he heard words on the wind. Draka’s message, borne to him by Drek’Thar’s bond with the elements. They are coming. Five of them. None of
them is wearing armor or carries any visible weapons. They walk serenely.
The wind wafted her words away, and he knew it went to touch the ears of all the orcs assembled. When the time was right, Drek’Thar would harness the wind to give orders to Durotan’s troops. Durotan straightened, and his heart beat more swiftly. His hand gripped his battle-axe tightly.
“There they are,” said Drek’Thar grimly. Durotan followed his gaze.
Draka’s report had been accurate, right down to her interpretation of the manner in which the draenei approached. The five draenei did not wear the strange blue and silvery armor that Durotan remembered from his single encounter with them. They were dressed instead as they had been for the meal, in robes of beautiful hues that caught the breeze and fluttered behind them like banners. Walking at the very front of the little group was Prophet Velen himself. He was unmistakable; his simple tan robes contrasted with those of his entourage, and of course his strange white skin was unique. Durotan grinned a little despite the direness of the situation. The draenei were so garishly clad that only a blind orc would have failed to spot them from a great distance.
The smile faded at what that had to represent. They wanted to be spotted immediately. They wanted the orcs to be confident that they carried no weapons and were on what Mother Kashur would have called a pilgrimage. Or was it all just an elaborate trick? Shaman needed no spears to destroy. Neither did the draenei. Durotan remembered the magical nets that scared and blackened flesh on contact—nets of energy, alien to the orcs, that had come from nowhere.
No, even unarmed, the draenei were far from harmless.
He had briefed his warriors and knew they would obey. They understood they were not to fire a warning shot—not to utter even an insult—without Durotan’s express command. But they knew how the draenei fought, and would not be taken unawares. Durotan could smell the tension emanating from those warriors closest to him; he wondered if the draenei could, too.
Durotan watched as the groups he had set farthest away came out of hiding to close ranks behind the draenei. They were far enough back so that Durotan hoped the draenei would not notice. If they did, they gave no sign, but merely continued with that steady, confident … serene … pace.