Durotan and Drek’Thar made no attempt to disguise themselves. After several long minutes, Velen lifted his head and looked up, right into Durotan’s eyes. Durotan did not break the gaze, but stood waiting for his enemies to continue their approach. They reached the base of the mountain, but before they could continue farther, dozens of orcs moved purposefully out of hiding to surround them.
Velen did not look in the least bit surprised. He glanced around, smiling a little, and then returned his gaze to Durotan. Slowly, Durotan descended until he stood face-to-face with the draenei prophet.
“Long has it been since you and I last stood so, Velen,” Durotan said in a calm voice. He deliberately did not use the draenei’s title.
“Long indeed, Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan,” Velen said in that rich, smooth voice that Durotan remembered. “Are you friends with Orgrim still?”
“Indeed I am,” Durotan replied. “He carries the Doomhammer now, and is second in his own clan.”
Sorrow flitted across the pale face, a sorrow that was deep and unquestionably genuine. Again, Durotan remembered that night so long ago, when this being had sat with them and talked of orcish ways, of the Doomhammer and the cost at which Orgrim would buy it.
“I hope his father and yours passed with great honor,” Velen said.
“We are not here today to speak of the past,” Durotan said, more forcefully than he intended. He did not like to remember that night. “We are here because you have informed us that you dare trespass on our most sacred place.”
There it is, then, he thought. Let us not mince words.
Velen held Durotan’s gaze and nodded. “I had sent a missive to Ner’zhul, not to you, Durotan. He has declined to meet with me. I wonder … did he share this missive with you?”
“There was no need for me to read it.” Durotan replied, “I was asked to come in his stead. And I have done so.”
Durotan saw the broad shoulders slump a little. Velen sighed deeply. “I see,” he said. “He may not have told you why I wished to come today.”
“I do not need to know your purpose, draenei,” Durotan said.
“But you do, or else this conversation will be for nothing.” The voice was clear and crisp, and there was nothing old or frail about it despite Velen’s obviously ancient age. Durotan raised an eyebrow. That Velen was a wise elder was immediately apparent. But now, for the first time. Durotan caught a glimpse of the sheer strength of will that had buoyed Velen for countless years.
“This this mountain is sacred to your people. We know this, and we have respected it. But it is also sacred to us.” Velen took a step forward, his gaze locked on Durotan’s. The orc warriors around him shifted, murmured, but otherwise did not move.
“Deep inside the mountain is a being that has long cared for the draenei people,” Velen continued. “It is older by far than anything either of our minds can grasp. And more powerful. But even old and powerful things can die, and it is dying now. There is wisdom and grace and reconciliation We can have from it, your people and mine. We—”
“Blasphemer!”
Durotan started. The bitter cry had sprung from the throat not of some short-tempered warrior in the crowd, but from the orc who stood beside him. Drek’Thar’s eyes were wide and his body trembled with outrage. Veins stood out on his neck and he shook his fist at Velen. Durotan was so shocked by the outburst that he did not silence it as quickly as he should have, and Drek’Thar continued.
“Oshu’gun belongs to us! It is the home of the beloved dead, cradler of their spirits, and your hideous cloven feet are not fit to take one step up its blessed sides!”
Velen, too, seemed surprised at the outburst. He turned his attention to the shaman and stretched out a hand imploringly.
“Your sprits are housed within these walls, it is true, and I would never say it was not so.” Velen cried. “But they are drawn there because of this being. It seeks to—”
It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Drek’Thar bellowed in outrage. Other cries went up, and before Durotan realized quite what was happening, he saw his warriors surge forward. Draka moved toward them, trying to stop the attack, but she might as well have been trying to hold back the incoming tide. Durotan spun and struck Drek’Thar hard across the face. The shaman whirled, snarling. “Protect them!” Durotan cried. “You will obey my orders, and we must take them alive. Protect them, curse you!”
Drek’Thar’s eyes flashed in fury, but only for an instant. He lifted his hands and closed his eyes, and suddenly a huge circle of flame sprang up around the five draenei. A wind sprang up, whipping the fire even higher and physically buffeting the orcs. The warriors stepped back, and to Durotan’s horror some of the archers began nocking arrows on their bowstrings.
“Hold!” bellowed Durotan, the wind taking his order and bearing it to his warriors’ ears. “I will slay anyone who fires!”
Between his command and Drek’Thar’s powerful, if reluctant, abilities, the draenei were unharmed. Durotan raced down the mountainside to his prisoners, for such they now were. Drek’Thar was at his heels.
“Dismiss fire,” Durotan told Drek’Thar. At once, the sheets of flame that almost singed Durotan’s eyebrows dissipated. He stood face-to-face now with Velen, and a wave of an emotion he could not properly name rose inside him as he realized that the draenei elder was still as calm and serene as he had been when they had simply been talking.
“Velen, you and your people are now prisoners of the Frostwolf clan,” Durotan said in a soft, dangerous voice.
Velen smiled, sweetly, sadly. “I expected nothing less.” he said.
He and the other four somehow maintained their composure while Durotan ordered them stripped and searched. Their glorious robes were taken and given to Durotan’s top warriors, and the draenei were clad now in sweat-stiff tunics. His stomach turned at the jeers, insults, and spits that came their way at the humiliation, but he did not stop it. As long as no physical harm came to the prisoners—and Durotan watched closely to ensure that none would—he would let his warriors have their sport. Beside him, Draka looked angry at the behavior of her fellow Frostwolves and whispered, “My mate, can you not silence them?”
He shook his head. “I want to see how the draenei react. And … the warriors have stayed their hands when they might have been expected to kill. I will not silence their tongues as well.”
Draka looked at him searchingly, then nodded and withdrew. He knew she did not approve, and he did not like what he was seeing either. But he was walking a delicate line, and he knew it.
“My chieftain!” cried Rokkar, Durotan’s second in command. “Come see what they have brought us!”
Durotan went to Rokkar’s side and peered into the sack he had opened. His eyes widened. Nestled inside, swathed in soft fabric, were two exquisitely beautiful stones. One was red, the other was yellow. Durotan ached to touch them, but did not. He looked up and met Velen’s gaze. “Long ago, Restalaan showed us a crystal similar to this one,” he said. “That one protected a city. What do these do?”
“Each has its own strength. They are part of our legacy. They were bequeathed to us by the being that dwells in the sacred mountain.”
Durotan growled softly. “You would do well not to mention that again,” he said. To Rokkar, he said, “Feed them, bind their hands, and put them on wolves, with shaman to guard them. Give the stones to Drek’Thar. We will take the draenei back with us and deliver them to Ner’zhul. He should have been here in my stead today.”
He turned and stalked off, not wanting to look at Velen’s odd, glowing blue eyes, not wanting to see the disapproval in Draka’s.