During the long ride back, Durotan wrestled with his emotions. On the one hand, he shared Drek’Thar’s offense. Oshu’gun was sacred to the orcs. The idea that something other than the ancestors dwelt inside it, indeed, as Velen claimed, was so powerful that it lured the ancestors to it, struck him to the core. He could only imagine how the shaman felt about such a declaration. Everything seemed to point to Ner’zhul’s being correct, that the draenei were a blight upon the world and should be eliminated.
What nagged at him was why. He would get an answer to that question tonight.
With everyone, including the five captives, mounted, they made good time. The sun was only starting to set when they returned. Durotan had sent outriders ahead with the good news, and the clan was waiting eagerly for their arrival. On his right were Drek’Thar and Rokkar, who shared the sentiments of the Frostwolves. On his left was Draka, who had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the entire event. Durotan knew that he did not want to hear what she had to say; he was already being pulled in too many directions as it was.
The prisoners were ungraciously shoved into two tents and an immediate guard was set up around them. Four seasoned warriors and Drek’Thar’s most trusted shaman stood proudly, pleased with the duty entrusted to them. Durotan had ordered Velen isolated; he wanted to speak with the draenei prophet alone.
After the excitement had settled down somewhat, Durotan took a deep breath. He was not looking forward to this conversation, but it had to be done. He nodded to the guards and entered the small tent that hosted Prophet Velen.
Since he had ordered Velen bound, he expected to see the elder with his hands tied. Instead, he saw that whoever had carried out his order had done so with excessive zeal.
The tent had been erected around a sturdy tree, and Velen was now bound to the trunk. His arms had been yanked back at an awkward angle, the ropes around the white flesh of his wrists tied so tightly that even in the dim light of twilight Durotan could see that they were turning a darker shade. A rope tied, thankfully loosely, around his neck forced him to keep his head up or risk choking. A dirty cloth had been shoved in his mouth. He was on his knees, and his hooves, too, were bound behind him.
Durotan uttered a deep oath and drew a dagger. Velen gazed at him with no sign of fear in those deep blue eyes, but Durotan did notice that the draenei looked surprised when the orc used the weapon to cut the bonds rather than his throat. Velen made no sound, but a flicker of pain passed over his ghostly white face as blood returned to his limbs.
“I told them to bind you, not truss you up like a talbuk,” Durotan muttered.
“Your people are very eager, it would seem.”
Durotan passed the elder a waterskin and watched him closely while he drank. Sitting before him in filthy clothing, gulping at tepid water, his white flesh raw from the bonds, Velen did not look like much of a threat. How would he feel, he wondered, if he had gotten word of the draenei treating Mother Kashur so? Everything about this felt wrong. Yet Mother Kashur herself had assured Drek’Thar that the draenei were a threat so dire as to be almost unimaginable.
There was a bowl of cold blood porridge on the ground. With his right foot, Durotan shoved it toward the prisoner. Velen eyed it, but did not eat.
“Not quite the feast you served Orgrim and me when we dined in Telmor,” Durotan said. “But it is nourishing.”
Velen’s lips curved in a smile. “That was a memorable evening.”
“Did you get what you wanted from us that night?” Durotan demanded. He was angry, but not with Velen. He was angry that it had come to this, that one who had shown him nothing but courtesy was now his captive. And so he took it out on the Prophet.
“I do not understand. We merely wished to be good hosts to two adventuresome boys.”
Durotan got to his feet and kicked over the bowl. Congealed porridge oozed onto the earth. “Do you expect me to believe this?”
Velen did not rise to the bait. He replied calmly, “It is the truth. It is your choice as to whether you believe it.”
Durotan dropped to his knees and shoved his face into Velen’s. “Why are you trying to destroy us? What have we ever done to you?”
“I might ask you the same question,” said Velen. A flush had come to his white face. “We have never lifted a finger to harm you, and now over two dozen draenei are dead from your attacks!”
The truth of the comment made Durotan even angrier. “The ancestors do not lie to us,” he snarled. “We have been warned that you are not what you would seem—that you are our enemies. Why did you bring those crystals if not to attack us?”
“We thought it might help us better communicate with the being in the mountain.” Velen spoke quickly, as if trying to get the words out before Durotan could silence him. “It is not an enemy to the orcs, nor are we. Durotan, you are intelligent and wise. I saw this in you that night so long ago. You are not one to blindly follow like an animal to slaughter. I know not why your leaders lie to you, but they do. We have ever sought to interact peaceably with you. You are better than this, son of Garad. You are not like the others!”
Durotan’s dark brown eyes narrowed. “You are wrong, draenei,” he spat. “I am proud to be an orc. I embrace my heritage.”
Velen looked exasperated. “You misunderstand. I do not malign your people. I merely—”
“Merely what? Merely tell us that the only reason We are seeing the beloved dead is because of your … your god trapped in the mountain?”
“It is not a god, it is an ally, and would be one to your people as well if you would permit it to be.”
Durotan swore and rose, stalking about the tent, his hands clenching and unclenching. Then he uttered a long, deep sigh, the anger in him burning down to ashes.
“Velen, your words are but wood on the fire of our wrath,” he said quietly. “Your claim is arrogant and offensive. It will support those who are already prepared to slay your people on the word oi our ancestors. I do not understand myself—but you are asking to choose between people I trust, traditions I have been raised on, and your word.”
He turned and faced the draenei. “I will choose my people. You need to know this. If you and I come face-to-face on the field of battle, I will not stay my hand.”
Velen looked only curious. “You … will not take me to Ner’zhul, then?”
Durotan shook his head. “No. If he wanted you, he should have come for you himself. He appointed me to treat with you, and I have carried out my duties as I saw fit.”
“You were supposed to deliver a prisoner to him,” Velen said.
“I was to meet with you and listen to your words,” Durotan said. “Had I captured you in battle, stricken a weapon from your hands, and wrested you to the earth, then yes, you would be a prisoner. But there is no honor in binding a foe who extends his hands willingly for the rope. We are at an impasse, you and I. You insist that you have no ill will toward the orcs. My leaders and the ghosts of my ancestors tell me otherwise.”
Again, Durotan knelt before the draenei. “They call you Prophet—do you know the future then? If so, then tell me what you and I can do to avert what I fear will unfold. I would not shed innocent life, Velen. Give me something, anything, I can take to Ner’zhul that will prove that what you say is true!”
He realized he was pleading, but the fact did not distress him. He loved his wife, his clan, his people. He hated what he was seeing: an entire generation rushing headlong to adulthood with only blind hate in their hearts. If begging before this strange being could change this, then beg he would.
The strange blue eyes held an unspeakable empathy. Velen extended a pale hand and placed it on Durotan’s shoulder.
“The future is not like a book one can read,” he said quietly. “It is ever changing, like the rush of water, or the swirl of sand. I am granted certain insights, but nothing more, I felt very strongly that I needed to come unarmed, and behold, I am greeted not by the orcs’ greatest shaman, but by one who has slept safely under my roof. I do not think this an accident, Durotan. And if anything can be done to avert this, it lies with the orcs, not with the draenei. All I can do is tell you what I have already said. The river’s course can be changed. But you are the ones who must change it. That is all I know, and I pray it is enough to save my people.”