He recalled, too, his first real glimpse of the female who would become his life-mate, hunting in these lush fields, dancing around the fire to the sound of the drums throbbing in his veins, and chanting to the moon. As long as his people still had this, he thought, all would still be well with them. Heartened somewhat, he looked over at where the dancing was usually held. A small tent was erected, and he wondered what it was for.
He and Draka halted a few yards away from the tent, assuming it was part of the demonstration. The others followed suit. The sun shone brightly as more and more orcs gathered. Durotan saw that most of those who had come today were clan chieftains and their shaman, so the site did not have to accommodate quite as many as it did during the festival time.
Gul’dan waited until everyone else was assembled before striding purposefully toward the tent. The shaman trained in this mysterious new magic followed him. They all strode with confidence and pride. Coming to a halt in front of the tent, Gul’dan beckoned to a few of the Blackrock warriors, who stepped forward and stood at attention.
At that moment, the wind shifted. Durotan’s eyes widened as a familiar scent was carried to his nostrils.
Draenei …
Low murmurs around him told him that he was not the only one who had caught the scent. At that moment, Gul’dan nodded to the warriors. They disappeared inside the tent for a brief moment.
Eight draenei, their hands tightly bound, emerged from the tent.
Their faces were puffy and swollen from beatings. Rags had been shoved in their mouths. Blood was caked on their blue skin and what little remained of their clothing. Durotan stared.
“When the Blackrock clan fought using the magic I am about to share with you, their victory was so absolute that they were able to take several prisoners,” Gul’dan said proudly. “These prisoners will help me show you what these new magical abilities can do.”
Outrage flooded Durotan. Slaying a foe in armed combat was one thing. Slaughtering helpless prisoners was another. He opened his mouth, but a hand on his arm stayed his words. He glanced up angrily into Orgrim Doomhammer’s cool gray eyes.
“You knew about this.” Durotan hissed, his words for his old friend’s ears alone.
“Keep your voice down,” Orgrim hissed back, glancing about to see if anyone was paying attention to them. No one was; everyone’s attention was riveted on Gul’dan and the draenei prisoners. “Yes, I knew. I was there when we captured them. It is the way of such things, Durotan.”
“It did not use to be the way of the orcs.” Durotan replied.
“It is now.” Orgrim said. “It is a sad necessity. For what it is worth, I do not believe that this will become a common practice. The goal is to slay the draenei, not torment them.”
Durotan stared at his old friend. Orgrim kept the gaze for a moment, then flushed and looked away. Durotan felt his outrage abate somewhat. At least Orgrim understood what a violation this was, even if he supported it. But what else could Orgrim have done? He was second in command to Blackhand. He was oath-bound to support his chieftain. Like Durotan, he had responsibilities to others he simply could not shirk. For the first time in his life, Durotan wished he were a mere clan member.
He looked down into his mate’s eyes. She stared, aghast, first at him and then at Orgrim. And then, he saw the sorrow and resignation flit across her features and she lowered her head.
“These beings have worth to us in this moment,” Gul’dan was saying. Durotan, his body feeling heavy as lead, dragged his gaze to the shaman. “We will use them to demonstrate these new powers.”
He nodded to the first Blackrock shaman in line, who bowed. Looking slightly nervous, the female closed her eyes and concentrated. A sound like rushing wind filled Durotan’s ears. A strange pattern written in purple light appeared at her feet, encircling her. Above her head, a purple cube turned idly. Then, suddenly, a small, squawking creature appeared at her feet. It capered, its eyes blazing red, its small but sharp teeth bared in what looked like a smile. Durotan heard murmurings and some hisses of fear.
Other shaman followed suit, summoning the same eerie purple circles and cubes, manifesting creatures seemingly out of thin air. Some were large, shapeless things in hues of blue and purple, hovering ominously. Other beings were fair to look upon, save for their hooved feet and batlike wings. Some were large, some small, and all sat or stood quietly beside those who had called them into being.
“Pretty little pets, to be sure,” came the distinctive voice of Grom Hellscream, dripping with sarcasm. “But what do they do?”
Gul’dan smiled indulgently. “Patience, Hellscream,” he said, almost condescendingly. “It is a strength, not a weakness.”
Hellscream’s brows drew together, but he stayed silent. He was as curious as anyone, Durotan assumed. Blackhand stood, smiling a little, looking like a proud father. Only he seemed unsurprised by what was unfolding here, and Durotan realized that he must have already witnessed the powers of the newly trained shaman. Witnessed, and approved.
One of the draenei was cut loose from the rest and shoved forward. His hands still bound, he stumbled a few steps on his cloven feet, then stood erect. His face was impassive. Only his slowly moving tail gave any indication of stress.
The first shaman stepped forward, moving her hands and murmuring slightly. The little creature at her side squawked and jumped about, then suddenly fire erupted from its clawed hands to slam into the hapless draenei. At the same moment, a ball of … darkness … formed at the shaman’s fingertips and rushed toward the prisoner. It grunted in pain as its blue flesh was blackened and burned from the small creature’s attack, but it dropped to its knees in obvious agony as the shadow ball struck it.
Again the shaman muttered something, and flames erupted from the very flesh of the tortured draenei. Where before he had been stoic and silent, now he screamed in torment, his cries muffled somewhat by the gag in his throat, but not completely. He jerked and spasmed on the earth, flailing like a fish freshly hooked, his eyes rolling wildly. Then he was still. The reck of burned flesh filled the air.
For a moment, there was silence. Then came a sound that Durotan had never thought to hear: cries of approval and delight at the sight of a bound foe dying in helpless torment.
Durotan stared in horror. Another prisoner was slain for “demonstration purposes.” This one was beaten with a whip by one of the fairer servants of the shaman, standing transfixed while fire rained upon it, and darkness pummeled it. A third was brought forward, its magical essence sucked out of it by a monstrous creature that looked like a deformed wolf with tentacles sprouting from its back.
Bile rose in Durotan’s throat as blue blood and ashes covered what once had been sacred land, land that had been and was even now lush and fertile, though its profound sense of tranquility had been brutally violated. Here he had danced, had sung to the moon, had conspired with a boyhood friend, had courted his beloved. Here generations of orcs had celebrated their unity on a place so holy that any fights that broke out had been halted immediately, the combatants ordered to make peace or to depart. Durotan was no shaman. He could not sense the earth or the spirits, but he did not need to in order to feel their pain as his own.
Mother Kashur, surely, surely this is not what you wanted, he thought. The cheering filled his ears, the stench of blood and charred flesh assaulted his nostrils. Worst of all was the sight of his brethren, even some among his own clan, who were caught up in the frenzy of inflicting pain and torment upon beings who were rendered incapable of even spitting on their opponents.