He was dimly aware of his hand hurting. Somewhat in a daze, he looked down to see that Draka was clenching it so hard she threatened to break the bones.
“For the shaman!” cried someone.
“No!” Gul’dan’s voice carried over the noise of the cheering crowd. “No longer are they shaman. They were abandoned by the elements—they will call them no longer and beg for their aid. Behold those who have power, and who are not afraid to wield it. Behold … the warlocks!”
Durotan tore his gaze from his fingers entwining with his mate’s to look up at the sacred mountain. It jutted serenely skyward as it ever had, its sides catching and reflecting the light, and for a long moment, Durotan wondered why it did not shatter and break, like the heart of a sentient being, overcome with horror at what was being done in its once-comforting shadow.
There were wild celebrations that night. Durotan participated in none of them and forbade members of his clan to do so. As the Frostwolf shaman sat by their small fire, subdued and eating in silence, Drek’Thar dared ask the question that Durotan knew was in their hearts.
“My chieftain,” said Drek’Thar quickly, “will you permit us to learn the ways of the warlocks?”
There was a long silence, unbroken save by the crackling of the fire. Finally Durotan spoke.
“I have a question for you first.” he said. “Do you approve of what was done to the prisoners today?”
Drek’Thar looked uncomfortable. “It … would be better had we attacked them in honest combat.” he admitted. “But they are our enemies. They have proven that.”
“Proven that they will fight back when attacked.” Durotan retorted. “That is all that has been proven.” Drek’Thar started to protest, but Durotan waved him to be silent. “I know, this is the will of the ancestors, but today I beheld something that I never thought I would see. I saw the sacred fields where for countless years our people met in peace defiled by the blood of those who couldn’t even lift a hand to defend themselves.”
He saw movement at the edge of the circle and caught Orgrim’s scent. Durotan continued. “In the shadow of Oshu’gun itself. Those who slew the draenei today did not do so in order to protect an immediate threat to our lands. They butchered prisoners in order to show off their new … talents.”
Orgrim now coughed quietly and Durotan motioned him forward. Orgrim was well known to all present, and he sat down by the fire with the familiarity of one known and welcomed.
“Orgrim,” Draka said, touching her friend’s arm gently. “The first … warlocks … are from your clan. What are your thoughts?”
Orgrim stared into the firelight, his heavy brows knitted together as he sorted through his thoughts. “If we are to fight the draenei—and even you Frostwolves are resigned to the necessity of it—then we should fight to be victorious. The elements have abandoned the shaman. They are fickle and unpredictable at their best, and were never the most reliable allies. Not like one’s friends.”
He glanced at Durotan and smiled a little. Despite the heaviness in his chest, Durotan smiled back.
“These new creatures, these strange powers—they seem to be more dependable. And destructive.”
“There was something about them ….” Draka’s voice trailed off. Drek’Thar broke in quickly.
“Draka, I know your concerns. They were definitely not natural powers, at least not natural as we shaman have always known them. But who is to say that is wrong? They exist, they must have some place in the order of things. Fire is fire. Whether it comes from the fingers of a little dancing being or with the spirit of fire’s blessing, it burns flesh just the same. I agree with our esteemed guest. We have committed to the battle. Surely we do not fight to lose it!”
Draka still shook her head, her beautiful eyes unhappy. Her hands moved as if she were physically groping for the words.
“It is more than summoning fire, or even the strange bolts of darkness,” she said. “I have fought draenei. I have slain draenei. And never have I seen them writhe in such pain, nor give voice to such torment. The things who are serving the warlocks seemed to … enjoy that.”
“We enjoy the hunt,” Durotan pointed out. He disliked arguing with his mate, but as always, he needed to see all sides of an issue in order to decide what was best for his clan. “The wolves enjoy feasting on steaming flesh.”
“Is it wrong to wish to win?” Orgrim challenged, his gray eyes narrowing. “Is it wrong to take pleasure in the victory?”
“In the hunt, in the victory, no. It is the suffering of which I speak.”
Drek’Thar shrugged. “Perhaps the beings who are summoned to serve feed on that. Perhaps it is necessary to their existence.”
“But is it necessary to ours?” Draka’s eyes glittered in the firelight, and Durotan knew with a pang that it was not from anger but from tears of frustration.
“The draenei have always had superior magics to ours, even with the aid of the elements.” Drek’Thar said. “I have always been a shaman. I was born so. And now I tell you I will embrace the path of the warlock, if my clan leader will permit it. Because I understand what those powers can do for us, having dealt with the elements for as long as I have. I would say, Draka, I am sorry, but yes—yes—this is necessary to our existence. If we do not have the powers of the elements to call upon, the draenei will obliterate us from the face of the earth.”
Draka sighed and buried her face in her hands. The small group was silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Durotan thought something was missing; now he knew. He did not hear the sounds of the night creatures, the birds and insects and other living things who formerly filled the air with quiet sounds. They had been driven from this place by what had occurred here earlier. He tried not to think of this as an omen.
“I will permit the Frostwolf clan to learn these arts,” he said heavily.
Drek’Thar bowed his head. “I thank you, Durotan. You will not regret it.”
Durotan did not reply.
14
Drek’Thar weeps as he tells me of these things, tears falling from eyes that can no longer see the present but too keenly can see the past. I have no comfort to offer him. That the elements have come again to his call—to mine—indeed to that of any orcish shaman is testimony to their compassion and forgiveness, their desire to see the balance restored.
The Spire that still houses darkness is not on this continent. We are well away from its malevolence physically, but not yet out of its shadow. The shadow that was cast so long ago, on the day following the defiling of what had once been our most sacred place.
The shadow of a black hand.
Sleep did not come easily to Durotan. Nor, he realized, to Draka, as she tossed and turned and sighed. Finally he gave up and lay awake, going over die events of the day. Everything in him screamed that it was wrong to embrace a magical path that so blatantly throve on the suffering of another being. And yet, what else was there to do? The elements had deserted the shaman, even though the ancestors themselves had given the orcs this task. Without magic to use as an additional weapon, the orcs would be wiped out by the superior technology and knowledge of the draenei.
He rose and left the sleeping tent. He started a fire to shake off the predawn chill and silently ate cold raw meat. As he broke his fast and watched the sky lighten, he saw a courier approaching. Without stopping, the rider tossed a scroll to Durotan and rode on. Durotan unfolded it and closed his eyes at the contents.