“For the Horde!” said Kur’kul.
Durotan did not reply.
What happened next was barbaric.
Durotan forced himself to remain impassive while Kur’kul cast a spell on the five Frostwolf children. They writhed in pain, screaming and flailing on the earth as bones were stretched, as skin and muscle burst into unnatural growth. A sickly green line linked the children to the warlock, as if he was sucking the very life out of them. The expression on Kur’kul’s face was ecstatic. If the children were suffering, he most definitely was not. For an awful moment, Durotan feared the warlock would not stop at age twelve, but would continue draining life from the children until they were shriveled and ancient.
But thankfully, Kur’kul did stop. The young orcs—children no longer—lay where they had dropped the instant the draining had begun. For long moments, they could not be roused, and when they did, they wept, softly, breathily, as if they no strength left for anything else.
Durotan turned toward the warlock. “You have done what you have come for. Get out.”
Kur’kul looked offended. “Chieftain Durotan, you—”
Durotan seized him by the front of his scarlet robe. Fear flickered across the other orc’s face.
“Get out. Now.”
Durotan shoved hard and Kur’kul stumbled backward, almost falling. He glowered at Durotan.
“Blackhand will not be pleased to hear of this,” Kur’kul growled. Durotan did not dare speak; if any other words came from his mouth, he knew they would doom his clan. Instead he turned away, shaking with rage, and went to the children who were children no longer.
For some time after that, nothing was asked of the Frostwolf clan save more intensive training and reporting back on that training, and Durotan was both relieved and apprehensive. Somehow, he knew that when Blackhand and Gul’dan chose to notice him, the task they would set for him would be a difficult one.
He would not be disappointed.
Durotan was looking at a new pattern for armor the smith had just drawn up when the wolfrider loped into the Frostwolf encampment. Without breaking stride, the rider tossed Durotan a parchment, wheeled his mount around, and departed. Durotan unrolled it and began to read, his eyes widening. He looked up quickly at the departing figure of the rider—it was not the official courier.
Old friend—
I am sure it comes as no surprise that you are being watched. They will set a task for you, one that they know you can complete. You must do so. I do not know what they will do if you refuse, but I fear the worst.
There was no signature; the missive did not need one. Durotan knew Orgrim’s bold script. He crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the fire, watching it twist and curl in on itself like a living thing as the flames licked and consumed it.
Orgrim had sent the warning just in time. That very afternoon, a rider wearing the official tabard of a courier approached and handed the Frostwolf chieftain a parchment. Durotan nodded as he accepted it and put it aside. He did not want to see it right now.
But the courier looked uneasy. She did not dismount, but neither did she turn her wolf and ride back to the Frostwolf lands.
“I have been instructed to wait for a reply,” she said after an awkward pause.
Durotan nodded and unrolled the parchment. The writing was exquisite, and he knew that Blackhand had dictated the missive; the Warchief, smart and cunning though he was, was barely literate.
It was worse than he had thought. Durotan kept his face carefully neutral, though out of the corner of his eye he saw that Draka was watching him carefully.
Unto Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan, Blackhand, Warchief of the Horde, gives greetings.
You have now had time to see the skills of our newly trained warlocks in action. It is time to take the attack to our enemies. The draenei city of Telmor is close to your borders. You are instructed to form a war party and attack them. Orgrim has told me that as boys, the two of you entered that city. That you saw the secret of how the draenei kept themselves unseen. Orgrim also tells me that you have excellent recall and that you would remember how to expose the city to our warriors for an assault.
I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what destroying this city would mean to the Horde. And to the Frostwolf clan. Reply to this letter immediately and we will begin preparations for the assault.
For the Horde!
The signature was an imprint of Blackhand’s right hand, stained with ink.
Durotan was furious. How could Orgrim have revealed this information? Did he truly follow Blackhand after all, that he would tell the Warchief of this incident and so put Durotan on the spot? The anger ebbed as he realized that the information to which Blackhand referred—their visit there as boys, the way the city was hidden, Durotan’s almost uncanny memory—these were things that could have been dropped in conversation at any point over the last few years. Blackhand was intelligent enough to pick up any crumb of information, and hoard it until such time as it was necessary. Durotan thought about lying, about claiming that he could not recall the words by which Restalaan had dispelled the illusion that kept die draenei city safe and hidden from the eyes of the ogres … and now, the eyes of the orcs. It had been a long time, and he had only heard the phrase uttered once. Anyone else would indeed have forgotten it. But the threat in the letter was so thinly veiled as to be almost ridiculous. If Durotan agreed to assist with the attack, he would prove his loyalty to the Horde, to Blackhand, and to Gul’dan, at least for the moment. If he refused, even if he claimed not to recall the words Blackhand wanted him to speak … well, like Orgrim, Durotan feared the worst.
The courier was waiting.
Durotan made the only decision he could make.
He looked up at the courier, his face impassive. “I will do as the Warchief bids, of course. For the Horde!”
The courier looked both relieved and a little surprised. “The Warchief will be pleased to hear this. I am instructed to give you the following.” She reached into her leather backpack and retrieved a small sack, which she handed to Durotan. “Your warriors and your warlocks will need to train with these.”
Durotan nodded. He knew what they were: the Heart of Fury and the Brilliant Star that he had ordered taken off Velen. These stones were perhaps the only things that had spared him once before when he had incurred Ner’zhul’s anger. Now, he would use them against the very people he had taken them from.
“The Warchief will contact you soon,” the courier said, inclined her head, and turned her wolf. Durotan watched her go. Draka stepped quietly beside him. He handed her the letter and went into their tent.
A few moments later she joined him, slipping her arms around him from behind while he buried his face in his hands and grieved over the events that had led to the terrible decision he had been forced to make.
A few days later the war party gathered at the Frostwolf encampment. Most of the warriors and warlocks were from the Blackrock clan, but there were more than a few painted Warsong faces in the crowd, and several Shattered Hand as well. Even the most obtuse among the Frostwolves could sense the mistrust and contempt from the visitors. Durotan knew it was no accident that the other orcs were all from the most martial clans. They were there to make sure the Frostwolves did not falter at any critical point. Durotan idly wondered which among them had the instructions to slit his throat at the first sign of hesitation. He hoped it was not Orgrim, The two old friends exchanged only a few words, and Durotan saw regret in Orgrim’s visage. For that, at least, he was glad.
A courier had been sent ahead, so there were plenty of bonfires roaring and food and drink for the hungry “guests.” Many of the Frostwolves gave up their own lodging for the visitors, so that those who would head into battle the following morning would rest as well as possible. Durotan met with Orgrim and the others who would lead the assault, sketching out a layout of the city as best he and Orgrim could recall it.