"Who slew the mighty Cairne? What caused this?" the elderly orc demanded in a voice that was surprisingly clear and strong.
Perith recounted the tragedy of the attack on the druids in Ashenvale, and of Hamuul Runetotem's narrow escape. "When Cairne heard of this atrocity, he challenged Garrosh Hellscream to the mak'gora in the arena.
Garrosh accepted—but only if Cairne adhered to the old rules. He demanded a battle to the death, and Cairne agreed."
"Then he fell, in fair battle. And the Grimtotem saw the opportunity," Drek’Thar said.
"No. There are rumors circulating that Magatha poisoned Garrosh's blade so that the noble Cairne was felled by nothing more than a nick. I saw her anoint the blade; I saw Cairne fall. I cannot say if Garrosh knew of the deception or was himself deceived. I do know that the Grimtotem did all they could to prevent word from reaching Thunder Bluff. It was only with the greatest care, and the blessing of the Earth Mother, that I eluded their net."
Palkar stared at him, his mind reeling. Cairne assassinated by the matriarch of the Grimtotem? And Garrosh was either duped or a willing participant—either was terrible to contemplate. And now the Grimtotem ruled the tauren.
He tried to gather his thoughts, but Drek’Thar, alert and fully present now, spoke more quickly than he. "Baine? Any word of him?"
"There was an attack on Bloodhoof Village, but Baine escaped. No one has heard from him yet, but we believe he lives. If he were dead, rest assured that Magatha would announce it—and back it up with his head."
Something was bothering Palkar, more than the obvious horror at the news. Something else that Perith had said—
"Then there is still hope. Is Garrosh choosing to aid the usurpers?"
"We have not seen evidence of that."
"If he truly was a participant in the dishonorable murder of Cairne," Drek’Thar continued, "it is unlikely that he would not do all he could to silence Baine and see that those Garrosh supported continued to hold power. The warchief must be advised of these developments at once."
The warchief must be advised….
I must speak with Thrall.…He must know….
Ancestors… he had been right!
Sweat broke out on Palkar's brow. Two moons ago, Drek’Thar had had a wild, feverish vision in which he proclaimed that soon a peaceful gathering of druids, both night elf and tauren, would be attacked. Palkar had believed him and sent guards to "protect" the gathering, but nothing had happened. He had thought that the "vision" was nothing more than an expression of Drek'Thar's increasing senility.
But Drek’Thar had been right. Now, speaking lucidly with Perith Stormhoof, the old shaman did not appear to even recall the vision. But it had happened, exactly as he had predicted. A peaceable gathering of night elves and tauren had indeed been attacked—and the results had been disastrous. The incident had simply occurred much later than anyone could have expected.
Frantically Palkar recalled Drek'Thar's most recent dream in which he had cried, "The land will weep, and the world will break!" Could it be that this "dream," too, had been a true vision? That it would come true, just as the dream of the druid gathering had?
Palkar had been a fool. Better to have told Thrall of the dream and let the warchief decide for himself whether or not to pay attention to it. Palkar clenched his hands in anger directed not at Drek’Thar, but at himself.
"Palkar?" Drek’Thar was saying.
"I'm sorry—I was thinking—what did you say?"
"I asked if you would write a missive," Drek’Thar said as if he had uttered this request several times. Which, for all Palkar knew, he might have. "We must tell Thrall right away. Even so, it will take time for a Longwalker to find him. We can only hope we are not too late to help Baine."
"Of course," Palkar replied, leaping up to obey. He would write whatever Drek’Thar and the Longwalker wished. And then, at the end, he would confess to the warchief all that he had kept from him and why, and let things fall as they might.
He would not risk Drek'Thar's being right a second time.
Tweny five
Thrall was surprised at the level of involvement and effort it took to prepare for the vision quest. He understood now Geyah's comment about Drek'Thar's doing his best as one of the last shaman the orcs then had. It would seem that a "proper" vision quest involved nearly the entire community.
Someone came to measure him for a ritual robe. Someone else offered the herbs for the rite. A third orc came to volunteer to lead the drumming and chanting circles, and six more offered their drums and voices. Thrall was surprised and moved. At one point he said to Aggra, "I do not wish for any favors to be done to me because of my position."
She gave him a slight smirk. "Go'el, it is because you are in need of a vision quest, not because you are the leader of the Horde. You do not need to worry about any favors."
It both relieved him and embarrassed him, and he wondered, not for the first time, how it was that Aggra was so adept at getting under his skin. Maybe it was a gift from the elements, he mused drily as he watched her stride off, head high.
He chafed at the delay, but there was little he could do about it. And there was a part of him, a not insignificant part, that anticipated the ritual eagerly. So much had been lost to the orcs in the years before he became a shaman himself. His own experience of such communal rites was lacking, he knew.
At last, three days later, all was prepared. Torches were lit at dusk. Thrall waited at Garadar to be escorted to the prepared ceremonial site. Aggra came to get him, and he did a double take at her.
Her long, thick, reddish - brown hair was braided with feathers. She wore a leather vest and kilt embroidered with feathers and beads, and symbols in white and green paint decorated her face and elsewhere where her brown skin was revealed. She stood tall and straight and proud, the tan of the leather setting off the dark brown of her skin to perfection. In her arms, she bore a bundle of cloth as brown as her skin.
"These are for you, Go'el," she said. "They are plain and simple. Initiate's robes for an initiation."
"I understand," Thrall said, reaching out to take the bundle from her.
She did not surrender it to him. "I am not certain that you do. I admit, you are a gifted and powerful shaman. But there is much you still do not know about it. We do not wear armor in our initiations. An initiation is a rebirth, not a battle. Like the snake, we shed the skins of who we were before. We need to approach it without those burdens, without the narrow thoughts and notions that we have held. We need to be simple, clean, ready to understand and connect with the elements and let them write their wisdom on our souls."
Thrall listened intently and nodded respectfully. Still, she did not give him the robes, not yet. 'You will also find a necklace of prayer beads. This will help you reconnect with your inner self, so you may touch them as you feel called."
Now, finally, she extended the bundle to him. He accepted it. "I will return shortly," she said, and left.
Thrall regarded the plain brown garment, then slowly and respectfully put it on. He felt… naked. He was used to wearing the distinctive black plate armor that had once belonged to Orgrim Doomhammer. He wore it nearly every waking moment and had grown accustomed to its weight. This garment was light. He slipped the prayer beads around his neck, rolling them between his fingers, thinking hard on what Aggra had said. He was to be reborn, she had told him.
As what? And as who?
"Well," said Aggra, startling him out of his reverie, "it would seem initiate's robes suit you after all."
"I am ready," Thrall said quietly.