Durotan’s brows rose. “A hole in the ground?”
“You’ll see it soon enough,” Grom assured him.
The more Durotan learned of these plans, the less he liked them. “It sounds like a grave.”
“No,” Grom assured him. “If anything, it is a rebirth for our people. It’s the path to a new world!”
“You believe this?” Orgrim asked. He sounded more skeptical than hopeful.
Grom eyed Orgrim for a moment. Then he lifted one powerful arm and leaned forward, extending it closer to the fire. In the firelight, Durotan saw what the shadows had obscured earlier. Like many of those he and Orgrim had seen training, Grom Hellscream’s skin was tinged with green. And when he spoke, his words were addressed to Orgrim, not Durotan.
“I believe in Gul’dan. I believe in the fel. His death magic has made me powerful.” He flexed his arm, and his bicep, large as a melon, bulged. “You’ll see. You’ll feel the strength of five.”
“Blackhand seems strong enough without it,” Durotan said bluntly.
Grom’s bright eyes darted to the Frostwolf chieftain. “Why be strong enough when there is stronger still?” His lips curled away from his tusks in a grin that was as sinister as it was savage, and Durotan could not but wonder if “stronger still” would ever become “strong enough” to appease the Warsong.
By the time Durotan retired to his tent, Draka was stretched out, asleep on the furs they had brought from the north.
Once, she would have rested on a pile of thick, warm clefthoof skins, and her hut would have been the chieftain’s hut—a solid, stable construct of timber and stone. She would have had plenty of good, healthy food to nourish the body housing not only her warrior’s spirit, but the small life that now curved her belly; the only soft part of her strong, hard physique. Now, all that separated her flesh from the hard rock was rabbit fur, and the clan had walked the last several leagues with no food at all.
Geyah had insisted Durotan and Draka take what they could from Frostfire Ridge to remind them of the clan’s heritage. So this makeshift shelter, a bit more solid than most, contained the Frostwolf crest and decorative wards constructed and blessed by the shaman to augment battle prowess and ward off dangers. Inside, a variety of weapons lay within easy reach: spears, axes, hammers, maces, bows and arrows, swords. And, of course, Thunderstrike. Durotan unfastened Sever and placed it beside the furs as he sat and regarded his mate.
A wave of tenderness washed over him as his gaze roved her body, from her fierce, strong face and long black hair, to the swell of her belly as she lay on her side, breathing evenly. Her lids still closed, she reached out a hand to him.
“I can feel your eyes.” Draka’s voice was low and throaty, warm with affection and amusement.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I was.” She shifted her swollen body to lie on her back, searching unsuccessfully for a comfortable position. Her husband’s hand moved to her belly, his massive fingers and palm almost completely covering it, silently connecting with his child. “Dreaming of a hunt through the snow.”
Durotan closed his eyes and sighed. It was almost painful to recall the sharp, familiar bite of the winter, the cold challenging their bodies as they attacked prey that fought to survive. The shouts, the smell of fresh blood, the taste of nourishing flesh. Those years had been good ones. Durotan stretched beside her on the furs, recalling the first night Draka had returned from her Exile. He had pushed her for stories of her travels, and they had lain beside one another as they did now, on their backs, but not touching. Looking up at the stars, watching the smoke rise up.
And he had been content. “I’ve thought of a name,” Draka continued.
Durotan grunted. He was angry with himself for his nostalgia. Where Draka’s dream was just that—a true, honest dream, not wistful, deliberate recollection—the time he yearned for was gone, never to return.
He took her hand in his as he teased, “Well, keep it to yourself, wife. I’ll choose the name when I’ve met him… or her.”
“Oh?” There was amusement in her voice. “And how will the great Durotan name his son, if I do not travel with him?”
“A son?” He propped himself on an elbow, regarding her, his mouth slightly open. Always before, he had accepted that he might have a daughter or a son. The gender was less important to him than ensuring that the baby was healthy. Frostwolf females were fierce warriors—Draka was a perfect example of that. Tradition, though, held that the chieftainship could only pass to a male. He blinked at her. “Are you having visions like Drek’Thar now?”
She smiled and shrugged. “I just… feel it.”
He thought again of that first night, and all the others they had shared with one another since. He did not want to think of a long stretch of nights when they would be without each other; did not want to think of his son being born without his father present.
“Can you hide your fat belly?” he said, grinning in anticipation of her retort.
Draka, who knew him all the way to his bones, punched him in the shoulder—lovingly, but quite firmly. “Better than you can hide your fat head.”
Hearty laughter burst from him, a balm to his spirit, and his wife laughed with him. Again they lay back together, Durotan’s hand once more protectively over their son. They would face this new world together.
Whatever happened.
3
The next morning, as Draka strategically strapped a small, circular shield adorned with tusks over her stomach, she caught Durotan’s eye and he nodded slightly, somewhat reassured that she was able to hide her swollen belly and protect their unborn son at the same time. The last several years had been so difficult that Draka had not been able to gain any weight that had not gone directly to the developing child. No softening of her muscles, no roundness to her face revealed her pregnancy once her belly had been covered. It was useful now, but he felt a stab of regret that she had been so deprived.
Drek’Thar wore a hooded cloak pulled low to hide his white hair and the cloth that covered his disfigured face. Another shaman, Palkar, who had tended him for years, would be guiding him. Durotan walked over to them both as they assembled, awaiting the call to march toward the “hole in the ground.”
“I cannot promise you will not be discovered,” Durotan told them. “If this is a risk you choose not to take, no one would blame you.”
“We understand,” Drek’Thar said. “All is as the Spirits will it.”
Durotan nodded. Draka had already said her farewells to Geyah and now stepped aside. Durotan placed his hands on his mother’s shoulders. “You will be in charge of the clan while Orgrim and I are gone,” he told her. “I can think of no finer hands in which to leave the Frostwolves than those of their Lorekeeper.”
Her eyes were dry, and she stood tall and strong. “I will protect them with my life, my son. And when you return, we will gladly come join you in this verdant new land.”
Everyone knew that there might not be a return. So much was unknown about this promised place. They were getting there by magic, with no idea what awaited them save what Gul’dan had told them. What if he was wrong? What if he’d lied? What if there were dangers so great that not even an orc could face them? In the end, it didn’t matter. What was here could not be borne.
“I am certain we will conquer swiftly,” he said, and hoped his voice was as solid as he wished it to be.
Horns blew, summoning them. Durotan embraced Geyah. She clung to him for a moment, then released him and stepped back. Durotan looked over his clan, at the children, the orcs, male and female, who were artisans and shaman, not warriors. He had done everything he could for them.