A vista bought with so many lives. Was it worth it, even if it meant the survival of his clan?
The painful answer was… yes.
“For the Horde!” Someone had shouted it, and others were now taking up the cry. “For the Horde! For the Horde! For the Horde!”
Orgrim flashed Durotan a grin and raced past his chieftain. The chant pounded on Durotan’s ears like the pounding of his heart, but he did not break into a frenzied run as so many others did. He turned around to regard his mate. At her questioning look, he told her, “Let me go first.” If he were to die going through, he would at least have his death serve to warn his mate.
“For the Horde! For the Horde!”
Draka slowed, obeying her chieftain. Durotan lowered his head, gripped Thunderstrike, and muttered beneath his breath, “For the Frostwolves,” and ran through.
Draka frowned and set her jaw as her beloved disappeared, vanishing into the shimmering, sky-blue-tree-green entrance to… what? What had Durotan thought to do? Others ran through, but no one returned. She could not wait for him to tell her all was well. She had to join him.
She clenched her hands into fists, and, growling low in her throat, strode forward with the rest of the shouting, sweaty mass of bloodlust-fueled warriors. Her eyes straight ahead, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish, entered the portal.
The earth fell away from beneath her feet.
She floated in dim green light as if in a lake, disoriented, her breath coming quickly. Behind her was the light from the portal; ahead, increasing darkness. Other orcs swam-fell past as thin ribbons of light reached out before her. She could still hear the strange thunder from the Draenor side of the gate, but it was muffled. Now and then a blast of illumination would sear her eyes. She pushed aside the threat of debilitating fear and focused on the one thing she could see—a needle-prick of light, of hope, in the enveloping darkness. Draka started trying to move toward it. She felt as though she did not weigh anything. How then to reach this light?
Reaching out with her arms, she pulled them back—and floated forward. She smiled to herself and kept going. This new land was on the other side of this strange tunnel. Her mate awaited her there. The child within her kicked, as if in protest.
Be calm, little one, Draka thought. We will soon—
Pain stabbed her as her stomach contracted, hard, like a fist clenching before delivering a blow. Startled, Draka gasped. She had never been with child before, but she had spoken with the other females. She knew what to expect. The orc life was one of unceasing vigilance, and babies therefore came swiftly and with little pain so that their mothers would be prepared to move or fight if necessary.
But this—
It was too soon. The agony that ripped through her abdomen was a warning, not a herald. The babe needed at least another moon in his mother’s sheltering body. Panting, sweat popping out over her dark skin, Draka struggled to remove the camouflaging shield, tossing it away into the darkness. The light was closer now; she could see other orc shapes around her, all struggling toward the light, and for a moment, Draka felt a sudden kinship with her child. In a way, they were both being born.
Another orc, wheeling weightlessly, floated past her. Durotan! He reached out to her, seeing that she was in torment, trying to catch her, but he tumbled past, inexorably swept along by the strange current. Another object tumbled slowly toward her—an uprooted tree. Draka curled in on herself despite the horrible, dagger-sharp pains, doing what she could to protect her child. The tree’s branches scraped her skin as it passed.
She reached out as the light intensified, almost blinding after the darkness of this journey. Her questing fingers brushed against something solid—earth! Draka growled in frustration, digging her sharp-nailed fingers into the soil and pulling herself up and out of the portal.
Feet thundered past her and she rose, stumbling out of the crush of orcs eager for bloodshed, feeling soggy earth… water, grass…
Draka shrieked at pain so sharp it felt as if her child was slicing her belly from the inside. Her knees gave way and she collapsed onto the marshy earth, her heaving lungs inhaling damp air.
“Draka!” It was Durotan. On her hands and knees, Draka turned her head to see him racing toward her. Then, an enormous orc shot out a hand decorated with inky black markings and seized her mate.
“With child?” the orc bellowed. “You bring that wachook into my warband?”
“Let me go, Blackhand!” her husband pleaded. “Draka!”
She could hold her head up no longer. Durotan would not be at her side, roaring encouragement, as their baby slid into the world. Spirits… would it even survive, born so early, wrapped in his mother’s torment? Draka sobbed, not with pain, but in anger and rage. This child deserved better! It deserved to live!
Suddenly someone was there, murmuring quietly, “Shhh… shhh… you are not alone, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish.”
She looked up, through the tangle of sweat-soaked hair clinging to her face, into the glowing green eyes of Gul’dan.
No!
Everything in Durotan’s entire being cried out at the thought of Gul’dan, he of the green skin and death magic, standing in Durotan’s stead while Draka gave birth. Durotan struggled against Blackhand’s restraint, but the orc commander held him firmly.
“Push, little one,” Gul’dan was saying, his voice uncharacteristically kind. “Push…” Durotan watched helplessly as Draka, on her hands and knees, threw back her head and screamed as their son entered the world.
The baby was still, so still, and silent. Durotan sagged against Blackhand’s iron grip, his heart cracking inside his chest. My son…
But Gul’dan held the tiny thing, so small, barely as large as his green hand, and bent over him.
The little chest hitched. A heartbeat later, a lusty wail filled the air, and Durotan gasped as relief washed over him. His son was alive!
“Welcome, little one!” Gul’dan laughed, and raised Durotan and Draka’s baby to the skies. “A new warrior for the Horde!” he shouted, and a deafening cheer rose up around Durotan. He paid it no heed. He stared, stunned, at the small being that was his son.
The child was green.
4
The city was dim, and loud, and hot. Fire burned in its center, as it had for years. The sounds of hammer on iron and the hiss of quenching water, too, were ceaseless. The air smelled faintly of smoke, though the cavernous construction made sure it was always breathable. Its name reflected its people—to the point, descriptive, and active: Ironforge.
The king of the dwarven underground capital, fiercely red of beard and bulbous of nose, escorted his guest through the main forge area. He was shaking his head, as if still disbelieving something, even as his feet moved purposefully. He pointed a sausage-thick finger up at his companion.
“You’re the only man I’d make plough blades for, Anduin Lothar,” he grumbled in his deep, melodious voice. “You and your army of farmers can attack the turf with dwarven steel, eh? It sends a shiver down my spine just to say it. What will my wives think?”