Rise of the Horde

20

I have spoken to many who were there at the destruction of the city of Shattrath. When I ask them about the event, their minds are clouded and their recall is poor. Even Drek’Thar, who remembers so much with astonishing clarity, stammers and hesitates when asked to recall the details. It is as though with demonic blood fresh in their mouths, those who drank can remember only the fury they felt and not what they did in its grasp. And even those who did not drink, that small handful of which Drek’Thar is a member—even they cannot summon the details to mind. It is as if such an atrocity was so horrific that it wants to be forgotten.

That some draenei survived the assault is not in doubt; I have seen the sad, pathetic things that were once the glorious draenei with my own eyes, wandering forlornly here in Azeroth, soft and shattered, crying for home. These “lost ones” are to be pitied.

So it is that this account is vague, and I regret it. Such a moment, dark though it may be, should not be forgotten or glossed over. But such is the chronicler’s challenge.

The orcs charged down the trail, burning with a feral need to destroy. Some were so overflowing with rage and hatred that they took swipes at the very rocks as they passed them. Sonic bellowed their fury. Others were grimly, deathly silent, all their energies contained and simmering, ready to be released at the proper moment.

During that long run, Durotan was more afraid of his own people—of individuals that he had once called friend—than of any ogre wielding a club or any herd of talbuks … or any enraged, attacking draenei. He was cold with sweat, shaking in his boots, but not from any fear for himself. His fear was for what would happen next—not to the draenei, for their destiny was surely already written, but to the orcs. He could not bring himself in those moments as they were running to Shattrath to call them the Horde.

At one point, a horrible rumbling knocked them all off their feet. As they clambered upright, they turned and looked back to where they had come.

It looked as if the mountain had exploded. Liquid fire was belched into the night sky, hurtling upward, then falling and splattering down the jagged peak —it radiated and glowed like the demon blood that the orcs had just drunk, though its hue was orange-yellow and not an eerie green. More and more molten stone was spewed from the mountain. It was a glorious, mesmerizing, and horrific sight.

The orcs took it as a sign, and a cheer erupted from their ranks. After a few moments of celebrating at the very mountain, the Throne of Kil’jaeden, blessing their endeavor, they turned and continued their race toward slaughter.

A mile outside the city, they slowed. An area had been cleared, and recently too, and for a moment the first orcs to arrive at this site simply stared in confusion. This was where they had been told to assemble; this was where their war engines were supposed to have been quartered.

Then, with no warning, something materialized right in front of their eyes. The orcs drew back, hissing. Then in the face of all sanity and logic, they started snarling at the huge being. It towered over them, three times taller than the tallest ogre, red from its cloven hooves to the tip of its lashing tail, from its jutting horns to its sharp black nails. Its size was like nothing they had ever seen, but its shape … Durotan stared at it, thinking that it looked like nothing so much as a gigantic, crimson-skinned draenei. The sudden realization that the orcs had been plunged into a personal conflict that should never have concerned them crashed over him like a tidal wave.

“You have nothing to fear and everything to celebrate, you who have sworn your allegiance to me!” it cried, its voice penetrating to the very bone, “I am Kil’jaeden, the Beautiful One, the one who has been with you since the beginning. And I am with you now as you head to the most glorious battle yet. Once, the wicked draenei plotted against you, hiding an entire city from your eyes. But you have destroyed that city, and others, and vanquished their temple. All that remains is this one final battle, and then the threat will be eliminated.

“The green stone that once hid the city of Telmor from you now hides their doom from them. Kehla men samir, solay lamaa kahl!”

And the illusion was dispelled. Before them were dozens of catapults, battering rams, siege weapons of all varieties. Standing beside the engines of war were the ogres, still and silent, their stupid faces filled with determination. They bore weapons suited to their size, and Durotan realized that there were at least three dozen of them ready to fight. They made the huge weapons look like toys.

“There is more …” Kil’jaeden said, and waved his hands. The warlocks all cried out and grasped their heads for a moment, then blinked and grinned. “New spells have flooded your minds. Use them well. Take the draenei now!”

As if he had opened a gate, the bloodthirsty orcs leaped into motion. Some of them made for the weapons by which a walled city would fall, pushing them forward with a strength which Durotan had never before seen them display. The ogres immediately went to the others, moving the enormously heavy weapons at a brisk pace. Other orcs were too far sunk in bloodlust, and simply raced forward in the direction of the city. What they would do when they got there Durotan did not know, but he and his clan followed dutifully.

The war machines propelled by the ogres and the orcs rumbled steadily on. But even before they were maneuvered into position, the walls that protected the city were under attack. Enormous, green-glowing rocks fell from the sky to slam into the city. Towers and citadels that had risen above the wall level cracked and shattered, and the wall itself was starting to crumble in several places. But it was not just boulders falling from the sky that comprised the attack—it was what rose from them once they had landed.

Moving deliberately but with sickening speed, creatures that appeared made of the same glowing green stone got to their feet and charged. They hammered at the wall, joined now by more mundane stones hurled by the catapults and huge tree trunks rammed into the great gate door. Two ogres were pounding on the door with their clubs, and the timber shuddered. From within, Durotan could hear cries of fury and horror as the draenei tried to battle the creatures—“infernals,” as he heard one warlock refer to them. Most of the warlocks were using these new servants, but a few still had the smaller, more familiar creatures obeying their commands.

The city could not last long under such an assault. With a mighty crash, an entire section of stone wall crumbled. The tide of crazed orcs and bellowing ogres swarmed through the breech thus created, shrieking and swinging weapons. Durotan remained where he was, rooted to the earth, watching as the orcs fought and killed and died.

The rage and fury he had seen them display before in the thick of battle was nothing compared to what he saw now. There was no strategy, no attempt at defense, no calls for retreat when retreat was necessary. This was nothing more than murder and slaughter, dealing death and receiving it, stupidly rushing into dead ends where traps had been laid. Such was to be expected from the ogres, and as they fell heavily, blood streaming from their bodies, Durotan did not mourn them. But the orcs … they were beyond caring about anything but the sensation of their own blood singing in their veins and the battle cries pouring from their throats.

Dozens … no, no, hundreds would die this night. The casualties would render the city unlivable. Come sunrise, blue and green bodies would litter the streets. But for now, it was carnage and chaos and the very depths of insanity. Durotan swung his axe because it was fight or die, and even now, even though he knew his people were on a dark road, he did not wish death.

Kil’jaeden and Mannoroth stood together, watching the green meteors that housed infernals crashing to the earth. “They swarm like insects,” grunted Mannoroth. Kil’jaeden nodded, pleased. “Indeed. It is beautiful to watch, I am well pleased.”

“What next?”

Kil’jaeden turned eyes of mild surprise on his lieutenant. “Next? There is no next, at least not here. The orcs have fulfilled my purpose. They burn with your blood, my friend. It will consume them eventually unless they have an outlet for it, and that outlet is only to be found in slaughtering every last draenei on the face of this world.”

He watched as fire joined the glowing green hue in the distance.

“It is well that you are done here,” Mannoroth said. “Archimonde mutters that you are wasting time, and our master wishes us elsewhere.”

Kil’jaeden sighed. “You speak the truth. Sargeras hungers, and he has been very patient with me. I do regret one thing—that I won’t be watching as they gut Velen. Ah well. Enough to know that it happened. Let us leave this place.”

He gestured, and both he and his lieutenant disappeared.

“What do you mean, he was not there?” Gul’dan shrieked. This could not be.

“What I said,” Blackhand growled. “We scoured the city. Velen was nowhere to be found.”

“Perhaps an overeager grunt found him first and mutilated the body,” Gul’dan said nervously. This was not good news. He had instructed Blackhand to find the corpse of the prophet Velen and bring the draenei’s head to Gul’dan. It was to be a present to Kil’jaeden.

“Possible. Even likely,” Blackhand said. “But from what you told me, even if his body had been hacked to pieces, he could not have been mistaken for an ordinary draenei.”

Gul’dan shook his head, feeling worried and slightly sick. The draenei had blue skin and black hair. Velen, their prophet, had pale white skin and white hair. As long as a piece of his skin remained whole, he could be identified.

“You scoured the city?”

Blackhand’s brows drew together. “I told you we did,” he said darkly. His breath started to quicken and his eyes turned even redder as anger rose in him.

Gul’dan nodded. Besotted though the orcs were by bloodlust, they would not have failed to search for the body most coveted by their leader. The reward would be too great, the anger if it were overlooked and discovered later too furious.

Somehow, Velen had escaped. That meant that there were probably other draenei out there. In a sudden panic that made his heart race, he wondered just how many he had let slip through his fingers … and where in this wide, wide world they had gone.

Once Velen had had an entire temple, filled with acolytes and priests and servants, in which to meditate and pray. Now, he was in a small room, one of only a handful who even had their own room. He held the violet crystal in his hand and tears poured silent and unheeded down his face.

He watched the fall of the city. He had wanted to stay, to lend his own not inconsiderable magic to the fray, but that path would have meant death—not merely his own, but that of his people. They did not need a marshal now. The orcs, their systems permeated with demonic blood, burned with a lust for killing that would not be sated even if they slew every last draenei in Draenor, would never be sated until death stiffened their corpses. Kil’jaeden’s and Sargeras’s Burning Legion of demonic forces owned them now. The orcs had numbers, ogres, warlocks, and a fury that would take them physically and emotionally to places where no rational mind would dare travel. There was nothing Velen could do but let the city fall, for there was nothing he could do that could possibly save it.

Nor could the orcs be saved. The only flicker of hope for the eventual redemption of the Horde lay in the single clan who had not drunk the blood, had not made the pact, whose minds and hearts were still their own. Some eighty orcs, and that was all. Eighty, to stand against over a dozen other clans, most much larger than their, whose Warchief was the worst of them all. The orcs would be treated as maddened beasts now, whenever any draenei chanced upon them; things to be put down quickly and mercifully, with the understanding that while the orcs did not fully know what they did, they must die regardless.

Velen had wanted to abandon the city, to have it standing empty when the orcs descended. Wanted to save as many draenei lives as he could. But Larohir, the quick-speaking, intelligent general who had succeeded Restalaan after the latter’s murder, had convinced him it would not work.

“If there is an insufficient number of draenei to slaughter,” Larohir had said, his voice soft and compassionate but yet hard as steel, “then the lust that consumes them will not even be sated temporarily. They will still hunger and catch our scent while it is new, and track us down. Those who flee will die. They must believe that they have slain most of us. And in order for them to believe that … it must be true.”

Velen had stared in horror. “You would have me send my people to knowingly be slaughtered?”

“All but a handful of us know what we fled on Argus,” said Larohir. “We remember it. We remember what Kil’jaeden did, what happened to our people. We would—we will—happily die to preserve even a handful of our race uncorrupted.”

Velen had looked down then, his heart aching. “If the orcs believe they have slain us, except for a trivial handful, then Kil’jaeden will be satisfied. He will depart.”

“The orcs will suffer greatly,” said Larohir, and did not look displeased. After what the orcs had done to the draenei recently, Velen could not blame him. “They will. And I have no doubt that they will continue to track us down.”

“But the methods they use to track a few dozen will be different than if they suspect there are a few hundred of us remaining,” said Larohir. “It is to our advantage to appear as scattered and helpless as possible.”

Velen had looked up at Larohir, haunted. “It is easy for you to speak so. But the decision is not yours. It is mine. I must be the one to say, ‘You—you and your family will come with me and live. But you, and you, and you—you will stay behind and let demon-crazed orcs tear you to pieces and anoint themselves with your blood.’”

Larohir said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Velen had spoken with each of his people he had chosen to send to die. He had embraced them and blessed them; he had taken items that meant something to them and promised to see that these things survived. He had watched as, stoic and dry-eyed, these walking dead had repaired their armor and sharpened their swords, as if the outcome was actually in question. And he had watched as they marched off, singing the ancient songs, to enclose themselves behind a walled city and wait for mace or axe or spear to end their lives.

Velen could not go with them. He had unique abilities, and if the draenei were to survive, he needed to as well. But he had used the crystal to watch every moment of the battle, and the pain he felt was scaring and yet purifying. Not one of these people would have died in vain.

The orcs did not know about the Zangarmarsh. They had not yet sniffed out this hiding place, and if Velen had anything to say about it, they never would. Here, the best draenei minds would continue to devise ways to harness energies and direct them, to keep safe the handful who had survived. Here, they would regroup and recover, heal and wait and pray they had at last tricked Kil’jaeden the Deceiver and escaped his terrible gaze.

The orcs had captured three of the stones, but Velen still had four: Fortune’s Smile, Eye of the Storm, Shield of the Naaru, and, of course. Spirit’s Song, And although his link with the Naaru was tenuous, K’ure yet lived.

Even as tears spilled down his white face to drop on the surface of the violet crystal, even as he grieved the utterly tragic loss of so many lives, Velen, prophet of the draenei, felt hope stirring inside him.