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There was something familiar in the feel of the ground shaking. The only other time Durotan had ever experienced such a thing was when he had been fighting "Ogres!" someone screamed. And indeed, now Durotan could see them. Dozens of them, huge and purposeful, were striding toward the gathered group of ores. More wolfridcrs from the Blackrock clan were trotting about, shouting and blowing horns in triumph. The crowd was going insane with delight, yelling and dancing and cheering wildly. These were the new allies? Durotan could scarcely believe it. Even as he stared, unable to find words, the biggest ogre he had ever seen appeared. Blackhand himself strode beside it. his movements as lithe and proud as if the mammoth thing did not make him look like a child's toy. "We will crush the draenei!" Blackhand bellowed, and as if they had been awaiting the cue, the ogres marching with him cried, "Crush! Crush! Crush!" For a sick, dizzying moment, Durotan was a child again, fleeing before such a monster. He blinked, and he again saw in his mind's eye his father's strong frame smashed and broken, blood and life dripping into the ground, Garad's skull crushed like a nut by a single blow from an ogre's club. Ores were fighting alongside monstrous, feeble-brained creatures in an effort to destroy an intelligent, peaceful race. The world had gone mad, Velen shuddered. His assistant was at his elbow, offering a warm, soothing drink, but the Prophet waved it away. No comfort could come from a beverage now. No comfort could ever truly come again. He had grieved when word had come that Telmor had fallen, and with the city his dear friend Restalaan. It had been even more painful to hear how the attack had occurred. Velen had seen something special in the youth Durotan had been, and his treatment at the ore's hands had only served to confirm his faith in the chieftain of the Frostwolf clan. But now this. Durotan and Orgrim had been the only two ores ever to witness how the green stone had protected the city. One of them had even memorized the incantation that would deactivate the stone's protective camouflage. A handful had escaped to flee here, to the Temple of Karabor. Their wounds had been dressed, but there was nothing Velen or anyone else could do to heal their shattered spirits. But worse news was to come. The refugees did not tell of simple bows and arrows, or axes or spears or hammers being the sole weapons of destruction. They spoke in low, hushed voices of greenish-black bolts of terrible pain, of torment beyond anything that the shaman had hitherto inflicted upon their enemies. They spoke of creatures gibbering and capering at the feet of those who wielded this magic based on suffering and agony. They spoke of man'ari. Suddenly, many things fell into place with a dreadful logic. The abrupt, irrational attacks by the orcs. Their sudden increase in technology and skills. The fact that they had turned their backs on shamanism, a religion that, as Velen understood it, required a give-and-take relationship between the elemental powers and those who would wield them. Those who would command man'ari did not seek balance or harmony with their power; They sought dominance. Just as Kil jaeden and Archimonde had. The ores were nothing more than pawns in the hands of the eredar. Velen knew that he and the rest of the draenei, the "exiles," were the real targets. The orcish Horde, augmented now with creatures that were immensely powerful, was the way by which Kil jaeden sought to destroy him. For a brief moment Velen wondered if perhaps the new leader of this Horde would listen to reason; if he would turn and fight alongside the draenei to overthrow Kil jaeden once he learned how he had been used. He dismissed the thought almost at once. It was probable that those who were being used by Kil jaeden knew of the eredar's true nature and purpose, and the offer of power likely seemed believable as well as seductive. So had Archimonde and Kil jaeden succumbed, and they were far older, stronger, and wiser than any ore. And now, this vision, adding insult to injury. A vision of the lumbering ogres allying with the ores something that he once would have dismissed as a dream brought on by a too-rich meal. Now, he knew it to be the truth. Something had changed the inherent nature of the ores so drastically, so irrevocably, that they had allied with creatures that they had hated for generations against the draenei, a people they had been tentative friends with for almost as long. If this had happened elsewhere, the response would be simple. Velen would gather his people and flee, protected by the Naaru. But the ship had crashed, and K ure lay dying, and there was no escape other than fighting against this Horde and praying that somehow, some way, they would survive. Ah, K'ure, my old friend. How I miss your wisdom now, and how bitter it is that you be in the hands of the enemy, who does not even understand that you exist. He held the stone known as Spirit's Song close to his heart, and felt the faintest of flickers from the dying Naaru. Velen closed his eyes and bowed his head. Gul'dan looked around the room with utter satisfaction. Everything was going as planned. The Shadow Council had been meeting for some time now, and thus far, Gul'dan felt confident he had selected them well. They were J all prepared nay, eager to turn their backs on their people in order to advance their own aspirations to power. They had accomplished so much already, acting through their puppet that was foolish enough to believe he was a true part of the Council rather than simply their mouthpiece. It had been easy to get him elected Warchief, and as long as the Council smiled and nodded at him for the few moments that he attended the meetings, he did not question his position. But Blackhand always departed before the real meetings began, sent off on some mission or other that made his barrel chest swell with pride. "Greetings," Gul'dan said as he slipped into his chair at the head of the table. As always, Ner zhul lurked in a corner, never invited to sit with the others, but permitted to hear their conversations, Kil jaeden had so instructed, and while Gul'dan was unsure as to why his benefactor desired this, he wanted nothing more than to stay in Kil jaeden's good graces and did not demur. The Council murmured perfunctory greetings, and Gul'dan got down to business. "How are the various clans reacting to the idea of ogres as allies? Kargath, let's start with you." The chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan grinned and grunted. "They are primed for bloodshed, and they don't care who helps them slit open draenei throats," [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |