Warcraft: Assassin - Part 6
And here we have yet more!
Title: Assassin
Part: 6/?
Word Count: 5542
Includes: Angst, sap, adorableness. A story told in flashbacks, there will be one-sided crushes and meaningful stares.
Pairings: Technically, none.
Summary: The founding of Durotar, and lessons in history from the mouth of one who has been a part of it: Garona Halforcen.
Previous: 1 2 3 4 5
“I still think it's a bad idea,” Shandel'zare declared, and Thrall sighed. She had been declaring the recovery of Mannoroth's bones and their placement within Orgrimmar a 'bad idea' for the last few hours. She had iterated this from the moment she'd heard about Thrall's intention to place the bones in Orgrimmar to the teleportation spell that had brought them all to Grommash Hold, to the final moment they had been affixed in a semblance of their old form.
“Your opinion has been noted,” Thrall said. “Please, leave me.”
The troll mage nodded, her green mohawk moving stiffly with her head, and she strode off. Thrall watched her for a moment, noting that despite the heat, she chose to be fully robed, and then turned back to the plaque. In Memory of Grommash Hellscream: He has saved us all.
The same day Mannoroth had died, Grom had confessed to Thrall that it had been he who had condemned their people in the first place. That one act of heroism could neutralize one act of pure folly. His thoughts drifted to that confession and knew that it must have happened sometime before the fall of Stormwind, but after the creation of the Horde. It would have been a day of significance.
Garona will remember that day, Thrall thought. I can't think of a reason that she wouldn't, but... do I want to know? He ran his fingers along the carved symbols of the plaque. That's not how history works. You don't get to only hear the parts that please you, that make you proud. You must hear all of it.
Grom's remains had been burnt after his death, and the Warsong had howled and drummed, but his weapon, the mighty Gorehowl, had been kept from the pyre. Thrall had affixed it across from Mannoroth, as though Grom's spirit were to take it up once more and strike down the pit lord.
Jaina was so angry with both of us, Thrall remembered with a smile. We were fools to attack so quickly, without any rest after cleansing the Warsong. She had a great plan, she just needed to sleep, and by the time she woke it was done. “You're such a good friend, but you don't understand that sometimes we must make our mistakes on our own.”
His remark, softly made, seemed to stir the air around him. Thrall closed his eyes, extending his senses. There was a feeling of stillness in the air, of preternatural quiet. A vacuum. The silence was particularly silent as the air displaced and Garona moved out of the shadows. He could not see her, but he could feel her.
“Hellscream was never short on mistakes to make, either,” Garona remarked, shattering her own silence with the softness of her voice. Like this, Thrall could hear contempt mixed with sorrow and a little envy. He opened his eyes, and his senses returned to normal.
“He was a good friend, a brother to me,” Thrall said, and turned to her. “I want to know about his great mistake.”
“You're ready for it then?” Garona asked, though it was a redundant question. Thrall met her gaze squarely, fortified with old knowledge and new conviction.
“I am,” Thrall said. “I know what Grom confessed to me, but I also want to know what you saw.”
Garona nodded slightly, and the pair of them began to walk. There was a light breeze that rolled along the streets, tugging at their braids before giving it up as a lost cause. It was a quiet day, a lazy one, one that could be enjoyed easily.
The truth is rarely easy.
“For a time, it seemed that the newly forged Horde would be enough. With Blackhand leading and the other Chieftains obeying him, the attacks on human lands became more coordinated. The new Horde was able to attack a number of human settlements, often destroying them, while others built up strength and created new strongholds. The trouble was, any significant counter-attack by the human knights would push us back.”
“Humans and their knightly orders have been around for a long time,” Thrall noted, frowning. “I remember reading of them. I think it was meant to intimidate me, but I noticed how inflexible they could be, falling back on prewritten maneuvers, and that a number of times, radical changes in the opposing army could cause them to scatter.”
“Whereas the Horde frequently fell apart under coordinated attacks and excelled at hit-and-run tactics that required fluidity of mind, but spread themselves too thinly in their eagerness to press the attack,” Garona added. “It's always surprised me that no great general ever wrote a book of broad tactics that would promote both discipline and flexibility.”
“That would be something to see,” Thrall said with a smile. “Though, humans and orcs will never fight each other again. It won't be necessary.”
“We'll see,” Garona muttered darkly. “We will see.”
~ * ~
“The leakage from the Dark Portal is getting worse,” Gorefiend noted. Garona watched his expression for signs of regret at reporting this development, but he gave no sign of it. For all the concern he was showing, he could have been observing the weather.
The circle of warlocks met in its shadow on Draenor, far from the prying eyes of the other chieftains. The Black Temple had been all but abandoned by the warlocks, who instead had come together to form a council within the concealing darkness. Many of the warlocks had assassins now, clad in the same black as Garona, some small number of them mastering the power of silence and shadow.
At seventeen years, Garona was still the youngest of their number and the most successful.
“It's less than the smallest clan's village’s worth of damage in two years,” muttered Kalag Darkstrike. “It's not that much. If we move away from the Portal, we'll outdistance it soon enough.”
“And then what, we keep running?” Teron demanded. “The corruption of Draenor does not tire as we do.”
“The trouble is the lack of progress,” noted Vorpil. “Both with getting the clans to come through the Portal and the clans on the other side advancing against the humans.”
“It's the human city, Stormwind,” crackled the oldest warlock, a former Greatmother named Nassa. Garona recalled that her clan, the Striking Rocs, had fallen to a plague many years beforehand, from Chieftain Ystelle to the tiniest infant, and only she had survived. The old woman's face was a mess of wrinkles and scars, and it was only from the shadows of her hiding place that Garona felt safe looking on it. All others tended to look away. “They are the gatekeepers to the north.”
“Blackhand managed to find a way past them,” pointed out Seros Crackfist. “He has clan lands in Blackrock Mountain.”
Nassa laughed, short and ugly. “Clan lands surrounding a volcano where the lands are cursed with foul smoke and darkness and he contends with ugly squatmen with red eyes and black skin for every inch. Let us bask in the brilliance of Blackhand the Destroyer.”
Seros flinched at her mockery. He had been a part of Blackhand's clan, chosen to join the Shadow Council, and was as much Gul'dan's creature as his chieftain's. Still, he said nothing. Nassa had broken the jaw of the last person who had contradicted her, and the warrior in question was still being spooned mashed meat by his daughters.
“There are other things to be concerned about,” Teron noted, dragging the conversation back from this precipice. “Like the unrest of the chieftains. Some have been as far south as Booty Bay, and as far west as Longshore. They can smell the ocean and they don't like it. We're surrounded on all sides by water, and they will not sail.”
“That is troubling,” Vorpil groused. “Especially if the Warsong continue to refuse to engage fully with us. One of their offshoots has claimed an island on Draenor. Theoretically, they know how to sail, and swim.”
“More likely that they strapped themselves into catapults and threw themselves across the ocean,” Nassa cackled. “Howling all the while.”
“That seems unlikely but--”
“Silence.” Gul'dan strode forth, stopping at the head of the circle. All heads turned to him, and even Nassa did not balk at the order. “I have consulted with Lord Sargeras about our... lack of progress. He is intent and eager to see us progress and claim domination over the humans. He has granted us a great boon.”
“A boon? Gorefiend asked. “What manner of boon?”
“Behold,” Gul'dan said, and stepped back from the circle. He swept out one arm and beneath their feet, the ground began to shake, throwing up a haze of dust. Garona began to breathe carefully, though her eyes still stung. The warlocks covered their mouths with their sleeves, or coughed while they tried to protect themselves.
A huge shape loomed over them, casting all into a chill shadow. Garona looked up, and let out a silent gasp. The creature was four-legged and hoofed, but was far larger than a clefthoof and scaled rather than furry. It seemed almost the size of Karabor itself. The creature was green, though its eyes were like fire, along with a trail moving down its back that reminded Garona of the Hand of Gul'dan that spewed green lava and sickness everywhere. It had two thick arms that ended in fat, three-fingered hands that seemed absurdly tiny, save for the fact that it also bore a weapon larger than three orcs standing atop one another's shoulders.
“I AM MANNOROTH, LIEUTENANT OF THE GREAT KIL'JAEDEN,” the demon boomed. “I BRING GREETINGS FROM THE TWISTING NETHER.”
Garona fought the urge to quail at its voice, and she knelt. One by one, the others did as well: proud Nassa and strange Teron and lickspittle Seros. It would be vindicating to see so many warlocks humbled were it not for the fact that she was just as terrified by the demon as they were.
“What boon do you grant, Lord Mannoroth?” Vorpil asked, his voice steady, though he did not look up into the demon's burning eyes.
“BLOOD,” Mannoroth boomed. “YOU ORCS HAVE FIRE IN YOUR BLOOD, EH? I DO AS WELL.” The demon raised his wings - wings that seemed utterly useless - and flapped them hard. The trail of fire along his back flared, adding fel green to a sky that was tooth brown-yellow. “IT IS WITH MY BLOOD THAT YOU WILL BECOME STRONG!”
“But we are strong,” Seros said. “Strong warriors that--”
Mannoroth slapped him with the back of his hand, and he went flying out of the circle, falling brokenly onto the filthy, cracked ground. Seros did not rise again, and no one voiced another complaint.
“You must cut yourself,” Gul'dan said into the ensuing silence. “There is no blade among us that will harm you.”
Mannoroth chuckled, and it was an ugly, terrible thing. Quietly, more to herself than anything else, Nassa did the same thing, and through either unease or agreement, the rest of the warlocks followed, and Gul'dan laughed loudest of all.
Cho'gall, with one head still chuckling, cried out with the other, “Bring the cauldron!”
Two single-headed ogres dragged forth a massive iron cauldron, and even they strained as they did so. The warlocks rose and scattered, leaving room for it as they brought it before Mannoroth, who eyed them as though they might be a tasty snack for later, his squashed, almost animal face smirking in amusement. He made a cut along his belly and began to bleed fire. It hissed and spat as it fell in droplets, and the blood stank and smoked as it accumulated. Garona's eyes burned from the smoke, and she had to blink and look away.
Who would drink such a thing? she wondered. What fools would think that this is anything that might help us?
When the cauldron was half-filled with the stinking blood, Mannoroth pressed a hand to his belly, and after a few moments, the bleeding ceased. Where the blood hit the ground, it burned down into the dry, cracked earth, creating pockmarks until its seething hatred burned out.
“Will this be enough for all?” Vorpil asked, peering at it. “Lord Mannoroth has surely not bled enough for every orc in the Horde.”
“Mix it with something,” Nassa advised. “A potion. Fools will put anything in their mouths in the name of personal betterment.”
“What if it dilutes the potency of the blood?” Kalag said with a frown, though he did not do more than glance briefly into it. “We can afford no more weakness.”
“I damn well hope it dilutes it,” Nassa snarled. “As it is, it will burn right through people, and you can't fight with a hole in your innards.”
It's poison, Garona thought, her eyes growing wide as she fought to keep silent. You want to poison everyone. You can't--
“Nassa has the right of it,” Teron said slowly. “We mix the blood in with herbs and water, we create a potion. We don't offer it to all, only those who fight. The adults warriors first, then those who are being initiated. The hunters, if they fail to keep up, the scouts. There's no need to waste it on the grass-eaters in Nagrand. They are weak and will never agree.”
“Good, good,” Gul'dan murmured, nodding to himself. Garona gazed at Gorefiend with horror. He seemed to catch her gaze for a moment, and his eyes flicked away. “We must make this last. Our agreement is for only this much.”
“Agreement?” Vorpil asked sharply, glancing from Gul'dan to the agreement. “What happens if we need more?”
“AH, LITTLE MORTAL,” Mannoroth said, the demon's voice huge and loud. “YOU DON'T WANT ME TO CUT TWICE. A SECOND CUT, ADDED TO THE FIRST, DEMANDS A VERY, VERY HIGH PRICE.”
A higher price than poisoning our whole race? Garona thought. Somehow, I doubt that.
“There you have it,” Gul'dan said. “Now, come, there is much work to do before the meeting of the chieftains.”
~ * ~
“Mannoroth,” Thrall breathed. “And the price paid for him to cut twice was... very high.”
“It's an open question as to who paid the higher price,” Garona murmured. “The Warsong lost their freedom. The Kaldorei lost their god.”
Thrall was silent, feeling the wind around him, the warmth, the dust and the weight of living souls. “Jaina told me that the Archmages of Dalaran believed that the orcs all simultaneously fell ill after the Dark Portal's connection to Azeroth was severed. The Lethargy, they called it. Their justification for contributing to the Internment Camps, though their intention was to discover its cause and cure it. At the time, the rest of the Alliance was none too pleased to hear about it.”
“It was somewhat more complicated than that,” Garona said. “Gul'dan was conspiring with Sargeras, and the demon blood to strengthen the Horde was only part of a greater bargain. The contract between orcs and demons was sealed in blood. So long as the Dark Portal remained open, we were capable of fulfilling our part of the bargain, but the moment it closed...”
“The backlash from breaking an agreement is always severe, based on the power of the one you've made that contract with,” Thrall mused. “If I defaulted on my bargain with the goblins to repay them for what they've lent me to build this city, the retaliation would be severe. No goblin would ever treat with anyone in the Horde again... no one likes to be robbed.”
“No, indeed,” Garona said. “The demons gave the orcs vitality, blood. In return, when that contract was broken, they stole their vitality away. The warriors gained the most, so they lost the most. That's why the children in the camps were free of it entirely. If you had waited long enough, the orcs would have been completely free of it.”
“Free, but cowed, beaten, a race of slaves instead of warriors,” Thrall growled softly. “It was better to fight for it.”
“I didn't say it wasn't,” Garona replied. They walked in silence for a time, and Thrall soaked her words in.
“Tell me about the meeting of the chieftains,” Thrall said. “I want to know how it happened.”
~ * ~
Were it not for the sensation of impending doom, Garona would have found the meeting to be very like the gatherings at Oshu'gun. Warriors and chieftains greeted one another, slapping their peers on the back, loudly discussing the latest battles. Hellscream and Bladefist, Deadeye and Wolfbrother, Sharpaxe and Blackhand. Their clans were gathered with them in part, the warriors having been encouraged to attend. Some had brought more: the Shadow Wolf clan was here in full, from the blind Drek'thar to proud Draka, her eyes gleaming with anger and strength. Blackhand had brought all three of his children, and little Griselda looked intimidated by the gathering of so many.
Garona kept to Gul'dan's shadow as he approached the gathering. She observed as Orgrim Doomhammer, now Blackhand's lieutenant, spoke politely to Griselda Blackhand, and Garona could read the fear coming from the soft, small orc woman as easily as she could a book.
If he is bothering her, I will cut off his hand, Garona thought snappishly. Her family treats her badly enough, she doesn't need that oaf to upset her as well.
“Hear me, warriors of the Horde!” Blackhand bellowed, cutting short the greetings as people settled into place. "From our wise men, our warlocks and our necrolytes, I have a gift for you. I will leave it to Gul'dan to explain his vision."
His vision is for all of you to be slaves to demons, Garona said, and for a moment she considered speaking up. She looked at each of the faces sitting in the circle of chieftains. She knew each name. She knew their children, and where they could be most vulnerable. She could remember their disdain and their hate. No one here would listen to me, except...
Her gaze drifted to Durotan as Gul'dan stepped forward to speak, watching his expression intently.
"Thank you, Warchief," Gul'dan said. "I look upon you, warriors of the Horde. l see those who have fought against the humans long and hard. Humans that, by all rights, should have been crushed under orcish feet." This set off an offended, irritated ripple through the assembled chieftains, and Garona held back a smirk. Durotan was frowning. "The humans have a secret advantage, one that has kept them strong, and I have searched for a way to overcome it and now, I have had a powerful vision. This vision has revealed to me that we have been missing an important tool to defeat the humans. I am upset that this was not revealed to us sooner, many warriors could have been spared. Nekros, bring it forward."
Nekros Skullcrusher was one of the apprentice warlocks. Young and ambitious, he had been chosen to carry damnation to his people and had done so eagerly. The circle of warlocks parted allowing him to stride forth, his head slightly bowed to conceal his smirk, though Garona did not know how he could bear the smell of the demon's blood. He bore a large chalice made of stolen metal, melted down and beaten into a new shape, carved with runes that would prevent it from dissolving.
Would that we put the same effort into cup making as forging a sword, Garona thought sourly. A breeze picked up, wafting the scent of the blood towards the assembled chieftains. Some gagged in disgust, others looked curious even as they covered their noses.
"Our ancestors have given us a great gift that will assist us in our fight against the humans. It is called demon's blood. It will make our warriors stronger, faster and more dangerous. It will hone our minds until they are like axes." Gul'dan smiled around his lies, loosely woven, and yet as he spoke, there were those who sat up with interest. "That is, if our chieftains have the courage to seize it."
"This is what the ancestors want?" frowned Kilrogg. "It seems... unusual. Dishonourable."
Yes, you great fool with weight to your clan, object, stop this madness, Garona willed, though she saw one chieftain stand, and her heart sank. It was Hellscream. Somehow, Gul’dan had convinced the young chieftain to finally come through the portal and attend this meeting. The Warsong clan was storied and powerful, but hard to command. Stubborn though he was, Hellscream was well known, and more importantly, the oldest chieftains remembered his great-grandmother, the mighty Drakatha Hellscream, chieftain and warrior, and the weight her name lent to his words.
"Is it dishonourable to sharpen our axes instead of relying only on crude cudgels?" asked Grom, brandishing Gorehowl. It whined softly as it moved. "No... this is a weapon."
Why is it that every time Gul'dan comes up with a ridiculous, ludicrous scheme that only hurts the orcs more, someone steps up to meet his expectations and continues this trail of tears? Garona seethed to herself. Sure enough, Gul'dan smiled, pleased at his latest tool.
"Yes, Grommash Hellscream, this is a weapon,” Gul'dan said. “Will you be the first to take up this cup?"
Some of the chieftains grumbled, objecting though none stopped Grom from pushing forward and walking towards Nekros. Disbelief flickered in Durotan's eyes, and hurt. First that idiot Doomhammer, then Hellscream, Garona thought. You deserve better friends. Meanwhile, Grom was speaking.
"We have suffered long and the ancestors have seen it!” Grom cried, his voice reaching the very stars. “With this, we will crush our enemies and see them driven before us! They will beg us for mercy that we will not grant! For the Horde!"
As Hellscream spoke, Garona was dismayed to see most among the assembled crowd sit up, inspired and pleased by his words. Nekros stepped forward, offering the poisoned chalice to Grom, who took it, and drank, swallowing clumsily, the liquid dribbling along his chin. After a moment, he handed the cup back and began to shudder as the demon blood flooded through him like a sickness. She saw Orgrim, too late to be useful, move to help him, but Gul'dan gestured for silence, watching intently.
"How do you feel, Grommash?" Gul'dan purred, utterly pleased with himself.
There was silence for a moment. While it had worked, Grom had squeezed his eyes closed, but now he opened them and they glowed a dull red, and Garona was reminded of that which swam in the depths of the Twisting Nether. It made her skin crawl, and it did not help when Grom threw back his head, unleashing a mighty hellscream that threatened to shake the stars from the sky.
Answer enough for Gul'dan. He turned to look at the others, to Blackhand, who had drunk in secret, retching and writhing, and those who were looking more intrigued at each passing moment. "Who is next?"
Garona watched as each chieftain condemned their clan, shuddering and trembling with the cheap power they were claiming from demons. Nekros passed the chalice round, watching with satisfaction. He came to Durotan, seated roughly in the middle of the circle, and held the cup out. Nekros was smirking as he waited for the Shadow Wolf chieftain to take it, and Garona had seen nothing so satisfying as the look of surprise when Durotan slapped it out of his hands, and the remaining liquid was wasted on the ground.
As Nekros cried out in alarm, Durotan rose, looking over those who had taken the cup, and those who had not yet accepted the poison. "Are you all insane?” Durotan demanded. “We have had drugs before. Plants that make some swift, or numb from pain. Do you not remember those who writhe and die in agony because of it? This... this demon blood is no different!"
Grom laughed sharply. "It feels like no drug I've ever seen. It speaks to me, Durotan, as a warrior. To all we warriors. Why are you afraid?"
"I'm afraid because of what this will do to us,” Durotan began, pacing the circle. “We started a war we cannot win and now we must drug ourselves to achieve victory? We have taken this part of the land, let it end there. Let us bring the others and close down the Portal. We don't need to war. We have a home here."
"You filthy coward!" Blackhand blustered, glancing over at Gul'dan. The warlock was furious, though his anger was clamped down tightly. "You fear death!"
No, he is brave, Garona thought as Durotan's words stirred something within her, something dead. That tiny light her mother had offered her all those years ago. It was hope. He is the only one not to dance to Gul'dan's tune.
"I fear the death of our people, of our spirituality and our beliefs," Durotan replied, voice cold. "Have we not already forbidden shamanism, a tradition far older than the warlock and necrolyte magics that dominate us now? The shamans would never have agreed to this."
"Do not speak of the shamans," Gul'dan spat, and Garona sensed a tremor of fear within his anger, and was pleased. "You foolish, ignorant child."
"You must have mistaken me for someone else." Durotan turned, fixing on the warlock, meeting his gaze without fear. "I am not one of your pawns, Gul'dan. One of your tools. Hear me, all of you. We do not need this poison. We do not need this demon blood. All we need is to grow strong as a people, to not be obsessed with destroying these humans. It does us no good. It does not nourish our children, or feed our mates, or build us homes."
Durotan swept his gaze over the chieftains again, gesturing to them. Some stared at him, others squirmed. He let that sink in for a breath, and then continued.
"What we have always believed is that there must be victory or there must be death. Well, we have not been given victory, but we have been given death. The death of our spirit as free men and women, and are instead shackled to that." He pointed to the cup and the blood both. "I want no part in it, and neither should any of you."
Not a part of the plan at all, Garona thought, though her heart swelled with pride. As she glanced at the other Shadow Wolves, she could see them nodding, and Draka's shining eyes. She wanted, just for a moment, to smile at her, to nod her agreement, but she did nothing. Shadows do not move on their own.
Gul'dan had swollen up with fury, though only a single word escaped his lips in a hiss: "Fool. You defy the will of the ancestors? The will of the Warchief?!" He made a cutting gesture. "You are not worthy to be the chieftain of the Shadow Wolf tribe, Durotan, son of Garad."
All of Garona's pride dried up as it was replaced by raw horror. No, she thought, fighting to keep her expression neutral. If Gul'dan called upon her to kill Durotan... Could I do it? I care nothing for most, but Durotan... In this moment of defiance, she had never admired him more. All eyes were on him, save Doomhammer, who dismissed her as he saw that she was not moving. She could not find it in her heart to hate him for that. Instead, she watched the shadows as Draka moved out of the crowd and placed her hand on his shoulder, no less defiant than her mate.
"You are wrong, warlock," Draka said, disgusted to even use the word. She eyed the other chieftains with contempt. "My mate is wiser than you. You have been blinded by this power, and if he were to be blinded by it too, only then would he be an unworthy chieftain. Do your worst, Stormreaver. I will stand by him until the end."
"As will I," Drek'thar said, coming to stand by Durotan, his white eyes sightless, but showing no fear. "And I would like to ask which ancestor was foolish enough to give you this advice."
Gul'dan hissed angrily as the rest of the Shadow Wolves gathered, one kicking aside the chalice and striking Nekros in the ankle. The apprentice made a brief noise of pain, but he was ignored. Gul'dan looked down at her, his question silent. Garona was happy to shake her head slightly.
I could kill one warrior, or a few, but not a clan, she thought happily. He cannot beat me for this.
"You will be punished for defying the will of the Warchief," Gul'dan said finally, containing his anger with the hissing of a snake. "You are not welcome within the Horde. This gift will unite the Horde in the way that no other could. Not you, not your precious shamans, no one. All will be one under the leadership of Blackhand of the Blackrock clan."
"Under your leadership, perhaps," Durotan growled. Around him, the chieftains bristled, and while Garona knew that Durotan had only spoken the truth, it had nonetheless wounded the pride of his peers. She saw Doomhammer tense, and she shifted slightly, ready to move.
I won't let you hurt him, just to satisfy the pride of fools, Garona thought. You turned your back on your closest friend. We all should be so lucky to have someone like Durotan.
The moment stretched, the very air thick with tension. Finally, Gul'dan spoke, and no one pretended that it was Blackhand's will, or any but Gul'dan's own. "Get out. Leave this place. The Horde need not such traitors as you."
Exile, Garona breathed. He will live, and be far away from this war and Gul'dan's scheming. The Shadow Wolves will be safe.
"We will be more than happy to leave your dark reach forever," Durotan replied, and turned, striding towards the Shadow Wolves' camp, and in his wake trailed his clan, heads held high. Gul'dan watched this with ugly loathing, and forced himself to calm.
“Nekros,” he said. “Fetch more blood.”
Bowing, the apprentice did as he was bid. There were no more interruptions, and Garona watched as the blood was passed between chieftains, between warriors, but not to people like Griselda, and not to herself. Some glowered at her, as though daring her to complain. She met their anger with nothing visible, keeping her thoughts tucked in.
As though I would condemn myself as you would, she thought with contempt. She made note of those who accepted the blood, searing their folly into her mind. Less important was the fact that Doomhammer managed to avoid drinking it, and instead pushed his way through the crowd after Durotan while Blackhand and Gul'dan were distracted.
In the wake of the Shadow Wolves' exile, there was a celebration. They drank stinking alcoholic brews, heavy with spices, toasting over and over with 'demon's blood'. Those whose presence was missed were overshadowed by those that remained. With Durotan gone and Orgrim disappeared, Grom Hellscream's voice was louder than all others, toasted a dozen times.
You'd think they'd remember that he has not yet fought a single human or had his clan's blood spilled, Garona thought as she crouched in Gul'dan's great, dark tent. All they see is a brave hero. I wonder if word will spread as far as Garadar of his so-called 'great deeds'.
“Garona,” Gul'dan snapped, drawing her attention to him once more. “The situation is well in hand. The last of the dissension is gone, and your services are needed elsewhere.”
Elsewhere? Garona wondered to herself, but said nothing, letting Gul'dan build up to it in his preferred dramatic fashion.
“The human, Medivh, holds back information from me,” Gul'dan said. “To Sargeras he may be bound, but demons have tongues that slip and slide like the slime creatures of this swamp.”
Snakes aren't actually slimy, Garona corrected silently, but nodded curtly. “What is your command?”
“You will go to Medivh's tower, Karazhan, and report back to me regarding what you find,” Gul'dan ordered. “You will pry Medivh's secrets from him, each one of them, and tell me of them. I would know all of it.”
“Do you wish me to remain unseen?” Garona asked, a sense of unease growing within her. I know that I can hide from Gul'dan, but Medivh can hide from me.
“No,” Gul'dan said, startling her. “In fact, he has invited you to come to his tower as a guest. A liaison, he claims.” He snorted. “He wants to use you to gain information about me, I am certain of it.”
“So we're to give him what he wants?” Garona asked, and Gul'dan cuffed her sharply. The rebuke stung against her cheek, and she subsided, seething.
“You will give him nothing,” Gul'dan hissed. “Or as little as possible to satisfy his curiosity. Take everything, give nothing back. Do as you're told, girl.”
“As you command,” Garona whispered, and bowed her head.
~ * ~
“I wouldn't return to the orcs for some time,” Garona said. “Roughly three years. While I was gone, much would happen. The demon blood made the warriors very, very strong. Resistant to pain, harder to kill. They successfully attacked a number of human settlements. Redridge burned. Duskwood, less so, but Elwynn Forest, Northshire... refugees streamed into Stormwind and the great walls kept them safe. Believing themselves peerless, the Horde attacked Stormwind immediately.”
“They failed,” Thrall said. “They failed for those three years.”
“Yes,” Garona said quietly. She stopped walking, and Thrall took two steps more before stopping as well, turning to look at her. “So long as Llane Wrynn lived, Stormwind could never fall.”
“Will you tell me about it?” Thrall asked softly. “Of Karazhan?”
Garona remained silent for a time, then finally nodded, and began to walk again. “That's what it comes to, the story of the greatest mistake I have ever made.”
“I'm ready to listen,” Thrall said, and she nodded to him. “In your own time.”
[Part 7]
Title: Assassin
Part: 6/?
Word Count: 5542
Includes: Angst, sap, adorableness. A story told in flashbacks, there will be one-sided crushes and meaningful stares.
Pairings: Technically, none.
Summary: The founding of Durotar, and lessons in history from the mouth of one who has been a part of it: Garona Halforcen.
Previous: 1 2 3 4 5
“I still think it's a bad idea,” Shandel'zare declared, and Thrall sighed. She had been declaring the recovery of Mannoroth's bones and their placement within Orgrimmar a 'bad idea' for the last few hours. She had iterated this from the moment she'd heard about Thrall's intention to place the bones in Orgrimmar to the teleportation spell that had brought them all to Grommash Hold, to the final moment they had been affixed in a semblance of their old form.
“Your opinion has been noted,” Thrall said. “Please, leave me.”
The troll mage nodded, her green mohawk moving stiffly with her head, and she strode off. Thrall watched her for a moment, noting that despite the heat, she chose to be fully robed, and then turned back to the plaque. In Memory of Grommash Hellscream: He has saved us all.
The same day Mannoroth had died, Grom had confessed to Thrall that it had been he who had condemned their people in the first place. That one act of heroism could neutralize one act of pure folly. His thoughts drifted to that confession and knew that it must have happened sometime before the fall of Stormwind, but after the creation of the Horde. It would have been a day of significance.
Garona will remember that day, Thrall thought. I can't think of a reason that she wouldn't, but... do I want to know? He ran his fingers along the carved symbols of the plaque. That's not how history works. You don't get to only hear the parts that please you, that make you proud. You must hear all of it.
Grom's remains had been burnt after his death, and the Warsong had howled and drummed, but his weapon, the mighty Gorehowl, had been kept from the pyre. Thrall had affixed it across from Mannoroth, as though Grom's spirit were to take it up once more and strike down the pit lord.
Jaina was so angry with both of us, Thrall remembered with a smile. We were fools to attack so quickly, without any rest after cleansing the Warsong. She had a great plan, she just needed to sleep, and by the time she woke it was done. “You're such a good friend, but you don't understand that sometimes we must make our mistakes on our own.”
His remark, softly made, seemed to stir the air around him. Thrall closed his eyes, extending his senses. There was a feeling of stillness in the air, of preternatural quiet. A vacuum. The silence was particularly silent as the air displaced and Garona moved out of the shadows. He could not see her, but he could feel her.
“Hellscream was never short on mistakes to make, either,” Garona remarked, shattering her own silence with the softness of her voice. Like this, Thrall could hear contempt mixed with sorrow and a little envy. He opened his eyes, and his senses returned to normal.
“He was a good friend, a brother to me,” Thrall said, and turned to her. “I want to know about his great mistake.”
“You're ready for it then?” Garona asked, though it was a redundant question. Thrall met her gaze squarely, fortified with old knowledge and new conviction.
“I am,” Thrall said. “I know what Grom confessed to me, but I also want to know what you saw.”
Garona nodded slightly, and the pair of them began to walk. There was a light breeze that rolled along the streets, tugging at their braids before giving it up as a lost cause. It was a quiet day, a lazy one, one that could be enjoyed easily.
The truth is rarely easy.
“For a time, it seemed that the newly forged Horde would be enough. With Blackhand leading and the other Chieftains obeying him, the attacks on human lands became more coordinated. The new Horde was able to attack a number of human settlements, often destroying them, while others built up strength and created new strongholds. The trouble was, any significant counter-attack by the human knights would push us back.”
“Humans and their knightly orders have been around for a long time,” Thrall noted, frowning. “I remember reading of them. I think it was meant to intimidate me, but I noticed how inflexible they could be, falling back on prewritten maneuvers, and that a number of times, radical changes in the opposing army could cause them to scatter.”
“Whereas the Horde frequently fell apart under coordinated attacks and excelled at hit-and-run tactics that required fluidity of mind, but spread themselves too thinly in their eagerness to press the attack,” Garona added. “It's always surprised me that no great general ever wrote a book of broad tactics that would promote both discipline and flexibility.”
“That would be something to see,” Thrall said with a smile. “Though, humans and orcs will never fight each other again. It won't be necessary.”
“We'll see,” Garona muttered darkly. “We will see.”
~ * ~
“The leakage from the Dark Portal is getting worse,” Gorefiend noted. Garona watched his expression for signs of regret at reporting this development, but he gave no sign of it. For all the concern he was showing, he could have been observing the weather.
The circle of warlocks met in its shadow on Draenor, far from the prying eyes of the other chieftains. The Black Temple had been all but abandoned by the warlocks, who instead had come together to form a council within the concealing darkness. Many of the warlocks had assassins now, clad in the same black as Garona, some small number of them mastering the power of silence and shadow.
At seventeen years, Garona was still the youngest of their number and the most successful.
“It's less than the smallest clan's village’s worth of damage in two years,” muttered Kalag Darkstrike. “It's not that much. If we move away from the Portal, we'll outdistance it soon enough.”
“And then what, we keep running?” Teron demanded. “The corruption of Draenor does not tire as we do.”
“The trouble is the lack of progress,” noted Vorpil. “Both with getting the clans to come through the Portal and the clans on the other side advancing against the humans.”
“It's the human city, Stormwind,” crackled the oldest warlock, a former Greatmother named Nassa. Garona recalled that her clan, the Striking Rocs, had fallen to a plague many years beforehand, from Chieftain Ystelle to the tiniest infant, and only she had survived. The old woman's face was a mess of wrinkles and scars, and it was only from the shadows of her hiding place that Garona felt safe looking on it. All others tended to look away. “They are the gatekeepers to the north.”
“Blackhand managed to find a way past them,” pointed out Seros Crackfist. “He has clan lands in Blackrock Mountain.”
Nassa laughed, short and ugly. “Clan lands surrounding a volcano where the lands are cursed with foul smoke and darkness and he contends with ugly squatmen with red eyes and black skin for every inch. Let us bask in the brilliance of Blackhand the Destroyer.”
Seros flinched at her mockery. He had been a part of Blackhand's clan, chosen to join the Shadow Council, and was as much Gul'dan's creature as his chieftain's. Still, he said nothing. Nassa had broken the jaw of the last person who had contradicted her, and the warrior in question was still being spooned mashed meat by his daughters.
“There are other things to be concerned about,” Teron noted, dragging the conversation back from this precipice. “Like the unrest of the chieftains. Some have been as far south as Booty Bay, and as far west as Longshore. They can smell the ocean and they don't like it. We're surrounded on all sides by water, and they will not sail.”
“That is troubling,” Vorpil groused. “Especially if the Warsong continue to refuse to engage fully with us. One of their offshoots has claimed an island on Draenor. Theoretically, they know how to sail, and swim.”
“More likely that they strapped themselves into catapults and threw themselves across the ocean,” Nassa cackled. “Howling all the while.”
“That seems unlikely but--”
“Silence.” Gul'dan strode forth, stopping at the head of the circle. All heads turned to him, and even Nassa did not balk at the order. “I have consulted with Lord Sargeras about our... lack of progress. He is intent and eager to see us progress and claim domination over the humans. He has granted us a great boon.”
“A boon? Gorefiend asked. “What manner of boon?”
“Behold,” Gul'dan said, and stepped back from the circle. He swept out one arm and beneath their feet, the ground began to shake, throwing up a haze of dust. Garona began to breathe carefully, though her eyes still stung. The warlocks covered their mouths with their sleeves, or coughed while they tried to protect themselves.
A huge shape loomed over them, casting all into a chill shadow. Garona looked up, and let out a silent gasp. The creature was four-legged and hoofed, but was far larger than a clefthoof and scaled rather than furry. It seemed almost the size of Karabor itself. The creature was green, though its eyes were like fire, along with a trail moving down its back that reminded Garona of the Hand of Gul'dan that spewed green lava and sickness everywhere. It had two thick arms that ended in fat, three-fingered hands that seemed absurdly tiny, save for the fact that it also bore a weapon larger than three orcs standing atop one another's shoulders.
“I AM MANNOROTH, LIEUTENANT OF THE GREAT KIL'JAEDEN,” the demon boomed. “I BRING GREETINGS FROM THE TWISTING NETHER.”
Garona fought the urge to quail at its voice, and she knelt. One by one, the others did as well: proud Nassa and strange Teron and lickspittle Seros. It would be vindicating to see so many warlocks humbled were it not for the fact that she was just as terrified by the demon as they were.
“What boon do you grant, Lord Mannoroth?” Vorpil asked, his voice steady, though he did not look up into the demon's burning eyes.
“BLOOD,” Mannoroth boomed. “YOU ORCS HAVE FIRE IN YOUR BLOOD, EH? I DO AS WELL.” The demon raised his wings - wings that seemed utterly useless - and flapped them hard. The trail of fire along his back flared, adding fel green to a sky that was tooth brown-yellow. “IT IS WITH MY BLOOD THAT YOU WILL BECOME STRONG!”
“But we are strong,” Seros said. “Strong warriors that--”
Mannoroth slapped him with the back of his hand, and he went flying out of the circle, falling brokenly onto the filthy, cracked ground. Seros did not rise again, and no one voiced another complaint.
“You must cut yourself,” Gul'dan said into the ensuing silence. “There is no blade among us that will harm you.”
Mannoroth chuckled, and it was an ugly, terrible thing. Quietly, more to herself than anything else, Nassa did the same thing, and through either unease or agreement, the rest of the warlocks followed, and Gul'dan laughed loudest of all.
Cho'gall, with one head still chuckling, cried out with the other, “Bring the cauldron!”
Two single-headed ogres dragged forth a massive iron cauldron, and even they strained as they did so. The warlocks rose and scattered, leaving room for it as they brought it before Mannoroth, who eyed them as though they might be a tasty snack for later, his squashed, almost animal face smirking in amusement. He made a cut along his belly and began to bleed fire. It hissed and spat as it fell in droplets, and the blood stank and smoked as it accumulated. Garona's eyes burned from the smoke, and she had to blink and look away.
Who would drink such a thing? she wondered. What fools would think that this is anything that might help us?
When the cauldron was half-filled with the stinking blood, Mannoroth pressed a hand to his belly, and after a few moments, the bleeding ceased. Where the blood hit the ground, it burned down into the dry, cracked earth, creating pockmarks until its seething hatred burned out.
“Will this be enough for all?” Vorpil asked, peering at it. “Lord Mannoroth has surely not bled enough for every orc in the Horde.”
“Mix it with something,” Nassa advised. “A potion. Fools will put anything in their mouths in the name of personal betterment.”
“What if it dilutes the potency of the blood?” Kalag said with a frown, though he did not do more than glance briefly into it. “We can afford no more weakness.”
“I damn well hope it dilutes it,” Nassa snarled. “As it is, it will burn right through people, and you can't fight with a hole in your innards.”
It's poison, Garona thought, her eyes growing wide as she fought to keep silent. You want to poison everyone. You can't--
“Nassa has the right of it,” Teron said slowly. “We mix the blood in with herbs and water, we create a potion. We don't offer it to all, only those who fight. The adults warriors first, then those who are being initiated. The hunters, if they fail to keep up, the scouts. There's no need to waste it on the grass-eaters in Nagrand. They are weak and will never agree.”
“Good, good,” Gul'dan murmured, nodding to himself. Garona gazed at Gorefiend with horror. He seemed to catch her gaze for a moment, and his eyes flicked away. “We must make this last. Our agreement is for only this much.”
“Agreement?” Vorpil asked sharply, glancing from Gul'dan to the agreement. “What happens if we need more?”
“AH, LITTLE MORTAL,” Mannoroth said, the demon's voice huge and loud. “YOU DON'T WANT ME TO CUT TWICE. A SECOND CUT, ADDED TO THE FIRST, DEMANDS A VERY, VERY HIGH PRICE.”
A higher price than poisoning our whole race? Garona thought. Somehow, I doubt that.
“There you have it,” Gul'dan said. “Now, come, there is much work to do before the meeting of the chieftains.”
~ * ~
“Mannoroth,” Thrall breathed. “And the price paid for him to cut twice was... very high.”
“It's an open question as to who paid the higher price,” Garona murmured. “The Warsong lost their freedom. The Kaldorei lost their god.”
Thrall was silent, feeling the wind around him, the warmth, the dust and the weight of living souls. “Jaina told me that the Archmages of Dalaran believed that the orcs all simultaneously fell ill after the Dark Portal's connection to Azeroth was severed. The Lethargy, they called it. Their justification for contributing to the Internment Camps, though their intention was to discover its cause and cure it. At the time, the rest of the Alliance was none too pleased to hear about it.”
“It was somewhat more complicated than that,” Garona said. “Gul'dan was conspiring with Sargeras, and the demon blood to strengthen the Horde was only part of a greater bargain. The contract between orcs and demons was sealed in blood. So long as the Dark Portal remained open, we were capable of fulfilling our part of the bargain, but the moment it closed...”
“The backlash from breaking an agreement is always severe, based on the power of the one you've made that contract with,” Thrall mused. “If I defaulted on my bargain with the goblins to repay them for what they've lent me to build this city, the retaliation would be severe. No goblin would ever treat with anyone in the Horde again... no one likes to be robbed.”
“No, indeed,” Garona said. “The demons gave the orcs vitality, blood. In return, when that contract was broken, they stole their vitality away. The warriors gained the most, so they lost the most. That's why the children in the camps were free of it entirely. If you had waited long enough, the orcs would have been completely free of it.”
“Free, but cowed, beaten, a race of slaves instead of warriors,” Thrall growled softly. “It was better to fight for it.”
“I didn't say it wasn't,” Garona replied. They walked in silence for a time, and Thrall soaked her words in.
“Tell me about the meeting of the chieftains,” Thrall said. “I want to know how it happened.”
~ * ~
Were it not for the sensation of impending doom, Garona would have found the meeting to be very like the gatherings at Oshu'gun. Warriors and chieftains greeted one another, slapping their peers on the back, loudly discussing the latest battles. Hellscream and Bladefist, Deadeye and Wolfbrother, Sharpaxe and Blackhand. Their clans were gathered with them in part, the warriors having been encouraged to attend. Some had brought more: the Shadow Wolf clan was here in full, from the blind Drek'thar to proud Draka, her eyes gleaming with anger and strength. Blackhand had brought all three of his children, and little Griselda looked intimidated by the gathering of so many.
Garona kept to Gul'dan's shadow as he approached the gathering. She observed as Orgrim Doomhammer, now Blackhand's lieutenant, spoke politely to Griselda Blackhand, and Garona could read the fear coming from the soft, small orc woman as easily as she could a book.
If he is bothering her, I will cut off his hand, Garona thought snappishly. Her family treats her badly enough, she doesn't need that oaf to upset her as well.
“Hear me, warriors of the Horde!” Blackhand bellowed, cutting short the greetings as people settled into place. "From our wise men, our warlocks and our necrolytes, I have a gift for you. I will leave it to Gul'dan to explain his vision."
His vision is for all of you to be slaves to demons, Garona said, and for a moment she considered speaking up. She looked at each of the faces sitting in the circle of chieftains. She knew each name. She knew their children, and where they could be most vulnerable. She could remember their disdain and their hate. No one here would listen to me, except...
Her gaze drifted to Durotan as Gul'dan stepped forward to speak, watching his expression intently.
"Thank you, Warchief," Gul'dan said. "I look upon you, warriors of the Horde. l see those who have fought against the humans long and hard. Humans that, by all rights, should have been crushed under orcish feet." This set off an offended, irritated ripple through the assembled chieftains, and Garona held back a smirk. Durotan was frowning. "The humans have a secret advantage, one that has kept them strong, and I have searched for a way to overcome it and now, I have had a powerful vision. This vision has revealed to me that we have been missing an important tool to defeat the humans. I am upset that this was not revealed to us sooner, many warriors could have been spared. Nekros, bring it forward."
Nekros Skullcrusher was one of the apprentice warlocks. Young and ambitious, he had been chosen to carry damnation to his people and had done so eagerly. The circle of warlocks parted allowing him to stride forth, his head slightly bowed to conceal his smirk, though Garona did not know how he could bear the smell of the demon's blood. He bore a large chalice made of stolen metal, melted down and beaten into a new shape, carved with runes that would prevent it from dissolving.
Would that we put the same effort into cup making as forging a sword, Garona thought sourly. A breeze picked up, wafting the scent of the blood towards the assembled chieftains. Some gagged in disgust, others looked curious even as they covered their noses.
"Our ancestors have given us a great gift that will assist us in our fight against the humans. It is called demon's blood. It will make our warriors stronger, faster and more dangerous. It will hone our minds until they are like axes." Gul'dan smiled around his lies, loosely woven, and yet as he spoke, there were those who sat up with interest. "That is, if our chieftains have the courage to seize it."
"This is what the ancestors want?" frowned Kilrogg. "It seems... unusual. Dishonourable."
Yes, you great fool with weight to your clan, object, stop this madness, Garona willed, though she saw one chieftain stand, and her heart sank. It was Hellscream. Somehow, Gul’dan had convinced the young chieftain to finally come through the portal and attend this meeting. The Warsong clan was storied and powerful, but hard to command. Stubborn though he was, Hellscream was well known, and more importantly, the oldest chieftains remembered his great-grandmother, the mighty Drakatha Hellscream, chieftain and warrior, and the weight her name lent to his words.
"Is it dishonourable to sharpen our axes instead of relying only on crude cudgels?" asked Grom, brandishing Gorehowl. It whined softly as it moved. "No... this is a weapon."
Why is it that every time Gul'dan comes up with a ridiculous, ludicrous scheme that only hurts the orcs more, someone steps up to meet his expectations and continues this trail of tears? Garona seethed to herself. Sure enough, Gul'dan smiled, pleased at his latest tool.
"Yes, Grommash Hellscream, this is a weapon,” Gul'dan said. “Will you be the first to take up this cup?"
Some of the chieftains grumbled, objecting though none stopped Grom from pushing forward and walking towards Nekros. Disbelief flickered in Durotan's eyes, and hurt. First that idiot Doomhammer, then Hellscream, Garona thought. You deserve better friends. Meanwhile, Grom was speaking.
"We have suffered long and the ancestors have seen it!” Grom cried, his voice reaching the very stars. “With this, we will crush our enemies and see them driven before us! They will beg us for mercy that we will not grant! For the Horde!"
As Hellscream spoke, Garona was dismayed to see most among the assembled crowd sit up, inspired and pleased by his words. Nekros stepped forward, offering the poisoned chalice to Grom, who took it, and drank, swallowing clumsily, the liquid dribbling along his chin. After a moment, he handed the cup back and began to shudder as the demon blood flooded through him like a sickness. She saw Orgrim, too late to be useful, move to help him, but Gul'dan gestured for silence, watching intently.
"How do you feel, Grommash?" Gul'dan purred, utterly pleased with himself.
There was silence for a moment. While it had worked, Grom had squeezed his eyes closed, but now he opened them and they glowed a dull red, and Garona was reminded of that which swam in the depths of the Twisting Nether. It made her skin crawl, and it did not help when Grom threw back his head, unleashing a mighty hellscream that threatened to shake the stars from the sky.
Answer enough for Gul'dan. He turned to look at the others, to Blackhand, who had drunk in secret, retching and writhing, and those who were looking more intrigued at each passing moment. "Who is next?"
Garona watched as each chieftain condemned their clan, shuddering and trembling with the cheap power they were claiming from demons. Nekros passed the chalice round, watching with satisfaction. He came to Durotan, seated roughly in the middle of the circle, and held the cup out. Nekros was smirking as he waited for the Shadow Wolf chieftain to take it, and Garona had seen nothing so satisfying as the look of surprise when Durotan slapped it out of his hands, and the remaining liquid was wasted on the ground.
As Nekros cried out in alarm, Durotan rose, looking over those who had taken the cup, and those who had not yet accepted the poison. "Are you all insane?” Durotan demanded. “We have had drugs before. Plants that make some swift, or numb from pain. Do you not remember those who writhe and die in agony because of it? This... this demon blood is no different!"
Grom laughed sharply. "It feels like no drug I've ever seen. It speaks to me, Durotan, as a warrior. To all we warriors. Why are you afraid?"
"I'm afraid because of what this will do to us,” Durotan began, pacing the circle. “We started a war we cannot win and now we must drug ourselves to achieve victory? We have taken this part of the land, let it end there. Let us bring the others and close down the Portal. We don't need to war. We have a home here."
"You filthy coward!" Blackhand blustered, glancing over at Gul'dan. The warlock was furious, though his anger was clamped down tightly. "You fear death!"
No, he is brave, Garona thought as Durotan's words stirred something within her, something dead. That tiny light her mother had offered her all those years ago. It was hope. He is the only one not to dance to Gul'dan's tune.
"I fear the death of our people, of our spirituality and our beliefs," Durotan replied, voice cold. "Have we not already forbidden shamanism, a tradition far older than the warlock and necrolyte magics that dominate us now? The shamans would never have agreed to this."
"Do not speak of the shamans," Gul'dan spat, and Garona sensed a tremor of fear within his anger, and was pleased. "You foolish, ignorant child."
"You must have mistaken me for someone else." Durotan turned, fixing on the warlock, meeting his gaze without fear. "I am not one of your pawns, Gul'dan. One of your tools. Hear me, all of you. We do not need this poison. We do not need this demon blood. All we need is to grow strong as a people, to not be obsessed with destroying these humans. It does us no good. It does not nourish our children, or feed our mates, or build us homes."
Durotan swept his gaze over the chieftains again, gesturing to them. Some stared at him, others squirmed. He let that sink in for a breath, and then continued.
"What we have always believed is that there must be victory or there must be death. Well, we have not been given victory, but we have been given death. The death of our spirit as free men and women, and are instead shackled to that." He pointed to the cup and the blood both. "I want no part in it, and neither should any of you."
Not a part of the plan at all, Garona thought, though her heart swelled with pride. As she glanced at the other Shadow Wolves, she could see them nodding, and Draka's shining eyes. She wanted, just for a moment, to smile at her, to nod her agreement, but she did nothing. Shadows do not move on their own.
Gul'dan had swollen up with fury, though only a single word escaped his lips in a hiss: "Fool. You defy the will of the ancestors? The will of the Warchief?!" He made a cutting gesture. "You are not worthy to be the chieftain of the Shadow Wolf tribe, Durotan, son of Garad."
All of Garona's pride dried up as it was replaced by raw horror. No, she thought, fighting to keep her expression neutral. If Gul'dan called upon her to kill Durotan... Could I do it? I care nothing for most, but Durotan... In this moment of defiance, she had never admired him more. All eyes were on him, save Doomhammer, who dismissed her as he saw that she was not moving. She could not find it in her heart to hate him for that. Instead, she watched the shadows as Draka moved out of the crowd and placed her hand on his shoulder, no less defiant than her mate.
"You are wrong, warlock," Draka said, disgusted to even use the word. She eyed the other chieftains with contempt. "My mate is wiser than you. You have been blinded by this power, and if he were to be blinded by it too, only then would he be an unworthy chieftain. Do your worst, Stormreaver. I will stand by him until the end."
"As will I," Drek'thar said, coming to stand by Durotan, his white eyes sightless, but showing no fear. "And I would like to ask which ancestor was foolish enough to give you this advice."
Gul'dan hissed angrily as the rest of the Shadow Wolves gathered, one kicking aside the chalice and striking Nekros in the ankle. The apprentice made a brief noise of pain, but he was ignored. Gul'dan looked down at her, his question silent. Garona was happy to shake her head slightly.
I could kill one warrior, or a few, but not a clan, she thought happily. He cannot beat me for this.
"You will be punished for defying the will of the Warchief," Gul'dan said finally, containing his anger with the hissing of a snake. "You are not welcome within the Horde. This gift will unite the Horde in the way that no other could. Not you, not your precious shamans, no one. All will be one under the leadership of Blackhand of the Blackrock clan."
"Under your leadership, perhaps," Durotan growled. Around him, the chieftains bristled, and while Garona knew that Durotan had only spoken the truth, it had nonetheless wounded the pride of his peers. She saw Doomhammer tense, and she shifted slightly, ready to move.
I won't let you hurt him, just to satisfy the pride of fools, Garona thought. You turned your back on your closest friend. We all should be so lucky to have someone like Durotan.
The moment stretched, the very air thick with tension. Finally, Gul'dan spoke, and no one pretended that it was Blackhand's will, or any but Gul'dan's own. "Get out. Leave this place. The Horde need not such traitors as you."
Exile, Garona breathed. He will live, and be far away from this war and Gul'dan's scheming. The Shadow Wolves will be safe.
"We will be more than happy to leave your dark reach forever," Durotan replied, and turned, striding towards the Shadow Wolves' camp, and in his wake trailed his clan, heads held high. Gul'dan watched this with ugly loathing, and forced himself to calm.
“Nekros,” he said. “Fetch more blood.”
Bowing, the apprentice did as he was bid. There were no more interruptions, and Garona watched as the blood was passed between chieftains, between warriors, but not to people like Griselda, and not to herself. Some glowered at her, as though daring her to complain. She met their anger with nothing visible, keeping her thoughts tucked in.
As though I would condemn myself as you would, she thought with contempt. She made note of those who accepted the blood, searing their folly into her mind. Less important was the fact that Doomhammer managed to avoid drinking it, and instead pushed his way through the crowd after Durotan while Blackhand and Gul'dan were distracted.
In the wake of the Shadow Wolves' exile, there was a celebration. They drank stinking alcoholic brews, heavy with spices, toasting over and over with 'demon's blood'. Those whose presence was missed were overshadowed by those that remained. With Durotan gone and Orgrim disappeared, Grom Hellscream's voice was louder than all others, toasted a dozen times.
You'd think they'd remember that he has not yet fought a single human or had his clan's blood spilled, Garona thought as she crouched in Gul'dan's great, dark tent. All they see is a brave hero. I wonder if word will spread as far as Garadar of his so-called 'great deeds'.
“Garona,” Gul'dan snapped, drawing her attention to him once more. “The situation is well in hand. The last of the dissension is gone, and your services are needed elsewhere.”
Elsewhere? Garona wondered to herself, but said nothing, letting Gul'dan build up to it in his preferred dramatic fashion.
“The human, Medivh, holds back information from me,” Gul'dan said. “To Sargeras he may be bound, but demons have tongues that slip and slide like the slime creatures of this swamp.”
Snakes aren't actually slimy, Garona corrected silently, but nodded curtly. “What is your command?”
“You will go to Medivh's tower, Karazhan, and report back to me regarding what you find,” Gul'dan ordered. “You will pry Medivh's secrets from him, each one of them, and tell me of them. I would know all of it.”
“Do you wish me to remain unseen?” Garona asked, a sense of unease growing within her. I know that I can hide from Gul'dan, but Medivh can hide from me.
“No,” Gul'dan said, startling her. “In fact, he has invited you to come to his tower as a guest. A liaison, he claims.” He snorted. “He wants to use you to gain information about me, I am certain of it.”
“So we're to give him what he wants?” Garona asked, and Gul'dan cuffed her sharply. The rebuke stung against her cheek, and she subsided, seething.
“You will give him nothing,” Gul'dan hissed. “Or as little as possible to satisfy his curiosity. Take everything, give nothing back. Do as you're told, girl.”
“As you command,” Garona whispered, and bowed her head.
~ * ~
“I wouldn't return to the orcs for some time,” Garona said. “Roughly three years. While I was gone, much would happen. The demon blood made the warriors very, very strong. Resistant to pain, harder to kill. They successfully attacked a number of human settlements. Redridge burned. Duskwood, less so, but Elwynn Forest, Northshire... refugees streamed into Stormwind and the great walls kept them safe. Believing themselves peerless, the Horde attacked Stormwind immediately.”
“They failed,” Thrall said. “They failed for those three years.”
“Yes,” Garona said quietly. She stopped walking, and Thrall took two steps more before stopping as well, turning to look at her. “So long as Llane Wrynn lived, Stormwind could never fall.”
“Will you tell me about it?” Thrall asked softly. “Of Karazhan?”
Garona remained silent for a time, then finally nodded, and began to walk again. “That's what it comes to, the story of the greatest mistake I have ever made.”
“I'm ready to listen,” Thrall said, and she nodded to him. “In your own time.”
[Part 7]