Warcraft: Assassin - Part 5
I'm better now, but the recovery was kind of lengthy, which is why this is both a bit short and also took a while.
Title: Assassin
Part: 5/?
Word Count: 5921
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
“Say 'ahh'.” Sitting before Nara Whitemane, a young tauren druid, Thrall obligingly opened his mouth and said 'ahh'. Crowded around him, a dozen young children all tried to lean in and take a peek at his throat, and he had to do his best not to smile at the sight of it.
“It's all dark,” Kaja, one of the girls said. “How can you tell if there's sick inside?”
“This is why we use a light to take a look,” Nara said. She produced a stone that flickered and glowed with a soft inner light. Holding it up, she angled it so that it illuminated Thrall's mouth and throat.
I hope my teeth are clean enough for this, Thrall thought, feeling a bit self-conscious as Nara pointed out the healthy lines of skin covered muscle. She poked a little, feeling around with a stick that had been stripped of its leaves and bark, then sanded down, and listened to her explanation.
“The Warchief is quite healthy, but we want to make sure that he stays that way,” Nara said. “The teachings of Cenarius have long taught druids how to brew special potions and teas that help keep disease away. They may taste funny--” She made a soothing motion as the children pulled faces. “--but it's much, much better than the even nastier potions you'll need to drink of you get sick.”
“Does the Warchief need to take one?” asked Nomm, one of the boys, looking up with fearful eyes. “It would be the worst if he was sick. The worst.”
Thrall made an affirming noise around the stick, and Nara withdrew it, nodding to him. “Of course I will. Everyone needs to be healthy and strong to keep building and living safely in Orgrimmar,” he said. “However, if I don't complain about my potions, none of you can, alright?”
There was a scattering of disappointed sounds, but eventually all of the children agreed, and Nara gave him a broad smile as she had them each sit and submit to the same examination, each with a new stick. Meanwhile, Thrall arranged the potions neatly and administered them to each child that had finished being examined. He watched them pull faces and struggle to remain silent against the taste of potions that were, in fact, not particularly tasty.
“Thank you, this was an excellent idea,” Thrall said as the last of the children had been collected by their parents. “I've never lived in a large city, but I do remember that sickness tends to go through people like wildfire when they live close together.”
“It's true,” Nara said as she wiped down each of her examinations sticks and put them away in a roll of cloth. “We may not be able to fight great diseases, like demonic sickness or the Scourge plague, but that's no reason to ignore that many small diseases can hurt people, cripple them even, and there isn't always enough magic to go around. Better to use a little now than a lot later.”
“More wisdom of Cenarius?” Thrall asked, curious. “I had so little time to speak to Malfurion about druidic matters.”
“Of the Earthmother,” Nara replied with a smile. “Though Cenarius' words have been carried with us for generations since the clearing of the mists and the first Golden Dawn. Tauren once lived together in great gatherings that some might call herds.” She looked amused, and shook her head. “There have been great outbreaks in the past, killing many, and making many others too ill to continue travelling. Age comes to all, but disease can be prevented. It's the danger of cities, but it isn't to say no one should live in them. Only that we must take care.”
“Of course,” Thrall agreed. “Is it difficult to live here instead of in Mulgore? You've only so recently reclaimed it.”
“I have plenty of company,” Nara said. “I also fly over to visit with my family, and they are very proud of me.”
“We all are,” Thrall said. “Thank you for joining my council. The tauren should be strongly represented in the Horde's ruling body and I feel that they are.”
Nara ducked her head, and offered him a slight bow. “You're too kind, Warchief.”
“There's no such thing.” Thrall nodded to her. “I'll take my leave. Are you likely to need my help tomorrow?”
“I don't think so,” Nara replied. “Those children will talk and spread the word, and tomorrow others will come on their own. Thank you very much for your time.”
“You're most welcome,” Thrall said and departed. This section of the city was primarily occupied by tauren who wished to stay in Orgrimmar, or wanted to have a place to live in both cities. The journey is so long without mages to teleport people from place to place, and not everyone can turn into an eagle and fly like a druid. Perhaps something can be done when we're better settled here.
“You have a way with children,” Garona observed, and Thrall glanced over at her. He was getting used to her abrupt arrivals, and the hush of the spirits was as good a signal as any for her impending presence. “Nara's wise, too, though young.”
“Youth shouldn't preclude wisdom if age means being so set in your ways that you'd rather die than learn something new,” Thrall replied. “Though I'll avoid saying that near Drek'thar. He'll probably hit me.”
“He'll hit you and then agree,” Garona said. She was silent as they walked, crossing from the tent-lined section of Orgrimmar to the more orcish buildings of stone and clay. “Not all sickness comes from people.”
“No,” Thrall said, frowning. “Or rather, it doesn't come from coughing or spots. Sometimes it comes from having water contaminated by personal waste, or the waste of civilization. We have spirits blessing and watching over every water source we can find, and we monitor the run off from the farms. Vol'jin's people had some excellent ideas for it.”
“Good,” Garona said. “There was... a plague that struck in the days before the Dark Portal was opened. It struck at the most vulnerable, the very young and the very old. The farmers, those that tended to the hogs we needed to eat to live, those that harvested the gresht.”
Thrall frowned with concern. “What happened?”
Garona sighed. “It was natural as far as I know. It was spread at one of the great gatherings and moved through the clans. It only made people support Gul'dan more fully, but he was never the source of it. He lost two or three promising apprentices to it and he raged. I avoided it.”
“How did the warriors avoid it?” Thrall asked. “Surely they would have gotten sick too?”
“Their bodies were stronger, they claimed. In truth, they isolated themselves from the tasks of the sick and it kept them at good health. I felt little guilt stealing from them and bringing food and medicine to the children.” Garona's lips thinned into a smile. “Your grandmother departed her clan to travel and treat the sick using her wisdom and what grace the spirits had left her with.”
“That was good of her, though she must be with the ancestors now,” Thrall said, frowning. “I had wondered why Drek'thar never spoke of her.”
“That's Drek'thar's business,” Garona said. “Aside from stealing, I was very busy then, helping open the Portal.”
“How were you helping?” Thrall asked, curious now. “You're no mage, or warlock.”
“I'm not either, but due to my mixed heritage, he could use me as a focus, to pierce the veil of reality into the Twisting Nether and out the other side to Azeroth.” Garona's gaze grew distant. “It is... not a pleasant place.”
“Jaina has spoken of it,” Thrall said. “She said that teleportation and summoning both require the ability to manipulate elements of the Nether, though elemental summoning affects the Elemental Planes, whereas demon summoning affects the Twisting Nether.”
“She'll make a mage out of you yet,” Garona said, amused, and Thrall ducked his head.
“I only understand half of what she says on any given day, but her enthusiasm is infectious. I hope that she'll have time to visit again soon.”
“She may, or you could visit her,” Garona said. “Though some may consider it to be strange that you wish to spend so much time with a human.”
“I'm spending time with a friend,” Thrall reminded her. “What was creating the Portal like?”
“It was...” Garona paused. “The Twisting Nether is dark and vast. Much of the power in it isn't coherent, it's more abstract, waiting to be formed. It's an ocean of souls that laugh and weep and scream and rage all at once. Demons swim through it like sharks, feeding or ignoring as they choose. They are always watching and listening for the opportunity to become more material, to take on physical avatars. If there are elementals of fire and air, these are elemental darkness, the raw stuff of nightmares.”
Thrall felt chilled. “How does anyone survive such an experience?”
“By holding on to what makes their self,” Garona replied. “As young and often angry as I was, I still knew who Garona Halforcen was. You need an extremely strong will. No meek and mild person has ever succeeded in the Nether.”
“I certainly wouldn't describe Jaina as either of those things,” Thrall noted. “She taunted a demon lord.”
“You assume she's only taunted one demon lord,” Garona muttered. “In any case, the plague was yet another sign that the orcs as a people could not survive on Draenor. The warriors in particular pushed towards the journey. Several of the clans broke down and were absorbed by Blackhand's Stonefist clan, including the Great Sands clan.”
“Eitrigg's clan,” Thrall murmured. “Did that happen often? The clans breaking down and being absorbed.”
“It did, and only the largest clans could maintain themselves enough to have a lengthy clan history,” Garona replied. “Like the Warsong or the Bleeding Hollow. The Shadow Wolves had once been both Thunderlord and Warsong. Such is the nature of time. Borders shift, names change. Traditions are upheld or subsumed.”
“Cities will rise, enemies will fall,” Thrall added in. “Tell me what it was like to go through the Portal.”
~ * ~
The noise of those assembled before the Dark Portal was incredible. Some were shouting and chanting while others were murmuring amongst themselves. Still others pushed against one another, jockeying for space. None of those still believed to be sick were here, and any sign of coughing or the red pox was met with suspicion and often violence.
Gul'dan stood above it all, observing from a stone platform by the Portal. Garona stood by his side, hidden by his shadow but watching everything. It had been eleven years since she had been dragged from the darkness of the depths of the Temple of Karabor, and at fifteen, shadows clung to her, muting her presence. Gul'dan only seemed to know she was there when he required her services.
She had learned so much since those early, frightening days, and one of the things that she had learned is that no matter how much light one brought to bear, there were shadows that would never die. Often, those shadows would stare back. She had secrets that even Gul'dan did not know.
Ner'zhul had not come to the gathering, and he had forbidden his clanmates from taking part in Gul'dan's schemes. His necrolytes had burned the red pox from his people and they had isolated themselves from further illness. To Garona, he had condemned Gul'dan for a fool, but those words had never reached anyone's ears but the warlock himself.
The Warsong had not come, nor had the Thunderlord. Both still had strong holdings, and between Mok'nathal star wisdom and the ministrations of Greatmother Geyah, neither saw the need to follow Gul'dan into madness. Others felt quite differently. Blackhand was Gul'dan's creature through and through, and would follow him anywhere with sons and daughter in tow. Two years had not made Rend and Maim any less stupid, nor Griselda any less timid and beaten down.
The Bleeding Hollow had been ravaged by illness. Rumour had it that Kilrogg had sent his mate away to the Warsong lands, drawing on old bargains and promises to keep her safe from illness in the hopes that the child that quickened in her belly would not fall ill and die. Kargath had lost many, due to the twin follies of crude limb replacements and a stubborn refusal to accept aid from outside the clan, and as such was more than ready to move on to better lands.
All of this and more Garona had learned from her travels between the clans, visiting each corner of orcish territory to bring back intelligence to Gul'dan's ears. His appetite for information was voracious, and had only grown more so the more deeply he drank from the demons' gifts. Garona had watched his seizures with an impassive air, secure in the knowledge that she could kill him as he writhed and spoke in the Infernal tongue but chose not to. It was in these states that he spoke to his accomplice, the demonlord Sargeras, and his pawn, Medivh.
We all dance to his tune, and now we will let our feet carry us to madness, Garona thought. At Gul'dan's side stood Cho'gall, the twin heads of the ogre each watching a different part of the crowd. Ogres and orcs rarely cooperated, though some few, such as Cho'gall, had risen to become actual chieftains among the orc clans, and there were ogres scattered amongst the gathered clansmen, though the hulking brutes seemed to be there through no design of their own, instead purely by accident.
“It's time,” Gul'dan said. “Garona.” Nodding to him, Garona walked in front of the immense stone doorway. As wide as a dozen orc warriors standing shoulder to shoulder and as tall as twenty of them standing on one another's shoulders, the Dark Portal had taken two years of work to build and had cost many lives. It was flanked by statues of warlocks, not specifically Gul'dan, and topped with the skull of a great beast. It was a monument to desperation, power, and wonder.
It made her feel so very, very small.
“Warriors of the Horde!” Gul'dan cried, his voice echoing over the crowd. “You have bled, you have suffered, and you have waited, but today is the day you will see the fruits of your labour. Now I will ignite the Portal and we shall cross over into Azeroth!”
The warriors roared, beating their fists against their metal armour, while those around them responded with decidedly less enthusiasm. Nearby, Garona picked out two of the warlocks talking.
“Is Azeroth the name of the territory we'll be fighting in or the world we're going to?”
It's both, Garona answered silently. And it's called a 'country'.
“I don't know, it's confusing,” the other warlock replied, and Garona rolled her eyes. “It's starting.”
Gul'dan strode over to Garona, putting his hands on both her shoulders and squeezed. She held her hands up to the empty air and closed her eyes. Reality, as Gul'dan had described it, was like a piece of woven cloth. Solidly made, it was entirely opaque and protective. If you pushed at it hard enough and for long enough, you could wear away its strength. You could start to see through it. You could tear a hole.
Gul'dan was shredding reality and ripping a hole in it that would bleed like a wound.
Gul'dan made the first cut, guiding her latent power like a blade to slash through. Garona shook, but could not move. She had done this before, and each cut had lasted only a few moments. This was meant to last as long as they needed it too. Garona visualized one of her knives, cutting through leather, cloth, and flesh as though it were mere air, and peered into the Twisting Nether.
The ambient colour of the Nether was a sickly green, fel and terrible. Garona listened to the souls within it whisper, babble and cry. She had seen no orc souls, at least, none that seemed as though they could be, instead feeling out the souls of many others, including those whom they were seeking out. Pink and brown, red and yellowed tan, some as pale as clouds and others as dark as charred meat, these creatures, these enemies, were very numerous, if their dead were any indication.
The whole thing would be fascinating if she didn't need to hold onto her very soul.
She was connected to Gul'dan, the talons of his power sunk deep inside her, and through him, she was connected to Medivh. He was a powerful warlock in his own right, though he called himself a mage, or a sorcerer, and his mind was the beacon that she was following.
The demons swimming within the Nether ignored her, and it gave her the sensation of being marked. Nonetheless, she strove forward, darting through the darkness towards the beacon.
“Cut it,” Gul'dan rumbled into her ear. “Cut it and you will have served a great purpose.”
Garona did as he bid, cutting through the bright point, and the light was blinding. She cried out in pain, trying to shrink back, but Gul'dan thrust her forward, letting go as she stumbled into the green pathway. The sensation was different from being guided. She felt as though she were hurtling through the air without the imminent threat of hitting the ground. She righted herself with a thought, wanting to land on her feet if nothing else. The moment stretched for an eternity and then she was tumbling and falling, landing on hard stone with the scent of unfamiliar water in the air.
She opened her eyes. The doorway on this side was made of the same stone and adorned identically to that of the Portal on the other side, but this one was considerably smaller, fitting only five orcs from shoulder to shoulder, and only ten high. The sky above was choked with grey clouds, and Garona glanced around for cover, not wanting to be caught in another acid storm.
As her senses came back, she realized this place was loud with the sound of creatures croaking and buzzing and hissing. She spotted a huge, black creature with yellow eyes watching her, long whiskers twitching in curiosity. Garona stared back and eventually it departed, unconcerned.
“It will rain soon, you should stay to see it.” Garona whirled, her hand on her knife in an instant. A figure, standing at the base of the ramp up to the Portal, melted into view. He had not stepped from the shadows, but instead had seemingly come from thin air. “I was invisible,” he explained. “It's a bit of a clever trick. Excellent for avoiding one's responsibilities. You must be Garona.”
“I am,” Garona replied. “You speak my language, pink skin.”
“It would be very difficult to communicate with one another if we were forever pointing and shouting,” the figure said, and hands came up to draw back his hood. He was indeed pink-skinned, and had small, blunt teeth. His eyes were soft and brown, matching his shoulder-length hair and his short-cropped beard, though each had a spot of grey in them. His face was smooth but seemed tired somehow, even though his eyes were bright and alert. “Also, we prefer to be called humans.”
“Hu-man,” Garona repeated. “You're Medivh.”
“I am,” he replied. “Welcome to Azeroth.”
Garona opened her mouth to reply when the sky opened up. She bit back a cry of fear as the first droplets touched her bare skin. Instead of pain that came with the wetness, it was warm. Confused, Garona tilted her head up, and the rain coursed over her face, streaking over her skin. She opened her mouth, catching drops in it, and the water tasted better than anything she'd drunk before on Draenor. It was clean and pure, without pain, without taint.
She held her hands out, catching the water in them and let it soak through her. Tears mingled with raindrops and she laughed with the sheer joy of it.
All the while, Medivh watched her, his expression caught between amusement and affection. “I'll tell Gul'dan that he can start to move his forces through. You may want to move away.”
~ * ~
Going back to Draenor always felt like a punishment more cruelly delivered and more keenly felt than any slap or blow Gul'dan had dealt her before: Draenor felt even worse when it was laying side by side with beautiful Azeroth. The site of the great portal, nicknamed Hellfire Peninsula by some Shattered Hand chieftain from long ago, was filthy and dusty, the land barren and dry, paying little heed to the Devouring Sea that crashed and raged against its shores. It accepted nothing, wanted nothing, and despised being disturbed by so many feet for so long.
More people were moving through the portal day by day, people from remote, fractured clans, the clanless, those who had little status in great clans, all hoping for a better life on the other side of the Twisting Nether.
You will be swallowed by the Stonefist Clan, Garona thought as she skimmed along the shadowed cliffs, watching out for a clutch of ravagers skittering across the cracked earth. She had once witnessed the cannibalistic predators fall on one of their own when it became too injured to fight back, and a whole swarm had once fallen on a warrior that had lagged behind, stripping him down and ignoring his armour as though it were an empty flask to be discarded. Fortunately, they also tended to be defeated by sharp, upwards slopes and by the fact that her ability to remain unseen had only improved over time.
No one could have ever accused Blackhand of being charismatic or clever, but that would be a vast underestimation of his abilities, or at least, his ability to be puppeted by Gul'dan. In the time since the great portal had opened, a half-dozen small clans had been swallowed by the Stonefist and some had taken to calling him 'Blackhand, the Destroyer of Clans'. The man himself did not seem insulted by the title and instead was considering adopting it himself, albeit with a little modification.
Blackhand the Destroyer did have a ring to it.
It was Blackhand who was pushing his newly swelled clan across the land, insisting that they must be the first to strike against the human villages, capturing prisoners, destroying homes and rebuilding on top of what he'd ruined. Others followed in his wake, making sure what was taken was not immediately lost to the weather, but Blackhand wanted more. Distantly, there was a great, dark mountain that Blackhand wanted to reach. He claimed he had an idea.
The world trembles when Blackhand can rub enough brains together to actually have an idea, Garona thought, and with a last burst of speed, sprinted past the ravagers towards the portal. She ran up the ramp, making no sound, and hurried through, finding the journey less unsettling at a run. She had listened in on other conversations and few had mentioned the crawling, clawing sensation she felt as she fell through the Twisting Nether and landed on Azeroth, running out of the portal just as she'd run into it.
It wasn't raining at the moment, and Garona looked up at the sky, and smiled at its cheery blue colour. Draenor's sky had been stained yellow like a tooth since before the day she'd been born, and from her understanding, many a year before that. Azeroth's sky was expressive. Sometimes it was grey, signalling more rain, or shaded with red, orange, and gold, during the setting of the sun. It was dark blue or purple as its twin moons, one great and silvery, one smaller and blue, rose overhead and the stars came out.
Oh, the stars.
Tiny pinpricks of light in a dark sky, they moved and shifted subtly as night slowly turned towards day and Garona had stayed up on the first fully clear night to watch them, their passage a fascinating dance. While stars were depicted on the Shadowmoon Clan's banners, they had winked out long ago. It was very sad in its way. Only the Mok'nathal still claimed to see them, their vision mystic rather than physical.
Just one more reason to never go back, she thought. She hurried down the steps, starting out towards Gul'dan's tent. While the warriors were eager to spread out and move further into human lands, Gul'dan preferred to remain near the portal. 'Monitoring its stability', Gul'dan had said. He doesn't trust Medivh's craftsmanship, Garona thought, because no one trusts Gul'dan.
The human traitor had spent some time with the orcs, helping them through, allowing them to get their first glimpse of humans, both through the ability to see and touch and smell him - the last a thing he found intriguing and unusual - and conjuring illusions of other places. Garona had seen images of teeming jungles where long-limbed, green-skinned and long-tusked warriors clad in bright paint and loincloths stalked brown-skinned humans and fought with spears; of ships - ships! -- sitting peacefully in water that sparkled in sunlight, snug against a city of white stone; of vast, contented farming communities where everything was green and dark; of a tall, tall tower, towering over a village that huddled at its base like children huddle at the skirts of their tending parent. It seemed like a dream, it seemed--
There was something in the air. Something familiar in a most unwelcome way. Immediately, Garona's gaze darted around, checking every shadow. She could see the few animals bold enough to remain, the tent, and the various warriors speaking to Gul'dan, asking questions or making their own reports. She turned, following the scent, and saw it, the faintest traces of red dust around the base of the portal construction. She walked over to it, crouching down, and ran her finger along the dust. Her skin picked it up, bright red against dull green, and she rolled it between finger and thumb.
I must report this. She headed towards Gul'dan's tent. He was speaking to a warrior in dark green armour with a black wolf's head crest on one shoulder. Garona recognized the serious line of his jaw, the concern that burned bright in his dark eyes. She brightened, though she was careful not to show it. Durotan!
Durotan had aged since she'd seen him last, looking more burdened with cares than usual. Garona let the shadows conceal her as she watched him speak, his tense posture, and the way his fingers gripped at nothing, seeking a spear. I will have to find out what happened later, she thought.
“Scouts report more human settlements to the north, but this area is largely clear. There are two pathways, north along the mountains and west, into the grey pass. We... await word from the humans that were captured.”
“An intelligence report should be coming soon,” Gul'dan said, and his eyes flicked to the shadows. Garona leaned forward a little, and he nodded. “Garona.”
She stepped forward and knelt in a half crouch. “Gul'dan.”
“Report.”
“The humans confirm that this place is the Swamp of Sorrows, and that this land is ruled by King Adamant Wrynn of Stormwind. There are few human settlements here, as work has only begun to tame the swamp. The primary settlements are Lakeshire, north in the Redridge Mountains, overseen by Lord Darius Fordragon, called the Invincible Knight, and Darkshire, in the Duskwood, which is ruled by the Ebonlocke family. They have council-elected leaders called Mayors. They know little about the land Medivh claims as his own, other than it's Tower's Shadow Village and they claim many have seen strange sights about the tower at night.”
“We have names now,” Gul'dan mused. “Though Medivh has given us similar information.”
“What of the prisoners?” Durotan asked. “What will happen to them?”
“They will be taken by the shadows of the temple,” Garona replied, her voice even. The shadows had long since swallowed her mother, though the look on Durotan's face still felt like a blow. “There is one more thing.”
“Yes?” Gul'dan asked, slightly impatient. She held her fingers out to him. He snatched her hand, dragging it into the light. “What is this?”
“I found it around the base of the portal,” Garona said. “It went deeper than just the surface.”
“Hm,” Gul'dan said, and Durotan turned to leave, though his eyes lingered over Garona briefly before he went. “How much is there?”
“Not much,” Garona said. “A thumb's width, no more. It could have been tracked through by the clans as they travelled, but there wasn't any elsewhere.”
“No, we left Draenor's dust behind us,” Gul'dan mused, and released her hand. “Do not speak of this to others.”
“Durotan heard me,” Garona ventured, and he glanced at her sharply. “He will speak of it.”
“Durotan,” Gul'dan said, his lips pulled in a smirk, “is too busy mourning the loss of his first child.”
“What?”
“Draka led a team of scouts into the great, sunken ruin in the middle of the swamp,” Gul'dan said, and Garona's chest clenched to see the unholy glee in his eyes at the telling. “They were attacked and she was injured. She bled heavily, losing a child.”
“They both must be very sad,” Garona whispered. “Draka is so bold.”
“Draka was born a weakling, and she will die a weakling, dragging her clan down around her,” Gul'dan snarled, and aimed a blow at Garona. She moved with it so that it only stung. “This is why the weak are left to Draenor's hungry grasp and only the strong survive.”
You have to be strong to struggle against fate, Garona thought, though said nothing. Gul'dan grabbed her chin, forcing her to look upwards at him.
“Do you understand?” he demanded.
“Yes,” Garona forced herself to say. “Only the strong survive.”
“Good,” Gul'dan said sharply and released her, pushing her away. “This is happening more quickly than I anticipated.”
Garona's eyes widened. He's admitting to fault? “What is?”
“Energy leakage,” Gul'dan said sharply. “Draenor is spilling into Azeroth. This dust is only the first clawtip.”
“Then the pollution will spread,” Garona said, her mind churning. “We should turn it off, stop it--”
“Do you want to open that portal again every time you travel from world to world?” Gul'dan demanded, and she shook her head slightly. “If you did, I would kill you where you stand. The ritual is complex, and there are many more who need to come through.” He tapped his forehead. “Only Medivh and I know how it was done.”
“What would happen if either of you died?” Garona asked, her voice hushed. “Would the portal close forever or be open forever?”
Gul'dan gave her a grim look. “Pray you never find out.”
~ * ~
“The answer to that is a complicated ritual involving various magical objects, including Gul'dan's skull,” Thrall observed. Garona raised an eyebrow at him. “Jaina told me, she said Archmage Khadgar documented it extensively before he was locked on the other side of the portal.”
“Which required people on both sides,” Garona murmured. “Even in death, Gul'dan was as unhelpful as possible.”
“Well, until Illidan Stormrage retrieved his skull,” Thrall said. “Now that knowledge is with him.”
“Illidan Stormrage is a moron,” Garona said, rolling her eyes. “You're right. No one will open that portal again, though the damage has been done. Half of the Swamp of Sorrows looks exactly like Hellfire Peninsula, and the land built up to protect the undamaged area. If you ever want a reason never to never go back to Draenor, just walk around there.”
“I'd go back, just to see it,” Thrall said wistfully. “I understand why you wouldn't, though. What do you think of Durotar? It's dry here.”
“Durotar is different,” Garona said. “The land here isn't sick. It's hot and it's dry, but it isn't diseased. Things grow here. You don't have to fight the land. You don't force it. The spirits are everywhere. You're also so encouraging. You want people to live good lives. Only the kindest chieftains wanted that. Most wanted power and strength, which are valuable, but not at the exclusion of all else. Are you proud of the Horde?”
Thrall blinked at the abrupt question but nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“Do you know how it was founded?” Garona asked, and Thrall considered the question, then shook his head slightly. “We were losing. While the human villages were easy prey, as you can well imagine, once we pushed out of the swamp and into Azeroth proper, we began to encounter the knights. They were as I'd envisioned them, warriors on horseback, covered in metal. Even their mounts were armoured. We'd seen horses, big, broad things with thick legs that pulled carts. A draft horse and a war horse may as well be two different animals. A draft horse might balk from a wolf rider or try to defend itself. A war horse will kick a wolf to death and bite its rider to draw blood. A human farmer may cower behind the walls of their home, but a knight will crush you with a sword or a mace in one stroke.”
“That must have been humbling to the great warriors of the clans,” Thrall said. “Particularly after they'd been convinced that humans were weak, but not too weak.”
“I would say that the average human is weaker than the average orc, if all you wanted to do was measure raw strength,” Garona said. “The knights were organized. They wore good steel and wielded good weapons. They fought as a unit. Orcs were used to racing over a hill, yelling and whooping. They were used to frightening their opponents into submission, running them down, slaughtering them. This level of resistance, despite the fact that it was exactly what they'd been promised, surprised them.”
“So what happened then?” Thrall asked, watching her expression. She frowned slightly.
“We were pushed back to the Dark Portal. That almost seemed to be the end of it, but we were too desperate to stay, even as the dust was building up on this side. Gul'dan couldn't fail, and the rest of us couldn't either, so he gathered the chieftains. A proposal was made, not by Gul'dan, but by one of the others, baited into it, to organize ourselves properly. Not to let various chieftains and independent warriors raid and range as they would.”
“Who suggested it?” Thrall asked curiously. “It would have been difficult to reconcile that level of unity with the pride of the clans.”
“Zuluhed, the chieftain of the Dragonmaw,” Garona said. “Gul'dan and Zuluhed had never been close, precisely, but it was what Gul'dan wanted. Some objected. Others, like your father, approved. He liked the idea of a united race because he believed that working together could make the orcs great.”
“If we could have negotiated with the humans that early, negotiated for our own land... it wouldn't have brought the dead back, but it would have prevented more blood from being shed.” Thrall looked into the horizon. “Much would have been different, all before I was born.”
“Gul'dan would never have allowed it,” Garona said. “Something both your mother and Orgrim realized. Blackhand was the most likely candidate. During the rush of early success, he'd seized the mountain stronghold of the Dark Iron dwarves, and cleverly named it 'Blackrock Mountain'.”
“Someone should have stopped Blackhand from naming things,” Thrall noted ruefully. “Naming a semi-dormant volcano 'Blackrock' is lazy and also obvious.”
“That sounds like something I would say,” Garona commented, and Thrall grinned at her in reply. “Blackhand became Warchief, and Orgrim joined his clan. It hurt your father badly. Only Blackhand would have Gul'dan's support. Anyone else would be strongly discouraged from even putting their name forward, though Durotan did try. Then on they marched.”
“If the Horde of old was created by manipulation, why do so many speak so fondly of it?” Thrall asked quietly, and Garona remained silent for a little while before answering.
“Because time makes fools of us all.”
[Part 6]
Title: Assassin
Part: 5/?
Word Count: 5921
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
“Say 'ahh'.” Sitting before Nara Whitemane, a young tauren druid, Thrall obligingly opened his mouth and said 'ahh'. Crowded around him, a dozen young children all tried to lean in and take a peek at his throat, and he had to do his best not to smile at the sight of it.
“It's all dark,” Kaja, one of the girls said. “How can you tell if there's sick inside?”
“This is why we use a light to take a look,” Nara said. She produced a stone that flickered and glowed with a soft inner light. Holding it up, she angled it so that it illuminated Thrall's mouth and throat.
I hope my teeth are clean enough for this, Thrall thought, feeling a bit self-conscious as Nara pointed out the healthy lines of skin covered muscle. She poked a little, feeling around with a stick that had been stripped of its leaves and bark, then sanded down, and listened to her explanation.
“The Warchief is quite healthy, but we want to make sure that he stays that way,” Nara said. “The teachings of Cenarius have long taught druids how to brew special potions and teas that help keep disease away. They may taste funny--” She made a soothing motion as the children pulled faces. “--but it's much, much better than the even nastier potions you'll need to drink of you get sick.”
“Does the Warchief need to take one?” asked Nomm, one of the boys, looking up with fearful eyes. “It would be the worst if he was sick. The worst.”
Thrall made an affirming noise around the stick, and Nara withdrew it, nodding to him. “Of course I will. Everyone needs to be healthy and strong to keep building and living safely in Orgrimmar,” he said. “However, if I don't complain about my potions, none of you can, alright?”
There was a scattering of disappointed sounds, but eventually all of the children agreed, and Nara gave him a broad smile as she had them each sit and submit to the same examination, each with a new stick. Meanwhile, Thrall arranged the potions neatly and administered them to each child that had finished being examined. He watched them pull faces and struggle to remain silent against the taste of potions that were, in fact, not particularly tasty.
“Thank you, this was an excellent idea,” Thrall said as the last of the children had been collected by their parents. “I've never lived in a large city, but I do remember that sickness tends to go through people like wildfire when they live close together.”
“It's true,” Nara said as she wiped down each of her examinations sticks and put them away in a roll of cloth. “We may not be able to fight great diseases, like demonic sickness or the Scourge plague, but that's no reason to ignore that many small diseases can hurt people, cripple them even, and there isn't always enough magic to go around. Better to use a little now than a lot later.”
“More wisdom of Cenarius?” Thrall asked, curious. “I had so little time to speak to Malfurion about druidic matters.”
“Of the Earthmother,” Nara replied with a smile. “Though Cenarius' words have been carried with us for generations since the clearing of the mists and the first Golden Dawn. Tauren once lived together in great gatherings that some might call herds.” She looked amused, and shook her head. “There have been great outbreaks in the past, killing many, and making many others too ill to continue travelling. Age comes to all, but disease can be prevented. It's the danger of cities, but it isn't to say no one should live in them. Only that we must take care.”
“Of course,” Thrall agreed. “Is it difficult to live here instead of in Mulgore? You've only so recently reclaimed it.”
“I have plenty of company,” Nara said. “I also fly over to visit with my family, and they are very proud of me.”
“We all are,” Thrall said. “Thank you for joining my council. The tauren should be strongly represented in the Horde's ruling body and I feel that they are.”
Nara ducked her head, and offered him a slight bow. “You're too kind, Warchief.”
“There's no such thing.” Thrall nodded to her. “I'll take my leave. Are you likely to need my help tomorrow?”
“I don't think so,” Nara replied. “Those children will talk and spread the word, and tomorrow others will come on their own. Thank you very much for your time.”
“You're most welcome,” Thrall said and departed. This section of the city was primarily occupied by tauren who wished to stay in Orgrimmar, or wanted to have a place to live in both cities. The journey is so long without mages to teleport people from place to place, and not everyone can turn into an eagle and fly like a druid. Perhaps something can be done when we're better settled here.
“You have a way with children,” Garona observed, and Thrall glanced over at her. He was getting used to her abrupt arrivals, and the hush of the spirits was as good a signal as any for her impending presence. “Nara's wise, too, though young.”
“Youth shouldn't preclude wisdom if age means being so set in your ways that you'd rather die than learn something new,” Thrall replied. “Though I'll avoid saying that near Drek'thar. He'll probably hit me.”
“He'll hit you and then agree,” Garona said. She was silent as they walked, crossing from the tent-lined section of Orgrimmar to the more orcish buildings of stone and clay. “Not all sickness comes from people.”
“No,” Thrall said, frowning. “Or rather, it doesn't come from coughing or spots. Sometimes it comes from having water contaminated by personal waste, or the waste of civilization. We have spirits blessing and watching over every water source we can find, and we monitor the run off from the farms. Vol'jin's people had some excellent ideas for it.”
“Good,” Garona said. “There was... a plague that struck in the days before the Dark Portal was opened. It struck at the most vulnerable, the very young and the very old. The farmers, those that tended to the hogs we needed to eat to live, those that harvested the gresht.”
Thrall frowned with concern. “What happened?”
Garona sighed. “It was natural as far as I know. It was spread at one of the great gatherings and moved through the clans. It only made people support Gul'dan more fully, but he was never the source of it. He lost two or three promising apprentices to it and he raged. I avoided it.”
“How did the warriors avoid it?” Thrall asked. “Surely they would have gotten sick too?”
“Their bodies were stronger, they claimed. In truth, they isolated themselves from the tasks of the sick and it kept them at good health. I felt little guilt stealing from them and bringing food and medicine to the children.” Garona's lips thinned into a smile. “Your grandmother departed her clan to travel and treat the sick using her wisdom and what grace the spirits had left her with.”
“That was good of her, though she must be with the ancestors now,” Thrall said, frowning. “I had wondered why Drek'thar never spoke of her.”
“That's Drek'thar's business,” Garona said. “Aside from stealing, I was very busy then, helping open the Portal.”
“How were you helping?” Thrall asked, curious now. “You're no mage, or warlock.”
“I'm not either, but due to my mixed heritage, he could use me as a focus, to pierce the veil of reality into the Twisting Nether and out the other side to Azeroth.” Garona's gaze grew distant. “It is... not a pleasant place.”
“Jaina has spoken of it,” Thrall said. “She said that teleportation and summoning both require the ability to manipulate elements of the Nether, though elemental summoning affects the Elemental Planes, whereas demon summoning affects the Twisting Nether.”
“She'll make a mage out of you yet,” Garona said, amused, and Thrall ducked his head.
“I only understand half of what she says on any given day, but her enthusiasm is infectious. I hope that she'll have time to visit again soon.”
“She may, or you could visit her,” Garona said. “Though some may consider it to be strange that you wish to spend so much time with a human.”
“I'm spending time with a friend,” Thrall reminded her. “What was creating the Portal like?”
“It was...” Garona paused. “The Twisting Nether is dark and vast. Much of the power in it isn't coherent, it's more abstract, waiting to be formed. It's an ocean of souls that laugh and weep and scream and rage all at once. Demons swim through it like sharks, feeding or ignoring as they choose. They are always watching and listening for the opportunity to become more material, to take on physical avatars. If there are elementals of fire and air, these are elemental darkness, the raw stuff of nightmares.”
Thrall felt chilled. “How does anyone survive such an experience?”
“By holding on to what makes their self,” Garona replied. “As young and often angry as I was, I still knew who Garona Halforcen was. You need an extremely strong will. No meek and mild person has ever succeeded in the Nether.”
“I certainly wouldn't describe Jaina as either of those things,” Thrall noted. “She taunted a demon lord.”
“You assume she's only taunted one demon lord,” Garona muttered. “In any case, the plague was yet another sign that the orcs as a people could not survive on Draenor. The warriors in particular pushed towards the journey. Several of the clans broke down and were absorbed by Blackhand's Stonefist clan, including the Great Sands clan.”
“Eitrigg's clan,” Thrall murmured. “Did that happen often? The clans breaking down and being absorbed.”
“It did, and only the largest clans could maintain themselves enough to have a lengthy clan history,” Garona replied. “Like the Warsong or the Bleeding Hollow. The Shadow Wolves had once been both Thunderlord and Warsong. Such is the nature of time. Borders shift, names change. Traditions are upheld or subsumed.”
“Cities will rise, enemies will fall,” Thrall added in. “Tell me what it was like to go through the Portal.”
~ * ~
The noise of those assembled before the Dark Portal was incredible. Some were shouting and chanting while others were murmuring amongst themselves. Still others pushed against one another, jockeying for space. None of those still believed to be sick were here, and any sign of coughing or the red pox was met with suspicion and often violence.
Gul'dan stood above it all, observing from a stone platform by the Portal. Garona stood by his side, hidden by his shadow but watching everything. It had been eleven years since she had been dragged from the darkness of the depths of the Temple of Karabor, and at fifteen, shadows clung to her, muting her presence. Gul'dan only seemed to know she was there when he required her services.
She had learned so much since those early, frightening days, and one of the things that she had learned is that no matter how much light one brought to bear, there were shadows that would never die. Often, those shadows would stare back. She had secrets that even Gul'dan did not know.
Ner'zhul had not come to the gathering, and he had forbidden his clanmates from taking part in Gul'dan's schemes. His necrolytes had burned the red pox from his people and they had isolated themselves from further illness. To Garona, he had condemned Gul'dan for a fool, but those words had never reached anyone's ears but the warlock himself.
The Warsong had not come, nor had the Thunderlord. Both still had strong holdings, and between Mok'nathal star wisdom and the ministrations of Greatmother Geyah, neither saw the need to follow Gul'dan into madness. Others felt quite differently. Blackhand was Gul'dan's creature through and through, and would follow him anywhere with sons and daughter in tow. Two years had not made Rend and Maim any less stupid, nor Griselda any less timid and beaten down.
The Bleeding Hollow had been ravaged by illness. Rumour had it that Kilrogg had sent his mate away to the Warsong lands, drawing on old bargains and promises to keep her safe from illness in the hopes that the child that quickened in her belly would not fall ill and die. Kargath had lost many, due to the twin follies of crude limb replacements and a stubborn refusal to accept aid from outside the clan, and as such was more than ready to move on to better lands.
All of this and more Garona had learned from her travels between the clans, visiting each corner of orcish territory to bring back intelligence to Gul'dan's ears. His appetite for information was voracious, and had only grown more so the more deeply he drank from the demons' gifts. Garona had watched his seizures with an impassive air, secure in the knowledge that she could kill him as he writhed and spoke in the Infernal tongue but chose not to. It was in these states that he spoke to his accomplice, the demonlord Sargeras, and his pawn, Medivh.
We all dance to his tune, and now we will let our feet carry us to madness, Garona thought. At Gul'dan's side stood Cho'gall, the twin heads of the ogre each watching a different part of the crowd. Ogres and orcs rarely cooperated, though some few, such as Cho'gall, had risen to become actual chieftains among the orc clans, and there were ogres scattered amongst the gathered clansmen, though the hulking brutes seemed to be there through no design of their own, instead purely by accident.
“It's time,” Gul'dan said. “Garona.” Nodding to him, Garona walked in front of the immense stone doorway. As wide as a dozen orc warriors standing shoulder to shoulder and as tall as twenty of them standing on one another's shoulders, the Dark Portal had taken two years of work to build and had cost many lives. It was flanked by statues of warlocks, not specifically Gul'dan, and topped with the skull of a great beast. It was a monument to desperation, power, and wonder.
It made her feel so very, very small.
“Warriors of the Horde!” Gul'dan cried, his voice echoing over the crowd. “You have bled, you have suffered, and you have waited, but today is the day you will see the fruits of your labour. Now I will ignite the Portal and we shall cross over into Azeroth!”
The warriors roared, beating their fists against their metal armour, while those around them responded with decidedly less enthusiasm. Nearby, Garona picked out two of the warlocks talking.
“Is Azeroth the name of the territory we'll be fighting in or the world we're going to?”
It's both, Garona answered silently. And it's called a 'country'.
“I don't know, it's confusing,” the other warlock replied, and Garona rolled her eyes. “It's starting.”
Gul'dan strode over to Garona, putting his hands on both her shoulders and squeezed. She held her hands up to the empty air and closed her eyes. Reality, as Gul'dan had described it, was like a piece of woven cloth. Solidly made, it was entirely opaque and protective. If you pushed at it hard enough and for long enough, you could wear away its strength. You could start to see through it. You could tear a hole.
Gul'dan was shredding reality and ripping a hole in it that would bleed like a wound.
Gul'dan made the first cut, guiding her latent power like a blade to slash through. Garona shook, but could not move. She had done this before, and each cut had lasted only a few moments. This was meant to last as long as they needed it too. Garona visualized one of her knives, cutting through leather, cloth, and flesh as though it were mere air, and peered into the Twisting Nether.
The ambient colour of the Nether was a sickly green, fel and terrible. Garona listened to the souls within it whisper, babble and cry. She had seen no orc souls, at least, none that seemed as though they could be, instead feeling out the souls of many others, including those whom they were seeking out. Pink and brown, red and yellowed tan, some as pale as clouds and others as dark as charred meat, these creatures, these enemies, were very numerous, if their dead were any indication.
The whole thing would be fascinating if she didn't need to hold onto her very soul.
She was connected to Gul'dan, the talons of his power sunk deep inside her, and through him, she was connected to Medivh. He was a powerful warlock in his own right, though he called himself a mage, or a sorcerer, and his mind was the beacon that she was following.
The demons swimming within the Nether ignored her, and it gave her the sensation of being marked. Nonetheless, she strove forward, darting through the darkness towards the beacon.
“Cut it,” Gul'dan rumbled into her ear. “Cut it and you will have served a great purpose.”
Garona did as he bid, cutting through the bright point, and the light was blinding. She cried out in pain, trying to shrink back, but Gul'dan thrust her forward, letting go as she stumbled into the green pathway. The sensation was different from being guided. She felt as though she were hurtling through the air without the imminent threat of hitting the ground. She righted herself with a thought, wanting to land on her feet if nothing else. The moment stretched for an eternity and then she was tumbling and falling, landing on hard stone with the scent of unfamiliar water in the air.
She opened her eyes. The doorway on this side was made of the same stone and adorned identically to that of the Portal on the other side, but this one was considerably smaller, fitting only five orcs from shoulder to shoulder, and only ten high. The sky above was choked with grey clouds, and Garona glanced around for cover, not wanting to be caught in another acid storm.
As her senses came back, she realized this place was loud with the sound of creatures croaking and buzzing and hissing. She spotted a huge, black creature with yellow eyes watching her, long whiskers twitching in curiosity. Garona stared back and eventually it departed, unconcerned.
“It will rain soon, you should stay to see it.” Garona whirled, her hand on her knife in an instant. A figure, standing at the base of the ramp up to the Portal, melted into view. He had not stepped from the shadows, but instead had seemingly come from thin air. “I was invisible,” he explained. “It's a bit of a clever trick. Excellent for avoiding one's responsibilities. You must be Garona.”
“I am,” Garona replied. “You speak my language, pink skin.”
“It would be very difficult to communicate with one another if we were forever pointing and shouting,” the figure said, and hands came up to draw back his hood. He was indeed pink-skinned, and had small, blunt teeth. His eyes were soft and brown, matching his shoulder-length hair and his short-cropped beard, though each had a spot of grey in them. His face was smooth but seemed tired somehow, even though his eyes were bright and alert. “Also, we prefer to be called humans.”
“Hu-man,” Garona repeated. “You're Medivh.”
“I am,” he replied. “Welcome to Azeroth.”
Garona opened her mouth to reply when the sky opened up. She bit back a cry of fear as the first droplets touched her bare skin. Instead of pain that came with the wetness, it was warm. Confused, Garona tilted her head up, and the rain coursed over her face, streaking over her skin. She opened her mouth, catching drops in it, and the water tasted better than anything she'd drunk before on Draenor. It was clean and pure, without pain, without taint.
She held her hands out, catching the water in them and let it soak through her. Tears mingled with raindrops and she laughed with the sheer joy of it.
All the while, Medivh watched her, his expression caught between amusement and affection. “I'll tell Gul'dan that he can start to move his forces through. You may want to move away.”
~ * ~
Going back to Draenor always felt like a punishment more cruelly delivered and more keenly felt than any slap or blow Gul'dan had dealt her before: Draenor felt even worse when it was laying side by side with beautiful Azeroth. The site of the great portal, nicknamed Hellfire Peninsula by some Shattered Hand chieftain from long ago, was filthy and dusty, the land barren and dry, paying little heed to the Devouring Sea that crashed and raged against its shores. It accepted nothing, wanted nothing, and despised being disturbed by so many feet for so long.
More people were moving through the portal day by day, people from remote, fractured clans, the clanless, those who had little status in great clans, all hoping for a better life on the other side of the Twisting Nether.
You will be swallowed by the Stonefist Clan, Garona thought as she skimmed along the shadowed cliffs, watching out for a clutch of ravagers skittering across the cracked earth. She had once witnessed the cannibalistic predators fall on one of their own when it became too injured to fight back, and a whole swarm had once fallen on a warrior that had lagged behind, stripping him down and ignoring his armour as though it were an empty flask to be discarded. Fortunately, they also tended to be defeated by sharp, upwards slopes and by the fact that her ability to remain unseen had only improved over time.
No one could have ever accused Blackhand of being charismatic or clever, but that would be a vast underestimation of his abilities, or at least, his ability to be puppeted by Gul'dan. In the time since the great portal had opened, a half-dozen small clans had been swallowed by the Stonefist and some had taken to calling him 'Blackhand, the Destroyer of Clans'. The man himself did not seem insulted by the title and instead was considering adopting it himself, albeit with a little modification.
Blackhand the Destroyer did have a ring to it.
It was Blackhand who was pushing his newly swelled clan across the land, insisting that they must be the first to strike against the human villages, capturing prisoners, destroying homes and rebuilding on top of what he'd ruined. Others followed in his wake, making sure what was taken was not immediately lost to the weather, but Blackhand wanted more. Distantly, there was a great, dark mountain that Blackhand wanted to reach. He claimed he had an idea.
The world trembles when Blackhand can rub enough brains together to actually have an idea, Garona thought, and with a last burst of speed, sprinted past the ravagers towards the portal. She ran up the ramp, making no sound, and hurried through, finding the journey less unsettling at a run. She had listened in on other conversations and few had mentioned the crawling, clawing sensation she felt as she fell through the Twisting Nether and landed on Azeroth, running out of the portal just as she'd run into it.
It wasn't raining at the moment, and Garona looked up at the sky, and smiled at its cheery blue colour. Draenor's sky had been stained yellow like a tooth since before the day she'd been born, and from her understanding, many a year before that. Azeroth's sky was expressive. Sometimes it was grey, signalling more rain, or shaded with red, orange, and gold, during the setting of the sun. It was dark blue or purple as its twin moons, one great and silvery, one smaller and blue, rose overhead and the stars came out.
Oh, the stars.
Tiny pinpricks of light in a dark sky, they moved and shifted subtly as night slowly turned towards day and Garona had stayed up on the first fully clear night to watch them, their passage a fascinating dance. While stars were depicted on the Shadowmoon Clan's banners, they had winked out long ago. It was very sad in its way. Only the Mok'nathal still claimed to see them, their vision mystic rather than physical.
Just one more reason to never go back, she thought. She hurried down the steps, starting out towards Gul'dan's tent. While the warriors were eager to spread out and move further into human lands, Gul'dan preferred to remain near the portal. 'Monitoring its stability', Gul'dan had said. He doesn't trust Medivh's craftsmanship, Garona thought, because no one trusts Gul'dan.
The human traitor had spent some time with the orcs, helping them through, allowing them to get their first glimpse of humans, both through the ability to see and touch and smell him - the last a thing he found intriguing and unusual - and conjuring illusions of other places. Garona had seen images of teeming jungles where long-limbed, green-skinned and long-tusked warriors clad in bright paint and loincloths stalked brown-skinned humans and fought with spears; of ships - ships! -- sitting peacefully in water that sparkled in sunlight, snug against a city of white stone; of vast, contented farming communities where everything was green and dark; of a tall, tall tower, towering over a village that huddled at its base like children huddle at the skirts of their tending parent. It seemed like a dream, it seemed--
There was something in the air. Something familiar in a most unwelcome way. Immediately, Garona's gaze darted around, checking every shadow. She could see the few animals bold enough to remain, the tent, and the various warriors speaking to Gul'dan, asking questions or making their own reports. She turned, following the scent, and saw it, the faintest traces of red dust around the base of the portal construction. She walked over to it, crouching down, and ran her finger along the dust. Her skin picked it up, bright red against dull green, and she rolled it between finger and thumb.
I must report this. She headed towards Gul'dan's tent. He was speaking to a warrior in dark green armour with a black wolf's head crest on one shoulder. Garona recognized the serious line of his jaw, the concern that burned bright in his dark eyes. She brightened, though she was careful not to show it. Durotan!
Durotan had aged since she'd seen him last, looking more burdened with cares than usual. Garona let the shadows conceal her as she watched him speak, his tense posture, and the way his fingers gripped at nothing, seeking a spear. I will have to find out what happened later, she thought.
“Scouts report more human settlements to the north, but this area is largely clear. There are two pathways, north along the mountains and west, into the grey pass. We... await word from the humans that were captured.”
“An intelligence report should be coming soon,” Gul'dan said, and his eyes flicked to the shadows. Garona leaned forward a little, and he nodded. “Garona.”
She stepped forward and knelt in a half crouch. “Gul'dan.”
“Report.”
“The humans confirm that this place is the Swamp of Sorrows, and that this land is ruled by King Adamant Wrynn of Stormwind. There are few human settlements here, as work has only begun to tame the swamp. The primary settlements are Lakeshire, north in the Redridge Mountains, overseen by Lord Darius Fordragon, called the Invincible Knight, and Darkshire, in the Duskwood, which is ruled by the Ebonlocke family. They have council-elected leaders called Mayors. They know little about the land Medivh claims as his own, other than it's Tower's Shadow Village and they claim many have seen strange sights about the tower at night.”
“We have names now,” Gul'dan mused. “Though Medivh has given us similar information.”
“What of the prisoners?” Durotan asked. “What will happen to them?”
“They will be taken by the shadows of the temple,” Garona replied, her voice even. The shadows had long since swallowed her mother, though the look on Durotan's face still felt like a blow. “There is one more thing.”
“Yes?” Gul'dan asked, slightly impatient. She held her fingers out to him. He snatched her hand, dragging it into the light. “What is this?”
“I found it around the base of the portal,” Garona said. “It went deeper than just the surface.”
“Hm,” Gul'dan said, and Durotan turned to leave, though his eyes lingered over Garona briefly before he went. “How much is there?”
“Not much,” Garona said. “A thumb's width, no more. It could have been tracked through by the clans as they travelled, but there wasn't any elsewhere.”
“No, we left Draenor's dust behind us,” Gul'dan mused, and released her hand. “Do not speak of this to others.”
“Durotan heard me,” Garona ventured, and he glanced at her sharply. “He will speak of it.”
“Durotan,” Gul'dan said, his lips pulled in a smirk, “is too busy mourning the loss of his first child.”
“What?”
“Draka led a team of scouts into the great, sunken ruin in the middle of the swamp,” Gul'dan said, and Garona's chest clenched to see the unholy glee in his eyes at the telling. “They were attacked and she was injured. She bled heavily, losing a child.”
“They both must be very sad,” Garona whispered. “Draka is so bold.”
“Draka was born a weakling, and she will die a weakling, dragging her clan down around her,” Gul'dan snarled, and aimed a blow at Garona. She moved with it so that it only stung. “This is why the weak are left to Draenor's hungry grasp and only the strong survive.”
You have to be strong to struggle against fate, Garona thought, though said nothing. Gul'dan grabbed her chin, forcing her to look upwards at him.
“Do you understand?” he demanded.
“Yes,” Garona forced herself to say. “Only the strong survive.”
“Good,” Gul'dan said sharply and released her, pushing her away. “This is happening more quickly than I anticipated.”
Garona's eyes widened. He's admitting to fault? “What is?”
“Energy leakage,” Gul'dan said sharply. “Draenor is spilling into Azeroth. This dust is only the first clawtip.”
“Then the pollution will spread,” Garona said, her mind churning. “We should turn it off, stop it--”
“Do you want to open that portal again every time you travel from world to world?” Gul'dan demanded, and she shook her head slightly. “If you did, I would kill you where you stand. The ritual is complex, and there are many more who need to come through.” He tapped his forehead. “Only Medivh and I know how it was done.”
“What would happen if either of you died?” Garona asked, her voice hushed. “Would the portal close forever or be open forever?”
Gul'dan gave her a grim look. “Pray you never find out.”
~ * ~
“The answer to that is a complicated ritual involving various magical objects, including Gul'dan's skull,” Thrall observed. Garona raised an eyebrow at him. “Jaina told me, she said Archmage Khadgar documented it extensively before he was locked on the other side of the portal.”
“Which required people on both sides,” Garona murmured. “Even in death, Gul'dan was as unhelpful as possible.”
“Well, until Illidan Stormrage retrieved his skull,” Thrall said. “Now that knowledge is with him.”
“Illidan Stormrage is a moron,” Garona said, rolling her eyes. “You're right. No one will open that portal again, though the damage has been done. Half of the Swamp of Sorrows looks exactly like Hellfire Peninsula, and the land built up to protect the undamaged area. If you ever want a reason never to never go back to Draenor, just walk around there.”
“I'd go back, just to see it,” Thrall said wistfully. “I understand why you wouldn't, though. What do you think of Durotar? It's dry here.”
“Durotar is different,” Garona said. “The land here isn't sick. It's hot and it's dry, but it isn't diseased. Things grow here. You don't have to fight the land. You don't force it. The spirits are everywhere. You're also so encouraging. You want people to live good lives. Only the kindest chieftains wanted that. Most wanted power and strength, which are valuable, but not at the exclusion of all else. Are you proud of the Horde?”
Thrall blinked at the abrupt question but nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“Do you know how it was founded?” Garona asked, and Thrall considered the question, then shook his head slightly. “We were losing. While the human villages were easy prey, as you can well imagine, once we pushed out of the swamp and into Azeroth proper, we began to encounter the knights. They were as I'd envisioned them, warriors on horseback, covered in metal. Even their mounts were armoured. We'd seen horses, big, broad things with thick legs that pulled carts. A draft horse and a war horse may as well be two different animals. A draft horse might balk from a wolf rider or try to defend itself. A war horse will kick a wolf to death and bite its rider to draw blood. A human farmer may cower behind the walls of their home, but a knight will crush you with a sword or a mace in one stroke.”
“That must have been humbling to the great warriors of the clans,” Thrall said. “Particularly after they'd been convinced that humans were weak, but not too weak.”
“I would say that the average human is weaker than the average orc, if all you wanted to do was measure raw strength,” Garona said. “The knights were organized. They wore good steel and wielded good weapons. They fought as a unit. Orcs were used to racing over a hill, yelling and whooping. They were used to frightening their opponents into submission, running them down, slaughtering them. This level of resistance, despite the fact that it was exactly what they'd been promised, surprised them.”
“So what happened then?” Thrall asked, watching her expression. She frowned slightly.
“We were pushed back to the Dark Portal. That almost seemed to be the end of it, but we were too desperate to stay, even as the dust was building up on this side. Gul'dan couldn't fail, and the rest of us couldn't either, so he gathered the chieftains. A proposal was made, not by Gul'dan, but by one of the others, baited into it, to organize ourselves properly. Not to let various chieftains and independent warriors raid and range as they would.”
“Who suggested it?” Thrall asked curiously. “It would have been difficult to reconcile that level of unity with the pride of the clans.”
“Zuluhed, the chieftain of the Dragonmaw,” Garona said. “Gul'dan and Zuluhed had never been close, precisely, but it was what Gul'dan wanted. Some objected. Others, like your father, approved. He liked the idea of a united race because he believed that working together could make the orcs great.”
“If we could have negotiated with the humans that early, negotiated for our own land... it wouldn't have brought the dead back, but it would have prevented more blood from being shed.” Thrall looked into the horizon. “Much would have been different, all before I was born.”
“Gul'dan would never have allowed it,” Garona said. “Something both your mother and Orgrim realized. Blackhand was the most likely candidate. During the rush of early success, he'd seized the mountain stronghold of the Dark Iron dwarves, and cleverly named it 'Blackrock Mountain'.”
“Someone should have stopped Blackhand from naming things,” Thrall noted ruefully. “Naming a semi-dormant volcano 'Blackrock' is lazy and also obvious.”
“That sounds like something I would say,” Garona commented, and Thrall grinned at her in reply. “Blackhand became Warchief, and Orgrim joined his clan. It hurt your father badly. Only Blackhand would have Gul'dan's support. Anyone else would be strongly discouraged from even putting their name forward, though Durotan did try. Then on they marched.”
“If the Horde of old was created by manipulation, why do so many speak so fondly of it?” Thrall asked quietly, and Garona remained silent for a little while before answering.
“Because time makes fools of us all.”
[Part 6]