The large, clawed hand turned into a fist and the sharp nails dug into the palm. Molten fire poured forth, then the flow stopped as it hit what passed for air, leaving a thick ridge like a scar. Kil’jaeden's body was covered with many such welts; he took pride in them.

Archimonde was powerful, elegant, smooth, intelligent. But he lacked the burning desire for utter obliteration that Kil’jaeden nursed. He had explained it time and again, and now simply sighed and opted not to discuss the matter further. For centuries now, they had had this argument; no doubt they would continue to have it for centuries more ... or until Kil’jaeden succeeded in the destruction of the being who had once been his closest friend. Perhaps that was it. Kil’jaeden mused with a sudden enlightenment. Archimonde had never had particular feelings for Velen other than as a fellow leader of the eredar. Kil’jaeden had loved Velen as a brother, closer than that, loved him almost as another aspect of himself

And then . ..

Again the huge hand clenched, and again unholy fire poured forth in lieu of blood.

No.

It would not be enough to think of Velen sitting on some backwater world, nursing his hurt pride, living off the land in some cave. Kil’jaeden once would have said he wanted blood. But blood, powerful in its own way as it was, would not satisfy him now. He wanted the essence of shame, of utter and complete humiliation. That would be even sweeter than the copperytaste of life flowing from Velen and his stupid followers.

Archimonde tilted his head, a gesture Kil’jaeden recognized. One of his own servants was speaking to him. Archimonde had his own schemes and machinations, all, like Kil’jaeden's, in service to their dark master and his ultimate conquest. Without a word Archimonde rose to his full, imposing height and departed, his movements lithe and sleek, belying his size.

At that moment as well, Kil’jaeden felt a slight scratching inside his head. He recognized it as once: it was Talgath, ever his right hand, seeking contact. And the sensation emanating from the thought was one of cautious hope.

What is it, my friend? Speak! Kil’jaeden commanded in his mind.

My great lord, I do not wish to plant false hope, but. .. I may have found them.

Tempered delight rose inside Kil’jaeden. Like the being he hunted, Talgath was ever the cautious one of his minions. Only a little lower in rank than Kil’jaeden himself, he had proved his loyalty over the centuries. He would not say even this guarded statement without good cause.

Where? And what makes you sense this?

There is a small world, primitive and insignificant. And I have sensed their peculiar brand of magic Minting the area. It is possible that they may have come and gone. Such, alas, has happened before.

Kil’jaeden nodded, even though Talgath was not present to see the gesture. Some things from his past yet lingered, he thought, smiling a litdc at the ancient movement that betokened agreement in nearly every sentient species he had encountered.

You speak truly, he acknowledged. Many times before, Kil’jaeden's forces had arrived on some world or other, lured by the sweet essence of eredar magic, only to find that somehow Velen and his wretched followers had gotten wind of the approach and escaped. But I remain hopeful. I will find them and twist them to my purposes, and I have eternity in wnicJi to do so.

A thought occurred to him. So often before, Kil’jaeden's forces had descended upon a world where Velen was thought to be. only to have him escape. Kil’jaeden had nursed his insulted pride by destroying such worlds, but the slaughter of primitive races—though pleasant—did not slake his demonic thirst for complete and total revenge.

He would not behave that way this time. He would not send Talgath at the head of the Burning Legion. Velen had once been the strongest of them, the wisest, the most attuned to magic and science. Kil’jaeden could not imagine that his old friend would have dropped his guard, not after such a relatively brief time. Velen would be constantly on the alert, ready to flee in the face of so obvious a threat.

But... what about a less obvious threat?

Talgath . . . I want you to investigate this world for me.

My lord? Talgath's mental voice was smooth and poised, but puzzled.

We have descended upon worlds in force before, and to no avail. Perhaps this time, only one is sent. One only, but one who can be trusted completely.

Kil’jaeden sensed unease and pride warring in Talgath's thoughts.

There are more ways to destroy one's enemy than with an army. Sometimes, those ways are better.

You—you wish me to find such a better way, then?

Precisely Visit this place on your own. Learnaboutit. Investigate. Tell me if the exiles are truly there, and if so, what their state is. Tell me what they live on, if they are fat and settled like tamed livestock or lean and edgy, like prey ani-

mals. Tell me what their world is like, what other peoples live there, what creatures, what seasons. Investigate, Talgath. Do nothing without express orders from me.

Of course, my lord. I shall prepare at once. Still puzzled, but obedient and intelligent. Talgath had served the man'ari master well in the past. Now he would serve well again.

Kil’jaeden's face, though it little resembled what it had been before he had cast his lot with the great lord Sargeras. was still able to twist into the facsimile of a smile.

Durotan, like all his people, had been ready to begin training with weapons at the age of six. His body was already tall and filling out, and the usage of weaponry came naturally to his people. At twelve, he had gone with the hunting parties. And now, after the rite that marked him as an adult, he had been able to join in the hunt for the ogres and their obscene, twisted masters, the gronn.

This year, as the autumn Kosh'harg came, he joined the adults in the circle after the children had been sent to bed. And as he and Orgrim had learned years before, being an adult and being able to attend the fireside circle was not very interesting.

However, the one thing he did find interesting, as he watched with observant brown eyes, was interacting with those whose names he had known for many years, but who never spoke much to him because of his youth. Mother Kashur, of course, was from his own dan. He knew she had high standing among the shaman of the other clans, and he took pride in that fact. He noticed her huddled by the fire on this first night, a woven blanket wrapped around a frame that seemed to him little more than bone and skin. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that this would be her last Kosh'harg celebration, and the thought saddened him more than he had expected.

Next to her. younger than she but older still than Durotan's parents, was Kashur's apprentice Drek’Thar. Durotan had not spoken much with Drek’Thar, but the older ore's sharp tongue and sharp eyes were deserving of much respect. Durotan's brown eyes continued to roam over the assembled company. Tomorrow, the shaman would be gone, departing for their meetings with the ancestors in the cavern of the sacred mountain. Durotan shivered as he again recalled his visit there, and the cold breeze that felt like a draft, but was nothing so ordinary.

Over there was Grom Hcllscrcam. the young and slightly manic chieftain of the Warsong clan. Only a few years older than Durotan and Orgrim, he was new to his position. There had been muttcrings about the mysterious circumstances under which the former chieftain had died, but the Warsong clan did not challenge Grom's leadership. Durotan thought it no wonder. Though youthful, Grom was intimidating. The dancing, flickering light of the fire only served to make