him look more menacing. Thick black hair flowed down his back. Upon his ascension to chieftainship, Grom's jaw had been tattooed a uniform shade of black. Around his neck hung a necklace of bones. Durotan knew their meaning: Among the Warsong, it was tradition that a young warrior wear the bones of his first kill, inscribed with his personal runes.

Beside Grom was the enormous, imposing Blackhand of the Blackrock clan. Next to Blackhand, munching in silence, was the chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan, Kargath Bladcfist. In lieu of a hand, he had a scythe embedded in his wrist, and even now as an adult Durotan found himself unsettled as the blade glinted in the firelight. Next to him was Kilrogg Dcadcyc, chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow clan. The name was not a familial one. but one he had taken for himself. One eye flitted over the assembled company; the other sat, mangled and dead in truth, in its socket. If Grom was young for a chieftain, then Kilrogg was old for one. but it was clear to Durotan that despite his years and grizzled appearance, Kilrogg was far from done with cither life or leadership.

Uneasily Durotan turned his attention elsewhere.

On Drek’Thar's left was the famous Ner’zhul of the Shadowmoon clan. For as long as Durotan could remember, Ner’zhul had led the shaman. Once. Durotan had been permitted to attend a hunt at which Ner’zhul had been present, and the mastery this shaman had over his skills was shocking. While others grunted and labored to contact the elements, directing them powerfully but without grace, Ner’zhul remained tranquil. The earth shook beneath him when he asked it; lightning came from the skies to strike where he directed. Fire, air, water, earth, and the elusive Spirit of the Wilds all called him companion and friend. He had not seen Ner’zhul interact with the ancestors, of course; no one but shaman were witness to such things. But it was clear to Durotan that if the ancestors had not favored Ner’zhul, he would not have serenely carried power all this time.

Ner'zhul's apprentice, however, Durotan did not like. Orgrim was sitting next to his boyhood friend, and, seeing where Durotan's gaze led, leaned over and whispered, "I think that Gul'dan would better serve his people if he were set out as bait."

Durotan looked away so that no one else would see him smile. He did not know how experienced Gul'dan was as a shaman; surely he must have some ability or else Ner’zhul would not have taken him on to succeed him. But he was not a very prepossessing ore. Shorter than many, softer than most, with a shoit, bushy beard, he did not exemplify the orc as a warrior. But Durotan supposed that one did not have to be a hero to contribute.

"Now that one, she is a warrior born."

Durotan looked in the direction that Orgrim had indicated and his eyes widened slightly. Orgrim had spoken the truth. Standing tall and straight, her muscles rippling beneath smooth brown skin in the firelight as

she reached and sliced a chunk of meat off the roasting talbuk carcass, the female in question seemed to Durotan to be the epitome of all the ores valued. She moved with the feral grace of one of the black wolves, and her tusks were small but sharpened to deadly points. Her long black hair was pulled back in an efficient but attractive braid.

"Who—who is she?" Durotan murmured, his heart already sinking. Surely this magnificent female was a member of another clan. He would have noticed if such a beauty—strong, supple, graceful—had been in his own clan.

Orgrim guffawed and slapped Durotan on the back. The sound and gesture caused several heads to turn in their direction, including, Durotan realized, that of the lovely female. Orgrim leaned in to whisper the words that made Durotan's spirits rise.

"You unobservant dog! She is a Frostwolf! I'd have claimed her for myself if she were of my own clan."

A Frostwolf? How in the world had Durotan failed to notice such a treasure in his own clan? He turned his gaze from Orgrim's grinning visage to look at her again. He found her staring directly at him. Their gazes locked.

"Draka!"

The female started and turned away. Durotan blinked, as if returning to himself.

"Draka," he said quietly. No wonder he had not recognized her. "No, Orgrim. She was not a warrior born. She is a warrior made." Draka had been born sickly, her skin a pale fawn color rather than the healthy tree-bark brown that marked most ores. For most of his childhood. Durotan remembered the adults speaking of her in low whispers, as of one already on the way to joining the ancestors. His own parents once spoke of her sadly, wondering what her family had done that the spirits would curse them with such a frail child.

It was soon after that. Durotan realized, putting the pieces together, that Draka's family had moved to the outskirts of the encampment. He had not seen much of her, busy as he was with his own duties.

Draka had sliced off several chunks of meat and brought them back to her family. Durotan noticed two younglings sitting with the ores who presumably were her parents. Both looked fit and healthy. Feeling her gaze upon him. Draka turned her head and met his eyes steadily. Her nostrils flared and she sat up straightcr. as if daring Durotan to look upon her with pity and compassion rather than admiration and respect.

No, this one did not need any pity. By the grace of the spirits, the healing of the shaman, and the power of the will he could see burning in her brown eyes, she had cast off her childhood frailty to mature into this ... this vision of female orc perfection.

His breath escaped him in a whoosh as Orgrim elbowed him. Durotan glared at his childhood friend.

"Stop gaping, it makes me want to put something in your mouth to shut it," Orgrim grumbled.

Durotan realized he had indeed been gaping, and that more than one knowing, grinning glance was coming his way. He returned his attention to the feast, and did not glance at Draka again for the rest of the night.

But he dreamed of her. And when he awoke, he knew that she would be his. He was heir to the chieftaincy of one of the proudest of orc clans.

What female could deny him?

"No," Draka said.

Durotan was stunned. He had approached Draka the next morning and invited her to go hunting with him the following day. Alone. Both knew what that meant; male and female hunting in a pair was a courtship ritual. And she had rebuffed him.

It was so unexpected he did not know how to react. She watched him almost contemptuously, her lips curving around her perfect tusks in a smirk.

"Why not?" Durotan managed.

"I am not yet of age." she replied. The way she phrased it made it sound more like an excuse than a reason.

But Durotan would not be put off so easily. "I had intended this to be a courting hunt, that much is true," he said bluntly. "But if you are not of age I will respect that. Still. I would like your company. Let this be a hunt shared by two proud warriors, nothing more." Now it was her turn to be startled. Durotan guessed that Draka had expected him to cither push the point or leave in anger.

She paused, her eyes wide. Then she grinned. "I will come on such a hunt, Durotan. son of Garad, leader of the Frostwolf clan."

Durotan thought he had never been happier. This was vastly different from the usual hunt. He and Draka had set a brisk, loping pace. All his challenges with Orgrim had given Durotan stamina, and for a moment he worried that he was going too fast. But Draka, born so fragile and now so strong, kept up with him. They did not speak much; there was little to say. They were on a hunt, they would find prey, kill it, and bring it back to their clan. The silence was easy and comfortable.

He slowed as they moved into open territory and began to scan the ground. There was no snow on the earth, so tracking was not the simple job it was in the winter months. But Durotan knew what to look for: disturbed grass, broken bush twigs, an indentation, however slight, on the soil.