"Clcfthoovcs," he said. He rose and scanned the horizon in the direction they had gone. Draka still crouched on the earth, her fingers delicately moving aside the foliage.

"One is injured," she announced.

Durotan turned to her. "I saw no blood."

She shook her head. "No blood, but the pattern of the prints tells me this." She pointed where he had looked. He saw nothing to alert him to an injured beast and shook his head, puzzled.

"No, no. not this print . . . the next. And the one after that."

She moved along, careful where she placed her feet, and suddenly Durotan saw what she had: The indentations of one hoof were slightly less deep than the other three.

The beast was limping.

He turned admiring eyes on her, and she flushed slightly. "It is easy to read." she said. "You would have found it yourself."

"No," he admitted honestly. "I did not. I saw the prints, but I did not take the time to observe them in full detail. You did. You will make an excellent hunter one day."

She straightened and looked at him proudly. Something warm and simultaneously strengthening and weakening rushed through him. He was not one to pray, but now as he looked at Draka standing before him, he sent a quick prayer to the spirits: Let this female look agreeably upon me.

They followed the trail like wolves on the scent. Durotan had stopped leading; this female was his equal in tracking. They complemented one another well. He had the sharper eyes, but she looked more deeply at what he found. He wondered what it would be like to fight beside her. Their eyes on the earth before them, they loped around a sharp turn. He wondered what it would be like to—

The great black wolf, crouched snarling over the same animal they had been tracking, whirled. For an endless instant, three predators regarded one another. But even before the mighty beast had gathered itself to spring, Durotan had charged.

The axe felt as nothing in his arms as he lifted and struck- It sank deep into the creature's torso, but Durotan felt the retaliatory bite from yellowed teeth crunch down on his arm. Pain, white hot and shocking, coursed through him. He tore his arm free. It was harder this time to lift the axe with his arm pumping blood, but he did. The wolf had turned its attention fully upon Durotan, its yellow eyes boring into his, its mouth open in a roar. Its hot breath stank of rancid meat.

At that instant, before the great jaws could close upon his face, Durotan heard a war cry. There was a flurry of movement in the corner of his eye. Draka sprang upon the beast, her long, ornamented spear preceding her. The wolf's head snapped back as the spear pierced its midsection. In the instant of inattention, Durotan hefted his axe again and brought it down as hard as he could. He felt it cut through the animal's body, down, down, striking earth, going deep, lodging so firmly he could not pull it out immediately.

He stepped back, panting. Draka stood beside him.

He felt her warmth, her energy, her passion for the hunt as powerful as his. Together they stared at the mighty beast they had slain. They had been taken unawares by an animal that usually required several seasoned ores to bring it down, and they were still alive. Their foe lay dead, blood pooling beneath it, sliced in two by Durotan's axe, Draka's spear protruding from its heart. Durotan realized he would never be able to tell which of them had struck the true killing blow, and the thought made him ridiculously happy.

He sat down hard.

Draka was there, quickly washing the blood from his lacerated arm, only to mutter under her breath as more came. She tended him with healing salves and tightly wrapped bandages, along with some bitter-tasting herbs she added to the water and ordered him to drink. After a few moments, the dizziness went away.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

She nodded, not looking at him. Then a smile quirked one corner of her mouth.

"What is so funnv? That I was not able to stand?"

His voice was harsher than he had intended and she looked up quickly, surprised at his tone,

"Not at all. You fought well, Durotan. Many would have dropped their axe after such a blow,"

He felt oddly pleased by her comment, delivered as a factual statement rather than flattery. "Then . . . what amuses vou?" She grinned, meeting his eyes evenly. "I know something, and you do not know it. But . . . after this ... I think I will tell you."

He felt himself smiling too. "I am honored."

"I told you yesterday that I was not of age for a courtship hunt."

"True."

"Well... when I said that, I knew I would soon come

fir age.

"I sec," he said, though he didn't, not quite. "Well... when will you come of age?"

Her smile broadened. "Today," she said simply.

He looked at her for a long moment, then, with no word, pulled her to him and kissed her.

Talgath had been observing the ores for some time. Now, he withdrew from them, their bestial nature offending him. Being a man'ari was better. Except for the female creatures with the leathery wings and tail, man'ari slaked their lust with violence, not coupling. He preferred it that way. He would, in fact, have preferred to have slain the two on the spot, but his master had been quite clear about intervening. There would be questions asked if these two did not return to their clan, and though they were as unimportant as flics to him, flics could become a nuisance. Kil’jaeden wanted him only to observe and report back, nothing more. And so Talgath would.

Revenge, mused Kil’jaeden, like fruit on a tree, was sweetest when allowed to fully ripen. There had been moments over the long stretch of years when he had harbored doubts about being able to locate the renegade eredar. The more Talgath shared with him, however, the more confident and delighted Kil’jaeden grew.

Talgath had served him well. He had observed the pathetic, so-called "cities" the once-mighty Velen and his little handful of eredar had created. He had observed how they lived, hunting like the creatures who called themselves "ores," putting grain in the ground with their own hands. He had watched them trade with the hulking, barely verbal creatures, treating them with a courtesy that was positively laughable. Talgath sensed some echoes of former grandeur in their buildings and limited technology, but overall, Talgath felt that Kil’jaeden would be pleased with how low his former friend had fallen.

"Draenei," they called themselves now. The exiles. And they had named the world Dracnor.

Kil’jaeden realized that Talgath was perplexed when, rather than focusing on Velen himself, Kil’jaeden wanted to know more about the ores. How were they organized? What were some of their customs? Who were their leaders, and how were they chosen? What was important to them as a society, as individuals?

But Talgath's job was to report, not to evaluate, and he answered his master to the best of his ability. When at last Kil’jaeden had learned everything that Talgath had learned, right down to the names of the two beasts rutting after their kill together, he was satisfied—for the moment at least.

At long last, revenge would be his. Velen and his upstart companions would be punished. But not quickly, not with an army of enhanced eredar to rend them to pieces of bloody pulp. That would be too merciful. Kil’jaeden wanted them dead, yes. But he wanted them broken. Humiliated. Crushed as utterly and completely as an insect beneath a booted foot.

And now, he knew exactly how to do it.