It was not Durotan's place to speak ill of another clan leader, but neither was it any secret what most ores thought of Blackhand. He was certainly a powerful ore, fully in his prime, bigger and stronger than any orc Durotan had ever seen. And he was also certainly not stupid. But there was an air about him that raised Durotan's hackles. Durotan decided to hold his tongue.

"I see your struggle even in the darkness, my old friend," Orgrim said quietly. "You do not have to speak for me to know what you would say. He is my chieftain, I have sworn loyalty to him and I will not break that oath. But even I have my misgivings."

The admission startled Durotan. "You do?"

Orgrim nodded. "I am torn, Durotan; torn between my loyalties and what my mind and heart tell mc. May you never be put in such a position. As second, I can help moderate him somewhat, but not much. He is clan leader, and he has the power. I can only hope that he will listen to others tomorrow and not stubbornly sit on his wounded pride."

Durotan fervently shared that hope. If things were indeed as bad as Ner’zhul's expression seemed to indicate, the last thing he wanted to see was the leader of one of the most powerful clans behaving like a spoiled child.

His eye fell upon a dark shape on Orgrim's back. Pride and sorrow both flooded him as he spoke. "You carry the Doomhammer now. I did not know of your father's passing."

"He died bravely and well," Orgrim said. He hesitated, then said, "Do you remember that day long ago when We ran afoul of the ogre and the draenei saved us?"

"I could never forget it," Durotan said.

"Their prophet spoke of the time when I would receive the Doomhammer," Orgrim said. "I was so excited at the thought of wielding it in the hunt. That was the first time ! understood—I mean really understood—that the day it became my weapon would be the day I would be fatherless."

He unstrapped the weapon from his back and hoisted it. It was like watching a dancer. Durotan thought—a balance of power and grace. The moon shone down upon Orgrim's strong body as he moved, crouched, sprang, swung. Finally, breathing heavily and sweating, Orgrim replaced the legendary weapon.

"It is a glorious thing." Orgrim said quietly. "A weapon of power. A weapon of prophecy. The pride of my lineage. And I would shatter it into a thousand pieces with my own hands if it would bring my father back."

Without another word, Orgrim strode back toward the small cluster of twinkling fires. Durotan made no move to follow. He sat for a long time, staring up at the stars, sensing deep within his soul that the world he would behold upon awakening tomorrow would be radically different than the one he had known all his life.

I know well that we lost more than we gained, we ores. At that point, our culture was unspoiled, innocent, pure. We were like children who had always been safe, loved, and protected. But children need to grow up, and we as a people were too easily manipulated.

There is a place for trust; no one can accuse me of not knowing this. But we must also be careful. Those who have fair faces can deceive, and even those whom we believe in with all our souls can beguiled.

It is the loss of our innocence that I lament when I think back to what those days must have been like. And it was our innocence that led to our downfall.

It was a long line of solemn faces that turned to look at die gathered leaders of the orc clans. Durotan stood next to Draka, his arm about her waist in a protective gesture, although he was not sure why he felt she needed defending. His eyes widened as they met Drek’Thar's and he saw in his friend and advisor's face something that chilled him to the bone.

He wished he could stand with Orgrim, They were of different clans and different traditions, but other than his intended, there was no one Durotan trusted more. But Orgrim, of course, stood beside his chieftain Blackhand, who looked around at the gathered shaman with thinly concealed annoyance.

"He has been too long away from the hunt, that one," Draka murmured, nodding in Blackhand's direction. "He is spoiling for a fight."

Durotan sighed. "He may well get it. Look at their faces."

"I have never seen Drek’Thar so, not even when Mother Kashur's body was broken," Draka said.

Durotan did not reply, merely nodded and continued to observe.

Ner’zhul strode forward into the center of the gathered crowd. Everyone moved back to give him room. He began to walk sunwise in a circle, murmuring. Then he paused and lifted his hands. Fire burst forth in front of him, leaping skyward in a display that brought soft sounds of appreciation even from those who had seen such things many times before. It stood, towering over them for a long moment, then subsided, settling down to become a traditional bonfire, albeit a magical one.

"As the darkness falls, in more ways than one, sit you beside the fire," Ner’zhul commanded. "Let each clan

sit to itself, with its own shaman, and I will call you forth to speak when the time is right."

"Perhaps you wish us to fetch a slain beast for you, too," came a fierce, angry voice. "And lie obediently at your feet at night!"

Durotan knew that voice; he had heard it raised often enough at the Kosh'harg festivals in his youth, and had heard its owner utter cries to chill the blood during hunts. It was distinctive and unmistakable. He turned to look at Grom Hcllscream, the youthful leader of the Warsong clan, and hoped that the outburst would not overly delay whatever it was Ner’zhul had to tell them all.

Hcllscream stood in the front of his clan, more slender man most orcs,but still tall and imposing. The Warsong colors were red and black, and while Hcllscream wore no armor, the simple learners in those strong hues served to send an imposing message nonetheless. He folded his arms and glared at Ner’zhul.

Ner’zhul did not rise to the bait, merely sighed deeply. "Many of you feel your honor is offended, this I know. Give me leave to speak, and you will be glad that you are here. Your children's children will be glad of it."

Hcllscream growled and his eyes flashed, but he said no more. He stood for a moment longer, then with a shrug, as if to indicate that it was by his own will, he sat. His clan followed his lead.

Ner’zhul waited until there was quiet, and then began to speak. "I have had a vision." he said, "from one of the ancestors whom I trust more than I can possibly say. She has revealed to me a threat, lurking like a poisonous scorpion under a flowering bush. All the other shaman can attest to this, and the)^I will, once they have opportunity to speak. It grieves and infuriates me that we have been so duped."

Durotan hung on the shaman's words, his heart racing. Who was this mysterious enemy? How had so dark a foe escaped their notice?

Ner’zhul sighed, looking down on the ground, then shook himself. His voice was deep and confident, if laced with sorrow.

"The enemy of which I speak," he said heavily, "is the draenei."

Chaos erupted.

Durotan stared, disbelieving. He looked around, seeking Orgrim's gaze, and stared into his friend's wide, gray eyes, seeing there the same stunned shock that he himself felt. The draenei? Surely something was wrong. The gronn, yes, perhaps they had stumbled across some secret knowledge to use against the hated ores .. . but no. Not the draenei.

They were not even fighters on the level that the ores were. They hunted, yes, that was true, but they needed meat as much as any orc in order to survive. They could stand against the gronn, and sometimes had assisted a hunting party a time or two. Durotan's thoughts went back to the day when two young ore