Gul'dan's eyes sparkled. 'And ... to me too. perhaps, master?"

Ner’zhul smiled. "You are a strong one, Gul'dan," he said. "I would not have chosen you as my apprentice if that were not the case. Yes, I think so. When he has deemed you worthy, as he has deemed me."

Gul'dan lowered his head. "May it be so." he said. "I am so honored to serve. This is a time of great glory for the ores. We are blessed to live to see it."

The Blackrock clan, with Blackhand himself in the vanguard, had begged for the honor of being the first to strike. There had been some resentment and grumbling, but the hunting skills of the Blackrock were legendary, and they were logical first choice as they also lived fairly near Telmor. one of the smaller, more isolated cities. They had been given the first efforts at armor, swords, metal-tipped arrows, and other weapons of war that would bring down the draenei.

Orgrim, the Doomhammer strapped across his back and clad from head to foot in metal that made him chafe and feel confined, rode at his chieftain's side. The wolf beneath him seemed to have an equal dislike of the heavy armor, and now and then turned his massive head to snap at Orgrim's leg, as if at some insect that annoyed him. He also seemed to be laboring a bit as he bore his rider across the soft meadow grass, panting more than usual, pink tongue lolling.

Orgrim muttered under his breath. It had sounded so simple: go to war against this new, insidious foe. But when they had all, including Orgrim, stood and cheered the decision, no one had stopped to think of how difficult it would be simply to prepare. They would need to breed the wolves for size even more now, if the animals were to carry armor as well as orc bodies already heavy with dense bone and powerful muscle.

The weapons were not untried. Several times already they had attacked the ogres, rationalizing that although they were lumbering and stupid and the draenei were quick and intelligent, fighting them was more akin to fighting the new enemy than killing talbuk would be. They had lost a few. at first, who were burned on a pyre with due ceremony for their honorable sacrifice. The weapons felt alien in their hands, the armor slowed them down, but each time, the attacks went more smoothly. The last time, they had faced not only a pair of ogres but one of their masters, a gronn who had the ferocity of the ogres it dominated and a vile cleverness that made it a much more challenging foe. Two brave Blackrock soldiers fell before Orgrim got in the final blow, swinging his hammer of prophecy and bringing doom upon the bellowing gronn.

Blackhand stood beside him, panting and sweating, blood, his own and that of the creature they had just slain, spattering his face. He wiped his face with his mailed hand and licked the blood, grunting.

"Two ogres and their master," he muttered, reaching out a hand to clap Orgrim on the shoulder. "The pitiful draenei do not stand a chance against our might!"

Standing sweating in the sun, its bright light glinting off the metal plate and almost blinding his eyes, Orgrim agreed. Bloodlust rose high in him. He trusted Ner’zhul and the shaman of his clan. Further, he had spoken with Durotan. and they both agreed that though they had been treated fairly by the draenei on that long-ago day when they had been rescued by the blucskins, there had been something peculiar about them. The spirits had never guided them falsely before. Why would they do so now?

But as he rode alongside his lord to where a small hunting party had been reported. Orgrim had misgivings. What if the draenei had been odd? Surely the ores must have seemed odd to them when they first arrived. Was death truly an appropriate punishment for being different? When had there been a single attack on an orc by the draenei? A single insult or offense, even? Now eighteen Blackrock warriors, armed to the teeth, their bodies coated in protective metal, were riding to slaughter a group of the blucskins who were doing nothing more threatening than gathering food for their people. Unexpected and unwanted, an image rose in Orgrim's mind of the young draenei girl who had smiled shyly at them. Was it her father or mother who would die here on this gloriously sunny day?

"You look lost in thought Orgrim," said Blackhand in his gravelly voice, startling Orgrim momentarily. "What fills your mind, my second?"

The face of an orphan, thought Orgrim, but did not say. Instead, he said gruffly, "I was wondering what color draenei blood was." Blackhand threw back his oversized head and laughed heartily. Orgrim heard a harsh caw and the sound of frantic wingbcats as the very crows took flight at the noise of the Blackrock chieftain's laughter.

"I will make sure your face is painted in it," Blackhand said, chuckling.

Orgrim's jaw tightened and he said nothing. The ancestors do not lie, he thought grimly. A child is innocent, always, but its parents have earned death, if they are plotting against us as the spirits have said.

They came upon them with ridiculous ease, not bothering to hide their approach. The scout had said the hunting party numbered eleven, six males and five females, and they had encountered a herd of cleft-hooves. While the great, shaggy beasts were strong and difficult to bring down, they did not have the aggressiveness of a roused herd of talbuks, and the draenei hunting party had already managed to isolate a young bull. It roared, pawing the earth and lowering its head, aiming its single horn at its attackers, but the outcome was assured.

Or it would have been, had it not been for the arrival of the ores.

Blackhand drew his company to a halt on a ridge. Orgrim could smell the excitement from his kinsmen. Their bodies quivered with anticipation in their newly crafted armor, their hands clenched and unclenched, wanting to curl about the weapons that were only now becoming familiar. Blackhand held up a mailed fist, his

small eyes fastened on the activity below, waiting for the right moment to swoop down like a hawk on a meadow rat.

The Blackrock chieftain turned to his shaman, who were in the back. They, too, wore armor, but carried no weapons; they did not need to. They would heal their brethren as they fell, and also direct the immense power of the elements toward their foe.

"You are ready?" he asked.

The eldest among them nodded. His eyes glowed fiercely and his lips were curved in a smile. He, too, wanted to see draenei blood shed this day.

Blackhand grunted and brought his fist down. The Blackrock warriors charged.

They uttered their battle cries as they came, and the blucskins turned, startled. At first, only surprise registered on those faces. No doubt they merely wondered why such a great number of mounted orc warriors were coming to aid them in the kill. It was only when Blackhand, atop his monstrous wolf, brought his two-handed broadsword down in a smooth blow that severed their leader in half that the draenei realized that the ores had come not for the clefthoof, but for them.

To their credit, they did not stare in stunned horror at the sight, but sprang immediately into action. Voices that held only the faintest tremor of fear uttered words in a liquid-sounding, alien tongue. Although Orgrim did not recognize the words—Durotan had the gift of recall for such things, not he—the sound was familiar. He knew what to expect from that long-ago day when the draenei had rescued him and Durotan, and had prepared his kinsmen. So when the sky crackled with unnatural blue and silver lightning, the shaman were ready. They blasted the strange bolts of light with lightning of their own. The brightness was almost blinding, and Orgrim looked down quickly, his focus on the draenei warrior in front of him wielding a staff that glowed and sparked. He roared and lifted the Doomhammer over his head and brought it crashing down upon his enemy. The armor the draenei warrior wore could not withstand such an attack and crumpled like a thin tin bracelet. Blood and brains spattered the ground.