Orgrim looked up, searching for his next target. Some of the Blackrocks were held in the magical netting created by the draenei's foul, unnatural lightning. They were proud and strong warriors, but they screamed in agony as the netting burned its way into their skin. The acrid odor of burning flesh mixed with the reck of blood and fear in Orgrim's nostrils. It was an intoxicating smell.

He felt a wind brush his face, chasing away the scents of battle and infusing his lungs with energy. Orgrim selected the one he would next kill and raced toward the warrior, a female who had no weapon but who was wreathed in pulsating blue energy. Orgrim grunted in surprise as the Doomhammer struck die field and bounced off, the shock shivering up the weapon into his arms and jarring him to the bone. One

of the shaman stepped in, the crackling sound of lightning vying with the mysterious, magical energies of the draenei, and Orgrim cheered as he saw the good, natural lighting beat back that blue field. He swung again, and this time the Doomhammer crunched down on the blueskin's skull most satisfactorily.

It was all but over now. Only two remained standing, and in a heartbeat they had fallen beneath a mass of armored brown bodies. A few more shouts and grunts and the unmistakable sound of bladed weapons sinking into flesh, and then all was silent.

The cornered clefthoof had escaped.

Orgrim caught his breath, his blood singing in his cars, aflame with the excitement of the kill. He had always enjoyed the hunts, but this ... he had never experienced anything like this. Sometimes the beasts he attacked fought back, but prey such as the draenei—intelligent, powerful, who fought in the same way he did and not with tooth and claw—was new to him. He threw back his head and laughed, and wondered if somehow he had become drunk on the sensation.

The cheers and rough, deep bellows of laughter from the victorious ores were the only sound in the glade. Blackhand strode to Orgrim and embraced him as best he could through the armor they both wore.

"I saw the Doomhammer, but it was so fast it was only a blur to my eyes," the Blackrock chieftain rumbled, grinning. "You fought well today, Orgrim. I was wise to name you my second." He stooped over the mage that had been Orgrim's last kill and removed his mailed gloves. The skull had been completely shattered, and blue blood was everywhere. Blackhand dipped his fingers in the slain draenei's life-fluid and carefully painted Orgrim's face with it. Deep inside, something shifted in the ore. He remembered doing this himself at his first kill, the blood red and warm; he remembered having this done to him when he went to the sacred mountain as part of the Om 'riggor ritual, with his father's blood on his face. And now, his leader had anointed him again, with the blood of the beings that were their enemy.

A bit of the dark blue liquid trickled down his check into the corner of his mouth. Orgrim extended his tongue, tasted the fluid, and found it sweet.

The bloodhawk settled on its master's arm, its talons digging deep into the protective leather. Ner’zhul paced while the hawkmastcr unrolled the message and delivered it to him. Quickly, he scanned the small piece of parchment.

So easy. It had been so easy. Not a single casualty, although some had been injured, of course. Their first foray and the ores had been completely victorious. Blackhand spoke contemptuously of how swiftly they had descended upon the party and broken their skulls. It was all unfolding as Rulkan had promised him. Surely, surely now the being with whom Rulkan had allied would appear. The orcs,led by Ner’zhul,

had certainly proven their worth with this decisive triumph.

He again read the missive. Blackhand and the Blackrock ores had indeed been the right choice to send against the draenei. They were powerful and violent, but unlike the Warsong or some other clans, they were completely under the control of their chieftain.

That night, he had a victory feast prepared for the Shadowmoon clan, and they ate and drank and laughed and sang until at last Ner’zhul trundled to his bed and fell into a deep, profound sleep.

And the being came.

It was glorious, radiant, so bright that even with his vision-eyes Ner’zhul could not bear to look upon it at first. He fell to his knees, shaking with the joy and awe that washed through him.

"You have come," he whispered, feeling tears well up in his eyes and slip down his face. "I knew that if we pleased you, you would come."

"Indeed you have, Ner’zhul, shaman, soul-tender of the ores." The voice rumbled through his bones and Ner’zhul closed his eyes, almost giddy at the sensation. "I have seen your masterful handling of your people, how you brought disparate clans together with a common purpose, a glorious goal."

"One that was inspired by you. Great One," murmured Ner’zhul. He thought of Rulkan and briefly wondered why she was no longer appearing to him, then dismissed the thought of her. This great entity was far superior to even the shade of his beloved mate. Ner’zhul craved more words from this magnificent being,

"You came to us and revealed the truth." Ner’zhul continued. "We did what was needed."

"You did indeed, and ! am well pleased with you. Glory and honor and sweet victory will continue to be yours if you do as I say."

"Of course I will, but... Great One. this humble petitioner would beg a favor."

Ner’zhul risked a glance up at the being. It was enormous, radiant and red, with a powerful torso and legs that ended in cloven hooves and curved backward like a talbuk's. ..

... or a draenei's. . . .

Ncrzhul blinked. There was silence for a moment after he voiced his request and he thought he felt a sudden chill. Then the voice spoke again in his mind and in his cars, and it was still smooth and sweet as honey.

'Ask, and I will decide if you are worthy."

Suddenly Ner’zhul's mouth was dry and the words would not form. With an effort, he spoke. "Great One ... do you have a name by which we may call you-

A chuckle rumbled through Ner’zhul's blood. "A simple favor, easily granted. Yes, I have a name. You may call me . , . Kil’jaeden."

It is easy to understand why so many of my contemporaries prefer to let this history die. Let it sink into oblivion silently, slipping beneath the waters of time until the surface of the lake is once again unruffled, and no one knows of the shame lurking in the depths. I, too, feel that shame, though I was not alive when this occurred. I see it in Drek'Thar'sface as he recounts his part of the tale in a shaking voice. I saw the weight of it on Orgrim Doomhammer. Grom Helbcream, friend and traitor and friend again, was ravaged by it.

But to pretend it did not exist is to forget how dreadful the impact was. To make ourselves into victims, rather than claiming our participation in our own destruction. We chose this path, we ores. We chose it right up until it was too late to turn back. And having made that choice once, we can, with the knowledge that we have of the end of that dark and shameful road, choose not to take it.

So I wish to hear the testimony of those who placed one foot in front of the other on a road that spelled near obliteration of our kind. I want to understand why they took each step, what had to happen for it to seem logical and good and right.

I want to know this so when I see it unfolding again, I will recognize it.

Humatis have two sayings that are wise beyond imagining.

The first is, "Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it."

And the second is . . . "Know your enemy."