Drek’Thar himself, though, was standing beside Durotan, As the most powerful shaman in the clan, his place was to protect the clan's leader. The two stood on a rock outcropping just above the entrance to the gleaming sacred mountain. Dozens of warriors waited with arrows, hand axes, and javelins at the ready. Others had spent days maneuvering large boulders into position. At a word from Durotan, a simple movement would send death in the form of huge stones crashing down upon the draenei.

The threat of death, in fact, was everywhere on this lovely mountain, on this beautiful sunny day.

A breeze stirred Durotan's black hair and a bird sang brightly. Drek’Thar looked at his chieftain with concern.

"My chieftain, you are doing what you have been told to do," Drek’Thar said earnestly. "These beings are our enemies."

Durotan nodded and wished he could believe it as easily as every other orc seemed to.

The breeze brushed his check again, more insistently, and this time he heard words on the wind. Draka's message, borne to him by Drek’Thar's bond with the elements. They are coming. Five of them. None of

them is wearing armor or carries any visible weapons. They walk serenely.

The wind wafted her words away, and he knew it went to touch the cars of all the ores assembled. When the time was right, Drek’Thar would harness the wind to give orders to Durotan's troops. Durotan straightened, and his heart beat more swiftly. His hand gripped his battle-axe tightly.

"There they are," said Drek’Thar grimly. Durotan followed his gaze.

Draka's report had been accurate, right down to her interpretation of the manner in which the draenei approached. The five draenei did not wear the strange blue and silvery armor that Durotan remembered from his single encounter with them. They were dressed instead as they had been for the meal, in robes of beautiful hues that caught the breeze and fluttered behind them like banners. Walking at the very front of the little group was Prophet Velen himself. He was unmistakable; his simple tan robes contrasted with those of his entourage, and of course his strange white skin was unique. Durotan grinned a little despite the dircness of the situation. The draenei were so garishly clad that only a blind orc would have failed to spot them from a great distance.

The smile faded at what that had to represent. They wanted to be spotted immediately. They wanted the ores to be confident that they carried no weapons and were on what Mother Kashur would have called a pilgrimage. Or was it all just an elaborate trick? Shaman needed no spears to destroy. Neither did the draenei. Durotan remembered the magical nets that scared and blackened flesh on contact—nets of energy, alien to the orcs, that had come from nowhere.

No, even unarmed, the draenei were far from harmless.

He had briefed his warriors and knew they would obey. They understood they were not to fire a warning shot—not to utter even an insult—without Durotan's express command. But they knew how the draenei fought, and would not be taken unawares. Durotan could smell the tension emanating from those warriors closest to him; he wondered if the draenei could, too.

Durotan watched as the groups he had set farthest away came out of hiding to close ranks behind the draenei. They were far enough back so that Durotan hoped the draenei would not notice. If they did, they gave no sign, but merely continued with that steady, confident... serene . . . pace.

Durotan and Drek’Thar made no attempt to disguise themselves. After several long minutes, Velen lifted his head and looked up, right into Durotan's eyes. Durotan did not break the gaze, but stood waiting for his enemies to continue their approach. They reached the base of the mountain, but before they could continue farther, dozens of ores moved purposefully out of hiding to surround them.

Velen did not look in the least bit surprised. He glanced around, smiling a little, and then returned his gaze to Durotan. Slowly, Durotan descended until he stood face-to-face with the draenei prophet.

"Long has it been since you and I last stood so, Velen," Durotan said in a calm voice. He deliberately did not use the draenei's title.

"Long indeed, Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan," Velen said in that rich, smooth voice that Durotan remembered. "Are you friends with Orgrim still?"

"Indeed I am," Durotan replied. "He carries the Doomhammer now, and is second in his own clan."

Sorrow flitted across the pale face, a sorrow that was deep and unquestionably genuine. Again, Durotan remembered that night so long ago, when this being had sat with them and talked of orcish ways, of the Doomhammer and the cost at which Orgrim would buy it.

"I hope his father and yours passed with great honor," Velen said.

"We are not here today to speak of the past," Durotan said, more forcefully than he intended. He did not like to remember that night. "We are here because you have informed us that you dare trespass on our most sacred place."

There it is, then, he thought. Let us not mince words.

Velen held Durotan's gaze and nodded. "I had sent a missive to Ner’zhul, not to you, Durotan. He has dcclincd to meet with mc. I wonder . . . did he share this missive with you?"

"There was no need for me to read it." Durotan replied, "I was asked to come in his stead. And I have done so."

Durotan saw the broad shoulders slump a little. Velen sighed deeply. "I sec," he said. "He may not have told you why I wished to come today."

"I do not need to know your purpose, draenei," Durotan said.

"But you do. or else this conversation will be for nothing." The voice was clear and crisp, and there was nothing old or frail about it despite Velen's obviously ancient age. Durotan raised an eyebrow. That Velen was a wise elder was immediately apparent. But now, for the first time. Durotan caught a glimpse of the sheer strength of will that had buoyed Velen for coundess years.

"This this mountain is sacred to your people. We know this, and we have respected it. But it is also sacred to us." Velen took a step forward, his gaze locked on Durotan's. The orc warriors around him shifted, murmured, but otherwise did not move.

"Deep inside the mountain is a being that has long cared for the draenei people," Velen continued. "It is older by far than anything cither of our minds can grasp. And more powerful. But even old and powerful things can die, and it is dying now. There is wisdom and grace and reconciliation We can have from it. your people and mine. We—"

"Blasphemer!"

Durotan started. The bitter cry had sprung from the throat not of some short-tempered warrior in the crowd, but from the orc who stood beside him. Drek’Thar's eyes were wide and his body trembled with outrage. Veins stood out on his neck and he shook his fist at Velen. Durotan was so shocked by the outburst that he did not silence it as quickly as he should have, and Drek’Thar continued.

"Oshu'gun belongs to us! It is the home of the beloved dead, cradlcr of their spirits, and your hideous cloven feet are not fit to take one step up its blessed sides!"

Velen. too. seemed surprised at the outburst. He turned his attention to the shaman and stretched out a hand imploringly.

"Your sprits are housed within these walls, it is true, and I would never say it was not so." Velen cried. "But they are drawn there because of this being. It seeks to—"

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Drek’Thar bellowed in outrage. Other cries went up, and before Durotan realized quite what was happening, he saw his warriors surge forward. Draka moved toward them, trying to stop the attack, but she might as well have been trying to hold back the incoming tide. Durotan spun and struck Drek’Thar hard across the face. The shaman whirled, snarling. "Protect them!" Durotan cried. "You will obey my orders, and we must take them alive. Protect them, curse you!"