Durotan's dark brown eyes narrowed. "You are wrong, draenei," he spat. "I am proud to be an ore. I embrace my heritage."

Velen looked exasperated. "You misunderstand. I do not malign your people. I merely—■

"Merely what? Merely tell us that the only reason We are seeing the beloved dead is because of your . . . your god trapped in the mountain?"

"It is not a god, it is an ally, and would be one to your people as well if you would permit it to be."

Durotan swore and rose, stalking about the tent, his hands clenching and unclenching. Then he uttered a long, deep sigh, the anger in him burning down to ashes.

"Velen, your words are but wood on the fire of our wrath," he said quietly. "Your claim is arrogant and offensive. It will support those who are already prepared to slay your people on the word oi our ancestors. I do not understand myself—but you are asking to choose

between people I trust, traditions I have been raised on, and your word."

He turned and faced the draenei. "I will choose my people. You need to know this. If you and I come face-to-face on the field of battle, I will not stay my hand."

Velen looked only curious. "You .. . will not take me to Ner’zhul, then?"

Durotan shook his head. "No. If he wanted you, he should have come for you himself. He appointed me to treat with you, and I have carried out my duties as I saw fit."

"You were supposed to deliver a prisoner to him," Velen said.

"I was to meet with you and listen to your words," Durotan said. "Had I captured you in battle, stricken a weapon from your hands, and wrested you to the earth, then yes, you would be a prisoner. But there is no honor in binding a foe who extends his hands willingly for the rope. We are at an impasse, you and I. You insist that you have no ill will toward the ores. My leaders and the ghosts of my ancestors tell me otherwise."

Again, Durotan knelt before the draenei. "They call you Prophet—do you know the future then? If so, then tell me what you and I can do to avert what I fear will unfold. I would not shed innocent life, Velen. Give me something, anything, I can take to Ner’zhul that will prove that what you say is true!"

He realized he was pleading, but the fact did not distress him. He loved his wife, his clan, his people. He hated what he was seeing: an entire generation rushing headlong to adulthood with only blind hate in their hearts. If begging before this strange being could change this, then beg he would.

The strange blue eyes held an unspeakable empathy. Velen extended a pale hand and placed it on Durotan's shoulder.

"The future is not like a book one can read," he said quietly. "It is ever changing, like the rush of water, or the swirl of sand. I am granted certain insights, but nothing more, I felt very strongly that I needed to come unarmed, and behold, I am greeted not by the ores' greatest shaman, but by one who has slept safely under my roof. I do not think this an accident. Durotan. And if anything can be done to avert this, it lies with the orcs, not with the draenei. AH I can do is tell you what I have already said. The river's course can be changed. But you are the ones who must change it. That is all I know, and I pray it is enough to save my people."

The look on his ancient, oddly cracked face and the tone of his voice told Durotan what his words did not: that Velen did not, indeed, think it would be enough to save his people.

Durotan closed his eyes for a moment, then stepped back. "We will keep the stones," he said. "Whatever power they have, the shaman will learn how to harness."

Velen nodded sadly "Such I assumed," he said. "But I had to bring them. I had to trust that we could find a way past all of this."

Why was it, Durotan wondered, that he felt closer at this moment to one he had been told was an enemy than to the spiritual leader of his own people? Draka might know. She had known all along. She had said nothing, understanding with a wisdom he could not comprehend that he had to come to this moment on his own. But he would speak to her tonight, alone in their tent.

"Get up." he said, speaking roughly to hide his emotions, "You and your companions may leave safely." He grinned suddenly. "As safely as you might, in the darkness, with no weapons. If you come to your deaths this night when you are past our territory, it will not be on my head."

"That would be convenient for you," agreed Velen, getting to his feet. "But somehow. I think it is not what you want."

Durotan did not reply. He marched out of the tent and told the waiting guards. "Velen and his four companions are to be safely escorted to the borders of our lands. Then, they will be released, to return to then-city. No harm is to befall them, is that clear?"

The guard looked as if he was about to protest, but another, wiser warrior shot him a fierce glance.

"Very clear, my chieftain," the first guard murmured. As they went to fetch the other draenei, Drek’Thar hurried up to Durotan.

"Durotan! What are you doing? Ner’zhul expects prisoners!" "Ner’zhul can take his prisoners himself," Durotan snarled. "I was in command, and this is my decision. Do you question it?"

Drek’Thar looked around and walked Durotan away from prying cars. "I do," he hissed. "You heard what he said! He claims the ancestors are—are like moths to a torch around this god of his! The arrogance! Ner’zhul is right. They must be eliminated. We have been told so!"

"if it is to be, then it will be," said Durotan. "But not this night, Drek’Thar. Not this night."

As he and his companions walked slowly over the dew-drenched grasses of die meadows, past the towering black silhouettes of the trees of Terokkar forest, toward the nearest city, Velen's heart was heavy.

Two of the ata'mal crystals were now in the possession of the ores. He had no doubt but that Durotan's words were correct, and that their shaman would shortly unlock their secrets. But they had missed one.

They had missed it because it did not wish to be found, and when it came to the crystals, light obeyed its wishes and bent itself so that the violet crystal remained hidden from the view of the searching ores. He held it close to his heart now, feeling its warmth seep into his ancient flesh.

He had gambled, and failed. Not completely; that he and his friends were alive and walking toward safety was testimony to that. But he had hoped the ores

would listen, that they would at least accompany him into the heart of their own sacred mountain, and behold something that did not negate their faidi, not in the slightest, but had in fact given birth to it.

The oudook was grim. As he had walked into the camp, he had observed what was happening. Younglings were being trained so hard they were dropping from exhaustion. Forges were going even so late at night. For all that he was walking freely now, Velen knew that the incidents of today had done nothing to avert what would come. The orcs,even the ones led by the insightful, slow to anger Durotan, were not just preparing for the possibility of war. They were convinced of the certainty of it. When the sun showed her yellow head tomorrow morning, she would look upon the inevitable.

The crystal he held so close to his heart pulsed, sensing his thoughts. Velen turned to his companions and looked upon them sorrowfully.

"The ores will not be dissuaded from this path," he said. "And therefore, if we are to survive . . . we, too, must walk the path to war."

Far in the distance, broken, dying, resting as peacefully as possible deep below the waters of the sacred pool, the being known as K’ure uttered a deep, agonized cry.

Velen started, recognizing the voice, and bowed his head. The Frostwolf ores gasped at the sound and turned to regard the perfect triangle of Oshu'gun.

"The ancestors are angry with us!" a young shaman cried. "Angry for letting Velen go!"