He dropped the crystal back into his lap. The brilliant clarity, knife-sharp, faded somewhat.

Ner’zhul smiled. If he did not have Velen himself to present to Kil’jaeden. at least he had these precious items to offer to appease the magnificent being.

Kil’jaeden was furious.

Ner’zhul quaked before that anger, prostrating himself on the earth, murmuring, "Forgive me ..." as Kil’jaeden raged. He squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating pain such as he had never experienced to suddenly start shooting along his body, when abruptly the raging ceased.

Cautiously, Ner’zhul risked a glance at his benefactor, Kil’jaeden was once more looking serene, poised, and calm and bathed in radiance.

"I am . . . disappointed," the Beautiful One murmured. He shifted his weight from one enormous cloven foot to the other. "But I know two things. The Frostwolf clan leader is the one responsible. And you will never, ever, trust him with an important task again."

Relief swept through Ner’zhul and he almost fainted from the sensation, so powerful was it. "Of course not, my lord. Never again. And . . . we did find these crystals for you."

"They are of little use to mc," said Kil’jaeden. Ner’zhul winced. "But I think your people might find them helpful in your battle to crush the draenei. That is your battle, is it not?" Fear again clenched hard at Ner’zhul's heart. "Of course, lord! It is the ancestors* will."

Kil’jaeden looked at him for a moment, his brilliant eyes emanating flames. "It is my will." he said simply, and Ner’zhul nodded frantically.

"Of course, of course, it is your will, and I obey you in all things."

Kil’jaeden seemed satisfied by the response and nodded. Then he was gone, and Ner’zhul sank back, wiping a face greasy with the sweat of terror.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of something white. Gul'dan had seen everything.

We have been planning an attack for some time now, and last night, when the Pale Lady did not shine, we descended in force upon the sleeping little town. Not a one was left alive, not even the few children we found. Their supplies—food, armor, weapons, some strange items we know nothing of and shun—this bounty is now shared between the two unified clans. Their blood, blue and thick, dries now upon our faces, and we dance in celebration.

There was more to the missive, but Ner’zhul did not read it. He did not have to. Although the details might be different, the essence of the letters was always the same. A successful attack, glory in the killing, the ecstasy of blood spilled. Ner’zhul glanced at the pile of letters he had received just that morning: seven of them.

With each month that passed, even throughout the long, hard winter months, the ores grew more skilled at killing draenei. They had learned much about their foe with each victor)'. The stones that Durotan had given Ner’zhul proved to be valuable indeed, Ner’zhul worked with them, alone at first, and then in the company of other shaman. The red stone they dubbed the Heart of Fury, and they found that when the leader of a raid carried it. not only did he fight with more energy and skill, but everyone under his command benefited as well. The stone was passed from clan to clan at each new moon, and was highly coveted. Yet Ner’zhul knew no one would dare to steal it for himself.

The second stone he called the Brilliant Star, and he found that when a shaman carried the crystal, he or she experienced a profound focus and clarity. While the Heart of Fury roused the emotions, the Brilliant Star calmed them. The thought process was swifter and more precise, and concentration was not easily broken. The result was powerful magic, precisely controlled ... another key to an orcish victor)'. The delicious irony that they were using the draenei's own magic against them further improved morale among the ores.

But all these things did not hearten Ner’zhul. The sudden flash of doubt that had shuddered through him when he had spoken with Durotan had shaken him to the bone. He fought back the suspicions, terrified that somehow Kil’jaeden was able to read his thoughts. But they came, like maggots writhing from a corpse, to haunt his sleeping and waking thoughts. Kil’jaeden looked very, very similar to the draenei. Was it possible that they were somehow the same? And was he, Ner’zhul, being used in some sort of civil war?

One night, he found he could no longer bear it. Silently, he dressed and roused his wolf Skychascr, who stretched and blinked at him sleepily

"Come, my friend." Ner’zhul said affectionately as he settled on the great creature's back. He had never before ridden to the sacred mountain. Always, he had walked, as was tradition. But he needed to return before he was missed, and he was certain that the urgency of his mission would mitigate his offense with the ancestors.

It was almost spring, almost time for the Kosh'harg festival, but spring seemed far away as the cold wind bit at Ner’zhul's cars and nose. He huddled down, grateful for the warmth of the massive wolf, and shielded himself as best he could from the wind and now snow.

The wolf pressed on through the drifts, making steady if not swift progress. At last. Ner’zhul looked up and saw the perfect triangle of the Mountain of Spirits, and a great weight suddenly lifted from his heart. For the first time in months, he truly felt as if he was doing the right thing.

Skychascr would have difficulty climbing, so with a command to "stay" he settled down, burrowing into a drift and curling up tightly. Ner’zhul did not imagine he would be more than a few hours, and hurried to climb

the mountain with more alacrity than he had felt in a long time, his sack heavy with watcrskins and his heart full of anticipation.

He should have done this long ago. He should have gone right to the source of wisdom, as shaman before him had done. He had no idea why he had never thought of this before.

At last he came to the entrance and paused before the perfect oval. As anxious as he was to reach the ancestors, he knew the ritual must be honored. He lit the bundle of dried grasses he carried and let its sweet scent calm and purify his thoughts. Then he stepped forward, murmuring a spell to light the torches that lined the walk. Ner’zhul had walked this path more times than he could recall, and his feet moved steadily as if of their own accord. Down twined the smooth path, and Ner’zhul's heart raced with hope as he stepped forward into the darkness.

It seemed to take longer than usual for him to become aware of the increase in light. Ner’zhul stepped into the cavern, and thought that somehow, the light emanating from the sacred pool seemed dimmer than it had been in the past. The thought unsettled him.

He took a deep breath and chided himself. He was bringing his own external fears to this sacred space, nothing more. He stepped to the pool, removed the watcrskins from his pack, and poured out the contents. The soft splashing of water was the only sound, and it seemed to echo. His offering complete, Ner’zhul sat by the water's edge and waited, gazing into the radiant depths.

Nothing happened.

He did not panic. Sometimes the ancestors took their time about responding.

But when more time had passed, uncase began to stir in Ner’zhul's heart. Moved, he spoke aloud.

"Ancestors . . . beloved dead ... I, Ner’zhul, shaman of the Shadowmoon clan, leader to your children, have come seeking . . . no. begging wisdom. I—I have lost my way to your light. The times are dark and fearful even as we grow stronger, more united as a people. I question the path I am on. and I beseech your guidance. Please, if ever you loved and cared for those who have followed in your footsteps, come to me now and advise me, that I may lead them well!"

His voice quavered. He knew he sounded lost and pathetic, and for a moment stubborn pride made him flush with shame. But then that feeling was chased away by the knowledge that he did care for his people, he did want to do what was right for them, and at this moment he had no idea what that might be.