Gul'dan's small eyes glinted. "What is it you suggest. Great One?"

Kil’jaeden smiled at Gul'dan. Already, Ner’zhul could see the bond between them—sec how like Kil’jaeden Gul'dan was in a way that Ner’zhul had never been. Kil’jaeden had been forced to use seductive lies and trickery in order to pull Ner’zhul to his cause; with Gul'dan, he could speak openly.

"There is such a way," Kil’jaeden said, speaking to both orc shaman now. "A way to make them forever bound to us. Forever loyal."

Ner’zhul had thought that he had become inured to horror after what the ancestors had revealed to him, but now he realized that he was capable of experiencing an entirely new level of shock as he listened to Kil’jaeden outline the plan. Forever bound. Forever loyal.

Forever enslaved.

He looked up into Kil’jaeden's blazing eyes, and words would not come. A nod would suffice, he knew, but he could not even bring himself to do that. Instead he simply stared, transfixed, like a bird before a snake.

Kil’jaeden heaved a deep sigh. "You refuse your chance at redemption in my eyes, then?"

As he heard Kil’jaeden speak, it was as if a spell had been removed from Ner’zhul. The words that had been stuck in his throat came rushing out, and although he knew they would mean his doom, the shaman made no move to stop them.

"I refuse utterly to forever doom my people to a life of slavery," he cried. Kil’jaeden listened, then nodded his massive head. "This is your choice. You have also chosen the consequences. Know this, shaman. Your choice averts nothing. My desires will still be carried out. Your people will still be slaves. But instead of leading them and lingering in my favor, you will be forced to be a helpless observer. I think that will be sweeter than if I simply slew you."

Ner’zhul opened his mouth to speak, but he could not. Kil’jaeden narrowed his great eyes, and Ner’zhul could not even move. Even his heart, slamming wildly in his chest, beat only by the will of Lord Kil’jaeden, and he knew it.

How had he been such a gullible fool? How had he not seen through the lies?

How could he have mistaken an illusion sent by this.. , this monster to be the spirit of his beloved mate? Tears welled in his eyes and slipped down his checks, only, he knew, because Kil’jaeden permitted it.

Kil’jaeden smiled at him, then slowly, deliberately turned his attention to Gul’dan. Even in his wretched state, Ner’zhul took the faintest comfort in the knowledge that he had not turned to Kil’jaeden with the expression Gul’dan now wore, that of a hungry pup eager for praise.

"There is no need to trap you with pretty lies, is there, my new tool?" said Kil’jaeden, speaking almost fondly to Gul’dan, "You do not shrink from the truth."

"Indeed, no. lord. I live to do your bidding."

Kil’jaeden chuckled. "If I will do away with lies, so

must you. You live for power. You hunger for it. You thirst for it. And over the last few months, your skill has grown to where I can make proper use of you. Ours is not a partnership of adoration or respect, but one of convenience and selfish benefit. Which means that it will likely last."

Various emotions flitted across Gul'dan's face. He did not seem to know how to react to the words, and Ner’zhul took pleasure in his former apprentice's discomfiture.

"As . . . you will." Gul’dan stammered finally, then with more confidence, "tell me what you would have me do, and I swear, it will be done."

"You have no doubt perceived that I wish to exterminate the draenei. Why I do so is no concern of yours. You need only know that I wish it. The orcs are doing moderately well in this, but they can do better. Theyshall do better. A warrior is only as good as his weapons, and, Gul’dan, I intend to give you and your people weapons such as you have never conceived. It will take a little time; you must be educated first, before you are fit to teach the others. Are you ready and willing?"

Gul'dan's eyes shone, "Begin the lessons. Glorious One. and you will see how apt a pupil of yours I am."

Kil’jaeden laughed.

Durotan was covered with blood, much of it his own. What had gone wrong? Everything had progressed as normal. They had found the hunting party, descended upon them, initiated the attack, and waited for the shaman to use their magic to fight the draenei.

They did not do so. Instead Frostwolf after Frostwolf fell beneath the shining blades and blue-white magics of the draenei. At one point, fighting for his very life, Durotan saw that Drek’Thar was fighting desperately, using nothing but his staff.

What had happened? Why had the shaman not come to his aid? What was Drek’Thar thinking? He could wield a staff hardly better than a child—why did he not use his magic?

The draenei fought furiously, seizing the opportunities the shaman's inexplicable inaction had given them. They pressed their attack harder than Durotan had ever seen, their eyes glinting as for perhaps the first time they sensed victory. The grass was slippery with blood, and Durotan's feet went out from under him. He fell, and his attacker raised his sword.

This was the moment, then. He would die in glorious battle. Except he did not feel that this was a glorious battle. By instinct alone, he raised his axe to parry the blow that would come, although his arm had been deeply cut at the joint of the armor and his limb quivered. He looked up into the eyes of the one who would slay him.

And recognized Restalaan.

At that moment, the draenei captain of the guard's own glowing blue eyes widened in recognition and he

stayed his blow. Durotan gasped for breath, trying to summon the energy to rise and continue the fight. Restalaan uttered something in his ululating tongue, and every draenei halted almost in mid-swing.

As Durotan got to his feet, he realized that there were only a handful of his warriors left alive. Two more moments of battle and the draenei would have slaughtered the entire party, with only two or three casualties on their own side.

Restalaan whirled on Durotan. Various expressions warred on his ugly face: compassion, disgust, regret, determination. "For the act of compassion and honor you showed our prophet, Durotan, son of Garad, you and those of your clan who yet live have been spared. Treat your wounded and return to your homes. But do not think to receive such mercy from us again. Honor has been satisfied."

Durotan weaved as if he had had too much to drink as blood dripped from deep wounds. He forced himself to stay on his feet by sheer will as the draenei turned and disappeared over the horizon. Once they were out of sight, he could force his legs to hold him no longer and he fell to his knees. Several ribs had been cracked or broken, and each inhalation sent a stabbing pain through him.

"Durotan!"

It was Draka. She, too, had been badly injured, but her voice was strong. Relief washed over Durotan. Thank the ancestors, she yet lived. Drek’Thar hurried up to him and placed his hands on Durotan's heart, murmuring under his breath. Warmth flooded Durotan and the pain cased. He took a deep, nourishing breath.

"At least they will let me heal," said Drek’Thar, so softly that Durotan was scarce certain he heard the words.

"Tend to the others, and then we will speak," Durotan said. Drek’Thar nodded, not meeting his chieftain's eves. He and the other shaman hastened to magically heal what wounds they could, and treat with salves and bandages what they could not. Durotan still had injuries, but nothing life-threatening, and he assisted the shaman.

When Durotan had done all he could, he rose and looked around. No fewer than fifteen bodies were stiffening on the green grass, including Rokkar, his second. Durotan shook his head in stunned disbelief.

He would have to return with litters, to bear the fallen back to their lands. They would burn on a pyre, their bodies given to fire, their ashes to air, to be consumed by water and earth. Their spirits would go to Oshu'gun, and the shaman would converse with them on matters of profound importance.