Or would they? Something terrible had happened, and it was time he found out what.

Sudden anger flooded him at the waste. Despite what the ancestors had told him, something inside Durotan continued to whisper that this attack on the

draenei was a grave mistake. He whirled on Drek’Thar, and with a deep growl seized the smaller orc where he sat gulping water and hauled him to his feet.

"This was a slaughter!" Durotan cried, shaking him furiously. "Fifteen of our kin lie dead before us! The earth drinks deeply of their blood, and I never saw you or any of the others lend your skill to the fight!"

For a moment, Drek’Thar could not speak. The meadow was deathly silent as every Frostwolf watched the confrontation. Then, in a faint voice, Drek’Thar replied, "The elements—they would not come this time."

Durotan's eyes narrowed. Still clutching Drek’Thar by the front of his leather jerkin, he demanded of the wide-eyed, silent shaman, "Is this true? They would not lend their aid to the battle?"

Looking stunned and sick, the shaman nodded. One said in a quavering voice, "It is true, great chieftain. I asked all of them in turn. They said . .. they said it was out of balance, and they would no longer permit us to use their powers."

Durotan's shock was broken by an angry hiss. He turned to see Draka's scowling face. "This is more than a sign! This is a shout, a battle cry, that what We are doing is wrong!"

Slowly, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened, Durotan nodded. If it were not for the mercy Restalaan had shown him, he and every last member of the war party would be lying on the earth. their bodies growing colder by the moment. The elements had refused their assistance. They had condemned what the shaman were asking of them.

Durotan took a deep breath and shook his head, as if to physically shake away the dark thoughts. "Let us get the injured back to their homes as swiftly as we may. And then . . . then I will send out letters. If what I fear is true—that it is not only the shaman of the Frostwolf clan who are shunned by the elements for what we are doing to the draenei—then we must confront Ner’zhul."

How is it we did not see? It is easy to lay the blame on the charismatic Kil'jaeden, or the weak Ner’zhul, or the power-hungry Gul'dan for our fall. But they asked of each individual orc to pretend that hot was cold, that sweet was sour, and even when everything in us screamed against what we were being told, we followed. I was not there, I cannot say why. Perhaps I, too, would have obeyed like a whipped cur. Periiaps thefearwas so great, or the respect for our leaders so ingrained. Perhaps.

Or perhaps I, like my father and others, would start to see the flaws. I would like to think so.

Blackhand looked out from under his bushy eyebrows, frowning. He always looked like he was frowning, perhaps because he almost always was.

"I do not know about this. Gul'dan." he rumbled. His oversized hand went to the hilt of his sword, fondling it in an uneasy gesture.

When Gul'dan had asked to meet with Blackhand a fortnight ago, and to bring his most promising shaman but to tell no one of what they were to be doing, he had agreed. Blackhand had always liked Gul'dan better than Ner’zhul, although he was not sure why. When Gul'dan sat down with him over a lavish meal and explained the current situation, Blackhand was very glad he had come. Now he knew why he liked Gul'dan so much; the former apprentice, now master, was like Blackhand himself. He had no use for ideals, only practicalities. And power, good food, lavish armor, and bloodshed were things both ores craved.

Blackhand was chieftain of the Blackrock ores. He could rise no higher. At least. . . not until now. When the clans were separate, the greatest glory was to lead one's clan. But now . . . now they were working together. Now Blackhand could see the glint of greed in Gul'dan's small eyes. He could almost smell the hunger wafting off the other ore, a hunger he shared.

"Ner’zhul is an honored and valued advisor," Gul'dan said as he chewed dried fruit, extending a claw to pick a chunk where it had gotten lodged between his teeth. "He has great wisdom. But ... it has been decided that I would be a better choice to lead the ores from this point on."

Blackhand grinned savagely. Ner’zhul was nowhere to be seen.

"And a wise leader surrounds himself with trusted allies," Gul'dan continued. "Those who are strong and obedient. Who will fulfill their obligations. And who, for their loyalty, will be held in high regard and richly rewarded."

Blackhand had begun to bridle at the description "obedient," but was mollified when Gul'dan mentioned "high regard" and "richly rewarded." He glanced over at the eight shaman he had brought to Gul'dan. They were sitting huddled over a second fire some distance away, being attended to by Gul'dan's servants. They looked wretchedly unhappy, and were conveniently out of earshot.

Blackhand said, "You asked for the shaman. I assume you know what is happening with them?"

Gul'dan sighed and reached for a talbuk leg. He bit deeply into it, the juices running down his face. He wiped hisjuttingjaw absently, chewed, swallowed, and answered.

"Yes, I have heard. The elements are no longer obeying them."

Blackhand watched him intendy. "Some air beginning to mutter that it is because what we are doing is wrong."

"Do you think that?"

Blackhand shrugged his massive shoulders. "I don't know what to think. This is all new territory. The ancestors say one thing, but the elements won't come."

He was harboring a growing suspicion about the ancestors as well, but held his tongue. Blackhand knew that many thought him a fool; he preferred to let them think he was nothing mote than a strong arm and a powerful sword. It gave him distinct advantages.

Gul’dan perused him now. and Blackhand wondered if the new spiritual leader of the ores had sensed there was more to the orc leader than met the eye.

"We are a proud race." Gul’dan said. "It is sometimes painful to admit that We do not know everything. Kil’jaeden and the entities he leads . . . ah. Blackhand, the mysteries they harbor! The power they wield—power they are willing to share with usl"

Gul'dan's eyes sparkled now with excitement. Blackhand's own heart began to race. Gul’dan leaned forward and continued to speak in an awed whisper.

"We air as ignorant children before them. Even you—even I. But they are willing to teach us. Share with us some of their power. Power that is not dependent upon the whim of the spirits of air. earth, fire, and water." Gul’dan made a dismissive gesture. "Power such as that is feeble. It is not reliable. It can desert you in the middle of a battle and leave you helpless."

Blackhand's face hardened. He had witnessed this very thing, and it had taken all the strength of his warriors to snatch victory when the shaman had begun yelping in terror that the elements were no longer working with them.

"I am listening," he growled softly.

"Imagine what you could do if you led a group of shaman who controlled the source of their powers, in

stead of begging and scraping for it," Gul’dan continued. "Imagine if these shaman had servants who could also fight on your side. Servants who could, say, send your enemies fleeing helplessly in terror. Suck their magic dry as the insects in the summer suck blood. Distract them so that their attention was not on battle."

Blackhand lifted a bushy eyebrow. "I can imagine success under those conditions. Success almost every time."

Gul’dan nodded, grinning. "Exactly."

"But how do you know this is true, and not some false promise whispered in your car?"