The first shaman stepped forward, moving her hands and murmuring slightly. The little creature at her side squawked and jumped about, then suddenly fire erupted from its clawed hands to slam into the hapless draenei. At the same moment, a ball of... darkness ... formed at the shaman's fingertips and rushed toward the prisoner. It grunted in pain as its blue flesh was

blackened and burned from the small creature's attack, but it dropped to its knees in obvious agony as the shadow ball struck it.

Again the shaman muttered something, and flames erupted from the very flesh of the tortured draenei. Where before he had been stoic and silent, now he screamed in torment, his cries muffled somewhat by the gag in his throat, but not completely. He jerked and spasmed on the earth, flailing like a fish freshly hooked, his eyes rolling wildly. Then he was still. The reck of burned flesh filled the air.

For a moment, there was silence. Then came a sound that Durotan had never thought to hear: cries of approval and delight at the sight of a bound foe dying in helpless torment.

Durotan stared in horror. Another prisoner was slain for "demonstration purposes." This one was beaten with a whip by one of the fairer servants of the shaman, standing transfixed while fire rained upon it, and darkness pummclcd it, A third was brought forward, its magical essence sucked out of it by a monstrous creature that looked like a deformed wolf with tentacles sprouting from its back.

Bile rose in Durotan's throat as blue blood and ashes covered what once had been sacred land, land that had been and was even now lush and fertile, though its profound sense of tranquility had been brutally violated. Here he had danced, had sung to the moon, had conspired with a boyhood friend, had courted his beloved. Here generations of ores had celebrated their unity on a place so holy that any fights that broke out had been halted immediately, the combatants ordered to make peace or to depart. Durotan was no shaman. He could not sense the earth or the spirits, but he did not need to in order to feel their pain as his own.

Mother Kashur, surely, surely this is not what you wanted, he thought. The cheering filled his cars, the stench of blood and charred flesh assaulted his nostrils. Worst of all was the sight of his brethren, even some among his own clan, who were caught up in the frenzy of inflicting pain and torment upon beings who were rendered incapable of even spitting on their opponents.

He was dimly aware of his hand hurting. Somewhat in a daze, he looked down to see that Draka was clenching it so hard she threatened to break the bones.

"For the shaman!" cried someone.

"No!" Gul'dan's voice carried over the noise of the cheering crowd. "No longer are they shaman. They were abandoned by the elements—they will call them no longer and beg for their aid. Behold those who have power, and who are not afraid to wield it. Behold , . . the warlocks!"

Durotan tore his gaze from his fingers entwining with his mate's to look up at the sacred mountain. It jutted serenely skyward as it ever had, its sides catching and reflecting the light, and for a long moment, Durotan wondered why it did not shatter and break, like the heart of a sentient being, overcome with hor-

ror at what was being done in its once-comforting shadow.

There were wild celebrations that night. Durotan participated in none of them and forbade members of his clan to do so. As the Frostwolf shaman sat by their small fire, subdued and eating in silence, Drek’Thar dared ask the question that Durotan knew was in their hearts.

"My chieftain," said Drek’Thar quicdy, "will you permit us to learn the ways of the warlocks?"

There was a long silence, unbroken save by the crackling of the fire. Finally Durotan spoke.

"I have a question for you first." he said. "Do you approve of what was done to the prisoners today?"

Drek’Thar looked uncomfortable. "It . . . would be better had we attacked them in honest combat." he admitted. "But they are our enemies. They have proven that."

"Proven that they will fight back when attacked." Durotan retorted. "That is all that has been proven." Drek’Thar started to protest, but Durotan waved him to be silent. "I know, this is the will of the ancestors, but today I beheld something that I never thought I would sec. I saw the sacred fields where for countless years our people met in peace defiled by the blood of those who couldn't even lift a hand to defend themselves."

He saw movement at the edge of the circle and caught Orgrim's scent. Durotan continued. "In the shadow of Oshu'gun itself Those who slew the draenei today did not do so in order to protect an immediate threat to our lands. They butchered prisoners in order to show off their new . .. talents/'

Orgrim now coughed quietly and Durotan motioned him forward. Orgrim was well known to all present, and he sat down by the fire with the familiarity of one known and welcomed.

"Orgrim," Draka said, touching her friend's arm gently. "The first.. . warlocks . .. are from your clan. What are your thoughts?"

Orgrim stared into the firelight, his heavy brows knitted together as he sorted through his thoughts. "If we are to fight the draenei—and even you Frostwolves are resigned to the necessity of it—then we should fight to be victorious. The elements have abandoned the shaman. They are fickle and unpredictable at their best, and were never the most reliable allies. Not like one's friends."

He glanced at Durotan and smiled a little. Despite the heaviness in his chest, Durotan smiled back.

"These new creatures, these strange powers—they seem to be more dependable. And destructive."

"There was something about them...." Draka's voice trailed off. Drek’Thar broke in quickly.

"Draka, I know your concerns. They were definitely not natural powers, at least not natural as we shaman have always known them. But who is to say that is wrong? They exist, they must have some place in the order of things. Fire is fire. Whether it comes from the

fingers of a little dancing being or with the spirit of fire's blessing, it burns flesh just the same. I agree with our esteemed guest. We have committed to the battle. Surely we do not fight to lose it!"

Draka still shook her head, her beautiful eyes unhappy. Her hands moved as if she were physically groping for the words.

"It is more than summoning fire, or even the strange bolts of darkness," she said. "I have fought draenei. I have slain draenei. And never have I seen them writhe in such pain, nor give voice to such torment. The things who are serving the warlocks seemed to . . . enjoy that."

"We enjoy the hunt," Durotan pointed out. He disliked arguing with his mate, but as always, he needed to see all sides of an issue in order to decide what was best for his clan. "The wolves enjoy feasting on steaming flesh."

"Is it wrong to wish to win?" Orgrim challenged, his gray eyes narrowing. "Is it wrong to take pleasure in the victory?"

"In the hunt, in the victory, no. It is the suffering of which I speak."

Drek’Thar shrugged. "Perhaps the beings who are summoned to serve feed on that. Perhaps it is necessary to their existence."

"But is it necessary to ours?" Draka's eyes glittered in the firelight, and Durotan knew with a pang that it was not from anger but from tears of frustration. "The draenei have always had superior magics to ours, even with the aid of the elements." Drek’Thar said. "I have always been a shaman. I was born so. And now I tell you I will embrace the path of the warlock, if my clan leader will permit it. Because I understand what those powers can do for us, having dealt with the elements for as long as I have. I would say, Draka, I am sorry, but yes—yes—this is necessary to our existence. If we do not have the powers of the elements to call upon, the draenei will obliterate us from the face of the earth."