Draka sighed and buried her face in her hands. The small group was silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Durotan thought something was missing; now he knew. He did not hear the sounds of the night creatures, the birds and insects and other living things who formerly filled the air with quiet sounds. They had been driven from this place by what had occurred here earlier. He tried not to think of this as an omen.

"I will permit the Frostwolf clan to learn these arts," he said heavily.

Drek’Thar bowed his head. "I thank you, Durotan. You will not regret it."

Durotan did not reply.

Drek’Thar weeps as he tells me of these things, tears fallingfrom eyes tliat can no longer see the present but too keenly can see the past. I have no comfort to offer him. That the elements have come again to his call—to mine—indeed to that of any orcish shaman is testimony to their compassion and forgiveness, their desire to see the balance restored.

The Spire that still houses darkness is not on this continent. We are well away from its malevolence physically, but not yet out of its shadow. The shadow that was cast so long ago, on the day following the defiling of what had once been our most sacred place.

The shadow of a black hand.

Sleep did not come easily to Durotan. Nor, he realized, to Draka, as she tossed and turned and sighed. Finally he gave up and lay awake, going over die events of the day. Everything in him screamed that it was wrong to embrace a magical path that so blatantly throve on the suffering of another being. And yet, what else was there to do? The elements had deserted the shaman, even though the ancestors themselves had given the ores this task. Without magic to use as an additional weapon, the ores would be wiped out by the superior technology and knowledge of the draenei.

He rose and left the sleeping tent. He started a fire to shake off the predawn chill and silently ate cold raw meat. As he broke his fast and watched the sky lighten, he saw a courier approaching. Without stopping, the rider tossed a scroll to Durotan and rode on. Durotan unfolded it and closed his eyes at the contents.

There was to be another meeting in two days. At that time, the chieftains would elect a leader who would speak for them all. Make decisions for them all. They would select one who would be called Warchief.

A soft hand stroked his hair. He looked up to see Draka reading over his shoulder.

"You might as well stay home," she said gruffly. "The outcome is decided anyway."

He smiled sadly at her. "You did not use to be so cynical, beloved."

"I did not use to live in such times,'' was all she said. In his heart, he knew she was right. There was only one orc who was well-known enough, charismatic enough to win sufficient votes to be elected Warchief. Grom Hcllscrcam might give Blackhand a bit of a challenge, but Hcllscrcam was too impulsive to be trusted

with such a task. Blackhand had been a visible figure from the very start, at first opposing and then supporting Ner’zhul. It was his shaman who had become the first warlocks. He had won more victories in his attacks against the draenei than anyone else.

Draka, as she was so often, was right in this as well. And two days later, Durotan watched with dull eyes as the votes of the clan chieftains were tallied, and as Blackhand of the Blackrock clan was chosen. He felt several glances come his way as Blackhand's name was announced by Gul'dan, and as the big orc stood and with false modesty accepted the title. Durotan did not even bother to object. What would be the point? He was already being watched closely for suspicion of disloyalty. No word he could possibly utter would change anything.

At one point, he looked over at Orgrim. To all other eyes, the second in command of the Blackrock clan looked steady and supportive of his leader. But Durotan knew Orgrim better than anyone, and he saw the slight frown that furrowed his friend's brow, the tightness around the lips that indicated that Orgrim was perhaps as unhappy with the decision as Durotan. But he, too, was in no position to object. Durotan hoped that perhaps Orgrim's position, so close to Blackhand, would help mitigate the damage he was certain Blackhand would do.

Blackhand now stood in front, waving and smiling at the cheering crowd. Durotan could not object, but ncithcr could he bring himself to cheer for an orc who exemplified everything he despised.

Orgrim stood behind his leader on Blackhand's right. Gul'dan. whom Durotan was certain was manipulating things but was unsure as to how, stood back and gazed at Blackhand respectfully.

"My orcish brothers and sisters!" Blackhand cried. "You honor me, I will prove a worthy Warchief of this vast sea of noble warriors. Day by day. we improve our weapons and our armor. And now, we reject the unpredictable elements and embrace true power—power that our warlocks control and wield without groveling or scraping to anyone or anything. This is liberation! This is strength! We are of one purpose, one clear focus. We will wipe the draenei from our lands. They will be unable to resist this tide of warriors and warlocks, this sweeping Horde. We are their worst night-marc. To battle!"

He lifted his arms and shouted, "For the Horde!"

And thousands of impassioned voices cried, "For the Horde! For the Horde! For the HorAeV

Durotan and Draka returned home shordy after the election of Blackhand, too disgusted to remain longer. The shaman stayed behind for training. When they returned several days later, Durotan saw they stood tall and proud once again. This new magic had given them back their faith in themselves—something that had evaporated like morning mist when the elements de-

serted them. For that, Durotan was grateful. He loved his clan, and knew them to be good people. He did not like seeing them broken and disheartened.

They practiced their skills on beasts at first, joining the hunting parties and sending their strange creatures after clefthoof and talbuk. Durotan was still troubled at the agony the attacked creatures suffered. As time passed, the creatures suffered less—not because the pain was decreased, but because the warlocks were learning to kill faster and more efficiently. The addition of the strange "helpers," or "pets," as some warlocks fondly referred to the beings firmly under their control, seemed to make alt the difference.

Blackhand seemed to enjoy his newfound position. Scrolls came almost daily from couriers whose wolves and whose selves seemed to wear more ornate adornment each time they rode into camp. Durotan had to admit that knowing what was going on with the other clans was useful information.

But one day, someone other than the courier came into the encampment. Durotan recognized the raiment; the approaching ore, mounted on a wolf with a particularly glossy black cloak, was one of Blackhand's personal warlocks, Kur'kul. He halted his wolf, dismounted, and bowed before Durotan.

"Chieftain, a word with you from the Warchief," he said in a surprisingly pleasant voice. Durotan nodded and motioned that the warlock walk with him. They strode until he felt certain they would not be overheard. "What is it, that Blackhand sends one of his most important warlocks to mc?" he asked.

Kur'kul smiled around his tusks. "I am riding to all the clans," he said, clearly intending for Durotan to be put in his place. The Frostwolves were not being particularly honored, it would seem. Durotan grunted and folded his arms across his chest, waiting.

"The most important factor in our eventual and glorious victory over the draenei is numbers," Kur'kul continued. "They are few, we are many. But we need to be more."