"So what is it Blackhand wishes?" growled Durotan. "Shall we leave off fighting for mating?"

Kur'kul did not blink. "Not leave off fighting, but yes . . . encourage your warriors to procreate. You will receive accolades for each child that is born to your clan. That will help. But unfortunately, we need more warriors right now, not six years from now."

Durotan stared, stunned. He had meant the comment as a crude joke. What was going on?

"Children begin training at age six," Kur'kul continued. "They are strong enough to fight at age twelve. Summon all your younglings."

"I do not understand," Durotan said. "Summon them for what?"

Kur'kul sighed as if Durotan were a foolish child, "I have the ability to accentuate their growth," he said. "We will. . . push them forward a bit. If we take all the children that are between six and twelve now and age

them to twelve, we will increase the numbers of warriors on the field by almost fifty percent."

Durotan couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'Absolutely not!"

"I'm afraid it's not a choice. It's an order. Any clan who refuses will be branded a traitor to the Horde. The clan will be exiled, and their leader and his mate ... executed."

Durotan stared, stunned. Kur'kul handed him a scroll. He read it, shaking with anger, and saw that the warlock had spoken truly. He and Draka would be put to death, and the Frostwolf clan exiled.

"You would rob them of their childhood, then," he said stonily.

"For their future? Yes. I will drain a little of their lives . , . only six years' worth. They will come to no harm. The Blackrock children certainly didn't. Black-hand insisted his own three young ones be the first to be so honored. And in return, they will be able to fight for the glory of the Horde now, when they can make a difference."

Durotan was not in the least surprised that Black-hand had permitted this to be done to his children. For the first time, Durotan was grateful that there were so few children in his clan. There were only five of them older than six and younger than twelve. He again read the missive, feeling furious and sickened at the same time. These children ought to be able to simply be children. The warlock waited calmly. Finally. Durotan said in a voice he made deliberately harsh to hide his pain, "Do what you must do."

"For the Horde!" said Kur'kul.

Durotan did not reply.

What happened next was barbaric.

Durotan forced himself to remain impassive while Kur'kul cast a spell on the five Frostwolf children. They writhed in pain, screaming and flailing on the earth as bones were stretched, as skin and muscle burst into unnatural growth. A sickly green line linked the children to the warlock, as if he was sucking the very life out of them. The expression on Kur'kul's face was ecstatic. If the children were suffering, he most definitely was not. For an awful moment, Durotan feared the warlock would not stop at age twelve, but would continue draining life from the children until they were shriveled and ancient.

But thankfully, Kur'kul did stop. The young ores— children no longer—lay where they had dropped the instant the draining had begun. For long moments, they could not be roused, and when they did, they wept, softly, brcathily, as if they no strength left for anything else.

Durotan turned toward the warlock. "You have done what you have come for. Get out."

Kur'kul looked offended. "Chieftain Durotan, you—"

Durotan seized him by the front of his scarlet robe. Fear flickered across the other ore's face.

"Get out. Now."

Durotan shoved hard and Kur'kul stumbled backward, almost falling. He glowered at Durotan.

"Blackhand will not be pleased to hear of this," Kur'kul growled. Durotan did not dare speak; if any other words came from his mouth, he knew they would doom his clan. Instead he turned away, shaking with rage, and went to the children who were children no longer.

For some time after that, nothing was asked of the Frostwolf clan save more intensive training and reporting back on that training, and Durotan was both relieved and apprehensive. Somehow, he knew that when Blackhand and Gul'dan chose to notice him, the task they would set for him would be a difficult one.

He would not be disappointed.

Durotan was looking at a new pattern for armor the smith had just drawn up when the wolfridcr loped into the Frostwolf encampment. Without breaking stride, the rider tossed Durotan a parchment, wheeled his mount around, and departed. Durotan unrolled it and began to read, his eyes widening. He looked up quickly at the departing figure of the rider—it was not the official courier.

Old friend—

I am sure it comes as no surprise that you are being watched. They will set a task for you, one that they know you can complete. You must do so. I do not know what they will do if you refuse, but I fear the worst.

There was no signature; the missive did not need one. Durotan knew Orgrim's bold script. He crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the fire, watching it twist and curl in on itself like a living thing as the flames licked and consumed it.

Orgrim had sent the warning just in time. That very afternoon, a rider wearing the official tabard of a courier approached and handed the Frostwolf chieftain a parchment. Durotan nodded as he accepted it and put it aside. He did not want to see it right now.

But the courier looked uneasy. She did not dismount, but neither did she turn her wolf and ride back to the Frostwolf lands.

"I have been instructed to wait for a reply," she said after an awkward pause.

Durotan nodded and unrolled the parchment. The writing was exquisite, and he knew that Blackhand had dictated the missive; the Warchief, smart and cunning though he was, was barely literate.

It was worse than he had thought. Durotan kept his face carefully neutral, though out of the corner of his eye he saw that Draka was watching him carefully.

Unto Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan, Blackhand, Warchief of the Horde, gives greetings.

You have now had time to see the skills of our newly trained warlocks in action. It is time to take the attack to our enemies. The draenei city of Telmor is close to your borders. You are instructed to form a war party and attack them. Orgrim has told me that as boys, the two of you entered that city. That you saw the secret of how the draenei kept themselves unseen. Orgrim also tells me that you have excellent recall and that you would remember how to expose the city to our warriors for an assault.

I'm sure I don't have to tell you what destroying this city would mean to the Horde. And to the Frostwolf dan. Reply to this letter immediately and we will begin preparations for the assault.

For the Horde!

The signature was an imprint of Blackhand's right hand, stained with ink.

Durotan was furious. How could Orgrim have revealed this information? Did he truly follow Blackhand after all, that he would tell the Warchief of this incident and so put Durotan on the spot? The anger ebbed as he realized that the information to which Blackhand referred—their visit there as boys, the way the city was hidden, Durotan's almost uncanny memory—these were things that could have been dropped in conversation at any point over the last few years. Blackhand was intelligent enough to pick up any crumb of information, and hoard it until such time as it was necessary. Durotan thought about lying, about claiming that he could not recall the words by which Restalaan had dispelled the illusion that kept die draenei city safe and hidden from the eyes of the ogres... and now, the eyes of the ores. It had been a long time, and he had only heard the phrase uttered once. Anyone else would indeed have forgotten it. But the threat in die letter was so thinly veiled as to be almost ridiculous. If Durotan agreed to assist with the attack, he would prove his loyalty to the Horde, to Blackhand, and to Gul'dan. at least for the moment. If he refused, even if he claimed not to recall the words Blackhand wanted him to speak... well, like Orgrim, Durotan feared the worst.