The courier was waiting.

Durotan made the onlv decision he could make.

He looked up at the courier, his face impassive. "I will do as the Warchief bids, of course. For the Horde!"

The courier looked both relieved and a little surprised. "The Warchief will be pleased to hear this. I am instructed to give you the following." She reached into her leather backpack and retrieved a small sack, which she handed to Durotan. "Your warriors and your warlocks will need to train with these."

Durotan nodded. He knew what they were: the Heart of Fury and the Brilliant Star that he had ordered taken off Velen. These stones were perhaps the only things that had spared him once before when he had incurred Ner’zhul's anger. Now, he would use them against the very people he had taken them from.

"The Warchief will contact you soon," the courier said, inclined her head, and turned her wolf. Durotan watched her go. Draka stepped quietly beside him. He handed her the letter and went into their tent.

A few moments later she joined him, slipping her arms around him from behind while he buried his face in his hands and grieved over the events that had led to the terrible decision he had been forced to make.

A few days later the war party gathered at the Frostwolf encampment. Most of the warriors and warlocks were from the Blackrock clan, but there were more than a few painted Warsong faces in the crowd, and several Shattered Hand as well. Even the most obtuse among the Frostwolves could sense the mistrust and contempt from the visitors. Durotan knew it was no accident that the other ores were all from the most martial clans. They were there to make sure the Frostwolves did not falter at any critical point. Durotan idly wondered which among them had the instructions to slit his throat at the first sign of hesitation. He hoped it was not Orgrim, The two old friends exchanged only a few words, and Durotan saw regret in Orgrim's visage. For that, at least, he was glad.

A courier had been sent ahead, so there were plenty of bonfires roaring and food and drink for the hungry "guests," Many of the Frostwolves gave up their own lodging for the visitors, so that those who would head into battle the following morning would rest as well as possible. Durotan met with Orgrim and the others who would lead the assault, sketching out a layout of the city as best he and Orgrim could recall it.

By daybreak, the war party—a small army of ores— was on the move. They passed into the meadows that surrounded the Terokkar forest, where so long ago Orgrim and Durotan had raced as youths and been startled by the appearance of an ogre.

No lumbering giants troubled the vast wave of ores as they moved steadily toward their destination this morning. Durotan was in the front, riding beside Orgrim on Nightstalkcr. They were silent, but Durotan did not miss the fact that Orgrim's gray eyes lingered on the site where two boys had been rescued by draenei warriors.

"The years have been long since we passed this way," Durotan said.

Orgrim nodded. "I am not even sure we have the right direction. The forest and fields have changed and grown, and there were precious few landmarks originally-''

Durotan said heavily, "I remember the way." He wished he did not. A pile of stones here, a strange-shaped outcropping there was enough to guide him. It looked like nothing to anyone else. Blackhand had told his troops that the draenei were able to disguise their city. Even so, Durotan's sharp cars caught slight murmurings of concern. He frowned.

"We are drawing close," he said. "We must be quiet.

There is an excellent chance that We will have been seen and reported already."

The war party grew silent then. With a few gestures, Orgrim dispatched some of his outriders to scout the area. Durotan's mind went back to that twilight, when he, too, was worried about where they were going and what the draenei had planned for him.

He brought his wolf to a halt and dismounted. Nightstalkcr shook his head and scratched his cars absently. It was here ... or close to here. . . . Durotan felt a desperate hope that perhaps the draenei remembered that they had exposed their secret to him, that they had changed the hiding place of the magical stone upon which their protection depended.

There was no telltale rock beneath which the green gem was secreted. Durotan's memory would have no aid in uncovering it. He concentrated, walking slowly, hearing the jangling of tack and the soft clinking of armor as the others watched and waited. He closed his eyes to aid his concentration, saw again Restalaan kneeling on the ground, moving aside leaves and pine needles to uncover—

Durotan opened his eyes and moved a few steps to his left. He said a quick prayer to the ancestors; whether it was asking for help in finding the stone or in not finding it, he was not certain. Mailed hands reached down and brushed away layers of detritus and then touched something cool and hard.

There is no turning back now. Durotan closed his fingers around the gem and picked it up.

Even in his distraught state of mind, he could sense the stone emanating a comforting energy. It nestled in his palm as if it belonged there. Durotan ran his left index finger over it, drawing out this moment before everything would change irrevocably

"You found it." breathed Orgrim. who had silently stepped up to his friend. Durotan was overcome with emotion and could not speak for a moment. He merely nodded, then tore his gaze from the beautiful, pulsating stone and looked up at the awestruck faces gazing at the treasure he held.

Orgrim nodded brusquely. "Get into position," he said, "We have been fortunate that there has been no advance warning."

The stone was so calming to hold, Durotan wanted nothing better than to simply stand and look into its depths, but he knew that he had already made his choice. He took a deep breath and spoke the words that Restalaan had spoken so long ago in this same place.

"Kehla men samir, solay Uimaa kahl."

He wanted to believe that his thick, orcish accent would not activate the stone. That he was able to fulfill his obligation to his people without storming a small city full of civilians. But apparently the words were understood by whatever force controlled the green gem. The illusion was already dissipating, the trees and boulders shimmering into insubstantiality, and before the orcish war party a wide, paved road stretched as if in invitation.

They needed no urging. The glorious city of the draenei lay before them, and with cries torn from over a hundred throats, the ores descended upon it.

Drek'Thar speaks in a broken voice of glories ruined, of beauty destroyed, of the slaughter of children. Through his tale runs the unspoken excuse: It seemed so right at the time. / imagine it did seem right. It did seem just. I can only pray to the ancestors that I am never placed in the same position as my father—torn between what I know in my heart is right and the defense of my people. It is why I continue to strive to uphold the tenuous peace between us and the Alliance.

Because few offenses and insults in this or any other world are sufficient to warrant the slaughter of children.

Later, Durotan would wonder how the city of Telmor had received no advance notice of a wave of mounted ores. He would never be able to speak with a draenei to find out. He could only assume that the draenei were so certain in their Hlusionary camouflage that the idea that it could be breached never occurred to them.

The quiet air was rent with the sound of war cries and wolf howls as the riders stormed the streets of the city. Several unarmed draenei were cut down in the first few seconds of the assault. The white pavement was soon blue with spilled blood, but it did not take very long for the city guards to counterattack.