Durotan had had enough. "Hold!" he cried, but no one listened. The creatures controlled by the warlocks seemed well pleased with this behavior, almost smug. But the time for destruction had passed, and the ruthless savagery would not serve the ores now that all the inhabitants of Telmor were cither slain or had fled.

"Hold!" Durotan yelled again. This time Orgrim heard him and took up the cry. The Warsong representative also shook his head, as if to clear it of something hazy and obscuring, then he, too. tried to calm his warriors. Drek’Thar, back with the other warlocks, had not become as lost in bloodlust as the others, and he was able to stop the others from casting spells.

"Listen to me!" Durotan roared. Most of them had reached the room where Velen had hosted them at his table. The room was empty, die chairs and tables overturned, the wall hangings shredded and cast to the floor.

"We have taken the city, it is now time to take what we need from it!"

They were listening now, their breaths coming in pants that filled the room with raspy sound. But at least they had stopped swinging their weapons at anything that moved... or even anything that didn't.

"First we attend to the injured," Durotan ordered. "We will not leave our brethren to suffer in the streets."

Some of them started guiltily at that. Durotan realized with disgust that many of these warriors had completely forgotten that some of their number still lay writhing in pain outside while they enjoyed die wanton destruction of the magister's estate. He pushed his feelings down and nodded to Drek’Thar. The warlocks might no longer have healing spells, but they had once been shaman, and knew how to tend battle wounds in a more mundane fashion. Drek’Thar motioned to several warlocks, and they hurried back the way they had come.

"Next, this city has supplies the likes of which we have never seen. There are foodstuffs aplenty, and weapons, and armor, and other things we know not of. Things that will serve the Horde in its quest to—"

He could not say the words he had planned: In its quest to wipe out the draenei. Instead he added somewhat awkwardly, "In its quest. We are an army. An army marches on its stomach. We need to be well led, well watered, healed, rested, protected. Orgrim—you take a group and start at this end. Guthor, you take a group and head back to the gates. Work your way up the main road until you meet Orgrim's group. Anyone who has any healing knowledge, report to Drek’Thar and do exactly what he tells you to do."

"What of any draenei we find alive?" asked someone.

What, indeed? There was no infrastructure to take care of prisoners, and in truth, the only purpose of a prisoner would be for negotiations. Since it had been made quite clear that the sole purpose of the Horde was total extermination of the draenei race, there was no reason to host prisoners.

"Kill them." Durotan said hoarsely. He hoped the raggedness of his voice would be interpreted as raw fury rather than the agonizing pain it was. "Kill them all."

As the ores he commanded hurried to obey his orders, Durotan found himself wishing that Nightstalkcr had not been so quick to protect him. It would have been easier had he perished by Restalaan's hand this day than speak the words he had just uttered.

With any luck, during this horrific campaign to obliterate a species who had never raised a hand to them, death would find Durotan sooner rather than later.

The Shadow Council. Even now, so many years on, we know so little about who they were and what they did. Gul'dan carried many, many secrets to his grave. May he rot there in torment. It is difficult enough for me to understand how one or two may become so corrupted that they would doom their descendants for power in their lifetimes; that there were so many—the number is not even known for certain—is beyond the scope of my limited imagination.

Yet even these numbers would not have mattered had it not been for the demons who held them in their grasp. Their pain, I rejoice in; what they did to others who obeyed them because they trusted them, I condemn with every fiber of my being.

"That was an excellent test," Kil’jaeden approved, smiling at his subjects, Gul'dan bowed, his eyes bright with his master's approval. Ner’zhul hunkered down, his eyes on the floor. But even so. he was listening.

"I confess. I was surprised Durotan was able to carry out our orders," Gul'dan said. "I expected him to resist, or at least put shackles on what his ores could and could not do. But the city lies claimed and broken, my lord. All the draenei who once lived there are gone— most of them dead."

"'Most' is not good enough. Gul'dan. You know that."

Gul'dan flinched slightly at the criticism. He wondered, not for the first time, about the connection between Kil’jaeden and the draenei. and why the Beautiful One so despised them. "It was our first attempt at taking the battle to them, rather than attacking lone hunting parties. Great One." the warlock replied, a little surprised at his own daring. Kil’jaeden cocked his horned red head, considered, then nodded.

"True. And there is yet time."

It had been several days since the fall of Telmor. Gul'dan, impressed with the job Durotan had done, had tried to give the city to the Frostwolf clan as a reward, but Durotan had declined the offer. The Frostwolves, he stated, would continue to live in their ancestral lands.

The Blackrocks. however, had not been so foolish. Blackhand and his family now slept in the beds where the magistcr of the city had once slept. At first, the ores had not known what to make of the trappings of the draenei, but now they were beginning to incorporate their victims' way of life into their own. They sat in chairs, ate at tables, analyzed and trained with draenei weaponry, adapted the armor for bulkier orcish frames. Some of the females and not a few of the males of the Blackrock clan had taken to wearing draenei clothing, incorporating it with traditional orcish tunics, robes, and breeches,

Gul'dan knew that many wondered why he or Ner’zhul had not taken the city for themselves. It was tempting, but Gul'dan had been well advised by his master. Creature comforts were pleasant, but power was sweeter, and the less Gul'dan claimed for himself publicly, the greater his reach would be in secret. Kil'jaeden would not let him down, as long as Gul'dan did his master's work well. A few items were brought to this new place he called home—an enormous, circular table carved of wood inlaid with softly glowing shells and stones, along with several beautiful chairs,

Gul'dan stepped forward to the massive table, running his hands over the polished surface, smiling to himself. All that remained was to summon those whom Gul'dan had reason to believe would answer. Some names were immediately obvious to him. Others came only with extended thought. But he had a list of names now that was long enough to be comprehensive, should enough to be . .. managed.

Soon, sooner that he had even hoped, the Shadow Council would form. While on the outside. Gul'dan was advancing the ores as a race, giving them power and eliminating the "enemy" that was the draenei, a

handful of ores almost as corrupt and power hungry as he would pull the strings.

It was not about the ores as a race.

It had never been about the ores as a race.

It was about power—getting it, wielding it, and keeping it. Ner’zhul had never understood that. He liked the power, but was not willing to feed it the meat it craved. The end Kil’jaeden demanded.

Deceit, lies, manipulation—even Blackhand, who thought he was initiated into Gul'dan's ultimate schemes, hadn't grasped the vastness of Gul'dan's ambitions. It was as huge as Kil’jaeden's desire to destroy the draenei. It was as enormous as the sky. as deep as the oceans, and knife-sharp as hunger.