Gul'dan looked at Ner’zhul with contempt as the older orc who had once been a mentor sat huddled in a corner. His gaze traveled to the blazing eyes of Kil’jaeden, and the great being nodded.

"Summon them." Kil’jaeden said. His lips parted in a smile, showing sharp white teeth. "They will come when you call. And they will dance to your tune. I will see to that."

Allies.

They needed allies.

Gul'dan wondered how Kil’jaeden had not foreseen this. The orcs were mighty indeed, especially when controlled and directed properly. The long months, over a year now, that this war had stretched had only made them more so. Their best brains had gotten to work on understanding the technology of the draenei as best they could. Building had begun on a center fortress, which Gul'dan called the Citadel, where a standing army could be conveniently quartered, trained, and equipped. The ores had never before attempted anything like this, and Gul'dan was proud that he had suggested the idea. There were warriors, there were shaman—now, of course, warlocks—there were healers, there were craftsmen. The first three had clear roles and no lack of opportunity to perform their duties. The craftsmen were contributing on a different level, creating the armor and weapons and buildings to support those who had the glory of slaughtering draenei until their bodies were sticky with spilled blood.

Some would call these laborers a lower class of ore. Privately, Gul'dan felt that way himself. But he was wise enough to know that their work, while hardly glamorous or likely to gain them recognition, was as necessary as a warrior's willingness to kill or a warlock's mastery of curses. Those who provided food, shelter, weapons—the warriors and warlocks would not get very far without them. So Gul'dan had made a show of praising the craftsmen, the pleasant result being that they were inspired to work harder and continually improve.

But even though every member of every clan was working as hard as he could—and Gul'dan had spies in each clan to make certain of it—it was not going to be

enough. The taking of Telmor had been surprisingly easy, and the boost to morale was tremendous. But Gul'dan knew that the Horde's victory was largely due to luck. No one in that sheltered city believed for a moment they would be discovered and overrun in a matter of a few hours. They had thought themselves completely and utterly safe, protected by the magic of the green stone Gul'dan had dubbed Leafshadow, which shielded them first from ogre eyes and then from orcish. That easy victory would not be repeated. How would—

"Ogres," he said aloud, thoughtfully. He tapped one sharp-nailed finger against his jutting chin. "Ogres. . ."

"Absolutely not!" cried Blackhand. He dosed the distance between himself and Gul'dan in two strides, towering over the smaller ore. It took every ounce of bravado Gul'dan had not to retreat from that fearsome face shoved to within an inch of his.

"Come now. Blackhand," Gul'dan soothed. "Calm yourself and listen to what I am saying. You will be the one to benefit most from this, after all."

That got him. Blackhand growled, snorted, and stepped back. Gul'dan did his best not to look obviously relieved.

"They are filth," Blackhand grunted. "They have long been enemies of the ores. Longer than the draenei, and with better reason. How is it that I will benefit?" Getting right to the point, Gul'dan thought with satisfaction. He had judged Blackhand properly.

"There are some who still mutter that you were not elected fairly." Gul'dan said. "If you succeed in this, it will only add more glory to your name."

Blackhand's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps," he admitted. "But will the ores agree to this?"

Gul'dan permitted himself a smile. "They will if we tell them to," he replied,

Blackhand threw his head back and roared with laughter.

Orgrim shifted uneasily in his saddle as he glanced at his leader. When Blackhand had explained what he wanted to do, Orgrim had erupted in protest. He had joined in countless hunting parties over the years to eliminate the ogre threat. More than most orcs,with him it was personal. He had never ceased hating the fact that years ago, he had fled from one of the giant, lumbering, thick-skulled creatures. And now Blackhand proposed this.

But Orgrim knew that whatever else his leader was—and he was many things that Orgrim did not like—he was a good strategist. The plan was sound, if one could detach oneself emotionally from it. So he had agreed to lend his support.

Obtaining information had been tricky. The Blackrocks had captured three of the ogres and spent many a long night speaking in sufficiently small words to get their point across before the deceptively pudgy things

understood what Theywanted and began to cooperate. Now every warrior, warlock, and healer from the entire enormous clan stood prepared for battle.

The ogres had told them where their masters lurked and led them to this place—an opening at the foot of the Blade's Edge mountain chain. They had made no attempt to hide themselves. Refuse littered the area outside, and there were plenty of large bare ogre footprints going in and out. Even as Orgrim watched, he saw a small group of ogres trundling out into the daylight. No doubt, they thought themselves safe, as the draenei in Telmor had before them; and no doubt, a year ago, they would have been right. But much had changed since then. The ores were no longer groups of scattered clans, but a unified fighting force willing to put aside an old grudge for a new hatred.

Blackhand was in front, flanked by the three ogres. Behind him were his sons. Rend and Maim, who spoke to one another in low voices punctuated by the occasional rough giggle. Orgrim had been against allowing the boys to fight at first, but they had proven to be stronger and better than one might think. They lacked their father's cunning, but they certainly had inherited his bloodthirst. Grisclda, too, had been trained to fight, but she was not a natural the way the bovs were. Their names were appropriate. Their father shot them an angry look and they sobered at once.

Orgrim wondered if Blackhand would make a speech. He hoped not. Blackhand was at his best in action, not words, and his clan was more than ready to follow him. To his relief, Blackhand looked over the sea of warriors, nodded once, and then gave the order to attack.

The first wave charged, screaming wildly and pouring down the side of the foothills where Theyhad hidden. At first the ogres were so confused at the sight of three of their own allying with the ores that they simply stood and let themselves be slaughtered. Then, as their slow brains began to comprehend that they were under attack, they rallied. They still did not attack their fellow ogres, who lumbered through their ranks to talk to the head of the guards stationed somewhere inside die cavern.

Orgrim was determined to enjoy the last authorized ogre-killing he was likely to taste, and swung the Doomhammer with something akin to glee. His wolf was swift, and darted easily between the tree-trunk-thick legs of the ogre who raged impotently and swung his club as fiercely as he could. He recalled how big they had seemed to him as a child. They were still big, but so was he, now, and he wielded a legendary weapon with control and skill. He fractured the shin-bone of the ogre and it roared in agony. Orgrim's wolf danced out of the way as the huge thing fell, making the earth tremble as it landed. It tried to get up, pushing its bulk off the ground with its large, fat hands, but by then other Blackrocks had swarmed upon it. Faster even than Orgrim could reckon, the ogre was dead and bleeding from over two dozen wounds.

Orgrim wheeled just in time to see one of the orcish warriors hurtling through the air. dead from a single blow from an ogre's massive club. Growling. Orgrim gathered himself to charge the murdering creature when a cry of "Hold, hold!" brought him up short.