He sensed Draka's approach, but did not turn around. Her arms slipped about his waist from behind and she pressed against him. They stood like that, for a long moment, then with a final squeeze she released him and stepped around to face him. Durotan dusted off his hands.

"We have never relied that much on what we could grow anyway," he said quietly.

Draka regarded him with her dark, knowing eyes. His heart ached to look at her. In so many ways, she was better than he. But she was the mate of the chieftain, not the chieftain, and she did not have to make the choices he did.

The choices he had.

"We have depended upon what We could hunt, mostly," Draka said. "But the animals We hunt survive on what the earth provides. We're all connected. The shaman knew that."

She fell silent as one of the younger warlocks hurried by, a small capering thing at its heels. As they passed, the little thing turned to look at Draka and smiled, showing a mouth crammed full of pointed teeth. Draka could not suppress a shudder.

Durotan sighed and handed her a scroll. "I just received this. We must all prepare for a long march. We are to leave our lands."

"What?"

"Blackhand's orders. He has relocated to this new citadel that has been made for him and he wants his army there. It is no longer enough for us to join together to attack. We must all live together and be ready to follow where Blackhand leads us."

Draka stared up at him incredulously, then her eyes dropped to the scroll. She read it quickly, then rcrollcd it and handed it to him.

"We had best prepare," she said quietly, then turned and strode back to their tent. He watched her go, and wondered exactly what it was that made his heart break at the sight.

The Citadel was incomplete, but the moment it came into Durotan's sight, he was stopped dead in his tracks. Beside him there were several awed murmurs.

"So powerful!"

"So big!"

"Worthy of a Warchief!"

Had Durotan spoken, he would have said: Blasphemous, A blight upon the land. Out of harmony with everything we are.

The traveling Frostwolf clan was still many leagues distant, but the Citadel perched upon the horizon like a buzzard. There was nothing in its design that bespoke orcish building. This structure, this architectural nightmare, this offense to eye and spirit was larger even than the draenei buildings. Of course, Durotan knew its purpose, and it would have to be enormous if it were to constantly house an elite force of orcish warriors. Still, he had expected something else.

Instead of the smooth, sleek lines that marked the structures of the draenei, this fortress was sharp and jagged. Instead of coexisting with the landscape, it dominated it. Hewn from black stone and jagged wood and metal, it fairly brisded against the sky. Durotan knew that he could see only the main tower from here, but that was enough. He stood as if rooted to the spot, reluctant to take a single step closer to the monstrosity.

A silent look passed between him and Draka. Were they the only ones left who saw? The rest of the Frostwolves moved forward, passing their chieftain. Reluctantly. Durotan squeezed his mount and continued.

Proximity to the fortress did nothing to make it seem more attractive. Now Durotan could see other buildings—barracks, storage silos, a flat expanse of training areas that were crowded with large weapons he had never seen before. They. too. looked dark, and dangerous, and deadly.

Officious members of the Blackrock clan and others greeted Durotan perfunctorily and sent the Frostwolves to a flat area in the western part of the complex to begin setting up tents. It was heading on toward dusk when Durotan received the summons to report to the courtyard of the Citadel, along with several others from his clan. The group of about twenty walked the distance and waited.

He heard the drums first, in the distance. Durotan tensed. They had specifically been instructed not to bring any weapons, just to come and wait for . . . they were not told what. Draka glanced at him uneasily. He had no assurance to offer her; he was as in the dark about what was to unfold as she.

The drums came closer. The earth began to vibrate beneath Durotan's feet. Such was not unusual when the drumming started in circle, but so far away? He heard other concerned murmurings and knew that he was not the only one with a twinge of apprehension.

The earth continued to shake, the vibrations growing stronger. Two Blackrock riders approached, looking exultant. "Do not fear, proud members of the Horde!" one of them cried. "Our new allies, brought into our ranks by the mighty Blackhand. are approaching! Welcome them!"

There was something familiar in the feel of the ground shaking. The only other time Durotan had ever experienced such a thing was when he had been fighting—

"Ogres!" someone screamed. And indeed, now Durotan could see them. Dozens of them, huge and purposeful, were striding toward the gathered group of ores. More wolfridcrs from the Blackrock clan were trotting about, shouting and blowing horns in triumph. The crowd was going insane with delight, yelling and dancing and cheering wildly.

These were the new allies? Durotan could scarcely believe it. Even as he stared, unable to find words, the biggest ogre he had ever seen appeared. Blackhand himself strode beside it. his movements as lithe and proud as if the mammoth thing did not make him look like a child's toy.

"We will crush the draenei!" Blackhand bellowed, and as if they had been awaiting the cue, the ogres marching with him cried, "Crush! Crush! Crush!"

For a sick, dizzying moment, Durotan was a child again, fleeing before such a monster. He blinked, and he again saw in his mind's eye his father's strong frame smashed and broken, blood and life dripping into the ground, Garad's skull crushed like a nut by a single blow from an ogre's club.

Ores were fighting alongside monstrous, feeble-brained creatures in an effort to destroy an intelligent, peaceful race.

The world had gone mad,

Velen shuddered. His assistant was at his elbow, offering a warm, soothing drink, but the Prophet waved it away. No comfort could come from a beverage now. No comfort could ever truly come again.

He had grieved when word had come that Telmor had fallen, and with the city his dear friend Restalaan. It had been even more painful to hear how the attack had occurred. Velen had seen something special in the youth Durotan had been, and his treatment at the ore's hands had only served to confirm his faith in the chieftain of the Frostwolf clan. But now this. Durotan and Orgrim had been the only two ores ever to witness how the green stone had protected the city. One of them had even memorized the incantation that would deactivate the stone's protective camouflage. A handful had escaped to flee here, to the Temple of Karabor. Their wounds had been dressed, but there was nothing Velen or anyone else could do to heal their shattered spirits.

But worse news was to come. The refugees did not tell of simple bows and arrows, or axes or spears or hammers being the sole weapons of destruction. They spoke in low, hushed voices of greenish-black bolts of terrible pain, of torment beyond anything that the shaman had hitherto inflicted upon their enemies. They spoke of creatures gibbering and capering at the feet of those who wielded this magic based on suffering and agony.

They spoke of man'ari.

Suddenly, many things fell into place with a dreadful logic. The abrupt, irrational attacks by the orcs. Their sudden increase in technology and skills. The fact that they had turned their backs on shamanism, a religion that, as Velen understood it, required a give-and-take relationship between the elemental powers and those who would wield them. Those who would command man'ari did not seek balance or harmony with their power; They sought dominance.