understanding that while the ores did not fully know what they did, they must die regardless.

Velen had wanted to abandon the city, to have it standing empty when the ores descended. Wanted to save as many draenei lives as he could. But Larohir, the quick-speaking, intelligent general who had succeeded Restalaan after the lattcr's murder, had convinced him it would not work.

"If there is an insufficient number of draenei to slaughter," Larohir had said, his voice soft and compassionate but yet hard as steel, "then the lust that consumes them will not even be sated temporarily. They will still hunger and catch our scent while it is new, and track us down. Those who flee will die. They must believe that they have slain most of us. And in order for them to believe that... it must be true."

Velen had stared in horror. "You would have me send my people to knowingly be slaughtered?"

"All but a handful of us know what we fled on Argus," said Larohir. "We remember it. We remember what Kil’jaeden did, what happened to our people. We would — we will — happily die to preserve even a handful of our race uncorruptcd."

Velen had looked down then, his heart aching. "If the ores believe they have slain us, except for a trivial handful, then Kil’jaeden will be satisfied. He will depart."

"The ores will suffer greatly," said Larohir, and did not look displeased. After what the ores had done to the draenei recently, Velen could not blame him. "They will. And I have no doubt that they will continue to track us down."

"But the methods they use to track a few dozen will be different than if they suspect there are a few hundred of us remaining," said Larohir. "It is to our advantage to appear as scattered and helpless as possible."

Velen had looked up at Larohir. haunted. "It is easy for you to speak so. But the decision is not yours. It is mine. I must be the one to say, 'You—you and your family will come with me and live. But you, and you, and you—you will stay behind and let demon-crazed ores tear you to pieces and anoint themselves with your blood.*"

Larohir said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Velen had spoken with each of his people he had chosen to send to die. He had embraced them and blessed them; he had taken items that meant something to them and promised to see that these things survived. He had watched as, stoic and dry-eyed, these walking dead had repaired their armor and sharpened their swords, as if the outcome was actually in question. And he had watched as they marched off, singing the ancient songs, to enclose themselves behind a walled city and wait for mace or axe or spear to end their lives.

Velen could not go with them. He had unique abilities, and if the draenei were to survive, he needed to as well. But he had used the crystal to watch every moment of the battle, and the pain he felt was scaring and

yet purifying. Not one of these people would have died in vain.

The ores did not know about the Zangarmarsh. They had not yet sniffed out this hiding place, and if Velen had anything to say about it, they never would. Here, the best draenei minds would continue to devise ways to harness energies and direct them, to keep safe the handful who had survived. Here, they would regroup and recover, heal and wait and pray they had at last tricked Kil’jaeden the Deceiver and escaped his terrible gaze.

The ores had captured three of the stones, but Velen still had four: Fortune's Smile, Eye of the Storm, Shield of the Naaru, and, of course. Spirit's Song, And although his link with the Naaru was tenuous, K’ure yet lived.

Even as tears spilled down his white face to drop on the surface of the violet crystal, even as he grieved the utterly tragic loss of so many lives, Velen, prophet of the draenei, felt hope stirring inside him.

 We had lost everything by this point. We had abandoned balanceand harmony in our world, and thus the elements had abandoned us. Demons guarded the entrance to Oshu'gun, cutting us off from the ancestors. Our physical bodies and our very souls had become corrupted from the blood that, in their eagerness for power and strength, most of the ores had gladly imbibed. And then, then—when we had done all this to ourselves under the "guidance"of GuYdan. Kit'jaeden abandoned us. Thuscame what has been called the Dying Time. May its like never visit us again.

"What do I do?" Gul'dan could not believe the words were coming from his own lips, but he was so terrified that advice, any advice, seemed better than this sick fear he lived with.

Ner’zhul regarded him with contempt. "You made this choice."

"It's not as if you are blameless yourself!" Gul'dan snapped,

"Of course not. I made choices for myself, for my own advancement. But I never threw away the future of my people—my world—for it. Where is the power you were promised now. Gul'dan? The power that you bartered our people for?"

Gul'dan turned away, trembling. There was no power, and Ner’zhul knew it. which was why his words bit so deeply.

Far from rewarding his loyal servant with glories and godhood, Kil’jaeden had simply vanished. All that was left of his presence in this world were the warlocks and their demons, a maddened Horde, and a ravaged land.

No, he thought. No, that was not all that was left.

There was still the Shadow Council. There was still Blackhand. the ideal puppet precisely because he did not realize he was one such. And while the Horde was now infused with the blood of demons, and craved violence and destruction more than meat and drink, they had not gotten out of control. At least, not yet.

He would summon the Council to meet in their beautiful Black Temple. Doubtless the)', too, would be searching for ways to salvage what power was left.

Yes. There was still the Shadow Council.

"The land is dead," Durotan said quietly as he stood with his old friend surveying what had once been vcrdant meadows and foothills, Durotan scuffed at the dirt with his boot. Powdery sand and rock were revealed as he kicked away the dead yellow grass. Wind, no longer blocked by trees, whistled past them.

Orgrim said nothing for a long time. His eyes told him Durotan was right. He looked to the riverbed where he and Durotan had swum in one of their many challenges, and saw no hint that water had ever flowed in it. What water remained in the land was filthy, clogged with animal corpses and sediment. To drink it was to risk illness; not to drink was to die.

No water, no grasses. Here and there were places that still managed to survive, such as the Terokkar forest, ancestors knew how. The ores were growing thin, for no grasses meant no herd animals. The last three years had seen more orcish deaths from starvation and disease than from the battles against the draenei,

"More than the land is dead." Orgrim said at last. His voice was thick and heavy. He turned to face Durotan. "How is the Frostwolf's grain supply?"

To his eyes, he and Durotan looked green. Next to others, such as Grom and Blackhand, they still were more brown than green, but the damage was being done, Durotan had theorized that it was the warlock powers that were doing this to them and their world. Certainly those who had directly drunk whatever potion Gul'dan had concocted for them were a more vivid hue than others. Strange, Orgrim thought. There was irony in that while the land turned brown when it

should be green, the ores turned green when they should be brown,

Durotan grimaced. "Several barrels were stolen in the attacks."

"Which clan?"

"Shattered Hand."

Orgrim nodded. The Frostwolf clan was bearing the brunt of the recent flurry of attacks. After the Horde had taken Shattrath. sightings of the draenei had dwindled. It had been a full six months since anyone had reported even glimpsing one of the elusive blue-skinned beings. let alone killing one, Durotan had made the Frostwolf clan a clear target when he refused to drink from the chalice the night Shattrath fell. And even before then, his reluctance to attack the draenei had not gone unnoticed. Now that the draenei—the only focus the ores had as an outlet for their vastly increased bloodlust—were becoming scarce, many felt that somehow Durotan was responsible. Never mind that it was quite likely that the draenei had simply been hunted to extinction—that the initial goal of wiping them off the face of the earth had been achieved.