But glorious victory was not on the minds of the orc guards and the shaman who clustered in the warchief’s sanctum. The warriors watched anxiously as the shaman drew circles over a prone figure lying in the rough-hewn oak bed and covered by the wide animal skins used as blankets. Each time the shaman withdrew his hand, the warriors would lean forward in anticipation…and then pull back in defeat.

The figure in the bed suddenly thrashed, then muttered something. His hands clutched in vain at the open air. Then one hand swung as if wielding an ax.

The violent actions did not encourage the onlookers; they had witnessed them many, many times. Thrall was no closer to stirring than he had been after the shaman’s previous attempts.

“He continues to the terrible dreaming,” the grizzled shaman muttered. “It plays itself over and over and nothing I do penetrates it…” The aged orc, his remaining strands of hair silver-white, peered through deep-set eyes at a sinewy dagger set on a round, wooden table nearby. With care, it had been used to prick the slumbering warchief in the hopes that a sudden, sharp pain might break the nightmare.

That, too, had failed.

“Do we put him with the others?” asked one guard tentatively. He was immediately struck hard on the side of the head by another orc. The first glared at the second and, if not for the wizened shaman thrusting himself between the pair, a fight would have broken out.

“Shameful, both of you! The great Thrall lies spelled and you turn against one another! Is this what he would want?”

The two chastened warriors shook their heads. For all that they were twice the girth of the bearskin-clad shaman, they feared his power. He was not the most skilled of his calling in Orgrimmar — in fact, that title rested with Thrall himself — but of those shaman still awake, he was the best hope.

That hope, though, was fading.

From the other side of the chamber, there came a mournful howl. As one, the orcs turned to eye a huge, white wolf baying at the window. The animal was so great in size that any one of the warriors could have ridden on it as if it were a horse. Indeed, the warchief used his most loyal companion just for that purpose. The two were legendary partners in battle. The wolf had the run of the building, and no guard ever complained over that situation.

The massive beast let out another howl. The sound shook the warriors and the shaman more than anything else had since the discovery of Thrall’s condition.

“Hush, Snowsong,” murmured the shaman. “Your hunt-brother will be freed yet…”

But the wolf then began trying to crawl up and out of the window.

However, the gap, though large, was not suitable for the giant hunter. With a frustrated growl, Snowsong turned and lunged for the closed door.

The shaman’s eyes widened. “Open it for her! Quick!”

One of the guards rushed to obey. He barely had the door swung back before Snowsong barreled into him. Like a loose leaf caught by a fierce gale, the burly orc flew back, finally crashing against a wall. The wolf continued on unimpeded.

“Follow her!” the elderly shaman ordered. “She senses something…”

Pursued by the orcs, the white wolf charged through the hold.

She paused at two more windows that were of insufficient size, then finally scurried toward the huge doors at the front entrance.

The guards on duty there stiffened at the astounding sight racing their direction. Before the shaman could call to them, one had the sense to shove a door open. If the wolf sought the outdoors with such urgency, the guard had likely assumed that there was some danger lurking there.

Snowsong bounded outside. The wolf paused only to regain her bearings, then ran toward the nearest part of Orgrimmar’s surrounding wall.

Although he was far older than his companions, the shaman surprised them by proving the faster. With lithe movements more akin to the wolf’s, he almost kept pace with Snowsong. There were other methods by which he could have moved even faster, but some innate caution stayed the elder orc’s hand.

Trolls and orcs who had been going about their duties tumbled out of Snowsong’s way. As they recovered, most drew their weapons. Orgrimmar had been on high alert for days and the wolf’s urgency appeared to those who saw her to mark that the time of battle had come.

The shaman peered around as he followed. For all their numbers, there were less defenders of Orgrimmar present than there should have been. Worse, as they neared the wall, he saw that the mist had breached further into the capital. It was almost impossible to see the guards above.

Not for the first time, the elder orc wished that those greater in their knowledge and use of the old ways had not, with Thrall, been among the first of the unwaking.

Snowsong did not run all the way to the steps leading up to the watchtowers. Instead, the white wolf found purchase on a ladder leading to one of the lower levels of the wall. There, the cunning animal located one path after another until she finally reached the top of the wall.

The frosty fur of the wolf stood out even in the thick, emerald mist. The shaman climbed to the top a few steps behind the animal.

As he did, he noted the nearest sentry standing as if frozen.

“What ails you?” the elder orc demanded. When the sentry did not respond, the shaman touched his arm.

Only then did the other orc’s head tip to the side.

The shaman thought at first that the warrior was dead, but a hand to the chest enabled him to feel the rise and fall of breathing.

He looked into the face and saw that the eyes were shut.

Though he stood, the sentry was asleep.

The shaman looked to the next…and saw the same.

Some of the guards following him reached the top. They stared with astonishment at their comrades.

“Send word!” the elder orc commanded. “Find more to protect the—”

Snowsong howled mournfully again. The wolf stood on her hind legs, her forepaws draped over the edge so that she could see beyond Orgrimmar.

The orcs looked to the area at which Snowsong gazed.

There were figures in the mist. Hundreds or more.

One of the guards seized a horn dangling from a wooden peg on the inside of the wall. However, before the orc could bring it to his mouth, he, the shaman, and the rest stood frozen.

The figures had stepped up to the edge of the mist.

They were orcs.

“Grago,” one warrior grunted in surprise. “My brother sleeps

…but I see him out there…”

“Hidra…my mate, Hidra, marches with them!” gasped another.

“A trick!” someone else insisted. “Mage tricks! The Alliance—”

“It is not the Alliance,” the shaman baldly stated. He leaned forward. “It is all the ones who sleep…all the ones…”

And as he said that, his own greatest fear revealed itself in the forefront. Thrall suddenly stood there, but a Thrall that was a grotesque mockery of the warchief. His skin hung as if decaying and some bone showed through. He also had eyes that blazed red

…the red of the demon-tainted.

All the shadowy orcs had such eyes.

“A trick!” the same warrior rumbled anxiously. “They think us fools! Illusions! I still say the Alliance!”

The shaman said nothing, studying the figure of Thrall as closely as he dared. He tried not to meet the murky form’s gaze…but at last could not help it.

A vast, dark emptiness with an unsettling green tint seemed to open up before him. Only with effort did the shaman manage to tear his eyes away.

Yet, in that brief moment, his worst fears had been verified.

This was Thrall…or at least some essence of him.

And, worse, the elder orc had learned something else in that brief, terrible moment of contact. These nightmarish versions of the sleepers were awaiting some signal. When that signal came, the malevolent power that these shades represented would sweep down over Orgrimmar. Not in any true physical battle, of course.