Warcraft: Lord of the Clans (Warcraft: Blizzard Legends) by Christie Golden

Author:Christie Golden [Golden, Christie]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Blizzard Entertainment, LLC
Published: 2018-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

Thrall had never known such joy. For the next several days, he feasted with the Warsong clan, sang their fierce battle chants and songs, and learned at Hellscream’s feet.

Far from being the mindless killing machines the books had painted them, Thrall learned that the orcs were of a noble race. They were masters on the battlefield, and had been known to revel in the spray of blood and the crack of bone, but their culture was a rich, elaborate one. Hellscream spoke of a time when each clan was separate unto itself. Each had its own symbols, customs, even speech. There were spiritual leaders among them, called shamans, who worked with the magic of nature and not the evil magic of demonic, supernatural powers.

“Isn’t magic magic?” Thrall, who had very little experience with magic in any form, wanted to know.

“Yes and no,” said Grommash. “Sometimes the effect is the same. For instance, if a shaman was to summon lightning to strike his foes, they would be burned to death. If a warlock was to summon hell’s flames against an enemy, they would be burned to death.”

“So magic is magic,” said Thrall.

“But,” Grommash continued, “lightning is a natural phenomenon. You call it by requesting it. With hell’s fire, you make a bargain. It costs a little of yourself.”

“But you said that the shamans were disappearing. Doesn’t that mean that the warlock’s way was better?”

“The warlock’s way was quicker,” said Grommash. “More effective, or so it seemed. But there comes a time when a price must be paid, and sometimes, it is dear indeed.”

Thrall learned that he was not the only one appalled by the peculiar lethargy demonstrated by the vast majority of orcs, now languishing apathetically in the internment camps.

“No one can explain it,” said Hellscream, “but it claimed nearly all of us, one by one. We thought it some kind of illness at first, but it does not kill and it does not worsen after a certain point.”

“One of the orcs in the camp thought it had something to do with—” Thrall fell silent, having no desire to give offense.

“Speak!” demanded Grommash, annoyed. “To do with what?”

“With the redness of the eyes,” said Thrall.

“Ah,” said Grommash, with, Thrall thought, a trace of sorrow. “Perhaps it does, at that. There is something we wrestle with that you, blue-eyed youngling, cannot understand. I hope you never do.” And for the second time since Thrall had met him, Hellscream appeared to him to be small and frail. He was thin, Thrall realized; it was his ferocity, his battle cry, which made him appear to be so threatening and powerful. Physically, the charismatic leader of the Warsongs was wasting away. Even though he barely knew Hellscream, the realization moved Thrall. It seemed as though the orc chieftain’s will and powerful personality was the only thing keeping him alive, that he was bone and blood and sinew tied together by the barest of threads.

He did not voice his perception; Grommash Hellscream knew it. Their eyes met.

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