TEN

Thrall awoke, instantly alert to the sound of horns blowing a warning. He leaped out of his sleeping furs immediately, the acrid smell of smoke telling him what the emergency was before he heard the words that he knew would strike terror into the heart of every citizen of Orgrimmar:

“Fire! Fire!”

Even as he threw on clothing, two Kor’kron burst into the room. It was obvious that they, like Thrall, had only just heard the news.

“Warchief! What would you have us do?”

He pushed past them, barking orders as he did so: “Bring me a wyvern! All hands to the pond near the Spirit Lodge save the shaman—rouse them and direct them to the site of the fire! Form a bucket brigade to sluice down any nearby buildings!”

“Yes, Warchief!” One of them kept pace with Thrall while the other ran ahead to carry out his warchief’s orders. Thrall had barely left the shadow of the hold when the reins of a wyvern were pressed into his hand. He leaped atop the great beast and directed him straight up.

Thrall clung as the creature rose nearly vertically, giving him a good view of where the fire raged out of control. It was not far. He had ordered many of the bonfires that burned night and day in Orgrimmar to be extinguished because of the extreme drought that was parching the land. Now he realized he should have allowed none of them.

Several buildings had caught fire. Thrall grimaced at the stench of burning flesh, reassured that it likely came from a place called the Chophouse; it was the stench of burning animal meat that he smelled. Even so, three buildings were already going up, vast sheets of flame illuminating the night.

By the light of the conflagration Thrall could see forms scurrying about. The shaman, as he had ordered, were converging on the site of the active blazes, while others were soaking surrounding buildings to ensure that they did not catch.

He guided the beast in the direction of the fire, patting his neck proudly. The wyvern had to be smelling the smoke, sensing the danger, yet he obeyed Thrall trustingly, never shying as Thrall guided him closer and closer to the source. The smoke was thick and black, and the heat was so fierce, he wondered for a moment if it might burn his clothing right off him or scorch the courageous wyvern. But he was a shaman, and he could tame this blaze if anyone could.

He landed, leaped off, and released the beast to the air. The wyvern flew away immediately, happy to put distance between himself and the danger now that he had served his rider well. Figures turned toward Thrall as he approached, parting to make way for their warchief. The other shaman did not move, though, standing still, eyes closed, arms lifted, communing with the fire as Thrall was about to do.

He emulated them, calming himself and reaching out to this individual elemental flame.

Brother Flame … you can do great harm and great good to those whose lives you choose to touch. But you have taken for your fuel the dwellings of others. Your smoke sears our eyes and lungs. I ask you, return to the places where we hold you with gratitude. Harm no more of our people.

The fire answered. This elemental was but one of many who were angry and erratic, fierce and uncontrolled.

No, we do not wish to return to the confinement of the bonfires or braziers or small family hearths. We like being free; we want to race across this place and consume all in our path.

Thrall felt a flutter of worry. Never before had such a direct request of his, one from the heart and filled with concern for the safety of others, been so flatly refused.

He asked again, putting more of his own will into the query, emphasizing the damage that the element was doing to people who had ever welcomed it into their city.

Reluctantly, sullenly, like a sulky child, the blaze began to die down. Thrall sensed his fellow shaman lending their aid, their concentration, their pleas as well, and was grateful if unnerved by the incident.

The fire did consume seven buildings and a great deal of personal property before it finally subsided. Fortunately, no lives were directly lost, although Thrall knew that several were affected by the smoke. He would—

“No,” he whispered. A spark, dancing defiantly, was wafting on the wind, heading for another building, to wreak more havoc. Thrall reached out to the spark, sensed in its erratic intent its refusal to respect Thrall’s entreaty.

His eyes were open now, watching the path of the tiny flame. If you continue your path, little spark, you will cause great harm.

I must burn! I must live!

There are places where your glow and heat are welcome. Find them. Do not destroy the dwellings or take the lives of my people!

For a second the spark seemed to wink out of existence, but then it blazed back with renewed vigor.

Thrall knew what he had to do. He lifted his hand. Forgive me, Brother Flame. But I must protect my people from the harm you would cause them. I have requested, I have begged, now I warn.

The spark seemed to spasm, and yet it continued on its lethal course.

Thrall, grim-faced, clenched his hand hard.

The spark flared defiantly, then dwindled, finally settling down to nothing more than the faintest of glowing embers. For now, it would no longer do anyone harm.

The threat had ended, but Thrall was reeling. This was not the way of the shaman with the elements. It was a relationship of mutual respect, not of threats and control and, in the end, near destruction. Oh, the Spirit of Fire could never be extinguished. He was far greater than anything any shaman, or even group of shaman, could ever attempt to do to him. He was eternal, as all the spirits of the elements were. But this part of him, this elemental manifestation, had been defiant, uncooperative. And it had not been alone. It was part of a disturbing trend of elements that were sullen and rebellious rather than cooperative. And in the end, Thrall had had to completely dominate it. Other shaman were now calling rain to soak the city in case there was another aberrant spark that persisted in its course of devastation.

Thrall stood in the rain, letting it soak him, pour off his massive green shoulders, and drip down his arms.

What in the name of the ancestors was happening?

“Well, of course we can do it,” said Gazlowe. “I mean, we’re goblins, of course we can do it, you know what I’m saying? We did it in the first place, after all. So yes, Warchief, we can rebuild those parts of Orgrimmar that were damaged. Don’t you worry about that.”

Two Kor’kron stood a few paces away, massive axes strapped to their backs, powerful arms folded, watching the scene and silently guarding their warchief. Thrall was talking with the goblin who, along with several others, had helped construct Orgrimmar several years ago. He was clever, intelligent, more scrupulous and less annoying than most of his brethren, but even so, he was a goblin, so Thrall was waiting for the other boot to drop.

“Well, that’s good. And how much are we looking at?”

The goblin reached into the small sack he had brought with him and pulled out an abacus. His long, clever, green fingers flew across it as he murmured to himself, “… carry the one … factor in the cost of supplies at a postwar rate … and of course labor’s gone up …”

He retrieved a piece of charcoal and a sheet of parchment and scribbled down a number that made the orc’s robust green skin turn sickly. “That much?” Thrall asked, disbelieving.

Gazlowe looked uncomfortable. “Look … tell you what … you’ve been awfully good to us, and you’ve been more than scrupulous in your business affairs. How about …”

He wrote a second figure down. It was less than the first figure, but only marginally. Thrall handed the paper over to Eitrigg, who whistled softly.

“We will need more supplies,” was all Thrall said. He rose and left without another word. The Kor’kron fell into silent step behind him. Gazlowe looked after Thrall.

“I am guessing that’s a yes. That’s a yes, isn’t it?” he asked Eitrigg. The elderly orc nodded, his eyes narrowing as, from out of the open door, he watched Thrall’s shape grow smaller and smaller as he left Grommash Hold.

Though Thrall was a well-known figure in Orgrimmar, the inhabitants of the city were always courteous enough to give their warchief space. The Kor’kron who shadowed him helped encourage that attitude. If Thrall wanted to wander the streets of his capital city, well, then, good for him. So it was that Thrall found his feet taking him on dusty roads still covered in ash, breathing air that was still thick and smelled of char. He needed to walk, to move, to think. His bodyguards knew him well enough to keep back and let him do so.

The sum Gazlowe quoted was astronomical. Yet it would have to be done. Orgrimmar was the capital of the Horde. It could not be permitted to stay damaged. Unfortunately, the tragedy only emphasized the two great issues that consumed Thrall’s thoughts every waking moment and during his dreams as well: Why were the elements so agitated, and how best could he lead this postwar Horde?

The decision he had reached during his conversation with Eitrigg was the right one. Thrall realized he needed to go to the home of his people—to Nagrand, where a legacy of shamanism had been practiced and understood for so long its origins had been swallowed by time. Geyah was wise and her mind still sharp. She, and those she had personally trained, would have answers he could not possibly find here in Azeroth. Answers to questions Thrall didn’t even know he should be asking. The more he thought about it, the more it called to his soul as the right thing, the absolutely perfectly right thing, to do. The shaman of Outland had learned how to help a broken world. They could help the distressed elements in Azeroth.

Thrall also knew this was no self-indulgent vision quest for his own peace of mind. His people were enduring great hardships. Even verdant Mulgore was starting to feel the effects of the drought creeping westward from the Barrens. And the fire of the previous night was undoubtedly testimony to the dire need to do something now, before the next fire perhaps razed Orgrimmar, or Thunder Bluff. Before the next storm swept Theramore, and Jaina Proudmoore with it, off the map. Before any other lives or livelihoods were lost.

And in this way, Thrall realized, he could best serve the Horde. He knew he was unique—a warrior, a shaman, of the worlds of humans and orcs both. No one else could be who he was. No one else could do what he could do. Because no one else had the experience and skills he had.

But the Horde must not be paralyzed while he was not at its head. One day Thrall would pass, as all things must, to walk with the ancestors. For a moment he permitted his thoughts to wander to the things Eitrigg had said. To the thought of a child, and a lifemate. Someone courageous and strong and great of heart, as Draka had been to his father, Durotan. He had not known his parents, but he had heard the stories. Theirs had been a fine match, one of the heart. They had loved one another and stood by each other through the darkest of times, even giving their lives together to protect Thrall. Walking on the streets of the Horde capital, Thrall realized that he did, as Eitrigg had implied, long for such a stalwart companion, to share the hard times and the joyful both. And for a child of that union, a fine son or daughter.

But he had no mate, no child. Perhaps that was just as well, for now—he would leave no brokenhearted family if he passed. Only the Horde, which would have to learn to do without him. Perhaps it could do without him now. For a short time, anyway. Long enough for him to go to Nagrand and find out what was amiss with the elements and somehow put an end to the aberrant behavior that was claiming so many lives.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Handing over control of the Horde that he had founded was like entrusting the care of a loved child to another. What if something went wrong?

But something was going wrong, terribly wrong. Another would have to lead the Horde for a time. He nodded his head once, firmly, and felt his soul and heart settle somewhat. Yes, this was the right thing to do. There was no longer a question of if he should go, or even when—as soon as possible. The only question that remained was to whom would he surrender care of this loved “child.”

His first thought was Cairne. His oldest friend here in Kalimdor, Cairne and he thought alike on many things. He was wise and ruled his people well. But Thrall, like Cairne himself, knew there were those who thought him old-fashioned and out of touch with what was needed. If there was slight unrest in the form of the Grimtotem in Cairne’s own city, then there would surely be unrest and murmuring if Thrall appointed an elderly tauren to lead the Horde now.

No, Cairne would definitely have a part to play, but it could not be the role of leader. An orc would be better. One the people knew and liked already.

Thrall sighed deeply. The perfect choice was one he could not have—Saurfang the Younger. Youthful, charismatic, and yet wise beyond his years, he had been the brightest star in the sky of Horde warriors before the Lich King had slain him. His father, though not quite broken, had been emotionally devastated by the recent events. Too, the orc was too old, as was Cairne, as was the deeply trusted Eitrigg. Thrall realized that there could be only one choice, and he made a sour expression.

There was only one who could do it. Only one who was young and vibrant, who was well known and loved, who was a warrior without equal. Only one who could on such short notice bring the disparate factions of the Horde together and keep their spirits high and proud.

A perfect figurehead.

Thrall’s glower deepened. Yes, Garrosh was loved and a fine fighter, but he was also rash and impulsive. Thrall was about to deliver him the ultimate power. A word floated to his mind, usurper, but he did not truly believe such a thing would happen. Garrosh needed something to placate an ego as mammoth as his legend—an ego that Thrall now realized he might have unwittingly helped to inflate. He had been concerned when he learned that Garrosh despised his father, and had wanted to show the son of Grom that Hellscream had done great good. But perhaps he might have made Grom look better than he was. If so, then the younger Hellscream’s arrogance might be, at least in part, due to Thrall himself. He had not been able to save Grom’s life; he had hoped to inspire and guide his son.

Still, Eitrigg would be there to temper Garrosh, as would Cairne, if Thrall asked it of his old friends. Thrall would not be gone long. Let Garrosh sit in his place temporarily in Grommash Hold, with Cairne and Eitrigg on either side. If the rumors were true, Garrosh had already tipped his hand with the Ashenvale incident, and Thrall knew Cairne would sit on the orc before he’d let anything like that get by him, now that he knew to be watchful of it. There wouldn’t be a lot that Garrosh could do, really, to harm the Horde, and—Thrall had to admit—there was much Garrosh could do to inspire it.

Their leader would be gone. They would be worried and afraid. Garrosh would remind them that they were proud and fierce and unconquerable, and the Horde would cheer and be content until Thrall returned with the real answers to the problems that besieged them. Calm the land, and all would have a chance to become better. Ignore the land, the elements, and no glorious victory in battle could ever make up for the disasters that would inevitably follow.

Garrosh saluted as he stood before Thrall. “I am here as you have asked, Warchief. How may I serve the Horde?”

“It is precisely to request such service that I have summoned you here. Walk with me.”

Thrall had been seated on his throne when Garrosh arrived, flanked by four of the large, intimidating Kor’kron. He had sent one of them ahead to deliberately make the younger orc wait for a while, and made no effort to stand when he did enter. Now Thrall rose, slowly and in control of the situation, and spread out his arms in a welcoming, friendly, but slightly patronizing gesture. Garrosh needed to understand his place before Thrall could change it.

He nodded to the Kor’kron, who saluted smartly and stayed where they were as Thrall guided Garrosh to the private areas of Grommash Hold, where they could speak without being overheard. “You know I am a shaman as well as a warrior,” Thrall said as they walked.

“Of course.”

“You have seen enough to know that the elements are deeply disturbed. The strange waves you encountered coming home from Northrend. The fire that raced through Orgrimmar.”

“Yes, I am aware of these things. But how can I possibly change them?”

“You cannot. But I can.”

Garrosh narrowed his eyes. “Then why do you not do so? Warchief?”

“It is not as warchief that I can do these things, Garrosh. It is as a shaman. And you ask the very question I have been wrestling with—why do I not do it? The answer is, to do so would mean I would need to leave Orgrimmar. To leave Azeroth altogether.”

Garrosh looked alarmed. “Leave Azeroth? I don’t understand.”

“I intend to travel to Nagrand. The shaman there deal with elements that have suffered terribly, yet there are places where the land is still verdant. Perhaps I can learn why that is … and apply that understanding to our troubled elementals here.”

Garrosh smiled around his tusks. “My homeland,” he said. “I would like to see it again. Speak with the Greatmother before she leaves us to walk with the ancestors. It was she who healed me and so many others when the red pox was upon us.”

“She is a great treasure,” Thrall agreed, “and one whose wisdom I would seek.”

“You will be returning soon?”

“I—do not know,” Thrall said honestly. “It may take time to learn what I must. I trust I will not be gone too long, but it could be weeks—even months.”

“But—the Horde! We need a warchief!”

“It is for the Horde that I go,” Thrall said. “Do not worry, Garrosh. I do not forsake it. I travel where I must, to serve as I must. We all serve the Horde. Even its warchief does so—perhaps especially its warchief. And well do I know that you serve it loyally too.”

“I do, Warchief. You were the one who taught me that my father was someone to be proud of, because of what he was willing to do for others. For the Horde.” Garrosh’s voice was earnest, the naked emotions plain on his face. “I have not been part of it for long. But even so, I have seen enough to know that, like my father, I would die for it.”

“You have already faced and cheated death,” Thrall admitted. “You have slain many of its minions. You have done more for this new Horde than many who have been part of it since the beginning. And know this: I would never leave without appointing someone able to take care of it, even during so brief a sojourn.”

The younger orc’s eyes widened, this time in excitement. “You—you are making me warchief?”

“No. But I am instructing you to lead the Horde on my behalf until I return.”

Thrall had never expected to see Garrosh lost for words, but now the brown-skinned orc seemed struck dumb for a moment. “I understand battle, yes,” he said. “Tactics, how to rally troops—these things I know. Let me serve that way. Find me a foe to face and defeat, and you will see how proudly I will continue to serve the Horde. But I know nothing of politics, of … of ruling. I would rather have a sword in my fist than a scroll!”

“I understand that,” Thrall said, slightly amused that he found himself reassuring the normally proud Garrosh. “But you will not be without sound advisors. I will ask Eitrigg and Cairne, both of whom have shared their wisdom with me through the years, to guide and advise you. Politics can be learned. Your obvious love for the Horde?” He shook his head. “That is more important to me than political acumen right now. And that, Garrosh Hellscream, you have in abundance.”

Still Garrosh seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. Finally he said, “If you deem me worthy, then know this. I shall do all that I can to bring glory to the Horde!”

“No need for glory at the moment,” Thrall said. “There will be enough of a challenge for you without any extra effort. The Horde’s honor is already assured. You just need to take care of it. Put its needs before your own, as your father did. The Kor’kron will be instructed to protect you as they would me. I go to Nagrand as a shaman, not as warchief of the Horde. Make good use of them—and of Cairne and Eitrigg.” He paused, and amusement quirked his lips. “Would you go into battle without a weapon?”

Garrosh looked at him, confused at what, to him, seemed a sudden change of subject. “That is a foolish question, Warchief, and you know it.”

“Oh, I do. I am making sure you understand what powerful weapons you have,” Thrall said. “My advisors are my weapons as I struggle to always do what is best for the Horde. They see things I do not, present options I did not know I had. Only a fool would scorn such things. And I do not think you a fool.”

Garrosh smiled, relaxing slightly as Thrall’s intention became clear. With a touch of his former arrogance, he said, “I am not a fool, Warchief. You would not ask me to serve so if you thought me one.”

“True. So, Garrosh, do you agree to lead the Horde until such time as I return? Taking advice from Eitrigg and Cairne when they offer it?”

The young Hellscream took a deep breath. “It is my true longing to lead the Horde to the best of my ability. And so, yes, a thousand times yes, my warchief. I will lead as well as I can, and I will consult with the advisors you suggest. I know what a tremendous honor you do me, and I will strive to be worthy of it.”

“Then it is done,” Thrall said. “For the Horde!”

“For the Horde!”

Ancestors, Thrall thought as he watched Garrosh stride away, chest swelled with pride and pleasure, I pray I am doing the right thing.