The true story of the Iron Tide

by Shadow1851

The Iron Tide has arisen to conquer two worlds in a rising tidal wave of iron and blood, But how did they get there? THIS is how the Iron Horde rose from the defeats and conquered two worlds in a rising tide of steel and fire and beat back the Shadow Council and the Azerothians... [Response to a challenge fic by Unknown567]

1. Chapter 1

Garrosh surveyed the Nagrand landscape carefully. No Warsong scouts had come into sight for days. Why would they? This hilltop was on the edge of the clan's territory, and in peacetime, there was little reason to patrol here. Raiding ogres would come from the west. Other orc clans would approach from the east. Even the hunting here was poor during this season, Garrosh remembered.

He had been very young the last time he had sat on this hilltop, and—

No. Garrosh had never sat on this hilltop or climbed these trees or run his fingers through these patches of grass as a child. This was a different world.

Kairozdormu had advised him to expect a few strange discoveries. I've spent my life studying the timeways. If you try to count and compare blades of grass, you'll drive yourself mad, he had said. My plans require a few… favorable conditions, and we'll find them here. This is the perfect timeway for us. Not a perfect mirror image, but perfect nonetheless.

That remained to be seen. Garrosh shaded his eyes and stared at the land just below the setting sun. At least he knew this hilltop was a safe place to rest. The open meadows, lush and green, would reveal any interlopers long before Garrosh would be spotted.

Behind him, Kairoz was at his ease, lying on his back near the smoldering campfire, holding a large, jagged shard of curved glass above his eyes. The fire's light and the setting sun played bronze shimmers across its surface. "Have you thought about what we discussed, Hellscream? You've already wasted enough time—"

Garrosh spun around, fixing him with a glare. "Do not call me that name again. Not here. Not ever."

Kairoz sat up clumsily. The bronze dragon could not yet move with grace in his new orc form. "No? Your family name would certainly grab the Warsongs' attention. Move things along."

"It might move Gorehowl through my neck. And yours," Garrosh said.

Kairoz smirked. The shape of his expression was distinctly quel'dorei, out of place on an orc face. "Your father and his weapon cannot touch me. Not unless he can fly."

Garrosh didn't respond. I hope you reveal your dragon form in front of Grommash Hellscream. I truly do.

Kairoz set the glass shard down in his lap. Even that simple movement looked wrong. "So. Have you made a decision?"

"I have."

"And?"

Garrosh kept his voice even. "It is time for us to part ways," he said.

"Is it?" Kairoz chuckled. "I don't remember offering that choice."

"You may look like an orc, but you don't act like one. They'll smell you out. I need to approach them alone," Garrosh said.

"I see. And how long until I can join you?" Kairoz's smirk deepened.

"Who can say? When the time is right—"

"Never, you mean." Kairoz shook his head. "Oh, Garrosh, Garrosh, Garrosh. Subtlety is not a strength of yours. Don't embarrass yourself."

Garrosh bit back a harsh reply. "Fine." His voice was controlled. "I'll be clear: my Horde does not need a dragon's aid."

"Mmm. Your Horde?" Kairoz stood up slowly, carefully balancing the glass shard in one hand. " Your Horde deposed you. Without me, you would still be rotting in a prison cell. You do not have the privilege of telling me to leave." The impostor orc tilted his head. "And if you refuse to behave, I can make you wish you were still awaiting the mercy of an executioner's axe."

Kairoz's other hand rested inside his sash, the only piece of clothing he had kept from his high elf garb. Garrosh heard rattling metal inside. A hidden weapon, perhaps?

An anticipation of violence fell upon Garrosh's mind. The world became clearer, sharper. He allowed no outward sign. "My people deserved better than what fate gave them. I will fix that. Without you," Garrosh said.

"You do not give me orders," Kairoz said. "I—"

Enough. Garrosh leapt forward without warning, his wordless battle cry filling the air. Three strides and he had vaulted the campfire and seized Kairoz around the throat, squeezing and lifting.

There was a flash of bronze light. The glass shard in Kairoz's hand shimmered.

Garrosh blinked. His hand squeezed nothing but air. The campfire was in front of him again, three strides away, as though he had never moved. Kairoz was gone. A moment of confusion passed, and then an arm snaked around Garrosh's throat and pulled him off his feet.

The world turned upside down. Cold metal—familiar metal—clicked shut around both of his wrists.

He struck the dirt hard, Kairoz's knee pinning him against the ground, his forearm firmly placed against Garrosh's neck.

"You think because I'm now mortal, I'm weak?" Kairoz hissed. "You are warchief no longer, Hellscream. You are free because I will it. You live because I will it. You will join your father and rally the old orc clans because I will it." Kairoz's disguise vanished from the neck up, his orc head suddenly shifting into something much larger and reptilian. The massive eyes of the bronze dragon lowered to mere inches from Garrosh's face. "You are a pawn. Nothing more. Remain useful, or you will be discarded."

Garrosh bared his teeth. His wrists had been chained together with the same restraints he had been wearing when he escaped from that absurd show of a trial. Now he understood why Kairoz had so carefully removed them instead of just breaking them.

Kairoz had wanted them hidden and ready. He had anticipated a confrontation. No, he had provoked a confrontation.

Slowly, bit by bit, Garrosh reined in his fury. He controlled his breathing. Steady breaths. Fool. He baited you. Do not make that mistake again. The red tinge faded from his vision. His voice was strained but composed when he finally spoke.

"And if you didn't need me, dragon, you would have left me in Pandaria," the orc said. "So don't bother with threats."

Kairoz's reptilian mouth twisted into a smile. "Just so long as we understand each other." He shifted back wholly into his orc form and stood up, stepping back from Garrosh.

"Oh, I do." Garrosh rolled over and used his bound hands to push himself to his feet. "Believe that."

A glimmer of light caught his eye as he rose. Nearby lay the glass shard, dropped into the dirt during the struggle. Kairoz pointed to it. "Pick it up."

Garrosh glanced at it. "Pick up your own toys."

"It's yours now." Kairoz spoke as though addressing an unruly child. "You will have need of it."

Garrosh eyed the shard but didn't move. The curved glass was pulsing, shimmering with a faint bronze light, the same light he had seen when the dragon had escaped his grip. The edges looked sharp. With restrained hands, it would be a trick to hold it without slicing up his palms. "I thought you said it had no more power."

"I said it did not have the power it once did. That does not mean it has no power, as you just witnessed," Kairoz said. His smirk was back.

Garrosh lifted his manacled wrists. "And these?"

"Those still seem to have plenty of power, yes? They will stay on until you convince me you understand your place." Kairoz returned to the campfire and began nudging dirt over the smoldering wood with his feet. "Pick. It. Up."

Steady breaths. Do not let him bait you again. Garrosh picked up the shard with care, balancing it on the palms of his hands. When it had been whole during Garrosh's trial, the Vision of Time had two sculptures of bronze dragons twined around the glass. This shard still had the head and neck of one of those figures melded with it. It was a convenient grip.

"I assume this holds no power for me," Garrosh said, his voice tight. Or you wouldn't have let me touch it. The thought made Garrosh's hidden anger burn white hot.

"Clearly. But do not lose it. That would make me upset," Kairoz said. He wandered away from the campfire, idly plucking a leaf off a low-hanging branch and crushing it between his fingers until it was green pulp. "You made a good point, Garrosh. You. Me. We're two strangers here. It might be best for us to approach the Warsongs separately. Months apart, even. It will lessen the chances of your people assuming you and I are… colluding." He dropped the crushed leaf to the ground and wiped his hand off on his thigh. A light green stain remained on his palm. "Show them the glass. Primitive as your kind was on this world, you had some awareness of the supernatural, yes? Your shaman will suffice. Any fool with a little talent can tap into what you're holding. It will be enough to catch a glimpse of our Azeroth and the spoils of other worlds. Once you have convinced them to join your ideal Horde and conquer all that they see, I will arrive. Just another orc following the new direction of his people." Kairoz spread his arms wide. "I will discover miraculous new uses for the shard. We will use it to travel to any world we please."

"I'm only interested in one," Garrosh said.

"Because you never see the big picture. You want one Horde, free of demonic taint. I want more. We can cultivate an infinite number of Hordes—"

Garrosh laughed.

Kairoz lowered his arms. His expression turned dangerous. "You doubt me?"

Garrosh met his gaze openly. "The hourglass was destroyed getting us here. I saw it broken on the floor of that pandaren temple." He raised the shard. "You might be able to perform a few tricks with this, but don't pretend this is still the Vision of Time."

"Think it through, Hellscream." Kairoz's voice was light. "Because most of the hourglass is still in our Azeroth, this piece resonates with our timeway. Call it a glimpse… a glint of time. With a little work on my part—"

"We can go back." Garrosh felt his heart race and his skin tingle. Plans began to unfold within his mind. "Not just back to our Azeroth. It could take us back to our time."

"And that is just the beginning," Kairoz said. He turned around, gesturing toward the sun dipping low on the Nagrand horizon. "First Azeroth. Then other worlds. All of them. As many as we need." The bronze dragon began to laugh. "We will be limited by nothing. Not even time. The possibilities are infinite. I will become infinite—"

Three strides and Garrosh slammed the shard into Kairoz's back.

Laughter turned to shrieks. The jagged glass tore through flesh easily, not breaking even as it sliced through muscle and glanced off bone. Garrosh kept a firm grip on the shard's bronze sculpture with his manacled hands.

Power surged into the glass. Bronze scales appeared and disappeared on Kairoz's skin. He was trying to use the shard, trying to shift back into his dragon form. It wasn't working.

Garrosh shoved him over and followed him to the ground, dragging the sharp edge around Kairoz's shoulder until it met the collarbone and had to be pulled free. The shrieks grew louder. Weak orcish hands struck out, trying to push Garrosh away. He lowered his face to mere inches from the bronze dragon's eyes and buried the shard in his throat. Shrieks turned into gurgling.

Garrosh held the shard firm, ignoring the torrents of energy racing in and out of the glass, focusing instead on the total surprise in Kairoz's eyes.

"No more," Garrosh said. "No more puppeteers hiding in the shadows. No more slavers offering corrupted power. No more of the likes of you. The orcs will be free of all masters."

Garrosh twisted the shard and dragged it down into Kairoz's chest, stabbing again and again. Blood spilled onto the hilltop. Not orcish blood, not the blood of any creature that had ever walked on this world, but the land would drink it all the same.

Finally, he pulled the shard free and stood.

Kairoz convulsed on the ground. Garrosh watched, curious. He had never killed a bronze dragon before. The shard trembled in his grip, beating in time with the dragon's final heartbeats. Bronze mist, each mote thick as a grain of sand, wafted away from Kairoz. It was not dispersing like smoke but rather pulling together into a thin, rope-like vortex, twisting away into nothing, as though being drawn away from this world.

When the bronze mist was gone, the shard was quiet. Kairoz's eyes were wide open, and he breathed no more. Garrosh waited. He wanted to be sure. Minutes passed before he grunted and nodded.

"An easier end than you deserved."

He left the body where it lay. Any who happened upon it would simply see an orc who had angered someone he shouldn't have.

And wasn't that close to the truth? Garrosh smiled.

He found a small creek nearby and washed the blood off of himself and the shard. His wrists were still manacled and had been rubbed raw. There was nothing to be done about it now. The key was worlds away.

How to proceed? Elaborate ideas rose and fell quickly. Kairoz had been right: subtlety was not Garrosh's strength. Approach too slyly, show too much manipulation, and his father would cut his head off. Grommash Hellscream was not a fool.

Was he?

Fear trickled into Garrosh's belly. He had been so young. He barely remembered his father. What if he's not the orc I expect? Grommash Hellscream had been deceived, tricked into becoming a slave to demons. He had redeemed himself at the end, proving his strong heart, but he had not been infallible.

Garrosh had been chewing over the problem for days and still didn't know the answer. How do you convince one of the strongest orcs in existence that he is weak?

The last rays of sunlight disappeared. Garrosh sat quietly by the creek. Perhaps he should wait. It would take hours to reach the Warsong encampment on foot, and the manacles and the shard would mark him as someone who did not belong. Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, might prove safer than arriving in the middle of the night.

No, he decided. No more waiting. He wrapped the shard in Kairoz's sash and tucked it in his waistband. Grommash would recognize the strength in Garrosh's heart… or he would not.

Garrosh began walking. By sunrise he would learn whether he would live at his father's side or die at his hand.

" Lok-tar ogar," he whispered.

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"Hellscream."

… I am done…

"Chief Hellscream?"

… end it…

Grommash Hellscream opened his eyes. His tent was empty, as it always was, yet his arm was outstretched across his animal-skin bedding, trying to embrace someone who would never lie there again. As it always was.

From outside his tent, once more, "Chief Hellscream?"

He grunted and relaxed. That voice had spoken outside of his dreams after all. "Enter," he said.

A Warsong armorer stepped inside. "Chieftain, the raider Riglo has insulted me. We wish to prove ourselves in mak'rogahn."

Grommash blinked the sleep out of his eyes. "You both fought last night," he said.

"Against others. But he has questioned my honor, and I will prove him wrong. No longer shall he speak of…"

On and on. Minutes passed.

Grommash rubbed his forehead and finally interrupted. "Fine. You may fight. When the sun sets—" He looked through the parted tent flaps. Night had already fallen. He had slept through the day. "No, prepare yourselves now. Wait until I arrive to begin."

"Yes, Chief Hellscream." The armorer left.

This is the problem with peace, Grommash mused. Plenty of his Warsong had not been born into the clan. They had flocked to Hellscream's banner in search of war and glory, and for a time, they found both. Now their enemies were defeated. Even rival orc clans were slow to make war upon one another, thanks to Gul'dan and his warnings of an external threat. Until the clans decided how to combat that threat, there was nothing to fight. Some found it difficult to fill the time.

Mak'Rogahn. It was never meant to settle petty insults. Grommash let out a long breath and rose, buckling on his gauntlets.

"Fools," he whispered, and immediately regretted it. They were not fools. No more than he. He understood the quiet chaos of peace, the way the past could press down on an idle mind. Regrets could sicken a warrior's will, if left to fester too long. Regrets are a weakness, Grommash reminded himself. There was no room in the Warsong for weakness, not even in its clan chieftain. The pleasures of even a meaningless fight would clear his head.

…give me the warrior's death I deserve…

Gorehowl, the axe of the Hellscream lineage, lay next to his bedding. It had not drunk anyone's blood in far too long, and it was unlikely to do so tonight. Hellscream snatched it up anyway and stalked through the camp to the fight pit. A crowd had already gathered—not the entirety of the clan, of course. Only a tenth of a tenth of their number had yet returned from the season's hunting, and only some would care for what happened in the pit. Still, there were enough to surround the ledge and block his view until he reached the chieftain's seat. The armorer and the wolf master were down on the pit floor, ready to fight. They saluted him.

The crowd fell silent. "Normally there are words to say, but you've heard them all before," Hellscream said, allowing a bit of an edge to creep into his voice. "Only those with a true will of iron may call themselves Warsong—"

…don't you see it's too late?…

Hellscream's voice shifted into a growl. "But you've proven your worth before. Prove it again. Begin!"

The two orcs leapt at each other, striking and grabbing and twisting and tearing.

The crowd roared and clattered their weapons together, loud enough to drown out that other voice, the one heard only by the chieftain, crying out from his memories.

Grommash sat and folded his arms, setting his axe across his lap. A few minutes later, the wolf master put his fist onto the armorer's temple, hard, and the fight was over. The victor strutted around the pit, basking in his clan's adulation. The other lay unconscious.

All in all, quite ordinary. But they had lived up to the Warsong standard. "A good fight. No surrender. Honor to the wolf master for victory, and honor to the armorer for the will to fight to the end," Grommash said. "Drink your fill tonight. You both have proven you have a Warsong's heart." For the eighth time in two weeks, I suspect.

Two orcs lifted the armorer free of the pit and lightly slapped his face until he woke up, groggy but in good humor. No broken limbs to mend, not this time.

The crowd milled about, eager for another bout. Grommash agreed. One fight was never enough to quiet the past.

Grommash raised a fist, and the crowd turned to face him. "Who else?" he asked. "Who else will show me a Warsong's heart tonight?"

Several in the crowd raised both fists, bellowing for Grommash's attention. One orc shouldered his way through the crowd and jumped down into the pit. "I will!" he shouted.

Grommash smiled. The others ask. He acts. The chieftain couldn't immediately recall the orc's name, and the few torches around the fight pit didn't illuminate him properly. Grommash squinted, searching his face. Strange. There was a familiar shape to him, but the name simply wouldn't come.

Uneasy whispers rippled through the crowd.

"Who is he?"

Nobody knew. The murmurs spread.

Something was wrong. Grommash leaned forward and stared. Many things were wrong. Manacles linked the strange orc's wrists together. His garments were nothing like what Grommash had ever seen, not in cloth or in cut. The dark shadow covering his jaw wasn't a short-shorn beard but a tattoo, a chieftain's tattoo, elaborate beyond belief.

The crowd shifted uneasily. Soon silence fell over the Warsong, and those with weapons at hand grasped them firmly. The orc stood tall and proud in the pit, a slight smile on his face, enjoying their confusion.

Grommash lowered his hand to Gorehowl's shaft. He had learned to trust his inner voice, and right now it was shouting that this orc was dangerous, an outsider, one who did not belong here. An assassin? If so, he was a bold one, or a stupid one, to step into a pit surrounded by armed Warsong with his hands chained together.

An anticipation of violence fell over Grommash's mind. It had been too long since his axe had a drink.

Yet that same inner voice… it piqued his curiosity. Why does he look so familiar? "You claim to possess a Warsong's heart?" Grommash asked.

"I do," the orc said in a strong voice, speaking to the crowd as much as to Grommash.

"Tell us your name."

The orc lifted his chin. "I come to you as a stranger and nothing more."

Grommash studied him quietly for a moment. "You have no clan, stranger? No heritage? No name taken from tales of your astonishing battlefield victories?" He let a little contempt show, and tense laughter floated about the crowd.

"Tales are words, and words are wind," the stranger said. "Only deeds prove what's in the heart."

"But even a short tale or two can answer certain questions." Grommash gestured toward the stranger's manacles. "Which clan did you anger to earn those? And when did you escape? Is there an army of pursuers at your back, stranger, preparing to fall upon my camp?" He turned his gaze toward the crowd and made no attempt to hide his anger. "And how did he get into my camp in the first place? Who among you was responsible for watching the night but instead chose to watch the pits? Show yourself!" His full-throated roar echoed across the rows of Warsong tents. The crowd's laughter vanished.

Four orcs shuffled slowly to the edge of the pit, the soft sounds of their movement deafening in the silence. Their faces were pinched with worry, but they held their heads high and identified themselves by name. Grommash let them stand there, waiting, until beads of sweat formed on their brows.

"The heart of a Warsong means nothing if you have the brains of an ogre," he said in a soft voice. "You allowed this one to enter our midst. It is only fair that you share this stranger's fate, whatever it may be. Do you agree?"

They murmured, "Yes, Chief Hellscream."

Grommash kept his voice low. "Then join him." They hesitated but jumped down into the pit without protest. The stranger stepped back, giving them room. They shot hateful glances at him. He returned the looks without blinking.

"Stranger. You claim no clan?" Grommash asked.

"As I said, my heart is Warsong. But I have no clan," he said.

Grommash rubbed his chin. "Does that explain the markings? You have no clan; therefore, you are your own chieftain?"

Laughter traveled through the crowd again. The stranger didn't smile. "It is a mark from a different time. A scar. Nothing more."

"My Warsong do not answer my questions with riddles and evasion, stranger, and you are not skilled enough at either to impress me," Grommash snapped. "Answer me plain. Why are you here?"

The stranger smiled. "You are the second person to tell me that today." He lowered his head for a moment and gathered his thoughts. When he raised his eyes, the smile was gone. In its place was absolute conviction. "Grommash Hellscream, I have traveled far and sacrificed much to stand in front of you. I am here to defy what fate has dictated for you and all orcs."

"Which is?"

"Slavery. The loss of our souls and everything that makes us great," the stranger said with finality.

The crowd of Warsong looked at Grommash, seeking his reaction. He didn't make them wait long.

He laughed. Loudly. Explosively. The tension broke, and all the Warsong roared with him. Even the orcs in the pit joined in. Only the stranger remained impassive. I actually believed him dangerous, Grommash thought ruefully. When the wave of amusement passed, Grommash stood up, Gorehowl held loosely in his grasp.

"Some might want you dead for those words, stranger. Myself, I find no honor in killing lunatics," Grommash said. To the chastened orcs in the pit, he said, "Take him to the blacksmith's tent. Get his chains off, give him a meal and a skin of water, and escort him away. You won't be punished further." The four orcs relaxed. "Perhaps you are not fully to blame. If you had seen him, you might have killed him, and the spirits protect fools. Send him off and take the lesson to heart. No more lapses."

The four orcs in the pit closed in on the stranger. "You think I'm lying?" he said, stepping back.

"No," Grommash said gently, "I think your mind has been harmed. The Warsong do not surrender. For us, slavery is the one fate we know we will never face. Even in defeat, even when captured, we resist until we die."

One of the guards in the pit grabbed the stranger's arm. The manacled orc set his feet, clasped both hands together, and swung. His fists met the guard's jaw, throwing him back. The others moved in hard.

"Stop!" Grommash bellowed. They halted. "Stranger, you test my patience. Warsong mercy does not extend far, even for fools."

The stranger refused to back down. "The path to the Warsongs' slavery will not come from war or defeat. Your fate will be accepted freely and gladly," he said, raising his voice, "and it will be you, Grommash Hellscream, who will insist on being first to tie yourself to the orcs' new masters. The rest will follow. We will never recover."

Dead silence greeted his words. Only the slight rustling of the breeze on the Warsong's tents and the crackling of the lit torches around the pit offered any sound at all.

Grommash's last traces of pity were long gone. "Your prophecies are absurd. And now you have insulted my honor." His eyes hardened. "But as you said, words are wind. Only deeds matter. Have you heard of mak'rogahn, stranger?"

The manacled orc tilted his head and moved his mouth, sounding out the words. Duel of will. "I know of mak'gora. I know it very well. Is this much different?" he said.

"Mak'Gora is a fight to the death," Grommash said. "Mak'Rogahn is how the Warsong prove their worth. They enter the pit and fight, only stopping when their bodies fail. There is no surrender. No mercy. Only a pure display of the will to survive any hardship and endure all pain. Those who give up are exiled. That is how you can prove you have a Warsong's heart. Our clan will never tolerate weakness again."

"Again?" the stranger asked.

… give me the warrior's death I deserve…

Grommash ruthlessly squashed the memory. "If your words are true, fight. Show us your honor."

The stranger considered his restrained hands for a moment. "I accept."

"Excellent. Mak'Rogahn is not meant to be a fight to the death, but accidents happen," Grommash said. "You have insulted not only me but all Warsong. Perhaps you four in the pit would like the chance to defend our honor."

"We accept!" they roared back without hesitation. The stranger's eyes widened slightly.

"Begin," Grommash said mildly, sitting back in his seat.

They did.

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The four Warsong orcs hurled themselves at Garrosh, tackling him. He landed hard on his back, snarling and covering his face with his chained hands. Fists and feet rained down on him. The crowd bellowed approval.

Accidents happen, his father had said. Clearly an accident was meant to happen now. The glass shard was tucked into the rear of Garrosh's waistband, wrapped in cloth yet digging painfully into his skin. It was tempting to bring it out… no. No. That would gain him nothing. Revealing a hidden weapon was dishonorable and would only guarantee his death.

That old, familiar bloodlust sank into his mind, but he resisted the urge to go berserk. Four against one—this was not a matter of raw strength. He rocked from side to side, trying to take each blow on muscle instead of bone. It worked, but even so, pain soon radiated across his body.

Still, no ribs had cracked yet. No blows had landed hard on his jaw or temple.

His attackers had given themselves over to fury. Each punch and kick was delivered like a killing blow. They were wasting strength.

Garrosh kept moving, kept kicking out, kept fighting, kept avoiding the hits that would leave him injured and helpless.

He had come too far to die now.

One of the Warsongs was targeting his head with kicks, settling into a rhythm. Bam. Bam. Bam. Predictable. Garrosh reached out. The chain between his wrists wrapped around the orc's ankle.

Garrosh smiled.

Grommash shook his head and turned to one of the Warsong warriors standing to his left. "When this is done, dispose of him quickly. He may be insane, but perhaps he was important to someone. Let's avoid a blood feud over this fool, if we can," Grommash said.

The warrior laughed. "At least this one knows how to die," he observed.

"Yes, he does." Grommash couldn't see beyond the blur of attacks raining down in the pit, but he caught glimpses of the stranger, still moving and fighting from flat on his back, refusing to give up. "He took my instructions to heart." Too bad.

One of the four Warsong in the pit suddenly jumped back, roaring with pain. His left foot was dangling at an unnatural angle. Grommash and others laughed. Kicked so hard he hurt himself. The injured orc gnashed his teeth and dove back in, snarling, dropping fists onto the stranger's head. A moment later, there was another shout of pain, and the same orc scrambled backward, left wrist crushed and broken.

Some of the crowd went silent. So did Grommash. He had seen what they had seen: the stranger had used his chain as a weapon.

And that was only the beginning. A kick connected with another Warsong orc's knee, shattering it. Another kick caught a third orc between the legs, dropping him to the ground. In moments, the stranger had crippled or stunned three opponents.

The cheering around the pit died quickly.

The final Warsong orc growled and stepped back, out of kicking range, allowing the stranger to scramble to his feet, breathing deeply but steadily. He beckoned his last Warsong opponent. They charged each other.

Grommash didn't blink. What he was seeing, he couldn't believe. No fear. No hesitation. Violence incarnate. Bloodlust channeled into pure power. A mind solely devoted to victory, letting nothing distract him.

That is how I fight, Hellscream thought.

The Warsong orc struck the stranger in the stomach once, twice, three times, then seized him around the throat. The stranger clasped both hands together and raised them like a hammer, catching him under the chin. The last orc's jaw snapped shut with a sickening crunch. Two teeth flew free. He fell over, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

It was done.

The three injured Warsong were starting to rise, crawling toward the stranger, refusing to give up, though they were obviously beaten. Mak'Rogahn demanded it. As long as they could fight, they must fight.

The stranger stepped back from their reach. "Have I proven my Warsong heart, Hellscream? Have they?" he asked. "Or do I need to kill them?"

Grommash didn't answer. He was watching. Listening. The bystanders were muttering, "He fights… he fights like Hellscream…"

The orc with the shattered knee forced himself to his hands and knees and shuffled toward the stranger, each motion bringing a gasp of pain. The stranger stepped back again, to the edge of the pit. "Chief Hellscream, I did not come to kill your Warsongs. I came to save them," he said.

"Enough," Grommash said. "The fight is over." The injured Warsong collapsed.

Hellscream stepped down into the pit, Gorehowl in his grasp. The stranger stood motionless. The clan held its breath.

Grommash stepped to within a single pace of the stranger and studied him closely. The face tattoo, the scars, the fierce eyes, the oddly familiar features. The fighting style. The manacles, emblazoned with an insignia of an animal Grommash had never seen. "What is this?" he asked quietly.

"It is Xuen, the White Tiger, the sigil of the Shado-pan," the stranger answered.

"Who?"

"I have come a long way, Hellscream." The stranger spoke softly. There was desperation in his eyes but no madness . "My path is now unimportant. Yours is all that matters, and that is why I am here."

The whispers from the crowd still drifted into the pit. "He fights like Hellscream."

Grommash raised Gorehowl above his head and brought it down. It shrieked through the air.

Clang.

The stranger's hands dropped to his sides, the chain between his manacles broken.

"I don't believe I've ever met an orc like you," Grommash said. "Come. We will talk. But know this," he added, laying the edge of Gorehowl against the stranger's neck. "If you waste my time, if you intend to harm my clan, I will take your head."

The stranger didn't flinch, didn't blink. "If my words waste your time, I won't object. If I fail here, my life means nothing."

"Very well." Grommash stepped out of the pit and walked back to his tent. The stranger followed.

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Grommash lit a small torch inside his tent and sat on the ground, gesturing for Garrosh to do the same. The dim, flickering light played over the thick animal-skin walls rippling in the night's breeze, a chill swirling through the tent.

Garrosh lowered himself to the ground slowly. The pain from the fight would likely last for days, but he felt no sign of serious injury. "I had an advantage in the pit," he said. His voice was calm, betraying nothing.

"Tell me," Grommash said.

"Surprise." Garrosh rested his hands on his knees. "They thought I was finished the moment I fell over."

The clan chief grunted. "You taught them something they already should have learned: your enemy is not dead until he is dead."

"A lesson you've shared with your foes, I understand," Garrosh said. Grommash Hellscream… the orc with the will of iron… my father. It was an effort to keep from smiling. "I am curious. Mak'Rogahn. I am not aware of any other clan that practices that."

"How much do you know about me, stranger?"

"Some," was Garrosh's cautious reply.

To Grommash's left lay a wineskin. He offered it to Garrosh, who refused. The chieftain took a long pull before speaking. "The Warsong once suffered through hard times. An ogre raid nearly wiped us out."

Garrosh knew this story. The death of his mother, the rebirth of the Warsong clan, the beginning of Hellscream's legend. "That's when you lost your mate, yes? A hard thing, to see family die in battle."

"We will not speak of her." Grommash's voice was iron.

His anger was startling. Garrosh hesitated. "I had heard Golka died fighting, taking down several ogres personally before she fell," he said.

"My clan showed weakness that day. They stayed behind," Grommash growled. "I had to show the Warsong how to face death. With blood on your hands and your enemy's throat between your teeth!" He hurled the empty skin across the tent. "Mak'Rogahn culls the shame of that day from my clan. Any who wish to call themselves Warsong must pass through that trial."

Garrosh didn't know what to say. There was clearly more to this story than he had heard as a child. "But your mate, she—"

"I said we will not speak of her."

What am I missing? thought Garrosh. An honorable death should be celebrated, even if the warrior had fallen in a lost battle. Unless…

Memories of Garrosh's youth rushed back to him. Day after day, filled with guilt and shame, bearing a name he had thought cursed. We are not so different. Not so different at all.

"I understand how you feel." Garrosh chose his words carefully. "My father died with his axe buried in his enemy's chest. A good death. But the path that led him there was paved with dishonor and was born from a single wrong decision. For too long I lived with rage toward him. It was wasted anger. Your mate's death and your clan's moment of weakness may still cause you pain, but the son she gave you—"

"My son? She never gave me a son."

Grommash was staring into Garrosh's eyes, weighing him, judging him. Garrosh did not even allow himself to blink. "I did not know that," was all he said.

Kairoz. Garrosh felt a cheek muscle jump. Counting blades of grass. He took a moment to relish the memory of carving out the dragon's middle, feeling Kairoz's hot blood flow over his hands. It calmed him. Deep breaths. I was never born on this world. Grommash was never a father. Is this what the bronze dragon meant by "the perfect timeway"?

Garrosh readied his wits. It is time to tell him why I'm here. "But I will ask you, Chief Hellscream…"

"…if you could go back and save her, wouldn't you?" the stranger asked. "I would. My father had an honorable heart. He was misled. He deserved a better legacy. Perhaps Golka deserves one too."

… don't you see it's too late? End it!

Legacy. Grommash's scowl deepened. "Words are wind. Unless you can take me back, I am through speaking of her," he said. Golka. He hadn't allowed himself to speak her name for a long time. How had the stranger known it?

The other orc reached behind his back. "I cannot help you go back, but I can help you look forward." He withdrew a cloth bundle, unwrapping it. A glass shard with jagged edges lay within. He set it down between them. "This is how you will avoid making your own unforgiveable mistake."

Grommash didn't touch it. "You were carrying this the entire time?"

"Yes, Chief Hellscream."

It had an edge that could kill, if wielded by a motivated orc. And you didn't use it even when four orcs were trying to kick the life out of you? Few would have had such restraint. "What is it?"

The stranger smiled. "A friend called it a… glint of time. He thought its edges were too sharp, so now I have it." He rapped a knuckle on the shard. The sound was almost musical. "This will prove my words."

"Then speak."

"Let me describe something. Weapons." The stranger's eyes gleamed.

Grommash listened. The stranger spoke of magical energy concentrated into an explosive moment, a "mana bomb." Skilled creatures of power called "sorcerers" could hone and refine it until it had the potential to wipe out an entire clan in an instant.

"Such a weapon exists," the stranger said.

He continued, describing armaments beyond belief. Devices of metal and fire that could blast apart solid rock, spinning blades large enough to shred enemies with the slightest touch, siege weapons that could be used by land or by sea. "Such weapons exist."

"I've never seen them," Grommash said.

"Not yet," the stranger said, "but I can teach you how to build them, how to use them, how enemies might counter them. But the Warsongs cannot build them alone. You will need other clans, their resources and skills."

Grommash's eyes narrowed. "Then I'd rather not have them. Why would I ever want to give the other clans the means to wipe out my people in a single, treacherous attack?" Joining Warsong to other clans can only end badly for us all. He gestured beyond the tent walls. "We have the most fertile parts of Nagrand, and with them, enough food, shelter, and hunting to last for years. No clan has the spine to challenge us. They know they would pay dearly."

"So that is how the Warsongs live now? Complacent and satisfied with what they have? Wanting nothing more?" The stranger's mouth twitched into a shadow of a smile.

The words bit deep, yet Grommash felt no anger. The glut of mak'rogahn matches proved that his people were anything but satisfied. Odd that the stranger had such insight. "Wanting more is a long, long road from needing your impossible weapons."

… give me the warrior's death I deserve…

Grommash ruthlessly shoved her voice away. Why did the stranger keep bringing her to mind? Her memory only reminded him of his clan's shame, yet it wouldn't stay buried.

"True. But you needn't fear the other clans. They won't turn against you, Hellscream." The torch's light shimmered in the stranger's eyes. "You would use these weapons against a common foe."

"Who?" The answer was immediately obvious, and he laughed. " The draenei? Are you one of Gul'dan's disciples? He speaks of such things." Gul'dan had made quiet inquiries to Hellscream, and almost certainly to the other clan chieftains, suggesting he had found a new source of power that eclipsed the shamanic arts. This power, Gul'dan claimed, might prove critical in defeating the draenei. Grommash wasn't yet convinced those blue-skinned creatures were dangerous, but Gul'dan's visions were certainly unsettling. "Is that his secret power, stranger? Are you building these weapons on his behalf?"

"No, Chief Hellscream. I have never met Gul'dan…"

"…but my weapons will stop him," Garrosh said harshly.

The flames on the torch popped and crackled. No other sound rang through the tent save the soft rustle of the walls in the breeze. Garrosh could see suspicion in his father's gaze. Not suspicion of Gul'dan. Of Garrosh.

"Stop Gul'dan. From what?"

"Convincing you and every other orc to become slaves," Garrosh said. "Gul'dan will start a war the orcs cannot win alone. He will bring the clans together and offer them a gift, one that would guarantee victory. On that day—"

Grommash interrupted. "What gift?"

It was dangerous to speak over any clan chief, but Garrosh pressed on. His anger at Gul'dan spilled into his words. " On that day, Chief Hellscream, you will be the first to accept this gift, not because you are weak but because you would not let any other orc take such a risk first." Garrosh's eyes twitched, and his voice barely rose above a whisper. "This gift will cost you everything. Your thoughts, your mind, your will… all playthings of your new, unseen masters. My father was deceived in such a way. I am here to make sure you are not."

One of his father's brows rose. "If what you say is true," he said, though it was clear Grommash didn't believe it yet, "then there is no need for your new weapons. The old ones are capable of carving out Gul'dan's heart. An easy end."

Easier than the traitor deserves. "Gul'dan is a puppet. Kill him, and his masters will find another vassal, perhaps generations from now, when I and you and all others who remember him are gone," Garrosh said. "They have long memories, and they are patient when they need to be. No. We will not give them the chance to regroup. We will bait them, expose them, and crush them."

Grommash let out a long breath. "You speak of impossible dangers, stranger. I'm destined to be tricked by an enemy I've never known, who offers me a power I cannot imagine, and the way to avoid this fate is to use weapons I've never seen?" He shook his head. "Words are wind. How do you plan to prove this to me? The shard?" He nodded down at the odd, curved piece of glass resting between them.

Garrosh nodded. "Yes, Chief Hellscream."

"How?"

Garrosh had wondered that himself. In truth, all he had was a guess. But it was a good guess. Growing up in the ruined, shattered Draenor, he had visited a sacred place often, begging the spirits for answers and guidance. They had not answered him for years.

Then Thrall had arrived, and the spirits had shown Garrosh how his father had redeemed himself. That moment had set him on a new path.

"I would like to take the shard to the Stones of Prophecy," Garrosh said. "My own fate was changed by the spirits of Nagrand. I believe yours will be, too."

Grommash scratched his chin. The Stones of Prophecy .

Many shaman from different clans had made pilgrimages to those standing stones, yet few received answers from the spirits who dwelled there. Only those with thunder in their hearts receive guidance through the storms of fate, went the old saying. Grommash had met the wise elder shaman who watched over the site, but he had never bothered to visit the place himself. He was no Bleeding Hollow chieftain who needed to mutilate himself to catch a glimpse of his destiny. He preferred to believe his fate was in his own hands.

Yet this stranger claimed the spirits had guided him. Interesting. "You are a shaman?" Grommash asked.

"No."

"You can commune with the elements?" he pressed.

"No, Chief Hellscream, but I believe they will aid you," the stranger said.

"Why?"

"The destiny of all who live on this world rests on your shoulders. Not just the orcs'. The elements will respond to our need."

"And if they don't?" Grommash asked.

The stranger didn't hesitate. "Take my head. I will have no further need of it."

Grommash slowly lifted Gorehowl and placed its edge on the stranger's neck again. The other orc's eyes met his, unblinking. "That is a very dangerous price to offer, stranger," Grommash said.

" Lok-tar ogar. If there is no convincing you, I have failed."

Grommash lowered his axe and slipped deep into thought. The stranger was a walking mystery. A whirlwind of questions spun through Grommash's mind, yet he voiced none of them. Questions could come later.

What was truly important?

Destiny? Slavery? Honor? Will?

Weakness.

… don't you see it's too late? End it!

Grommash closed his eyes. Weakness. That was the key. This stranger, the one strong enough to overcome four Warsong warriors while bound, the one who fought as though he had a Hellscream's heart, was warning Grommash about weakness, and he claimed he could prove it. He was wagering his life on it.

He could tolerate this stranger a little while longer to know the truth. The Warsong must never be weak again.

The heart of a Warsong means nothing if you have the brains of an ogre, Grommash had said earlier. Grommash had learned that lesson the hard way. He had been so bent on proving his will that he had run blindly into a fight he could not win. An unseen enemy had been waiting for—no, had been counting on—his recklessness.

… I am done…

Grommash opened his eyes and smiled. "We will walk together to the Stones of Prophecy, stranger, and I will hold you to your promise," he said.

The other orc looked gratified. "I'm glad."

The clan chief eyed the stranger's bumps and bruises. "Do you have the strength to keep up?"

"Yes."

Grommash rose to his feet. He glanced out of the tent flaps and saw the first light of dawn creeping above the horizon. "The stones are not terribly far away, and we have much to talk about. If this danger is real, how could I possibly convince the other clans? I am not beloved by many outside the Warsong, stranger."

The other orc stood as well. "But you command their respect, and you will have things to offer them. Spoils of war beyond imagining…"

They stepped together into the shifting hues of the morning's light, a smile tugging the corners of the stranger's lips.

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The spirits at the Stones of Prophecy had been unsettled for days.

For an evening and a morning, they had panicked. Fate is twisted. Someone has come. Events are already changing. The chatter had since dwindled to confused, scattered murmurs.

Elder Zhanak had seen worse. In his decades of watching over the stones, he had grown to understand that the elements were not peaceful but energetic, not passive but adaptive. Sometimes they grew angry. Sometimes they grew fearful. Sometimes they wanted to talk. Not today. Not to Zhanak, certainly not to any pilgrims. He accepted it—what else could he do?—and sat in the shade, meditating, glimpsing an occasional fragment of the elements' unease.

Twisted and turned. Does not belong here. Who is he? Who is he?

Such talk did not frighten him. Fate was a delicate thing. Sometimes the spirits would deign to provide a glimpse of what might be—might be—or what had come before, but they could not plot out the footsteps of any orc, even if they wanted to. The elements could only speak of what they knew, and they did not know everything.

A whisper guided him back to the world. "Elder Zhanak." It was one of the shaman apprentices. "Pilgrims are arriving."

Zhanak didn't bother opening his eyes. His sight had been declining for three decades, and anything farther than two arms' length was a mere smudge of light and shadow. But when the elements were your ally, waning senses were not so crippling. "Three of them, yes?"

"Four."

Zhanak frowned. The spirits were aware of only three orcs approaching. "You're certain?"

"One is Chief Grommash Hellscream. He has two Warsong guards. I do not recognize the fourth," the apprentice said.

"I see." Zhanak raised a gnarled hand. "Please, help me up." The apprentice carefully pulled him to his feet. Weak knees trembled for a moment but held. The shaman nodded, satisfied. His walking stick would keep him upright for long enough. "You should step away, young one."

"No."

"I am not asking," Zhanak said gently. "Hellscream and I understand each other, but today will be a little different, I think. He may not be pleased when I tell him to leave. I have nothing to fear from him. He could take my head, but what would he truly steal but the little time I have left? He would take much more from you. Go." The apprentice hesitated but finally stepped away.

Zhanak stood alone and waited for the Warsongs—and their strange guest—to arrive. He began to listen closely, very closely indeed, as the spirits' murmurs grew louder and louder.

It is he. He is here. He is here. HE IS HERE.

The spirits were panicking again. Zhanak's hands tightened on his walking stick. Fate is a delicate thing, he thought grimly. Let's see if we can protect it today.

"The Blackrock clan is not so welcoming, stranger," said Grommash Hellscream. He stepped around a small rock in the middle of the path. Two Warsong guards trailed behind him by a few respectful paces. "Neither is the Shattered Hand clan. They will want more than trinkets and promises."

"Once they are convinced that another world is for the taking, they will only want a greater share of the spoils. You won't have to give up Nagrand," Garrosh said. "There is a place called Ironforge—the Blackrocks will sacrifice much to claim it. The Shattered Hand? Give them the land near a place called Sen'jin Village. I will even help them take it." And I will enjoy it.

Garrosh kept his glee hidden. His father was seriously considering his words. Already Grommash was contemplating ways to shepherd a united orc people, a Horde. I suppose I should thank you, Kairoz, Garrosh thought. "And if that is not enough for the moment," he added, "tell them about the marvels we'll plunder from the draenei."

"You said they were not the threat Gul'dan claims," Grommash said.

"They aren't, but they will stand in the way eventually. Better to deal with them sooner than later. You will see," Garrosh said.

Grommash didn't look convinced. "Perhaps." He fell silent as they finally topped the last rise. The Stones of Prophecy were only a short distance away.

An orc was waiting for them, standing next to a nearby tree. "Elder Zhanak," the clan chief called, "it is good to see you again."

The old orc, his hands twisted and gnarled with age, leaned heavily on a stick. "It has been too many seasons since I've seen you last, Chief Hellscream, but words of your conquests have reached my ears. You've brought much honor to the Warsongs," he said with warmth and respect.

Garrosh stepped forward. If my father is friends with him, I should be, too. "Greetings, elder. I have journeyed a long way and—"

The elder cut him off. "I know." The warmth was gone. "What is your name?"

"I come as a stranger and nothing more."

"What is your name, outsider?" The venom in Zhanak's voice left Garrosh speechless. The elder raised a crooked finger and said, "You do not belong here. The spirits loathe your presence. You bring chaos to this world merely by existing."

Garrosh glanced at his father and saw a veil of doubt drop over his eyes. This old shaman could ruin everything. "I am indeed from a land far away, but—"

"I can smell your lies before you speak, outsider." The shaman was actually hissing with fury . He took slow, deliberate steps forward, staring directly into Garrosh's face, veins standing out against his wrinkled skin. "Fate itself retches. You intend to topple everything about this world."

An oppressive presence seemed to weigh down on Garrosh's mind. The spirits really did loathe him. If you knew what I gladly did to your brethren in Durotar, you would strike me down on the spot. He reached behind his back for the shard, quickly unwrapping it. "This will prove—"

The shaman slapped it out of Garrosh's grip. "I do not care for your vile tricks," Zhanak said, voice rising. He had cut his hand badly on the shard's jagged edges but did not seem to notice his blood dripping to the ground. "Chief Hellscream, it will save you untold pain and heartache to kill this obscenity without delay. His every step will lead to the deaths of countless innocents. Watch. He will deny it."

"I deny nothing," Garrosh snarled. He pointed toward the shard, lying in the grass. "I will topple everything. I must. That will show you why."

"From his own mouth, he condemns himself," Zhanak said softly. "Kill him. Kill him now."

"Do you believe there could be a fate worse than death, elder?" Garrosh struggled to keep a respectful tone. The slightest sign of contempt might turn his father against him. "I do not bring peace. I bring war. Chaos. Death. Each of us could die in agony a thousand times over, and it would be a fair price to avoid what fate has decreed for all orcs."

"Elder Zhanak," Grommash said, "this stranger claims that all orcs will soon fall into enslavement."

"What must be, must be," Zhanak said.

With that one statement, Garrosh knew he had an opening. "No. I will not sit idle and wait for oblivion." Garrosh turned to Grommash, imploring. "Neither will you. I know it."

"Zhanak," Grommash said, "I must see for myself. If he has found… weakness… within our people, it must be corrected."

Zhanak shook his head. "The spirits will not speak with you today."

"I have the right to ask."

"But he doesn't." Zhanak pointed at Garrosh again. "Insist on bringing him with you, and I will stand in your way. You will have to kill me."

Garrosh resisted the urge to break the elder's finger off. I will enjoy your death, you senile halfwit, he thought. "I will stay here with the elder, Chief Hellscream. Take the shard. Speak with the spirits. This is too important to delay."

Grommash stood silent for a long moment, weighing Garrosh with his gaze. "Elder Zhanak, I must do this. I must know for certain."

Zhanak's expression screwed up into a grimace, as though he tasted something foul. "Very well. Get it over with."

Grommash carefully picked up the glass shard. "You, stay here," he said to the male Warsong guard. To the female, he said, "Accompany me." They walked down the path toward the standing stones.

Garrosh said not a word. He kept his eyes on his father, ignoring the poisonous glare from the elder. The remaining Warsong guard was watching Garrosh closely.

"Should it go badly for you," the guard said, "don't run. It will be much, much easier for you if you accept your fate."

"It may go badly for me, but if I can't change his fate, it will go worse for you," Garrosh said, "and I have no intention of seeing it happen."

The guard grunted. Garrosh stared at the stones. A dead weight settled in his stomach.

It's out of my hands now.

Grommash stepped into the center of the stone ring after handing Gorehowl to his guard. "Do not disturb me, and do not lose that," he told her.

"Yes, Chief Hellscream."

The air was alive with power. Each of Grommash's movements seemed to disturb the spirits. Zhanak had not been lying—they hated the stranger. Perhaps that meant there was no hope at all to get any answers. But the stranger will pay the price for that, not I, Grommash thought grimly. It would be a shame to remove such a remarkable orc's head, but a promise was a promise.

Grommash held the glass shard flat in both palms and inspected it closely. There were tiny pinpricks of bronze light shimmering throughout the glass, like small grains of sand trapped within its mass. A fascinating object.

Perhaps there was some traditional way to greet the spirits. If so, Grommash didn't know it. He would be direct. If they didn't respond, so be it. "The stranger believes the fate of this world rests upon my choices," Grommash said, lifting the glass. "He also claims the proof lies within this. Prove him wrong and he will die here. Show me the truth, one way or the other."

The air swirled. Small motes of fire, droplets of water, and specks of rock were caught in a vortex of rushing wind bearing down on the shard.

Grommash didn't flinch as power filled the shard, even as a sharp light stung his eyes and a mist rose among the Stones of Prophecy, and suddenly Grommash was carried away—

In a blink of an eye, Grommash vanished. A solid wall of mist, like no fog Garrosh had ever seen—certainly not when Thrall had shown him a vision—filled the circle of standing stones. The guard at the edge of the stones leaned left and right, trying to spot the clan chief through the haze.

The guard near Garrosh tensed up. "If you've killed our chieftain, stranger, you will die next," he snapped.

Garrosh shook his head. "He's fine." His words belied the sudden fear that seized his heart. How would the spirits react upon glimpsing another world, another time? Would they panic?Might they kill Grommash? "This is all as I expected." This has to work. Confidence. He needed to show confidence.

Light suddenly shone within the mist.

Elder Zhanak cried out, "No!"

The other two orcs turned. The shaman had collapsed to the ground. "No!" he screamed again. "This must not be!" The guard knelt next to him, holding him by the shoulders as the old orc quivered and convulsed.

He's seeing what my father is seeing. That oppressive feeling of disgust and hatred lifted away. So are the spirits. And they were as horrified as elder Zhanak.

Garrosh turned back toward the Stones of Prophecy, and waited.

—days and weeks and months rushed past with each blink. Grommash stared in awe.

It was all the stranger said was true.

A war the orcs could not win. The blue blood of the draenei and the dark crimson blood of orcs mingling together on the battlefield. The terrifying numbers of a united orc people, far beyond anything the Warsong could ever have mustered alone. This is the Horde. Grommash could scarcely conceive of its power. The stranger had not even come close to describing its potential.

Time continued to whirl past. He saw the slow decay of the land as a new power—warlocks—was embraced. He saw orcish skin changing color, patches of green appearing even on those who never touched the corrupted energy.

He saw Gul'dan's "miracle," a gift of untold might from an unseen benefactor. And, yes… Grommash was the one who strode forward and drank the gift first.

But the stranger had been wrong. Grommash cared little for the danger to other orcs. He would be first because he would not ignore a single thought: None will be stronger than I. Not for a moment. I will never be weak.

Hellscream stared into the mist of prophecy and watched himself drink the glowing liquid and felt its effects as keenly as if he were there. He felt his body transform. He felt the tingling fury as his skin turned entirely green. He felt the power encompass all that he was.

"I feel… magnificent!"he shouted in the vision. "Give me draenei flesh to tear and rip! Draenei blood on my face… I will drink it down until I can hold no more! Give me their blood!"

It was magnificent.

And it was wrong. His thoughts were no longer his own. He could feel that, too.

The mist carried him forward.

The elder shaman cried out again. " Must not be!" He was quaking, flailing, his eyes squeezed closed. Spittle dripped from the corner of his lips.

The Warsong guard kept glancing toward the Stones of Prophecy. "Is he dying? Is Hellscream?" he asked.

Garrosh gestured down the road. "Go. I will stay here. If need be, pull Hellscream free of the mist."

The guard needed no further encouragement. He sprinted toward the stones. Garrosh knelt down next to Zhanak, feeling a strange sense of relief. "Do you understand?" he asked the elder. "This is why I traveled here. To stop this."

The shaman clutched his chest, fingers digging into the skin just above his heart as he writhed and muttered. The gash on his palm, where he had cut himself on the shard, left red streaks across his robe. "Not meant to be. Must not happen. Not meant to be. Must not happen." His breaths came shallow and quick. He opened his eyes. "Still hope. Redemption. Redemption."

"Yes," Garrosh said softly. "Redemption. That is why I'm here." He grasped one of the old orc's arms and felt the racing, fluttering heartbeat. Was he dying? Possibly. "I will give our people redemption."

Zhanak didn't seem to hear. "Hellscream has the heart. The heart to change it all."

"Yes," Garrosh agreed.

"The heart to resist. To fight. To unite all orcs. To lead."

Garrosh sat cross-legged and propped up the shaman's head on his lap. "Yes. All of those things and more." He gently patted the elder on the shoulder. At least the old fool understands now.

"Peace… we might see peace…"

Garrosh's hand went still.

Lok-tar ogar. Victory or death. The vision showed both. A victory against the draenei and then the death of this world as fel magic corrupted it all.

The elements themselves would be driven to ruin. Grommash could feel their dismay shaking the Stones of Prophecy. This vision was as surprising to them as it was to him.

Then came another magnificent idea from Gul'dan—invade a new world. Azeroth. The Horde charged through a portal, earning victories, destroying cities, slaughtering all who stood in their way.

The victories didn't last. When defeat came, it was total. The orcs who survived were rounded up and held captive in camps.

And they didn't fight back.

Even those who had been Warsong. They didn't fight back. Their corrupted power had vanished, leaving them listless.

Our souls. Our souls will be gone. Grommash wanted to weep.

Zhanak's eyes focused again on Garrosh's face. "You've seen. You know. A united people. Protecting one another. Glorious. Hellscream could lead his people there. He has the heart. Glorious…"

"That is the Horde, elder," Garrosh said.

"Hellscream can bear it. He can overcome it. The corruption will not be the end." Tears streamed down Zhanak's face. His voice was laced with joy and hope. "One world in ruins, but the other stronger than ever. Hellscream's sacrifice saves us all. You've seen it…"

The vision took him again and he began to tremble anew.

Garrosh glanced around. The two guards were pacing at the edge of the mist, clearly debating whether to interrupt the vision. Nobody else was in sight. If this shaman had caretakers or apprentices, they were not nearby.

"I have seen it, elder," Garrosh said. He reached down, pinching the old shaman's nostrils shut with one hand and pressing the other firmly across his lips. "And I will not see it again."

Muffled grunts escaped around Garrosh's fingers, yet the shaman could bring no air into his lungs. Zhanak's hands clawed at Garrosh.

"The ancestors will welcome you home," Garrosh murmured, staring straight ahead.

He waited for the muffled grunts and the squirming and the heartbeat to go quiet. They did. Still he kept his hands in place for a thirty count.

Then he gently laid the shaman down. "The ancestors will welcome you home," Garrosh said again, meaning it. The elder had commanded respect even from Grommash Hellscream. It was a shame he needed to die.

Garrosh strode down toward the Stones of Prophecy. Perhaps the elements would be enraged by what he had just done. Or perhaps they had not seen anything at all. The vision seemed to have enthralled them.

And that reminds me…

Gorehowl was in the arms of one of Grommash's guards. Garrosh smiled and reached for it.

Captivity. Horror. Death. Even the orcs outside the camps could barely scavenge an existence on this unfamiliar world. Even Grommash Hellscream, the orc with the iron will, the orc with the giant's heart, the fearsome leader of the Warsong… he fought a losing battle against lethargy and despair, living his life hiding from the orcs' conquerors, secretly longing for death.

His thoughts mirrored her voice. Golka's voice. He finally understood. She had not been weak. Not for a moment. How had he not seen that?

… give me the warrior's death I deserve…

"This cannot be!" Grommash howled. "This must not be!"

The elements echoed his emotions. Must. Not. Be. The demonic taint would nearly eradicate them as well. They would all suffer together.

This must not be. Ever. Grommash felt conviction sinking into his bones. Conviction and anger. My clan will never fall to such depths. Any price to avoid this fate.

Any.

The vision continued. A new orc, raised by humans, was forced to fight for their amusement. Strong though he was, he was humiliated and beaten constantly, even given the name Thrall. But soon he dreamed of escape, and—

"You fools, pull him out!"

The voice came from outside the vision. Grommash ignored it. What could be more important than this? He watched as the mist showed the young orc learning to read and—

"It killed the shaman! We have to stop this vision now!"

The handle of Gorehowl entered his eyesight—his real eyesight—and swung downward. Pain shot through Grommash's wrist. His hand opened by reflex, and the shard of glass that had channeled such horrifying visions fell to the ground. The mists vanished. The sights and sounds disappeared.

It was over.

Grommash fell to his knees, gasping.

"Chief Hellscream!" The stranger was kneeling at his side. He held Gorehowl. "Are you well?"

Grommash slowly regained his composure. Very slowly. He did not look up until his breathing had calmed. The air continued to swirl around them. The elements were distressed.

Finally, Grommash stood. "Give me that," he said, extending his hand. The stranger handed over Gorehowl. "Why did you interfere?"

The stranger pointed past the edge of the stones, toward the tree where the shaman was waiting. "The vision killed the elder, Hellscream," he said. "I never imagined it could be so dangerous. I feared it would kill you too."

"His heart could not bear to see what I saw." Grommash seized the stranger by the throat and hurled him backward against one of the stones. An instant later, Grommash placed Gorehowl against his neck. "What happened next?"

"What?" the stranger asked.

"I saw slavery and death. That cannot be how it ended." The edge of Gorehowl pressed deep, just shy of breaking skin. "What happened to me? What happened to my clan?"

"You fought to the end, Hellscream. You and others." That sounded like an admission the stranger didn't want to make. "But it was too late. Our hearts had been ripped out. Do you see now? The price for Gul'dan's power is—"

"Everything," Grommash interrupted. His voice was hoarse. Slowly he pulled Gorehowl away. "It will cost us everything."

"Yes. But you saw something else, Hellscream."

Grommash's eyes were haunted. "What?"

"You saw the might of unity," the stranger said quietly. "All orcs marching under one banner. Imagine that with no masters. No corruption. Imagine it. A Horde with Warsong leadership. What limits would there be? What world could stand against us?"

Grommash turned away. His mind still reeled. "Weakness. I thought myself strong, and that would have led me to ruin." Oh, Golka. I vow I will have your strength. If I fall, I will fall in battle... I will spill oceans of blood to avoid the fate the stranger has shown me. Even my own. I swear it.

"Yes, Chief Hellscream," the stranger said. "But now you know what you face. There are enemies waiting to enslave us. Gul'dan's masters. Those on this other world. Who else but you could rise to such a challenge? Who else but you could be a father to all clans?"

Nobody. Nobody else. None but he could know the sheer horror of their fate. None but he would do anything to avoid it.

"This other world conquered us. They are strong. We must be stronger." Grommash felt his soul roar. I will be stronger. "We may fail, stranger, but if so, we will die trying, won't we?"

"Lok-tar ogar," the stranger said.

The two Warsong guards repeated it softly. "Lok-tar ogar."

Grommash lifted Gorehowl to eye level, inspecting his reflection in the polished metal. "We will never be slaves. Not on this world or any other." Any price to avoid this fate, he thought again. Grommash looked at his reflection and then over to the stranger. "You remind me of someone."

"Who?"

Her, Grommash didn't say out loud. It was impossible. But had he not just seen the impossible with his own eyes? "It doesn't matter. How long do we have, stranger?"

"Months. Beyond that, I do not know."

"This must be kept hidden from Gul'dan. We want him blind until the day comes." He turned toward the two guards. "Run back to camp. Tell our scouts to prepare quickly. We will need to send messages to all the other clans in secret. Go!"

They did not hesitate. Grommash and the stranger watched them sprint away.

"We must warn them not to even consider touching Gul'dan's new power," Grommash grunted. "This will not be easy."

"Indeed."

Grommash gave the stranger a long look. "Will you fight with the Warsong?"

"To the death."

"I thought so," the clan chief said. "You indeed have the heart of a Warsong. Stay by my side. We have a long road ahead of us."

The stranger's eyes gleamed.

"I will enjoy every step," he said.

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Introducing a custom character of mine.

Name:Grukal Blackforge

Race:Blackrock Orc

Biography:Born during the Rise of the Iron Horde in Gorgrond, Grukal grew to be a feared pyromancer with a large degree in tactical knowledge, He uses his skills to serve the better of the Blackrock's goals in Gorgrond and against the Primals, although he has pondered about trying to submit the Breakers to his will.

Skills:Pyromancy, organizing or leading armies.

Weaknesses:Can be beaten by those superior to him in pyromancy, hotheaded and very impatient, prefers a hand on approach to conflicts rather then peace talks / or diplomacy.

Strengths:Wise and powerful, good strategical knowledge.

Romantical interests:Warlord Zaela, Azuka Bladefury, and Marak the Blooded.

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After the vision at the Stones of Prophecy, Grommash and Garrosh returned to Grommashar to prepare. On the way they spoke like they did while coming to the Stones of Prophecy.

Garrosh spoke first, grunting. ''Now, do you see? This is why we must gather the clans and warn them not to touch Gul'dan's gift, We must conquer the other world and this world, so that no one will call us their slaves...EVER again. We must gather the Shattered Hand, The Burning Blade, the Blackrocks, the Shadowmoon, all of them if we are to free the Horde from this...this slavery.

Grommash replied. ''Indeed, once we return to Grommashar I will send a ambassador to Dharl, aswell as send messengers to the clans to tell them not to even consider the gift, But first we must secure Nagrand from Gul'dan's lackeys, aswell as tighten fortifications and defenses. and make drawbacks incase Grommashar is successfully sieged and one of us is at risk.''

Garrosh noted his father's...somewhat strategical and wise knowledge. ''Very well. I would also recommend allying the Gorian Empire, for their arcane knowledge, and due to our lack of...good spellcasters. And their Breakers...they are immune or have a very high resistance to fel and the shadow magics.''

Grommash growled. ''The Ogre's aid...grrr...If it will stop the threat of Gul'dan everlooming above the Orcs, very well..'' Grommash snarled. clearly not liking siding with the Gorian Empire due to the orc and ogre's particular dislike of each other. Garrosh decided to stop here, knowing it was not wise to make a enemy of Grommash Hellscream.

Eventually, they returned to Grommashar as to where Grommash sent the messengers to Dharl and the other Warlords. Grommash ordered the peons to construct more fortifications around their lands aswell as send a expedition to a abandoned shoreline to give the Warsong a navy power. sending General Kull'krosh to oversee it's construction. Grommash smiled. ''Gul'dan you pathetic cripple, the Warsong will come for you soon.'' he thought.

Eventually, the message to the Warlords was received, and they agreed to meet at the border to Talador and Nagrand.

Kargath growled, being the first to arrive. ''What is this about, Grommash?''

Kilrogg Deadeye spoke second. ''I agree, what is this? Something about Gul'dan?''

Grommash replied. ''Indeed, Gul'dan would seek to manipulate, deceive and lie to us to corrupt us and destroy our homeworld. I seek to stop him.''

Blackhand grunted. ''What proof do you even have?'' spoke the Blackrock Warlord, Blackhand gave a narrow glance at him and Garrosh, not trusting Garrosh due to never seeing him before, and he assumed this is why Grommash called him here.

The son of Hellscream noticed the glance, yet said nothing. He eventually showed them the schematics for the Iron Horde's industry and warpower. Blackhand saw schematics for war-machines, new ships, and even weapons the mighty warmaster himself could not think of on his own. Garrosh:''These weapons will give us what we need to beat back Gul'dan and the clandestine warband he calls the Shadow Council, and as a sign of good faith..'' He gave the schematics to Warlord Blackhand, Surprised at how he would just give away this schematic for nothing Blackhand growled. ''If this is a trick, I will personally conquer Nagrand and kill you, boy.'' He looked at Grommash. ''I doubt that.'' he snorted. Grommash and Garrosh walked back to Grommashar, with the Warlords leaving aswell. Knowing his friendship with Dharl would guarantee the Blade's aid Grommash felt confident that the Iron Horde would be victorious in unifying.

Grommash:''The Horde will rise, and this world will be ours...'' Grommash was already beginning to think of ideas on how to shepherd the united Orc Race under his rule..Grommash smiled.

After some time, a messenger from the Blackrock Clan, aswell as 4 other Blackrocks appeared.

Messenger:''Consider this a gift from Blackhand the Destroyer.'' The 4 unwrapped the siege weapon, It was a Iron Star Carrier.

Grommash:''Excellent...Bring this weapon to the Throne and let the rise of the IRON horde begin!''

The Warsong warriors then brought the carrier to the Throne.

Meanwhile, the port has been finished, deemed Dreadfang Harbor by Kull'krosh.

(watch the cinematic, not bothering to really care to show something you can just watch ingame or on youtube + other media, will give you this though.)

Grommash breathed, and raised Gorehowl in the air. ''WE WILL NEVER BE SLAVES!'' The Warlord with a Iron Will roared in fervor, as the Orcs cheered. ''But, we WILL BE CONQUERORS!'' The Orcs cheered in unison, as the Iron Horde was formed...

Grommash:''THIS IS THE RISE OF THE IRON HORDE, WE WILL CONQUER DRAENOR OR DIE TRYING!''

Grommash:''Join us OR DIE!''

Durotan and the Frostwolves, not seeing point did not even come to the clan gathering, The 6 warlords eagerly joined, although Ner'zhul out of fear also agreed.

Grommash:''Send a messenger to the Gorian Empire, Tell them to prove their worth or be made extinct. I will arrive to Nagrand soon.''

A messenger was immediately sent.

(The code of Rule short story:)

The orc messenger with the scarred face hiked toward Highmaul's gates, struggling her way up stone steps half her height.

Highmaul's ogres stopped to watch her. Rank brutes leered at her from the darkness looming over the path to the summit. Wealthier Gorians looked out from mound-homes ornamented with trophies from their dead enemies.

Another observer watched the messenger's approach from a tower, disgust filling both of his minds. This orc trod atop the mountain the ogres' blood families had shaped over lifetimes, pressing and tearing the very rock until it became city and palace and fortress and home.

Still, she had been permitted on the lift to Highmaul's second rise with a wordless lowering of spears. It was custom to treat lone visitors with curiosity. They could always be killed later.

When the lift shivered to a stop, the messenger saw a dozen haggard orc slaves manning the pulleys. They slunk off one by one, casting glances at her over their shoulders.

The messenger peered farther up the mountain. Just visible, jutting forth from Highmaul's peak, was the outline of a vast balcony—the Throne of the Imperator, where dwelled the ogres' sorcerer king—but it was a long climb from where she stood, breathing hard in the dusty open between filthy-smelling slave hovels. Her nose crinkled.

A cadre of enormous, elegantly robed ogres tromped toward her, moving with surprising quickness. The tallest and largest among them (clearly hurrying to be first on the scene) was near in seconds, reeling to a stop like a downhill pushcart regaining control. He reeked of grease and animal fat mixed with perfume, though his straw-colored, sleeveless robes were immaculate. (They had been cleaned more recently than his body.) The ogre's huge belly hung out of his clothing, and he hefted it with one hand to scrub beneath, not breaking eye contact with the messenger.

His voice was silken. "I am High Councilor Vareg. I speak for the king. You may share your message until I am through with my meal, and then you may depart Highmaul with your soft bones intact."

So saying, he produced a pungent-scented hunk of elekk shoulder and took one crunching bite, spraying webs of white fat. It was half-gone, meat and bone alike, and he immediately pursed his lips for another bite, a proven means to elicit haste.

The messenger looked at each of the ogres in turn. "I bring a message from Grommash Hellscream, warchief of the Iron Horde, to all ogres of Nagrand." She paused. "If you wish to draw breath upon Draenor one day longer, you will earn your lives."

The ogres—all of the ogres—laughed. By the time they were finished, grit was trickling off of the lift in response.

"Oh?" Vareg demurred, worrying gristle out of his yellow teeth with a fingernail, not looking at her. "Speak further. How?"

The messenger stretched out her words, annoyed. "Crawl before the Iron Horde with your eyes down. Empty your coffers into our hands. Roll on your bellies and beg. I do not care. Prove your worth, or be made extinct." The last word came out in a snarl.

Vareg leaned forward, body curling as though he would fall upon her like a cave-in. "Little one, we hold a hundred orc families in chains." He gestured with the chunk of meat at a slave plodding behind a feed cart. "Hellscream may not value your life, but will he behave so flippantly with theirs?"

The messenger looked straight up at the ogre. "They are dead already."

She turned to leave.

Her phrasing was particular. ( Prove your worth, not submit or surrender.) The orcs of the Iron Horde were confident enough to be impudent, but they made no precise demands for tribute or territory restored. The ultimatum was open ended. Agency was the listener's.

The sorcerer king had phrased similar demands so himself.

Imperator Mar'gok, two-headed sorcerer king of the Highmaul, he whose ancestors had tamed avalanche and wind to build the first keeps and colonnades and reservoirs upon wild Nagrand, did not move from his balcony.

The imperator had been watching the day unfold at a distance, his vision stretched down to Highmaul's streets through a lens of carved quartz. Four natural eyes normally provided him with plenty to take in, but the hours he'd spent staring had begun to make one of his heads swim. (Was there more to see? Should he stop?) It was strange feeling conflict within his minds, when he had always felt his brains working together as two legs should.

Mar'gok squinted, trying to imagine how one of his subjects—a two-eyed, one-headed, one-brained ogre—would peer down at the splendor of the city. Would he focus his entire gaze, all his thoughts, on a single point at a time? It would be impossible to rule that way. Everything would seem blurry.

Mar'gok saw the baggy blobs of his councilors walk back from their meeting, stopping among the gardens (likely to argue). Then he watched the russet-brown dot of the messenger as she left.

The attack was not long off. (Such a message was always delivered as an afterthought, not a prelude.)

Howls echoed through Mar'gok's streets from every direction, as though Draenor itself had been surrounded by wolves. Beyond the western parapets, spheres of smoke and flame tumbled through the air toward glorious Highmaul. If they impacted the outer walls, drum towers would topple, clogging pathways down the mountain. The forces of Highmaul's upper rises would be cut off from supporting the lower; the lifts were too slow. Relief forces rushing through the breach were likely to lose their footing among the rubble and get slaughtered in droves, their bodies transforming from instruments of war to hurdles for their fellows.

Or the Iron Horde would bound up the eastern sculpture path on the backs of their deft wolves, whose jaws would drip red as they bit open ogres' stomachs. Highmaul's eastern line of defense was nearly all brutes, and they had a habit of responding to charges by tossing their spears aside in the hope of cracking puny jawbones in their hands before dying. (Had they been lashed recently?)

What if the orcs sped past their lines and gained access to the slave pens? Could they arm the slaves, raise a revolt?

The risks were many. Imperator Mar'gok contemplated them as the patter of arrows grew audible on his balcony. He decided—commanded.

He had ordered all slaves to be barricaded in their pens; any who were unruly were to be slaughtered on the spot. The bodies, lent to flies, would be locked inside with the living.

The lowest tier of Highmaul, where dwelled smaller, poorer, unproven Gorians, would receive the immediate assault. Mar'gok ordered a throng of sentinels there, seasoned warriors, to halt their enemies' ascent. The sentinels carried the imperator's standard of purple and gold, and their bellowing shook rocks from the hills.

At the vanguard, red-skinned Gorian magic breakers charged unharmed through their enemies' glowing spells, crumpling orcish bodies beneath the sweeps of mighty clubs and stomping throats flat. Yet more of the Iron Horde came on.

Ragtag Warsong riders fought side by side with other orcs: painted howlers who decorated their faces in whirls of blood, squads of helmeted infantry without a hint of muscle exposed beneath sooty steel plates, maimed fanatics sworn to the gladiator Kargath, with blades in place of their hands. The only characteristic they all seemed to share was an insignia, a spiky red scrawl adorning banners and shields.

And weapons. Every drop of ingenuity in the Iron Horde had gone toward its means of killing. (How had they invented so much so quickly? It was as if generations of progress had fallen into their laps.)

Teams of orcs, straining behind their catapult chains, sent wheels of fire screeching through the sky, setting alight ogre flesh and melting walls into mortar.

In the orcs' hands, dual-pointed blades spun like wheels; steel wagons, staggering forward on spiderlike legs, carried soldiers over the moats that had once made Mar'gok's city so impregnable. The Iron Horde was surrounding Highmaul's defenders, even on the narrow pathways that ogres filled shoulder to shoulder.

Five orcs stood inside a metal ram topped with a fire-spewing fist, charging up a livestock path toward the city. Ogres fell before the ram like great burning effigies until it squelched to a stop against one hammer-wielding brute in a gush of sparks. He toppled off the path with half of his chest bored through and the exit hole sputtering ash.

The orcs took no prisoners. Even atop Imperator's Rise, at the pinnacle of Highmaul, the smoke and charnel scent of dying ogres reached both sets of Mar'gok's nostrils. His belly burbled eagerly.

As the Iron Horde ate up his city from its toes, the sorcerer king of the Highmaul stood far above the carnage, surrounded by the wrought shale pillars of his first great project, the halls of the Gorthenon.

Mar'gok's council spanned the wide floor. They were great, ancient ogres, hunched like resting tigers or posing godlike atop huge stones they'd carried up several flights. At a respectful distance from the council, stock-still rows of military advisors and champions waited, bearing bludgeons and worn armor. A few exhibited the strange red, blue, or gray coloration and archaic tattoos that marked them as magic breakers, warriors subjected to rituals and training that rendered them immune to spell schools, a decree the sorcerer king had levied on one in twenty Gorians during his reign. The breakers' faint success in holding back the Iron Horde was evident in their posture; they looked fully prepared to spring from the discussion and maim Highmaul's enemies at a moment's notice.

There were no places to sit. Several councilors paced the Gorthenon's floor, orbiting the imperator, the largest ogre among them, a gargantuan creature whose muscle and fat took turns dominating his image. A long horn punched up from his right head; a purple sash puddled around his feet. Beneath his hoods, Mar'gok's jaws were clenched in study. He held callused palms open toward the assembly.

Of all in the room, only High Councilor Vareg looked more eager.

"Our primalists will shatter the north slope," he spat. "The north peak will fall, and it will slide down upon them and squish their small heads all at once." The grease on his face twinkled.

As they listened to Vareg, a few of the council members looked ready to swallow his blood, but most, particularly the magic breakers, stamped in agreement. This was a hall of both governance and violence; those who disagreed too long would bash in one another's skulls to support their points. Finding common ground was crucial.

Mar'gok growled, his voices echoing in the chamber. "No."

Impatient, hungry (low-born) Vareg, his thoughts ever on rising, rising, rising, looked as though he had been sent to die in the coliseum.

Staring at Vareg with one head while the other scanned the council crowd, Mar'gok let their mumbles dwindle. "The orcs and their weapons are too great in number. They will not be destroyed in one strike, and you risk the foundation of the city. No. Our legions at the front will retreat to the Path of Victors and force them to ascend. If they need ropes to climb our steps, they can be slowed."

Highmaul had squashed every attempt to settle within leagues of her majesty. The enemy would be tired from marching, riding. A true siege of the city could take days. (The Iron Horde's supply trains would need to be substantial.)

Vareg was powerful, a mage-lord with many victories and an unusual knack for both disobedience and survival. "By letting them enter the city, you give them the initiative. Even if we cripple their supplies or cut their ropes, they will leave our warriors with little hope of escape."

"Escape?" mused Mar'gok. "You think, then, that Highmaul will fall?"

Silence.

Mar'gok rolled a stone in his palm. It had been worn smooth by his calluses. "You think"—he clicked one tongue—"preventing deaths among our army is more valuable than preventing the death of Highmaul?" No one had said so, but no one spoke up to deny it.

The pitch of Vareg's voice rose. "Imperator, you are far from the battlefield. You cannot see our soldiers or our enemies. If you will not let us bring down the mountain, then let us meet them with our full force. If we retreat, our losses will be great. You will regret each after we have won."

Vareg's words echoed, and most of the councilors moved away from him to stand beside their imperator, their support no quieter for being wordless. Noticing them, Vareg looked even more irate. "The orcs are so small that they will not even be able to remove our dead!" he snarled.

Mar'gok's faces remained outwardly stolid. "Perhaps it is simpler than I thought. Join me, and use your vast knowledge of the Iron Horde to bring us victory."

"Join… you, Imperator? You will fight?"

"No. While our forces pull back and stymie the orcs, we travel to the Iron Horde warchief and make him show us peace. By sending his messenger, Grommash Hellscream has all but promised us safe passage."

A few centurions and one additional magic breaker would serve as the imperator's personal guard; he did not dare borrow more from the front lines. Swiveling his heads toward the magic breakers, Mar'gok boomed, "The strongest among you will accompany me."

Mar'gok was dismayed to see a blue-marked breaker, covered in messy runes that looked as though they had been scraped onto his body with a rock, promptly shoved forward by his fellows. Apparently, the breaker shared his imperator's dismay.

"Imperator," he intoned gravely, "I have crushed four shaman skulls tonight. I am not fit to trade sweet words. Let me stay and fight for the glory of Highmaul!"

"What is your name, breaker?" Mar'gok asked, slowly, softly, as though speaking to a meal.

"Ko'ragh, Imperator."

"Ko'ragh," Mar'gok continued. "You may not stay. Your death will buy Highmaul less than your life. Further"—Mar'gok cut off the possibility of objection, and the breaker's maw slapped shut—"the time and manner of your death are your imperator's to choose. Do you understand?" At that, Ko'ragh saluted, one meaty fist thumping his chest.

Vareg—never one to let others be the focus of attention for more than a moment—was quick to raise his voice. "And how will I serve, Imperator?"

Mar'gok allowed himself to show smiles. "You will drag my cart."

The high councilor gaped openmouthed. A few in the assembly chuckled nervously, the sound like two rocks dragging against each other.

The imperator had long encouraged his council to show non-violent dissent at any time: they merely had to spit at his feet. None of his living councilors ever expressed disagreement in the discourteous fashion he suggested, but the offer had been made nonetheless. He was magnanimous.

Mar'gok looked pointedly at his bare toes, then back at the assemblage. Roiling fire passed by a window, spraying hot melted pebbles onto the rise. He furrowed the brows of his left face, then his right.

The imperator looked down at his feet again. No spit.

Mar'gok scanned his retinue with both heads going back and forth expressionlessly, as though he were appraising a series of banquet selections or a palmful of betting rocks.

High Councilor Vareg, pulling an eight-wheeled, cloth-covered cart twice his size, had already benefited immensely from his pain-learning. Though his face was downcast, he voiced no further gripes, even as his yellow robes were spattered with tiny flecks of mud. He was, for the moment, assisted in his labors by Ko'ragh.

Unlike Vareg in his robes, the breaker was dressed for war, bearing piecemeal metal armor and a wicked, skull-topped war club. His bare head and heavily muscled, tattooed arms remained exposed, as it was with all in Mar'gok's band; a fashionable display among the Highmaul would not be neglected for the threat of extinction.

Unable to reconcile himself to a diplomatic mission while Highmaul lay besieged, Ko'ragh had frowned until Vareg, unprompted, ordered him to make a better face. Vareg's pain-learning benefited others, too.

Vareg might be ambitious, and Ko'ragh willful and dull, but both were mighty, highly placed ogres who performed exceptionally in battle drills, rose early, and had survived grievous wounds (Ko'ragh: disembowelment; Vareg: a cut to the thigh that he allowed to putrefy to prove his strength), with dozens of kills behind them.

The imperator had selected the rest of his traveling retinue from centurions outside the council, listening attentively to their accomplishments (if not their names). One slumbered inside a lava dome for years until its magma was at his beck and call; one was a coliseum favorite who tore the claws from ten great predators and sewed them into his fighting gloves; one had a connection with the mountain so strong that no arrow could pierce his skin. All could carry a two-ton stone to the rise without rest.

The centurions had never seen the imperator in the flesh before; to be traveling with their king set their tongues abuzz. Mar'gok led them lumbering from the front, trying to ignore the distraction of their chatter, his heads occasionally turning inward to peer, annoyed, at each other until he grew dizzy. (Silence them? Let them gawk.)

The ground melted into soft mud where he trod, permitting his entourage to trudge off the rise and down the hillside without falling, their makeshift ramp returning to stony impassability behind them every few steps. Then they walked faster, the cart tearing muddy furrows in the ground. Vareg remarked that now the orcs would have their first road, and even the imperator permitted himself one head's small smirk.

With mountainous strides, the ogres reached their destination after a sunrise. Though the imperator remained quiet, his retinue's banter was proud throughout the journey. His people were born at the beginning: when the great Forgers squeezed the light from the enormous ball of fire that would become Draenor, they made ogres from the same smoking clay and gave them dominion over stone and earth. The very world was theirs; their capital was tall atop the scaffolding of the past.

None among them doubted that Highmaul's defenders had fought through the night, that the empire yet stood, until they laid eyes on Grommashar.

When last Mar'gok had seen the Warsong camp, it had been flimsy. Movable. Wood and leather, huts and shanties, placed gingerly atop the earth. He had pictured the orcs' downcast faces when wind and rain knocked down their homes and they reacted with dumb dismay, wondering why it had happened.

Now it aspired to be a citadel. Razor-sharp palisades encircled it; ferociously armed orcs of many clans patrolled walls with murder holes carved into their capstones; and everywhere were the terrible clanking machines, belching more smoke and fire than they had flung over Highmaul's ramparts.

The ogres lumbered openly through Grommashar under an ersatz flag of parley. Mar'gok ripped one of his own purple-and-gold standards down the middle, but the orcs had raised no alarm at their entry, as though the ogres were expected. Only the immense, cloth-covered cart drew stares.

"What is that?" asked a burly armored orc standing at the head of twenty, all with handheld cannons pointed, burnished metal glinting in the sunlight.

Vareg worked crusty snot free from his nostril and rose to his full height, his palms black and ragged pink from a day burdened by the cart. Ko'ragh excitedly shifted his grip on the skull-headed club he carried. They were far outnumbered. The terrain was unfamiliar; the enemy, eager.

(Wit? Openness? Misdirection?) "It is but tribute," Vareg muttered before Mar'gok could say anything.

It sufficed. A few of the Iron Horde stood sniffing guard over the cart, lifting the cloth, inspecting what lay beneath. (What could they possibly see?) The ogres' enormous weapons were heaved into the Zangar Sea, though several spearpoints still poked out of the water despite the Grommashar soldiers' best attempts to bury them. The orcs were infuriatingly small, with minuscule veins visible in their arms, tiny droplets of sweat beading on their faces, everything about them taut, compressed, close to the surface, as though they had no room in their bodies.

The imperator demanded inaction from his retinue as they suffered the indignities of diplomacy; only his gazes maintained obeisance while they were led before Grommash Hellscream.

For all that his home had changed, Grommash had not. The scourge of Nagrand looked no different from when Mar'gok had last seen him at the head of a war party, mane of thick hair flowing, muscled like an animal, lips peeled back and teeth flashing in a snarl.

What did surprise Mar'gok was the throne that Grommash now leaned against, a gnarled tree whose thick wood seemed uncomfortable and unlikely to persist for even the next generation of Warsong chieftains. He recognized this particular tree and the pains the orc must have gone through to retrieve it.

Grommash had spent quite some time tied to the tree during the reign of the last sorcerer king. After a failed raid against Highmaul, Grommash had been captured, beaten, and starved within an inch of his life. (And then...)

A brown, rot-necked ogre head stared down from the boughs of the tree with empty eye sockets. Even with only faint bits of identifying flesh still clinging to the skull, Mar'gok was fairly certain he recognized it. It would have been impossible to anticipate his predecessor's death for so long without imagining, with reasonable accuracy, how his head would appear if removed.

"Imperator," Grommash intoned in his liquid bass. "What do you think of the last ogre lord who opposed me?" He did not give way to theatricality, did not even move from his spot (though the gesture of dominance was clear). His eyes were intent, focused.

Feeling the needles of a few moments' silence, the ogres looked to their king.

"I think he was a fool," boomed Mar'gok.

Vareg relaxed his hands. They unclasped, went to his sides.

"He was a fool for not killing you."

A low hiss came from an orc near the throne, and Vareg and Ko'ragh both tensed, hands reaching instinctively for absent weapons.

"If I had held your life," Mar'gok continued, "I would have slit your throat in front of my prisoners and dumped your rotting body in the ocean. Then I would have dumped them beside you." He pointed at the orcs behind himself. "Your people were broken. The Highmaul would rule all Nagrand by now." (Rule all Nagrand again.) Mar'gok always gave way to theatricality when it was warranted.

Grommash did not flinch, unfazed by the casual discussion of his murder. His was the luxury.

From behind the throne stepped several more orcs (now numbering two dozen within eyesight alone). One, broad-shouldered, with a face full of tattoos barely distinguishable beneath his brown hood, leaned to whisper something in Hellscream's ear. (When had he ever taken advice?)

"I see," Grommash returned, empty. "Then, tell me of the worth of the Highmaul. Tell me of this tribute you have brought me, and the value of your lives."

It was not lost on the imperator that the position of the sun was forcing him to squint and slightly incline his heads. He resisted the urge to tear out a tree and shade his eyes with it. (Grommash rests every day on a relic of his grudges. Any bargain must be simple and to his obvious advantage.)

Mar'gok snorted. "Very well. The gift I bring you is knowledge. The Iron Horde is weak."

Now Grommash smiled. "You say this as we shatter the walls of your home." He motioned at a spot behind the ogres as best as their size permitted. "Tell them what you have seen."

Another orc darted to Hellscream's side, and Mar'gok recognized the scar-faced messenger who had first pronounced war upon his people. A pity; he had hoped she had been killed in the siege.

Her face was fiercely proud. "We've broken the Highmaul line at the entrance of their city. The mountain is surrounded. They fall back to their homes."

Mar'gok had suspected that might happen, but not nearly so fast.

It was a ruse. It had to be. For just a moment, while his people argued among themselves and the orcs relished the chaos, Mar'gok closed his eyes, trying to imagine the scene: the ogres losing ground, fighting in the streets, melted rock from ruined mound-homes pooling around the legs of Gorians in formation.

He did not have to tax himself to picture the orcs surrounding his legions, the teeth of their weapons buzzing as they sheared off ogres' legs, sent them toppling onto the stumps. He had seen it too many times already.

Next, the orcs would pull his statues down. His men, women, and children would roar and rally, fight back, chanting for him ceaselessly, Da king. Da king. The more they said it, the less it sounded like a fitting death cry.

Surely they had clung to those syllables for so long because they were easier to holler than imperator, not because they couldn't pronounce his title, his name.

Surely they would hold.

Mar'gok grew tired of imagining and opened his eyes. Exhaling, he turned to Ko'ragh and Vareg, who were murmuring audibly. Their posture was defensive. Judging by their faces, they, too, believed the messenger; they became quiet when Grommash spoke up.

"Now, explain to me, Imperator," he said, as confident as though he had seen through Mar'gok's minds, "how the Iron Horde is weak." (Finally.)

"Do not misunderstand me, Warchief. You are great in number. Perhaps your orcs will eventually fight their way to the very top of Highmaul." The imperator began to pace, gesturing animatedly. "But you will not do it without cost, for you lack our greatest strength. You face the army of a sorcerer king. Our traditions are as old as Draenor."

He raised both arms to the crowd, squeezed behemoth fists. "We will call down rockslides from inside our homes, terrify your wolves with fire, rust your metal with mud. The magics of your shaman cannot touch us. We will laugh at their false thunder and squash their skulls into dust." At this, Grommash looked almost… intrigued. (The orcs worshipped elements. How typical of little beings to look for something outside themselves to praise.)

"And," Mar'gok could not resist adding, "you are small. Even if you claim Highmaul, you would lose a year simply removing our dead."

Mar'gok put down the chisel of his words and shut his mouths decisively. The mighty praised their physical prowess and stature above all others; the quick-witted, their limitless and enduring minds; the charismatic, their leadership and persuasiveness. But true strength had always been all strengths (this was why he was king), and Grommash would be haunted by the thought of any strength he did not possess. Mar'gok knew nothing else intimately enough to chance that it would spare his empire, his life.

Hellscream's retort was swift. "We do not want your city. We want your corpses." As he stood, his left hand tightened around the handle of a jagged axe nearly as tall as he was, with same-day blood darkening to umber on the edge. "All in the Iron Horde are willing to die in battle. We are winning. Your threat is empty."

Ko'ragh became riled at that, but Mar'gok held a hand in front of him as Grommash's snarl curled into contemplation.

"You speak but one truth. Your magic is powerful. Teach it to us, and some of you will live."

There was more fluid in a glob of Vareg's spit than in an orc's spilled belly.

The imperator had requested a few minutes to take counsel and had adjourned away from Grommash's throne. Now he stared with all of his eyes. The spit sizzled in the dust, inches from his toes. Bubbles struggled to the top and burst; it looked as if it could move on its own.

Such blatant disrespect had erupted only recently, after Mar'gok had casually mentioned that refusing Hellscream's "offer" was the reasonable course of action. None of the centurions had seen the spit yet. He nudged rocks over it to no avail.

Vareg was near howling as he barreled back and forth. His animal pacing seemed increasingly likely to agitate the orcs into using their weapons.

Ko'ragh dumbly fought to understand. "Imperator, you cannot mean it. You… will stall for time, to trick Grommash into..."

" No!" Vareg shouted, his normally sleek voice peaking. "You vowed before the council with both voices. You said you would make peace. Now you cringe at the cost."

Mar'gok raised his eyes from the spit, indignation and amusement mixing in the palettes of his faces.

Vareg had not stopped ranting. "What value are our traditions if none of the Highmaul exists to continue them? Is your sorcery more precious to you than our lives?" (Lazy. More an invitation than a question.)

Mar'gok took a single step toward Vareg, putting his leg down hard enough to raise dust. "You talk of survival like a slave who cannot see beyond his chains. You have the heart of an orc, happy just to have the bad moments end."

Vareg's face was nearly purple. He growled, loudly enough for the whole camp to be in earshot. The other ogres tromped closer to their leaders.

Mar'gok continued. "Gog Gronnslayer knew that to be free, to live, was a mere beginning. When he broke the bodies of the gronn, opened their bones and ate their marrow to prove that they were not gods, he raised their skeletons up so others could see his victory. He desired more than simple survival, so he built his hall to be too large for any one blood family to fill. Others gathered, and soon his home was an empire. He did not simply flee into the mountains to wallow in existing."

Some sense seemed to have stayed with Vareg, for he kept quiet while the imperator spoke. (To Vareg? To the others? Where there were two minds, it was always necessary to have three speeches.) "The world belongs to us. Its vastness is tamed, its greatness revealed, only because we master it as the Forgers did . If you would share our power with slaves, would let them mold the earth, you are no ogre."

In response, the high councilor landed another hunk of spit atop the first. What talent he had where it mattered most.

Vareg had ceased his stalking. He snorted. "Highmaul is an empire no longer. It is but one great city. I wonder if all in our clan agree that it is worth dying over." (Vareg's voice was heavy with mucus, but it barely concealed his eagerness.) His eyes darted back and forth among the other ogres, never meeting Mar'gok's, as though he was on the brink of denouncing the imperator, of roaring the challenge he had likely rehearsed several times before his turn as a cart pusher.

Ko'ragh spoke up, drawing attention away from Mar'gok and Vareg glaring at each other. "Imperator, the orcs say they are winning. If you will not strike at Grommash now, then we must submit to him." His eyes blazed.

Mar'gok crossed his arms in unconscious imitation of one of his favorite statues. "Then the legacy of ogre rule, of my blood family, becomes cheap barter. What will you sacrifice? Your fortunes? Your honors from the coliseum? Your lives?"

Vareg did not hesitate, though he looked at the centurions, not at the imperator, while he answered. " I will give anything to save our people. While we dither, the clan dies."

Of course. Vareg hurried to voice his solidarity, aligning himself with our people before Mar'gok could, reaching for the rest of the retinue's support. Could he sway them to murder? In Highmaul's history, more debates had become spontaneous revolts than the imperator cared to count.

Mar'gok looked around quickly, careful not to let any emotion show. Vareg's eyes were wolfish, erratic; at any second, he could erupt in a smile or a howl. The others had their naked fists pressed against their chests in salute—but to whom? They were five, and he was one.

He gifted them all with twin nods of assent. "Very well. I will sell our magics. Slaves cannot take slaves. What can orcs do with the power of the Forgers that we have not already accomplished?"

Grim-faced but assured, the ogres marched back toward Grommash.

Mar'gok lingered behind, fighting with his smiles. Vareg had revealed himself. Mar'gok had been "convinced." It was as close to a humble relent as he had ever offered to one of his advisors. Champion a fool's position and the masses could not help standing together to fight it.

It suited them—just as it suited all graspers, all peasants—to believe that the one who loomed above their lives was vain and self-important, would choose death before sacrifice, would sooner lead his people into the whispers of history than down a low path loudly.

This, too, was why Mar'gok was king.

The sun had long gone out, and the thick fumes from yellow torches illuminating Grommashar commingled with the smog that hung above its walls. Mar'gok breathed deep. The stench relaxed him.

He kept his voice soft, one of his heads inclined farther than the other. "We will teach you the ways of magic breaking, Grommash Hellscream."

A smile, enthusiastic and genuine, crept over Grommash's face. There was a unique sweetness to an enemy beaten and acquiescing a few feet in front of you, his eyes open and knowing.

"Call off your army and send ten of your keenest minds back with us to Highmaul. I will instruct them personally. They will be capable within a year, perhaps sooner."

One of Grommash's eyebrows rose at that. He scowled, four meaty fingers drumming on the axe haft, but his voice was measured. "Do not taunt me, Imperator. You will teach allorcs who have the capacity to learn, and you will do so here."

Mar'gok threw his arms wide and grinned, both mouths open. They were smiles of abundant promise, usually reserved for kin he planned to slaughter. "Once I share our magic with your entire army, you will have no need for my people. What will you do with ogres who are useless to you?"

If the ogre skull sagging from Grommash's throne had kept its eyelids, it would have winked.

Grommash sneered back at him. "Your worthy will live. Trust the value of your magics, ogre. You have no other option."

From behind came the sound of a foot march; seconds later, a few more orcs approached unheralded, sheathed weapons slapping their legs. The messenger was first among them, and all eyes—ogre and orc alike—turned to her. Grommash held up a hand for silence.

"Yes?"

"They attempted to bring reinforcements by sea, Warchief Hellscream. Four ships sailed toward Highmaul, but we turned our cannons on them. None reached the shore." Her movements were ebullient. "The remains of their armies are holing up in their towers. We will overrun their stronghold shortly." She looked as though she might sing.

Mar'gok glanced down at his right hand. It was knob-knuckled, big enough to take down an elekk, to squeeze an orc's ribs through his chest. It was also trembling.

He willed it to stop, first lazily and then wholeheartedly, but it did not.

The ground pitched. Shouts of fear met the scrape of blades. From the corners of his eyes, Mar'gok saw Ko'ragh charge toward Grommash's throne, knocking two orcs bodily on their backs and trampling over them, his pillar arms stretched wrathfully. A thin spear whistled through the air, lodged wobbling in his shoulder. The breaker's blood pumped out and over the wood, but like a boulder rolling through mud, he kept crashing forth.

And Mar'gok wrapped one arm around him, palming Ko'ragh's throat and slamming him backward onto the ground with such force that nearby trees lost their leaves in puffs and orcs fell onto their backs.

As the wind whistled out of the breaker's lungs, Mar'gok planted a foot on his gut, watched his face contort in pain. "Idiot!" he yelled down.

Grommash shot to his feet. Dozens of orcs aimed blades and spears at Mar'gok. Easing his foot off of the breaker's abdomen, Mar'gok rose to his full height and met the warchief's eyes, wary, his breath sucked in and body knotted in anticipation. He was bigger. Hellscream was faster. (If Mar'gok could awaken the slumbering stone before the orc got within an axe length, then lean into the swing with his shoulder—)

"You would dare try to kill me in my home?" Hellscream roared, and it truly was a roar; no nearby sound presumed to be louder. His fingers flexed: tense, release. Both hands gripped the axe. He looked at the other orcs, breath heavy with rage, and they seemed to seethe in response as one body.

The premise of diplomacy wilted. He would need to sprint for the cart. (Had they moved it?)

Four orcs advanced on Mar'gok with ferine, padding steps, spreading into two groups, raising their weapons, flanking him. He clutched the smooth stone that had found its way into his palm. Both sets of teeth champed at his tongues so hard he tasted blood.

"Wait." Grommash's voice was lower, more consistent.

Mar'gok watched a bit of that twisting fury, the curled lips and stretched knuckles, ebb from the other orcs when Hellscream spoke. "This was not the imperator's doing." The warchief looked at where Ko'ragh lay. A few weapons lowered, but only a few.

Yet Grommash's cold eyes remained slits. He panted, not out of weariness but wrath, at the simple promise of violence. "It does not change my demand. You will agree to teach us now, or you will all die."

Four bull-shouldered orcs kept Vareg pinned, their spears inches from his chest. On the ground, the breaker groaned, moved his head back and forth with orc boots on his arms.

"Then let us speak of the terms." Mar'gok replaced the stone in his robes, held his palms up. Those who relied on weapons to kill were often reassured by the sight of empty hands.

Grommash Hellscream said nothing.

"Pick him up." Mar'gok gestured carefully, and the centurions dragged Ko'ragh into a squat, yanking the spear from his shoulder with a shiver and a spurt of red.

The orcs exchanged curt nods with their leader. The distractions of quivering blades and spears aimed at eye level grudgingly receded, but the sheer number of armed orcs staring at Mar'gok was oppressive. Sweat began to speck his horn, and the imperator rubbed it away, sneaking a moment to gather his thoughts.

Grommash had calmed quickly, much faster than his legendary anger would suggest, and without slaking his bloodthirst. Did he mean to leverage the attack in their negotiation? Or was it… These new killing machines, appearing as if from nowhere; the glint in Grommash's eye when magic was mentioned; the breaker left alive despite attacking a warchief? ( Prove your worth, the messenger had said.)

"Our magics are not merely part of the bargain." Mar'gok's lips pursed conspiratorially. "You need them. Why?"

Grommash remained quiet.

"What power do you fear?"

The warchief did not react with the canine spittle that Mar'gok anticipated. Instead, he settled back down on his throne.

It is true," Grommash spoke slowly. "We cannot know all who will ever stand in our way."

He continued, looking at a few orcs who were watching intently from near his throne. "But I have seen much, and it is... wise to prepare. I believe that we may soon face magics unseen on Draenor. We will not fall before them. If your clan aids us with your magics, if you pledge yourselves to the Iron Horde, then you will earn your lives."

Mar'gok nodded with both heads. "Done."

"But"—and here the animal aspect flashed in Grommash's eyes—"if you falter, if you do not dedicate yourselves entirely, I will give you to Kargath Bladefist."

Bladefist. The chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan had strutted around the coliseum as though he owned it. Then the Highmaul had chained Kargath beneath its walls. Famous slaves could be dangerous.

Kargath had removed one of his hands (left? right?) to escape, but he still cut crooked wounds into his captors on the way out. One-handed, he had even freed other gladiators and coerced them into joining in his mad reprisals. Apparently, the orcs of the Shattered Hand now mutilated their own flesh in remembrance of their founder's crowning achievement.

Mar'gok pondered how long they would try to keep him alive with one head.

Grommash was finishing up. " You serve us."

Bile began climbing up the insides of Mar'gok's throats. He did not look at his retinue. "I understand," he said flatly. "But you must know from the beginning of this… partnership… that some forms of magic simply cannot be taught, and not for a lack of will." The messenger rolled her eyes. (Perhaps she would slip from a cliff on the march back to Highmaul.)

"The magics I speak of shape bodies and minds as a chisel shapes stone. As they empower us, they remove slivers of our being. This can kill even those who have spent their entire lives training for it." He pointedly shot a glance at Ko'ragh (alive, still).

Grommash rested his chin on one hand; he did not seem moved. The imperator rushed to fill the silence. "You doubt my sincerity, but I have brought you proof. Vareg, the cart."

Vareg glowered openly, but he dragged the cart over. No doubt he had assumed it was to be used during a surprise attack on the Warsong camp, not offered in trade. If there had been a hope of catching Grommash unawares before, no such chance remained.

Mar'gok whisked the cloth off, and the faint whiff of upturned soil caught his noses.

A dull chunk of stone stood monolithic in the cart. It did not wobble an inch as it was rolled before Mar'gok's audience. Most of the orcs seemed unimpressed: it was a big rock, ragged and unshaped. Several of the intricate spirals and whorls decorating its face were duplicated, in rough outlines, on Ko'ragh's skin, but otherwise (for an artifact riven from the belly of the world by the noblest blood families in Highmaul after a decade-long feud) it appeared unremarkable.

The smooth stones secreted in Mar'gok's pockets grew slightly warmer; he felt their heat radiating out in pinpricks. They squirmed, almost as if trying to get free. Surely any shaman among the orcs would notice.

"When awakened," the imperator said with a flourish, "this great slumbering stone can dampen any magics it has felt, even those of your shaman. But it has more significance: it is the means by which we mold our most accomplished breakers."

Pride danced on Ko'ragh's face. Mar'gok continued. "They are chosen for resilience. They are scalded by heat, crushed by rocks, denied water, food, and air. Even the hardiest can die in the process."

Grommash nodded.

"First, they learn the signs and patterns of a school of magic. Then, they must be struck by controlled infusions of that magic, like stitches or carvings, in the presence of this stone. Eventually, some of their life essence is peeled away, and a small part of it is replaced by the magic branded into their very being. They become immune."

"To only one type of magic?" Grommash growled. Mar'gok had experienced the same disappointment long ago.

"Only one school," the imperator replied. "We have tried to empower our most gifted breakers with immunity to more schools. All die in the process." Terribly. One had caught fire from the inside out.

Mar'gok continued. "The sorcerer kings have gathered artifacts like this one for hundreds of years. Many affect the workings of magic on living beings, but others defy description. There are more here in Nagrand, buried deep. I would share their power with you."

The warchief was walking around the artifact, squinting at it with renewed interest. "And this will make orcs immune to any magic? Not just ogres?"

Mar'gok held back a small smugness that demanded to show on both of his faces. "Eventually, yes. Your warriors are not as hardy as the greatest of the Highmaul. It will take time—generations—for you to learn to adapt, even with our tutelage. But it can be done."

A weighty grunt was Grommash's only response. Any reply without snarling or yelling was to be interpreted as acceptance.

Satisfied, Mar'gok steepled granitic fingers. "Then we are agreed. The Highmaul clan will"—there was spit in his throats—"serve the Iron Horde." He said nothing about their armies, territories, mutual defense. Let Grommash ask for each favor on its own.

The imperator looked down at the scar-faced messenger. His now. "Send word for your legion to leave Highmaul and return here." He did not even notice that he was breathing more easily. It was done. Sour, but done. Clan and city both remained, and in time—

"No," Grommash interrupted. "The siege ends once you demonstrate the workings of this artifact. Not before."

Mar'gok's heads snapped around.

"If I am to rely on your power in battle, I will witness it in battle," Grommash continued. "Are you not veterans of the arena? It is a simple fight against a few of my champions. If your claim is true, it should be quick."

(Bladefist. There could be no doubt.)

"Warchief Hellscream, every ogre slain in Highmaul is one fewer who can instruct your warriors—"

The look Grommash returned made Mar'gok's blood race hot through his ears. Both of the warchief's hands wrapped around his axe like a neck, and instantly, Mar'gok understood how deep the orc's hatred ran. "Do you refuse, Imperator?"

Mar'gok's minds went black. Inside them, he stalked, swore. His palms pooled sweat. This was peace with the Iron Horde—not an accord but a cage. (Or had Grommash simply entertained the negotiation for a chance to humiliate him?) He looked around for his retinue, trying to keep his movements slow and measured. (But would they be?) Orcs were everywhere, seeming to occupy the whole of his vision.

"No. I accept."

Grommash Hellscream led them to the fighting pit.

At no time were ogres more at peace with one another than when they conspired to murder. As they rooted through the piles of off-size weapons the orcs had provided, carefully selecting hauberks and spears, the company's enthusiasm was as palpable as that at a grand show in the coliseum. At last, there would be no further discussion, only the unreflective simplicity of bloodletting. Kill. Win.

Using Mar'gok's ragged banner, the centurions had constructed a makeshift flag atop a halberd, and they now bunched their hands around orcish swords like fistfuls of knives. Even Ko'ragh, the wound on his shoulder feculent under mossy bandages, was on his feet and hefting a pair of too-small clubs.

They did not even know what they faced. (Idiots.)

Only Vareg seemed tenuous. (More comfortable with arcane than metal weapons? Certainly.) He played with a shield, picking it up and putting it back down again as though waiting for an omen. Mar'gok beckoned to them, his words lifetimes old.

"You are prepared to lay down your lives for the glory of Highmaul, your council, and your imperator?"

All feet stamped; fists were raised.

"Succeed today, and you earn us a thousand years more on the mountain." He looked at Ko'ragh. The breaker beamed back.

Again, Vareg tilted, ever so slightly, against his fate. "Will you not fight alongside us, Imperator?" It would have seemed an honest question were he not attempting to catch the eye of every centurion at once.

"I will fight with you, but my weapon will be the slumbering stone. Hellscream must have his demonstration." ( I will give anything, Vareg.)

Mar'gok drew himself up. "We do not know the nature of our opponents. You two," he said, pointing at Vareg and Ko'ragh, "are our defense against any magics, while the others seek the kill. Do not prolong the fight. Hellscream is interested in the stone, not in your deaths."

The ogres hung the standard of Highmaul at the edge of the fighting pit, a shallow, rock-rimmed divide filled with sand and splotches of purplish-black blood. It was plain that the Iron Horde did not have anyone to clean it (or did not think this fight was worth the ceremony), despite the presence of dozens of orcs hunched or standing around, barking at each other. There were no seats for the audience.

As the orcs watched him, Mar'gok slowly wheeled the artifact to the farthest edge of the pit, opposite where Grommash stood. Vareg followed, grabbing on to the back of the cart to help push it.

"Imperator," Vareg whispered, "you must have support with the artifact. Let me assist you."

"No," Mar'gok said, waving him off.

"What if you are injured in the fight? Or killed? No one else has invoked the slumbering stone." His eyes were big and manic. He reached toward his king; he could be pleading or preparing to choke—

Mar'gok slapped the hands away. "No. Your place is in the pit. Go down."

Miraculously, he did. If they were both going to die, at least Vareg would die first.

There were no entry gates on either side of the fighting pit. One at a time the other ogres hopped down, kicking up gusts of sand, and they began checking the walls, taking positions, tapping their weapons on the ground, using the floor as their shared drum, bashed at speed without any change in rhythm. More sand billowed up. Guttural battle hums echoed from their throats, only occasionally harmonizing.

"You are ready," Grommash said, and the talk suddenly shut off like rain sealed in a cloud. It was not a question.

Mar'gok crouched in front of the artifact. Its warmth was comforting, though he had already begun to feel enervated in its presence.

"Bring out the prisoners!" Hellscream bellowed.

A dozen bedraggled figures were led in chains to the southern edge of the pit. They were orcs, none bigger than the warriors by Grommash's side, but their moth-bitten violet robes and unkempt hair and beards made them seem far smaller. To a one, they were unarmored and unarmed.

Their only unusual characteristic was their green skin.

Grommash spoke softly to one prisoner, whose responses were inaudible. "I will not give you freedom, warlock." The warchief raised his voice, meant for Mar'gok's troops to hear. "But any among you who kills an ogre may choose a reward: a clean pallet or a quick death."

What was a warlock? Mar'gok had never heard the word before. What was their crime? The imperator felt a twinge of suspense stabbing at his spine. From their pitiful look, the orcs were likely thieves, but would Grommash let thieves keep their hands? The ogres in the pit puzzled at the sight of their tiny foes, and Ko'ragh scratched his head and snickered while the orcish prisoners had the chains around their wrists and ankles removed.

As they got closer, Mar'gok noticed lumpy whip marks on the prisoners' arms and shoulders. (Some of their cuts were still fresh.)

They weakly clambered down into the pit. When their feet hit the sand, a dozen against five, the spectators began craning their necks to watch. Mar'gok sucked a breath down each throat. Certainly they would use magic, but what kind? They held no trappings, showed no signs.

"Begin!" Hellscream shouted.

Before the warchief opened his mouth, Vareg had already planted both of his feet and swept back one massive leg, drawing a half-circle in the sand, palms out. The prisoners were caught unawares as ice surged up from the sand like a wave, engulfing two of them entirely, crushing them, and dragging down the reddening wrecks of their bodies.

Mar'gok's fingernails scraped against the base of his palm, and then he pressed it on the artifact. The spells he wove around himself each morning retreated: his invisible arcane shield slowly dissipated; his clothing grew lighter and looser as it shed its imperviousness to fire. He was vulnerable, but he could feel the stone's power stirring. He met the orcs' eyes and saw that they were glazed and unfocused. (Their magic was no communion, then.)

The other ogres charged across the pit in a tight herd, gripping multiple smaller weapons in each fist, mammoth feet flinging sand and ice. They swiftly closed the distance as the orcs, moving in unison like marionettes tied to the same string, began to invoke their magics. There were indications of their schools but no sureties. (Not arcane or shamanic traditions. He would have recognized such magic by now.)

Long-dead words slithered from their lips.

"Scatter!" Mar'gok thundered. His retinue obeyed with wordless coordination, fanning out to reduce the chance that more than one would be hit by a single attack.

(If the orcs varied their magic, striking each ogre with multiple spells, a few among Mar'gok's companions would survive, and that would be enough.) He began to brush the whorls on the lower half of the artifact.

The orcs twitched their fingers faster in recondite movements. The imperator squinted, trying to read their magic as they called it down, but it was alien. He grinned as Ko'ragh busily smashed a club through one of the orcs' throats—and stopped when the breaker's skin flaked off of his body like leaves under boiling water.

Ten orcs loosed the same invocation. Mar'gok had never seen its like anywhere. Baleful greenish-yellow flame, burning the very air it hung in, drawing scorched breaths from the lungs of everyone watching, whirled through the fighting pit. (No.)

It struck the ogres with the force of a hurricane, scalding off their skin in an awful instant. The champions of Highmaul were withered lumps, their featureless bodies folded into the sand, a few strands of hair catching fire as the only evidence that they had ever lived. (No. No.)

Mar'gok slammed both of his hands against the artifact. It did not respond.

The sorcerer king had lost. Mar'gok's faces took on the slack look of the grave. He watched Vareg (perhaps) smolder and melt, and even the routine glee at a rival vanquished was beyond him.

Grimy yellow torchlight and phosphorescent green flames sizzling in midair reflected in the orc warlocks' blurred eyes. They turned toward Hellscream and, one by one, made (mocking?) attempts at a salute.

And Mar'gok saw movement behind them. In the thiol-scented muck that the Warsong fighting pit had become, Ko'ragh was slowly, dazedly struggling to his feet, body scorched, skin hanging off in shreds.

For a second, the imperator's foot tapped in anticipation of attempting the impossible. He reached one arm toward the artifact. He had already failed. There was no risk in gambling with Highmaul's corpses.

The gray stone of the artifact burned hot where he touched it. He had only known this magic's like for seconds, but perhaps that would be enough to parrot, to imitate. Clenching his teeth, the sorcerer king drew in air as gingerly as if he were scraping a mural onto splintering wood.

Thin lines of green fire began to etch themselves on Ko'ragh's skin, rasping across his body, threatening to peel away his life. Mar'gok's inscription crossed over a blue, rune-scarred patch of flesh, and the breaker screamed in pain, sinking back down in the sand.

With wolfish swiftness, the orc prisoners turned. One pointed a cruel, long-fingered hand at the breaker. Mar'gok's heart dropped, harder this time for the tiny hope of reprieve, as the frothing bright flames shot out again, wrapping around Ko'ragh like a robe.

Mar'gok pulled the flow of his inscription upward, blindly, toward his starting point. He couldn't see Ko'ragh. His finger hung outstretched.

Then the flames floated off, vanishing into air.

Two schools of magic. The breaker was now immune to both. It was impossible, until it wasn't.

Gradually, as Mar'gok held blistering air in his lungs, Ko'ragh's shadow stretched along the wall of the pit, looming over the orcs. He stood up straight, his markings now blue and green beneath dark burns. The sorcerer king's hasty inscriptions were visible on his body, mingling with runes like writing in ash.

Teeth gritted and eyes frantic, the breaker advanced on the orcs. Burst after burst of blazing green energy evaporated against his skin.

Ko'ragh's weapons had been destroyed, so he fell upon his enemies bare-handed, crushing them beneath his girth, breaking their paper-thin bodies, pounding them to reddish-black pulp with hands and elbows like stalactites.

One of the orc prisoners fell back from the avalanche consuming his fellows. Abandoning his spells, he grabbed a weapon from the ground, swinging it about in an attempt to ward off the gigantic ogre. Stepping away from the gore in his wake, Ko'ragh let the bite of the pitted steel find his shoulder, barely breaking skin.

He gripped the orc's skull in one fist, squeezing and twisting. The prisoner's hands scrabbled and clawed, trying to find purchase anywhere sensitive, anywhere that would loosen the grapple, but he was too small. Slowly, agonizingly, the orc's eyes began to protrude out, distending past his brows. The breaker treated his audience to the sound of cracking wood and then, with a final shake, flicked his burden to the ground.

As the orcs of the Iron Horde roared their approval, the breaker held a single fist, bloody with the excess of victory, toward his imperator. Mar'gok folded his arms against his chest.

Grommash Hellscream looked joyed and alive as he shouted along with the other orcs. Across the pit, he yelled, "Soon, our warriors will ignore warlock magic!" and the cheers grew. "Congratulations, Imperator. We may be able to use your clan after all." He turned to the scar-faced messenger, speaking loud enough for Mar'gok to hear. "Send word to the army. End the slaughter. The Highmaul are servants of the Iron Horde."

The scattered cheers took minutes to fade. The Highmaul, servants. They would change, on pain of death. But Grommash had called Mar'gok by his title. He was king still.

Hellscream's voice, close by, snapped the imperator from his thoughts. "I know that you have many slaves in your city."

Because he had to, Mar'gok leaned down to answer. "Yes."

"You will deliver any orcs to Kargath Bladefist. They are now members of the Shattered Hand clan. If you speak against me, if you dare to rebel," Grommash sneered as he walked past, "it will be Highmaul slaves I send for your blood."

The imperator did not respond.

As the orcs filtered away from the pit, Mar'gok saw Ko'ragh approaching with a weary, self-satisfied smile on his hairless face, the smile of one who knew not only that he had achieved, but that he would achieve again.

"Imperator." He saluted.

"Ko'ragh." Mar'gok did not raise his hand in congratulations. The breaker hardly noticed. He was elated.

"Imperator, I think I can do it again."

Mar'gok snorted. "Do what?"

"Become immune to even more magic."

"I see. And when would you have told me of this… hidden talent, Ko'ragh?"

Ko'ragh seemed confused. "I did not—"

Mar'gok hit him. Hard, in the face, crunching bone, knocking him backward. Sudden fury boiled up from the very core of the imperator's being; flecks of spit flew from his mouth as he pummeled Ko'ragh in the head, chest, shoulders, blows cascading down like hail.

His fist ached. The breaker, on his knees, raised both hands to cover his face but didn't strike back. His eyes were fearful, then dismayed. Then, when it became clear Mar'gok would not hit him any longer, hateful. He drooled a bloody white tooth into the dust.

Mar'gok ignored him. Winded, he pulled his hoods off, scratched the clammy bald crowns of his heads.

Spotting the scar-faced messenger calmly filling her pack with provisions, Mar'gok snapped at her. "Take him to your healers." He indicated Ko'ragh with a quick twist of his hand.

The messenger smirked. She said nothing, gave him no other acknowledgement, continued idly lacing up her road boots.

"Now!" Mar'gok roared.

She glanced at Mar'gok, mildly annoyed, as if his voices were simply too loud. After a second, she turned back around.

He watched, seething, as she walked off alone.

Mar'gok's balcony was quiet. The stones slumbered.

He had added two more to his throne room since returning from Grommashar. With service to the Iron Horde came the ability to roam Nagrand with greater impunity, at least from the orcs. Surely Grommash had him watched, but would he begrudge a few rocks so long as his armies were trained?

The orcs were learning the principles of magic immunity slowly. In all likelihood, it would take years, and years could be stretched to generations. Mar'gok would command Ko'ragh to teach two ogres for every orc.

Vareg's spot on the council stood vacant, to be filled when Mar'gok deigned to. He would choose a replacement who presented no risk at all. The two hulking, neckless ogron—evolutionary steps between ogres and mud—who stood guard outside his halls were too dumb to disobey. It was refreshing.

Mar'gok would wait. He would endure the Iron Horde. Grommash Hellscream knew only how to charge into battle, to kill. The warchief would never stamp out the traditions of the Highmaul clan while they were useful. He was merely the warrior with the greatest weapons. What did he know of empire? Nothing.

The Iron Horde called them servants. And Mar'gok's people would serve. They would appease Hellscream, make a lie of their size. For now.

It was even possible for a king to play at peasantry if he kept his crown hidden.

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Garrosh Hellscream escaped justice with the assistance of the bronze dragon Kairozdormu, eventually finding himself in an alternate Draenor in the time before the original Horde had come to Azeroth. Hungry for vengeance, Garrosh provided his father, Grommash Hellscream, with the technology to assemble his ideal army—the conquering force called the Iron Horde. Grommash was quick to unite Draenor's orcish clans under his banner, and the clan leaders became the Iron Horde's warlords. Among them were the bloodthirsty Kargath Bladefist, the cunning Blackhand, the elder shaman Ner'zhul, and the fearless Kilrogg Deadeye. The Iron Horde took command of several vital locations on Draenor, subjugated the ogre city of Highmaul, and built massive fortifications like Blackrock Foundry to outfit the warlords' armies.

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Meanwhile, after close to a year, Grukal Blackforge rose above the ranks, from helping Kargath attack a large Outcast encampment in the Spires of Arak, which they won without too many losses, from incinerating a Shadow Council village with the aid of his fellow Blackrocks and assisting Grommash with militaristic issues. Grukal was given a small parcel of Thunderlord land.

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Fenris:''Your deeds to the Iron Horde have given you this parcel of MY clan's land, Lead your outpost well or I will have your head and present it on a pike to Warchief Grommash, Blackrock Pyromancer.''

Grukal meanwhile, admired what his base, even if small had. It had a command center, Barracks, Pig Farms, and several Towers. Meanwhile, a Thunderlord Messenger approached him. ''Commander Grukal, Grommash has called for a assault on the Frostwolf Clan, You will receive the aid of the Bloodmaul, Bladespire and Thunderlord clans, for a Shadow Council contingent has taken refuge in the Ruins of Ata'gar.'' Grukal smiled. ''Don't have to tell me twice...'' Grukal called his forces, and they marched towards the nearest Frostwolf village, Throm'var. As to which the Frostwolves and the large Iron Horde force got into a massive battle, Farseer Urquan, the commander of Throm'var had the civilians flee to Wor'gol, although some took to arms against the large Iron Army. Grukal and Urquan got into a shaman battle, as to which Grukal easily won. Soon the battle was claimed, with due to lack of Frostwolf reinforcements, the village was claimed and soon to be rebuilt as something larger, A village and a training ground.

Grukal roared out ''VICTORY FOR THE IRON HORDE! FOR WARCHIEF HELLSCREAM! Fortify the village, and prepare the attack on the Ruins of Ata'gar!'' His forces did so, meanwhile Grukal had several defense posts and bunkers set up, aswell as towers. As the stronghold was finished and the army was regathered with fresh reinforcements, the Ruins of Ata'gar was heavily sieged, Warlock magic met Iron technology, as the two clashed, Bloodmaul Ogre Mages summoned fire elementals and a rain of fire onto the Shadow Council heads, as Iron Stars blew Shadow Council barracks to smithereens, Grukal summoned Pyroblasts in a collision with Griselda the Crone, however the Crone seemed to be easy, until she revealed her Shivarra form, as it quickly grew into a fight for survival with Grukal. Eventually Gugg'rokk aided him, as the Crone was slaughtered. The ruins were won, but with many Iron Horde dead. Grukal snarled.''Gah, bury the dead and give them a proper Orcish Burial, they fought hard and never surrendered.. BURN the warlock tomes, and throw the pathetic Shadow Council bodies into the sea..'' The fel was attempted to be rooted out of Draenor by Thunderlord spellcasters, as Fenris congratulated Grukal on his accomplishment. ''Congratulations, Commander..for taking out two strongholds of our enemies. and depriving the Council of a foothold in the Frostfire Ridge, aswell as tightening our own iron grip. Your next assignment will arrive soon, go back to your outpost and replenish your army.'' Grukal smiled. ''Very well.'' replied the Blackrock Commander. His forces returned to his base to celebrate, as Grukal soon obtained followers..A goblin that went by the name Pauli Goldfuse and a Orcish Warrior that went by the name Drognaar Thunderjaw.