Christie Golden - Warcraft: Durotan

The crimson trail steamed in the snow, and Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh shouted in triumph. This was his first huntthe first time he had hurled a weapon at a living creature with the intent to kill itand the blood proved his spear had found its mark. Expecting praise, he turned to his father, his narrow chest swelling with pride, and was confused by the expression on the Frostwolf chieftains face.

Garad shook his head. His long, glossy black hair fell loose and wild about his broad, powerful shoulders. He sat atop his great white wolf Ice, and his small, dark eyes were grim as he spoke.

You missed its heart, Durotan. Frostwolves strike true the first time.

Disappointment and shame brought hot blood to the young orcs face. I I regret that I failed you, Father, he stated, sitting up as straight as he could atop his own wolf, Sharptooth.

Using his knees and hands in Ices thick ruff to direct him, Garad brought the beast alongside Sharptooth and regarded his son. You failed to kill with your first blow, he said. You did not fail me.

Durotan glanced up at his father, uncertain. My task is to teach you, Durotan, Garad continued. Eventually you will be chieftain, if the Spirits will it so, and I would not have you offending them unnecessarily.

Garad gestured toward the direction of the blood trail. Dismount and walk with me, and I will explain. DrekThar, you and Wise-ear come with us. The rest of you will wait for my summons.

Durotan was still ashamed, but also confused and curious. He obeyed his father without question, slipping from Sharptooths back and giving the huge wolf a pat. Whether the frost wolves were adopted as mounts because of their color, or whether the clan had named themselves after their snow-hued fur, no one knew; the answer had been swallowed by time. Sharptooth whuffed and licked his young masters face.

DrekThar was the Frostwolves elder shamanan orc who had a close connection with the Spirits of Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Life. According to Frostwolf lore, the Spirits dwelt in the far northat the Edge of the World, in the Seat of the Spirits. Older than Durotan, but not ancient, DrekThar had been blinded in battle years before Durotans birth. A wolf ridden by the attacking clan had snapped at DrekThars face. It was only a partial bite, but it had done enough. A single tooth had punctured one eye, and the other eye lost its vision shortly thereafter. Durotan could still see thin, pale scars snaking out from under the cloth DrekThar always wore to hide his ruined eyes.

But if something had been taken from DrekThar, something also had been given. Soon after losing his sight he had developed extra senses to compensate, perceiving the Spirits with keenness unrivaled by the younger shaman he trained. From time to time, the Spirits even sent him visions from their seat at the Edge of the World, as far north as north could be.

Far from helpless, as long as he could ride Wise-ear, his beloved and well-trained wolf, DrekThar could travel where any other orc could go.

Father, son, and shaman pressed through the deep snow, following the blood. Durotan had been born in a snowstorm, which was supposed to augur well for a Frostwolfs future. His home was Frostfire Ridge. While the snow sullenly retreated before the brightness of the summer months, it merely bided its time until its inevitable return. No one could say how long the Frostwolf orc clan had made this inhospitable place their home; they had been here as long as any could remember. Always, one of the older Frostwolves had said simply to Durotan when he was old enough to wonder.

But night was coming, and the cold increased. Durotans dense, warm boots of clefthoof hide struggled to resist saturation, and his feet began to grow numb. The wind picked up, knifing like a dagger through his thick fur cloak. Durotan shivered as he trudged on, waiting for his father to speak while the blood in the snow stopped steaming and began to freeze.

The red trail led over a broad, windswept expanse of snow and toward a gray-green smudge of trees clustered at the feet of Greatfather Mountain, the tallest peak in a chain that extended for hundreds of miles to the south. Greatfather Mountain, so the lore scrolls told, was the clans guardian, stretching his stone arms out to create a protective barrier between Frostfire Ridge and the southlands. The scent of clean snow and fresh pine filled Durotans nostrils. The world was silent.

It is not pleasant, is it? This long walk in the snow, Garad said at last.

Durotan wondered what the correct response was. A Frostwolf does not complain.

No, he does not. But it is still unpleasant. Garad smiled down at his son, his lips curving around his tusks. Durotan found himself smiling back and nodded slightly, relaxing.

Garad reached to touch his sons cloak, fingering the fur. The clefthoof. He is a strong creature. The Spirit of Life has given him heavy fur, a thick hide, layers of fat below his skin, so he may survive in this land. But when he is injured, he moves too slowly to keep himself warm. He falls behind the herd, so they cannot warm him, either. The cold sets in.

Garad pointed to the tracks; Durotan could see that the beast had been stumbling as it moved forward.

He is confused. In pain. Frightened. He is but a creature, Durotan. He did not deserve to feel thus. To suffer. Garads face hardened. Some orc clans are cruel. They enjoy tormenting and torturing their prey and their enemies. A Frostwolf takes no joy in suffering. Not even in the suffering of our enemies, and certainly not in that of a simple beast which provides us with nourishment.

Durotan felt his cheeks grow hot with another flush of shame. Not for himself this time, or because of his poor aim, but because this idea had not occurred to him. His failure to strike true was indeed wrongbut not because it meant he wasnt the best hunter. It was wrong because it had made the clefthoof suffer needlessly.

I understand, he said. I am sorry.

Do not apologize to me, Garad said. I am not the one who is in pain.

The bloodstains were fresher now, great, scarlet puddles in the hollows made by the clefthoofs erratic gait. They led on, past a few lone pines, around a cluster of boulders topped with snow.

And there they found him.

Durotan had wounded a bull calf. It had seemed so enormous to the young orc then, gripped as he had been in the throes of his first true bloodlust. But now, Durotan could see that ithewas not fully grown. Even so, the calf was as big as any three orcs, his thick hide covered with shaggy hair. His breath rose in rapid white puffs, and his tongue lolled between blunt yellow teeth. Small, recessed eyes opened as he scented them. He struggled to rise, succeeding only in forcing Durotans ill-cast spear deeper and churning up slushy red snow. The calfs grunts of agony and defiance made Durotans gut clench.

The young orc knew what he had to do. His father had prepared him for the hunt by describing the inner organs of the clefthoof and how best to slay it. Durotan did not hesitate. He ran as fast as the snow would permit toward the calf, seized the spear, yanked it out, and drove it directly, cleanly, into the animals heart, leaning his full weight on the weapon.

The clefthoof shuddered as he died, relaxing into a limp stillness as fresh, hot blood drenched his coat and the snow. Garad had hung back and was joined now by DrekThar. The shaman tilted his head, listening, while Garad looked at Durotan expectantly.