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"Only a special blade can do what I ask of you, Gul'dan," rumbled Kil jaeden. He extended his hand. The dagger seemed tiny in
comparison to the huge palm upon which it rested, but it was quite large when Gul'dan curled his own fingers around it.
"This has been forged in the fires of the mountain in the distance," Kil jaeden said, pointing to the smoking mountain. "My
servants have worked long and hard to craft it. You know what to do, Mannoroth."
The creature nodded its huge head. Its tail moving to balance its bulk, it knelt on its front two feet and extended an arm. It turned
its hand upward, exposing the comparatively softer flesh of its wrist.
For a heartbeat, Gul'dan hesitated. What if this was some sort of trick, or a test? What if Kil jaeden really didn't want him to do
this? What if he failed?
What if Ner zhul was right?
"Gul'dan," said Kil jaeden, "Mannoroth is known for many things. Patience is not among them."
Mannoroth growled softly and his green eyes glinted. "I am eager to see what will happen. All of your people ... Do it!"
Gul'dan swallowed hard, lifted the blade, aimed its gleaming edge toward the flesh of Mannoroth's exposed wrist, and brought the
knife down as hard as he could.
And flew backward from the force of Mannoroth's blow as the creature bellowed in pain. Dazed, he lifted his head and blinked,
trying to clear his vision.
Liquid fire spouted from the wound, glowing a sickly greenish yellow as it pumped into the pool of the draenei priests. The injury
was tiny compared to the vastness of Mannoroth's body, but the blood flowed steadily as if from a waterfall. Faintly, Gul'dan was
aware that Ner zhul, the weakling, was crying. Gul'dan could not tear his eyes from the sight of the unholy blood pouring, pouring
without ceasing, from the creature who continued to roar and thrash in pain. He got to his feet and walked over to the edge of the
pool, being very, very careful not to come into contact with the fluid spewing from the wound he himself had made. "Behold the
blood of the Destructor," gloated Kil jaeden. "It burns away all diat will not serve you, Gul'dan. It cleanses all thoughts of
hesitation, confusion, or uncertainty. It creates a hunger that can be directed any way you choose. Your little puppet thinks he
rules die Horde, but he is wrong. The Shadow Council thinks they rule the Horde, but they are wrong."
Gul'dan lifted his eyes from the pool of glowing green liquid that continued to pump from Mannoroth's injured arm to gaze raptly
at Kil jaeden.
"Gul'dan ... it will soon be you who rules the Horde. They are ready They thirst for what you will give diem."
Gul'dan again turned to look at the flowing liquid.
"Call them to you. Quench that thirst. .. and what their hunger."
The now-familiar horn awakening the Horde and summoning them to the courtyard blew before dawn. Durotan had not been
sleeping; he did not sleep much anymore. He and Draka rose without a word and began to dress.
Suddenly he heard her inhale swiftly. He turned at once to see that she was staring at him, her eyes wide.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Your . . . your skin," she said quietly He looked down at his bare chest. His skin was dry and flaky and as he scratched at it, the
skin beneath it looked . . . green. He remembered seeing the same tint on young Ghun's skin not so long ago.
"It's just the light," he said, trying to reassure them both. She would not be so easily placated. Draka lifted her own arm and
scratched. Her skin, too, was green. She lifted dark eyes to him. They both saw it. It was no trick of the light.
"What is happening to us?" Draka asked.
Durotan had no answer. They continued to dress in silence, and as he went outside to the courtyard to wait, Durotan's eyes kept
traveling to his arm, the strange green hue of his skin hidden beneath dented metal armor.
The announcement about the assembly had come yesterday afternoon, during a training session with some of the younger ores.
Durotan still could not get used to seeing children who, a few months earlier, had been barely able to walk now wielding swords
and axes with extraordinary power. They seemed content with their new status, even pleased, but Durotan fought the urge to shake
his head every time he saw them.
Durotan found he could not even summon curiosity about their next target. It would be the same as before slaughter, rage,
defilement of corpses. Recently, even the bodies of slain Horde had been left where they had fallen, their weapons and armor taken
to be used on a living body. Sometimes a friend or family member bowed over die corpse for a moment, but even that was happening
less frequently. Gone were the days of bringing home the honored dead and placing them with deep ritual upon a funeral pyre, their
spirits sent with all ceremony to join the ancestors. Now, there was no time for rituals, or pyres, or the ancestors. There was no
time for the dead. There was no time for anything, it would seem, but slaughtering draenei and mending weapons and armor so the
Horde could go out again to continue the task.
He stood with dull eyes in the courtyard, awaiting his orders. Blackhand rode to the gates of the Citadel, where they could see him
clearly. There was a wind today With nothing to block it in this desolate place, it caused the banners of the various clans to snap
fiercely.
"We have a long march ahead of us," Blackhand cried. "You were told to pack supplies. I hope you listened. Warriors, your
weapons must be ready and your armor sound. Healers, have your ointments, potions, and bandages at hand. But before we march
to war, we will march to glory."
He lifted a hand and pointed off in the distance, where the sullen mountain that jutted against the sky puffed black smoke.
"That is our first destination. We will stand on the mountain . . . and what happens there will be remembered for a thousand years.
It will begin a time in which the ores will know power that we have never before tasted."
He paused to let this sink in, and nodded, visibly pleased, at the murmur that ran through the crowd.
Durotan tensed. So ... it would be today....
Never one to talk more than he needed to. Blackhand ended this rallying speech with, "Let us go!"
The Horde surged forward eagerly, curious and excited by Blackhand's words. Durotan looked quickly at Draka, who merely
nodded her support of his plan. Then, forcing his heavy feet to move, he followed, caught up in the tide.
There was a narrow, steep path that led partway up the smoky mountain to a large plateau. It looked to Durotan as if a chunk of
the mountainside had been cut away with a clean sword strike, so unnaturally perfect was it. His skin crawled at the thought. Very [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] - zanotowane.pl
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