World of Warcraft: The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm Page 0,20

is difficult for the warrior to find where he belongs. I, Thrall, son of Durotan and Draka, promise you that I will work with you to find a suitable position where your skills and abilities can best be used to serve the Horde.”

He had meant this exactly as he said it. He did admire Garrosh’s work in Northrend. But those talents were limited, and he needed time to think about where best to position Garrosh to work for the Horde.

Apparently, though, Garrosh did not understand Thrall’s intention. His eyes narrowed and he growled softly beneath his breath.

“As the warchief wills, of course. With your permission, great Thrall, I find the air in here a bit stuffy.”

Without waiting for the sarcastically requested permission, Garrosh rose, gave Thrall a nod that was only barely courteous enough, and strode outside.

“That boy is a kodo disliking the bridle,” Cairne murmured.

Thrall sighed. “But too valuable to give up on.” He lifted his arm and, pitching his voice to carry, announced, “The air is close. More liquid to wet dry throats!”

A cheer went up, and the crowd was momentarily distracted. Thrall thought about Cairne’s words and his own, and wondered how in the world he would tame the wild kodo without breaking him.

But Garrosh’s role in the Horde, while an important concern to Thrall, was not uppermost in his mind. What troubled him most were the good of his people, of the Horde as a whole, and the unhappiness of the elements. His people were clamoring for more wood to build homes, but the very world itself seemed troubled.

He had chosen Durotar for the exact reasons he had spoken—because it enabled his people to atone for the harm they had done, and because this land had toughened and strengthened them. But he had never anticipated that so many rivers would dry up; that so much of what little forest there was would be denuded by a war that, while utterly necessary, was also utterly damaging.

No, Thrall thought as he sipped at a mug of beer. The taming of a single rebellious kodo was the least of his worries now.

FIVE

Garrosh gulped the night air gratefully. It was dry and warm even after nightfall, so unlike the cold, damp air of Northrend. But this was his home now, not the Borean Tundra, not Nagrand back in Draenor. This arid, inhospitable land, the city named for Orgrim Doomhammer, the land for Durotan, Thrall’s father. He reflected on that a moment, nostrils flaring with irritation. The only thing named after him was a tiny strip of shoreline constantly hammered at by false ghosts.

He came to a stop beneath the skull and armor of Mannoroth and felt his agitated spirit calm somewhat. He did feel a swell of pride at looking at what his father had done. It was good to have learned he could be proud of his heritage, but he wanted to make his own path, not ride along in the wake of his father’s deeds. Gorehowl, so newly his, was strapped to his back. He reached for it and held the weapon that had killed the great foe of his people, brown hands closing over the shaft.

“Your father was just what the Horde needed, when it needed it,” came a gravelly, deep, feminine voice behind him. Garrosh turned to see an elderly tauren. It took him a moment—her fur was dark, and in the night only the glitter of starlight on her intent eyes and the four stripes of white paint on her muzzle were immediately visible. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that she wore formal robes that marked her as a shaman.

“Thank you, um … ?” He waited for her to identify herself. She smiled.

“I am Elder Crone Magatha of the Grimtotem tribe,” she said.

Grimtotem. He had heard the name. “Interesting that you speak of what the Horde needs when yours is the only tauren tribe that has refused to officially join it.”

She chuckled softly, her rough voice oddly musical. “The Grimtotem does what it will, as it will. Perhaps we have not yet joined the Horde because we do not have sufficient reason to.”

Garrosh took umbrage. “What? This is not sufficient?” He stabbed a thick brown finger at the skull and armor of a pit lord. “Our war against the Burning Legion was not? The Warsong offensive was not enough to impress the mighty Grimtotem?”

She regarded him steadily, not in the least put out by his ranting. “No,” she said mildly. “It did not