Son of the Frostwolf

After talking with the old man for a while, Arthas and Jaina left the abbey for the time being. Jaina felt great sympathy for what he had suffered.

"I never imagined ordinary people had it so hard. That old man said those few silver coins were his family's entire savings. They couldn't make ends meet without hunting."

"The Kingdom of Stormwind has only just been rebuilt. Varian has already spent enormous amounts of money and manpower restoring Stormwind City and Elwynn Forest. It's only natural that the whole country's economy is struggling." Arthas, too, could only feel sorry for them.

Meeting him had been a stroke of luck amid the old man's misfortune. Otherwise, if his son MacBride, a man in his prime, had died beneath the wolves' claws, it would have made life even harder for a family that was already poor.

Jaina could only sigh. Compared with Lordaeron, which had suffered only a temporary disruption, and Kul Tiras, which had escaped the conflict thanks to its distance from the mainland, the Kingdom of Stormwind had suffered far more heavily during the Orc War.

When the orcs poured out of the Dark Portal, they had been human civilization's first line of defense-and the least prepared. Even so, the valiant humans had managed to repel the orcs' offensive for a time in the early stages of the Orc War.

This small incident deepened Jaina's understanding of the orc question. "My earlier ideas really were too naive. The Eastern Kingdoms no longer have room for a population as vast as the orcs, unless they're willing to leave the fertile lands behind and retreat into the mountains and forests."

"That's impossible, of course. Not every orc is a saint. Right now, they're confined to internment camps and given basic food and shelter. But once they're released, any intelligent creature would want better living conditions."

Jaina gave Arthas a long look. "And that means new conflicts."

"Exactly. They destroyed their own homeland. Are we supposed to let them ravage ours as they please?" Then Arthas changed tack. "But they aren't entirely without hope."

"You mean that continent across the Great Sea you keep mentioning?" Jaina was also deeply curious about the Kalimdor Arthas spoke of. The fleets of Kul Tiras sailed far and wide, and its shipbuilding industry was exceptionally advanced, yet little news of that land ever reached the kingdom.

Many people thought Kalimdor was nothing more than a legend.

"Yes. I've already sent people to find a suitable foothold there. Perhaps in a few more years, we'll actually be able to establish an outpost city in Kalimdor."

"But would His Majesty Terenas and my father really let you move the orcs to that land?"

"The internment camps have actually become a huge burden on Lordaeron, too. There's no point in keeping the orcs penned up forever. My father thinks this supposed display of humanitarianism is utter stupidity."

Jaina was puzzled. Hadn't Arthas's father, King Terenas, been the one who spearheaded the initiative?

Arthas smiled wryly. Although his father had strongly supported the proposal at first, pressure from the other human kingdoms had ultimately made Terenas realize that the political maneuver he had intended to use against others had been turned against him.

The old king was no fool. Building costly, labor-intensive internment camps on Lordaeron's soil, then spending enormous sums every year to support orcs who produced nothing of economic value? These weakened orcs were worth less as workers than ordinary farmers!

In the end, the other human kingdoms had instead used the matter as a pretext to counter Lordaeron's efforts to collect taxes through the internment camps, thereby weakening Lordaeron. For the sake of Lordaeron's standing and reputation within the Alliance, once the old king realized his scheme had backfired, he could only swallow his bitterness without complaint.

Now he could hardly wait for Arthas to find somewhere to send the orcs packing. Terenas had long since come to loathe these greenskins: he couldn't kill them, and he had no idea where to drive them, so they simply stayed in his kingdom and bled him dry.

The old king had told Arthas long ago that, so long as Lordaeron's safety was not threatened, he could dump the orcs wherever he pleased.

In the schemes and power games of the Alliance, no one's hands were any cleaner than anyone else's.

In fact, there were far fewer orcs now than there had been at the start of the invasion. First, before the Dark Portal was closed, many defeated orcs had retreated through it. Second, the orcs currently in the internment camps were in poor mental and physical condition, and deaths from weakness and illness were common.

"But how will you get the orcs across the ocean to another continent?"

Jaina thought for a while. It seemed that no matter what they did, Lordaeron would still have to spend a fortune cleaning up the aftermath if it wanted to rid itself of the orc problem for good.

"Do you remember Orgrimmar Doomhammer, the former Warchief of the Horde who escaped from an internment camp a few years ago?"

Arthas revealed a mysterious smile, leaving Jaina even more puzzled. "I do. Haven't they still failed to capture that dangerous orc?"

"I deliberately sent people to let him go."

"?!"

Not every orc had had their will completely worn away by defeat and the curse. Some still hoped to restore their people.

Orgrim was an excellent leader. He knew that the orcs in their current state were no match whatsoever for the human kingdoms, so his first priority would certainly be finding a way for his people to survive.

If he were given new hope and a new goal, would Orgrim take the remaining old, weak, sick, and wounded orcs into a fight to the death against humanity, or lead his people across the ocean?

When the time came, Arthas would only need to herd them along and leave Orgrim an opening. He would lead the orcs out of the Eastern Kingdoms himself. The orcs would be the ones left worrying over the details. Arthas would not even have to concern himself with how they built ships to reach Kalimdor!

Far away, in the snow-covered Alterac Mountains.

"Orgrim, here's your share."

The old shaman Drek'Thar lifted the tent flap and entered carrying a huge wooden platter, on which lay a thick roasted haunch of venison.

"Thank you, Drek'Thar." Orgrim picked up the haunch, opened his mouth, and tore off a large chunk of meat with his sharp tusks.

Drek'Thar found a place to sit, his voice full of worry. "Orgrim, our hunters encountered ogres while hunting today. They were hunting too. We lost two young men."

Orgrim stopped chewing for a moment. He quickly swallowed his food and said, "They occupy the ruins of Alterac City. Why would they come up into the snowy mountains to compete with us for game?"

"The elemental spirits told me that game is growing scarce in these mountains. We need to move somewhere new." The old shaman touched the black cloth wrapped around his eyes. He was blind in both eyes, but the spirits of nature allowed him to see far more.

Orgrim's heavy brows knitted tightly. He put down the half-eaten haunch. "Winter is almost here. The weather in the mountains will grow even harsher. Is this really a good time to move?"

The old shaman's voice seemed to carry the wind and snow within it. "I know. But before winter arrives, the ogres will certainly come out in force to stockpile food. Our home isn't safe enough."

"Home?" Orgrim let out a harsh breath, his voice growing urgent. "This isn't our home, Drek'Thar. Our home was destroyed! By that traitor Gul'dan!"

The old shaman could not see Orgrim's expression, but he could feel the anger burning in his chest. Drek'Thar, however, had long since grown used to it. "But this is our home now. At least, it is the Frostwolf Clan's home. Draenor is gone, Orgrim, and you are no longer the Warchief."

Orgrim's raised voice fell silent at once. He sat stiffly on the fur rug, staring at the half-eaten haunch. Only after a long while did he slowly say, "I failed the Horde... I failed Durotan... I failed every orc."

"It isn't your fault, Orgrim. At least we're still alive, and we still have food to eat." The old shaman shook his head. He had no intention of rebuking Orgrim. "But we do still have a chance to turn things around, Orgrim."

Orgrim shook his head. He carried the weight of the Horde's defeat, and that crushing burden had left him struggling to breathe over the past few years. He even had nightmares every night, dreaming of blood-covered orcs seizing him and demanding, "Is this the victory you promised?!"

He did not even know how he had managed to muster the will and strength to escape his human captors back then.

"Do you still remember Go'el?"

The old shaman's question made Orgrim's expression even sadder. Go'el was the son of his late friend Durotan.

Durotan, the Frostwolf Clan's former chieftain, had openly opposed the Horde's use of fel, so Gul'dan, the warlock leader of the Shadow Council, had sent assassins to silence this voice of dissent.

After Durotan was assassinated by Gul'dan's Shadow Council, his newborn son had also gone missing. More than a decade had passed since then, and everyone believed that the Frostwolf chieftain's son had joined his father and mother among the ancestors.

"I heard the call of the elemental spirits. Go'el is still alive. He has grown up at the foot of the Alterac Mountains, raised by a human."

"What?!" Orgrim seized the old shaman's shoulders, a spark returning to his weary eyes. "Do you know what you're saying? Go'el is still alive?!"

"The elements would not deceive me, just as they did not when they warned the orcs back on Draenor."

Orgrim sighed. If anyone had listened to the warnings of the ancestors and the elements back then, the orcs would never have ended up in their present plight. But all that was in the past now. He had a new hope: finding his friend's son.

The old shaman remained silent. Everything he had said was true, but he knew better than anyone that finding Durotan's son would not be easy. Still, a new goal could rouse Orgrim, who spent his days wavering between despondency and lucidity.

The Frostwolf Clan appeared to have made a home in Alterac Valley, but Drek'Thar, who currently led the clan, knew full well that Alterac's harsh climate and its proximity to human territory left the fragile Frostwolf Clan in constant peril. They had to find a new place to live.

Before leaving, Drek'Thar said to Orgrim, "The blood of the Frostwolf Clan flows through Go'el's veins. I believe you can find him. He can bring us change."

For the first time, Orgrim believed so deeply in a shaman's prophecy. Because it was not merely a prophecy-it was his hope.