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passed down generation after generation.
    Clad in thick, ebony plate armor etched in bronze—handed down to him along with the huge weapon by his predecessor, the legendary Orgrim Doomhammer—the greatest of warriors bent his head low and humbly asked, “How may I assist you who honor my presence, great one?”
    “Only by listening,” Kalthar returned. “And by truly listening.”
    The strong-jawed Warchief leaned forward, his startling and so very rare blue eyes—considered a portent of destiny by his people——narrowed in anticipation. In his journey from slave and gladiator to ruler, Thrall had studied the path of the shaman, even mastering some of the skills. He more than most understood that when Kalthar talked so, he did with good reason.
    And so the shaman told Thrall of the vision of the funnel and how time seemed a plaything to it. He told him of the voices and their warnings, told him about the wrongness he had felt.
    Told Thrall what he feared would happen if the situation was left unchecked.
    When Kalthar finished, the Warchief leaned back. Around his throat he wore a single medallion upon which had been inscribed in gold an ax and hammer. His eyes revealed the quick wit and intelligence that marked him as a capable leader. When he moved, he moved not as a brutish orc might, but with a grace and poise more akin to a human or an elf.
    “This smells of magic,” he rumbled. “Big magic. Something for wizards…maybe.”
    “They may know already,” returned Kalthar. “But we cannot afford to wait for them, great Warchief.”
    Thrall understood. “You would have me send someone to this place you saw?”
    “It would seem most prudent. At least so we may know what we face.”
    The Warchief rubbed his chin. “I think I know who. A good warrior.” He looked to the guards. “Brox! Get me Brox!”
     
    And so Brox had been summoned and told his mission. Thrall respected Brox highly, for the older warrior had been a hero of the last war, the only survivor of a band of brave fighters holding a critical pass against the demons. With his war hammer Brox himself had caved in the skulls of more than a dozen of the fiery foes. His last comrade had died cleaved in two just as reinforcements had arrived to save the day. Scarred, covered in blood, and standing alone amid the carnage, Brox had appeared to the newcomers as a vision out of the old tales of his race. His name became almost as honored as that of Thrall.
    But it was more than the veteran’s name that garnered the respect of the Warchief and made him Thrall’s choice. Thrall knew that Brox was like him, a warrior who fought with his head as well as his arm. The orc leader could not send an army into the mountains. He needed to trust the search to one or two skilled fighters who could then report their findings to him.
    Gaskal was chosen to accompany Brox because of his swiftness and absolute obedience to orders. The younger orc was part of the new generation that would grow up in relative peace with the other races. Brox was glad to have the able fighter at his side.
    The shaman had so perfectly described the route through the mountains that the pair were well ahead of the estimated time the trek should have taken. By Brox’s reckoning, their goal lay just beyond the next ridge…exactly where the dragon and rider had vanished.
    Brox’s grip on his hammer tightened. The orcs had agreed to peace, but he and Gaskal would fight if need be, even if it meant their certain deaths.
    The older warrior forced away the grim smile that nearly played across his face at the last thought. Yes, he would be willing to fight to the death. What Thrall had not known when he summoned the war hero to him had been that Brox suffered from terrible guilt, guilt that had eaten at his soul since that day in the pass.
    They had all perished, all but Brox, and he could not understand that. He felt guilty for being alive, for not dying valiantly with his comrades. To him, his