Satisfied, Orgrim Doomhammer let his signature weapon drop back down to his side, and the dark tide below resumed its destructive motion.

Down below, beyond the city's gates, an orc lay upon a cot. His short, scrawny frame was covered in thick furs, a sign of high status, and rich clothing lay in a pile nearby. But the clothing had not been touched, not in weeks. For the orc lay without stirring, as if dead, his ugly face scrunched in pain or concentration, his bushy beard bristling about his snarling mouth.

Then, suddenly, all changed. With a gasp the orc sat bolt upright, the furs falling away from his sweat—drenched body. His eyes opened, glassy and unseeing at first, then blinking away the long sleep and glancing around him.

"Where—?" the orc demanded. A larger figure was already moving to his side, both heads registering pleased surprise, and as the orc's gaze caught him the eyes sharpened, as did the features. Whatever confusion had lingered was gone, replaced by cunning and rage. "Where am I?" he demanded. "What has happened?"

"You were asleep, Gul'dan," the other creature replied, kneeling by the cot and offering a goblet. The orc grabbed it sniffed it, and tossed back the contents with a grunt, wiping a hand across his mouth afterward. "A sleep like death. For weeks now you have not moved, have barely breathed. We thought your spirit gone."

"Did you, now?" Gul'dan grinned. "Were you afraid I would leave you, Cho'gall? Abandon you to Blackhand's tender mercies?"

The two—headed ogre mage glared at him. "Blackhand is dead, Gul'dan!" one head snapped. The other frantically nodded agreement.

"Dead?" At first Gul'dan thought he had misheard, but Cho'gall's grim expressions convinced him even before both of the ogre's heads nodded. "What? How?" He pulled himself up to a sitting position, though the motion made him reel and break out in a cold sweat. "What has happened while I slept?"