Durotan személy

3. fejezet

Durotan's jaw dropped. He turned his head to stare at Orgrim, who wore a similar expression of stunned dismay. This was what was so important, so secret that the children were forbidden to leave the tent to listen to it? Discussions of fevers and soups?
In the bright light of the moon. Durotan had no trouble seeing Orgrim's face clearly. The other youth's brows drew together in a frown.
„You and I can come up with something more interesting than this. Durotan.” he said in a low, gruff voice.
Durotan grinned and nodded. He was certain of it.
The festival lasted for two more days. During the daytime and at night, when the two would sneak out together, they challenged each other to different contests of skill. Racing, climbing, strength, sure-footedness— everything they could think of. And each defeated the other almost as if they had planned on taking turns.

„Let us not perform common, ordinary challenges,” Durotan said, wondering where the words came from even as he uttered them, „Let us do something truly different in the history of our people.”
Orgrim's bright gray eyes gleamed as he leaned forward. „What do you suggest?”
„Let us be friends, you and I.”
Orgrim's heavily muscled jaw dropped. „But—we are not of the same clan!” he said, in a voice that indicated that Durotan might have proposed a friendship between the great black wolf and the mild talbuk. Durotan waved a dismissive hand. „We are not enemies,” he said. „Look around you. The clans come together twice a year and there is no harm in it.”
„But . . . my father says it is precisely because we come together so seldom that the peace is kept,” Orgrim continued. His brow knotted with concern.
Disappointment colored Durotan's words with bitterness. „Very well. I thought you braver than the others, Orgrim of the Doomhammer line, but you are no better than they—timid and shy and unwilling to see beyond what has always been done to what is possible.”
[…]
„I am no coward!” he snarled. „I back down from no challenge, you upstart Frostwolf!”
He sprang on Durotan then, knocking the smaller orc off his feet, and the two pummeled each other until the shaman needed to be brought in for healing and lecturing on the inappropriateness of fighting in a sacred space.
„Impetuous boy,” scolded the head shaman of the Frostwolves, an ancient orc female they called „Mother” Kashur. „You are not too old to be beaten as a disobedient child, young Durotan!”
The shaman who tended Orgrim muttered similar displeased sounds. But even as blood streamed freely from his nose, and as he watched the shaman heal a wicked gash on Orgrim's brown torso, Durotan grinned. Orgrim caught his gaze and grinned back.
The challenge had begun, the final challenge, so much more important than races or lifting stones, and neither was willing to admit defeat … to say that a friendship between two youths of different clans was wrong. Durotan had a feeling that this particular challenge would end only when one of them was dead … and perhaps not even then.

„Ha,” grunted Orgrim, sitting up and punching Durotan in a playful manner. „It is little effort to beat a stripling like you. Durotan.”
„You have so much muscle your brain is starved,” Durotan retorted. „Skill is as important as power. But the Blackrock clan wouldn't know about such things.”
There was no malice in their banter. Their clans had been troubled at first by the friendship between the two youths, but Durotan's stubborn argument—that just because something had never been done before did not mean it could not be done—amused and impressed the leaders of both clans. It helped that both the Frostwolves and the Blackrocks were both traditionally even-tempered orc clans. Had Durotan proposed such a friendship with a Warsong clan member or a Bonechewer, for example, known for their intense clan pride and distrust of others, the little flame of friendship would have died quickly. So the elders watched, and waited for the novelty to fade and for each youth to return to his rightful place and keep the familiar order that had been established for… as long as anyone could recall.
They were disappointed.
The frost of late winter had given way to spring and now the full blowsy warmth of summer, and the friendship continued.

The draenei's eyes widened. „Friends . . . from two different clans?”
Orgrim nodded. „Yes.” He added, somewhat defensively, „It is not traditional, but it is not forbidden.”
The draenei nodded, but he still looked surprised. He regarded both of them for a moment, then turned to two of his companions and murmured something in his native tongue. […]
The draenei who had been speaking with them turned. „They will notify your families that you are well and safe. You will return home tomorrow. In the meantime, I am happy to offer you the hospitality of the draenei. My name is Restalaan. I am the leader of the guards of Telmor, the town with which both your clans regularly trade. I regret to say I do not remember cither of you, but then, the orc younglings seem a bit leery of us when We come to your territory.”
Orgrim bristled. „I am afraid of no one and nothing.”
Restalaan smiled a bit. „You ran from the ogre.”
Orgrim's brown face darkened and his eyes glinted angrily. Durotan lowered his head slightly. As he had feared, Restalaan and the others had borne witness to their shame, and now they would be mocked.
„That,” Restalaan continued calmly, as if he had not noticed the effect his words had had on the two. „is wisdom. If you had not fled, we would be sending two corpses home to your families tomorrow instead of two healthy, strong orc youths. There is no shame in fear, Orgrim and Durotan. Only in letting fear prevent you from doing the right thing. And in your case, running was definitely the right thing.”
Durotan stuck out his chin. „One day, we will be strong and our full size. Then, it will be the ogres who fear us.”
Restalaan turned a mild face to him, and to Durotan's surprise, he nodded. „I completely agree,” he said. „Ores are powerful hunters.”

Grom had been a fool, letting the warlock’s flattery lure him from his path. He had watched as Blackhand and Orgrim Doomhammer led the Horde through the portal into that strange place called Azeroth. And he had watched as reports came back, reports of their initial successes and then of their ultimate failures.
Grom growled softly beneath his breath. If only he had been there! He could have turned that final battle around, he was sure of it—with his help Doomhammer could have conquered that human city by the lake and still sent forces to crush the traitorous Gul’dan and his cohorts. Then they could have claimed Lordaeron and spread out from there, sweeping across the land until no one was left to stand against them.
Grom shook his head. The past was past. Blackhand was dead, his old friend Durotan was dead, Doomhammer was captured, the Dark Portal was destroyed,

3. fejezet

– Nem hagylak magadra – jelentette ki Draka alig hallhatóan. Lágy hangja éles ellentétben állt Durotán harsány Eskükiáltásával. – Mi is veled megyünk.
– Megtiltom!
Draka talpra ugrott, hirtelen mozdulatával még a harcedzett Durotánt is megrémisztette. A gyermek bőgve gurult a földre anyja öléből, ahogy Draka vadul rázni kezdte az öklét. Egy szempillantással később Durotán arca összerándult az éles fájdalomtól, Draka ugyanis egyetlen ugrással a barlang másik végében termett, és véresre karmolta társa ábrázatát.
– Draka vagyok, Rhakish fiának, Kelkarnak leánya. Senki sem tilthatja meg nekem, hogy a párommal tartsak, még Durotán sem! Veled megyek, és veled fogok elesni, ha a sors úgy hozza! – Leköpte Durotánt.
Durotán letörölte arcáról a vérrel keveredett nyálat, s szíve megtelt szerelemmel. Jól választotta meg a társát, fiai szülőanyját.