Stormwind Wizard God-Chapter 613: The Return of Chaos

By pure cosmic coincidence—the kind that makes you wonder if the universe has a twisted sense of humor—in the dank, moldy cellar beneath Brill's Arena, Orgrim was drilling Go'el with the same earth-shattering question that would make philosophers weep.

"Do you remember those three little questions I hammered into your thick skull?" Orgrim's voice rumbled like a landslide in a canyon.

"Crystal clear as mountain spring water. You asked, 'Who the hell are you? Where in the blazes did you crawl out from? And where in tarnation are you dragging your sorry hide to?'" Go'el's voice rang out steady as a church bell on Sunday morning.

"Well then, hotshot, have you chewed on those answers like a dog with a bone?"

"I've gnawed on them until my brain bled," Go'el's voice boomed with the power of a thousand stampeding buffalo.

"Spill it then!"

Go'el exploded to his feet like a rocket shot from a cannon, his orcish words crackling through the air with the fury of a Category 5 hurricane:

"I AM GO'EL! SON OF THE LEGENDARY FROSTWOLF CHIEFTAIN DUROTAN AND THE WARRIOR GODDESS DRAKA WHO COULD ARM-WRESTLE A MOUNTAIN GIANT AND WIN!"

"I HAIL FROM BEYOND THE CURSED DARK PORTAL, FROM THE BLOOD-SOAKED WORLD OF DRAENOR THAT THOSE PALE-SKINNED HUMANS DARE TO NAME!"

"I WILL LEAD MY ORCISH BROTHERS FROM THE CHAINS OF HUMAN OPPRESSION AND MARCH THEM TO A PROMISED LAND WHERE THEY CAN LICK THEIR WOUNDS AND RISE LIKE A PHOENIX FROM THE ASHES!"

On the flip side of that paper-thin wall, Orgrim shot up like a jack-in-the-box on steroids. Back-to-back they stood, separated by nothing but crumbling stone and destiny. Through that measly barrier, Orgrim could practically feel the blazing heat radiating from Go'el's warrior soul, warming his own battle-scarred heart like a campfire in a blizzard.

"Hot damn! " Orgrim bellowed with pride thick as molasses. "If Durotan and Draka could witness this moment of pure, unadulterated badassery, they'd be grinning like possums eating persimmons!"

"But what's this Edmund Duke character got to do with it all? If he's such a big fish in a small pond, how come I've never heard his name whispered in all my years rotting in Lordaeron?"

"Because his name is more forbidden than cursing in church..." Orgrim spent the next hour painting a picture more detailed than the Sistine Chapel, explaining how Duke had systematically dismantled the Horde's war machine like a master clockmaker taking apart a watch, plus all the backroom politics between the Alliance and Lordaeron that would make a soap opera writer jealous.

Go'el's brow furrowed deeper than the Grand Canyon. "If this Duke character is genuinely scarier than a berserk thunder lizard, then he's the biggest roadblock to our people's resurrection since sliced bread. But didn't you say he's been missing for a decade and the Alliance wrote his obituary? Why should we lose sleep over a ghost?"

Orgrim let out a sigh that could've powered a windmill. "Some folks are walking around six feet above ground but already pushing up daisies—like that old fool Terenas Menethil. I could handle him with one hand tied behind my back and a blindfold on. But there's another breed of man who's more dangerous stone-cold dead than most are breathing. That breed is Edmund Duke."

Orgrim's gaze seemed to slice through the pitch-black tunnel like a hot knife through butter, soaring across infinite skies to that golden age of glorious warfare that made legends.

After what felt like an eternity, he continued, "If we were just dealing with Lordaeron, we'd only need to spring our brothers loose, and the two of us could topple this kingdom faster than you can say 'Grom Hellscream.' But throw in the southern territories of the Eastern Kingdoms? That's like bringing a hammer to a mage fight—by the spirits, I made that mistake."

"Why?"

"Have you eyeballed those rickety sailing ships bobbing on Lake Lordamere like sitting ducks?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, hold onto your war axe—the southern continent's now sporting steam-powered warships belching smoke like angry dragons! They can haul 10,000 battle-ready soldiers across a thousand miles faster than anything! They're cranking out a thousand of mankind's sharpest blades in one hour flat! And don't get me started on their cannons that could turn a mountain into a molehill before breakfast!"

Go'el fell silent as a tomb.

"This is the brave new world that snake-in-the-grass Edmund Duke unleashed upon all of Azeroth on a whim." Orgrim looked more defeated than a one-legged cat in a sandbox. "My body's still got fight in it, but my brain's running behind like a three-legged turtle in a marathon. All I know is if we charge ahead with the same old song and dance, we'll lead our people straight to hell in a handbasket faster than lightning. That's why I'm betting the future on you, just like that shaman prophet foretold. I'm praying you can lead our people out of this nightmare before we're all singing our swan song."

"Count on it like death and taxes!" Go'el declared with conviction harder than a grown shamana. "Any other pearls of wisdom?"

"Follow your gut and damn the torpedoes. My final piece of advice comes straight from the shaman who talked me out of putting you six feet under. He wants you to change your handle to 'Thrall' the day you raise hell and hoist that rebellion flag."

"Thrall?!" Go'el's confusion hit him like a ton of bricks.

"That's the moniker the boys slapped on you when they shuffled you over from another slave pen. Gift from Lord Blackmoore of Durnholde, that other snake in the grass."

"Why would I want to wear a name hung on me by some human slave-driving son of a gun?!" Go'el's rage burned hotter than a than a bull in a nursing home.

"Because it's a name written in the stars, boy. It's every lesson you learned from those humans, every bit of their culture you soaked up like a sponge, and your true calling rolled into one neat package." Orgrim's voice turned more solemn than a funeral parlor. "Trust in that wise old bird. If he hadn't made the ultimate sacrifice, you'd have been buzzard food thanks to one of Duke's assassins thirteen years back. Only by embracing destiny will Lady Luck smile down on you."

"Alright, I'll bite the bullet. From this day forward, my name is—THRALL!" Go'el—no, Thrall—roared loud enough to wake the dead.

"Now you're cooking with gas! You won't eat those words, son of Durotan. The rest is up to you to write in blood and glory."

"Roger that—ORCS WILL NEVER BE SLAVES!" Thrall gripped his battle axe tight enough to leave fingerprints in the steel.

Meanwhile, in a completely different corner of this chaotic world, the young man who'd materialized in that lightning-and-thunder spectacular was struggling to stand up like he'd been hit by a freight train carrying bowling balls.

"Sweet mother of pearl, I've been turned into the Incredible Hulk's ugly cousin." The young man surveyed his surroundings like a lost tourist. "Thank all the saints there's nobody around, or they'd think I escaped from the funny farm."

His first attempt at movement sent him stumbling like a newborn colt on an ice rink—clearly, his soul and body were about as synchronized as a broken clock.

"My body..." He glanced down with growing panic. "Well, at least the family jewels are still in working order..."

Holy moly, this mountain breeze is making the boys colder than a well-digger's backside in January!

Since the important equipment seemed operational, he figured the rest could wait for a full inspection.

Actually, no!

Hell no! Better safe than sorry!

After checking himself over more thoroughly than a used car salesman inspecting a trade-in, he finally confirmed everything was present and accounted for.

Relief and joy hit him like winning the lottery and finding a twenty-dollar bill in your old jeans on the same day. After wrestling with fate longer than Jacob wrestled the angel, he'd finally crawled back to Azeroth. Even though he'd been through more near-death experiences than a cat with eight lives used up, he couldn't help but feel giddier than a tornado in a trailer park.

Finally, he sucked in a lungful of mountain air and hollered to the heavens, "YEEEEHAAAAW! AZEROTH! I, DUKE, AM BACK TO RAISE MORE HELL THAN A REVIVAL MEETING IN AUGUST!"

For a split second, lightning crackled and thunder rolled across the sky like Azeroth itself wanted to smite this troublemaker faster than you could say "divine retribution."

Yeah, right—that's just leftover fireworks from interdimensional travel. Totally normal cosmic hiccups!

Sure thing!

This was none other than the legendary pain-in-the-rear himself—handsome as sin, loved by enemies everywhere, makes flowers wilt and tires go flat just by existing—Duke Marcus.

Duke breathed in Azeroth's sweet air like it was his first taste of freedom, finally taking stock of his situation after that brutal cosmic joy ride across the universe that would make a roller coaster look like a kiddie ride.

Damnation, half my magical circuits are fried crispier than Sunday bacon.

Sweet Jesus, my storage pouch vanished into thin air.

Holy smokes, I'm naked as a jaybird. Well damn ,call me Mordecai.

"Hold your horses there, cowboy. Before I tackle the big problems, I need to scrub off this road dust—I'm grimier than a pig in mud." Duke, not daring to mess with magic until his circuits cooled down, high-tailed it to a nearby creek for some much-needed cleaning.

Just as Duke was splashing water on his face like he was washing away his sins, he caught a suspicious sound behind him that made his warrior instincts perk up like a bloodhound catching a scent.

Duke spun around faster than a gunslinger in a showdown and spotted a young woman gawking at him like he was a three-headed chicken. Without missing a beat, Duke threw his hands up in exasperation and hollered, "Why the hell are you doing peeping at a man's bath time, you little voyeur?!"