Arthas: The Rise of the Lich King
The
wind
shrieked
like
a
child
in
pain.
The
herd
of
shoveltusk
huddled
together
for
warmth,
their
thick,
shaggy
coats
protecting
them
from
the
worst
of
the
storm.
They
formed
a
circle,
with
the
calves
shivering
and
bleating
in
the
center.
Their
heads,
each
crowned
with
a
massive
antler,
drooped
toward
the
snow
covered
earth,
eyes
shut
against
the
whirling
snow.
Their
own
breath
frosted
their
muzzles
as
they
planted
themselves
and
endured.
In
their
various
dens,
the
wolves
and
bears
waited
out
the
storms,
one
with
the
comfort
of
their
pack,
the
other
solitary
and
resigned.
Whatever
their
hunger,
nothing
would
drive
them
forth
until
after
the
keening
wind
had
ceased
its
weeping
and
the
blinding
snow
had
worn
itself
out.
The
wind,
roaring
in
from
the
ocean
to
beat
at
the
village
of
Kamagua,
tore
at
the
hides
that
stretched
over
frames
made
of
the
bones
of
great
sea
creatures.
When
the
storm
passed,
the
tuskarr
whose
home
this
had
been
for
years
uncounted
knew
they
would
need
to
repair
or
replace
nets
and
traps.
Their
dwellings,
sturdy
though
they
were,
were
always
harmed
when
this
storm
descended.
They
had
all
gathered
inside
the
large
group
dwelling
that
had
been
dug
deep
into
the
earth,
lacing
the
flaps
tight
against
the
storm
and
lighting
smoky
oil
lamps.
Elder
Atuik
waited
in
stoic
silence.
He
had
seen
many
of
these
storms
over
the
last
seven
years.
Long
had
he
lived,
the
length
and
yellowness
of
his
tusks
and
the
wrinkles
on
his
brown
skin
testament
to
the
fact.
But
these
storms
were
more
than
storms,
were
more
than
natural.
He
glanced
at
the
young
ones,
shivering
not
with
cold,
not
the
tuskarr,
but
with
fear.
"He
dreams,"
one
of
them
murmured,
eyes
bright,
whiskers
bristling.
"Silence,"
snapped
Atuik,
more
gruffly
than
he
had
intended.
The
child,
startled,
fell
silent,
and
once
again
the
only
sound
was
the
aching
sob
of
the
snow
and
wind.
It
rose
like
the
smoke,
the
deep
bellowing
noise,
wordless
but
full
of
meaning;
a
chant,
carried
by
a
dozen
voices.
The
sounds
of
drums
and
rattles
and
bone
striking
bone
formed
a
fierce
undercurrent
to
the
wordless
call.
The
worst
of
the
wind’s
anger
was
deflected
from
the
taunka
village
by
the
circle
of
posts
and
hides,
and
the
lodges,
their
curving
roofs
arching
over
a
large
interior
space
in
defiance
of
the
hardships
of
this
land,
were
strong.
Over
the
sound
of
deep
and
ancient
ritual,
the
wind’s
cry
could
still
be
heard.
The
dancer,
a
shaman
by
the
name
of
Kamiku,
missed
a
step
and
his
hoof
struck
awkwardly.
He
recovered
and
continued.
Focus.
It
was
all
about
focus.
It
was
how
one
harnessed
the
elements
and
wrung
from
them
obedience;
it
was
how
his
people
survived
in
a
land
that
was
harsh
and
unforgiving.
