“They took my horse!”
“Really?” Lothar’s look of contempt could have withered an entire forest. “Just… stay there.” Lothar galloped off with a pair of knights. Khadgar fought back the urge to knock him off with a spell, looked at the empty space where the Guardian of Azeroth ought to have been, and, sighing, turned his attention to examining the body of one of the beasts.
* * *
Nothing was as Durotan had expected. He had backed down in his earlier clash with Blackhand, but the longer this… this harvesting of the creatures he was told to call “humans” continued, the less he liked it. Today, at least, he did not feel sullied by his actions. Today, the humans had fought back—even taking Kurvorsh and others with them. It was unexpected, but at least Kurvorsh had died in battle, and Durotan would sing a lok’vadnod for him.
At least he would, if he lived long enough. The humans had rallied after the strange attack from the older human in the unpassable circle. Until he had agreed to join Gul’dan on this trek to this world of Azeroth, Durotan had never seen anything like it, and now, he had seen two similar spells. What had their shaman done? Or was he a warlock? Perhaps Drek’Thar could help him understand.
The Frostwolves had lost only a few warriors, but the humans were still in pursuit. Durotan had no desire to add any more of his clan to the ranks of the fallen until they understood what they were up against. He crouched low over the stolen riding beast, his huge hands on its head, directing its panicked flight.
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye—something green. It was Garona, Gul’dan’s slave. She was still a prisoner, except now she was bound to the dead. The length of chain that started at her scrawny neck led to a pale corpse—one of the green-tinged orcs that had been so mysteriously killed. She was struggling, trying to break the chain, glancing back the way Durotan had come.
With no weapons, bound to a dead minder, and so much weaker than a true, full-blooded orc, she was pitifully easy prey for the humans. They would cut through her tiny body with a single stroke of one of their small swords. Durotan should just leave her; such a thing as she was not worth risking his people for.
But it had been Garona, the slave, who had tried to warn Durotan against Gul’dan the second time the warlock had visited the Frostwolves, and certainly since the clan had joined the Horde, Durotan had started to regret not heeding her words. And Draka had felt sympathy and kindness toward her, seeing in the half-orc a reflection of her own temporary Exile from the Frostwolves.
Durotan made his decision. He turned the animal’s head toward the female, lifted Sever, and brought the great war axe crashing down on the iron chain. It parted easily, and he reached out his hand to her, ready to swing her behind him and bear her to safety.
Garona stared at his extended hand. Her gaze flickered to his face, and for a moment she hesitated.
Then she ran, darting into the forest—back the way they both had come. She would rather die as an orc than live as a slave.
It was a choice that almost guaranteed her death, but Durotan understood it. And he found he could not blame her.
* * *
Fel. It was, Khadgar was almost certain, what he had seen flowing between the beasts and Medivh, but there was no sign of it in this corpse any more. No telltale green mist seeping out from its mouth when, mindful of the seemingly razor-sharp teeth, Khadgar had opened its lips to test for the taint.
He paused. Something wasn’t right here. He got to his feet, looking around. The remaining knights were tending to the wounded, preparing the human corpses for respectful transportation home and the beast corpses for a somewhat less respectful journey.
The young mage closed his eyes for a moment, tuning in to the natural world around him. The rustle of leaves in the wind, the hum of insects. Birdsong.
No birdsong. Just as there had been no birdsong when—
He whirled around, hand outstretched, fingers splayed. Magic crackled in his palm and he shoved, hard.
The intruder who had just leaped from above him was struck by the spell. The beast was pinned in the air, its back against the rough bark of a huge tree, snarling down at him and writhing impotently.
Khadgar’s eyes widened as he got a good look at the beast he had just captured.
“Over here!” he shouted, not taking his eyes from his prisoner. He heard the sound of hoof beats behind him and then Lothar was there. So was a huge beast, unconscious and strapped across a second horse.
“You got a prisoner,” Khadgar said.
“So did you,” Lothar replied. “You took it alone?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, Lothar looked impressed, but then the expression was gone. He eyed the captive. “Looks like the runt of the litter.”
Khadgar sighed.
8
The human youth had looked like a reasonable target. Garona had not realized he knew magic—and was so proficient in it. The mistake had cost her. Now she jolted along in a barred wagon, a bleeding, battered orc warrior in chains across from her, staring at her. In the enclosed space, she wondered if she should have gone with Durotan. Maybe he would have agreed to hide her from Gul’dan. But no—he was too honorable. He would have felt the need to tell Gul’dan about her. And more than anything, Garona desired to be away from the warlock. Whatever the humans might do to her, it would be better.
Over the rumble of the wheels and the clopping sound the riding beasts made, one of the humans, the man who had used the loud weapon which hurled small missiles, called out to them.
“You. What are you?”
The orc across from Garona looked at him, then turned back to Garona.
She stayed silent, too. The human, riding atop his mount beside them and gazing at them through the bars of the cart, continued.
“Why do you attack our lands?”
Garona sat for a moment, thinking. Weighing her options. Then, she said in the human’s own tongue, “He does not know what you speak.”
The human turned toward her, alert as a predator. His eyes were… blue, his hair and beard pale, more like sand than earth. “You speak our language!”
There came a sharp clang as the bloodied orc lunged for Garona and was brought up short by his chains. “Say one more word in their language, slave, and I will wear your tongue,” the orc rumbled.
“What is he saying?” the human demanded.
“He does not like that I am speaking to you,” Garona said.
The Frostwolf was well and truly angry now, and he again pulled hard on his chains, the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. “I will not warn you again,” he snarled.
“He keeps threatening me, but I care not for—”
The Frostwolf lunged forward a third time, bellowing in fury, straining to reach Garona. The metal groaned in protest. Garona inhaled swiftly, her eyes widening. The human saw it, too.
“Tell him to stop—” he began.
“You tell him,” Garona retorted.
A final rush forward, and this time the chains pulled from the wood to which they were secured. The Frostwolf reached out for her throat, his mouth open in furious cry. Garona retreated as far as she could, but it would not be far enough—
He froze, gurgling. Brown blood seeped from his throat and his mouth, oozing down over the bright blade that was impaled halfway up its length. The light in his eyes faded, and when the human tugged his sword free, the Frostwolf slumped over, quite dead.
Garona stared at her savior, impressed. Somehow, he had been both swift and strong enough to leap from his mount and strike the Frostwolf through the bars in time. Now, he looked at her again with those uncanny blue eyes.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
* * *
“Have you a name?” Llane asked of the strange prisoner.
Lady Taria stood in the throne room, off to the side with Lothar, Khadgar, Callan, and some of her husband’s guards. She couldn’t keep from staring at the female prisoner Lothar and Khadgar h
ad brought in. She looked so human… except that she didn’t. She was of human size and shape, and would have been pretty save for the small tusks jutting out of her lower jaw.
She was bleeding here and there, and there were nasty, festering sores on her green skin where her manacles had rubbed. What passed for clothing, and it was very little, was stained and torn. Her thick black hair was tangled, and dirt smeared her emaciated body. And yet—she stood as if she were queen here, not Taria. Her spine was erect, her demeanor calm. This female might be in chains, but she was neither tamed nor broken.
“You understand our language,” Llane said, reminding her that they knew this. “Again… have you a name?” He walked down the steps from his throne. The prisoner stepped forward boldly toward him. One of the guards stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt, but Llane lifted a hand to stay any interference. The green female stroked the king’s tunic, lingering over the lion head brooches, then continued upward to the great throne of Stormwind itself.
“Garona,” said Lothar. He sat on the top step, his eyes following the female as she stepped past him. “She calls herself Garona.”
“Garona,” Llane said, addressing her directly as she stooped to touch the life-sized, golden lion at the throne’s base. “What kind of being are you?”
Garona did not reply, sniffing at the gold beast. Her dark brown eyes scanned the room and those inside it. Curious? Anxious? Evaluating? Taria couldn’t tell.
“She seems more like us than those… beasts we fought,” one of the soldiers said.
His words made Garona pause in her exploration of the room. “Orc,” she said.
Llane seized on this. “Orc? That’s what you are? Or what the beast in the cage was?” When she didn’t reply, he regarded her intently, looking her up and down. Some might have thought it an intimidation tactic, or perhaps a gesture of contempt. Taria recognized it for what it was. When her husband’s father was killed and Llane took the throne, he had vowed to learn all he could about not only the kingdom he was to rule, but the world in which it was located. Standing before him was something utterly new. He was excited and fascinated by that, and Taria knew it pained him to permit the use of violence against beings so, in his view, marvelous and remarkable. She noticed that the young mage, too, seemed enthusiastically curious, as if he were stifling questions with difficulty. Perhaps, though, that was due to the fact that he was a young man, and the being before them was exotically beautiful.
“I know every race in the Seven Kingdoms, but I have never heard of an orc.” Llane pointed toward the ceiling. Painted above their heads was a detailed map of Azeroth—all its islands and continents, its kingdoms and oceans. All that was known. There were patches that were as of yet unknown, wide expanses of open, blank mystery. “Show me where you come from, Garona.”
The orc tilted back her head and examined the map. She frowned, then shook her head.
“This is not orc world,” she said bluntly. A hint of a smile curved her lips. “Orc world is dead. Orcs take this world now.”
“Not from this world?” Llane looked completely bewildered.
So, frankly, was Taria, and likely everyone else in the room. Khadgar seemed to be almost physically silencing himself. But she realized that they were all focusing on the wrong thing. Llane was an idealist. While it was part of what made him a fine king, he was wise enough to ensure he was surrounded by others who were more pragmatic. It was, if true, a revelation—but they needed to save lives, not draw new maps.
“How did you get here?”
The voice cut through the air of the room like a knife. Medivh stood in the doorway, his body taut as a bowstring. How long has he been here, listening? Taria wondered.
Garona snapped to attention at once, her eyes trained on Medivh. She strode toward him, seemingly as unafraid of him as she had been of any of them.
“The Great Gate. Deep in ground. Ancient magic brings us here.”
Medivh strode forward. “You went through a gate,” he confirmed.
“But how did you learn our language?” Khadgar burst out, unable to contain himself any longer.
The orc turned her dark gaze to the youth. “Orcs take prisoners for the gate. I learn from them—”
Llane interrupted, his voice and body taut with tension at her words. “Prisoners like us? Our people? Are they alive?”
“Yes. Many,” Garona replied.
“Why?” Khadgar asked.
The orc looked at those who had been questioning her in turn and lifted her chin. Her eyes blazed as she replied, pride in her posture and voice, “To feed the Gate. To bring the Horde. To take your world.”
No one spoke. Taria could hardly believe what she had been hearing. A Great Gate, hungry for human prisoners. A horde of beings like Garona, flooding into Azeroth. To take it for their own. Her husband ruled, not she, but he shared almost everything with his queen, and she had learned many frightening things in their years together. But nothing as terrifying as this.
To take your world.
“You’ll take us to them.” Her brother, slicing through the sick silence in his usual manner.
Garona smirked. “No.”
Lothar smiled. Taria knew that smile. It did not bode well for those at whom it was directed. “You’ll take us to them,” he repeated, almost pleasantly, “or you’ll end up like your friend in the cage.”
Garona strode toward him slowly, kneeling beside him on the step and bringing her face close to his. “You think you are fearsome?” she murmured. “Orc children have pets more fearsome than you.”
Taria believed her.
“We are not trying to be fearsome, Garona,” Llane said, speaking calmly in an effort to diffuse the tension. “We are trying to protect our people. Our families.”
It was, it seemed, the wrong tactic. A mask seemed to settle over Garona’s attractive features. “What do I care about families?” she replied in an icy tone, her gaze still locked with Lothar’s. And Taria realized that Garona cared very much indeed.
“If you help us,” Llane said, “I give you my oath that I will protect you, too.”
Her brows, dark and elegant as raven’s wings, drew together. At last, Garona looked from Lothar to the king.
“Oath? What is… oath?”
* * *
Durotan and Orgrim stood with the rest of the chieftains and their seconds in Gul’dan’s hut. He, the Frostwolves he had commanded, and Blackhand had returned several hours ago, but they had been made to wait until after the sun had descended. The Frostwolves had used the time to mourn their dead, doing what they could to honor their passing without a ritual funeral pyre. The only light in the great tent was from a huge, burning brazier to the left of and slightly behind Gul’dan ornate chair.
The fire’s light, a sickly shade of pale green, threw the features of both Gul’dan and Blackhand into sharp relief. The warchief knelt before the warlock, one of them muscular and strong, the other hunched and seemingly withered. But everyone present knew which of the two was the most powerful.
Including Blackhand.
Gul’dan leaned on his staff and looked Blackhand up and down. “Fearsome Blackhand, warchief of the Horde,” he said, and his voice dripped scorn like ichor. “You have allowed the smallteeth to kill your warriors! Worse, you have shamed your people, by running from an enemy.”
Blackhand did not reply. Durotan saw him clenching and unclenching his remaining hand, the dark ink on it almost absorbing the green illumination of the fel flames. He tried to keep his face impassive, but Durotan could see the pain in his eyes.
Gul’dan prodded the larger orc with his staff. “Are you too weak to talk, Destroyer?”
Blackhand shook his head, but even now, did not speak. Orgrim leaned over to Durotan and said quietly, “I have no love for Blackhand, but even I feel for him, watching this.”
Durotan shared that feeling. The Frostwolves had been one of the last clans to join the Horde, and he was well aware that in the years
since its formation, there had been many power struggles. Order and ranking had been established, reward and punishment doled out. Blackhand had already lost his hand in the battle. Durotan did not think he wanted to see what else the failure was going to cost him.
Gul’dan used his staff to straighten up slightly. In a heavy, angry voice, he said, “The Horde has no use for weakness. Respect our traditions. You know the penalty.”
Blackhand looked out over the sea of silent, watchful faces, although he had to know there would be no help forthcoming. He lowered his head, resigned, then got to his feet, shuffling toward the green brazier.
“Death,” said Gul’dan.
The warchief extended his mangled hand over the flickering, hungry green flame. Then, taking a breath, he pushed forward, shoving the limb deep into the glowing embers.
Durotan watched, horrified. The fel fire did not simply burn Blackhand’s flesh. It ate it, like a living thing, curling upward along his arm like an invading army.
Blackhand did not cry out. He lifted his mutilated, green-shrouded limb, awaiting his death as the fel crawled upward.
Durotan could not bear it. Before he even realized what he was doing, Sever was in his hand, and it lived up to its name as he lifted the axe and brought it down, cutting cleanly through Blackhand’s arm. It fell to the floor, writhing and twitching, and Blackhand collapsed. The green limb abruptly crumbled into scorched chunks.
Gul’dan fixed his glowing green eyes on the Frostwolf chieftain. “You dare interrupt this judgment?”
Durotan stood his ground. He knew he was right. “We fought hard. Their warlock used your fel against us!”
It was completely true. All those who had been present had seen it. And yet, they stayed silent as Gul’dan’s body trembled with fury.
“Only I can control the fel!” he shrieked. He leapt to his feet, his eyes glowing even brighter as the green flames flared to new life, flickering and licking hungrily. Many orcs gasped and drew back. Even Durotan retreated a step. “I have heard that most of the Frostwolves survived.” He sneered. “Perhaps Blackhand kept you safely away from the battlefield. Maybe he knows you are weak, too.”
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