The ludicrousness of the accusation rendered Durotan momentarily mute. Twice Gul’dan had made a difficult journey to ask the Frostwolves to join the Horde. In the end, it had not been Gul’dan’s pleas, but the brutal and inescapable fact that Draenor could no longer support the clan which had made the Frostwolves trek south. Gul’dan knew this.
Orgrim surged forward, looming beside his friend and chieftain’s shoulder, his fists clenched. Others saw the gesture and turned to Orgrim. Durotan had no desire for a fight to break out. Violence was not the answer, not now, and he lay a calming, but firm, hand on his second’s arm. Stand down.
Orgrim all but choked on his rage, but he obeyed the unspoken command. Blackhand was struggling on the floor, and now he managed to make it to one knee, clutching the stump of his arm.
“I was not strong enough to defeat their champion,” Blackhand grunted. “If I had, the battle would have turned—”
Durotan would have none of this. Gul’dan was being stubborn and arrogant, and Blackhand should not believe the warlock. “Warchief—”
“Your pride blinded you,” Gul’dan barreled on. “Only my magic can defeat our enemies!”
The words burst forth from Durotan before he could halt them. “Your magic is what got them killed!”
Gul’dan turned, slowly, toward Durotan, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Do you wish to challenge me, little chieftain?”
Durotan glanced around. Everyone present was silent, their attention focused on him. He thought of the thousands of innocent draenei—children included—whose lives the fel had claimed simply to open the portal to this world. He looked at the green flame in the brazier, and in Gul’dan’s eyes, and spoke carefully.
“I do not question Gul’dan,” he said. “But the fel is born of death. It must have a price.”
Gul’dan relaxed, ever so slightly, his brow unfurrowing. He even smiled.
“Yes,” he agreed. “A price paid in lives taken.”
* * *
Later, much later, he entered his tent. Draka was there in the firelight, the good, true firelight, bathed in its orange glow. She was cradling their child, and looked up as he entered. Her welcoming smile faded at the look on his face.
He told her what had happened in Gul’dan’s tent. She listened without comment, as she had done the first night she had returned home from Exile, under the stars of Draenor.
When he had told it all, he sat at the brazier, gazing into the flames. Draka understood his need for silence, murmuring gently to their baby as she moved the little head to the side and extended a clawed forefinger. She pricked her breast, and a trickle of blood, black in the firelight, appeared. She guided the baby back to her nipple, now feeding him his mother’s blood as well as mother’s milk. It was fitting nourishment for a proud orc, a Frostwolf child, a future warrior. Draka glanced up at Durotan, and their eyes met over the head of their contentedly nursing infant. For the first time in what felt like forever, Durotan’s heart knew a small brush of peace, here, alone with his mate and child.
He wondered if they should talk about what to do, how to react, what this meant. But what could he say? What could he do?
Draka rose and went to him. “Will you hold your son?” was all she said.
She extended the small, precious bundle, wrapped in a woven blanket with the Frostwolf symbol embroidered on it. Slowly, Durotan held out his hands.
He was small, so small, so vulnerable. He barely covered one of Durotan’s great palms. He was whole, and perfect… and his skin was the color of the fire that had raged across Blackhand’s body.
“He will be a great chieftain, like his father,” Draka continued, sitting nearby and watching. Her voice was warm, soft, confident. “A born leader.”
The words stung. “I was no leader today,” Durotan said.
The baby’s eyes, blue and bright, went right for his father’s face when he spoke. No orc had ever had blue eyes…
The baby gurgled happily, his tiny legs kicking energetically. One small hand reached up and unsteadily closed on Durotan’s tusks. Durotan leaned forward, wrinkling his nose playfully. The baby grunted, a tiny sound. His face scowled, before he giggled.
“Ha!” said Draka, smiling. “He challenges you already!”
From somewhere deep inside Durotan’s aching soul, a chuckle emerged. The baby laughed in response, his entire torso moving with his breath as he patted the tusk gently, mesmerized, utterly focused on his father’s face.
Durotan’s smile grew for a moment, then, unbidden, the thought of what he had witnessed snuffed out the joy. His eyes burned with unshed tears.
“If Gul’dan can infect one as innocent as him, what chance do the rest of us have?” Draka looked at him mutely, having no answer for him. “Whatever happens…” he began, but couldn’t finish.
“Whatever happens,” she replied.
9
Lothar’s mind was a whirlwind as he marched into the throne room. His men, who had known he was interrogating the prisoner about the enemy’s position, snapped to attention as he entered. Without preamble, he began firing questions at them.
“The Black Morass. What do you think?”
Karos raised his eyebrows. “You could hide an army in there.”
“Or lose one,” Varis countered. “You believe her, sir?”
“No.” It was blunt, and it was true. Lothar had noticed Khadgar’s reaction to the female, and he had to admit that she was attractive, for all her strangeness. And she wasn’t quite like the monsters that had descended with such terrifying violence in Elwynn Forest. But he would be a fool to blindly trust this Garona, and King Llane Wrynn did not tolerate fools.
“But… it’s what we have to go on,” he continued. “Best horses, small escort. Let’s see if this orc can be trusted. We leave at dawn.” They nodded and hurried off. He watched them go for a moment, then turned back to the throne room.
Medivh was there, waiting for him. “I won’t be going with you,” the Guardian said.
Lothar ground his teeth. What had happened to Medivh in the last six years? He, the Guardian, and the King had been friends—more than friends, brothers in all but blood. They had fought together, suffered together. Been there for him when he had lost—
“Well I need to see what we’re up against. You don’t think seeing the enemy force firsthand is useful?” He couldn’t quite shove back the anger, and the concern that fueled it.
Medivh didn’t meet his gaze. “I have things to attend to.”
Lothar gave up on subtlety. He marched up to his old friend and looked at him searchingly. “What happened to you today?” It was both true query and an accusation.
“I was studying our foe—firsthand,” the Guardian replied slowly and deliberately.
Lothar snorted angrily. “If the kid hadn’t been with you, you’d have been studying the edge of an axe.”
Medivh shrugged laconically. “He had it in hand.” An idea seemed to occur to him. “You should take him with you. He’s more powerful than you think.”
“Medivh—” Lothar began, but there was a flurry of motion and he found himself talking to a raven. The bird flicked its tail and took wing, soaring out of the window.
“I hate it when he does that,” Lothar muttered.
* * *
It was a room in one of Stormwind’s inns, not a cell this time, but as he nodded to the guard stationed outside his door, Khadgar accepted the reality that he was, after a fashion, still a prisoner. He did not mind. He was where he wanted to be. Lothar had asked—well, all right, told him to come to the Black Morass to investigate the lead that Garona had given them.
He quickly lit a lamp, his mind racing. Garona. Orcs. Fel. So much information. As he closed the door and bolted it, Khadgar had to admit, he had missed learning things. His life here in Stormwind as an ordinary person was better than being, essentially, the ultimate errand boy for the Kirin Tor, but it had been rather unstimulating until now.
The Black
Morass—big enough to hide an army. A good guess for someone who wasn’t from this world. That is, if Garona was telling the truth. His thoughts lingered on her for a moment—so strange-looking, and yet he was drawn to her. She was so strong, so confident even though she was a prisoner.
But now, something else demanded his attention. He reached beneath his shirt and brought out the book he had stashed there what seemed like ages ago. Khadgar had been terrified that it would fall out at some point, but it had stayed secure. Remarkable.
He placed it on the rough table, took a breath, and opened it. It was a slim tome with an unprepossessing cover, but the first few pages took his breath away. Runes filled the pages, and as he turned them, carefully, his eyes widened as he beheld a lavish illustration.
It depicted a wave of creatures that greatly resembled the beasts he had fought today. They were clustered together, a tight, unified mass, holding weapons of all varieties. And this mass of warriors was pouring forth from an enormous stone structure like water from an upended jug.
“A ‘great gate,’” Khadgar whispered, his skin prickling with gooseflesh.
His eyes wandered from the sight of the roaring, maddened orcs to the runic text above the art. Two glyphs had been circled, and someone had scribbled in the margins, From light comes darkness, and from darkness, light. Ask Alodi.
Khadgar repeated the words to himself, unpacking his writing supplies and inking his quill. Taking a deep breath, he laid the thin parchment over the book, and began to trace the disturbing image.
* * *
It was the king’s private prison, they had told Garona. It was not a place of torture. There were even windows to the outside and above. The moon shone down, silvering the room, and Garona’s heart cracked to see it. It was still a cage, and she was still not free.
It was small, and it was barred on three sides. There was something called a “cot” that was intended for sleeping. It was covered with cloths that were strange to her, and she saw no sleeping furs at all. In the corner was a small pot, for what she did not know. There was a table and a pitcher of water along with a uselessly small receptacle. They had left food for her, also alien, but she had eaten every bite to keep her strength up. Now, she lifted the pitcher and drank the cool water.
As she placed it down and wiped her mouth, she said to the shadow in the room, “I see you.”
The one they had addressed as the Guardian stood there, his arms folded, his eyes, bright and curious as a bird’s, fastened on her. Now, he stepped forward into the light provided by a few torches, walking around her prison.
“This gate,” he said. “Who showed it to Gul’dan? Who led him to Azeroth?”
He cut straight to the heart of the matter. She liked that. Garona debated answering, then said, “Gul’dan called him a demon.”
The Guardian—“Medivh” someone had said at one point—did not react. “Did you see it?”
It was a memory Garona did not want to revisit. She was quick with languages, but the orc tongue was richer when it came to some things, and she struggled to put the experience into human words. “Not the face. Just the voice. Like…” Her eyes fell on the flickering torchlight. “Like fire and ash.” It did not describe the sound. It described what one felt upon hearing the sound. Very orcish.
He ceased his pacing and turned to her, regarding her with eyes that seemed to stare straight into her heart. “How old are you—”
The creak of the metal, barred door to the room interrupted him. Garona turned briefly to look at it. A rustling sound, like a bird’s wings, brought her attention back to Medivh—but he was gone. A prickling sensation, as of eyes upon her, caused her to look up. A raven perched on the barred widow, silhouetted against the full moon, then flew off.
Shaman, she thought.
Garona took a deep breath and turned to see who else had come to visit her. It was the one called “Lothar,” who had had killed the Frostwolf to protect her, but who later had threatened her. With him was the lone female who had been present during her interrogation earlier. She was so thin and fragile, like a woman made of twigs. Her eyes were large and brown and soft, like a talbuk’s. She bore a piece of thin wood that held one of the small vessels and another vessel Garona could not identify. Steam escaped from them. Behind her trailed a servant girl, who was even smaller than she, bearing a thick pile of furs.
Lothar put a hand on the female’s narrow shoulder. “I’m nearby if you need me,” he told her, then shot Garona a warning look. The female nodded, stepping back as the guard entered the main area and stepped briskly to Garona’s cell.
“Stand back,” he ordered the orc. She didn’t move for just long enough, then did as he had said, lifting her chin as the female entered. The guard closed the iron-bar door, then retreated back into the shadows, watching.
“Your mate,” Garona said. “I could kill you before he even reaches me.”
The woman looked confused. She followed Garona’s gaze then laughed. “Lothar? He’s my brother! The king is my… mate.”
The king. The leader. Llane. “You are a chieftain’s wife, then?”
The dark, delicate brows rose at the wording. “I suppose so.”
Garona stepped closer, towering over her. “Then killing you would bring me even greater honor.” Garona watched the female’s reaction. She was so frail-seeming, Garona wondered if the words would frighten her. They were certainly true.
But the female simply shook her head. “Not among my kind.” She nodded to the girl, who walked past Garona and placed the furs on the bed. “It’s a cold night. I thought you could use these.”
The girl smelled of fear, but not the cheiftain’s wife. She moved forward in her long robes, the fabric rustling, and set the items she bore on the table, filling the cup with a hot liquid. She held it out to Garona, who eyed it.
“It will warm you,” the female said. The beverage smelled clean and herbal, and Garona found herself welcoming the warmth as her hand closed around the ceramic. “It’s my favorite. Peacebloom.” Garona took a cautious sip, then, finding it delicious, drank it down despite its heat.
“More of our villages burn tonight,” the female said as Garona drank. “One is the village of my birth.” She gnawed her lower lip, then continued. “I see your wounds—old ones. Scars. I cannot imagine what horrors you have been through, Garona, but this doesn’t need to happen. We have had peace in these lands for many years. Peace between races from all over the world.”
Peacebloom, Garona thought. She wondered if the female had selected the drink intentionally, or if it was a simple coincidence. She turned away and picked up a cloak that had been placed atop the furs. The motion made her chains rattle and the manacle about her neck rub.
The female extended an uncallused hand, reaching to touch Garona’s throat, saying, “I can have it removed—”
The orc jerked back, spilling the tea, instantly alert. The cheiftain’s mate drew her hand back, and her face was unspeakably kind. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” She took a deep breath. “There’s a life with us here, Garona. If you want it.”
Only once before had anyone even attempted to touch her with kindness. Another female—Draka, the mate of Durotan. Draka had worn a similar look to Taria’s—compassion, and anger at what Garona had been forced to endure.
She had fled even from Durotan, in order to escape her life in the Horde. Garona well knew what she had been running from. Was this what she had been running to?
* * *
The pebble bounced harmlessly off Durotan’s skull. He turned to the orc beside him, raising an eyebrow, to see his second in command looking unconvingly innocent. Durotan tried to scowl, but he couldn’t keep up the pretense, and started laughing. Orgrim joined him. They chuckled like children for a while.
“It is good to see trees again,” Orgrim said. He and his chieftain were sitting on a rise. Below them was the grunt work going on near the portal and the ugliness of cages filled with human sla
ves. But above that, in the distance, lay a scene that almost… almost… reminded Durotan of home. The trees were different, but they still grew straight and tall. They still bore fruit, or smelled fresh and clean.
“And the snow,” Durotan said, wistfulness creeping into his voice. “Even from a distance.”
Orgrim scratched idly at his healing wounds. “When the humans are beaten, we can journey to the mountains. Feel the cold on our skin.” He spoke eagerly, and Durotan understood the yearning. Ever since they had left the north of Draenor, he had felt the pang of missing snow.
But Durotan had not asked his second-in-command to join him so they might gaze upon a snow-covered mountain together, beautiful though it was. He had brought Orgrim here to remind him what life looked like. Durotan could not find that reminder below, with the cries of the sick, starving humans and their children, and the grueling labor of hauling and carving stones. He rubbed his neck, not relishing the task before him, but there were things that needed to be said.
“Remember when we would track clefthooves through the Frostwind dunes? Whole herds of them, everywhere. And when there were no clefthooves, there were talbuks. There was always meat. Always life. We would dance in the meadows at Midsummer, and even in winter, we never hungered.”
“But our world was dying,” Orgrim said. “We had to leave. You stayed as long as you could, Durotan, but you knew what we had to do to survive.”
Thoughts crowded Durotan’s mind. What he had to say was dangerous… but necessary. His mind went back to when he had made the excruciating decision to follow Gul’dan, and the words he had told his clan. There is one law, one tradition, which must not be violated. And that is that a chieftain must do whatever is truly best for the clan.
“Orgrim… Do you not think it strange that we lost our home when Gul’dan came to power?”
Orgrim scoffed, prepared to laugh. The smile faded as he realized Durotan was deadly serious. “One orc cannot kill a world, Durotan.”
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