“With this?”
“Yes.”
Garona stared at it. It suited Taria, not her; it was pretty, and delicate. Not at all like a solid orcish dagger. The hilt was decorated with jewels, and at Taria’s nod, Garona drew the dagger from its finely wrought leather sheath and examined the blade. She revised her initial impression of it. It was well made, for such a slender thing.
She could kill Taria, Lothar, and maybe even the king before they’d be able to stop her. Taria’s gentle smile widened. She knows what I’m thinking, Garona realized. And she knows she is safe.
Kindness. And more important—trust. Garona’s eyes burned suddenly. She could not speak, merely fastened the exquisite weapon around her own waist.
Llane nodded firmly. “Find the Guardian. We’ll need him.”
* * *
Khadgar had used the ride to calm himself. He was beginning to think the Guardian had gone stark raving mad, but Medivh’s attempt to terrorize him into forsaking his research had instead merely made him more determined than ever to pursue it. A reaction that strong meant something, surely.
He was waiting outside Stormwind Keep for a meeting to finish up. A meeting he should have been at, but as usual, he was not involved. It was, at first glance, just as chaotic here as it was at the city’s gate, but after a few moments Khadgar saw an order to it all. People moved with purpose and direction, and he heard snatches of military jargon here and there. He paced and fumed, watching as as Garona emerged, a stern-faced guard behind her. Her hood was up again, concealing her beautiful face in its shadows. He looked around for Lothar, but the commander was still inside. Still, Garona might be of very great help.
“There you are!” He rushed over to her. “Tell me—what do you know of the warlock’s magic?”
She peered around, tense, even now ready to fight should she have to. “What are they doing?”
“Getting ready for war,” Khadgar answered absently as he tried to get an answer from her. “Garona, I need your help. I found—”
She had started to smile, and now she burst out laughing. He went red right to the tips of his ears. “What? What’s so funny?”
Garona tried to compose herself, but her eyes still danced with mirth. “How can you not be ready for war?”
“Some of us are ready,” Khadgar replied defensively.
“Oh yes,” the orc agreed, still smiling. “You… and Lothar. A man and a boy. The Horde trembles.”
He bristled at being referred to as a “boy” and could not help but snap, “Two men—and many others.” He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out the solitary item that had survived Medivh’s inexplicable rage—a single sketch. “Here. Look at this,” he said, handing it to her. “Have you heard of someone called Alodi?”
“You drew this?” She peered at it critically, and he stifled a smile.
“Yes, but… you’ve got it the wrong way.” His voice was warm with humor at her innocence. “Let me…”
The words died in his throat. He had sketched it horizontally, but she was holding it vertically. The orcs he had drawn coming out of the Great Gate now no longer appeared to be running on flat ground. They seemed to be climbing, as if out of an enormous hole.
And waiting for them, beckoning, was a hooded figure.
“You drew our arrival in the Black Morass. How would you know what that looked like?”
He didn’t reply. The heat of his prior embarrassment had faded. He felt cold, terribly cold. All he knew was that he had to take this to Lothar. Now.
Without another word, he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, shouting the name of Anduin Lothar.
* * *
When Lothar spied the crate stamped with the symbol of Ironbeard and the Bronzebeard crest, he headed straight for it. Aloman, trying to impose some sort of order on the chaos, inquired, “Commander? What of these?”
“From King Magni,” Kaz said, peering around a corner of the crate. “He says they might come in handier than plow blades.”
Despite the direness of the situation, and that he had been running on too much adrenaline and too little food and sleep, Lothar found himself smiling as he opened the crate to see several of the “mechanical marvels” that had done such damage to the tattooed orc’s hand. “Boomsticks,” he said, pleased.
“Lothar!” Khadgar’s voice echoed from outside, and the youth came pelting into the room, skidding to a halt. Panting, he said, “I need your help!”
“What’s happened?”
Catching his breath, Khadgar said, “I found… a book.”
Lothar tried and failed not to roll his eyes. “Of course you did.” He nodded at Aloman, and she helped him lift and maneuver the crate to one side.
“No, wait, you don’t understand,” the boy persisted. He pulled out a rolled-up parchment. The words were coming out of him at a thousand leagues a moment, as if afraid he’d be silenced before he could get them all out. “Let me explain. There was an illustration that showed a gate, like the one we saw being built. I tried to show the Guardian, but he became furious. Burned all my research. He would have burned this, too, if it hadn’t been hidden in my robe.”
Annoyed, but now at least slightly interested, Lothar perched on a nearby crate and took the parchment Khadgar was waving at him. The mage sat next to him. As Khadgar had said, it was was a sketch of the Great Gate. This one was intact, and through it rushed a mass of armed orcs. The gate itself was only the length of Lothar’s hand, and the orcs were tiny figures as they flowed out. On each side of the gate was carved a hooded figure, head bent. Surrounding the scene were the hills and stagnant water of the Black Morass. He glanced at Khagar, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
Khadgar reached over. “No—turn it this way.” Now the page was vertical, not horizontal. “Look,” he said, trailing a finger over a curve that previously depicted the roll of a hill. Illumination flared beneath his touch, enhancing the the sketch. “See?”
The hair at the back of Lothar’s neck lifted. Turned this way, what had once been a landscape was now clearly a figure: Hooded, face hidden, like the stone ones that flanked the opening of the portal. It bent over a gate that was now beneath its feet, towering over the cluster of orcs who raced up out of the gaping earth. Its arm was raised, as if beckoning.
Lothar fought to keep his voice calm. “What do you think the image means?”
“The orcs were summoned… from this side of the gate.” His eyes burned with certainty—and fear. “They were invited in!”
Lothar glanced around, to see if anyone had overheard the unsettling conversation. “And the Guardian burned your research,” he said, slowly, sickly. Why? Why would the Guardian of Azeroth become so angry he’d destroy the boy’s notes? Was he that jealous of the Novitiate? Khadgar was doing good research, though Lothar was pained to admit it. None of this was making any sense. The more they learned, the muddier things got. Medivh, old friend… what’s going on?
Lothar groped for something to say. “The Guardian was probably trying to protect you.” Khadgar looked at him searchingly, his brows, dark and elegant as raven’s wings, furrowed in worry that was not entirely erased by Lothar’s words. “Now,” Lothar said amiably, “go away.”
Khadgar nodded and obeyed, accustomed now to Lothar’s teasing. The smile faded from Lothar’s face as he watched the mage depart.
13
They had spent the morning in preparation. Durotan was gladder than he could say that Orgrim had given his full support to the plan. His second had insisted on taking a few scouts out to the appointed meeting place. They would set up, Orgrim told his chieftain, and then Durotan and the rest could join him. The Frostwolf chieftain, meanwhile, had quietly alerted his clan to his intentions, speaking with them and allaying their concerns. Now several warriors stood ready beneath the black rock. They burned evergreen boughs, sending up a fragrant, smoky signal that would, Durotan hoped, guide the humans to the specific spot.
The area was stony
and bare. The black mountain and its foothills towered over the single, narrow switchback path that was the only road to the meeting place. Orgrim stood beside him. Durotan’s eyes were on the path, watching for any sign of movement. He had told Garona to be there when the sun was highest, and that had passed. The humans were late. Would they even come at all? he wondered morosely. Had Garona—
Something glinted along the trail. Durotan slitted his eyes, straining to see. There came another flash, and he realized he was looking at a long line of armored humans, riding atop their hooved mounts.
“Weapons,” Durotan shouted. At once, his warriors stopped feeding the fire, and went to arm themselves just in case. They were on edge, as was Orgrim. Durotan had never seen his friend this ill at ease. He understood. He, too, had never been so unsettled before either a parley or a battle. These were strange times, but he was firm in the correctness of his choice.
“A good spot for an ambush,” Orgrim commented, looking up at the peaks that closed in around them.
“Our sentries are well placed.”
Orgrim grunted. “I will check again,” he said, and moved off. Durotan nodded absently, his attention fully on the line of soldiers winding their way toward him. Forty, perhaps fifty of them, all told. Beside him, the warrior Zarka snorted. “So many, they bring,” she said. “They must be very fearful.”
“They could have brought many more, Zarka,” Durotan said.
“Perhaps they did.”
“If so, Orgrim will find out.”
“Chieftain…” Zarka looked at Durotan. “I follow you, but I mislike this.”
“We did not like being forced to leave our home, but we had no choice. I do not believe we have one now, either.”
Zarka looked at her chieftain searchingly, then thumped her fist over her heart in a salute. Durotan glanced up, seeking Orgrim. His second-in-command stood on a ridge above him. He turned to Durotan and made a broad signal with his arms: All is well.
They were closer now, the stream of humans and beasts spreading out onto the valley floor. Finally, about fifty feet away, the human in the lead lifted his hand, and the soldiers halted. He wore armor that seemed to Durotan to be delicate and decorative. His head was bare, as was that of the man who rode beside him with a blue-eyed gaze as sharp as a sword. The two men slipped off their mounts, and Garona followed.
Kill them, something inside him shouted. They are not orcs. Kill them!
No. The lives of my people are more important than bloodlust.
He clenched his hands tightly, not to make a fist, but to stop them from trembling in their desire to fasten about the slender human throats. The humans walked several steps toward him, then halted, waiting for him to close the distance.
Durotan did, striding to within a few feet of them. How small they are, he thought. How fragile. More like Garona than us. But how brave.
“You asked to speak with the human king,” Garona said to him. She gestured to the dark-haired, dark-eyed human. “Here he stands.”
Durotan couldn’t bring himself to utter a word. He was too busy trying to control his instincts. The humans exchanged glances, and the king broke the tense silence with his strange, clipped language.
“This is King Llane,” Garona said. “He says, he was told you wish to talk.”
Durotan inhaled a deep breath, willing himself to be calm, and nodded. The other man next to Llane said something quickly, looking at Durotan with more than a hint of wariness.
“Anduin Lothar wishes to know if you plan to return to your home through the portal you are building,” Garona translated.
“Our world is dying,” Durotan said. “There is nothing to go back to.”
“We are not responsible for destroying your world,” Llane said, through Garona. “War with us will solve nothing.”
Durotan sighed deeply, and thought of Orgrim’s words earlier. “For orcs,” he said, “war solves everything.”
“Then why are you meeting with us now?” The question was from Llane, who regarded Durotan fixedly. For the first time since the parley had begun, Durotan met those eyes. He saw no fear in them, only watchfulness, steadiness and… curiosity. This Llane did not know how honorable orcs were, or how much Durotan had wrestled with this decision. He knew nothing other than what Garona had told him. And yet, he had come.
He had come for the same reason Durotan had.
“To save our people,” Durotan told him.
When Garona translated, the king looked surprised. He exchanged glances with the one called Lothar, and Garona looked at Durotan expectantly.
“The fel takes life from more than its victims,” Durotan explained. “It kills the earth and corrupts those who use it. We saw this happen before, in my world of Draenor. The land died, the creatures were twisted… even the Spirits were harmed. Gul’dan would poison everything with his death magic here, as he did there. If my people are to survive, Gul’dan must be destroyed. In two suns, the humans we have captured will be used to fuel the portal. If you attack our camp and draw his warriors away, the Frostwolf clan will kill him.”
Llane listened intently as Garona translated, nodding now and then. He and Lothar conversed. Then, he turned again to Durotan. “Two days… if we do this, you will protect my people until then.”
Durotan thought of the cages, of the torment those inside them endured. Most of the orcs ignored the humans, but some did not. But this king wanted them safe—just as Durotan would want the same if their roles were reversed.
“I will try—” he began, unwilling to give his word on something he could not necessarily offer.
His words were drowned out by a roar behind him. All around them, green-skinned orcs leaped up from where they had been concealed by rocks, scrub trees, and cracks in the stone cliffs, charging at the Frostwolves with axes, hammers, and maces. Durotan saw the comprehension in Llane’s brown eyes just as he himself realized what had happened.
They had been betrayed.
And Durotan’s heart cracked as he understood by whom.
* * *
“Get back!”
Lothar, the lifelong soldier, had recovered from the shock first, drawing his sword and leaping atop Reliant. Llane was right behind him, already mounted on his own steed. Garona, her head swimming with shock at what she had just witnessed, was jolted out of her horror by a thunderous crashing sound. She whirled, seizing the reins of her horse, to behold a massive boulder hurtling down the cliffside toward them. Her mount neighed with terror, bolting and tearing the reins from her hands. The other riderless horses joined him. Lothar had told Garona the beasts had been trained for combat, but clearly not for this.
Garona howled with rage at being weaponless, save for the queen’s gift of the small, bejeweled dagger. It would be less than useless against maces, axes, and morning stars. Frustrated, she looked about wildly. She saw small, green-skinned figures atop the canyon’s walls; those orcs had doubtless been the ones to roll down the boulders. More orcs were flowing down behind the king’s soldiers, blocking the sole escape route. Others exploded out of seemingly harmless piles of stones along the path.
The battle was on in earnest. Llane and Lothar rode their steeds through the chaos, attempting to defend those who had been a moment too late and were now fighting unmounted. A massive bellow of gleeful bloodlust came from her right, and Garona turned.
This orc’s skin was not just tinged with green, but saturated with it. He was enormous, almost as big as Blackhand, and held a huge shield adorned with the skull of a twin-horned horned beast in front of him. The orc was, very effectively, using that shield as a second weapon. He barreled through the cluster of armored soldiers like a charging animal without the faintest slackening of speed. He scattered them as if they were nothing more than the tiny toy soldiers Garona recalled from the strategy maps, knocked aside by a casual hand. The twin great, sharp horns on the shield found a target—Lothar’s horse.
Fear descended upon Garona unlike anything she had
ever known. Anduin Lothar would surely die, right in front of her, and she could do nothing to help. She had witnessed battle and death before, but always she had felt nothing but resentment and anger toward those who had fallen.
She did not feel that toward Lothar.
Even as the unfamiliar clutch of terror seized Garona’s throat and turned her gut to ice, Lothar leaped clear of the dying animal as lightly as if he wore no armor at all. As he sprang, he raised his sword and brought it down, angling behind the great shield and into the orc’s throat. The orc toppled down, following the dead horse by seconds.
Lothar whirled, then stooped to pick up a pike dropped by one of Llane’s soldiers. He raised his head and met Garona’s eyes. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked. And then, reaching a decision, Lothar tossed the half-orc the pike. She caught it easily, her fingers curving around the weapon. Tempered joy rose inside her. She could now defend herself with honor, and Anduin Lothar had just demonstrated that he trusted her.
As another orc surged forward, Lothar whirled, sword glinting in the sunlight. It clanged against the metal of an axe blade, but did not break. Steel on steel shrieked, and sparks flew as Lothar’s blade slid off, down the shaft, and bit deep into the orc’s arm. Suddenly the great axe dangled masterless as its wielder’s hand, still clutching it, swung by only a few sinews from the orc’s arm. Lothar took advantage of the orc’s momentary pause to drive the blade through his enemy’s chest.
A third charged toward him. Lothar ran toward it, not slowing as he approached a mounted knight, instead dropping and sliding beneath the horse’s body to emerge, sword ready, to stab upward and gut the startled orc.
“Llane!” he shouted above the din of battle, “You’re no good to us dead! Get out! I’ll get the others!”
Warcraft Official Movie Novelization Page 12
