For what felt like the thousandth time, and might well have been, Llane, Varis, and a handful of others perused the model of Stormwind with red-rimmed eyes. “Five legions to block Deadwind Pass,” he said, plunking a marker into position. “Another ten here, here, and here, along Redridge Mountains. Supply lines here. While the Eastern Sea hems them in south and east.” He looked up at Lothar. “If we hold these positions, we will be at our strongest.”
“Containment,” Lothar said.
Llane sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Until there a better option, yes.”
“And when there are ten times as many?” Lothar challenged. “What then?”
Llane looked down at the board. “If there were easy answers—” he began, but Lothar cut him off.
“Our priority has to be to stop this gate from opening. Fail there, and it’s just a matter of time before they beat us with sheer numbers.”
Llane replied tightly, “What do you suggest?”
Lothar leaned against the table, his face close to Llane’s. “Send everything we’ve got. Destroy the gate, free our people, and end the immediate threat.”
“And what of the orcs that remain?”
“We’ll take care of them later.”
It was not good enough. “After they’ve ravaged the entire kingdom?” Llane shot back.
There was a sharp sound, a flash of blue-white light, and the Guardian of Azeroth appeared at the end of the table. “My lords.”
Llane’s heart surged with relief. Medivh looked better than he had since he had rejoined them after a six-year absence. His color was good, his face looked much less angular, and his body was straight and tall.
A grin stretched across Llane’s face that he couldn’t have suppressed even had he wanted to. “Medivh!” he exclaimed. “You are up and well!”
“I am,” his old friend assured him. “I feel restored.”
“We need you.” Llane indicated the map. “We’ve been agonizing over our options.” He gave Lothar a look and added, “Some of us feel that there are no options. We need fresh eyes.”
“I not only bring fresh eyes, I bring fresh hope,” Medivh replied. “I’ve met with Durotan.”
“You met with Durotan,” Lothar repeated. Was that truly skepticism in his voice? Worried now, Llane turned to see his old friend playing with one of the map’s figurines.
“He survived?” Lothar looked astonished.
Medivh turned to him. “Indeed. He’s assured me the rebellion against Gul’dan is gaining strength. With the help of the Frostwolves and their allies, we can destroy the gate.”
Medivh always did have a flair for the dramatic, coming in at the nick of time to save the day. As he was doing now. Llane felt hope rise within him again.
“That doesn’t change my plan.” Lothar’s words were blunt.
“What plan?” Medivh asked.
“Anduin believes we should attack with our full force,” Llane explained. “I’m concerned it leaves the rest of the kingdom defenseless. I cede his point, that we should prevent reinforcements and try to save the prisoners. But the orcs have already clearly demonstrated that they can do a staggering amount of damage and cause much more loss of life.”
Medivh nodded, considering. “How many legions would you need to hold the orcs in place and defend the kingdom?”
Llane shot Lothar an annoyed glance, and answered Medivh’s question. “Twenty-five total. Five to hold the Pass, ten to guard the Redridge, ten to hold the city.”
“We’ve already lost eighteen legions. That leaves only one… two… three!!” Lothar brandished the figurine, plucking the metal standards inserted in its back and flinging them on the table as he counted.
Llane ignored him. “Can it be done, Medivh?”
Lothar flung the figurine onto the table. “No, it can’t be done!”
There was an awkward pause. “With three legions, the Frostwolves, and my power,” Medivh began, “we—”
Lothar turned his intense gaze upon his old friend. “With all due respect, Guardian,” he said tightly, “your power has recently proven to be unreliable at best.” He turned back to Llane. “I can’t lead a mere three legions into that Horde waiting for him to magically save our backsides!”
Medivh did not seem upset. He turned his attention to the king. “Llane. Have I ever let you down?”
“Let him down? Where have you even been for the last six years?” Lothar asked.
Llane was torn. What Lothar said was true. They had, indeed, not been able to rely upon Medivh. But he looked so much better now. So much stronger, more like his old self. Obviously, whatever had been draining him had been addressed. And surely, Lothar could not forget how the Guardian had “magically saved their backsides” when the trolls had been a heartbeat away from taking the kingdom. Medivh had earned their trust in the past, and he had come through even recently, exhausted as he had been.
“Please, Anduin,” Llane began, “Medivh is the Guardian—”
But Anduin didn’t allow him to finish. “Not the one you remember! He’s lost it! He’s unstable! And he won’t be there when you really need him.”
Llane pressed his lips together tightly. He needed his commander at the top of his game more than ever before. Quickly, he strode to Lothar. “Find your bearings, Anduin.” His voice was firm and controlled, but brooked no disobedience.
Lothar’s eyes were wild, despairing, but full of concern. “I’d march into hell for you, Llane, if I felt there was even the slightest chance of victory! You know that! But this is suicide!”
“Is this about Callan?” Medivh’s voice was calm, with a trace of sorrow in it. Lothar’s face froze and his body went rigid. Slowly, he turned to look at the Guardian.
“It was a tragedy—”
Lothar’s face went ashen, and then he flushed. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
It had to be awful for both of them, Llane thought. Medivh had clearly been unwell, and his act of bringing down lightning to separate the warring parties had saved many lives, almost at the cost of his own. It had indeed been a tragedy that poor Callan had been caught on the wrong side of that defensive action. It would, Llane thought sadly, be only natural for Lothar to harbor resentment toward Medivh, perhaps even blame him entirely for Callan’s death. But there wasn’t time for this. There was barely time left for anything.
“If he hadn’t been trying so hard to win your approval, he might still be with us today,” Medivh said. Lothar was trembling violently. Sweat beaded his brow.
“Medivh—” Llane began.
“Callan wasn’t ready. You knew it, but you let him play soldier anyway.”
The words were unkind, and Llane opened his mouth to chide the Guardian, to ask him for an apology so they could focus on the dire situation at hand, but it was too late.
Lothar exploded, bellowing in incoherent rage, lunging for Medivh. Llane, Karos, all those assembled surged forward trying to break them apart. Medivh stepped back, his hands raised, defensive magic roiling in the palms of his hands, but he restrained himself—unlike Anduin—and did not loose the spell.
“Stop!” Llane commanded, shouting at the top of his voice. “Anduin—”
“You killed him!” Five men had the Lion of Azeroth now, and even they seemed to be having a hard time holding Lothar back as he struggled against them. His eyes were locked on Medivh, who maintained his composure despite Lothar’s almost rabid behavior. “My friend, are you?” Lothar snarled. “My good, old friend…”
Llane looked over at Medivh, who regarded him sadly. It killed him, but the king knew what he had to do.
“Varis,” Llane said, reluctance coloring his words, “Take Commander Lothar to a cell and let him calm down.” He swallowed hard. How had it come to this?
Varis hesitated, and Llane understood why all too well. This was Anduin Lothar. The Lion of Azeroth. Varis’s commander, who led by example and inspired respect. And yet, it seemed even heroes had breaking points.
Llane
’s heart ached for his friend. But although he loved Anduin like a brother, the safety of the kingdom, always, had to come before Llane’s personal affections. Reluctantly, Llane said, “You are no use to us like this.” Lothar, to his credit, left under his own power, although the look he shot the Guardian of Azeroth was pure venom.
Medivh stepped beside the table, looking down at the map. He lifted the figurines that represented three legions and placed them in front of the small model of the Great Gate.
“We’ll save the kingdom, my lord,” Medivh reassured him. “You and I.”
* * *
Only a few days earlier, Lothar mused with a bitter humor, he had visited the Guardian Novitiate in a cell. Now, he was on the wrong side of the bars. How the world turns, he thought.
What had happened? Yes, of course he was still aching and hollow over the loss of his boy. Any father would be. And there was more to his pain. Guilt ate at him, and it had been that guilt that Medivh had played upon, goading Anduin to attack him. But in the name of the Light, why? Medivh was his friend—or he had thought so, anyway. And how had Llane not seen what the Guardian was doing?
He buried his face in his hands, wanting everything to go back to before he had ever met Khadgar, when Medivh was a part of his past and Callan a part of his present, when everything was normal. No, Lothar corrected himself. Not everything. He did not want to lose Garona.
He heard the key turn in the lock and the door swing open. Hoping against hope that Llane had changed his mind, Lothar looked up. But it was Garona who stood there, as if he had summoned her with his thoughts.
In the midst of all the white-hot pain and fear and despair of this moment, there was a place of calm warmth inside him as their eyes met.
“Why are you here?” he asked her.
She was an orc, to the point, and focused on fighting. “The king. He goes to fight the Horde. With your Guardian’s help, Durotan will kill Gul’dan.”
His stomach clenched. “Don’t trust him.” Garona frowned at him. “I have told you. Orcs do not lie.”
“Not Durotan.” Lothar rose and went to the bars of his cell as she strode toward him. “Don’t trust Medivh.” She looked at him, confused. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, to warn her about, but Varis waited at the door. He would not have long with her.
She did not need explanations. “I will try to protect your king,” was all she said.
Impulsively, he said, “Don’t go with them.”
“Why?” She stepped closer as he moved to the bars and gripped them. She placed her hand over his; warm, strong, comforting. She, who knew so much of pain, somehow understood gentleness better than anyone he had ever known.
He thought of last night, of her hands on him, and reached his own hand through the bar to caress her cheek.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he said, softly. Two decades since Callan’s birth. Since Cally’s death. And for the first time, her sweet, gentle face was not the one foremost in his thoughts—or his heart. It was stupid, it was reckless, it was unbelievable—and it was undeniably real.
Emotions flitted over her face. She reached to her slender throat, snapping the leather thong that encircled it. She held the pendant for a moment, then took his hand. He felt the tusk of her mother, warm from having nestled against her heart, settle in his palm. Garona folded his fingers tightly over the most precious thing she had to give.
“Come back alive,” Lothar whispered. He squeezed her hand tightly. I couldn’t bear it if this war takes you, too.
Garona nodded, but he knew what she meant by it. It was an acknowledgement of his words, not a surety. She was too honorable to make promises she could not keep. Instead, she lifted the concealing hood over her head, regarded him with those dark eyes, and went to war.
18
The humans could not take their terrified eyes off of Durotan. They peered at him through the bars of their own cages, doubtless wondering what he had done to warrant being imprisoned alongside them. Or perhaps they feared he was there to trick them and torture them more, somehow. Durotan regarded them sadly. He had tried to help, but his attempt had failed. He had failed, and now he was here, with his own fears regarding the cruel things with which Gul’dan’s orcs had threatened his clan.
“Hey! Frostwolf!” shouted his guard. Durotan took his gaze away from the humans and frowned. Orgrim Doomhammer was striding up to Durotan’s cage. The Frostwolf chieftain tensed. What new horror had his once-brother come to inflict?The guard stepped into Orgrim’s path. Orgrim’s steady pace did not falter. He merely raised the Doomhammer and casually swung it down to crunch the startled guard’s head.
He did not rise.
Orgrim bent to pick up the guard’s key and his eyes met Durotan’s. With the same casualness Orgrim had just displayed in killing the guard, Durotan said, “Now you are enemies with all sides.”
“I’ll tell them it was you,” Orgrim responded. Durotan, with the knowledge of years of friendship, noticed that Orgrim’s hands trembled ever so slightly as he unlocked the cage. He glanced at Durotan, who sat quietly while Orgrim unfastened the shackles about neck, feet, and hands. He extended a hand to his chieftain, and Durotan took it. Slowly, wincing with feigned stiffness, Durotan let Orgrim help him to his feet. The two regarded one another for a moment, then Durotan struck his old friend savagely in the chest. Orgrim stumbed back against the twisted wood of the cage, falling. Instead of striking back, he simply sat there, his head lowered.
Finally, Durotan spoke.
“What happened?”
Orgrim looked him full in the face. “I am sorry, Durotan. I did not see how we could side with the humans against our own kind. I was wrong, my chief. Gul’dan’s fel magic is destroying us.”
Durotan closed his eyes, wanting the last few suns back, wishing things were other than as they were. But that way lay madness. He extended a hand to Orgrim. Orgrim took it and rose. Forcing himself to speak calmly, Durotan asked the question that was uppermost in his heart.
“Where is Draka?”
“Safe. She and the baby, both. But the rest… Most of them…” Orgrim’s pain and regret was naked on his face, and in the gray dawn light, Durotan could see tears in his eyes.
It was too late for tears. Too late for apologies, regrets, forgiveness. Pain, grief, rage surged inside Durotan, but he quelled them ruthlessly. He would be stone. It was the only way he would survive long enough to do what he needed to. He turned away from Orgrim, the betrayer. But Orgrim’s voice called after him.
“They wouldn’t follow him if they could see what he has become.”
“Then I’ll show them.”
* * *
Gul’dan’s orcs had set the Frostwolf camp on fire, in an attempt to burn all that remained of Frostwolf culture. Most of it had burned out, but here and there flames still climbed into the night. The awful light revealed without remorse a camp in shambles, and the wall Durotan had built about his heart threatened to crumble. He had to force himself to walk forward, to see what Gul’dan had done to his people in return for what Durotan had done to him.
There were far fewer bodies than he had expected. Durotan did not dare allow himself to hope that this meant that his people had succeeded in fleeing unharmed. No, more likely Gul’dan had taken them alive to use as fuel for the fel. The corpses he did discover lay where they had fallen—the ultimate disrespect. Some of them were charred by the fire. Here lay Kagra, Zarka, Dekgrul… even Shaksa and her siblings, the ebullient Nizka and the toddler Kelgur.
He had made his choice to protect not just them, but all the orcs. This very world. Durotan knew in his bones that it had been Gul’dan’s death magic, the fel, that had destroyed Draenor, and would eventually destroy this world, this Azeroth, as well. And the orc people along with it.
But he had underestimated the bitterness of the cost. Never thought that Gul’dan would give the word to obliterate an entire clan, including its children.
There were brief
flares of gratitude. Orgrim had spoken the truth about Draka and little Go’el, at least. While all their food, clothing, furnishing and weapons—including Thunderstrike and Sever—had been taken to serve the needs of more loyal orcs, there were no mutilated bodies lying on the bare earth. Nor did he see any sign of the aged, blind Drek’Thar or his attendant, Palkar—or of their ritual items. Had they been taken, fuel for the fel? Or had they escaped?
Durotan’s eyes fell on a Frostwolf banner. It had survived the fire, though it was singed at the edges. There was a bloody handprint on it. Someone had tried to save it.
The walls around him came down then, but not for grief. For fury. Durotan reached to pick up the banner and clutched it tightly while he let white-hot rage run unfettered through him.
He had lost everything. But he was not yet done.
They wouldn’t follow him if they could see what he has become.
Then I’ll show them.
* * *
Hope, thought Llane as he rode through the torchlit night streets of Stormwind, was perhaps the most powerful weapon of all. And sometimes, it was the only weapon. He had feared it would be their only weapon in truth, but Medivh had returned, even if Lothar had… temporarily… been overwhelmed by the mindlessness of grief. Hope had returned to him, and he saw it reflected back at him on the faces of the citizens of the capital city, as they thronged the streets, even as that hope was tempered with the worry that all thought of war evoked, despite the hour.
The river of horses and armored soldiers forked around the towering statue of the Guardian, then rejoined as they approached the city’s gates, where his family stood on a hastily erected dais waiting to send him on his way. His daughter, almost as tall as her mother and looking more like Taria every day, stood with her hands clasped, perfectly mimicking the gesture of the queen. Except Adariall trembled more than her mother did. The burden of a princess, Llane thought. Llane gave her a reassuring nod, then his gaze fell on Varian. The boy was splendid in his formal tunic, breeches, and cape, but he leaned on the balcony as if he wanted to climb over it and into his father’s arms. His prince’s circlet rested atop his dark head, and his lips were pressed tightly together. The expression made him look stern, but it tugged at Llane’s heart. He knew it meant the boy was struggling to hold back the tears that made his eyes shiny. Too smart for his own good, that one. Llane and Taria had said all the reassuring things to their children, and truly, with Medivh restored and at his side, Llane felt more confident than he had since the whole horrifying ordeal had begun. But Varian picked up on the subtle glances, on the things unspoken. He would be a good king one day. But, hopefully, not too soon.
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