Llane longed to embrace the boy, but he was almost a man now, and would not appreciate a public display. So Llane granted the boy the gravitas he deserved. “There is no other man I would entrust my family’s welfare to, Varian. Keep them safe until I return.”
Varian’s chin quivered, ever so slightly, but he nodded
Taria regarded her husband now, slender and regal, her dark eyes on his. Taria, his best friend’s sister, who balanced a kind heart with a level head better than he ever could. Who had seen him ride off to possible death more times than he could count. Who had seen him uncertain, and determined, and joyful, and battered, and who loved him through all of those seasons.
They had said their goodbyes earlier, in private. They needed no more. They knew.
“Ready?” It was Medivh who broke the moment, sooner than Llane would have wished. The king nodded, and without another word he squeezed his horse into a trot as they headed for the open gates of the city.
“I’d feel better if Anduin was riding with us,” Llane admitted to the Guardian.
“We’ll do fine,” his old friend assured him. “I’ll return to Karazhan and ready myself for the battle. The Frostwolves will meet you on the way. Find me at the portal.” He turned his horse around and cantered off, doubtless to find a quiet spot to create a portal of his own. Outside the gates, the three legions, all that they would need, according to Medivh, awaited their commander.
Garona brought her horse up to fill the vacant spot next to her king. Her eyes met his for a moment, then both of them looked straight ahead. Llane knew their minds should be focused on the upcoming battle, but he suspected that Garona’s thoughts, like his, were with Anduin Lothar in his prison cell.
* * *
Anduin Lothar wanted out of his prison cell.
Immediately.
He stared at his knuckles, raw and bloody from his futile attempts to beat down the door. He sucked at the blood for a moment, calming himself, then tried again.
“Guard?” He smiled and spread his hands. “It’s clear this door is solidly built. I’ll save my fighting for defending the realm. I know you’re just doing your job. And a good one, at that. But I’ve cooled down now. So, if you’d just come and open this cage… so I can protect the king.”
The smile hurt his face, and he could still taste the coppery blood. The armored guard holding a poleaxe at the end of the hallway was having none of it, however.
The guard didn’t move.
Lothar snarled and punched the door again, making it clang in protest, and the soldier cringed. “Open the cage!” he screamed.
The guard stepped forward, mindful to keep a safe distance between him and the enraged warrior in the cell. “Commander, please! I’m just following my—”
Lothar hurled his tankard at the frustrating man, completed the phrase, muttering “orders” when the guard suddenly disappeared in white smoke and a crackle of blue lightning. In his place stood a terribly perplexed-looking sheep. It bleated unhappily as Lothar, also terribly perplexed, looked at the hand that had hurled the tankard and wondered what he’d done.
All became clear when Khadgar emerged from the shadows, snatched up the sheep-guard’s keys from the floor, and hurried to unlock Lothar’s door.
“Where the hell have you been?” Ungrateful, Lothar thought, but sincere.
Khadgar turned the key and the door swung open. The boy looked like he had aged ten years.
“The Kirin Tor,” the mage said. Following Lothar’s gaze on the sheep, he added, “It only works on the simple-minded.” He dropped a bag containing Lothar’s sword and armor on the floor. “Your armor, Commander,” he said to Lothar, and to the sheep, “Sorry.”
He looked about and spied a cold brazier. “We’ve got a full day ahead of us,” he told Lothar, sticking his hand in the brazier and grasping a piece of burned wood while Lothar threw on his armor. Bending, he began to sketch a circle.
“I just hope we’re not too late,” Lothar said.
Khadgar looked up. “We can’t go after them. Not if you want to save Azeroth.” Lothar, already at the door, whirled around.
“My king needs me!”
“Azeroth needs you more,” Khadgar shot back. “If you want to save your king, we have to stop Medivh first.”
Lothar had never been more torn in his life. His dearest friend was even now in the process of being betrayed by their other dearest friend. About to be run over by a flood of power-crazed, green-tinted monsters. Azeroth seemed very much an abstract idea when set against that image.
But he knew what Llane would want him to do.
Khadgar had begun the teleportation incantation. White-blue magic was starting to form the familiar bubble. Lothar took a deep breath and returned, stepping inside the circle. Khadgar rose, summoning the magic to his grip as if he were gathering the reins of a horse.
“Where is Medivh?” Lothar asked.
Khadgar looked him right in the eye. “We’ve got a demon to kill.”
19
She had been running all night, with her child strapped to her back, and even she, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish, was exhausted. She had not dared to stop, knowing that Gul’dan’s orcs were following her. Had she been an ordinary orc female, with an ordinary orc child, they might have looked the other way. But she was the wife of one chieftain—and the mother of another, she was certain of it. Gul’dan had not ordered the destruction of her clan because he was angry. That would not worry her. Anger burned out, refocused. Gul’dan was afraid of the Frostwolves, and fear lingered long.
He had all but begged them to join his Horde, and now that Durotan comprehended the depths of the danger, Gul’dan could not let him live. As soon as Blackhand had come to take her heart away, Durotan was dead. Even if he walked and breathed now, he would not live long. Nor would she, nor their child. Orgrim’s change of heart had come too late for them both. She wanted to sob, to rail against fate, to hold her baby—and die with him at her breast. Draka loved Durotan passionately, but what she felt for this little life was as an inferno to a cook fire.
She would live for him. She would die for him.
Draka could go no further. She was too weary, and they were not far behind. When her flight took her to a stream, with nowhere else to run, she made a decision. The water caught the light of the new sun, sparkling brightly, bringing tears to her eyes.
“Spirit of Water,” Draka said, panting. “I can bear my child no further. They will never stop hunting us. They will find us, and kill us, if he stays with me. Will you take my baby? Will you keep him safe?”
Draka was no shaman. The Spirits did not speak to her, as they did to Drek’Thar. But she could hear the murmur of the water, and as she watched, a fish leaped, and fell back into its depths. Her heart suddenly stopped aching, and, quickly, she removed the carrying basket from her back and waded into the stream. She kissed the soft, green cheek, gently, tasting the salt of her own tears, and placed the basket into water. Draka tucked the blanket around him tenderly, a white square of cloth embroidered with the Frostwolf emblem.
Perhaps some human will remember, she thought. That the Frostwolves tried to help them. That… that we died because of that choice. All but you, my precious Go’el.
Water filled her eyes. Water, the element of love. Love for a mate. Love for a child. Love for a clan. Love for a dream of something better, in the midst of darkness, and dust, and despair.
The baby seemed confused, and raised his tiny, soft green arms to her. She caught one of the little fists and held it. “Remember,” Draka told him. “You are the son of Durotan and Draka, an unbroken line of chieftains.”
And then, her heart breaking for the thousandth time in a handful of hours, she sent him on his way. “Water,” she said, “keep my baby safe!”
A roar caused her to turn. A Bleeding Hollow orc emerged from the forest, but his eyes were not on her. He was looking at the baby. He snatched up the knife Draka had left on the bank, and race
d down to go after him.
But Draka was there.
He had her dagger. But that did not mean she was unarmed. She hurled herself upon the would-be killer of her child, driven by love and devoid of fear, seizing his flesh with her nails, carving out chunks with them, and, like a frost wolf herself, opening her jaw as wide as she could and burying her teeth in his throat.
He went down, startled; stupid, to think a Frostwolf without a weapon was a Frostwolf without defense. His tainted green blood, acrid as ashes, spurted into her mouth even as a horrible, cold-hot pain sliced through her. He had plunged her own dagger into her gut.
All the strength left Draka’s body as she collapsed atop her fallen enemy. She was dying, but she was at peace. As her life bled onto the sand, she remembered the words she had said to Durotan when she had returned from her Exile: When all is done, when the sun of my life sets, I would see it do so here, in Frostfire Ridge.
She would not die on Frostfire Ridge. She was dying here, now, in an alien land, with a husband who would soon join her in death, if he did not await her already. The last image that filled her eyes was that of her baby’s vessel, bobbing on the water. And as her vision darkened, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish, thought she saw the river’s gentle waves turn into embracing arms.
Water, take my baby.
Her eyes closed.
Water, take…
* * *
All the chieftains of the Horde and most of their warriors had gathered outside Gul’dan’s tent. They were stunned to see the Frostwolf as he marched forward. Durotan wore a wolf pelt over his broad shoulders, the beast’s head serving him for a helm. He had already killed three guards before they could warn their vile leader, and now the others parted to admit him, regarding him with loathing, arrogance, and curiosity as he tossed the singed banner to the dusty earth in front of the warlock’s tent.
“I am Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan,” he cried, letting his fury fuel his voice. “And I am here to kill Gul’dan.”
As he watched them, their postures shifted. The arrogance left them as they realized that he came without a weapon, yet had just challenged the most powerful one of them all to an honor battle.
The defiant, insane declaration brought forth Blackhand, at least, from the tent. He looked Durotan up and down. “A ghost cannot invoke mak’gora,” Blackhand declared. “You are chieftain to no clan. Your people are food for worms.”
Durotan choked back his rage. This orc before him was not the target of it. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, he heard a familiar voice beside him.
“Some of us still live, warchief,” said Orgrim Doomhammer.
Durotan, surprised, turned to look at him. Orgrim had destroyed their friendship, but it was not too late for the son of Telkar to rediscover honor.
Now, at last, Gul’dan emerged. His glowing gaze fell upon Durotan, then on Orgrim, and his frown deepened. Durotan barely caught the words the warchief and the warlock exchanged.
“Shall I make a quick end of them?” Blackhand offered.
“I always thought you were one for tradition, Blackhand,” the warlock replied. “Durotan,” he said, more loudly so that all could hear. “Your clan was weak, and you are a traitor. I accept your challenge, if only to personally rip the heart out of your pathetic body.”
“What of the portal?” Blackhand spoke to Gul’dan, but his gaze was fixed on Durotan. “You must be ready when the incantation begins.”
The incantation… Durotan did not know much about the details of how the portal would open. Gul’dan had hoarded such knowledge. But if Durotan could survive long enough, perhaps his death could, at least, aid the humans who had been so willing to trust him.
“This won’t take long.” Gul’dan’s thick, green lips curved around his yellowed tusks in a cruel, savoring smile. He handed his staff to Blackhand, and reached for his cloak. He pulled out the sharp pin that served for a clasp, and the cloak fell to the ground. Everyone present stared.
Gul’dan had always appeared to Durotan stooped and old, with a white beard and seamed face. But as the cloak fell away from his frame, leaving his torso bare in the growing morning light, it revealed a physique that made Blackhand look like a child. Muscles strained against the taut green skin of an orc who looked, as Grom Hellscream had said, as if he had the strength of five.
But that was not what had Durotan and all the others gaping in shocked silence. Durotan remembered when Gul’dan had come to the Frostwolves for the first time. He had worn this same cloak then. At the time, Durotan had been confused, unable to determine how the spines with the tiny skulls fixed atop them had been sewn into the fabric. Now, he understood.
The spines had not been attached to the cloak. They were protruding through it.
They and their macabre decorations were growing from Gul’dan’s body.
Gul’dan basked in the awe and horror his appearance inspired, and Durotan knew with a sick feeling that the fel-distorted monstrosity in front of him was more than likely right. This would not take long.
But Durotan resolved to make Gul’dan’s inevitable victory dearly bought. He stepped forward into the ring, shrugging off his own wolf-fur cloak and letting it slip to the ground. He stood, calculating, waiting, letting Gul’dan circle him.
And with a bellow, he sprang.
* * *
Moroes was dead, a withered, papery husk, sucked dry like the remnants of an insect when the spider has gorged. So poised and dignified in life, he now sprawled, legs akimbo, in front of a font gone sickly green which bubbled and emitted evil wisps of misty fel.
Lothar lifted his gaze from the dead castellan to the upper platform. He was both relieved and aghast to see his old friend standing there. He could not see the Guardian’s face, but his form was unnaturally erect, and his arms were held up to the sky.
Lothar caught the young mage’s eye. Khadgar nodded, moving slowly to the left, toward the scaffolding that supported the golem Medivh had been working on when they had first arrived. Lothar stepped to the right. With luck, they could pin the Guardian between them.
And do what? his sad, sick soul asked.
Something. Anything, his mind replied.
He had thought he would be angry, but instead he was more sorrowful than anything else. “Medivh,” he called, calmly, carefully.
Now, Medivh lifted his head, and horror spurted through Lothar. His face was still recognizable—but only barely. It was covered with lines that were like cracks in marble. His beard had been replaced by a line of small, downward-jutting horns. And the Guardian’s eyes were pitch black.
Casually, Medivh raised his arm. Energy pulsed, and Lothar was seized by the shape of a huge, sickly yellow hand and lifted into the air. The Guardian’s eyes flared, like a small eruption of green magma, and the magical hand tightened. Lothar’s breastplate began to crumple, as if he were a toy soldier squeezed too hard by a bored child.
From below and behind Khadgar hurled a blast of energy at Medivh’s back. Without even turning, Medivh countered the spell with his right hand, turning the blue missle back on its sender. He released his grip on Lothar, letting his old friend drop and turning his attention to Khadgar.
But Khadgar wasn’t there. Lothar lay still where he had fallen, feigning death for a long, tense moment. Then, Medivh begin to chant. He had listened to the Guardian summoning spells for years, but he had never heard anything like this. It made his throat turn dry, his skin crawl, and he would have known without being told that what was being spoken was the darkest evil that could be imagined.
Lothar used Medivh’s distraction to crawl to Khadgar in the mage’s hiding place—beneath the golem’s thick clay body.
Khadgar looked pale. “It’s the incantation to the orc home world. He’s opening the portal. We need to shut him up!”
The mage nodded, then froze. Lothar strained to listen. Medivh, no doubt having realized that the “dead” Lothar was no longer wher
e he had been dropped, was moving overhead. Looking for them.
“Ideas?” hissed Lothar. Khadgar licked his lips, then leaped to his feet, shouting an incantation. Blue orbs of cracking fire exploded from his fingertips in the direction of the chanting. Chunks of stone were blasted from the pillars, toppling down in a dusty pile. But Medivh was nowhere to be seen.
“Very impressive,” and the voice seemed to come from everywhere. “Now try shutting him up.”
A green glow came from directly above them. The chanting had resumed, but the voice was no longer coming from the Guardian. It issued from the featureless clay face that now sported eyes of emerald fire, and a green slash of a mouth.
“Well,” Lothar quipped, “That went well.”
Not content with simply being a vessel for Medivh’s unholy chanting, the golem began to move, shrugging its gargantuan shoulders as if waking up. Pieces of scaffolding and various tools toppled to the floor. “Do something!” Lothar shouted. Khadgar gave him look that said plainly, what do you expect me to do? “Fine,” Lothar muttered, “I’ll handle him, you take care of Medivh.”
Khadgar swallowed, nodded, and started to scramble up the golem’s scaffolding. The golem straightened, infused with strength, shattering the remnants of his scaffolding like a prisoner casting off shackles. Khadgar leaped upward to the circular platform just in time.
“Hey!” Lothar called, trying to draw its attention. “Over here! Clay face!” He hurled a carving tool at its lumpy brown head. Faster than Lothar had anticipated from something so gargantuan, it turned its head and fixed its sickly green gaze on him. Then it lunged, lurching forward like a great ape.
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