Warcraft Official Movie Novelization

by Christie Golden

  “Are you sure? Look around you. Does it not remind you of something?” He directed Orgrim’s gaze not to the beckoning forest and distant snow, but to what lay behind them. To the Great Gate, and the land around it. Orgrim’s brow furrowed for a moment in confusion, and then Durotan saw understanding spread across his friend’s face.

  When they had entered this world, the land near the gate had been a swamp. Draka had birthed the son of Durotan on her hands and knees in stagnant water. Now, there was only dirt, parched and thirsty. What plants there had been were long dead, brittle and ground to dust beneath orcish feet as Durotan’s people moved giant stones to build a doorway.

  It did remind him of something.

  It looked exactly as the other side of the portal had looked, in the land they had fled. Emotions warred on Orgrim’s face.

  Durotan knew what he was asking. But he also knew he was right. “Wherever Gul’dan works his magic… the land dies. If our people are to make a home here, my friend,” Durotan said, his voice rough with emotion, “Gul’dan must be stopped.”

  Orgrim took a long time before he replied, but when he did, he did not disagree. All he said was, “We are not powerful enough to defeat Gul’dan.”

  “No,” Durotan agreed. He scratched thoughtfully at his chin with a sharp thumbnail. “But with the humans’ help, we could be.”

  10

  It had been a dangerous gamble, and Llane had been anxious every moment since Lothar and Taria had departed the throne room. But he had felt it was the right decision, and he kept telling himself that as the moments ticked past. He was on the balcony, overlooking the dark city and thinking equally dark thoughts, when Taria returned.

  She slipped an arm through his. “You were right,” she said. “A woman’s hand was needed. She will take Lothar to their camp, the poor creature.”

  “Thank you,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

  “How did you know I could reach her?”

  It was hard to put into words. Garona was an adult female, and, from all reports, a fierce fighter. It was hard to think of someone like that as “vulnerable,” but he sensed that her wariness wasn’t hate-fueled, or cruel. There was something about her that reminded him of the children he had seen in the orphanage—wild, feral, but desperate for someone to look past that and see who they truly were.

  “She needed a mother’s care,” he said at last. He squeezed his wife’s hand, then pulled her into his arms. “I know of none better.”

  “Flatterer,” she teased, and kissed him.

  * * *

  There were five of them in the mounted scouting party: Lothar, Garona, Khadgar, Karos, and Varis. The three soldiers had spent a great deal of time away from Stormwind, but of course, to Garona, everything was new. She was alert and attentive, her dark eyes taking it all in and evaluating it. For what? Lothar wondered. Hiding places? Weapons? Escape—or attack—routes?

  She was clad in Alliance armor, and he noticed her hand wandering to the breastplate now and then, as if surprised each time at the golden lion’s head there. His attention lingered on her perhaps longer than it should have. This morning, he had helped her get into her armor. She had asked for a weapon, and he had replied as he laced her gambeson closed, “You’ll have me to protect you.”

  “I need no one to protect me,” Garona had asserted. He had paused then, with his face inches from hers, a witty retort dying unsaid on his lips as their eyes met. He had realized almost at once that, despite her tusks and green skin, Garona was beautiful. But now, standing so close, Lothar understood that she was more than just physically appealing. She was right. She did need no one to protect her. She was likely as strong—perhaps stronger—than he was. But as he looked at the scars that crisscrossed her skin, he, the soldier, wanted nothing more than to keep her safe. It was ludicrous, it was likely insulting…but it was true.

  “What are you looking at?” she had demanded.

  He himself wasn’t sure.

  Lothar’s mind returned to the present. He smiled to himself as he noticed that Khadgar’s gaze was fixed to whatever it was he was reading. He missed the sole pleasant part of the journey, through the safe areas of Elwynn Forest, only looking up when they paused as the foliage gave way to bare stone. Below them, Elwynn lay spread out like a lush tapestry. Behind, Stormwind’s white towers jutted skyward, looking as small as a model on King Llane’s battlemap, and even Khadgar admired the sight.

  Before them lay Deadwind Pass, a fitting name for an unhospitable, desolate canyon of sheer walls and cutting, whistling winds. One branch of the trail culminated in a ledge, where Lothar declared they would camp for the night. It was useful to have a site with only one direction to guard. They could have pressed on, but Deadwind Pass was a tricky enough path in the daylight. He could not risk a horse making a misstep in the growing shadows.

  “Bookworm,” he said to Khadgar as the mage dismounted, wincing, “take the first watch.”

  Garona, slipping lithely to the ground, looked both perplexed and amused at the word. She watched Khadgar, to gauge his reaction.

  The boy tucked the book in the waistband of his trousers while reaching for his bedroll, but the look he gave Lothar was not one of amusement. He had not missed Garona’s look, either. “Respectfully, Commander, my name is Khadgar,” he said.

  Lothar brought a hand to his chest in mock horror. “My apologies, Khadgar. I thought we had bonded when I didn’t put you in a prison cell for breaking into the royal barracks.” The two glared at each other. “Now. Take the first watch.”

  Khadgar’s lips thinned, but he nodded. “Yes, Commander.”

  The meal was simple—bread, chicken, apples, and hot tea. No wine was passed around tonight—the party was too small and the danger too great for even a little intoxication. Thankfully, the sobbing wind eventually stopped, although the silence that replaced it was perhaps more unnerving. They ate, cleaned up, and spread out their bedrolls while Khadgar glumly wrapped himself in his cloak and perched atop a boulder, looking back at the path they had traveled.

  Lothar’s mind was too busy working out scenarios for him to sleep at once, so he gnawed on a leftover piece of chicken and watched the watcher instead. To his credit, the boy seemed to take the duty seriously. Lothar half-expected Khadgar to have sneaked his book with him so he could read by moonlight, or firelight, or maybe a tiny point of blue flame dancing at the end of his fingers. Who knew what sort of things mages could do.

  Instead, the youth’s head turned, rather shyly, in Garona’s direction. She lay facing away, her distinctive curves soft and rolling and green as the hills of Elwynn. Lothar was amused—but he also didn’t like it.

  “Well,” he said, shattering the silence, “at least you’re not reading.”

  Khadgar jerked his head back toward the path. Lothar smiled to himself.

  “He wishes to lie with me.” Garona’s voice was matter-of-fact and Khadgar cringed, almost squirming with embarrassment. She propped herself up on one arm, watching them both.

  “I beg your pardon?” Khadgar tried to sound perplexed by the accusation, but his voice climbed a little too high for it to be convincing.

  “You would be injured,” she stated.

  “I don’t want to lie with you!”

  It was all Lothar could do to not laugh out loud. Garona simply shrugged. “Good. You would not be an effective mate.”

  This time, Lothar couldn’t help it, and a snort of laughter escaped him. “Why do you laugh?” Garona asked, and it was Lothar’s turn to feel uncomfortable. “I cannot see how you humans survive such a thing. How you survive anything. No muscles to protect you. Brittle bones that break.”

  “You don’t look that different to us. How did you survive?”

  She went still. Her voice when she replied no longer held mirth. It was careful; cool. “Broken bones heal stronger. Mine are very strong.”

  The humor bled out of Lothar. He thought of her green skin, soft as a human woman’s, la
cerated by the manacles at her wrists and her throat. Of the massive males of her species, with enormous hands and torsos and tusks. Of the weapons that probably weighed as much as he did. His mind went to dark places at her words, places that made him grow angry, as well as sombre.

  But yet, “I’m sorry,” was all he could find to say.

  “Do not be.” The silence resumed. The fire crackled.

  “My name, ‘Garona’,” she said at last. “It means ‘cursed’ in Orc. My mother was burned alive for giving birth to me.”

  Lothar’s hands hurt. He looked down at them, surprised to see he had clenched them. Monsters.

  “They kept you alive, though,” he said. Why? He wanted to know. How badly did they hurt you? What can I do to help?

  “Gul’dan did.” She rolled over on her back. In the flickering firelight, he saw what she held: a cord, from which dangled a delicate tusk, only about the size of her little finger. “He gave me this. To remember her.”

  Lothar watched the slowly moving object as if mesmerized by it. It both repelled and fascinated him, but clearly Garona cherished it. He wondered if, truly, it was so different from a lock of hair, treasured as a keepsake after a loved one had died. He had tried to argue Llane out of letting Taria talk to the orc. Now, listening to her speaking so openly, he realized that his friend had insight he did not possess. She was obviously beautiful, obviously strong. But she was also, as Llane had sensed, someone who responded to kindness. Someone who had been wounded more than physically.

  “My parents gave me to the Kirin Tor when I was six years old.” Khadgar’s voice was soft, a confession that, like Garona’s, was better suited to being uttered in concealing darkness. “That’s the last time I saw them or any of my brothers and sisters. It brings a family honor to offer a child to the Kirin Tor. To have their son taken up to the floating city of Dalaran and be trained by the most powerful mages in the land.” He smiled self-deprecatingly as he looked at Garona. “Less so to have them run away.”

  The orc woman held his gaze, then she nodded.

  “Well,” Lothar said, “That was cheerful.”

  He lay back down on his bedroll, hearing the other two shift positions. Lothar closed his eyes, seeing behind his closed lids firelight shining on an orc tusk held by a strong, beautiful green hand.

  * * *

  The night was lit by fire, painted with blood, and its songs were all of slaughter.

  Gul’dan watched it all with quiet glee. Beside him stood his mentor, his advisor, the one who had kept his promises. The one without whom this night would never have been possible.

  “North, south, east, west,” he intoned, sweeping a hand over the scene, “all will be ours.”

  Movement caught his eye, and he frowned slightly. Some of the humans were escaping. There was a trail, as of busy ants, fleeing the conflagration. They carried things on their shoulders, and followed a long, winding path. “Tell me, teacher,” he inquired, “where do they run?”

  “Stormwind,” the figure standing beside him intoned. The word was raspy, but powerful. It burned, as its speaker’s heart burned. “Their greatest city.” So much contempt. So much certainty that the flight was futile. As, of course, it was. There was no standing against the Horde… or fel.

  “Ah,” said Gul’dan, “where Garona ran to.” Now was the moment. He turned to his mentor. “I brought her here. For you.”

  Surely, his teacher would be pleased, would heap praise upon his faithful pupil, who had learned so well. But there was no reaction at all; not pleasure, not annoyance… only silence, from within the deep shadows of the cowl. Gul’dan felt disappointment—and a stirring of unease.

  He tried to correct any possible misstep. “When the portal opens, we will take this city first.” He looked directly at the figure. “And we will name it… after you.”

  11

  Lothar had thought he would be prepared for anything he would behold. He was wrong. Now, standing beside Garona and the others as they stared at the horrifying panorama spread below them, Lothar felt both stunned and sickened. War was never tidy, or clean. It was never like gazing at one of Llane’s maps, even when strategy was orderly and victory was certain. But this…

  Tents, hundreds of them, dotted the landscape, punctuated by watchtowers and larger constructions. There were cages, too. Not as many as he had initially feared, but enough to make Lothar’s hands clench in anger. Cages crammed with humans: men, women, even children. So this was where they had gone—seized and carried off while their homes burned about them, taken like animals.

  And further on, enormous, chiseled hunks of stone hauled by the labor of the physically powerful orcs and arranged in a pattern. A flat, level base, like the foundation of a building. Or something much worse.

  “The Great Gate,” Garona said, pointing to the stones.

  “Why do they need so many prisoners?” Lothar asked. The breeze caught Garona’s black hair, playing with it. Her gaze did not leave the terrifying diorama as she spoke, and her words made Lothar’s heart sink.

  “Like wood for fire,” she explained. “Green magic takes life to open the gate.”

  Lothar’s gaze was dragged back inexorably to the scene below them. “How many more orcs are they planning on bringing?”

  Her reply was simple and stark. “All of them.” She waved her hand at the scene. “This—this is just the war band. When the portal is opened, Gul’dan will bring the Horde.”

  And all at once Lothar understood what, subconsciously, he had been denying. These hundreds of tents were, essentially, just the beginning…

  A Horde.

  “Get them back to Stormwind,” he snapped at Karos, already heading for his horse. “Varis and I will ride ahead.”

  * * *

  Garona gazed after Lothar and Varis as their horses galloped off. Thoughts crowded her mind. Was she truly doing the right thing? Why did she even have any loyalty to the orcs? They had murdered her mother, and she had only been spared from the fire herself by the will of Gul’dan. He had taught her how to read and write, and ordered her to study and learn other languages. But she was always a slave. Always bound, always sneered at or spat upon.

  Except by a few. Every time she was filled with hatred for her treatment by her so-called “people” she recalled Durotan, twice a voice of reason for his people, and his wife Draka, who had treated her with gentleness and care. Other orcs might drown sickly children at birth, but the Frostwolves gave their weaker members at least a chance to earn their way back into the clan. Draka herself had been one such, and she became the mate of a chieftain.

  Garona had hesitated when Durotan freed her and extended his hand. But she knew if she returned with him, Gul’dan would simply reclaim her. And in that moment, Garona had tasted freedom, and knew she would die before relinquishing it.

  She thought of Queen Taria, treating her even more kindly than Draka had. Of course, Taria wanted something. Garona fully realized that. But what she wanted was to save her people. So did the orcs—but they were doing it by killing those who were not orcs. First the draenei, now the humans. She thought of Khadgar; such a pup, so eager, but with a power she respected and didn’t understand.

  And… she thought of Lothar. He had saved her from the furious Frostwolf. He had not been as overtly kind as Taria, but Garona understood his mistrust. She knew enough of darkness to know when it had touched someone, and Anduin Lothar surely walked with shadows. She had seen the pain in his eyes at the loss of his men in the recent battle, the horror at the thought of the innocent farmers being held captive, their lives fodder for more orc destruction. He was… good, she decided.

  Though he had a sense of humor. She recalled the term Lothar had used to Khadgar, “bookworm.” Garona smiled, turning to look at the young mage—

  An orc stood in the shadow of tree branches. He held Khadgar under one arm, his massive hand clamped over the boy’s mouth. The young mage stared at Garona with wide, alarmed eyes. A few feet away orc la
y the body of Karos, unconscious, but still alive.

  “Durotan!” Garona gasped.

  He grunted in acknowledgement. “To the north is a black rock that touches the sky. I would meet with their leader there.”

  A sliver of fear sliced through her. “To challenge him?” She was surprised at how much she did not want Llane to die… nor, truth be told, Durotan.

  He shook his head. “I saw you lead the smallteeth to our encampment,” he said, stepping closer, still holding Khadgar, but with care. “They have seen what is being built, but only you know what Gul’dan has planned for my people.” His eyes bored into hers, and he spoke as if the words tore at him. “You warned us, Garona. You told us he was dark and dangerous. I only came, in the end, because there was truly no other choice.”

  Garona knew Durotan might have chosen death for himself, but he did not have the luxury. He was a chieftain, and he took care of his clan as best he knew how.

  “This magic is death,” he said. “For all things. It must be stopped.”

  So he had seen. He knew. Their gazes locked for a moment, then Durotan nodded. “Tell him. The black rock. When the sun is highest.”

  “I will,” Garona promised.

  Durotan nodded. He seemed unaware that he had completely shattered everything Garona had believed she could ever expect out of her life. If Gul’dan fell—

  She surged forward. “Chieftain! If I return, would you take me into your clan?”

  Durotan’s eyes traveled to her throat, her hands. A throat and hands free of chains. “You are safer here. With them.”

  And she knew he was right. The hope died, and she simply nodded. The chieftain looked thoughtfully at the boy he still restrained. The mage, still as death, stared up, barely blinking. Durotan released him. Khadgar made no move to run, or to utter a spell. Durotan punched him, very gently, in the chest—a comradely gesture. Then, pressing a hand to his own chest in a gesture of respect and gratitude to Garona, the half-breed slave, he stepped back into the shadow dappled light and vanished into the trees.