He had drifted off to sleep when the hanging skin that served as a door was flung aside. It was Durotan, sweating, panting, every line of his body telling her before he even spoke that everything had fallen apart.
He clasped her close for a moment, then told her quickly what had happened. She said nothing, but kept shaking her head. No. No. this could not be. Orgrim could not… would never betray them. But he had.
“You and the baby must leave,” Durotan said when he had finished. He reached for the infant, lifting him tenderly, even in this moment of crisis. “Now!”
A shape moved to fill the doorway. Blackhand. He was spattered with gore, but had no weapon. He did not need one, not any more. The claw where his hand had once been would serve. He seized Durotan by his scalp and hauled him backward. The baby, cupped in his father’s palm, squalled.
“You are a traitor, Durotan!” Blackhand bellowed.
Everything in Draka urged her to attack, but instead she kept her eyes on Durotan. He was not fighting—not with weapons, and she would follow his lead.
“No.” Durotan spoke calmly, and from a deep place of certainty. “One who values what we once were. Like you used to.”
“That time is past,” he said angrily. Then, more softly, “We are but fuel for the fel now.” The warchief’s face held not fury or hatred, but only detached melancholy.
Draka was moved to speak, surprising even herself. “We are more than that. You are more than that. There is still hope, Blackhand. We do not have to take another step down this path.”
Blackhand looked at her, his eyes narrowing, then down at Durotan. For a long, tense moment, the three stood, while the child cried. Then, growling, Blackhand released her mate, shoving him away. Durotan went at once to Draka, giving their child to her. She clasped the infant close. There was still no anger in Blackhand’s voice when he spoke, but even so, Draka’s heart ached with despair. “Do not make me take more innocent lives, young chieftain.”
She held the baby tighter still, her eyes darting from Blackhand to Durotan. Durotan straightened, steadying himself. “If I submit…”
Draka’s hand shot out and gripped her mate’s arm, her nails digging into his flesh. He kept his gaze on the warchief. He continued, “… will you leave my people be?”
Blackhand did not answer. Draka knew that he could not. He was the warchief, but he answered to Gul’dan. Blackhand knew it, too. He merely opened the tent flap, and waited.
A chieftain must always do what is best for his people, Draka recalled. She refused to utter the sob, to give voice to the sound of her breaking heart. She would show her husband courage. And besides, she thought with determination, I will not let this be the end.
When her heart turned to her, she made sure he would only see determination and love in her eyes as he gazed intently into them. They were Frostwolves. They knew they loved. They would make no scene in front of Blackhand.
Whatever happens.
I’ve thought of a name, she had said to him.
I’ll choose the name when I’ve met him… or her.
And how will the great Durotan name his son, if I do not travel with him?
“What will I call our son?” she asked him, chagrined but unashamed that her voice broke, Durotan lowered his gaze to his son, and for a moment, his composure slipped as he caressed the tiny head with unspeakable tenderness. “Go’el,” he said, and it was at that moment that she knew he did not believe he would return. He caressed her chin with one finger. Then he turned to Blackhand, striding out of the tent, and out of her life. But never out of her heart.
Blackhand looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable, then he followed. The great spear Thunderstrike, which had belonged to Durotan, and Garad, and to Durkosh before them, fell from where the Frostwolf chieftain had placed it to land on the hard-packed earth.
* * *
Slowly, Medivh opened his eyes, blinking. He remembered the battles. One he had shared with Lothar and Llane, fighting alongside them as he had before, in earlier times. He recalled the orcs, and the wall of lightning.
But there had been another, a battle in which his friends could have no part. Before he could help them, Medivh had been forced to struggle against the hooded figure that seemed to him to be formed out of the thunderheads themselves; a figure whose eyes glowed green.
He forced the image away. He had not succumbed. He had stood with his friends. He realized he was back in Karazhan, but could not remember traveling here. He turned his head, and saw her.
“You.”
Warmth filled him and he smiled at Garona. She sighed a little, relieved at seeing him awake. His eyes took her in. So strong. So beautiful, and so proud, despite everything she had seen, everything that had been done to her. “Where’s the old man?”
“He asked me to watch you,” she replied.
“He did?” Thank you, Moroes. The pleasure ebbed somewhat. He asked, almost afraid to know the answer, “And the king?”
“He is alive,” she reassured him.
Thank the Light. But her next words dimmed his pleasure.
“Lothar’s son is dead.”
Not Callan. Medivh closed his eyes and sighed, pained. He had not known the boy well. Lothar had always kept his son at a distance, not only from himself, but from others. It had been Taria’s kindness that had found Callan a place in the king’s guard, not Lothar.
“I do not think Durotan knew about the ambush.” Garona spoke intensely.
Medivh wondered where this was going. “I agree.”
“I argued for the meeting,” Garona continued. Her dark eyes were pools of regret. “Lothar will hate me.”
As Medivh himself well knew, six years could change a man. He did not know if, in truth, Lothar would hate the orc woman sitting beside him, and so did not tell her no.
“That upsets you,” he said instead.
“He is a great warrior,” she continued. Her cheeks darkened slightly. “He defends his people well.”
Ah, thought Medivh. Anduin. It made sense. He examined his feelings for a moment, then made a decision. “A good mate for an orc,” he said, carefully.
Garona frowned and shook her head. “I am no orc. I am no human either. I am cursed. I am Garona.”
The self-loathing and hopelessness in her voice made him ache. He regarded her for a long moment, then reached a decision.
“When I was younger,” Medivh began, letting the words come as they would, “I used to feel apart from my kin.” Part of the Kirin Tor, but not really—their project, their pet. Separated from his blood family, creating a “family” in the company of two devil-may-care companions. And the aftermath of their adventures…
“I traveled far and wide, looking for wisdom. How to feel a connection with all the souls I was charged with protecting.” Garona listened with her whole body, eyes wide, nostrils flaring as she breathed. Orcish concentration, he thought, and a bittersweet ache such as he had not felt for years gripped his heart.
“On my travels I met a strong and noble people, among them a female, who accepted me for what I was. Who loved me.”
Part of him did not want to continue. This was his burden, his great joy and secret; his and his alone. Except, it wasn’t. It couldn’t—shouldn’t—be. He paused before continuing, meeting her gaze steadily.
“It was not a life I was fated to have, but it taught me something. If love is what you need,” he said, softly, his voice trembling with intensity, “you must be willing to travel to the ends of the world to find it. Beyond, even.”
Garona looked down for a moment, emotions warring on her face, usually so closed. “You left your mate?”
“Go find Lothar,” he said, sharply. He looked away. Even now, even with her, this, he could not share. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but now was not the time. Maybe afterward. If there was an afterward.
“I must stay and watch you.” Honor. Loyalty. Things he had loved so much about…
Medivh squ
eezed her shoulder. “That is Moroes’s job,” he said.
Medivh was still weak, but strong enough for what he needed to do now. He rose from the couch, moving his hands deftly, effortlessly, conjuring a circle for her. It was no great mystery to him where Lothar would be at this moment. Part of Medivh’s energy came, of course, from the magical font’s healing. But part of it was his own doing. His choices. His decision to, finally, after so many mistakes and disasters and broken lives as consequence, do something good. Something right. Something true and worthy of the one he had loved so long ago; loved, lost, but never forgotten, not for a day, an hour, a moment.
He would pay dearly for what he was doing. But that was all right. Some things were worth the cost.
This is for you, my heart.
She stared, as the circle shimmered into being; pulsing, radiating blue light. Medivh reached and gathered a small bit of magical energy into his hand, and crafted a small, perfect flower. It was exquisite and beautiful, light made into a palpable thing, its hues shifting like an ember in a blue fire. Garona had seen him work magic before—dangerous magic, designed to cause harm. But this was only for healing. For hope. She understood that, as he knew she would, and her eyes were wide and soft with wonder.
“Step inside the circle,” he instructed. Garona looked at him, then the circle, then, slowly, mesmerized, moving more delicately than he had ever seen any orc save one move, she obeyed.
“This,” Medivh said, his voice rough with emotion as he held out the luminous flower, “is my gift to you.” He allowed himself to savor this moment, giving her no hint as to what this was costing him. She accepted it, her green fingers closing so very gently around the magical flower, looking first at it, then at him.
Peace filled him, and he stepped back. The circle’s white illumination spread upward, becoming a sphere, encasing Garona safely within its cocoon. The white glow increased, its brightness becoming almost blinding, then it disappeared—Garona along with it.
Medivh collapsed.
* * *
The Lion of Azeroth had been drinking.
He lay outstretched on the bar in the Lion’s Pride Inn, surrounded by empty bottles. An equally empty tankard dangled from his fingers. His eyes were closed, and Garona wondered if he was unconscious.
She took a step forward, trying to move quietly, but even so Lothar heard her and his eyes opened. He didn’t look at her, but kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Garona wondered if she had should have come. Perhaps Medivh had been wrong. Perhaps this was foolishness, to think that a human could care for an orc, particularly one who could easily be held responsible for the brutal murder of his only child.
But she thought of the Guardian’s words. She was here. She would speak. At least she would know that she had tried.
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t answer, and Garona had almost turned to leave when, at last, he spoke.
“Callan’s mother died in childbirth. I blamed him for it. For years. I’m not going to blame you.”
His voice was less slurred than Garona had expected, and he was obviously aiming for a conversational, relaxed tone. But she, who had tasted so much pain, could recognize its sharp, bitter notes in the voice of another.
Her eyes widened at the words. Lothar had been carrying such a burden… She moved forward. He sat up and slipped off the bar, stepping back as she drew closer. She halted. He looked almost as awful as Medivh: pale, save where his cheeks were flushed with drink. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, and he trembled. Suddenly he whirled, flinging the tankard against the wall. It shattered with a musical crash.
He was in a place Garona knew well. A place where anger and grief and guilt collided in an unholy trinity of torment. He was a soldier without his armor in front of her now, raw and aching and unable to hide any of it. She stepped forward, reaching to touch his face, wanting to do whatever she could to ease a pain that was obviously ripping him apart.
“He was so young,” Lothar whispered. His eyes were red from weeping. She trailed her lips over his bearded cheek, mindful of the sharpness of her tusks, then pulled back, gazing at him. “My whole life,” he rasped, “I’ve never felt as much pain as I do now…”
Lothar’s voice, and Garona’s heart, broke on the last word. Then he whispered, “I want more…”
Garona understood at once. Her whole life, she, the cursed, had been in pain. It was never the physical pain of broken bones or ripped skin that hurt the most. It was the pain that stitches and poultices and healing drafts could not mend: the pain of the soul, the heart. More than once, she had found healing, respite, from that torment in physical pain, which provided a distraction and allowed the spirit to, somehow, find its own way. Sometimes it did not work, but sometimes it did.
He lifted his eyes to her, and if there had been any question that she loved, and that she belonged here, at this moment, it vanished like mist beneath the sun.
She reached out to him, gently touching his face. He closed his eyes and tears, warm and wet, slipped beneath the tightly shut lids. Then, slowly, ready to stop if he did not wish this, Garona began to dig in her nails.
His eyes flew open wide, and in those blue depths Garona saw desire. Lothar reached out, pulled her to him, and pressed his mouth on hers.
And then, there was no pain at all.
16
Day or night, it made no difference. Work continued on building the Great Gate, whether that work was done by sunlight or torchlight, as it was now. Orgrim glanced briefly at the orcs laboring in the flickering firelight, and at the construct that disappeared up into darkness. It was coming along swiftly. It would be ready in time.
There was more on his mind than the portal, though. Before this day’s decisions, his life had seemed simple. Choices had been clear to him. It was Durotan who had always seemed to agonize over the gray shades when, to Orgrim, things were either black or white. But now that he had made his decision, he suddenly understood what his friend had wrestled with. Orgrim now stood beside Gul’dan, who occupied an ornately carved chair on a platform above the gate, supervising the work as ordinary orcs might observe ants.
On Gul’dan’s other side huddled a human slave. It seemed that with his pet Garona turned traitor, the warlock felt the absence of someone crouching at his feet. Garona, though, had never looked like this: pale, emaciated, staring at nothing. Orgrim could count the human’s ribs.
It was not a pleasant sight, so Orgrim looked to the Great Gate. He pointed to the two statues that flanked what would be the portal’s opening. They were representations of the same figure—a tall, too-slender being whose face was hidden by a cowl. “Who is it?”
“Our… benefactor,” Gul’dan said, his voice a rough purr on the word.
Orgrim scoffed in surprise. “A new world in exchange for a statue? Gods are strange creatures.”
Gul’dan chuckled. Ever since he had first arrived at Frostfire Ridge, asking the Frostwolves to join the Horde, Gul’dan had unsettled Orgrim, and never more than when he laughed.
“Frostwolves,” the warlock said. “You are a practical people. Those of us from the south have always admired that about you.” He turned to look down at his slave, smiling with apparent affection. He extended his hand, and both his eye and the tips of his fingers burned bright green. He waved his hand, languidly. A thin, misty trail snaked from the human to Gul’dan’s green-tipped fingers. The human’s eyes widened in terrorized agony, but he made no sound. He began to struggle, weakly, and choke, withering before Orgrim’s gaze. It was as if Gul’dan was literally drinking the creature’s life energy.
He is, thought Orgrim. Spirits help us, he is. He found he had to fight an instinct to flee.
Gul’dan dropped his hand, and the human sagged back, his thin chest heaving.
“When the portal opens,” and Gul’dan’s voice was relaxed, almost dreamy, “and the rest of the Horde joins us, we will gift them the fel. All of them.”
Orgrim’s fists clench
ed. “Durotan did not agree to this,” he said snapped, angrily.
“And why would you care what that traitor thinks?” Gul’dan’s eyes were radiant with the bright green hue of fel. How much of this thing is still an orc? Orgrim wondered with a surge of horror. When the warlock spoke, his voice was strident, harsh, and biting. “It is time for a new leader of the Frostwolf clan. One who has the best interests of his orcs in mind. One,” and he placed a hand immodestly on his own chest, “who appreciates Gul’dan’s vision. His power!” His green lips stretched in a wide smile, and again extended his hand to the slave, taking another sip of that pathetic creature’s life energy.
“Come,” Gul’dan said, as the human, little more than a skeleton now, drooped, panting. “I will grant you the fel.”
My master is dark and dangerous. Garona had said this to Durotan, to the Frostwolves. Garona, who had arranged for the humans to meet with Durotan. Garona, as green as Gul’dan, but as unlike him as could be imagined.
She had said this, and she had been completely right. Was she—was Durotan—right about allying with the humans against him?
“Durotan, he…” Orgrim struggled to appear sincere, though his heart was pounding. “He has poisoned the Frostwolves against the fel. Let me gather them. Bring them here. Grant me the fel in front of them—let them see how much stronger I become.”
Gul’dan’s eyes narrowed. Orgrim forced himself to project calm, meeting those eyes evenly, even as at the corner of his vision he watched the human gasp for breath. The warlock considered.
“As I said,” Gul’dan said finally, “a practical people. Summon them, then. This is not Draenor, Frostwolf. This is a new dawn! The time of the Horde.”
He turned his attention again to the slave, lip curling in contempt as the man reached out to him imploringly. “Be feared,” Gul’dan said, said, “or be fuel.”
Gul’dan abruptly closed his fist and tugged. The cord between them snapped. The human’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. Orgrim stared at the corpse, a papery, withered husk. He inclined his head, and left. As soon as he was far enough away from the torches, he broke into a run. He was certain that Gul’dan had not believed him. He only hoped that he had bought his clan enough time.
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