But the orcs kept coming. Sweet Light, Llane thought, still almost dizzy with relief at the turn of the tide, we would have had no chance at all had Gul’dan brought in the rest of the Horde. Humanity might not have survived.
“My lord, we must retreat!” The cry came from Varis. The man was as brave as they came, but he was right. The orcs were starting to win this fight here, at the base of the portal. More and more of his soldiers were falling; more and more huge brown and green-skinned orcs were shouldering each other aside, eager to fill the void.
“We should leave,” Garona agreed.
“Shortly,” Llane said. “There are only a few more cages left. We’ll save as many of our people as we can first.”
“My lord,” Varissaid again, “I do not think—”
From behind Llane, a cry of horror and fear arose. He turned in his saddle, and felt the blood drain from his face.
The blue light that outlined the center of the portal, and the sight of Stormwind within it, was sputtering. Before Llane’s shocked gaze, the image of his city melted like wax, as if it had never been. All that was visible now in the center of the portal was the desiccation that had once been the Black Morass—and the group of orcs that had run around the gate’s back.
The gate had closed.
The orcs had seen it, too. And they roared as well, but with bloodlust and a hunger that would soon be sated. Llane was reeling. What had happened? Why had Medivh stopped? Then he knew.
“We’ve lost the Guardian,” he murmured.
He looked out over the sea of orcs, then at his comrades. They all bore the same shocked, stunned expressions. They had been so close…
It did not matter. “We’ve done what we came to do,” he said to them, looking at each in turn. An odd peace settled upon him. “No one could do more. All is as the Light wills it, my brothers and sisters.”
He turned to look at Garona, and gave her a smile. Expressions warred on her beautiful green face. She had wanted victory, of course. They all had. In the end, a victory would have saved the orcs as much as it would have saved the humans, but that could not be helped, not now.
Or could it?
An idea, wonderful and terrible, began to blossom in his mind. Llane turned his attention to his enemy. Fighting was still going on at the ends of the line of defenders, but here, in the center, things had, oddly, lessened. Now, Llane saw why.
Blackhand was coming.
He stood head and shoulders above the tallest of the orcs, his skin boldly green, his muscles bulging and powerful and veined. Was it blood that pumped through his veins, Llane wondered, or green fire? No matter. Blackhand was coming, shoving aside orcs and humans alike who blocked his path, and he was coming for Llane.
“Garona,” Llane said, and was surprised at how calm, how certain, he sounded, “we’re outnumbered. We can’t retreat. We’re going to fall. But you don’t have to. No good will come from us both dying.” Slowly, with hands that trembled, he removed his helm and let it fall to the earth. The cool rush of air on his face and sweat-soaked hair felt good.
Her jaw set. “I will die with you. I have chosen my side.”
“You don’t understand.” He turned his full attention upon her, his dark eyes boring into hers. “Your killing me is the only hope we have for peace. You once told Lady Taria that killing her would bring you honor. Killing me would make you a hero.”
Her eyes flew wide in comprehension. “No!” Garona spat.
The very thought of such betrayal was wounding her. Llane saw it. But he would have asked this same favor of Lothar, had the position been the same. Even of Taria.
“You were a slave,” he continued mercilessly. “You could be a leader. I’m not leaving here alive, Garona. That thing is going to kill me. But if you did so first—if you could claim killing the human’s warchief… You know us, Garona. You know us—and you care for us.”
He reached for her hand that clutched the small knife Taria had given her, grasping her wrist. “Survive. Bring peace between orcs and humans. He paused. “I can’t save my people, not now. But you can.”
“By slaying the king, my friend.” She was angry, insulted… hurt.
“You must.”
It was blunt, and it was true, and it was very orcish of him to say it. Llane knew that; knew that if she had learned to see the good in humans, he and others had learned to see the good in orcs. But Lothar, Khadgar… Taria… they would not know, not at first, about this dreadful bargain. About a possible future for humanity bought with the blood of a king. Garona knew this, too. She would be throwing away true acceptance for false honor.
Llane saw in her eyes that she could not do it. He felt a surge of despair and turned away. The battle still raged. His people were still dying. And the monstrous thing that had once been an orc lumbered inexorably toward him, his eyes glowing green with fel energy.
Llane didn’t want to die. He wanted to live, to be with his wife and children, celebrate weddings, and births, to drink a pint with Lothar and Medivh, to see harmony in his realm. To discover how beautiful his Taria would look with laugh lines and the white hair of wisdom.
But Death was coming, and he would meet it bravely. It was all that was left to him. He drew his sword and stood facing the orc they called Blackhand.
It was then that he felt the touch against his bare throat. Cool fingers, their brush feather-light, the calluses of years scratching gently at his skin. Almost tenderly, those fingers slipped under his chin and tilted his head back.
Yes.
Llane exhaled a sigh of relief and gratitude, closing his eyes and yielding to that touch, willingly offering his throat to the woman standing behind him. If killing was ever an act of love, he knew this was one such. Garona would do as he had asked her, although he knew it broke her heart. His only regret was for the hatred she would be forced to endure until the time came to set things right.
His death would not be in vain—nor would, he prayed to the Light, Garona’s torment be.
He was thinking of Taria, her wide, gentle eyes, the sweet, secret smile that was only for him, as his queen’s own dagger, held in the hand of the truest of friends, ended his life.
* * *
As his gryphon dove, her body responding to the urgency she could feel in her rider, Lothar saw a scene of madness. There was the gate, closed now, thanks to his efforts and, more importantly, Khadgar’s. Most of the cages were open and empty of prisoners.
But in the panorama beneath him, of moving bodies and the orange glow of fires, Lothar saw very few glints of Stormwind armor in a sea of green and brown skin. He scanned frantically for the king’s banner, but did not spy it. What was left of three legions was a pathetic handful of soldiers and horses, forming a final and impossible defense at the base of the portal that now opened onto nothing at all.
Where was Llane? Where was his king?
The gryphon dropped like a stone. Lothar clutched his sword with his right hand, and clung like a burr with the other. His eyes swept the scene, searching for the best place to attack.
There.
Blackhand was the warchief’s name. The one whose hand Lothar had taken—and the one who, in return, had taken Lothar’s child. He was even more abominable than before, huge, unnatural, swinging his weapon almost leisurely. The few who were left of Stormwind’s finest were falling before him at a rate that would have been comical if it hadn’t been so galvanically terrifying.
There came a glint of color as Blackhand hoisted a fallen soldier. The knight was passed along from one orc to another like a wineskin at a festival, the orcs laughing and jostling it. Lothar caught a flash of blue and yellow, and armor that was decorated and exquisitely carved—
Red sheeted over Lothar’s vision. He must have screamed, because his throat hurt suddenly, and there was a terrible sound in his ears over the din of battle.
The gryphon landed directly on top of a green-skinned orc, and began shredding him with her beak, talons, and hind legs. L
othar sprang from her back, stabbed at an orc too shocked to respond in time, and seized his mace as the greenskin fell.
Llane. Llane.
They had dropped him, his king, his brother, to turn and fight the strange death that had appeared so unexpectedly from the sky. Heedless of his own injuries from the fight with Medivh, indeed of anything other than the swing of his sword and where his friend lay on the hard, dry ground, Lothar fought his way toward the crumpled figure.
Llane—
He was sprawled on the ground, face down, but his armor was unmistakable. He wore no helm, and Lothar’s body turned to ice as he saw the dagger protruding from Llane’s throat.
He had ordered this dagger made when his sister had turned thirteen. He knew every line of it. And he knew to whom Taria had chosen to bestow it, as a gesture of trust.
Lothar continued to kneel, to stare, to question the evidence of his eyes. Strangely, in this awful moment of loss and failure, of betrayal and broken hearts and devastation, all he could think was why did you take off your helm, Llane? Why did you take off your helm?
Slowly, as his traitorous heart continued to beat instead of stopping and hurtling him into death alongside his brother, Lothar again became aware of his surroundings. A few feet away, the gryphon was screaming, defending him as he crouched, shocked almost beyond reason, over the body of his assassinated liege.
He could fight. He could die too, here, taking more than a few of them with him. But all Lothar wanted was to take Llane home. He would not leave him here, to be tossed about by laughing orcs, to be the center of some barbaric display of triumph. Llane was going home. Lothar had failed to save him. He owed him this, at least.
He heaved Llane’s body, armor and all, over his shoulder, staggering just a little before marching toward the still-combative gryphon. The orcs near him were so astonished at his behavior that they failed to challenge him.
“Stormwind!” he shouted to the gryphon as he put one foot in the stirrup and flung himself the rest of the way. With the effortlessness of a beast that had been trained for just such demands, the gryphon ducked and twisted her body, propelling Lothar and his precious cargo safely onto her back.
She had leaped upwards when suddenly she came to a jerking, violent halt. Lothar whirled to see Blackhand’s hideous face leering up at him. His remaining natural hand had closed firmly around the gryphon’s hock, and although her wings beat frantically, the warchief hauled her back down to earth.
Lothar must have fallen, for the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, staring up at a ring of ugly faces peering down at him. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head just in time to see Llane’s sword hurtling end over end toward him. It impaled itself in the dirt two feet from Lothar’s head, gleaming unbearably brightly in the sun.
He was surprised he had not been swarmed by bellowing orcs hungry for his blood. As he got slowly to his feet, he heard them murmuring a single word: Mak’gora.
They had all stepped backward, leaving the area clear for two opponents: their warchief, and Anduin Lothar. One of the orcs had the gryphon’s head under his arm. Another held her squirming torso. They would not hurt her; she was useful to them. Llane’s body had toppled off and lay at an unnatural angle in the dust.
The sight rekindled Lothar’s fury. He stood, steadying himself, looking at the crowd of silent, expectant orcs, and then at Blackhand, pacing a few yards away.
Blackhand held no weapon in his good hand. He was armed solely with the metallic claw hand; the five blades with which he had gutted Callan. Lothar willed the red haze of bloodlust to clear. He would not die under its obscuration.
Slowly, he picked up his brother’s sword, never taking his eyes from Blackhand’s glowing green ones. The orc stood still as a statue save for breathing that lifted, then let fall, his obscenely broad green chest. He recalled the silent vow he had made Blackhand—that he would take his life. No matter what it took.
Whatever Lothar did now, he was meat. Garona had spoken glowingly of the “honor” of orcs; honor that, it seemed, allowed them to betray those who had trusted them, and drive a knife into the throat of one of the finest men Lothar had ever known. They had no honor. They had only bloodlust, and conquest, and death.
Still, the orcs did not charge.
Lothar arranged his fingers about the hilt, remembering how often he had seen it in Llane’s hands as they sparred, or fought in earnest. Against trolls. Against uprisings.
But it had fallen from his grip against orcs.
Still. Steady.
And then Blackhand charged.
He moved swiftly for such a mountain of a monster. Lifting his enormous clawed hand, the fel twining about it like snakes, he screamed his victory cry as he bore down upon the human, so much smaller than he and armed with a single sword.
Lothar surrendered to his training, into the trust of his brother’s spirit to guide his hand. There was no justice that could be bought here today. But at least his son’s killer could fall, could threaten no other parents with the loss of their beloved child. This, he could have.
He stood, waiting, then ran straight at his enemy. At the last moment, he dropped, sliding beneath the running orc, his bare feet ripped to shreds by the stony earth as he slashed upwards, using Blackhand’s own momentum against him.
Blackhand cried out in pain, stumbling to a halt. He kept his feet for a heartbeat, then dropped to his knees. Lothar came up behind him, and using the full force of his body, thrust the sword deep into Blackhand’s torso.
“For my son,” he said, quietly. He kicked the warchief, and Blackhand pitched forward. Green blood pooled beneath him. He did not rise.
There was stunned silence. Lothar lowered his sword, glancing around at the crowd. From the distance, he heard an angry roar and orders uttered in a raspy, furious voice. Heads turned toward the sound of the voice, then back to Lothar. Doubtless, they had been given the order to kill.
He tightened his grip on the sword, ready to take as many of them with him as he could. But they stayed where they were, staring at him, their tiny, oddly intelligent eyes unreadable. One orc started to move forward, lifting an axe. Another’s hand came out and touched his chest, stopping him. The first orc frowned, but lowered his weapon.
Their chieftain had wanted a duel. Lothar had given it to him, and the orcs would honor the rules of such a thing.
Lothar wished they would not.
His gaze traveled to the fallen body of his king. The orcs on the field of battle remained motionless. And then a terrible bellow rent the air. Lothar turned to see two of the ugliest things he had ever beheld approaching him. One was a hunched orc, bright green, with a long gray beard. His eyes glowed brightly with the fel—as brightly as Medivh’s had done. He marched forward, leaning on his staff, horns bristling where they poked through the cloak that covered his back.
It could be none other than Gul’dan.
The other orc who stood beside him Lothar had once considered beautiful. But to him, now, Garona was more abominable than the fel-twisted creature she stood beside. Their eyes met.
* * *
Garona had to use every ounce of her strong will not to break down weeping as Lothar stared at her. How she had not done so before now, she did not know, but she needed to be stronger than she had ever been. Lothar’s eyes glittered like those of a feral creature. She could see in them his broken heart, for Llane’s death, for her betrayal. He looked like he would welcome his death. But Garona would not.
“Kill him!” Gul’dan ordered, pointing a sharp-nailed finger at Lothar.
The human looked at the orc warlock for a moment, then hoisted the body of his fallen king across his shoulders—armor and all. His knees buckled, but only slightly, then Lothar turned his back on his enemy, walking steadily toward the gryphon. To safety.
“Kill him!” shrieked Gul’dan, froth on his green, withered lips.
The other orcs shifted their weight, but still did not move. Lothar did not slow.
They were uneasy with their leader now, where once before they had followed him with something akin to worship. Something had changed, something more than the simple failure of the gate. Anduin Lothar had defeated the mightiest warrior the Horde had ever known in a fair and honorable mak’gora. The orcs would not turn against him now.
“The mak’gora is sacred, and the human has won his duel,” Garona said to her former master. Her heart raced in her chest, but she kept her voice calm. She would betray nothing to either Gul’dan or Lothar. She gestured to Blackhand’s fallen, gargantuan body. “Let them pay respect to their dead war chief. Let your warriors have their tradition.”
But the warlock would not let it go. He turned his attention from the retreating form of the human to his Horde. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “I save your miserable lives and you thank me like this? Do as I say!”
His words were not having the effect he intended. In fact, Garona realized, they had just the opposite. Orcs who had looked uneasy just a moment ago now had their jaws set. Gul’dan saw it too.
“Traitors!” he spat. “Obey my orders!”
One of them, pushed too far by Gul’dan’s insult, shouted back defiantly, “You would not be alive to give orders if you had fought Durotan fairly!”
Garona thought Gul’dan would strike down the insolent orc. But though he seemed maddened by rage, he was not yet that unwise. He sneered at them, then turned toward Lothar, who was nearly to the gryphon—and safety—by this point. “Get out of my way,” he said to his defiant Horde. “I’ll do it myself!”
So the noble Durotan was gone, as well. The news was expected, but it still hurt Garona, but not as much as Gul’dan’s last words. Lothar might have been able to defeat Blackhand, fel-bloated though that orc had been. But he could not stand against the full might of Gul’dan’s fel. He would die.
Garona knew she should let that happen. The Horde was already unhappy with their leader. If he were to kill Lothar now, there was a very good chance that they would turn on him. And if she became their leader, she could broker peace.
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