But Lothar would die. And Garona couldn’t bear it. A peace would come, perhaps. But it would not be today. There was no hesitation in her heart or her body as she darted forward, placing herself between the man she loved, who believed her a betrayer, and the Horde leader, who believed her true.
May Gul’dan still think so, she thought, then spoke, harnessing her anger and rage into hard words. “Who will obey you if you go to war with your own kind?”
He stared at her, his green eyes venomous, her life in his hands. Calculatedly, Garona let her voice quiet to tones of reason. Earlier, Gul’dan had given her a title she had dreamed of all her life: orc. She had honor in the Horde’s eyes, exactly as Llane had anticipated. The warlock could not attack her outright, but her words had to be exactly right—or she and Lothar both would die.
“You saved us, Gul’dan. Brought us to this new world. But we cannot abandon our ways. If you do this, you will lose the Horde. You are our chieftain. We already know you are strong with the fel. Now, it is time to show us a different kind of power. A chieftain puts the needs of his people first.”
Unbidden, and unwanted, the memory rushed back. Standing with Taria, speaking of Durotan. He freed me… and he is loved by his clan. He puts their needs first. Always. He is a strong chieftain.
Strong chiefs must earn their clans’ trust.
Taria, giving Garona her dagger, which Garona had returned embedded in Llane’s throat.
Furiously, Garona pushed aside the image of the widowed queen, focusing only on Gul’dan. She had the power of the truth behind her, and he knew it. His eyes darted to the one orc who had spoken out, then back to her. Garona forced herself to sneer as if in anticipation as she added, “There will be other days to kill humans.”
I have lost so much today. Llane. Varis and Karos. The trust of good people. You will not take Lothar, too. You will have to go through me to do so.
* * *
Lothar had paused, stiff, when Garona had placed herself between him and Gul’dan. For a horrible, wonderful moment, he thought she would explain what had happened—that she was no traitor. But no. She argued for his life, he could see that. But only for her own reasons.
The orcs who held the gryphon released her to him. He laid his friend across the creature’s back and, suddenly feeling every one of his injuries, climbed up behind him.
The gryphon rose, carefully, as if she understood what she bore. As she climbed skyward, Lothar, unable to help himself, took a last look at Garona.
Their eyes met. He could not read her expression. Then, mercifully, the gryphon leaned into the wind, and her strong wings bore him away from the battlefield, away from the Horde, away from the green-skinned woman he had once held in his arms, and thought true.
23
Khadgar leaned out the window of the inn, gazing at Stormwind as it unfolded itself below him. He’d spent many hours in this room, but his gaze had been focused elsewhere: on books, on puzzles. He’d read by candlelight more than daylight. Now, his gaze roamed over the blue roofs, the beautiful white stone cathedral, and lingered on the statue to the Guardian of Azeroth.
A role that could have been his, had things been different.
“It’s just as well,” came a voice. Khadgar jumped slightly and looked up to see Anduin Lothar leaning against the doorframe. The older man grinned. “You would have made a terrible Guardian.”
Khadgar laughed a little. “Saving the world isn’t a one-man job. Never has been.”
Lothar said, with unwonted kindness, “I would have helped out.” He closed the door behind him and pulled out something from beneath his shirt, tossing it onto the table. It was a small dagger, exquisitely wrought, its jeweled hilt winking.
Khadgar’s breath caught. “Garona’s dagger.”
“I pulled it from Llane’s neck.”
It wasn’t possible. Garona would not have done such a thing. She couldn’t have. Khadgar stared at the blade, then up at Lothar, and stated, firmly, “There has to be an explanation.”
“Yes. She made her choice.” Lothar’s blue eyes were hard as chips of ice, but there was a tightness at their edges that spoke more of pain than of anger.
No. Khadgar didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. “I don’t believe that.”
He didn’t shrink from Lothar’s perusal. At last, the commander said only, “Maybe you and I didn’t know her as well as we think we did.” Lothar nodded toward the dagger. “I just thought you deserved to know.”
And he was gone. Khadgar stared at the blade, given by a queen to someone she had trusted, but that had, somehow, ended up in her husband’s throat.
He stared at it for a long time.
* * *
Taria had dressed with great care. Her hair had been styled, her crown set upon it. Cosmetics gave her artificial color, but did nothing to conceal the pain in her eyes and exhaustion that caused her cheeks to appear hollow. And that was all to the good.
She had dressed this carefully on her wedding day, when she had formally entered her husband’s life and world. She had done so then with joy, willing to share that joy with her people, as royalty should. Now, as royalty, she would be saying farewell to her husband’s presence in her life, and would do so publically. Such, also, was royalty’s duty.
The news had crushed her—particularly when the anguishing details of how her husband had died had been revealed to her. Lothar had not wished to disclose them, but he knew, as she did, that as queen, and the regent of the future king, she needed to know the wrenching truth.
Tears leaked out from under her lids, but she blinked them away. Yes, they were all grieving, she foremost among them. But the people of Stormwind needed her strength today, and that, Taria would give them.
Thousands were assembled, a great sea of upturned faces, stretching back to reach all the way down to the harbor itself. They did not cheer when she strode out to greet them. She had not expected them to.
Llane lay in the center, on a raised funeral pyre. Men were buried. Kings were burned. In front of him was his sword and his battered shield.
Taria stood straight as a ramrod the dwarves used for their rifles. She strode without hesitating toward her husband’s body. The priests of the Light had bathed his body with care, dressed him in fine clothing, and strapped on armor that had been carefully polished. They had washed and mended the magnificent cloak which had been sullied and torn in the battle; rent by swords, and also stained where it had been fastened by a brooch about his…
She swallowed hard, leaned forward, and kissed his pale cheek. Looking out at the subdued crowd, she could see so many different types of faces. Store owners, and refugees. Humans who had come from Lordaeron and Kul Tiras. The purple robes of the Kirin Tor. And those who were not human, yet who had come to pay their respects—the elves, the dwarves, even small gnomish faces peered up at her with sadness in their eyes.
Taria had prepared no speech. She would speak from her heart, as Llane always had. Looking at the sea of faces, she abruptly decided what she wanted to say. What Llane would have wanted.
“There is no greater blessing a city can have than a king who would sacrifice himself for his people,” she began. There were a few sobs from the crowd, and her own throat was tight. She continued. “But such a sacrifice must be earned. We must deserve it! You are all here today, united in a single purpose. To honor a great man’s memory. But if we only show our unity to mourn a good man’s death, what does that say about us?”
This was not expected, and some of the mourners looked decidedly uncomfortable. Good, Taria thought. War should make us uncomfortable. Refugees, violence, fear—all this should make us uncomfortable.
She pressed on. “Was King Llane wrong to believe in you?”
The answer was swift—one lone voice shouting, “No!” That single word was echoed by others. More and more joined in, passion and tears on the faces she beheld. No, these people reassured her. Your Llane was not wrong.
Tears sprang t
o her own eyes, but they were tears of pride and happiness.
The cheers were coming now. They were ready. Khadgar, who had well earned the honor of a place here beside royalty and commanders, went to Llane’s pyre. Respectfully, he picked up the great blade, carrying it laid out across the palm of his hands. He strode to where Anduin Lothar stood, one arm around each of her fatherless children—his neice and nephew—and held the blade out to the Lion of Azeroth. Her brother, and her husband’s best friend. She knew he had taken it when it had fallen from Llane’s hands, and used it to slay the Horde’s warchief. It was fitting that the weapon now belong to him. Of all assembled here today, only his grief had come close to equaling her own. He was the only one left out of a brotherhood of three. One had sacrificed himself, the other had fallen to darkness, but had recovered. Only… not quite in time.
“We will avenge him, my lady!” came a shout.
“Lead us against the orcs, Lothar!” Others echoed this cry, their voices strong. The shouts became uniform, a chant of one single word:
“Lothar! Lothar! Lothar!”
Lothar stared at the sword for a long moment, so long that Taria thought he might refuse and turn away from the duty of serving his old friend’s kingdom. She needn’t have worried. Lothar gripped the hilt and strode toward her, ready to stand by her side now and during whatever might come. There, he looked out at the crowd and raised the sword, as if he would cleave the very sky in twain to protect Stormwind.
No. Not just Stormwind. Not anymore.
“For Azeroth!” shouted Anduin Lothar. “For Azeroth—and the Alliance!”
The crowd took up the cheer, and as all the soldiers present lifted their swords in salute to their commander, the stones themselves seemed to echo the words: For Azeroth, and the Alliance!
* * *
Had it only been a few days ago, Varian Wrynn thought as he stared at his scattered toy soldiers, since he had sneaked into the throne room to play with them? It felt like forever. How had toy battles seemed important, ever, now that his life had been so irrevocably altered by real ones? His dark-eyed gaze fell to one in particular, knocked over on its side: A tiny, carved king atop his steed, with a lion’s head for a helm, brandishing a beautiful, hand-painted metal sword.
Hands slipped beneath his arms and lifted him up, onto the throne of Stormwind, onto the soft, white fur that blocked the chill of cold marble. Even so, Varian shivered. The grief was new, and he had never felt anything so suffocating, so overwhelming, so powerful, in his whole brief life. His small chest shuddered with each inhalation. Earlier, he had wept, a great deal. No one had told him he should not.
He looked at Khadgar with vision that swam. The young mage smiled, sadly but sincerely. “One day, you will be king,” he said. “This will be your seat, when you come of age. But never think you are alone. You have your uncle Lothar, your mother, me, and the entire Alliance at your side.” The mage paused, then added, “Your father did that for you.”
Varian swallowed hard. The grief was still there, but the mage’s words had somehow eased it. His legs dangled. He thought of how often his father had sat here, dispensing justice, arguing strategy. Tears threatened again.
Khadgar saw it, and stepped back, extending his hand. “Come,” he said. “It’s late, and your mother must be wondering where you are.”
Varian took Khadgar’s hand, slipping off the too-big seat and stepping past the crouching gold lions. He was partway to the door when he paused and looked back. Abruptly, he ran back to the pile of toy soldiers and searched through them, finding the one he wanted.
Gently, respectfully, Prince Varian Wrynn, future king of Stormwind, picked up the carved King Llane, and set it back down carefully—this time, not fallen, but upright and noble.
As his father ever was.
* * *
War.
Not a battle, or series of skirmishes; not a single mission or campaign. War, gritty, long, brutal, and cruel.
But this time, the humans of Stormwind did not stand alone. They were not a handful of legions, but an army, anointed with the blood of a hero’s sacrifice, bound by the tales those who survived told of the horrors they had witnessed. The human kingdoms—the beleaguered Stormwind, Kul Tiras, and Lordaeron—might wear different uniforms, but they marched beneath the same banner. There were nobles and raw recruits, elders and some barely of age to fight. Men marched beside women. Alongside the humans were the dwarves, grim-faced and determined, bringing their weapons and their stubbornness to the fray. Other faces were small and childlike; still others, eerily fair and sculpted.
But all the faces were dusty, sweaty, and bearing expressions of commitment.
The army halted.
Before them was a fortress. It had no clean, strong lines, as in human construction, nor was it serviceable and stable as a dwarf’s; it bore no elegant swirls or false delicacy disguising masterful construction, such as an elven fortress would display. This was all bone and iron, steel and ugly angles that served a purpose, and reflected those who built it.
This was an orc fortress.
The one known as Gul’dan oversaw everything. Monstrous, green, he leaned on his staff. Below him was a sea of brown and green skins, of weapons, of simmering anger and bloodlust.
Beside the orc who was her leader, if no longer her master, stood Garona Halforcen. Although she wore armor and carried a spear, she alone among the Horde did not shout for blood, nor spit toward her enemy, and her eyes were not on the approaching army. Instead, she looked away, her gaze distant, her thoughts not on the present moment, but the past… and a future that might one day be.
EPILOGUE
The river flowed, gently, steadily. Many things had been borne along by its current over the ages. Flower petals cast by young lovers. Leaves wept by trees as they mourned the fading of summer. Twigs, and cloth, and blood, and bodies. All had been ferried by the river’s detached motion.
And on this day, this hour, this minute, a basket. Such the river had carried before, but never with such contents.
The wind sighed, helping to propel the strange little ship, and it might have whispered, had there been anyone who had the ears—and the wisdom—to hear it.
You will travel far, my little Go’el, sighed the wind that was not the wind. My world may be lost, but this is your world now. Take what you need from it. Make a home for the orcs, and let no one stand in your way. You are the son of Durotan and Draka—an unbroken line of chieftains.
And our people need a leader now… more than ever.
The child nestled within, green-skinned and wrapped in a blue and white cloth, was unique in this world. In any world. It was tiny, and small, and helpless, like all infants, and it had needs and wants that the river, carefully though it bore him, could not meet.
And so, the river, having kept its promise, surrendered the tiny marvel. The current swept the basket into the path of fishing lines, which rang with sweet notes to announce its presence. Footsteps approached, crunching on stones as they drew near to the bank.
“Commander!” came a voice. “You need to see this!”
The basket was lifted and brought up to a face, which peered at it intently. The baby was confused. This was not a face he knew, or even similar to such a face. And so, he did what came to him as instinctively as breathing.
He scowled, took a deep breath, and voiced his challenge.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
What a journey this has been! Thanks must go to so many I hardly know where to begin.
First and always, to Chris Metzen, who trusted me with previous incarnations of the heroic Durotan and Draka, and many books since; to the actors, who brought them and so many other wonderful characters to vibrant life; to director Duncan Jones, who is as much a fan as any of us, and finally, to everyone who has ever taken the time to let me know how much they have appreciated my work in this world.
Thank you all for your faith in me. May your blades never dull!
For Azeroth!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning and eight-time New York Times bestselling author Christie Golden has written over forty novels and several short stories in the fields of science fiction, fantasy and horror. Among her many projects are over a dozen Star Trek novels, nearly a dozen for gaming giant Blizzard’s World of Warcraft and StarCraft novels, and three books in the nine-book Star Wars series, Fate of the Jedi, which she co-wrote with authors Aaron Allston and Troy Denning.
Born in Georgia with stints in Michigan, Virginia and Colorado, Golden has returned South for a spell and currently resides in Tennessee.
Follow Christie on Twitter @ChristieGolden or visit her website: www.christiegolden.com.
AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS
THE OFFICIAL MOVIE PREQUEL
WARCRAFT
DUROTAN
FROM DIRECTOR DUNCAN JONES
STORY BY CHRIS METZEN
NOVELIZATION BY CHRISTIE GOLDEN
An original tale of survival, conflict and magic that leads directly into the events of the eagerly anticipated blockbuster movie. In the world of Draenor, the strong and fiercely independent Frostwolf Clan are faced with increasingly harsh winters and thinning herds. When Gul’dan, a mysterious outsider, arrives in Frostfire Ridge offering word of new hunting lands, Durotan, the Clan’s chieftain, must make an impossible decision: Abandon the territory, pride and traditions of his people, or lead them into the unknown.
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Warcraft Official Movie Novelization Page 21