Warcraft Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Christie Golden

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also Available from Titan Books

  Also available from Titan Books and Christie Golden

  WARCRAFT

  THE OFFICIAL MOVIE NOVELIZATION

  Warcraft: Durotan

  Print edition ISBN: 9781783299607

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781785650642

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: May 2016

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  © 2016 Legendary

  © 2016 Blizzard Entertainment, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  LEGENDARY.COM TITANBOOKS.COM

  This book is dedicated to Chris Metzen, my

  Blizzard brother who, back in the year 2000, first

  entrusted me with Durotan and gave me the chance

  to create Draka. It is a true and then-unimaginable

  honor, fifteen years on, to be able to revisit them

  and help introduce them to a new audience.

  PROLOGUE

  The crimson trail steamed in the snow, and Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh shouted in triumph. This was his first hunt—the first time he had hurled a weapon at a living creature with the intent to kill it—and the blood proved his spear had found its mark. Expecting praise, he turned to his father, his narrow chest swelling with pride, and was confused by the expression on the Frostwolf chieftain’s face.

  Garad shook his head. His long, glossy black hair fell loose and wild about his broad, powerful shoulders. He sat atop his great white wolf Ice, and his small, dark eyes were grim as he spoke.

  “You missed its heart, Durotan. Frostwolves strike true the first time.”

  Disappointment and shame brought hot blood to the young orc’s face. “I… I regret that I failed you, Father,” he stated, sitting up as straight as he could atop his own wolf, Sharptooth.

  Using his knees and hands in Ice’s thick ruff to direct him, Garad brought the beast alongside Sharptooth and regarded his son. “You failed to kill with your first blow,” he said. “You did not fail me.”

  Durotan glanced up at his father, uncertain. “My task is to teach you, Durotan,” Garad continued. “Eventually you will be chieftain, if the Spirits will it so, and I would not have you offending them unnecessarily.”

  Garad gestured toward the direction of the blood trail. “Dismount and walk with me, and I will explain. Drek’Thar, you and Wise-ear come with us. The rest of you will wait for my summons.”

  Durotan was still ashamed, but also confused and curious. He obeyed his father without question, slipping from Sharptooth’s back and giving the huge wolf a pat. Whether the frost wolves were adopted as mounts because of their color, or whether the clan had named themselves after their snow-hued fur, no one knew; the answer had been swallowed by time. Sharptooth whuffed and licked his young master’s face.

  Drek’Thar was the Frostwolves’ elder shaman—an orc who had a close connection with the Spirits of Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Life. According to Frostwolf lore, the Spirits dwelt in the far north—at the Edge of the World, in the Seat of the Spirits. Older than Durotan, but not ancient, Drek’Thar had been blinded in battle years before Durotan’s birth. A wolf ridden by the attacking clan had snapped at Drek’Thar’s face. It was only a partial bite, but it had done enough. A single tooth had punctured one eye, and the other eye lost its vision shortly thereafter. Durotan could still see thin, pale scars snaking out from under the cloth Drek’Thar always wore to hide his ruined eyes.

  But if something had been taken from Drek’Thar, something also had been given. Soon after losing his sight he had developed extra senses to compensate, perceiving the Spirits with keenness unrivaled by the younger shaman he trained. From time to time, the Spirits even sent him visions from their seat at the Edge of the World, as far north as north could be.

  Far from helpless, as long as he could ride Wise-ear, his beloved and well-trained wolf, Drek’Thar could travel where any other orc could go.

  Father, son, and shaman pressed through the deep snow, following the blood. Durotan had been born in a snowstorm, which was supposed to augur well for a Frostwolf’s future. His home was Frostfire Ridge. While the snow sullenly retreated before the brightness of the summer months, it merely bided its time until its inevitable return. No one could say how long the Frostwolf orc clan had made this inhospitable place their home; they had been here as long as any could remember. “Always,” one of the older Frostwolves had said simply to Durotan when he was old enough to wonder.

  But night was coming, and the cold increased. Durotan’s dense, warm boots of clefthoof hide struggled to resist saturation, and his feet began to grow numb. The wind picked up, knifing like a dagger through his thick fur cloak. Durotan shivered as he trudged on, waiting for his father to speak while the blood in the snow stopped steaming and began to freeze.

  The red trail led over a broad, windswept expanse of snow and toward a gray-green smudge of trees clustered at the feet of Greatfather Mountain, the tallest peak in a chain that extended for hundreds of miles to the south. Greatfather Mountain, so the lore scrolls told, was the clan’s guardian, stretching his stone arms out to create a protective barrier between Frostfire Ridge and the southlands. The scent of clean snow and fresh pine filled Durotan’s nostrils. The world was silent.

  “It is not pleasant, is it? This long walk in the snow,” Garad said at last.

  Durotan wondered what the correct response was. “A Frostwolf does not complain.”

  “No, he does not. But… it is still unpleasant.” Garad smiled down at his son, his lips curving around his tusks. Durotan found himself smiling back and nodded slightly, relaxing.

  Garad reached to touch his son’s cloak, fingering the fur. “The clefthoof. He is a strong creature. The Spirit of Life has given him heavy fur, a thick hide, layers of fat below his skin, so he may survive in this land. But when he is injured, he moves too slowly to keep himself warm. He falls behind the herd, so they cannot warm him, either. The cold sets in.”

  Garad pointed to the tracks; Durotan could see that the beast had been stumbling as it moved forward.

  “He is confused. In pain. Frightened. He is but a creature, Durotan. He did not deserve to feel thus. To suffer.” Garad�
�s face hardened. “Some orc clans are cruel. They enjoy tormenting and torturing their prey… and their enemies. A Frostwolf takes no joy in suffering. Not even in the suffering of our enemies, and certainly not in that of a simple beast which provides us with nourishment.”

  Durotan felt his cheeks grow hot with another flush of shame. Not for himself this time, or because of his poor aim, but because this idea had not occurred to him. His failure to strike true was indeed wrong—but not because it meant he wasn’t the best hunter. It was wrong because it had made the clefthoof suffer needlessly.

  “I… understand,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  “Do not apologize to me,” Garad said. “I am not the one who is in pain.”

  The bloodstains were fresher now, great, scarlet puddles in the hollows made by the clefthoof’s erratic gait. They led on, past a few lone pines, around a cluster of boulders topped with snow.

  And there they found him.

  Durotan had wounded a bull calf. It had seemed so enormous to the young orc then, gripped as he had been in the throes of his first true bloodlust. But now, Durotan could see that it—he—was not fully grown. Even so, the calf was as big as any three orcs, his thick hide covered with shaggy hair. His breath rose in rapid white puffs, and his tongue lolled between blunt yellow teeth. Small, recessed eyes opened as he scented them. He struggled to rise, succeeding only in forcing Durotan’s ill-cast spear deeper and churning up slushy red snow. The calf’s grunts of agony and defiance made Durotan’s gut clench.

  The young orc knew what he had to do. His father had prepared him for the hunt by describing the inner organs of the clefthoof and how best to slay it. Durotan did not hesitate. He ran as fast as the snow would permit toward the calf, seized the spear, yanked it out, and drove it directly, cleanly, into the animal’s heart, leaning his full weight on the weapon.

  The clefthoof shuddered as he died, relaxing into a limp stillness as fresh, hot blood drenched his coat and the snow. Garad had hung back and was joined now by Drek’Thar. The shaman tilted his head, listening, while Garad looked at Durotan expectantly.

  Durotan glanced at them, then back at the beast he had slain. Then he looked into his heart, as his father had always taught him, and crouched in the bloody snow beside the beast. He pulled the fur-covered glove from his hand and placed his bare fingers on the calf’s side. It was still warm.

  He felt awkward as he spoke, and hoped the words were acceptable. “Spirit of the clefthoof, I, Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh, thank you for your life. Your flesh will help my people live through the winter. Your hide and fur will keep us warm. We—I am grateful.”

  He paused and swallowed. “I am sorry that your last moments were filled with pain and fear. I will be better next time. I will strike as my father has taught me—straight and true.” As he spoke, he felt a fresh awareness and appreciation of the cloak’s life-saving weight on his back, the feel of the boots on his feet. He looked up at his father and Drek’Thar. They nodded approvingly.

  “A Frostwolf is a skillful hunter, and a mighty warrior,” Garad said. “But he is never cruel for sport.”

  “I am a Frostwolf,” Durotan said proudly.

  Garad smiled and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “You are.”

  1

  The ululating cries of orcs on the hunt rent the icy air. Durotan had tasted battle with other clans, but few challenged the Frostwolves here, in their northern homeland. Bloodlust and the thirst for honor were most often quenched as they were now, with howls and victory songs as mounted orcs ran down strong prey that fled before them.

  The earth trembled beneath the thundering feet of a herd of clefthooves, shaggy and lean in the last moments of a winter that had seemed as if it would never slacken its grip on the land. The Frostwolves harried them gleefully, their delight at finding meat infusing them with fresh energy after two days of tracking the herd.

  Garad, his long black hair threaded with silver but his body still straight and strong, led the group. Beside him on his right, her body more slender than her mate’s but her movements as swift and her blows as lethal, rode Durotan’s mother, Geyah. Garad did not always command, often stepping back to allow Durotan to take the role, but the younger orc never felt as alive as he did when hunting at his father’s left side.

  Finally, riding on Durotan’s left, was Orgrim Doomhammer, Durotan’s best friend. The two had gravitated toward one another ever since they could walk, indulging in all manner of competitions and challenges that always ended not with anger, but with laughter. Orgrim’s mother claimed her little warrior had been so eager to fight that he struck the midwife’s hand with his head as he entered the world, and the Spirits left him with a bruise in the form of a reddish splotch on his otherwise brown skull. Orgrim was fond of this story, and therefore always shaved his pate, even in winter, which most Frostwolves thought foolish. The four of them had often ridden in this formation, and their moves were as familiar to one another as their own heartbeats.

  Durotan glanced over at Garad as they pursued the clefthooves. His father grinned and nodded. The clan had been hungry for some time; tonight, they would feast. Geyah, her long legs gripping the sides of her wolf, Singer, nocked her bow and waited for her mate’s signal.

  Garad lifted his spear, Thunderstrike, carved with runes and adorned with leather wraps and notches of two different styles. A horizontal slash represented a beast’s life; a vertical one, an orc. Thunderstrike was cluttered with both vertical and horizontal markings, but the vertical ones were not few. Every one, Durotan knew, had been made when a foe fought well and died cleanly. Such was the way of the Frostwolves.

  The orc chieftain pointed Thunderstrike at one clefthoof in particular. Words would not carry well over the steady pounding, so Garad looked around as the other Frostwolves raised their own weapons, indicating they had seen the designated target.

  The herd’s cluster formation as they stampeded meant life for those in the center—provided they did not stumble. The targeted cow’s steady gait veered slightly away from the tight grouping. Her belly did not swell with a calf; no Frostwolf would slay a pregnant clefthoof, not when their numbers dwindled with each of the increasingly bitter winters. Nor would the hunters slaughter more than they could carry back to Frostfire Ridge, or feed to their wolf companions as thanks for their aid in the hunt.

  “Let the wild wolves work for their own suppers,” Garad had said once, as he scratched Ice behind the ears. “We Frostwolves will take care of our own.”

  Such had not always been the case. Garad had told Durotan that in his youth, the clan sacrificed at least one and often several animals as thanks to the Spirits. The creatures lay where they had fallen, food for wild beasts and carrion crows. Such wastefulness had not occurred often in Durotan’s time. Food was too precious to squander.

  Garad leaned forward. Knowing this as sign to charge, Ice lowered his head and sprang.

  “Hurry up!” The good-natured jibe came from Orgrim, whose own wolf, Biter, raced past Durotan like an arrow fired from a bow. Durotan called his friend a scathing name and Sharptooth, anxious to feed, also sprang forward.

  The wave of wolves and riders descended upon the hapless cow. Had she been but a few strides closer to the herd, she might have been protected by their sheer number, but although she bellowed plaintively, the herd merely increased its speed. The lead bull had abandoned her, too intent on driving the rest far enough out of range of the terrifying orcs so that no more of his herd would fall. The clefthooves were not stupid, and the cow realized soon enough that this was a fight she would have to win—or lose—on her own.

  She wheeled with a speed belying her enormous size and turned to face her would-be killers. Clefthooves were prey animals, but that did not mean they did not have personalities, nor did it mean they were not dangerous. The cow that stood to face them, her cleft hooves churning up the snow as she snorted, was a fighter, as they were—and she clearly intended to take mo
re than a few orcs and wolves down with her.

  Durotan grinned. This one was worthy prey! There was no honor, only the sense of a need fulfilled, in hunting beasts that did not stand and fight. He was glad of the clefthoof’s courageous choice. The rest of the party saw her defiance, too, and their cries increased in delight. The cow snorted, lowered her head crowned with massive, sharp horns, and charged directly at Garad.

  The orc chieftain and his wolf moved as one, springing out of danger long enough for Garad to hurl Thunderstrike. The spear caught the great beast in her side. Ice gathered himself to attack. As he and other white wolves leaped for the clefthoof’s throat, Garad, Durotan, Orgrim, Geyah, and the rest of the hunting party hurled spears, arrows, and shouts of challenge at the clefthoof.

  The fight was a frenzy of motion, a cacophony of snarls, grunts, and war cries. Wolves darted in and out, their teeth ripping and tearing, while their riders struggled to get close enough to land blows of their own. Memories of his first hunt flashed in Durotan’s mind, as they always did. He shoved his way to the forefront of the fight. Ever since that long-ago trek following the train of bloody snow, Durotan had been driven to be the one who struck the killing blow. To be the one to end the torment. It never mattered if, in the thick of the fight, others witnessed him strike and credited him the kill. It only mattered that he dealt the blow.

  He wove his way around the white blurs of the wolves and the fur-clad bodies of his clanspeople, until the smell of blood and rank animal hide almost made his head swim. Abruptly, he found an opening. Durotan dropped into himself, gripping his spear tightly and letting his focus narrow to this single purpose. All that existed for him now was the spot just behind the cow’s left foreleg. The clefthooves were large, and so were their hearts.

  His spear found its mark, and the great beast shuddered. Bright blood stained its hide. Durotan had struck clean and true, and though she struggled for a few more moments, at last, she collapsed.

  A huge cry went up and Durotan’s ears rang. He smiled, breathing heavily. Tonight, the clan would eat.