Warcraft Official Movie Novelization Page 4

  Anticipation?

  The draenei prisoners on either side of the gate arched in agony, their bodies taut. Durotan watched, stunned, as blue-white, curling tendrils of mist extended from the prisoners, racing toward Gul’dan. He opened his mouth, drinking in the misty spirals, letting them bathe and caress him.

  The green-skinned orcs in the forefront seemed to go mad. They roared, pelting up the steps to the portal. The draenei spasmed. Their skin grew paler, their bodies weaker, frailer—older. When they were little more than husks, the glowing blue radiance of their eyes winked out. The rush of life energy ceased flowing from them, and the green outlining the portal crackled and flared with fire, as if in anticipation. An enormous sound shattered Durotan’s ears as a glowing orb shot from Gul’dan’s hands toward the portal and exploded. Where once one could see through the portal to the stone and earth on the other side, now the interior of the entire rectangular gateway was a pulsating, sickly emerald hue. Then the green swirl’s color became tinted with others; the blue of a sky, the rich browns and natural colors of trees.

  A vista bought with so many lives. Was it worth it, even if it meant the survival of his clan?

  The painful answer was… yes.

  “For the Horde!” Someone had shouted it, and others were now taking up the cry. “For the Horde! For the Horde! For the Horde!”

  Orgrim flashed Durotan a grin and raced past his chieftain. The chant pounded on Durotan’s ears like the pounding of his heart, but he did not break into a frenzied run as so many others did. He turned around to regard his mate. At her questioning look, he told her, “Let me go first.” If he were to die going through, he would at least have his death serve to warn his mate.

  “For the Horde! For the Horde!”

  Draka slowed, obeying her chieftain. Durotan lowered his head, gripped Thunderstrike, and muttered beneath his breath, “For the Frostwolves,” and ran through.

  * * *

  Draka frowned and set her jaw as her beloved disappeared, vanishing into the shimmering, sky-blue-tree-green entrance to… what? What had Durotan thought to do? Others ran through, but no one returned. She could not wait for him to tell her all was well. She had to join him.

  She clenched her hands into fists, and, growling low in her throat, strode forward with the rest of the shouting, sweaty mass of bloodlust-fueled warriors. Her eyes straight ahead, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish, entered the portal.

  The earth fell away from beneath her feet.

  She floated in dim green light as if in a lake, disoriented, her breath coming quickly. Behind her was the light from the portal; ahead, increasing darkness. Other orcs swam-fell past as thin ribbons of light reached out before her. She could still hear the strange thunder from the Draenor side of the gate, but it was muffled. Now and then a blast of illumination would sear her eyes. She pushed aside the threat of debilitating fear and focused on the one thing she could see—a needle-prick of light, of hope, in the enveloping darkness. Draka started trying to move toward it. She felt as though she did not weigh anything. How then to reach this light?

  Reaching out with her arms, she pulled them back—and floated forward. She smiled to herself and kept going. This new land was on the other side of this strange tunnel. Her mate awaited her there. The child within her kicked, as if in protest.

  Be calm, little one, Draka thought. We will soon—

  Pain stabbed her as her stomach contracted, hard, like a fist clenching before delivering a blow. Startled, Draka gasped. She had never been with child before, but she had spoken with the other females. She knew what to expect. The orc life was one of unceasing vigilance, and babies therefore came swiftly and with little pain so that their mothers would be prepared to move or fight if necessary.

  But this—

  It was too soon. The agony that ripped through her abdomen was a warning, not a herald. The babe needed at least another moon in his mother’s sheltering body. Panting, sweat popping out over her dark skin, Draka struggled to remove the camouflaging shield, tossing it away into the darkness. The light was closer now; she could see other orc shapes around her, all struggling toward the light, and for a moment, Draka felt a sudden kinship with her child. In a way, they were both being born.

  Another orc, wheeling weightlessly, floated past her. Durotan! He reached out to her, seeing that she was in torment, trying to catch her, but he tumbled past, inexorably swept along by the strange current. Another object tumbled slowly toward her—an uprooted tree. Draka curled in on herself despite the horrible, dagger-sharp pains, doing what she could to protect her child. The tree’s branches scraped her skin as it passed.

  She reached out as the light intensified, almost blinding after the darkness of this journey. Her questing fingers brushed against something solid—earth! Draka growled in frustration, digging her sharp-nailed fingers into the soil and pulling herself up and out of the portal.

  Feet thundered past her and she rose, stumbling out of the crush of orcs eager for bloodshed, feeling soggy earth… water, grass…

  Draka shrieked at pain so sharp it felt as if her child was slicing her belly from the inside. Her knees gave way and she collapsed onto the marshy earth, her heaving lungs inhaling damp air.

  “Draka!” It was Durotan. On her hands and knees, Draka turned her head to see him racing toward her. Then, an enormous orc shot out a hand decorated with inky black markings and seized her mate.

  “With child?” the orc bellowed. “You bring that wachook into my warband?”

  “Let me go, Blackhand!” her husband pleaded. “Draka!”

  She could hold her head up no longer. Durotan would not be at her side, roaring encouragement, as their baby slid into the world. Spirits… would it even survive, born so early, wrapped in his mother’s torment? Draka sobbed, not with pain, but in anger and rage. This child deserved better! It deserved to live!

  Suddenly someone was there, murmuring quietly, “Shhh… shhh… you are not alone, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish.”

  She looked up, through the tangle of sweat-soaked hair clinging to her face, into the glowing green eyes of Gul’dan.

  * * *

  No!

  Everything in Durotan’s entire being cried out at the thought of Gul’dan, he of the green skin and death magic, standing in Durotan’s stead while Draka gave birth. Durotan struggled against Blackhand’s restraint, but the orc commander held him firmly.

  “Push, little one,” Gul’dan was saying, his voice uncharacteristically kind. “Push…” Durotan watched helplessly as Draka, on her hands and knees, threw back her head and screamed as their son entered the world.

  The baby was still, so still, and silent. Durotan sagged against Blackhand’s iron grip, his heart cracking inside his chest. My son…

  But Gul’dan held the tiny thing, so small, barely as large as his green hand, and bent over him.

  The little chest hitched. A heartbeat later, a lusty wail filled the air, and Durotan gasped as relief washed over him. His son was alive!

  “Welcome, little one!” Gul’dan laughed, and raised Durotan and Draka’s baby to the skies. “A new warrior for the Horde!” he shouted, and a deafening cheer rose up around Durotan. He paid it no heed. He stared, stunned, at the small being that was his son.

  The child was green.

  4

  The city was dim, and loud, and hot. Fire burned in its center, as it had for years. The sounds of hammer on iron and the hiss of quenching water, too, were ceaseless. The air smelled faintly of smoke, though the cavernous construction made sure it was always breathable. Its name reflected its people—to the point, descriptive, and active: Ironforge.

  The king of the dwarven underground capital, fiercely red of beard and bulbous of nose, escorted his guest through the main forge area. He was shaking his head, as if still disbelieving something, even as his feet moved purposefully. He pointed a sausage-thick finger up at his companion.

  “You’re the only man I’d mak
e plough blades for, Anduin Lothar,” he grumbled in his deep, melodious voice. “You and your army of farmers can attack the turf with dwarven steel, eh? It sends a shiver down my spine just to say it. What will my wives think?”

  Anduin Lothar, the only man King Magni Bronzebeard would make plough blades for, smiled down at his old friend. Tall, well built but not massive, the “Lion of Stormwind” was easy in royal company. He had spent most of his life fighting—and drinking—beside the man who currently sat on the throne of Stormwind, and knew Magni well.

  “The military man’s curse, my lord,” he said. Affection made the wry words warm. “The better I do my job, the less I’m asked to do it.”

  Magni harrumphed. “Well,” he said, resigning himself to the situation, “it’s still good to see you, old friend. We’ll have your wagons packed and on their way as soon as they’re ready.”

  Lothar paused beside one of the crates and ran his hand longingly—and carefully—along the glinting surface of what surely had to be the finest plough blades in existence.

  “Come,” Magni continued. “I’ve got something for you.”

  He had placed the hammer he had been carrying on a narrow table next to a small wooden box. Lothar stepped beside him, curious. Magni opened the box, and Lothar peered at it with interest. Inside, nestled against creamy white fabric, was an item the likes of which he had never seen. Made of metal, it had a wide mouth on one end, almost like a horn instrument. The other end was curved, and connecting them was a narrow rod. In a separate section was a collection of thumbnail-sized metal spheres. Lothar was at a loss.

  “What is it?” he inquired.

  “A mechanical marvel,” Magni exclaimed, reaching for the thing with the same sort of doting expression some men reserved for their newborn children. “It’s a boomstick.” He lifted it out of the box, holding the curved end.

  “Hold it like this,” Magni said. “Put a bit of powder in here, quick tap down with the rod, ball in after, another tap, the flint goes here—”

  He lifted the weapon and pointed it, staring down its length like an archer taking aim. Puzzlement drew his unruly scarlet brows together, and he lowered the weapon. “Odd,” he murmured, absently returning Lothar’s gift to him.

  Lothar, tucking the weapon in his belt, looked where Magni was staring and saw one of the king’s couriers running flat out toward them. He felt his spine straighten, his senses heighten, his whole body tensing—ready to spring into action as needed. Dwarves strode, stomped, ambled, and sometimes darted. They seldom ran—and certainly not like this. Something was very wrong.

  The dwarf’s face was nearly as florid as his king’s beard as he charged up the steps, his pace never slowing until he dropped to his knees in front of Magni. He was too breathless for words, and gulped metal-tinged air as he extended a rolled-up parchment.

  “Take water,” Magni instructed the courier. The king’s thick fingers were swift and nimble as he unrolled the missive. While Magni read, Lothar pointed the boomstick as the king had done, then peered curiously into the end of the metal cylinder, reaching for the small sphere inside and digging it out to examine it. Glancing back at Magni, Lothar saw his friend’s genial face harden. Slowly he looked up and met Lothar’s questioning gaze, and there was resolve and a hint of sorrow in his eyes.

  “You might want to head home, big man. It seems someone has attacked one of your garrisons.”

  * * *

  Lothar crouched low over the king’s gryphon as she flew toward Stormwind. The creature, half-lion and half-eagle, was one of a handful that His Majesty King Llane possessed, and they were seldom ridden save for official business. His position on the gryphon’s back told her that her rider wanted her top speed, and she was giving it to him.

  Lothar’s mind raced as fast as the gryphon’s rapidly beating wings. Attacked? By whom, or what? The missive had been lacking in detail. No mention of casualties or numbers—just the simple facts that there had been an attack. Surely it was not the trolls. He, Medivh, and Llane had sent the blue-skinned, tusked creatures packing the last time they had come sniffing around Stormwind. Light, there was even a statue to Medivh for his part in the victory.

  The gryphon tucked in her wings for a sharp dive and Lothar clung tightly to the saddle. Below, outside the Stormwind barracks, two of his lieutenants—Karos, tall, sharp-featured, and rigidly at attention, and dark-skinned Varis, ever the more patient of the two—awaited him. They looked proper and professional, their faces composed, but Lothar had served with them and knew that he’d been right: something was terribly wrong here.

  He vaulted off the gryphon as soon as she landed outside the royal barracks. She gave him a head-butt and he patted her neck, handing off her reins to an attendant. Lothar wasted no time, shoving the scroll in Karos’s chest.

  “This missive tells me there was an attack. Start talking now.”

  Varis nodded as they strode inside and hastened down the stairs into the infirmary. Chandeliers provided dim lighting, casting an eerie glow on the rows of white-shrouded, silent forms. “Yes, sir. We know about as much as you do, sir. The garrison sent a message asking for reinforcements. By the time we arrived, we—well… they were all dead, sir.”

  “No survivors?” Lothar was aghast. “Not one?” He looked from Varis’s distinguished, dark face to Karos’s pale one.

  “No, sir. We found only the dead at the site,” Karos replied. “We brought the bodies back here.”

  “Two search parties are unaccounted for,” Varis said. “We’ve… the bodies are…” The two soldiers exchanged glances. Lothar had a reputation for inspiring men to follow him but right now, he wanted to knock their heads together. “You’d best come see, sir.”

  Lothar strode down the corridors of the barracks trying desperately to wrap his mind around what he was being told. “An entire garrison?” he demanded. “And no one who can tell us anything?”

  Silence, broken only by the ring of booted feet on stone. Again, the two soldiers looked at one another.

  “We did find someone,” Varis said.

  “He was searching the bodies,” Karos said. Lothar glanced at him and saw that sweat was trickling down his temple.

  “You found him at the site?”

  “N—no, sir,” Karos said. “It was after we brought them back. We found him here. In the barracks.”

  “In the barracks?” Lothar’s voice carried in the hall, and he didn’t care. “By the Light, what idiot failed to notice someone looting soldiers’ bodies right here in the damned barracks?”

  “We think he’s a mage, sir!” Varis said quickly.

  A mage. Someone who could make sure that he wouldn’t be seen. Lothar’s stride faltered, but he kept going. That would certainly answer the question he had just posed to his obviously rattled men, but it raised about a thousand others.

  He kept his voice calm. “Were you able to restrain him, or did he turn you into sheep?” He didn’t even try to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Karos said. “I mean—yes, we’ve got him. We’re taking you to him right now.”

  They’d put the intrusive perhaps-mage in the barracks office and set a guard to watch him. The guard saluted smartly, stepped aside, and opened the door with a skeleton key.

  Lothar had expected to confront an old man with a long white beard, who would fix him with an arrogant expression. He was not prepared to find what looked to be a rather dirty, scruffy teenage boy. He was perusing a book that had been left on the desk and looked up with huge brown eyes as Lothar stalked in.

  The boy leaped to his feet. “Finally!” he exclaimed. “Are you in command—”

  Lothar had already seized his arm, yanked him around, and shoved him down on the desk. He reached for the measuring compass and slammed it down, trapping the boy’s left arm between the sharp edges and pinning it to the desk’s wooden surface. He tugged the young intruder’s sleeve down.

  Varis had been right. Branded on the yout
h’s arm was the image of an eye.

  “Sha’la ros!” yelped the boy, his eyes glowing with blue light. Lothar’s free hand covered the mage’s mouth, muffling the incantation. Bright cerulean magic swirled in the boy’s right fingers, fading without the power of words to feed it. Lothar pushed his face in close to the mage’s.

  “That’s the mark of the Kirin Tor. What are you doing in my city, spell chucker?”

  The young mage sagged, and lowered his hand. The magic he had summoned disappeared. Cautiously, Lothar removed his hand and let him speak. “Let me complete my examination of the body across the hall,” he said calmly, as if his words were actually reasonable.

  Lothar grinned ferally. “Now… why would I do that?”

  The boy’s dark brows drew together—frustration? Concern? “Within that body is the secret to your attacks.” He licked his lips, suddenly looking like a teenage boy again. “I can help you.”

  Lothar’s eyes narrowed as he searched the boy’s face. He hadn’t got to where he was without being a good judge of people, and there was something about the boy that was genuine. Lothar escorted the young mage to the room he’d requested—keeping a firm grip on the eye-marked arm as he did so.

  Karos pushed back the curtain, revealing the corpse the mage had been caught examining. Lothar stopped so quickly that Varis, bringing up the rear, almost bumped into him.

  Hardened soldier that he was, Lothar had witnessed myriad deaths, from the civilized to the brutal. But this…

  Both eyes and mouth were open. The skin was gray and striated with darker threads, like gangrene but nothing so familiar. The cheeks were sunken and the eyes, encrusted with what looked like a rim of salt, were hard and glassy. Nothing about this… thing, if it could even be called a body, was natural.