Christie Golden - Warcraft - Official Movie Novelization

But he knew what Llane would want him to do.

Khadgar had begun the teleportation incantation. White-blue magic was starting to form the familiar bubble. Lothar took a deep breath and returned, stepping inside the circle. Khadgar rose, summoning the magic to his grip as if he were gathering the reins of a horse.

“Where is Medivh?” Lothar asked.

Khadgar looked him right in the eye. “We’ve got a demon to kill.”

She had been running all night, with her child strapped to her back, and even she, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish, was exhausted. She had not dared to stop, knowing that Gul’dan’s orcs were following her. Had she been an ordinary orc female, with an ordinary orc child, they might have looked the other way. But she was the wife of one chieftain—and the mother of another, she was certain of it. Gul’dan had not ordered the destruction of her clan because he was angry. That would not worry her. Anger burned out, refocused. Gul’dan was afraid of the Frostwolves, and fear lingered long.

He had all but begged them to join his Horde, and now that Durotan comprehended the depths of the danger, Gul’dan could not let him live. As soon as Blackhand had come to take her heart away, Durotan was dead. Even if he walked and breathed now, he would not live long. Nor would she, nor their child. Orgrim’s change of heart had come too late for them both. She wanted to sob, to rail against fate, to hold her baby—and die with him at her breast. Draka loved Durotan passionately, but what she felt for this little life was as an inferno to a cook fire.

She would live for him. She would die for him.

Draka could go no further. She was too weary, and they were not far behind. When her flight took her to a stream, with nowhere else to run, she made a decision. The water caught the light of the new sun, sparkling brightly, bringing tears to her eyes.

“Spirit of Water,” Draka said, panting. “I can bear my child no further. They will never stop hunting us. They will find us, and kill us, if he stays with me. Will you take my baby? Will you keep him safe?”

Draka was no shaman. The Spirits did not speak to her, as they did to Drek’Thar. But she could hear the murmur of the water, and as she watched, a fish leaped, and fell back into its depths. Her heart suddenly stopped aching, and, quickly, she removed the carrying basket from her back and waded into the stream. She kissed the soft, green cheek, gently, tasting the salt of her own tears, and placed the basket into water. Draka tucked the blanket around him tenderly, a white square of cloth embroidered with the Frostwolf emblem.

Perhaps some human will remember , she thought. That the Frostwolves tried to help them. That… that we died because of that choice. All but you, my precious Go’el.

Water filled her eyes. Water, the element of love. Love for a mate. Love for a child. Love for a clan. Love for a dream of something better, in the midst of darkness, and dust, and despair.

The baby seemed confused, and raised his tiny, soft green arms to her. She caught one of the little fists and held it. “Remember,” Draka told him. “You are the son of Durotan and Draka, an unbroken line of chieftains.”

And then, her heart breaking for the thousandth time in a handful of hours, she sent him on his way. “Water,” she said, “keep my baby safe!”

A roar caused her to turn. A Bleeding Hollow orc emerged from the forest, but his eyes were not on her. He was looking at the baby. He snatched up the knife Draka had left on the bank, and raced down to go after him.

But Draka was there.

He had her dagger. But that did not mean she was unarmed. She hurled herself upon the would-be killer of her child, driven by love and devoid of fear, seizing his flesh with her nails, carving out chunks with them, and, like a frost wolf herself, opening her jaw as wide as she could and burying her teeth in his throat.

He went down, startled; stupid, to think a Frostwolf without a weapon was a Frostwolf without defense. His tainted green blood, acrid as ashes, spurted into her mouth even as a horrible, cold-hot pain sliced through her. He had plunged her own dagger into her gut.

All the strength left Draka’s body as she collapsed atop her fallen enemy. She was dying, but she was at peace. As her life bled onto the sand, she remembered the words she had said to Durotan when she had returned from her Exile: When all is done, when the sun of my life sets, I would see it do so here, in Frostfire Ridge.

She would not die on Frostfire Ridge. She was dying here, now, in an alien land, with a husband who would soon join her in death, if he did not await her already. The last image that filled her eyes was that of her baby’s vessel, bobbing on the water. And as her vision darkened, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish, thought she saw the river’s gentle waves turn into embracing arms.

Water, take my baby.

Her eyes closed.

Water, take…

All the chieftains of the Horde and most of their warriors had gathered outside Gul’dan’s tent. They were stunned to see the Frostwolf as he marched forward. Durotan wore a wolf pelt over his broad shoulders, the beast’s head serving him for a helm. He had already killed three guards before they could warn their vile leader, and now the others parted to admit him, regarding him with loathing, arrogance, and curiosity as he tossed the singed banner to the dusty earth in front of the warlock’s tent.

“I am Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan,” he cried, letting his fury fuel his voice. “And I am here to kill Gul’dan.”

As he watched them, their postures shifted. The arrogance left them as they realized that he came without a weapon, yet had just challenged the most powerful one of them all to an honor battle.

The defiant, insane declaration brought forth Blackhand, at least, from the tent. He looked Durotan up and down. “A ghost cannot invoke mak’gora,” Blackhand declared. “You are chieftain to no clan. Your people are food for worms.”

Durotan choked back his rage. This orc before him was not the target of it. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, he heard a familiar voice beside him.

“Some of us still live, warchief,” said Orgrim Doomhammer.

Durotan, surprised, turned to look at him. Orgrim had destroyed their friendship, but it was not too late for the son of Telkar to rediscover honor.

Now, at last, Gul’dan emerged. His glowing gaze fell upon Durotan, then on Orgrim, and his frown deepened. Durotan barely caught the words the warchief and the warlock exchanged.

“Shall I make a quick end of them?” Blackhand offered.

“I always thought you were one for tradition, Blackhand,” the warlock replied. “Durotan,” he said, more loudly so that all could hear. “Your clan was weak, and you are a traitor. I accept your challenge, if only to personally rip the heart out of your pathetic body.”

“What of the portal?” Blackhand spoke to Gul’dan, but his gaze was fixed on Durotan. “You must be ready when the incantation begins.”

The incantation… Durotan did not know much about the details of how the portal would open. Gul’dan had hoarded such knowledge. But if Durotan could survive long enough, perhaps his death could, at least, aid the humans who had been so willing to trust him.

“This won’t take long.” Gul’dan’s thick, green lips curved around his yellowed tusks in a cruel, savoring smile. He handed his staff to Blackhand, and reached for his cloak. He pulled out the sharp pin that served for a clasp, and the cloak fell to the ground. Everyone present stared.

Gul’dan had always appeared to Durotan stooped and old, with a white beard and seamed face. But as the cloak fell away from his frame, leaving his torso bare in the growing morning light, it revealed a physique that made Blackhand look like a child. Muscles strained against the taut green skin of an orc who looked, as Grom Hellscream had said, as if he had the strength of five.