Christie Golden - Warcraft

The cry seemed to knock Medivh out of whatever trance he was in. He began to chant, light following the motions of his weaving fingers like ink from a pen until a sigil hung in the air.

The beast lowered his hand, his too-intelligent eyes going at once to Medivh, watching closely—curiously.

There were several sudden blazes of sickly green light. Khadgar gasped and the beast leaped back, both sets of eyes focused on the clearing.

Khadgar had noticed that some of the beasts had undertones of green in their skin—the color of fel magic. He had not had time to discuss—well, anything with Medivh upon their arrival, but he was certain the Guardian had noticed it as well. Now, as he stared, all the beasts who had that peculiar coloring dropped their weapons and started to convulse, screaming. Jagged, spindly fingers of green lightning leaped from the stricken creatures, arcing directly back to Medivh, who stood with his hands outstretched, palms up. Before Khadgar’s eyes, the beasts’ skins paled, their muscles atrophied, and one by one, they fell, crumbling, like pieces of hard earth in the hands of a child.

A spontaneous cheer of relief went up from the knights as they saw their chance. “They’re all dying!” someone shouted.

“Only the green ones!” another cried. They fell on the spasming beasts, impaling them with swords and then turning on their shocked brethren. “Kill that beast bastard!” an officer shouted, pointing toward the leader. The beast with the ruined hand looked around in obvious confusion. Khadgar flinched as another boom from Lothar’s weapon resounded. A hole appeared in the massive chest of one of the monsters. He stared down at it for an instant, then tumbled, stone dead.

The beast who had been standing outside the protective circle whirled, catching his companion. He cradled the monstrous form, grief plain on his ugly face. Khadgar blinked. Somehow, this surprised him. But the creature’s expression shifted from concerned and caring to coldly furious as he looked at the man who had slain his friend.

“Let’s put some steel through these bastards!” Lothar’s voice rang out.

The beast rose, simultaneously releasing the corpse with gentleness and preparing himself to attack Lothar. Before Khadgar could even form the words of a warning, though, the beast’s comrades seized him and hauled him off. With a final, furious glare, the beast leaped onto Medivh’s horse, yanked on the reins, and galloped into the woods. The others followed, most on their wolves, but many with stolen horses, and in a heartbeat the clearing was as empty as it had been when the knights had arrived… save for the grim scattering of corpses.

Behind Khadgar, Medivh gave a low, soft moan. Khadgar turned to see the Guardian of Azeroth down on one knee, pale and exhausted, the heels of his hands pressing into his temples.

“Guardian!” Khadgar stammered. He started to move toward Medivh, but the other waved him off as he got unsteadily to his feet. “What—did you do?”

Medivh ignored him utterly, focusing his attention on swiftly drawing another circle in the dirt. Frustrated, Khadgar persisted.

“The fel. I was right, wasn’t I? It’s here.” Again, he thought of the green tint to the skin of some of the beasts, and the lightning that leapt from them to Medivh as they flailed and grew weak.

Then, abruptly, he recognized the sigils the Guardian was sketching into the soil. Another teleportation! “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

Now, Medivh did look at him, his green-blue eyes piercing, it seemed, straight into Khadgar’s soul. “Get these soldiers safely back to Stormwind.” He stepped into the circle. “I must return to Karazhan.” He paused. “You did well today.”

There was a pulse of white light. Khadgar was left, blinking from the brightness, staring at exactly nothing.

“Where’s he gone?” Lothar’s shout was both worried and angry as he cantered up to Khadgar.

Khadgar realized his mouth was dry. He clenched his fists to stop his hands from trembling. He knew it wasn’t the fight that had stunned and spooked him so badly.

“Karazhan,” he told Lothar, quietly.

Lothar swore, pressed his lips together, then shook his head. “We need a prisoner. Where’s your horse?”

“They took my horse!”

“Really?” Lothar’s look of contempt could have withered an entire forest. “Just… stay there.” Lothar galloped off with a pair of knights. Khadgar fought back the urge to knock him off with a spell, looked at the empty space where the Guardian of Azeroth ought to have been, and, sighing, turned his attention to examining the body of one of the beasts.

Nothing was as Durotan had expected. He had backed down in his earlier clash with Blackhand, but the longer this… this harvesting of the creatures he was told to call “humans” continued, the less he liked it. Today, at least, he did not feel sullied by his actions. Today, the humans had fought back—even taking Kurvorsh and others with them. It was unexpected, but at least Kurvorsh had died in battle, and Durotan would sing a lok’vadnod for him.

At least he would, if he lived long enough. The humans had rallied after the strange attack from the older human in the unpassable circle. Until he had agreed to join Gul’dan on this trek to this world of Azeroth, Durotan had never seen anything like it, and now, he had seen two similar spells. What had their shaman done? Or was he a warlock? Perhaps Drek’Thar could help him understand.

The Frostwolves had lost only a few warriors, but the humans were still in pursuit. Durotan had no desire to add any more of his clan to the ranks of the fallen until they understood what they were up against. He crouched low over the stolen riding beast, his huge hands on its head, directing its panicked flight.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye—something green. It was Garona, Gul’dan’s slave. She was still a prisoner, except now she was bound to the dead. The length of chain that started at her scrawny neck led to a pale corpse—one of the green-tinged orcs that had been so mysteriously killed. She was struggling, trying to break the chain, glancing back the way Durotan had come.

With no weapons, bound to a dead minder, and so much weaker than a true, full-blooded orc, she was pitifully easy prey for the humans. They would cut through her tiny body with a single stroke of one of their small swords. Durotan should just leave her; such a thing as she was not worth risking his people for.

But it had been Garona, the slave, who had tried to warn Durotan against Gul’dan the second time the warlock had visited the Frostwolves, and certainly since the clan had joined the Horde, Durotan had started to regret not heeding her words. And Draka had felt sympathy and kindness toward her, seeing in the half-orc a reflection of her own temporary Exile from the Frostwolves.

Durotan made his decision. He turned the animal’s head toward the female, lifted Sever, and brought the great war axe crashing down on the iron chain. It parted easily, and he reached out his hand to her, ready to swing her behind him and bear her to safety.

Garona stared at his extended hand. Her gaze flickered to his face, and for a moment she hesitated.

Then she ran, darting into the forest—back the way they both had come. She would rather die as an orc than live as a slave.

It was a choice that almost guaranteed her death, but Durotan understood it. And he found he could not blame her.

Fel. It was, Khadgar was almost certain, what he had seen flowing between the beasts and Medivh, but there was no sign of it in this corpse any more. No telltale green mist seeping out from its mouth when, mindful of the seemingly razor-sharp teeth, Khadgar had opened its lips to test for the taint.