Christie Golden - Warcraft

He paused. Something wasn’t right here. He got to his feet, looking around. The remaining knights were tending to the wounded, preparing the human corpses for respectful transportation home and the beast corpses for a somewhat less respectful journey.

The young mage closed his eyes for a moment, tuning in to the natural world around him. The rustle of leaves in the wind, the hum of insects. Birdsong.

No birdsong. Just as there had been no birdsong when—

He whirled around, hand outstretched, fingers splayed. Magic crackled in his palm and he shoved, hard.

The intruder who had just leaped from above him was struck by the spell. The beast was pinned in the air, its back against the rough bark of a huge tree, snarling down at him and writhing impotently.

Khadgar’s eyes widened as he got a good look at the beast he had just captured.

“Over here!” he shouted, not taking his eyes from his prisoner. He heard the sound of hoof beats behind him and then Lothar was there. So was a huge beast, unconscious and strapped across a second horse.

“You got a prisoner,” Khadgar said.

“So did you,” Lothar replied. “You took it alone?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, Lothar looked impressed, but then the expression was gone. He eyed the captive. “Looks like the runt of the litter.”

Khadgar sighed.

The human youth had looked like a reasonable target. Garona had not realized he knew magic—and was so proficient in it. The mistake had cost her. Now she jolted along in a barred wagon, a bleeding, battered orc warrior in chains across from her, staring at her. In the enclosed space, she wondered if she should have gone with Durotan. Maybe he would have agreed to hide her from Gul’dan. But no—he was too honorable. He would have felt the need to tell Gul’dan about her. And more than anything, Garona desired to be away from the warlock. Whatever the humans might do to her, it would be better.

Over the rumble of the wheels and the clopping sound the riding beasts made, one of the humans, the man who had used the loud weapon which hurled small missiles, called out to them.

“You. What are you?”

The orc across from Garona looked at him, then turned back to Garona.

She stayed silent, too. The human, riding atop his mount beside them and gazing at them through the bars of the cart, continued.

“Why do you attack our lands?”

Garona sat for a moment, thinking. Weighing her options. Then, she said in the human’s own tongue, “He does not know what you speak.”

The human turned toward her, alert as a predator. His eyes were… blue, his hair and beard pale, more like sand than earth. “You speak our language!”

There came a sharp clang as the bloodied orc lunged for Garona and was brought up short by his chains. “Say one more word in their language, slave, and I will wear your tongue,” the orc rumbled.

“What is he saying?” the human demanded.

“He does not like that I am speaking to you,” Garona said.

The Frostwolf was well and truly angry now, and he again pulled hard on his chains, the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. “I will not warn you again,” he snarled.

“He keeps threatening me, but I care not for—”

The Frostwolf lunged forward a third time, bellowing in fury, straining to reach Garona. The metal groaned in protest. Garona inhaled swiftly, her eyes widening. The human saw it, too.

“Tell him to stop—” he began.

“ You tell him,” Garona retorted.

A final rush forward, and this time the chains pulled from the wood to which they were secured. The Frostwolf reached out for her throat, his mouth open in furious cry. Garona retreated as far as she could, but it would not be far enough—

He froze, gurgling. Brown blood seeped from his throat and his mouth, oozing down over the bright blade that was impaled halfway up its length. The light in his eyes faded, and when the human tugged his sword free, the Frostwolf slumped over, quite dead.

Garona stared at her savior, impressed. Somehow, he had been both swift and strong enough to leap from his mount and strike the Frostwolf through the bars in time. Now, he looked at her again with those uncanny blue eyes.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“Have you a name?” Llane asked of the strange prisoner.

Lady Taria stood in the throne room, off to the side with Lothar, Khadgar, Callan, and some of her husband’s guards. She couldn’t keep from staring at the female prisoner Lothar and Khadgar had brought in. She looked so human … except that she didn’t. She was of human size and shape, and would have been pretty save for the small tusks jutting out of her lower jaw.

She was bleeding here and there, and there were nasty, festering sores on her green skin where her manacles had rubbed. What passed for clothing, and it was very little, was stained and torn. Her thick black hair was tangled, and dirt smeared her emaciated body. And yet—she stood as if she were queen here, not Taria. Her spine was erect, her demeanor calm. This female might be in chains, but she was neither tamed nor broken.

“You understand our language,” Llane said, reminding her that they knew this. “Again… have you a name?” He walked down the steps from his throne. The prisoner stepped forward boldly toward him. One of the guards stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt, but Llane lifted a hand to stay any interference. The green female stroked the king’s tunic, lingering over the lion head brooches, then continued upward to the great throne of Stormwind itself.

“Garona,” said Lothar. He sat on the top step, his eyes following the female as she stepped past him. “She calls herself Garona.”

“Garona,” Llane said, addressing her directly as she stooped to touch the life-sized, golden lion at the throne’s base. “What kind of being are you?”

Garona did not reply, sniffing at the gold beast. Her dark brown eyes scanned the room and those inside it. Curious? Anxious? Evaluating? Taria couldn’t tell.

“She seems more like us than those… beasts we fought,” one of the soldiers said.

His words made Garona pause in her exploration of the room. “Orc,” she said.

Llane seized on this. “Orc? That’s what you are? Or what the beast in the cage was?” When she didn’t reply, he regarded her intently, looking her up and down. Some might have thought it an intimidation tactic, or perhaps a gesture of contempt. Taria recognized it for what it was. When her husband’s father was killed and Llane took the throne, he had vowed to learn all he could about not only the kingdom he was to rule, but the world in which it was located. Standing before him was something utterly new. He was excited and fascinated by that, and Taria knew it pained him to permit the use of violence against beings so, in his view, marvelous and remarkable. She noticed that the young mage, too, seemed enthusiastically curious, as if he were stifling questions with difficulty. Perhaps, though, that was due to the fact that he was a young man, and the being before them was exotically beautiful.

“I know every race in the Seven Kingdoms, but I have never heard of an orc.” Llane pointed toward the ceiling. Painted above their heads was a detailed map of Azeroth—all its islands and continents, its kingdoms and oceans. All that was known. There were patches that were as of yet unknown, wide expanses of open, blank mystery. “Show me where you come from, Garona.”

The orc tilted back her head and examined the map. She frowned, then shook her head.