Christie Golden - Warcraft

Khadgar saw it, and stepped back, extending his hand. “Come,” he said. “It’s late, and your mother must be wondering where you are.”

Varian took Khadgar’s hand, slipping off the too-big seat and stepping past the crouching gold lions. He was partway to the door when he paused and looked back. Abruptly, he ran back to the pile of toy soldiers and searched through them, finding the one he wanted.

Gently, respectfully, Prince Varian Wrynn, future king of Stormwind, picked up the carved King Llane, and set it back down carefully—this time, not fallen, but upright and noble.

As his father ever was.

War.

Not a battle, or series of skirmishes; not a single mission or campaign. War, gritty, long, brutal, and cruel.

But this time, the humans of Stormwind did not stand alone. They were not a handful of legions, but an army, anointed with the blood of a hero’s sacrifice, bound by the tales those who survived told of the horrors they had witnessed. The human kingdoms—the beleaguered Stormwind, Kul Tiras, and Lordaeron—might wear different uniforms, but they marched beneath the same banner. There were nobles and raw recruits, elders and some barely of age to fight. Men marched beside women. Alongside the humans were the dwarves, grim-faced and determined, bringing their weapons and their stubbornness to the fray. Other faces were small and childlike; still others, eerily fair and sculpted.

But all the faces were dusty, sweaty, and bearing expressions of commitment.

The army halted.

Before them was a fortress. It had no clean, strong lines, as in human construction, nor was it serviceable and stable as a dwarf’s; it bore no elegant swirls or false delicacy disguising masterful construction, such as an elven fortress would display. This was all bone and iron, steel and ugly angles that served a purpose, and reflected those who built it.

This was an orc fortress.

The one known as Gul’dan oversaw everything. Monstrous, green, he leaned on his staff. Below him was a sea of brown and green skins, of weapons, of simmering anger and bloodlust.

Beside the orc who was her leader, if no longer her master, stood Garona Halforcen. Although she wore armor and carried a spear, she alone among the Horde did not shout for blood, nor spit toward her enemy, and her eyes were not on the approaching army. Instead, she looked away, her gaze distant, her thoughts not on the present moment, but the past… and a future that might one day be.

The river flowed, gently, steadily. Many things had been borne along by its current over the ages. Flower petals cast by young lovers. Leaves wept by trees as they mourned the fading of summer. Twigs, and cloth, and blood, and bodies. All had been ferried by the river’s detached motion.

And on this day, this hour, this minute, a basket. Such the river had carried before, but never with such contents.

The wind sighed, helping to propel the strange little ship, and it might have whispered, had there been anyone who had the ears—and the wisdom—to hear it.

You will travel far, my little Go’el , sighed the wind that was not the wind. My world may be lost, but this is your world now. Take what you need from it. Make a home for the orcs, and let no one stand in your way. You are the son of Durotan and Draka—an unbroken line of chieftains.

And our people need a leader now… more than ever.

The child nestled within, green-skinned and wrapped in a blue and white cloth, was unique in this world. In any world. It was tiny, and small, and helpless, like all infants, and it had needs and wants that the river, carefully though it bore him, could not meet.

And so, the river, having kept its promise, surrendered the tiny marvel. The current swept the basket into the path of fishing lines, which rang with sweet notes to announce its presence. Footsteps approached, crunching on stones as they drew near to the bank.

“Commander!” came a voice. “You need to see this!”

The basket was lifted and brought up to a face, which peered at it intently. The baby was confused. This was not a face he knew, or even similar to such a face. And so, he did what came to him as instinctively as breathing.

He scowled, took a deep breath, and voiced his challenge.

What a journey this has been! Thanks must go to so many I hardly know where to begin.

First and always, to Chris Metzen, who trusted me with previous incarnations of the heroic Durotan and Draka, and many books since; to the actors, who brought them and so many other wonderful characters to vibrant life; to director Duncan Jones, who is as much a fan as any of us, and finally, to everyone who has ever taken the time to let me know how much they have appreciated my work in this world.

Thank you all for your faith in me. May your blades never dull!

For Azeroth!

Award-winning and eight-time New York Times bestselling author Christie Golden has written over forty novels and several short stories in the fields of science fiction, fantasy and horror. Among her many projects are over a dozen Star Trek novels, nearly a dozen for gaming giant Blizzard’s World of Warcraft and StarCraft novels, and three books in the nine-book Star Wars series, Fate of the Jedi, which she co-wrote with authors Aaron Allston and Troy Denning.

Born in Georgia with stints in Michigan, Virginia and Colorado, Golden has returned South for a spell and currently resides in Tennessee.

Follow Christie on Twitter @ChristieGoldenor visit her website: www.christiegolden.com.

An original tale of survival, conflict and magic that leads directly into the events of the eagerly anticipated blockbuster movie. In the world of Draenor, the strong and fiercely independent Frostwolf Clan are faced with increasingly harsh winters and thinning herds. When Gul’dan, a mysterious outsider, arrives in Frostfire Ridge offering word of new hunting lands, Durotan, the Clan’s chieftain, must make an impossible decision: Abandon the territory, pride and traditions of his people, or lead them into the unknown.

WARCRAFT: DUROTAN

THE OFFICIAL MOVIE PREQUEL