Jeff Grubb - The Last Guardian

“Order?”

“We were put on the march, every warrior and every capable hand. Grunt labor and swordsmen, all ordered to pack up their weapons, tools, and belongings, and head for the Hellfire Peninsula. There a great portal had been erected by Gul’dan and other powerful warlocks. A portal that broke through the space between the worlds.”

Garona sucked on a fang, remembering. “It was a great set of standing stones, hauled there to frame a rip in space itself. Within the rip were the colors of darkness, a swirl like oil on the surface of a polluted pool. I got the feeling that rip had been forged by greater hands, and the warlocks had just contained it.

“Many of the most hardened warriors feared the space between the pillars, but the chieftains and underchiefs made passionate speeches about what was to be found on the other side. A world of riches. A world of plenty. A world of soft creatures who would be easily dominated. All this they promised.

“Some still resisted. Some were slain, and others were forced through with axes resting against their backs. I was caught with a large group of laborers and shoved into the space between the pillars.”

Garona fell silent for a moment. “It’s called the Twisting Nether, and it was both instantaneous and eternal. I fell forever, and when I emerged into the strange light, I was in a mad new world.”

Khadgar added, “After promises of paradise, the Black Morass would be quite a letdown.”

Garona shook her head. “It was a shock. I remember quailing at the first sight of the blue, hostile sky. And the land, covered with vegetation as far as the eye could see. Some could not take it and went mad. Many joined the Burning Blade, the chaos orcs thronging beneath their fire-orange pennant, that day.”

Garona stroked her heavy chin. “I feared, but I survived. And I found my half-breed life gave me insight on these humans. I was part of an ambush party that attacked Medivh. He killed everyone else, but left me alive, and sent me with a message back to the Warlock Gul’dan. And after a while, Gul’dan sent me as his spy, but I found I had…difficulty…betraying the Old Man’s secrets.”

“Divided loyalties,” commented Khadgar.

“But to answer your question,” said Garona, “no, I don’t know how many clans have poured through the Dark Portal from Draenor. And I don’t know how long it will take for them to recover. And I don’t know where the portal came from. But you, Khadgar, can find out.”

Khadgar blinked. “Me?”

“Your visions,” said Garona. “You seem to be able to summon up the ghosts of the past, even of faraway. I watched you call up a vision of Medivh’s mother when I first met you. That was Stormwind we were at?”

“Yes,” said Khadgar. “And that’s why I still think the demon in the library was real—there was no background to the vision.”

Garona waved off his comment. “But you can call up these visions. You can summon up the moment when the rift was first created. You can find out who brought the orcs through to Azeroth.”

“Aye,” said Khadgar. “And I bet it’s the same mage or warlock that has been unleashing demons. It makes sense, that the two be linked.” He looked at Garona. “You know, that would not be a question I would have thought of.”

“I will provide the questions,” said Garona, looking very pleased with herself, “if you provide the answers.”

The empty dining room again. The ever-diligent Moroes had swept up the earlier casting circle, and Khadgar had to recast it with streams of crushed rose quartz and amethyst. Garona fit lit torches into the wall sconces, then stood in the center of the pattern, next to him.

“I’ll warn you,” he said to the half-orc. “This may not work.”

“You’ll do well,” replied Garona. “I’ve seen you do it before.”

“I’ll probably get something,” said Khadgar. “I just don’t know what.” He made the motions with his hands, and intoned the words. With Garona watching, he wanted to get everything just right. At last he released the mystical energy from the cage within his mind and shouted, “Show me the origin of the rift between Draenor and Azeroth!”

There was a change in the pressure, in the very weight of the air around them. It was warm, and night, but the night sky outside their window (for there was a window now in these quarters) was a deep red, the color of old, dried blood, and only a few weak stars pierced the envelope.

It was someone’s quarters, likely an orc leader. There were fur rugs on the floor and a large platform that would serve as a bed. A low fire pit burned in the center of the room. Weapons hung on the stone walls, and there were a plethora of cabinets as well. One was open, showing a line of preserved things , some of which might have once belonged to human or humanish creatures.

The figure in the bed tossed, turned, and then sat up suddenly, as awakening from a bad dream. He stared into the darkness, and his savaged, war-torn face was clear. Even by orc standards, he was an ugly representative of his race.

Garona let out a sharp gasp, and said, “Gul’dan.”

Khadgar nodded and said, “He should not see you.” This, then, was the warlock that had sent Garona to spy. He looked about as trustworthy as a bent gold piece. For the moment, he wrapped himself in his furs, and spoke.

“I can still see you,” he said. “Even though I think I am awake. Perhaps I dream I am awake. Come forth, dream creature.”

Garona gripped Khadgar’s shoulder, and he could feel her sharp fingernails dig into his flesh. But Gul’dan was not speaking to them. Instead a new specter wafted into view.

It was tall and broad-shouldered, taller than any of the other three. It was translucent, as if it did not belong here either. It was hooded, and its voice reedy and distant. Though the only light was from the fire pit, the figure cast two shadows—one directly back from the flames, the other to one side, as if lit by a different source.

“Gul’dan,” said the figure. “I want your people. I want your armies. I want your power to aid me.”

“I have called upon my spirit protectors, creature,” said Gul’dan, and Khadgar could hear a tremor in the orc’s voice. “I have called upon my warlocks and they have quailed before you. I have called upon my mystic master and he has failed to stop you. You haunt my dreams, and now you come, a dream-creature, into my world. Who and what are you, truly?”

“You fear me,” said the tall figure, and at the sound of his voice, Khadgar felt a cold hand run down his spine, “for you do not understand me. See my world and understand your fear. Then fear no more.”

And with that the tall hooded figure shaped a ball out of the air, as light and clear as a soap bubble. It floated, about a foot in diameter, and within it showed a tableau of a land with blue sky and green fields.

The cloaked figure was showing him Azeroth.

Another bubble followed, and then another, and then a fourth. The sun-dappled fields of summer grain. The swamps of the Black Morass. The ice fields of the north. The shining towers of Stormwind Keep.

And a bubble that contained a lonely tower cradled within a crater of hills, lit by clear moonlight. He was showing the orc spellcaster Karazhan.

And there was another bubble, a fleeting one, that showed some dark scene far beneath the waves. It seemed an errant thought, one that was quickly eradicated. Yet Khadgar got the feeling of power. There was a grave beneath the waves, a crypt, one that surged with power like a heartbeat. It was there for an instant, and then gone.

“Gather your forces,” said the cloaked figure. “Gather your armies and warriors and laborers and allies, and prepare them for a journey through the Twisting Nether. Prepare them well, for all this will be yours when you succeed.”