Jeff Grubb: The Last Guardian

“What’s that?”

“I need to gather the bodies together, and heap some brush and tinder over them. We can cache what we don’t need, but we need to burn the bodies. It’s the least we can do.”

Khadgar frowned. “If the heavy horse are still in the area, a plume of smoke will bring them at once.”

“I know,” said Garona, looking around at the fragments of the patrol. “But it’s the right thing to do. If you found human soldiers killed in an ambush, wouldn’t you want to bury them?”

Khadgar’s mouth made a grim line, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he went to grab the farthest orc and drag him back to the remains of the watchtower. Within an hour, they had stripped the bodies and set the remains ablaze.

“Now we should go,” said Khadgar, as Garona watched the smoke spiral upward.

“Won’t this call the horsemen?” said Garona.

“Yes,” said Khadgar. “And it will also send a message—there are orcs here. Orcs who feel secure enough to burn the bodies of their comrades. I’d rather have a chance to explain ourselves at close range than facing a charging warhorse, thank you very much.”

Garona nodded, and, stolen cloaks flapping behind them, they left the burning watchtower.

Garona spoke truly, in that the orc version of field rations were a nasty concoction of hardened syrup, nuts, and what Khadgar swore was boiled rat. Still, it kept them going, and they made good time.

A day and a day passed and the country opened up now into sprawling fields that rippled with growing crops. The land was no less desolate, though, the stables empty and the houses already collapsed in on themselves. They found several more burned spots of orc funerals, and an increasing number of hummocks marking the passing of human families and patrols.

Still, they kept to the brush and fence lines as much as possible. The more open terrain made it easier to see any other units, but left them more exposed. They holed up in a mostly intact farmhouse while a small army of orcs moved along the ridgeline.

Khadgar watched the line of units surge forward. Grunts, cavalry mounted on great wolves, and catapults done up in fanciful decorations of skulls and dragons. Beside him, Garona watched the procession and said, “Idiots.”

Khadgar shot her a questioning glance.

“They could not be more exposed,” she explained. “We can see them, and the paleskins can see them as well. This lot doesn’t have an objective—they’re just rolling through the countryside, looking for a fight. Looking for a noble death in battle.” She shook her head.

“You don’t think much of your people,” said Khadgar.

“I don’t think much of any people, right now,” said Garona. “The orcs disown me, the humans will kill me. And the only human I really trusted turned out to be a demon.”

“Well, there’s me,” said Khadgar, trying not to sound hurt.

Garona winced. “Yes, there is you. You are human, and I trust you. But I thought, I really thought, that Medivh was going to make a difference. Powerful, important, and willing to talk. Unprejudiced. But I deceived myself. He’s just another madman. Maybe that’s just my place—working for madmen. Maybe I’m just another pawn in the game. What did Medivh call it? The unforgiving clockwork of the universe?”

“Your role,” said Khadgar, “is whatever you choose it to be. Medivh always wanted that as well.”

“You think he was sane when he said that?” asked the half-orc.

Khadgar shrugged. “As sane as he ever was. I believe he was. And it sounds like you want to believe that as well.”

“Ayep,” drawled Garona. “It was all so simple, when I was working for Gul’dan. His little eyes and ears. Now I don’t know who’s right and who’s wrong. Which people are my people? Either of them? At least you don’t have to worry about divided loyalties.”

Khadgar didn’t say anything, but looked out into the gathering dusk. Somewhere, over the horizon, the orc army had run into something. There was the low glow of a false dawn along the edge of the world in that direction, marked with the reflection of sudden flashes off the low clouds, and the echoes of war drums and death sounded like distant thunder.

Another day and a day passed. Now they moved through abandoned towns and marketplaces. The buildings were more whole now, but still abandoned. There were signs of recent inhabitation, both by human and orc troops, but now the only inhabitants were ghosts and memories.

Khadgar broke into a likely-looking shop, and while its shelves had been stripped bare, the hearth still had wood in the hopper and there were potatoes and onions in a small bin in the basement. Anything would be an improvement after the orc’s iron rations.

Khadgar laid the fire and Garona took a cauldron to the nearby well. Khadgar thought about the next step. Medivh was a danger, perhaps a greater danger than the orcs. Could he be reasoned with, now? Convinced to shut the portal? Or was it too late?

Just the knowledge that there was a portal would be good news. If the humans could locate it, even shut it, it would strand the orcs on this world. Deny them reinforcements from Draenor.

The apprentice was pulled from his thoughts by the commotion outside. The clash of metal on metal. Human voices, bellowing.

“Garona,” muttered Khadgar, and headed for the door.

He found them by the well. A patrol of about ten footmen, dressed in the blue livery of Azeroth, swords drawn. One of them was cradling a bleeding arm, but another pair had Garona in their grip, one restraining each arm. Her long-bladed dagger was on the ground. As Khadgar rounded the corner, the sergeant backhanded her across the face with a mailed glove.

“Where are the others?” he snarled. The half-orc’s mouth leaked blackish-purple blood.

“Leave her alone!” shouted Khadgar. Without thinking, he pulled the energies into his mind and released a quick spell.

A brilliant light blossomed around Garona’s head, a miniature sun that caught the humans unaware. The two footmen holding Garona let go of her, and she slid to the ground. The sergeant raised a hand to protect his eyes, and the remainder of the patrol was sufficiently surprised, so that Khadgar was among them and at Garona’s side in a matter of moments.

“S’prised,” muttered Garona through a split lip. “Lemme get my wind back.”

“Stay down,” said Khadgar softly. To the blinking sergeant he barked, “Are you in charge of this rabble?”

By now most of the footmen had recovered, and had their swords level. The two next to Garona had backed up a pace, but they were watching her, not Khadgar.

The sergeant spat, “Who are you to interfere with the military? Get him out of the way, boys!”

“Hold!” said Khadgar, and the soldiers, having experienced his spells once, only advanced a single pace. “I am Khadgar, apprentice to Medivh the Magus, friend and ally to your King Llane. I have business with him. Take us at once to Stormwind.”

The sergeant just chuckled. “Sure you are, and I am Lord Lothar. Medivh doesn’t take apprentices. Even I know that. And who is your sweetheart, there, then?”

“She is…” Khadgar hesitated for a moment. “She is my prisoner. I am taking her to Stormwind for questioning.”

“Huh,” grunted the sergeant. “Well, boyo, we found your prisoner out here, armed, with you nowhere in sight. I’d say your prisoner escaped. Pity the orc would rather die than surrender.”

“Don’t touch her!” said Khadgar, and he raised his hand. Flames danced within his curled fingers.

“You’re flirting with your own death,” snarled the sergeant. In the distance, Khadgar could hear the heavy footfalls of horses. Reinforcements. But would they be any more willing to listen to a half-orc and a spellcaster than this lot were?