“Yes. Many,” Garona replied.
“Why?” Khadgar asked.
The orc looked at those who had been questioning her in turn and lifted her chin. Her eyes blazed as she replied, pride in her posture and voice, “To feed the Gate. To bring the Horde. To take your world.”
No one spoke. Taria could hardly believe what she had been hearing. A Great Gate, hungry for human prisoners. A horde of beings like Garona, flooding into Azeroth. To take it for their own. Her husband ruled, not she, but he shared almost everything with his queen, and she had learned many frightening things in their years together. But nothing as terrifying as this.
To take your world.
“You’ll take us to them.” Her brother, slicing through the sick silence in his usual manner.
Garona smirked. “No.”
Lothar smiled. Taria knew that smile. It did not bode well for those at whom it was directed. “You’ll take us to them,” he repeated, almost pleasantly, “or you’ll end up like your friend in the cage.”
Garona strode toward him slowly, kneeling beside him on the step and bringing her face close to his. “You think you are fearsome?” she murmured. “Orc children have pets more fearsome than you.”
Taria believed her.
“We are not trying to be fearsome, Garona,” Llane said, speaking calmly in an effort to diffuse the tension. “We are trying to protect our people. Our families.”
It was, it seemed, the wrong tactic. A mask seemed to settle over Garona’s attractive features. “What do I care about families?” she replied in an icy tone, her gaze still locked with Lothar’s. And Taria realized that Garona cared very much indeed.
“If you help us,” Llane said, “I give you my oath that I will protect you, too.”
Her brows, dark and elegant as raven’s wings, drew together. At last, Garona looked from Lothar to the king.
“Oath? What is… oath?”
Durotan and Orgrim stood with the rest of the chieftains and their seconds in Gul’dan’s hut. He, the Frostwolves he had commanded, and Blackhand had returned several hours ago, but they had been made to wait until after the sun had descended. The Frostwolves had used the time to mourn their dead, doing what they could to honor their passing without a ritual funeral pyre. The only light in the great tent was from a huge, burning brazier to the left of and slightly behind Gul’dan ornate chair.
The fire’s light, a sickly shade of pale green, threw the features of both Gul’dan and Blackhand into sharp relief. The warchief knelt before the warlock, one of them muscular and strong, the other hunched and seemingly withered. But everyone present knew which of the two was the most powerful.
Including Blackhand.
Gul’dan leaned on his staff and looked Blackhand up and down. “Fearsome Blackhand, warchief of the Horde,” he said, and his voice dripped scorn like ichor. “You have allowed the smallteeth to kill your warriors! Worse, you have shamed your people, by running from an enemy.”
Blackhand did not reply. Durotan saw him clenching and unclenching his remaining hand, the dark ink on it almost absorbing the green illumination of the fel flames. He tried to keep his face impassive, but Durotan could see the pain in his eyes.
Gul’dan prodded the larger orc with his staff. “Are you too weak to talk, Destroyer?”
Blackhand shook his head, but even now, did not speak. Orgrim leaned over to Durotan and said quietly, “I have no love for Blackhand, but even I feel for him, watching this.”
Durotan shared that feeling. The Frostwolves had been one of the last clans to join the Horde, and he was well aware that in the years since its formation, there had been many power struggles. Order and ranking had been established, reward and punishment doled out. Blackhand had already lost his hand in the battle. Durotan did not think he wanted to see what else the failure was going to cost him.
Gul’dan used his staff to straighten up slightly. In a heavy, angry voice, he said, “The Horde has no use for weakness. Respect our traditions. You know the penalty.”
Blackhand looked out over the sea of silent, watchful faces, although he had to know there would be no help forthcoming. He lowered his head, resigned, then got to his feet, shuffling toward the green brazier.
“Death,” said Gul’dan.
The warchief extended his mangled hand over the flickering, hungry green flame. Then, taking a breath, he pushed forward, shoving the limb deep into the glowing embers.
Durotan watched, horrified. The fel fire did not simply burn Blackhand’s flesh. It ate it, like a living thing, curling upward along his arm like an invading army.
Blackhand did not cry out. He lifted his mutilated, green-shrouded limb, awaiting his death as the fel crawled upward.
Durotan could not bear it. Before he even realized what he was doing, Sever was in his hand, and it lived up to its name as he lifted the axe and brought it down, cutting cleanly through Blackhand’s arm. It fell to the floor, writhing and twitching, and Blackhand collapsed. The green limb abruptly crumbled into scorched chunks.
Gul’dan fixed his glowing green eyes on the Frostwolf chieftain. “You dare interrupt this judgment?”
Durotan stood his ground. He knew he was right. “We fought hard. Their warlock used your fel against us!”
It was completely true. All those who had been present had seen it. And yet, they stayed silent as Gul’dan’s body trembled with fury.
“Only I can control the fel!” he shrieked. He leapt to his feet, his eyes glowing even brighter as the green flames flared to new life, flickering and licking hungrily. Many orcs gasped and drew back. Even Durotan retreated a step. “I have heard that most of the Frostwolves survived.” He sneered. “Perhaps Blackhand kept you safely away from the battlefield. Maybe he knows you are weak, too.”
The ludicrousness of the accusation rendered Durotan momentarily mute. Twice Gul’dan had made a difficult journey to ask the Frostwolves to join the Horde. In the end, it had not been Gul’dan’s pleas, but the brutal and inescapable fact that Draenor could no longer support the clan which had made the Frostwolves trek south. Gul’dan knew this.
Orgrim surged forward, looming beside his friend and chieftain’s shoulder, his fists clenched. Others saw the gesture and turned to Orgrim. Durotan had no desire for a fight to break out. Violence was not the answer, not now, and he lay a calming, but firm, hand on his second’s arm. Stand down.
Orgrim all but choked on his rage, but he obeyed the unspoken command. Blackhand was struggling on the floor, and now he managed to make it to one knee, clutching the stump of his arm.
“I was not strong enough to defeat their champion,” Blackhand grunted. “If I had, the battle would have turned—”
Durotan would have none of this. Gul’dan was being stubborn and arrogant, and Blackhand should not believe the warlock. “Warchief—”
“Your pride blinded you,” Gul’dan barreled on. “Only my magic can defeat our enemies!”
The words burst forth from Durotan before he could halt them. “Your magic is what got them killed!”
Gul’dan turned, slowly, toward Durotan, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Do you wish to challenge me, little chieftain?”
Durotan glanced around. Everyone present was silent, their attention focused on him. He thought of the thousands of innocent draenei—children included—whose lives the fel had claimed simply to open the portal to this world. He looked at the green flame in the brazier, and in Gul’dan’s eyes, and spoke carefully.
“I do not question Gul’dan,” he said. “But the fel is born of death. It must have a price.”
Gul’dan relaxed, ever so slightly, his brow unfurrowing. He even smiled.