“Yes,” he agreed. “A price paid in lives taken.”
Later, much later, he entered his tent. Draka was there in the firelight, the good, true firelight, bathed in its orange glow. She was cradling their child, and looked up as he entered. Her welcoming smile faded at the look on his face.
He told her what had happened in Gul’dan’s tent. She listened without comment, as she had done the first night she had returned home from Exile, under the stars of Draenor.
When he had told it all, he sat at the brazier, gazing into the flames. Draka understood his need for silence, murmuring gently to their baby as she moved the little head to the side and extended a clawed forefinger. She pricked her breast, and a trickle of blood, black in the firelight, appeared. She guided the baby back to her nipple, now feeding him his mother’s blood as well as mother’s milk. It was fitting nourishment for a proud orc, a Frostwolf child, a future warrior. Draka glanced up at Durotan, and their eyes met over the head of their contentedly nursing infant. For the first time in what felt like forever, Durotan’s heart knew a small brush of peace, here, alone with his mate and child.
He wondered if they should talk about what to do, how to react, what this meant. But what could he say? What could he do?
Draka rose and went to him. “Will you hold your son?” was all she said.
She extended the small, precious bundle, wrapped in a woven blanket with the Frostwolf symbol embroidered on it. Slowly, Durotan held out his hands.
He was small, so small, so vulnerable. He barely covered one of Durotan’s great palms. He was whole, and perfect… and his skin was the color of the fire that had raged across Blackhand’s body.
“He will be a great chieftain, like his father,” Draka continued, sitting nearby and watching. Her voice was warm, soft, confident. “A born leader.”
The words stung. “I was no leader today,” Durotan said.
The baby’s eyes, blue and bright, went right for his father’s face when he spoke. No orc had ever had blue eyes…
The baby gurgled happily, his tiny legs kicking energetically. One small hand reached up and unsteadily closed on Durotan’s tusks. Durotan leaned forward, wrinkling his nose playfully. The baby grunted, a tiny sound. His face scowled, before he giggled.
“Ha!” said Draka, smiling. “He challenges you already!”
From somewhere deep inside Durotan’s aching soul, a chuckle emerged. The baby laughed in response, his entire torso moving with his breath as he patted the tusk gently, mesmerized, utterly focused on his father’s face.
Durotan’s smile grew for a moment, then, unbidden, the thought of what he had witnessed snuffed out the joy. His eyes burned with unshed tears.
“If Gul’dan can infect one as innocent as him, what chance do the rest of us have?” Draka looked at him mutely, having no answer for him. “Whatever happens…” he began, but couldn’t finish.
“Whatever happens,” she replied.
9
Lothar’s mind was a whirlwind as he marched into the throne room. His men, who had known he was interrogating the prisoner about the enemy’s position, snapped to attention as he entered. Without preamble, he began firing questions at them.
“The Black Morass. What do you think?”
Karos raised his eyebrows. “You could hide an army in there.”
“Or lose one,” Varis countered. “You believe her, sir?”
“No.” It was blunt, and it was true. Lothar had noticed Khadgar’s reaction to the female, and he had to admit that she was attractive, for all her strangeness. And she wasn’t quite like the monsters that had descended with such terrifying violence in Elwynn Forest. But he would be a fool to blindly trust this Garona, and King Llane Wrynn did not tolerate fools.
“But… it’s what we have to go on,” he continued. “Best horses, small escort. Let’s see if this orc can be trusted. We leave at dawn.” They nodded and hurried off. He watched them go for a moment, then turned back to the throne room.
Medivh was there, waiting for him. “I won’t be going with you,” the Guardian said.
Lothar ground his teeth. What had happened to Medivh in the last six years? He, the Guardian, and the King had been friends—more than friends, brothers in all but blood. They had fought together, suffered together. Been there for him when he had lost—
“Well I need to see what we’re up against. You don’t think seeing the enemy force firsthand is useful?” He couldn’t quite shove back the anger, and the concern that fueled it.
Medivh didn’t meet his gaze. “I have things to attend to.”
Lothar gave up on subtlety. He marched up to his old friend and looked at him searchingly. “What happened to you today?” It was both true query and an accusation.
“I was studying our foe—firsthand,” the Guardian replied slowly and deliberately.
Lothar snorted angrily. “If the kid hadn’t been with you, you’d have been studying the edge of an axe.”
Medivh shrugged laconically. “He had it in hand.” An idea seemed to occur to him. “You should take him with you. He’s more powerful than you think.”
“Medivh—” Lothar began, but there was a flurry of motion and he found himself talking to a raven. The bird flicked its tail and took wing, soaring out of the window.
“I hate it when he does that,” Lothar muttered.
It was a room in one of Stormwind’s inns, not a cell this time, but as he nodded to the guard stationed outside his door, Khadgar accepted the reality that he was, after a fashion, still a prisoner. He did not mind. He was where he wanted to be. Lothar had asked—well, all right, told him to come to the Black Morass to investigate the lead that Garona had given them.
He quickly lit a lamp, his mind racing. Garona. Orcs. Fel. So much information. As he closed the door and bolted it, Khadgar had to admit, he had missed learning things. His life here in Stormwind as an ordinary person was better than being, essentially, the ultimate errand boy for the Kirin Tor, but it had been rather unstimulating until now.
The Black Morass—big enough to hide an army. A good guess for someone who wasn’t from this world. That is, if Garona was telling the truth. His thoughts lingered on her for a moment—so strange-looking, and yet he was drawn to her. She was so strong, so confident even though she was a prisoner.
But now, something else demanded his attention. He reached beneath his shirt and brought out the book he had stashed there what seemed like ages ago. Khadgar had been terrified that it would fall out at some point, but it had stayed secure. Remarkable.
He placed it on the rough table, took a breath, and opened it. It was a slim tome with an unprepossessing cover, but the first few pages took his breath away. Runes filled the pages, and as he turned them, carefully, his eyes widened as he beheld a lavish illustration.
It depicted a wave of creatures that greatly resembled the beasts he had fought today. They were clustered together, a tight, unified mass, holding weapons of all varieties. And this mass of warriors was pouring forth from an enormous stone structure like water from an upended jug.
“A ‘great gate,’” Khadgar whispered, his skin prickling with gooseflesh.
His eyes wandered from the sight of the roaring, maddened orcs to the runic text above the art. Two glyphs had been circled, and someone had scribbled in the margins, From light comes darkness, and from darkness, light. Ask Alodi.
Khadgar repeated the words to himself, unpacking his writing supplies and inking his quill. Taking a deep breath, he laid the thin parchment over the book, and began to trace the disturbing image.