“But our world was dying,” Orgrim said. “We had to leave. You stayed as long as you could, Durotan, but you knew what we had to do to survive.”
Thoughts crowded Durotan’s mind. What he had to say was dangerous… but necessary. His mind went back to when he had made the excruciating decision to follow Gul’dan, and the words he had told his clan. There is one law, one tradition, which must not be violated. And that is that a chieftain must do whatever is truly best for the clan.
“Orgrim… Do you not think it strange that we lost our home when Gul’dan came to power?”
Orgrim scoffed, prepared to laugh. The smile faded as he realized Durotan was deadly serious. “One orc cannot kill a world, Durotan.”
“Are you sure? Look around you. Does it not remind you of something?” He directed Orgrim’s gaze not to the beckoning forest and distant snow, but to what lay behind them. To the Great Gate, and the land around it. Orgrim’s brow furrowed for a moment in confusion, and then Durotan saw understanding spread across his friend’s face.
When they had entered this world, the land near the gate had been a swamp. Draka had birthed the son of Durotan on her hands and knees in stagnant water. Now, there was only dirt, parched and thirsty. What plants there had been were long dead, brittle and ground to dust beneath orcish feet as Durotan’s people moved giant stones to build a doorway.
It did remind him of something.
It looked exactly as the other side of the portal had looked, in the land they had fled. Emotions warred on Orgrim’s face.
Durotan knew what he was asking. But he also knew he was right. “Wherever Gul’dan works his magic… the land dies. If our people are to make a home here, my friend,” Durotan said, his voice rough with emotion, “Gul’dan must be stopped.”
Orgrim took a long time before he replied, but when he did, he did not disagree. All he said was, “We are not powerful enough to defeat Gul’dan.”
“No,” Durotan agreed. He scratched thoughtfully at his chin with a sharp thumbnail. “But with the humans’ help, we could be.”
10
It had been a dangerous gamble, and Llane had been anxious every moment since Lothar and Taria had departed the throne room. But he had felt it was the right decision, and he kept telling himself that as the moments ticked past. He was on the balcony, overlooking the dark city and thinking equally dark thoughts, when Taria returned.
She slipped an arm through his. “You were right,” she said. “A woman’s hand was needed. She will take Lothar to their camp, the poor creature.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it.
“How did you know I could reach her?”
It was hard to put into words. Garona was an adult female, and, from all reports, a fierce fighter. It was hard to think of someone like that as “vulnerable,” but he sensed that her wariness wasn’t hate-fueled, or cruel. There was something about her that reminded him of the children he had seen in the orphanage—wild, feral, but desperate for someone to look past that and see who they truly were.
“She needed a mother’s care,” he said at last. He squeezed his wife’s hand, then pulled her into his arms. “I know of none better.”
“Flatterer,” she teased, and kissed him.
There were five of them in the mounted scouting party: Lothar, Garona, Khadgar, Karos, and Varis. The three soldiers had spent a great deal of time away from Stormwind, but of course, to Garona, everything was new. She was alert and attentive, her dark eyes taking it all in and evaluating it. For what? Lothar wondered. Hiding places? Weapons? Escape—or attack—routes?
She was clad in Alliance armor, and he noticed her hand wandering to the breastplate now and then, as if surprised each time at the golden lion’s head there. His attention lingered on her perhaps longer than it should have. This morning, he had helped her get into her armor. She had asked for a weapon, and he had replied as he laced her gambeson closed, “You’ll have me to protect you.”
“I need no one to protect me,” Garona had asserted. He had paused then, with his face inches from hers, a witty retort dying unsaid on his lips as their eyes met. He had realized almost at once that, despite her tusks and green skin, Garona was beautiful. But now, standing so close, Lothar understood that she was more than just physically appealing. She was right. She did need no one to protect her. She was likely as strong—perhaps stronger—than he was. But as he looked at the scars that crisscrossed her skin, he, the soldier, wanted nothing more than to keep her safe. It was ludicrous, it was likely insulting…but it was true.
“What are you looking at?” she had demanded.
He himself wasn’t sure.
Lothar’s mind returned to the present. He smiled to himself as he noticed that Khadgar’s gaze was fixed to whatever it was he was reading. He missed the sole pleasant part of the journey, through the safe areas of Elwynn Forest, only looking up when they paused as the foliage gave way to bare stone. Below them, Elwynn lay spread out like a lush tapestry. Behind, Stormwind’s white towers jutted skyward, looking as small as a model on King Llane’s battlemap, and even Khadgar admired the sight.
Before them lay Deadwind Pass, a fitting name for an unhospitable, desolate canyon of sheer walls and cutting, whistling winds. One branch of the trail culminated in a ledge, where Lothar declared they would camp for the night. It was useful to have a site with only one direction to guard. They could have pressed on, but Deadwind Pass was a tricky enough path in the daylight. He could not risk a horse making a misstep in the growing shadows.
“Bookworm,” he said to Khadgar as the mage dismounted, wincing, “take the first watch.”
Garona, slipping lithely to the ground, looked both perplexed and amused at the word. She watched Khadgar, to gauge his reaction.
The boy tucked the book in the waistband of his trousers while reaching for his bedroll, but the look he gave Lothar was not one of amusement. He had not missed Garona’s look, either. “Respectfully, Commander, my name is Khadgar,” he said.
Lothar brought a hand to his chest in mock horror. “My apologies, Khadgar. I thought we had bonded when I didn’t put you in a prison cell for breaking into the royal barracks.” The two glared at each other. “Now. Take the first watch.”
Khadgar’s lips thinned, but he nodded. “Yes, Commander.”
The meal was simple—bread, chicken, apples, and hot tea. No wine was passed around tonight—the party was too small and the danger too great for even a little intoxication. Thankfully, the sobbing wind eventually stopped, although the silence that replaced it was perhaps more unnerving. They ate, cleaned up, and spread out their bedrolls while Khadgar glumly wrapped himself in his cloak and perched atop a boulder, looking back at the path they had traveled.
Lothar’s mind was too busy working out scenarios for him to sleep at once, so he gnawed on a leftover piece of chicken and watched the watcher instead. To his credit, the boy seemed to take the duty seriously. Lothar half-expected Khadgar to have sneaked his book with him so he could read by moonlight, or firelight, or maybe a tiny point of blue flame dancing at the end of his fingers. Who knew what sort of things mages could do.
Instead, the youth’s head turned, rather shyly, in Garona’s direction. She lay facing away, her distinctive curves soft and rolling and green as the hills of Elwynn. Lothar was amused—but he also didn’t like it.