Garona had hesitated when Durotan freed her and extended his hand. But she knew if she returned with him, Gul’dan would simply reclaim her. And in that moment, Garona had tasted freedom, and knew she would die before relinquishing it.
She thought of Queen Taria, treating her even more kindly than Draka had. Of course, Taria wanted something. Garona fully realized that. But what she wanted was to save her people. So did the orcs—but they were doing it by killing those who were not orcs. First the draenei, now the humans. She thought of Khadgar; such a pup, so eager, but with a power she respected and didn’t understand.
And… she thought of Lothar. He had saved her from the furious Frostwolf. He had not been as overtly kind as Taria, but Garona understood his mistrust. She knew enough of darkness to know when it had touched someone, and Anduin Lothar surely walked with shadows. She had seen the pain in his eyes at the loss of his men in the recent battle, the horror at the thought of the innocent farmers being held captive, their lives fodder for more orc destruction. He was… good, she decided.
Though he had a sense of humor. She recalled the term Lothar had used to Khadgar, “bookworm.” Garona smiled, turning to look at the young mage—
An orc stood in the shadow of tree branches. He held Khadgar under one arm, his massive hand clamped over the boy’s mouth. The young mage stared at Garona with wide, alarmed eyes. A few feet away orc lay the body of Karos, unconscious, but still alive.
“Durotan!” Garona gasped.
He grunted in acknowledgement. “To the north is a black rock that touches the sky. I would meet with their leader there.”
A sliver of fear sliced through her. “To challenge him?” She was surprised at how much she did not want Llane to die… nor, truth be told, Durotan.
He shook his head. “I saw you lead the smallteeth to our encampment,” he said, stepping closer, still holding Khadgar, but with care. “They have seen what is being built, but only you know what Gul’dan has planned for my people.” His eyes bored into hers, and he spoke as if the words tore at him. “You warned us, Garona. You told us he was dark and dangerous. I only came, in the end, because there was truly no other choice.”
Garona knew Durotan might have chosen death for himself, but he did not have the luxury. He was a chieftain, and he took care of his clan as best he knew how.
“This magic is death,” he said. “For all things. It must be stopped.”
So he had seen. He knew. Their gazes locked for a moment, then Durotan nodded. “Tell him. The black rock. When the sun is highest.”
“I will,” Garona promised.
Durotan nodded. He seemed unaware that he had completely shattered everything Garona had believed she could ever expect out of her life. If Gul’dan fell—
She surged forward. “Chieftain! If I return, would you take me into your clan?”
Durotan’s eyes traveled to her throat, her hands. A throat and hands free of chains. “You are safer here. With them.”
And she knew he was right. The hope died, and she simply nodded. The chieftain looked thoughtfully at the boy he still restrained. The mage, still as death, stared up, barely blinking. Durotan released him. Khadgar made no move to run, or to utter a spell. Durotan punched him, very gently, in the chest—a comradely gesture. Then, pressing a hand to his own chest in a gesture of respect and gratitude to Garona, the half-breed slave, he stepped back into the shadow dappled light and vanished into the trees.
The raven soared, its superlative vision taking in the scene below in in detail that ripped at his heart. Even those with poorer sight would have been able to see the destruction, though; it was blatant, excessive, and seemingly everywhere. Amidst the healthy green of foliage, the bare spots, gray and black and burning, stood out starkly. One, and another, and another—
Medivh collapsed beside the font, barely able to plunge a hand into its restorative depths. Energy infused him, but more slowly and less thoroughly than it had in the past. He was drained dry, and recovered less completely each time he pushed himself. But he had to. It was his charge.
Moroes knelt beside him, calm, steady, eternal. The castellan had dwelt at Karazhan for a very, very long time. Longer than Medivh had. Longer than the previous Guardian, or the one before that. In his own way, he was as much a part of Karazhan as its stables, or its kitchen, or even its font of magic.
Quietly, sorrowfully, the older man asked, “Is it as you feared?”
Medivh pressed his lips together and nodded. He kept his arm in the font as he replied, his voice weak and cracking, “The fel. It’s everywhere.”
“Then you mustn’t leave again,” Moroes stated.
“They need a Guardian’s help now more than ever,” Medivh answered. His voice was so hollow, so terribly weary, even in his own ears.
“Maybe the boy could help,” his old friend suggested.
Could he? Khadgar had shown initiative and courage. Maybe he could. Wearily, Medivh turned his head to look at Moroes—and froze. He stared over the castellan’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on something or someone that might—or might not—have been there; a ghostly black form, pointing directly at him.
“Begone!” hissed Medivh. Moroes turned, but saw nothing.
Llane sat upon the great throne of Stormwind, and despaired.
It had taken this—an incursion of bestial creatures determined to wrest the entire world for themselves—for the diplomats currently scowling in front of him to even agree to meet. And now that they had gathered, no one seemed to want to listen.
Taria had often commented on her husband’s cool head—one that had not been nearly so cool in years past. Now, it seemed that he alone was keeping even a semblance of calm as those assembled ranted, protested, and took below-the-belt verbal strikes at one another.
The representative from Kul Tiras was holding forth. His people had recently tasted the fury of the orcs, and he was not about to let Llane forget it—though he himself seemed to forget that Elwynn Forest had been among the first targets.
“Stormwind, the high and mighty—always thinking itself better than the rest of us. You knew what would happen to us, yet we fought and fell alone. Where was your army as our ships burned?”
“My army is losing a regiment a day,” Llane replied. His voice was tight, even though he fought to stay calm.
“Stormwind, Kul Tiras, Lordaeron, Quel’thalas. Dwarf, human, and elf. All of us in peril—and all of us squandering precious time arguing among ourselves. We need to work together!”
The representative of Lordaeron scowled. “What we need,” he snapped, “are more weapons! Dwarven forges must work overtime.” He turned and regarded King Magni with an expectant expression, as if the dwarf ought to immediately start spitting out swords and battleaxes.
Magni was apoplectic. When he was able to manage words, they came out in strangled, staccato bursts. “You treat us no better than dogs! You refuse to protect us with the very weapons we make for you! We shall supply you no more!”
Llane leaped to his feet. “Enough!” he shouted. The raised voice of the normally mild king silenced the bickering—for the moment. Everyone turned to look at him. “All of you have called on Stormwind in the past. Either for troops or arbitration. If we do not unite to fight this enemy, we will perish. Stormwind needs soldiers, arms, horses—”