Kindness. And more important—trust. Garona’s eyes burned suddenly. She could not speak, merely fastened the exquisite weapon around her own waist.
Llane nodded firmly. “Find the Guardian. We’ll need him.”
Khadgar had used the ride to calm himself. He was beginning to think the Guardian had gone stark raving mad, but Medivh’s attempt to terrorize him into forsaking his research had instead merely made him more determined than ever to pursue it. A reaction that strong meant something, surely.
He was waiting outside Stormwind Keep for a meeting to finish up. A meeting he should have been at, but as usual, he was not involved. It was, at first glance, just as chaotic here as it was at the city’s gate, but after a few moments Khadgar saw an order to it all. People moved with purpose and direction, and he heard snatches of military jargon here and there. He paced and fumed, watching as as Garona emerged, a stern-faced guard behind her. Her hood was up again, concealing her beautiful face in its shadows. He looked around for Lothar, but the commander was still inside. Still, Garona might be of very great help.
“There you are!” He rushed over to her. “Tell me—what do you know of the warlock’s magic?”
She peered around, tense, even now ready to fight should she have to. “What are they doing?”
“Getting ready for war,” Khadgar answered absently as he tried to get an answer from her. “Garona, I need your help. I found—”
She had started to smile, and now she burst out laughing. He went red right to the tips of his ears. “What? What’s so funny?”
Garona tried to compose herself, but her eyes still danced with mirth. “How can you not be ready for war?”
“Some of us are ready,” Khadgar replied defensively.
“Oh yes,” the orc agreed, still smiling. “You… and Lothar. A man and a boy. The Horde trembles.”
He bristled at being referred to as a “boy” and could not help but snap, “Two men—and many others.” He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out the solitary item that had survived Medivh’s inexplicable rage—a single sketch. “Here. Look at this,” he said, handing it to her. “Have you heard of someone called Alodi?”
“You drew this?” She peered at it critically, and he stifled a smile.
“Yes, but… you’ve got it the wrong way.” His voice was warm with humor at her innocence. “Let me…”
The words died in his throat. He had sketched it horizontally, but she was holding it vertically. The orcs he had drawn coming out of the Great Gate now no longer appeared to be running on flat ground. They seemed to be climbing, as if out of an enormous hole.
And waiting for them, beckoning, was a hooded figure.
“You drew our arrival in the Black Morass. How would you know what that looked like?”
He didn’t reply. The heat of his prior embarrassment had faded. He felt cold, terribly cold. All he knew was that he had to take this to Lothar. Now.
Without another word, he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, shouting the name of Anduin Lothar.
When Lothar spied the crate stamped with the symbol of Ironbeard and the Bronzebeard crest, he headed straight for it. Aloman, trying to impose some sort of order on the chaos, inquired, “Commander? What of these?”
“From King Magni,” Kaz said, peering around a corner of the crate. “He says they might come in handier than plow blades.”
Despite the direness of the situation, and that he had been running on too much adrenaline and too little food and sleep, Lothar found himself smiling as he opened the crate to see several of the “mechanical marvels” that had done such damage to the tattooed orc’s hand. “Boomsticks,” he said, pleased.
“Lothar!” Khadgar’s voice echoed from outside, and the youth came pelting into the room, skidding to a halt. Panting, he said, “I need your help!”
“What’s happened?”
Catching his breath, Khadgar said, “I found… a book.”
Lothar tried and failed not to roll his eyes. “Of course you did.” He nodded at Aloman, and she helped him lift and maneuver the crate to one side.
“No, wait, you don’t understand,” the boy persisted. He pulled out a rolled-up parchment. The words were coming out of him at a thousand leagues a moment, as if afraid he’d be silenced before he could get them all out. “Let me explain. There was an illustration that showed a gate, like the one we saw being built. I tried to show the Guardian, but he became furious. Burned all my research. He would have burned this, too, if it hadn’t been hidden in my robe.”
Annoyed, but now at least slightly interested, Lothar perched on a nearby crate and took the parchment Khadgar was waving at him. The mage sat next to him. As Khadgar had said, it was was a sketch of the Great Gate. This one was intact, and through it rushed a mass of armed orcs. The gate itself was only the length of Lothar’s hand, and the orcs were tiny figures as they flowed out. On each side of the gate was carved a hooded figure, head bent. Surrounding the scene were the hills and stagnant water of the Black Morass. He glanced at Khagar, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
Khadgar reached over. “No—turn it this way.” Now the page was vertical, not horizontal. “Look,” he said, trailing a finger over a curve that previously depicted the roll of a hill. Illumination flared beneath his touch, enhancing the the sketch. “See?”
The hair at the back of Lothar’s neck lifted. Turned this way, what had once been a landscape was now clearly a figure: Hooded, face hidden, like the stone ones that flanked the opening of the portal. It bent over a gate that was now beneath its feet, towering over the cluster of orcs who raced up out of the gaping earth. Its arm was raised, as if beckoning.
Lothar fought to keep his voice calm. “What do you think the image means?”
“The orcs were summoned… from this side of the gate.” His eyes burned with certainty—and fear. “They were invited in!”
Lothar glanced around, to see if anyone had overheard the unsettling conversation. “And the Guardian burned your research,” he said, slowly, sickly. Why? Why would the Guardian of Azeroth become so angry he’d destroy the boy’s notes? Was he that jealous of the Novitiate? Khadgar was doing good research, though Lothar was pained to admit it. None of this was making any sense. The more they learned, the muddier things got. Medivh, old friend… what’s going on?
Lothar groped for something to say. “The Guardian was probably trying to protect you.” Khadgar looked at him searchingly, his brows, dark and elegant as raven’s wings, furrowed in worry that was not entirely erased by Lothar’s words. “Now,” Lothar said amiably, “go away.”
Khadgar nodded and obeyed, accustomed now to Lothar’s teasing. The smile faded from Lothar’s face as he watched the mage depart.
13
They had spent the morning in preparation. Durotan was gladder than he could say that Orgrim had given his full support to the plan. His second had insisted on taking a few scouts out to the appointed meeting place. They would set up, Orgrim told his chieftain, and then Durotan and the rest could join him. The Frostwolf chieftain, meanwhile, had quietly alerted his clan to his intentions, speaking with them and allaying their concerns. Now several warriors stood ready beneath the black rock. They burned evergreen boughs, sending up a fragrant, smoky signal that would, Durotan hoped, guide the humans to the specific spot.
The area was stony and bare. The black mountain and its foothills towered over the single, narrow switchback path that was the only road to the meeting place. Orgrim stood beside him. Durotan’s eyes were on the path, watching for any sign of movement. He had told Garona to be there when the sun was highest, and that had passed. The humans were late. Would they even come at all? he wondered morosely. Had Garona—