The only motion was the faint rise and fall of Medivh’s chest. Otherwise, he was terribly still. Cheekbones jutted out in a hollow, pale face dotted with sweat.
“What’s wrong with him?” Garona asked. Khadgar had no decisive answer, only suspicions he was not willing to share. Not yet. “We need to get him to Karazhan,” he said.
Garona nodded. “I’ll get horses.”
“You won’t make it in time by road.” Llane’s voice was clear and strong. “You’ll take one of my birds.”
The king lifted his hand in a signal to one of his men, who nodded and unfurled a long, leather tube. He raised the tube and began to spin it around his head. The device caught the air and produced a sharp whistling sound. The response was swift: A dot appeared in the sky, dropping down toward them. It was one of the royal gryphons, its white feathers and brown lion’s body a welcome sight. Its powerful wings created a wind that blew back Khadgar’s hair as it landed, shook itself, and looked at the gryphon master expectantly.
A few days ago, Khadgar had never even beheld the creatures. Now, he had ridden them more than once, and this time he was the more experienced of the two who now climbed into the gryphon’s saddle. Other events that had occurred had more importance and urgency, but he cherished this little pleasure in the midst of all the horror.
Settled astride the beast, Khadgar and Garona reached to accept Medivh’s frighteningly limp body. Without even thinking, Khadgar let Garona hold the Guardian, knowing her arms were stronger than his. As her green arms wrapped around the Guardian, the young mage suddenly realized what a great gesture of trust this was. She knew it, too, and nodded, the barest trace of a smile curving around her tusks.
Llane caressed the head of the great beast, looked it in the eyes, and commanded it: “Karazhan! Go!”
Moroes was waiting for them as they rushed down the stairs from the landing to the main chamber, Medivh slack in Garona’s muscular arms. Khadgar saw that the servant didn’t seem in the least bit surprised, although his already lined face was further furrowed in worry.
“Place him in the font,” Moroes instructed.
“Moroes,” Khadgar demanded. “What’s wrong with the Guardian?”
As Khadgar himself had done when Garona had posed that question, Moroes did not answer, just shook his white head. “I told him not to leave Karazhan,” he said, more to himself than to them.
Together, Moroes and Garona placed Medivh in the magical font, arranging him carefully, leaving only his head and chest floating above the white wisps of living magic. Khadghar had wrapped his cloak around Medivh to help protect the Guardian from the cold air during the flight. The cloth had bunched up beneath the Guardian’s head when they had placed him in the font. Gently, Khadgar lifted Medivh’s head to remove the cloak.
Now, at last, Medivh showed some signs of life, if vague and confused. His eyelids flickered, then opened. The young mage’s heart spasmed as he saw the faintest flicker of green light in Medivh’s eyes.
His gut clenched, and he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “I have to go,” he blurted. “We need the help of the Kirin Tor… Now!”
“Go,” Garona urged him.
As he pelted up the stairs, Khadgar heard Moroes tell Garona, “There are medicines I must prepare. Sit with him.”
Khadgar did not want to leave the Guardian, but there was no choice. His mouth was set in a grim line as he raced for the loft, the gryphon, and, Light willing, some help for this world, before it was too late.
15
Draka was a warrior. Until now, her place had always been fighting at the side of the orc who was her husband, chieftain, and best friend. The birth of their yet-unnamed baby here, in this new fertile but hostile world, had changed all that. The infant was not just her child, or the son of the chieftain—he was the clan’s child, the only one born to the Frostwolves in far too long, and despite his unsettling coloring, he was loved by all of them. In addition, there were few orcs here in Azeroth who were not needed, almost daily, to fight.
She had shared her husband’s sentiments regarding Gul’dan, his evil magic, and the wrongness of this battle against the humans. But every moment that they were separated was a trial. It was one thing to go into battle together, knowing death was a possibility. It was another to be left behind to wait, not knowing anything at all.
As if sensing her distress, the baby started to fuss in his basket, opening those beautiful, peculiar blue eyes and reaching out his tiny fists to her. Gently, Draka took one of the little hands in hers and kissed it. “This hand will hurl your father’s spear, Thunderstrike,” she told him. “Or maybe you would prefer the great axe Sever, hmm?”
The baby gurgled, seemingly happy with whichever weapon he would wield some day in the future, and the trepidation in her heart eased somewhat. “My precious little warrior,” she murmured, “you are a true orc, no matter your skin color. We will teach you that.”
He had drifted off to sleep when the hanging skin that served as a door was flung aside. It was Durotan, sweating, panting, every line of his body telling her before he even spoke that everything had fallen apart.
He clasped her close for a moment, then told her quickly what had happened. She said nothing, but kept shaking her head. No. No. this could not be. Orgrim could not… would never betray them. But he had.
“You and the baby must leave,” Durotan said when he had finished. He reached for the infant, lifting him tenderly, even in this moment of crisis. “Now!”
A shape moved to fill the doorway. Blackhand. He was spattered with gore, but had no weapon. He did not need one, not any more. The claw where his hand had once been would serve. He seized Durotan by his scalp and hauled him backward. The baby, cupped in his father’s palm, squalled.
“You are a traitor, Durotan!” Blackhand bellowed.
Everything in Draka urged her to attack, but instead she kept her eyes on Durotan. He was not fighting—not with weapons, and she would follow his lead.
“No.” Durotan spoke calmly, and from a deep place of certainty. “One who values what we once were. Like you used to.”
“That time is past,” he said angrily. Then, more softly, “We are but fuel for the fel now.” The warchief’s face held not fury or hatred, but only detached melancholy.
Draka was moved to speak, surprising even herself. “We are more than that. You are more than that. There is still hope, Blackhand. We do not have to take another step down this path.”
Blackhand looked at her, his eyes narrowing, then down at Durotan. For a long, tense moment, the three stood, while the child cried. Then, growling, Blackhand released her mate, shoving him away. Durotan went at once to Draka, giving their child to her. She clasped the infant close. There was still no anger in Blackhand’s voice when he spoke, but even so, Draka’s heart ached with despair. “Do not make me take more innocent lives, young chieftain.”
She held the baby tighter still, her eyes darting from Blackhand to Durotan. Durotan straightened, steadying himself. “If I submit…”
Draka’s hand shot out and gripped her mate’s arm, her nails digging into his flesh. He kept his gaze on the warchief. He continued, “… will you leave my people be?”
Blackhand did not answer. Draka knew that he could not. He was the warchief, but he answered to Gul’dan. Blackhand knew it, too. He merely opened the tent flap, and waited.
A chieftain must always do what is best for his people, Draka recalled. She refused to utter the sob, to give voice to the sound of her breaking heart. She would show her husband courage. And besides, she thought with determination, I will not let this be the end.