He turned his attention again to the slave, lip curling in contempt as the man reached out to him imploringly. “Be feared,” Gul’dan said, said, “or be fuel.”
Gul’dan abruptly closed his fist and tugged. The cord between them snapped. The human’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. Orgrim stared at the corpse, a papery, withered husk. He inclined his head, and left. As soon as he was far enough away from the torches, he broke into a run. He was certain that Gul’dan had not believed him. He only hoped that he had bought his clan enough time.
But he had not.
Howls and shouts pierced the night air and as he approached the Frostwolf encampment, Orgrim saw one hut go up in a sheet of flames. “Gul’dan does not want to waste his power on the Frostwolves!” he heard a large Warsong, green with the fel, declare. He would never say anything else. Orgrim closed the distance between them, hoisted the other orc, then slammed his head down at an angle on his own bald pate. The Warsong’s neck snapped. Orgrim hurled away the body and continued on.
Durotan, my old friend, forgive me.
He rushed to the chieftain’s hut. Draka whirled, one arm on her child in its cradle, the other holding a huge, wicked-looking dagger that could slice Orgrim’s throat just as easily as it had once opened a talbuk’s belly.
“I’ll bathe in your blood!” she snarled, her eyes hard with loathing.
“Maybe,” he agreed sadly, “but not now. I can’t give you long, but I can give you a head start.” He moved to close the tent flap. The instant he turned back to face her, she had the blade to his throat. He knew how badly she wanted to slash it across his jugular. He saw it in her eyes, could feel it in the slight trembling of the metal against his flesh. And she was right to want to do so.
She spat at him. “Why should I trust you? You have betrayed us all!”
Orgrim gestured to the baby. “Do you recall what I said to you, before we left to join the Horde? I swore I would never let harm come to you or the baby, not if I could prevent it. I cannot halt what I have put into motion, but let me at least keep that promise. For your son’s sake, Draka. Leave! Now!”
Draka looked at him, listening to the sounds of murder and chaos outside the tent. At last, her expression as cold as winter in Frostfire Ridge, she lowered the blade—but not without leaving a small, bloody cut on his neck. Frustrated, she whirled and directed her fury at the back of the tent, slicing a hidden exit.
Holding her and Durotan’s child in its cradle, she turned and gave him a final, contemptuous glance. “You should have trusted in your chieftain, Orgrim Doomhammer.” Sick with shame, Orgrim found he could not bear to look at her as she slipped out into the darkness, instead checking to make sure no one was coming to the tent.
Once he heard her leave, he went to the rift she had made and looked out, watching her race for the trees and, Spirits willing, safety. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement, one of the Bleeding Hollow orcs rushed the tent, his eyes on the fleeing Draka. Casually, Orgrim swung the Doomhammer, crushing the other’s skull. He looked up from the corpse, and saw no sign of Draka or other pursuit.
Now, to see if there were other Frostwolves he could help before it was too late. And then, he would do what he could for Durotan.
Khadgar had leaped from the gryphon’s back while it was still in flight, landing on the stairs that led to the Chamber of Air and racing up them. He knew this room well. Here, he had stood as a boy of eleven, while the same mages who stood on the ringed platform now had tested him and found him worthy. Here, silvery white magic had burned its Eye into his arm. It tingled now, as he returned to this place; something he had never imagined happening.
“Khadgar!” another mage shouted. “How dare you return here!”
“Get out!” another cried.
Khadgar turned his face up to the thin, elderly Archmage Antonidas, catching his breath as the Council of Six, clad in their violet robes embroidered with the Eye of the Kirin Tor scowled down at him. “I come seeking your wisdom,” he said.
Antonidas’s scowl deepened. “There’s nothing for you here now.”
“The Guardian Medivh is unwell.”
Murmuring broke out as the six exchanged glances that ranged from shocked to furious to offended. Antonidas looked thunderstruck. “What?
The young mage took a deep breath. “He has been poisoned by the fel.”
Silence. Antonidas strode to the edge of the platform. He looked as if he wanted to bring lightning down upon Khadgar, but didn’t want to damage the precious inlay of the floor. “Ridiculous,” the archmage all but snarled.
Archmage Shendra, who never had much cared for Khadgar, stepped forward. “It was you, Khadgar, who was weak!” She didn’t even attempt to disguise her loathing as she stabbed a bony index finger in his direction. “You who felt the need to study that wretched magic the Kirin Tor had so specifically banned!”
There was no time for lectures, no time for posturing or arguing about who was right or wrong or anything other than what was going on with Medivh. Khadgar was not the boy who had left only a few short months ago. He had seen more horrors in the last few days than, he suspected, had any of these old mages in their entire lifetimes. He did not rise to challenge Shendra’s accusations, keeping his gaze on Antonidas. “What do you know of the Dark Portal?” he demanded.
“You come back,” Antonidas sneered, “and accuse the Guardian—”
Khadgar lifted the sketch he had showed Lothar—the one of the Great Gate, and the mysterious figure inviting the Horde into Azeroth.
“What,” he asked, “is Alodi?”
The chamber fell silent. Antonidas looked stunned. Whispers came: “Who is he to speak of that?” “How does he know?”
They took him to the bowels of the Violet Citadel. Khadgar had known the Citadel had a prison level, but had never been here. It was not deemed necessary; he was to be the Guardian of Azeroth, and the archmages would take care of Dalaran. He looked about, frankly stunned at the myriad magical wards, until at last the door was opened to a single large cell, and his eyes widened as he was escorted inside.
The humming sound of voices was oddly soothing as Khadgar tried to take everything in. Four mages were stationed at the compass points. They stood stiffly, their bodies held taut in almost unnaturally perfect stillness, their eyes closed. All that moved was their mouths, a regular incantation flowing from their lips. In front of them floated placidly bobbing purple sigils, and from these flowed a steady stream of magenta magic.
In the center, surrounded by the mages and the sigils, was an enormous black cube that hovered about a foot off the floor. The inky surface rippled, as if the cube were composed of thick, sludgy fluid. As the spells reached the cube, they revealed swirls and markings on its surface in no language that Khadgar recognized.
“Alodi,” was all Antonidas said.
This was decidedly unhelpful. “What is it?”
His eyes never leaving the form, Antonidas replied, “An entity from a time before the Kirin Tor existed. We think it once served a function similar to that of the Guardian.”
Ask Alodi. “A protector…” Khadgar whispered, his eyes glued to the languidly rippling surface of the cube.
Antonidas turned to him. “No one beyond the arch-council knows of its existence… and it will stay that way!” Khadgar hesitated, then nodded his agreement.
The archmage scowled, but he looked more lost than angry. At last he said, “For you to mention it by name in the same breath as the dark portal is too much to be mere—”