All the strength left Draka’s body as she collapsed atop her fallen enemy. She was dying, but she was at peace. As her life bled onto the sand, she remembered the words she had said to Durotan when she had returned from her Exile: When all is done, when the sun of my life sets, I would see it do so here, in Frostfire Ridge.
She would not die on Frostfire Ridge. She was dying here, now, in an alien land, with a husband who would soon join her in death, if he did not await her already. The last image that filled her eyes was that of her baby’s vessel, bobbing on the water. And as her vision darkened, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish, thought she saw the river’s gentle waves turn into embracing arms.
Water, take my baby.
Her eyes closed.
Water, take…
All the chieftains of the Horde and most of their warriors had gathered outside Gul’dan’s tent. They were stunned to see the Frostwolf as he marched forward. Durotan wore a wolf pelt over his broad shoulders, the beast’s head serving him for a helm. He had already killed three guards before they could warn their vile leader, and now the others parted to admit him, regarding him with loathing, arrogance, and curiosity as he tossed the singed banner to the dusty earth in front of the warlock’s tent.
“I am Durotan, son of Garad, chieftain of the Frostwolf clan,” he cried, letting his fury fuel his voice. “And I am here to kill Gul’dan.”
As he watched them, their postures shifted. The arrogance left them as they realized that he came without a weapon, yet had just challenged the most powerful one of them all to an honor battle.
The defiant, insane declaration brought forth Blackhand, at least, from the tent. He looked Durotan up and down. “A ghost cannot invoke mak’gora,” Blackhand declared. “You are chieftain to no clan. Your people are food for worms.”
Durotan choked back his rage. This orc before him was not the target of it. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, he heard a familiar voice beside him.
“Some of us still live, warchief,” said Orgrim Doomhammer.
Durotan, surprised, turned to look at him. Orgrim had destroyed their friendship, but it was not too late for the son of Telkar to rediscover honor.
Now, at last, Gul’dan emerged. His glowing gaze fell upon Durotan, then on Orgrim, and his frown deepened. Durotan barely caught the words the warchief and the warlock exchanged.
“Shall I make a quick end of them?” Blackhand offered.
“I always thought you were one for tradition, Blackhand,” the warlock replied. “Durotan,” he said, more loudly so that all could hear. “Your clan was weak, and you are a traitor. I accept your challenge, if only to personally rip the heart out of your pathetic body.”
“What of the portal?” Blackhand spoke to Gul’dan, but his gaze was fixed on Durotan. “You must be ready when the incantation begins.”
The incantation… Durotan did not know much about the details of how the portal would open. Gul’dan had hoarded such knowledge. But if Durotan could survive long enough, perhaps his death could, at least, aid the humans who had been so willing to trust him.
“This won’t take long.” Gul’dan’s thick, green lips curved around his yellowed tusks in a cruel, savoring smile. He handed his staff to Blackhand, and reached for his cloak. He pulled out the sharp pin that served for a clasp, and the cloak fell to the ground. Everyone present stared.
Gul’dan had always appeared to Durotan stooped and old, with a white beard and seamed face. But as the cloak fell away from his frame, leaving his torso bare in the growing morning light, it revealed a physique that made Blackhand look like a child. Muscles strained against the taut green skin of an orc who looked, as Grom Hellscream had said, as if he had the strength of five.
But that was not what had Durotan and all the others gaping in shocked silence. Durotan remembered when Gul’dan had come to the Frostwolves for the first time. He had worn this same cloak then. At the time, Durotan had been confused, unable to determine how the spines with the tiny skulls fixed atop them had been sewn into the fabric. Now, he understood.
The spines had not been attached to the cloak. They were protruding through it.
They and their macabre decorations were growing from Gul’dan’s body.
Gul’dan basked in the awe and horror his appearance inspired, and Durotan knew with a sick feeling that the fel-distorted monstrosity in front of him was more than likely right. This would not take long.
But Durotan resolved to make Gul’dan’s inevitable victory dearly bought. He stepped forward into the ring, shrugging off his own wolf-fur cloak and letting it slip to the ground. He stood, calculating, waiting, letting Gul’dan circle him.
And with a bellow, he sprang.
Moroes was dead, a withered, papery husk, sucked dry like the remnants of an insect when the spider has gorged. So poised and dignified in life, he now sprawled, legs akimbo, in front of a font gone sickly green which bubbled and emitted evil wisps of misty fel.
Lothar lifted his gaze from the dead castellan to the upper platform. He was both relieved and aghast to see his old friend standing there. He could not see the Guardian’s face, but his form was unnaturally erect, and his arms were held up to the sky.
Lothar caught the young mage’s eye. Khadgar nodded, moving slowly to the left, toward the scaffolding that supported the golem Medivh had been working on when they had first arrived. Lothar stepped to the right. With luck, they could pin the Guardian between them.
And do what? his sad, sick soul asked.
Something. Anything, his mind replied.
He had thought he would be angry, but instead he was more sorrowful than anything else. “Medivh,” he called, calmly, carefully.
Now, Medivh lifted his head, and horror spurted through Lothar. His face was still recognizable—but only barely. It was covered with lines that were like cracks in marble. His beard had been replaced by a line of small, downward-jutting horns. And the Guardian’s eyes were pitch black.
Casually, Medivh raised his arm. Energy pulsed, and Lothar was seized by the shape of a huge, sickly yellow hand and lifted into the air. The Guardian’s eyes flared, like a small eruption of green magma, and the magical hand tightened. Lothar’s breastplate began to crumple, as if he were a toy soldier squeezed too hard by a bored child.
From below and behind Khadgar hurled a blast of energy at Medivh’s back. Without even turning, Medivh countered the spell with his right hand, turning the blue missle back on its sender. He released his grip on Lothar, letting his old friend drop and turning his attention to Khadgar.
But Khadgar wasn’t there. Lothar lay still where he had fallen, feigning death for a long, tense moment. Then, Medivh begin to chant. He had listened to the Guardian summoning spells for years, but he had never heard anything like this. It made his throat turn dry, his skin crawl, and he would have known without being told that what was being spoken was the darkest evil that could be imagined.
Lothar used Medivh’s distraction to crawl to Khadgar in the mage’s hiding place—beneath the golem’s thick clay body.
Khadgar looked pale. “It’s the incantation to the orc home world. He’s opening the portal. We need to shut him up!”
The mage nodded, then froze. Lothar strained to listen. Medivh, no doubt having realized that the “dead” Lothar was no longer where he had been dropped, was moving overhead. Looking for them.