The gryphon landed directly on top of a green-skinned orc, and began shredding him with her beak, talons, and hind legs. Lothar sprang from her back, stabbed at an orc too shocked to respond in time, and seized his mace as the greenskin fell.
Llane. Llane.
They had dropped him, his king, his brother, to turn and fight the strange death that had appeared so unexpectedly from the sky. Heedless of his own injuries from the fight with Medivh, indeed of anything other than the swing of his sword and where his friend lay on the hard, dry ground, Lothar fought his way toward the crumpled figure.
Llane—
He was sprawled on the ground, face down, but his armor was unmistakable. He wore no helm, and Lothar’s body turned to ice as he saw the dagger protruding from Llane’s throat.
He had ordered this dagger made when his sister had turned thirteen. He knew every line of it. And he knew to whom Taria had chosen to bestow it, as a gesture of trust.
Lothar continued to kneel, to stare, to question the evidence of his eyes. Strangely, in this awful moment of loss and failure, of betrayal and broken hearts and devastation, all he could think was why did you take off your helm, Llane? Why did you take off your helm?
Slowly, as his traitorous heart continued to beat instead of stopping and hurtling him into death alongside his brother, Lothar again became aware of his surroundings. A few feet away, the gryphon was screaming, defending him as he crouched, shocked almost beyond reason, over the body of his assassinated liege.
He could fight. He could die too, here, taking more than a few of them with him. But all Lothar wanted was to take Llane home. He would not leave him here, to be tossed about by laughing orcs, to be the center of some barbaric display of triumph. Llane was going home. Lothar had failed to save him. He owed him this, at least.
He heaved Llane’s body, armor and all, over his shoulder, staggering just a little before marching toward the still-combative gryphon. The orcs near him were so astonished at his behavior that they failed to challenge him.
“Stormwind!” he shouted to the gryphon as he put one foot in the stirrup and flung himself the rest of the way. With the effortlessness of a beast that had been trained for just such demands, the gryphon ducked and twisted her body, propelling Lothar and his precious cargo safely onto her back.
She had leaped upwards when suddenly she came to a jerking, violent halt. Lothar whirled to see Blackhand’s hideous face leering up at him. His remaining natural hand had closed firmly around the gryphon’s hock, and although her wings beat frantically, the warchief hauled her back down to earth.
Lothar must have fallen, for the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, staring up at a ring of ugly faces peering down at him. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head just in time to see Llane’s sword hurtling end over end toward him. It impaled itself in the dirt two feet from Lothar’s head, gleaming unbearably brightly in the sun.
He was surprised he had not been swarmed by bellowing orcs hungry for his blood. As he got slowly to his feet, he heard them murmuring a single word: Mak’gora.
They had all stepped backward, leaving the area clear for two opponents: their warchief, and Anduin Lothar. One of the orcs had the gryphon’s head under his arm. Another held her squirming torso. They would not hurt her; she was useful to them. Llane’s body had toppled off and lay at an unnatural angle in the dust.
The sight rekindled Lothar’s fury. He stood, steadying himself, looking at the crowd of silent, expectant orcs, and then at Blackhand, pacing a few yards away.
Blackhand held no weapon in his good hand. He was armed solely with the metallic claw hand; the five blades with which he had gutted Callan. Lothar willed the red haze of bloodlust to clear. He would not die under its obscuration.
Slowly, he picked up his brother’s sword, never taking his eyes from Blackhand’s glowing green ones. The orc stood still as a statue save for breathing that lifted, then let fall, his obscenely broad green chest. He recalled the silent vow he had made Blackhand—that he would take his life. No matter what it took.
Whatever Lothar did now, he was meat. Garona had spoken glowingly of the “honor” of orcs; honor that, it seemed, allowed them to betray those who had trusted them, and drive a knife into the throat of one of the finest men Lothar had ever known. They had no honor. They had only bloodlust, and conquest, and death.
Still, the orcs did not charge.
Lothar arranged his fingers about the hilt, remembering how often he had seen it in Llane’s hands as they sparred, or fought in earnest. Against trolls. Against uprisings.
But it had fallen from his grip against orcs.
Still. Steady.
And then Blackhand charged.
He moved swiftly for such a mountain of a monster. Lifting his enormous clawed hand, the fel twining about it like snakes, he screamed his victory cry as he bore down upon the human, so much smaller than he and armed with a single sword.
Lothar surrendered to his training, into the trust of his brother’s spirit to guide his hand. There was no justice that could be bought here today. But at least his son’s killer could fall, could threaten no other parents with the loss of their beloved child. This, he could have.
He stood, waiting, then ran straight at his enemy. At the last moment, he dropped, sliding beneath the running orc, his bare feet ripped to shreds by the stony earth as he slashed upwards, using Blackhand’s own momentum against him.
Blackhand cried out in pain, stumbling to a halt. He kept his feet for a heartbeat, then dropped to his knees. Lothar came up behind him, and using the full force of his body, thrust the sword deep into Blackhand’s torso.
“For my son,” he said, quietly. He kicked the warchief, and Blackhand pitched forward. Green blood pooled beneath him. He did not rise.
There was stunned silence. Lothar lowered his sword, glancing around at the crowd. From the distance, he heard an angry roar and orders uttered in a raspy, furious voice. Heads turned toward the sound of the voice, then back to Lothar. Doubtless, they had been given the order to kill.
He tightened his grip on the sword, ready to take as many of them with him as he could. But they stayed where they were, staring at him, their tiny, oddly intelligent eyes unreadable. One orc started to move forward, lifting an axe. Another’s hand came out and touched his chest, stopping him. The first orc frowned, but lowered his weapon.
Their chieftain had wanted a duel. Lothar had given it to him, and the orcs would honor the rules of such a thing.
Lothar wished they would not.
His gaze traveled to the fallen body of his king. The orcs on the field of battle remained motionless. And then a terrible bellow rent the air. Lothar turned to see two of the ugliest things he had ever beheld approaching him. One was a hunched orc, bright green, with a long gray beard. His eyes glowed brightly with the fel—as brightly as Medivh’s had done. He marched forward, leaning on his staff, horns bristling where they poked through the cloak that covered his back.
It could be none other than Gul’dan.
The other orc who stood beside him Lothar had once considered beautiful. But to him, now, Garona was more abominable than the fel-twisted creature she stood beside. Their eyes met.
Garona had to use every ounce of her strong will not to break down weeping as Lothar stared at her. How she had not done so before now, she did not know, but she needed to be stronger than she had ever been. Lothar’s eyes glittered like those of a feral creature. She could see in them his broken heart, for Llane’s death, for her betrayal. He looked like he would welcome his death. But Garona would not.
“Kill him!” Gul’dan ordered, pointing a sharp-nailed finger at Lothar.