Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

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 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—

Something glinted along the trail. Durotan slitted his eyes, straining to see. There came another flash, and he realized he was looking at a long line of armored humans, riding atop their hooved mounts.

“Weapons,” Durotan shouted. At once, his warriors stopped feeding the fire, and went to arm themselves just in case. They were on edge, as was Orgrim. Durotan had never seen his friend this ill at ease. He understood. He, too, had never been so unsettled before either a parley or a battle. These were strange times, but he was firm in the correctness of his choice.

“A good spot for an ambush,” Orgrim commented, looking up at the peaks that closed in around them.

“Our sentries are well placed.”

Orgrim grunted. “I will check again,” he said, and moved off. Durotan nodded absently, his attention fully on the line of soldiers winding their way toward him. Forty, perhaps fifty of them, all told. Beside him, the warrior Zarka snorted. “So many, they bring,” she said. “They must be very fearful.”

“They could have brought many more, Zarka,” Durotan said.

“Perhaps they did.”

“If so, Orgrim will find out.”

“Chieftain…” Zarka looked at Durotan. “I follow you, but I mislike this.”

“We did not like being forced to leave our home, but we had no choice. I do not believe we have one now, either.”

Zarka looked at her chieftain searchingly, then thumped her fist over her heart in a salute. Durotan glanced up, seeking Orgrim. His second-in-command stood on a ridge above him. He turned to Durotan and made a broad signal with his arms: All is well.

They were closer now, the stream of humans and beasts spreading out onto the valley floor. Finally, about fifty feet away, the human in the lead lifted his hand, and the soldiers halted. He wore armor that seemed to Durotan to be delicate and decorative. His head was bare, as was that of the man who rode beside him with a blue-eyed gaze as sharp as a sword. The two men slipped off their mounts, and Garona followed.

Kill them, something inside him shouted. They are not orcs. Kill them!

No. The lives of my people are more important than bloodlust.