Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

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.

When her heart turned to her, she made sure he would only see determination and love in her eyes as he gazed intently into them. They were Frostwolves. They knew they loved. They would make no scene in front of Blackhand.

Whatever happens.

I’ve thought of a name, she had said to him.

I’ll choose the name when I’ve met him… or her.