Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

“I saw a line of structures along the horizon,” he said, panting a little as he caught his breath. “Tents, like ours. So many of them! I saw smoke from dozens… no, hundreds of cook fires, and watchtowers positioned to see us coming.” He shook her head in wonder. “Gul’dan did not lie when he said he would gather all the orcs in Draenor.”

A weight that he’d never even acknowledged lifted from Durotan’s chest. He had not let himself dwell on the possibility that they had been too late, or even that the entire gathering had been an exaggeration. Kurvorsh’s words were more of a comfort to the weary chieftain than he could know.

“How far?” he asked.

“About half a sun’s walk. We should reach there with enough time to make camp for the evening.”

“Maybe they will have food,” Orgrim said. “Something freshly killed, roasting on a spit. Clefthooves do not come this far south, do they? What do these southlanders eat, anyway?”

“Whatever it is, if it is freshly killed, roasting on a spit, I do not doubt you will eat it, Orgrim,” Durotan said. “Nor,” he added, “would anyone in this camp refuse. But we should not expect it. We should not expect anything.”

“We were asked to join the Horde, and we did.” The voice was Draka’s, and it was at his side rather than above him. She had dismounted. “We bring our weapons, from spears to arrows to hammers, and our hunting and survival skills. We come to serve the Horde, to help all grow strong, and eat. We are Frostwolves. They will be glad we have come.”

Her eyes flashed and her chin lifted slightly. Draka had once been Exiled, when she was young and frail. She had returned one of the fiercest warriors Durotan had ever seen, and had brought the Frostwolves knowledge of other cultures, other ways, that would now, no doubt, be all the more valuable.

“My mate is right,” Durotan said. He made as if to lift her back onto Ice’s back, but she put out a hand, no.

“She is right,” Draka agreed, smiling a little, “and she will walk beside her chieftain and mate into this gathering of the Horde.”

Durotan looked toward the south. For so long, the sky had been mercilessly clear, with no chance of rain in the offing. But now, he saw the smudge of a gray cloud. As he regarded it, the billowing mist was abruptly lit from within by lightning that glowed an ominous shade of green.

Kurvorsh had calculated their travel speed well. The sun was low on the horizon when they arrived at the encampment, but there would still be plenty of light for the clan to prepare the evening meal and erect their tents.

The sound of so many voices talking was foreign to Durotan, and there were so many unfamiliar sights to behold it was exhausting. His gaze swept over the large, circular tents, similar to the one he and Draka shared, and came to rest on the field that had been roped off so that children from different clans could play together. He took in all the scents and sounds—conversation, laughter, the rough music of a lok’vadnod being sung, the pounding of drums, so many that Durotan could feel the earth tremble beneath his feet. Smells: of fires, and grain cakes cooking and flames roasting meats, stews bubbling, and the strong but not unpleasant musk of wolf fur and orc teased his nostrils.

Kurvorsh had not exaggerated; if anything, he had minimized the absolute vastness of this seemingly endless stretch of leather and wood structures. The Frostwolves were among the smallest of the clans, Durotan knew. But for a moment, he was so overwhelmed he couldn’t speak. Finally, words came.

“So many clans in one place, Orgrim. Laughing Skull, Blackrock, Warsong… all have been summoned.”

“It will be a mighty warband,” his second-in-command said. “I just wonder who’s left to fight.”

“Frostwolves.”

The voice was flat, almost bored, and Durotan and Orgrim turned to see two tall, burly male orcs marching up to them. They were unusually large and well muscled, given that the land was dying and many orcs had too little food. Unlike the Frostwolves, who had only a few pieces of mail or plate armor, relying mostly on spike-studded leather to protect them, these orcs wore undented pieces of shiny plate on their shoulders and even on their chests. They carried spears and moved with a united sense of purpose.

But it was not their healthy, muscle-laden forms, nor their shiny new armor, that drew Durotan’s eye.

These orcs were green.

It was a subtle shade, much less obvious than the nearly leaf-colored hue of Gul’dan, the leader of the Horde, who had ventured to the north with his equally green-skinned slave, Garona. This was darker, more like the typical brown color of orc skin. But the tint, that strange, unnatural tint, was still there.

“Who among you is the chieftain?” one of them demanded.

“I have the honor of leading the Frostwolves,” Durotan rumbled, stepping forward. The orcs looked him up and down, then glanced appraisingly at Orgrim. “You two. Follow me. Blackhand wishes to see you.”

“Who is Blackhand?” Durotan demanded.