Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

He turned his attention again to the slave, lip curling in contempt as the man reached out to him imploringly. “Be feared,” Gul’dan said, said, “or be fuel.”

Gul’dan abruptly closed his fist and tugged. The cord between them snapped. The human’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. Orgrim stared at the corpse, a papery, withered husk. He inclined his head, and left. As soon as he was far enough away from the torches, he broke into a run. He was certain that Gul’dan had not believed him. He only hoped that he had bought his clan enough time.

But he had not.

Howls and shouts pierced the night air and as he approached the Frostwolf encampment, Orgrim saw one hut go up in a sheet of flames. “Gul’dan does not want to waste his power on the Frostwolves!” he heard a large Warsong, green with the fel, declare. He would never say anything else. Orgrim closed the distance between them, hoisted the other orc, then slammed his head down at an angle on his own bald pate. The Warsong’s neck snapped. Orgrim hurled away the body and continued on.

Durotan, my old friend, forgive me.

He rushed to the chieftain’s hut. Draka whirled, one arm on her child in its cradle, the other holding a huge, wicked-looking dagger that could slice Orgrim’s throat just as easily as it had once opened a talbuk’s belly.

“I’ll bathe in your blood!” she snarled, her eyes hard with loathing.

“Maybe,” he agreed sadly, “but not now. I can’t give you long, but I can give you a head start.” He moved to close the tent flap. The instant he turned back to face her, she had the blade to his throat. He knew how badly she wanted to slash it across his jugular. He saw it in her eyes, could feel it in the slight trembling of the metal against his flesh. And she was right to want to do so.

She spat at him. “Why should I trust you? You have betrayed us all!”

Orgrim gestured to the baby. “Do you recall what I said to you, before we left to join the Horde? I swore I would never let harm come to you or the baby, not if I could prevent it. I cannot halt what I have put into motion, but let me at least keep that promise. For your son’s sake, Draka. Leave! Now!”

Draka looked at him, listening to the sounds of murder and chaos outside the tent. At last, her expression as cold as winter in Frostfire Ridge, she lowered the blade—but not without leaving a small, bloody cut on his neck. Frustrated, she whirled and directed her fury at the back of the tent, slicing a hidden exit.

Holding her and Durotan’s child in its cradle, she turned and gave him a final, contemptuous glance. “You should have trusted in your chieftain, Orgrim Doomhammer.” Sick with shame, Orgrim found he could not bear to look at her as she slipped out into the darkness, instead checking to make sure no one was coming to the tent.

Once he heard her leave, he went to the rift she had made and looked out, watching her race for the trees and, Spirits willing, safety. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement, one of the Bleeding Hollow orcs rushed the tent, his eyes on the fleeing Draka. Casually, Orgrim swung the Doomhammer, crushing the other’s skull. He looked up from the corpse, and saw no sign of Draka or other pursuit.

Now, to see if there were other Frostwolves he could help before it was too late. And then, he would do what he could for Durotan.

Khadgar had leaped from the gryphon’s back while it was still in flight, landing on the stairs that led to the Chamber of Air and racing up them. He knew this room well. Here, he had stood as a boy of eleven, while the same mages who stood on the ringed platform now had tested him and found him worthy. Here, silvery white magic had burned its Eye into his arm. It tingled now, as he returned to this place; something he had never imagined happening.

“Khadgar!” another mage shouted. “How dare you return here!”

“Get out!” another cried.

Khadgar turned his face up to the thin, elderly Archmage Antonidas, catching his breath as the Council of Six, clad in their violet robes embroidered with the Eye of the Kirin Tor scowled down at him. “I come seeking your wisdom,” he said.

Antonidas’s scowl deepened. “There’s nothing for you here now.”

“The Guardian Medivh is unwell.”

Murmuring broke out as the six exchanged glances that ranged from shocked to furious to offended. Antonidas looked thunderstruck. “What?

The young mage took a deep breath. “He has been poisoned by the fel.”

Silence. Antonidas strode to the edge of the platform. He looked as if he wanted to bring lightning down upon Khadgar, but didn’t want to damage the precious inlay of the floor. “Ridiculous,” the archmage all but snarled.

Archmage Shendra, who never had much cared for Khadgar, stepped forward. “It was you, Khadgar, who was weak!” She didn’t even attempt to disguise her loathing as she stabbed a bony index finger in his direction. “You who felt the need to study that wretched magic the Kirin Tor had so specifically banned!”