Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

Durotan’s eyes fell on a Frostwolf banner. It had survived the fire, though it was singed at the edges. There was a bloody handprint on it. Someone had tried to save it.

The walls around him came down then, but not for grief. For fury. Durotan reached to pick up the banner and clutched it tightly while he let white-hot rage run unfettered through him.

He had lost everything. But he was not yet done.

They wouldn’t follow him if they could see what he has become.

Then I’ll show them.

Hope, thought Llane as he rode through the torchlit night streets of Stormwind, was perhaps the most powerful weapon of all. And sometimes, it was the only weapon. He had feared it would be their only weapon in truth, but Medivh had returned, even if Lothar had… temporarily… been overwhelmed by the mindlessness of grief. Hope had returned to him, and he saw it reflected back at him on the faces of the citizens of the capital city, as they thronged the streets, even as that hope was tempered with the worry that all thought of war evoked, despite the hour.

The river of horses and armored soldiers forked around the towering statue of the Guardian, then rejoined as they approached the city’s gates, where his family stood on a hastily erected dais waiting to send him on his way. His daughter, almost as tall as her mother and looking more like Taria every day, stood with her hands clasped, perfectly mimicking the gesture of the queen. Except Adariall trembled more than her mother did. The burden of a princess, Llane thought. Llane gave her a reassuring nod, then his gaze fell on Varian. The boy was splendid in his formal tunic, breeches, and cape, but he leaned on the balcony as if he wanted to climb over it and into his father’s arms. His prince’s circlet rested atop his dark head, and his lips were pressed tightly together. The expression made him look stern, but it tugged at Llane’s heart. He knew it meant the boy was struggling to hold back the tears that made his eyes shiny. Too smart for his own good, that one. Llane and Taria had said all the reassuring things to their children, and truly, with Medivh restored and at his side, Llane felt more confident than he had since the whole horrifying ordeal had begun. But Varian picked up on the subtle glances, on the things unspoken. He would be a good king one day. But, hopefully, not too soon.

Llane longed to embrace the boy, but he was almost a man now, and would not appreciate a public display. So Llane granted the boy the gravitas he deserved. “There is no other man I would entrust my family’s welfare to, Varian. Keep them safe until I return.”

Varian’s chin quivered, ever so slightly, but he nodded

Taria regarded her husband now, slender and regal, her dark eyes on his. Taria, his best friend’s sister, who balanced a kind heart with a level head better than he ever could. Who had seen him ride off to possible death more times than he could count. Who had seen him uncertain, and determined, and joyful, and battered, and who loved him through all of those seasons.

They had said their goodbyes earlier, in private. They needed no more. They knew.

“Ready?” It was Medivh who broke the moment, sooner than Llane would have wished. The king nodded, and without another word he squeezed his horse into a trot as they headed for the open gates of the city.

“I’d feel better if Anduin was riding with us,” Llane admitted to the Guardian.

“We’ll do fine,” his old friend assured him. “I’ll return to Karazhan and ready myself for the battle. The Frostwolves will meet you on the way. Find me at the portal.” He turned his horse around and cantered off, doubtless to find a quiet spot to create a portal of his own. Outside the gates, the three legions, all that they would need, according to Medivh, awaited their commander.

Garona brought her horse up to fill the vacant spot next to her king. Her eyes met his for a moment, then both of them looked straight ahead. Llane knew their minds should be focused on the upcoming battle, but he suspected that Garona’s thoughts, like his, were with Anduin Lothar in his prison cell.

Anduin Lothar wanted out of his prison cell.

Immediately.

He stared at his knuckles, raw and bloody from his futile attempts to beat down the door. He sucked at the blood for a moment, calming himself, then tried again.

“Guard?” He smiled and spread his hands. “It’s clear this door is solidly built. I’ll save my fighting for defending the realm. I know you’re just doing your job. And a good one, at that. But I’ve cooled down now. So, if you’d just come and open this cage… so I can protect the king.”

The smile hurt his face, and he could still taste the coppery blood. The armored guard holding a poleaxe at the end of the hallway was having none of it, however.

The guard didn’t move.