Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

Lothar snarled and punched the door again, making it clang in protest, and the soldier cringed. “Open the cage!” he screamed.

The guard stepped forward, mindful to keep a safe distance between him and the enraged warrior in the cell. “Commander, please! I’m just following my—”

Lothar hurled his tankard at the frustrating man, completed the phrase, muttering “orders” when the guard suddenly disappeared in white smoke and a crackle of blue lightning. In his place stood a terribly perplexed-looking sheep. It bleated unhappily as Lothar, also terribly perplexed, looked at the hand that had hurled the tankard and wondered what he’d done.

All became clear when Khadgar emerged from the shadows, snatched up the sheep-guard’s keys from the floor, and hurried to unlock Lothar’s door.

“Where the hell have you been?” Ungrateful, Lothar thought, but sincere.

Khadgar turned the key and the door swung open. The boy looked like he had aged ten years.

“The Kirin Tor,” the mage said. Following Lothar’s gaze on the sheep, he added, “It only works on the simple-minded.” He dropped a bag containing Lothar’s sword and armor on the floor. “Your armor, Commander,” he said to Lothar, and to the sheep, “Sorry.”

He looked about and spied a cold brazier. “We’ve got a full day ahead of us,” he told Lothar, sticking his hand in the brazier and grasping a piece of burned wood while Lothar threw on his armor. Bending, he began to sketch a circle.

“I just hope we’re not too late,” Lothar said.

Khadgar looked up. “We can’t go after them. Not if you want to save Azeroth.” Lothar, already at the door, whirled around.

“My king needs me!”

“Azeroth needs you more,” Khadgar shot back. “If you want to save your king, we have to stop Medivh first.”

Lothar had never been more torn in his life. His dearest friend was even now in the process of being betrayed by their other dearest friend. About to be run over by a flood of power-crazed, green-tinted monsters. Azeroth seemed very much an abstract idea when set against that image.

But he knew what Llane would want him to do.

Khadgar had begun the teleportation incantation. White-blue magic was starting to form the familiar bubble. Lothar took a deep breath and returned, stepping inside the circle. Khadgar rose, summoning the magic to his grip as if he were gathering the reins of a horse.

“Where is Medivh?” Lothar asked.

Khadgar looked him right in the eye. “We’ve got a demon to kill.”

19

She had been running all night, with her child strapped to her back, and even she, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish, was exhausted. She had not dared to stop, knowing that Gul’dan’s orcs were following her. Had she been an ordinary orc female, with an ordinary orc child, they might have looked the other way. But she was the wife of one chieftain—and the mother of another, she was certain of it. Gul’dan had not ordered the destruction of her clan because he was angry. That would not worry her. Anger burned out, refocused. Gul’dan was afraid of the Frostwolves, and fear lingered long.

He had all but begged them to join his Horde, and now that Durotan comprehended the depths of the danger, Gul’dan could not let him live. As soon as Blackhand had come to take her heart away, Durotan was dead. Even if he walked and breathed now, he would not live long. Nor would she, nor their child. Orgrim’s change of heart had come too late for them both. She wanted to sob, to rail against fate, to hold her baby—and die with him at her breast. Draka loved Durotan passionately, but what she felt for this little life was as an inferno to a cook fire.

She would live for him. She would die for him.

Draka could go no further. She was too weary, and they were not far behind. When her flight took her to a stream, with nowhere else to run, she made a decision. The water caught the light of the new sun, sparkling brightly, bringing tears to her eyes.

“Spirit of Water,” Draka said, panting. “I can bear my child no further. They will never stop hunting us. They will find us, and kill us, if he stays with me. Will you take my baby? Will you keep him safe?”

Draka was no shaman. The Spirits did not speak to her, as they did to Drek’Thar. But she could hear the murmur of the water, and as she watched, a fish leaped, and fell back into its depths. Her heart suddenly stopped aching, and, quickly, she removed the carrying basket from her back and waded into the stream. She kissed the soft, green cheek, gently, tasting the salt of her own tears, and placed the basket into water. Draka tucked the blanket around him tenderly, a white square of cloth embroidered with the Frostwolf emblem.

Perhaps some human will remember, she thought. That the Frostwolves tried to help them. That… that we died because of that choice. All but you, my precious Go’el.