Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

Llane exhaled a sigh of relief and gratitude, closing his eyes and yielding to that touch, willingly offering his throat to the woman standing behind him. If killing was ever an act of love, he knew this was one such. Garona would do as he had asked her, although he knew it broke her heart. His only regret was for the hatred she would be forced to endure until the time came to set things right.

His death would not be in vain—nor would, he prayed to the Light, Garona’s torment be.

He was thinking of Taria, her wide, gentle eyes, the sweet, secret smile that was only for him, as his queen’s own dagger, held in the hand of the truest of friends, ended his life.

As his gryphon dove, her body responding to the urgency she could feel in her rider, Lothar saw a scene of madness. There was the gate, closed now, thanks to his efforts and, more importantly, Khadgar’s. Most of the cages were open and empty of prisoners.

But in the panorama beneath him, of moving bodies and the orange glow of fires, Lothar saw very few glints of Stormwind armor in a sea of green and brown skin. He scanned frantically for the king’s banner, but did not spy it. What was left of three legions was a pathetic handful of soldiers and horses, forming a final and impossible defense at the base of the portal that now opened onto nothing at all.

Where was Llane? Where was his king?

The gryphon dropped like a stone. Lothar clutched his sword with his right hand, and clung like a burr with the other. His eyes swept the scene, searching for the best place to attack.

There.

Blackhand was the warchief’s name. The one whose hand Lothar had taken—and the one who, in return, had taken Lothar’s child. He was even more abominable than before, huge, unnatural, swinging his weapon almost leisurely. The few who were left of Stormwind’s finest were falling before him at a rate that would have been comical if it hadn’t been so galvanically terrifying.

There came a glint of color as Blackhand hoisted a fallen soldier. The knight was passed along from one orc to another like a wineskin at a festival, the orcs laughing and jostling it. Lothar caught a flash of blue and yellow, and armor that was decorated and exquisitely carved—

Red sheeted over Lothar’s vision. He must have screamed, because his throat hurt suddenly, and there was a terrible sound in his ears over the din of battle.

The gryphon landed directly on top of a green-skinned orc, and began shredding him with her beak, talons, and hind legs. Lothar sprang from her back, stabbed at an orc too shocked to respond in time, and seized his mace as the greenskin fell.

Llane. Llane.

They had dropped him, his king, his brother, to turn and fight the strange death that had appeared so unexpectedly from the sky. Heedless of his own injuries from the fight with Medivh, indeed of anything other than the swing of his sword and where his friend lay on the hard, dry ground, Lothar fought his way toward the crumpled figure.

Llane—

He was sprawled on the ground, face down, but his armor was unmistakable. He wore no helm, and Lothar’s body turned to ice as he saw the dagger protruding from Llane’s throat.

He had ordered this dagger made when his sister had turned thirteen. He knew every line of it. And he knew to whom Taria had chosen to bestow it, as a gesture of trust.

Lothar continued to kneel, to stare, to question the evidence of his eyes. Strangely, in this awful moment of loss and failure, of betrayal and broken hearts and devastation, all he could think was why did you take off your helm, Llane? Why did you take off your helm?

Slowly, as his traitorous heart continued to beat instead of stopping and hurtling him into death alongside his brother, Lothar again became aware of his surroundings. A few feet away, the gryphon was screaming, defending him as he crouched, shocked almost beyond reason, over the body of his assassinated liege.

He could fight. He could die too, here, taking more than a few of them with him. But all Lothar wanted was to take Llane home. He would not leave him here, to be tossed about by laughing orcs, to be the center of some barbaric display of triumph. Llane was going home. Lothar had failed to save him. He owed him this, at least.

He heaved Llane’s body, armor and all, over his shoulder, staggering just a little before marching toward the still-combative gryphon. The orcs near him were so astonished at his behavior that they failed to challenge him.

“Stormwind!” he shouted to the gryphon as he put one foot in the stirrup and flung himself the rest of the way. With the effortlessness of a beast that had been trained for just such demands, the gryphon ducked and twisted her body, propelling Lothar and his precious cargo safely onto her back.