Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

The draenei prisoners on either side of the gate arched in agony, their bodies taut. Durotan watched, stunned, as blue-white, curling tendrils of mist extended from the prisoners, racing toward Gul’dan. He opened his mouth, drinking in the misty spirals, letting them bathe and caress him.

The green-skinned orcs in the forefront seemed to go mad. They roared, pelting up the steps to the portal. The draenei spasmed. Their skin grew paler, their bodies weaker, frailer—older. When they were little more than husks, the glowing blue radiance of their eyes winked out. The rush of life energy ceased flowing from them, and the green outlining the portal crackled and flared with fire, as if in anticipation. An enormous sound shattered Durotan’s ears as a glowing orb shot from Gul’dan’s hands toward the portal and exploded. Where once one could see through the portal to the stone and earth on the other side, now the interior of the entire rectangular gateway was a pulsating, sickly emerald hue. Then the green swirl’s color became tinted with others; the blue of a sky, the rich browns and natural colors of trees.

A vista bought with so many lives. Was it worth it, even if it meant the survival of his clan?

The painful answer was… yes.

“For the Horde!” Someone had shouted it, and others were now taking up the cry. “For the Horde! For the Horde! For the Horde!”

Orgrim flashed Durotan a grin and raced past his chieftain. The chant pounded on Durotan’s ears like the pounding of his heart, but he did not break into a frenzied run as so many others did. He turned around to regard his mate. At her questioning look, he told her, “Let me go first.” If he were to die going through, he would at least have his death serve to warn his mate.

“For the Horde! For the Horde!”

Draka slowed, obeying her chieftain. Durotan lowered his head, gripped Thunderstrike, and muttered beneath his breath, “For the Frostwolves,” and ran through.

Draka frowned and set her jaw as her beloved disappeared, vanishing into the shimmering, sky-blue-tree-green entrance to… what? What had Durotan thought to do? Others ran through, but no one returned. She could not wait for him to tell her all was well. She had to join him.

She clenched her hands into fists, and, growling low in her throat, strode forward with the rest of the shouting, sweaty mass of bloodlust-fueled warriors. Her eyes straight ahead, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish, entered the portal.

The earth fell away from beneath her feet.

She floated in dim green light as if in a lake, disoriented, her breath coming quickly. Behind her was the light from the portal; ahead, increasing darkness. Other orcs swam-fell past as thin ribbons of light reached out before her. She could still hear the strange thunder from the Draenor side of the gate, but it was muffled. Now and then a blast of illumination would sear her eyes. She pushed aside the threat of debilitating fear and focused on the one thing she could see—a needle-prick of light, of hope, in the enveloping darkness. Draka started trying to move toward it. She felt as though she did not weigh anything. How then to reach this light?

Reaching out with her arms, she pulled them back—and floated forward. She smiled to herself and kept going. This new land was on the other side of this strange tunnel. Her mate awaited her there. The child within her kicked, as if in protest.

Be calm, little one, Draka thought. We will soon—

Pain stabbed her as her stomach contracted, hard, like a fist clenching before delivering a blow. Startled, Draka gasped. She had never been with child before, but she had spoken with the other females. She knew what to expect. The orc life was one of unceasing vigilance, and babies therefore came swiftly and with little pain so that their mothers would be prepared to move or fight if necessary.

But this—

It was too soon. The agony that ripped through her abdomen was a warning, not a herald. The babe needed at least another moon in his mother’s sheltering body. Panting, sweat popping out over her dark skin, Draka struggled to remove the camouflaging shield, tossing it away into the darkness. The light was closer now; she could see other orc shapes around her, all struggling toward the light, and for a moment, Draka felt a sudden kinship with her child. In a way, they were both being born.

Another orc, wheeling weightlessly, floated past her. Durotan! He reached out to her, seeing that she was in torment, trying to catch her, but he tumbled past, inexorably swept along by the strange current. Another object tumbled slowly toward her—an uprooted tree. Draka curled in on herself despite the horrible, dagger-sharp pains, doing what she could to protect her child. The tree’s branches scraped her skin as it passed.