Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

She reached out as the light intensified, almost blinding after the darkness of this journey. Her questing fingers brushed against something solid—earth! Draka growled in frustration, digging her sharp-nailed fingers into the soil and pulling herself up and out of the portal.

Feet thundered past her and she rose, stumbling out of the crush of orcs eager for bloodshed, feeling soggy earth… water, grass…

Draka shrieked at pain so sharp it felt as if her child was slicing her belly from the inside. Her knees gave way and she collapsed onto the marshy earth, her heaving lungs inhaling damp air.

“Draka!” It was Durotan. On her hands and knees, Draka turned her head to see him racing toward her. Then, an enormous orc shot out a hand decorated with inky black markings and seized her mate.

“With child?” the orc bellowed. “You bring that wachook into my warband?”

“Let me go, Blackhand!” her husband pleaded. “Draka!”

She could hold her head up no longer. Durotan would not be at her side, roaring encouragement, as their baby slid into the world. Spirits… would it even survive, born so early, wrapped in his mother’s torment? Draka sobbed, not with pain, but in anger and rage. This child deserved better! It deserved to live!

Suddenly someone was there, murmuring quietly, “Shhh… shhh… you are not alone, Draka, daughter of Kelkar, son of Rhakish.”

She looked up, through the tangle of sweat-soaked hair clinging to her face, into the glowing green eyes of Gul’dan.

No!

Everything in Durotan’s entire being cried out at the thought of Gul’dan, he of the green skin and death magic, standing in Durotan’s stead while Draka gave birth. Durotan struggled against Blackhand’s restraint, but the orc commander held him firmly.

“Push, little one,” Gul’dan was saying, his voice uncharacteristically kind. “Push…” Durotan watched helplessly as Draka, on her hands and knees, threw back her head and screamed as their son entered the world.

The baby was still, so still, and silent. Durotan sagged against Blackhand’s iron grip, his heart cracking inside his chest. My son…

But Gul’dan held the tiny thing, so small, barely as large as his green hand, and bent over him.

The little chest hitched. A heartbeat later, a lusty wail filled the air, and Durotan gasped as relief washed over him. His son was alive!

“Welcome, little one!” Gul’dan laughed, and raised Durotan and Draka’s baby to the skies. “A new warrior for the Horde!” he shouted, and a deafening cheer rose up around Durotan. He paid it no heed. He stared, stunned, at the small being that was his son.

The child was green.

4

The city was dim, and loud, and hot. Fire burned in its center, as it had for years. The sounds of hammer on iron and the hiss of quenching water, too, were ceaseless. The air smelled faintly of smoke, though the cavernous construction made sure it was always breathable. Its name reflected its people—to the point, descriptive, and active: Ironforge.

The king of the dwarven underground capital, fiercely red of beard and bulbous of nose, escorted his guest through the main forge area. He was shaking his head, as if still disbelieving something, even as his feet moved purposefully. He pointed a sausage-thick finger up at his companion.

“You’re the only man I’d make plough blades for, Anduin Lothar,” he grumbled in his deep, melodious voice. “You and your army of farmers can attack the turf with dwarven steel, eh? It sends a shiver down my spine just to say it. What will my wives think?”

Anduin Lothar, the only man King Magni Bronzebeard would make plough blades for, smiled down at his old friend. Tall, well built but not massive, the “Lion of Stormwind” was easy in royal company. He had spent most of his life fighting—and drinking—beside the man who currently sat on the throne of Stormwind, and knew Magni well.

“The military man’s curse, my lord,” he said. Affection made the wry words warm. “The better I do my job, the less I’m asked to do it.”

Magni harrumphed. “Well,” he said, resigning himself to the situation, “it’s still good to see you, old friend. We’ll have your wagons packed and on their way as soon as they’re ready.”

Lothar paused beside one of the crates and ran his hand longingly—and carefully—along the glinting surface of what surely had to be the finest plough blades in existence.

“Come,” Magni continued. “I’ve got something for you.”

He had placed the hammer he had been carrying on a narrow table next to a small wooden box. Lothar stepped beside him, curious. Magni opened the box, and Lothar peered at it with interest. Inside, nestled against creamy white fabric, was an item the likes of which he had never seen. Made of metal, it had a wide mouth on one end, almost like a horn instrument. The other end was curved, and connecting them was a narrow rod. In a separate section was a collection of thumbnail-sized metal spheres. Lothar was at a loss.

“What is it?” he inquired.