Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

“Your Majesty,” Khadgar said, stepping forward, “I may have left my training, but I didn’t leave my abilities behind. Any more than you could leave knowing how to swing a sword if you decided not to be a soldier. Look—” He ran a hand through his brown hair. “I’ve sensed something. Dark forces. When it’s strong, it almost has a smell.”

A chill crept along Lothar’s skin and he knew the boy wasn’t lying.

“Knowing that something so evil was so close… I couldn’t just ignore it. I think—”

A sudden shriek from outside, followed by a babble of frightened voices, cut him off. Callan rushed to the door and opened it, calling for order.

“What’s going on out there?” Lothar demanded of the youth.

The boy turned his impossibly young face to his commanding officer. “Smoke, sir! To the southeast!”

“Your Majesty,” Khadgar said, his whole body tense, “I urge you to engage the Guardian with all haste!”

“They’ve reached Elwynn Forest!” one of the guards declared. “Grand Hamlet is burning!” Lothar and Llane locked gazes, then Lothar strode to the window. The guard had been right. In the pre-dawn darkness it was ease itself to spot a sullen but sinister orange-red glow surging just above tree line. The wind shifted, bringing the acrid scent to his nostrils.

Taria was beside him, one hand on his arm. “An attack?” She was of noble birth, and royalty by marriage. She kept her voice steady. Only he, who knew her so well, could hear the slight tremor in it; feel her fear in the grip on his arm.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She knew. Her expression changed as she analyzed his. “What?” she asked.

Lothar pitched low for her ears only, “Stop requesting Callan.”

She looked at him, unable in this moment to feign confusion. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Stay out of my business.”

Taria didn’t deny it, only saying, as if the words explained everything, “He wants to follow in his father’s footsteps.”

There were ten thousand things wrong with that, and Lothar wanted to address at least three thousand of them, but there was no time. Instead, he said, “Stop helping him.”

“Tread carefully,” Taria said. “You talk to your queen.”

That coaxed a sly smile from Lothar, and he leaned in to her. “You are my sister first,” he reminded her. She couldn’t argue that. Llane came up behind them, regarding Lothar with grave brown eyes.

“When was your last visit to Karazhan?” the king asked.

“With you. I don’t know… six years?” Six years. A long time. How had they slipped by like this? The three of them had been so close, once…

Llane looked surprised. “You’ve had no contact with Medivh since then?”

“Not for lack of trying,” Lothar muttered. “I know my letters were received, but I might have saved myself the trouble of hiring a courier and simply lit them on fire after writing them. I gather you’ve not heard from him, either.”

Llane shook his head. “Well,” he said grimly, looking at his hand, “he can’t hide from us now.” He pulled off a ring with a large, winking blue gem, and pressed it into Lothar’s outstretched palm.

Their eyes met.

“The Guardian,” said Llane, “is summoned.”

5

Durotan, Orgrim, and two dozen other Frostwolves stood on a rise, watching what was unfolding below them. Durotan slowly stroked the thick fur of Sharptooth, scarcely believing what he saw. Orcs—the mighty, enormous, proud warriors—were setting fire to huts with thatched roofs, slaughtering livestock, and chasing after smaller, unarmed, soft-looking creatures that fled, screaming, from them. Gul’dan had promised the orcs food and clean water. He had delivered. The fields below them were golden with grain, littered with gourd vegetables that were bright orange.

The bellies of his people were full, but their spirits were still starved. Durotan’s lip curled in disgust as the rout—it could not be graced with the name “battle”—continued.

Out of the chaos below, a wolf and rider separated from the others and surged up the hill toward them. Blackhand, the warchief, wore a thunderous expression. Tied down over his wolf’s powerful shoulders was a prisoner. One of the “humans”, as Gul’dan had called them.

She looked young, and terrified. Her hair was the color of the thatch that crackled and burned below them, and her skin was a strange shade of pink-orange. Her eyes were as blue as those of Durotan’s son. Although she wept in terror, the infant she clutched close was too frightened even to cry. The female looked up at Durotan and pleaded silently, but he knew what she was saying without words. It was what any parent would say. Spare my child.

Detish…

“Frostwolves do not join the hunt?” Blackhand demanded.

Durotan regarded the weeping female as he answered. “We prefer our enemies armed with an axe, not a child.”