Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

The human youth had looked like a reasonable target. Garona had not realized he knew magic—and was so proficient in it. The mistake had cost her. Now she jolted along in a barred wagon, a bleeding, battered orc warrior in chains across from her, staring at her. In the enclosed space, she wondered if she should have gone with Durotan. Maybe he would have agreed to hide her from Gul’dan. But no—he was too honorable. He would have felt the need to tell Gul’dan about her. And more than anything, Garona desired to be away from the warlock. Whatever the humans might do to her, it would be better.

Over the rumble of the wheels and the clopping sound the riding beasts made, one of the humans, the man who had used the loud weapon which hurled small missiles, called out to them.

“You. What are you?”

The orc across from Garona looked at him, then turned back to Garona.

She stayed silent, too. The human, riding atop his mount beside them and gazing at them through the bars of the cart, continued.

“Why do you attack our lands?”

Garona sat for a moment, thinking. Weighing her options. Then, she said in the human’s own tongue, “He does not know what you speak.”

The human turned toward her, alert as a predator. His eyes were… blue, his hair and beard pale, more like sand than earth. “You speak our language!”

There came a sharp clang as the bloodied orc lunged for Garona and was brought up short by his chains. “Say one more word in their language, slave, and I will wear your tongue,” the orc rumbled.

“What is he saying?” the human demanded.

“He does not like that I am speaking to you,” Garona said.

The Frostwolf was well and truly angry now, and he again pulled hard on his chains, the veins in his neck standing out like ropes. “I will not warn you again,” he snarled.

“He keeps threatening me, but I care not for—”

The Frostwolf lunged forward a third time, bellowing in fury, straining to reach Garona. The metal groaned in protest. Garona inhaled swiftly, her eyes widening. The human saw it, too.

“Tell him to stop—” he began.

“You tell him,” Garona retorted.

A final rush forward, and this time the chains pulled from the wood to which they were secured. The Frostwolf reached out for her throat, his mouth open in furious cry. Garona retreated as far as she could, but it would not be far enough—

He froze, gurgling. Brown blood seeped from his throat and his mouth, oozing down over the bright blade that was impaled halfway up its length. The light in his eyes faded, and when the human tugged his sword free, the Frostwolf slumped over, quite dead.

Garona stared at her savior, impressed. Somehow, he had been both swift and strong enough to leap from his mount and strike the Frostwolf through the bars in time. Now, he looked at her again with those uncanny blue eyes.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“Have you a name?” Llane asked of the strange prisoner.

Lady Taria stood in the throne room, off to the side with Lothar, Khadgar, Callan, and some of her husband’s guards. She couldn’t keep from staring at the female prisoner Lothar and Khadgar had brought in. She looked so human… except that she didn’t. She was of human size and shape, and would have been pretty save for the small tusks jutting out of her lower jaw.

She was bleeding here and there, and there were nasty, festering sores on her green skin where her manacles had rubbed. What passed for clothing, and it was very little, was stained and torn. Her thick black hair was tangled, and dirt smeared her emaciated body. And yet—she stood as if she were queen here, not Taria. Her spine was erect, her demeanor calm. This female might be in chains, but she was neither tamed nor broken.

“You understand our language,” Llane said, reminding her that they knew this. “Again… have you a name?” He walked down the steps from his throne. The prisoner stepped forward boldly toward him. One of the guards stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt, but Llane lifted a hand to stay any interference. The green female stroked the king’s tunic, lingering over the lion head brooches, then continued upward to the great throne of Stormwind itself.

“Garona,” said Lothar. He sat on the top step, his eyes following the female as she stepped past him. “She calls herself Garona.”

“Garona,” Llane said, addressing her directly as she stooped to touch the life-sized, golden lion at the throne’s base. “What kind of being are you?”

Garona did not reply, sniffing at the gold beast. Her dark brown eyes scanned the room and those inside it. Curious? Anxious? Evaluating? Taria couldn’t tell.

“She seems more like us than those… beasts we fought,” one of the soldiers said.

His words made Garona pause in her exploration of the room. “Orc,” she said.