Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

“Bold,” Blackhand approved. “Blunt. Good. There is no place for bootlickers in my army. You have come just in time, Frostwolf. Another sun, and you would have been too late. You would have been left behind with the old and the frail.”

Durotan frowned. “You would leave some behind?”

“At first, yes—Gul’dan has ordered so,” Blackhand said.

Durotan thought of his mother, the Lorekeeper Geyah, the clan’s elderly shaman, Drek’Thar, the children… and his wife, heavy with child. “I never agreed to this!”

“If you protest, it would give me great pleasure to fight a mak’gora.”

The mak’gora was an ancient tradition, one known and practiced by all orcs. It was an honor battle, one on one, a challenge issued, and accepted. And it was to the death. A few months ago, Durotan, mindful of how the numbers of his clan were dwindling, had refused to slay a fellow Frostwolf he had defeated in a mak’gora. Blackhand obviously had no such reservations.

“Gul’dan will lead the way to the new homeland tomorrow at sunrise,” Blackhand said. “This first wave, which will wash over our enemies, will be made up only of warriors. The best the Horde has to offer. You may bring those among your clan who are young, healthy, quick, fierce—who are your best warriors.”

Durotan and Orgrim exchanged glances. If indeed this land had dangers that could threaten those most vulnerable, it was a sound strategy. It was what the strong should do.

“You speak sense, Blackhand,” he said reluctantly. “The Frostwolves will obey.”

“Good,” Blackhand said. “Your Frostwolves may not look like monsters, but I would hate to have to kill you without at least being able to watch you all fight first. Come, I will show you the might the orcs will bring when we descend upon this unsuspecting land.”

2

Darkness had fallen by the time Orgrim and Durotan returned. Under Draka’s direction, the clan had been busy erecting their makeshift traveling tents. Frostwolf banners, depicting the clan’s symbol of a white wolf on a blue background, hung limp in the still, dry air outside each one. Durotan looked around at the veritable sea of structures; not just theirs, but those of other clans as well. They, too, had banners that looked as worn out as Durotan felt.

Abruptly the banners stirred and the faint breeze carried the welcome scent of roasting meat to Durotan’s nostrils. He clapped Orgrim on the back. “Whatever betides us on the morrow, we have food tonight!”

“My belly will be grateful,” Orgrim replied. “When was the last time we ate something larger than a hare?”

“I cannot remember,” Durotan said, sobering almost at once. Game had been almost scarcer on the journey than it had been in the frozen north. Most of their meat sources were small rodents. He thought about talbuks, the delicate but fierce gazelle-like creatures, and the huge clefthooves, which were more than a challenge to kill, but once fed the clan well. He wondered what sort of beasts Gul’dan had found here, in the desert, and decided he did not wish to know.

They were greeted with the welcome sound of laughter as they approached the Frostwolf camp. Durotan strode forward to find Draka, Geyah, and Drek’Thar sitting around one of the fires. Together with Orgrim Doomhammer, these three comprised Durotan’s council of advisors. They had always given him sound advice, and Durotan felt resentment stir as he recalled Blackhand’s orders. If the tattooed orc commander had his way, everyone except Orgrim would be forced to remain behind. Other families clustered over similar small fires. Children drowsed nearby, exhausted. But Durotan saw that their bellies were rounded with food for the first time in months, and he was glad.

In the center of the fire were several spits of smaller animals. He gave Orgrim a rueful look. It would seem that they were still to feed on animals no larger than the size of their fists. But it was meat, and it was fresh, and Durotan would not complain.

Draka handed him a spit from the fire and Durotan tore into it. It was still hot and his mouth burned, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t realized just how long it had been since he had eaten fresh meat. When the first edge of his hunger had been blunted, Durotan told them what he and Orgrim had witnessed, and what Blackhand had told them. For a moment, there was silence.

“Who will you take?” Drek’Thar asked quietly. Orgrim looked away at the question. His expression told Durotan that his friend was relieved that he was not chieftain and thus not forced to deliver the bad news.

Durotan spoke the list he had been composing in his mind since he and Orgrim had left their meeting with Blackhand. Draka, Geyah, and Drek’Thar were not on it. There was a lengthy silence. Finally, Geyah spoke.