Warcraft: Official Movie Novelization

“I will not argue your decision, my chieftain,” she said. “For my part, I will stay behind. When Drek’Thar and I were visited by the Spirit of Life, it told me that I would need to stay with the clan. Now, I understand what it meant. I am a shaman, and I fight well, but there are others who are younger, stronger, and faster than I. And I am the Lorekeeper. Spirits guard you, but if this vanguard should fall, at least the history of our people will be kept alive.”

He smiled at her gratefully. She sounded resigned, but he knew how badly she wanted to fight at her son’s side. “Thank you. You know I will come for all of you as soon as it is safe.”

“I understand as well,” Drek’Thar said, sorrow tinging his voice. He gestured to the cloth he always wore to hide his ruined eyes. “I am blind, and old. I would be a liability.”

“No,” said Draka, her voice hard. “My heart, reconsider taking Drek’Thar. He is a shaman, and the Spirits told us they would be there, in this world we are about to enter. As long as there is earth, air, fire, water, and life, you will need a shaman. Drek’Thar is the best we have. He is a healer, and,” she added, “you may need his visions.”

A chill ran along Durotan’s skin, lifting the hairs on his arm. More than once, Drek’Thar’s visions had saved lives. Once, a warning from the Spirit of Fire had spared the entire clan. How could he not bring Drek’Thar? “You will not fight with us,” he said. “Only heal, and advise. Have I your word?”

“Always, my chieftain. It will be honor enough to go.”

Durotan looked at Draka. “I know, my heart, that you can fight, but—” He broke off, rising to his feet, one hand going to Sever’s hilt.

The visitor was almost as large as Blackhand. The firelight cast shadows on a physique as sculpted as if it had been chiseled from stone. Blackhand had impressed him, but this orc was, if not as large, more muscled, more powerful looking. Like Blackhand, he too wore tattoos, but whereas the commander’s hands had been inked solid black, it was this orc’s jaw that was dark as midnight. His long black hair was pulled back in a topknot, and his eyes glittered in the fire’s glow.

“I am Grom Hellscream, Chieftain of the Warsong,” the orc announced, his eyes sweeping the newcomers. “Blackhand told me that at long last, the Frostwolves had come.” He grunted in amusement and dropped a sack of something at Durotan’s feet. “Food,” he said.

The bag twitched and moved, bulging out here and there. “Insects,” Grom said. “Best eaten live, and raw.” He grinned. “Or dried and ground into flour. The taste is not bad.”

“I am Durotan, son of Garad, son of Durkosh,” Durotan said, “and Grom Hellscream, Chieftain of the Warsong, is welcome at our fire.”

Durotan decided not to introduce the other members of the clan assembled around the fire, as he did not want to draw undue attention to them—not if he planned to take Drek’Thar with him at sunrise. He caught Draka’s eye and she nodded. She rose, quietly touching Drek’Thar and Geyah on the shoulders and taking them to another fire.

Durotan indicated the vacant seats, and Grom dropped down beside him and Orgrim. He accepted a spit from the embers and bit into the dripping meat with gusto.

“Though you and I have never met,” Durotan said, “some members of your clan once hunted alongside mine, years past.”

“I remember our clan members said the Frostwolves were good hunters, and fair,” Grom acknowledged. “If perhaps a bit too…” He groped for the word. “Reserved.”

Durotan refrained from telling Grom what the Frostwolves had thought of the Warsong. The words impulsive, loud, fierce and crazy had been used. Sometimes, admittedly, with admiration, but not always. Instead, he said, “It seems as though Gul’dan has managed to unite all the clans, now.”

Grom nodded. “You were the last to join,” he said. “There was one other, but they are gone, now. So Gul’dan says.”

The Frostwolves shifted uneasily. Durotan wondered if Grom spoke of the Red Walkers. If, in truth, the clan was dead down to the last member, it was a good thing, and he would not mourn.

“We,” Grom said with pride, “were among the first. When Gul’dan came to us and told us he knew of a way to travel to another land, one rich in game and clean water and enemies to battle, we agreed right away.” He laughed. “What more could an orc want?”

“My second-in-command, Orgrim, and I met with Blackhand upon our arrival,” Durotan said. “He told me of his plans to take a wave of warriors to this land first. We spoke of weapons and those who wield them, but I am curious as to Gul’dan’s preparations.”

Grom took another bite, finishing off the meat. He tossed the stick into the fire. “Gul’dan has found a way for us to enter another land,” Grom said. “An ancient artifact, long hidden in the earth. His magicks led him to it, and when we arrived here, we began to dig. We have unearthed it at last, and tomorrow, we will use it.”

Durotan’s brows rose. “A hole in the ground?”

“You’ll see it soon enough,” Grom assured him.