“We should leave,” Garona agreed.
“Shortly,” Llane said. “There are only a few more cages left. We’ll save as many of our people as we can first.”
“My lord,” Varissaid again, “I do not think—”
From behind Llane, a cry of horror and fear arose. He turned in his saddle, and felt the blood drain from his face.
The blue light that outlined the center of the portal, and the sight of Stormwind within it, was sputtering. Before Llane’s shocked gaze, the image of his city melted like wax, as if it had never been. All that was visible now in the center of the portal was the desiccation that had once been the Black Morass—and the group of orcs that had run around the gate’s back.
The gate had closed.
The orcs had seen it, too. And they roared as well, but with bloodlust and a hunger that would soon be sated. Llane was reeling. What had happened? Why had Medivh stopped? Then he knew.
“We’ve lost the Guardian,” he murmured.
He looked out over the sea of orcs, then at his comrades. They all bore the same shocked, stunned expressions. They had been so close…
It did not matter. “We’ve done what we came to do,” he said to them, looking at each in turn. An odd peace settled upon him. “No one could do more. All is as the Light wills it, my brothers and sisters.”
He turned to look at Garona, and gave her a smile. Expressions warred on her beautiful green face. She had wanted victory, of course. They all had. In the end, a victory would have saved the orcs as much as it would have saved the humans, but that could not be helped, not now.
Or could it?
An idea, wonderful and terrible, began to blossom in his mind. Llane turned his attention to his enemy. Fighting was still going on at the ends of the line of defenders, but here, in the center, things had, oddly, lessened. Now, Llane saw why.
Blackhand was coming.
He stood head and shoulders above the tallest of the orcs, his skin boldly green, his muscles bulging and powerful and veined. Was it blood that pumped through his veins, Llane wondered, or green fire? No matter. Blackhand was coming, shoving aside orcs and humans alike who blocked his path, and he was coming for Llane.
“Garona,” Llane said, and was surprised at how calm, how certain, he sounded, “we’re outnumbered. We can’t retreat. We’re going to fall. But you don’t have to. No good will come from us both dying.” Slowly, with hands that trembled, he removed his helm and let it fall to the earth. The cool rush of air on his face and sweat-soaked hair felt good.
Her jaw set. “I will die with you. I have chosen my side.”
“You don’t understand.” He turned his full attention upon her, his dark eyes boring into hers. “Your killing me is the only hope we have for peace. You once told Lady Taria that killing her would bring you honor. Killing me would make you a hero.”
Her eyes flew wide in comprehension. “No!” Garona spat.
The very thought of such betrayal was wounding her. Llane saw it. But he would have asked this same favor of Lothar, had the position been the same. Even of Taria.
“You were a slave,” he continued mercilessly. “You could be a leader. I’m not leaving here alive, Garona. That thing is going to kill me. But if you did so first—if you could claim killing the human’s warchief… You know us, Garona. You know us—and you care for us.”
He reached for her hand that clutched the small knife Taria had given her, grasping her wrist. “Survive. Bring peace between orcs and humans. He paused. “I can’t save my people, not now. But you can.”
“By slaying the king, my friend.” She was angry, insulted… hurt.
“You must.”
It was blunt, and it was true, and it was very orcish of him to say it. Llane knew that; knew that if she had learned to see the good in humans, he and others had learned to see the good in orcs. But Lothar, Khadgar… Taria… they would not know, not at first, about this dreadful bargain. About a possible future for humanity bought with the blood of a king. Garona knew this, too. She would be throwing away true acceptance for false honor.
Llane saw in her eyes that she could not do it. He felt a surge of despair and turned away. The battle still raged. His people were still dying. And the monstrous thing that had once been an orc lumbered inexorably toward him, his eyes glowing green with fel energy.
Llane didn’t want to die. He wanted to live, to be with his wife and children, celebrate weddings, and births, to drink a pint with Lothar and Medivh, to see harmony in his realm. To discover how beautiful his Taria would look with laugh lines and the white hair of wisdom.
But Death was coming, and he would meet it bravely. It was all that was left to him. He drew his sword and stood facing the orc they called Blackhand.
It was then that he felt the touch against his bare throat. Cool fingers, their brush feather-light, the calluses of years scratching gently at his skin. Almost tenderly, those fingers slipped under his chin and tilted his head back.
Yes.
Llane exhaled a sigh of relief and gratitude, closing his eyes and yielding to that touch, willingly offering his throat to the woman standing behind him. If killing was ever an act of love, he knew this was one such. Garona would do as he had asked her, although he knew it broke her heart. His only regret was for the hatred she would be forced to endure until the time came to set things right.
His death would not be in vain—nor would, he prayed to the Light, Garona’s torment be.
He was thinking of Taria, her wide, gentle eyes, the sweet, secret smile that was only for him, as his queen’s own dagger, held in the hand of the truest of friends, ended his life.
As his gryphon dove, her body responding to the urgency she could feel in her rider, Lothar saw a scene of madness. There was the gate, closed now, thanks to his efforts and, more importantly, Khadgar’s. Most of the cages were open and empty of prisoners.
But in the panorama beneath him, of moving bodies and the orange glow of fires, Lothar saw very few glints of Stormwind armor in a sea of green and brown skin. He scanned frantically for the king’s banner, but did not spy it. What was left of three legions was a pathetic handful of soldiers and horses, forming a final and impossible defense at the base of the portal that now opened onto nothing at all.
Where was Llane? Where was his king?
The gryphon dropped like a stone. Lothar clutched his sword with his right hand, and clung like a burr with the other. His eyes swept the scene, searching for the best place to attack.
There.
Blackhand was the warchief’s name. The one whose hand Lothar had taken—and the one who, in return, had taken Lothar’s child. He was even more abominable than before, huge, unnatural, swinging his weapon almost leisurely. The few who were left of Stormwind’s finest were falling before him at a rate that would have been comical if it hadn’t been so galvanically terrifying.
There came a glint of color as Blackhand hoisted a fallen soldier. The knight was passed along from one orc to another like a wineskin at a festival, the orcs laughing and jostling it. Lothar caught a flash of blue and yellow, and armor that was decorated and exquisitely carved—
Red sheeted over Lothar’s vision. He must have screamed, because his throat hurt suddenly, and there was a terrible sound in his ears over the din of battle.