The human looked at the orc warlock for a moment, then hoisted the body of his fallen king across his shoulders—armor and all. His knees buckled, but only slightly, then Lothar turned his back on his enemy, walking steadily toward the gryphon. To safety.
“Kill him!” shrieked Gul’dan, froth on his green, withered lips.
The other orcs shifted their weight, but still did not move. Lothar did not slow. They were uneasy with their leader now, where once before they had followed him with something akin to worship. Something had changed, something more than the simple failure of the gate. Anduin Lothar had defeated the mightiest warrior the Horde had ever known in a fair and honorable mak’gora. The orcs would not turn against him now.
“The mak’gora is sacred, and the human has won his duel,” Garona said to her former master. Her heart raced in her chest, but she kept her voice calm. She would betray nothing to either Gul’dan or Lothar. She gestured to Blackhand’s fallen, gargantuan body. “Let them pay respect to their dead war chief. Let your warriors have their tradition.”
But the warlock would not let it go. He turned his attention from the retreating form of the human to his Horde. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “I save your miserable lives and you thank me like this? Do as I say!”
His words were not having the effect he intended. In fact, Garona realized, they had just the opposite. Orcs who had looked uneasy just a moment ago now had their jaws set. Gul’dan saw it too.
“Traitors!” he spat. “Obey my orders!”
One of them, pushed too far by Gul’dan’s insult, shouted back defiantly, “You would not be alive to give orders if you had fought Durotan fairly!”
Garona thought Gul’dan would strike down the insolent orc. But though he seemed maddened by rage, he was not yet that unwise. He sneered at them, then turned toward Lothar, who was nearly to the gryphon—and safety—by this point. “Get out of my way,” he said to his defiant Horde. “I’ll do it myself!”
So the noble Durotan was gone, as well. The news was expected, but it still hurt Garona, but not as much as Gul’dan’s last words. Lothar might have been able to defeat Blackhand, fel-bloated though that orc had been. But he could not stand against the full might of Gul’dan’s fel. He would die.
Garona knew she should let that happen. The Horde was already unhappy with their leader. If he were to kill Lothar now, there was a very good chance that they would turn on him. And if she became their leader, she could broker peace.
But Lothar would die. And Garona couldn’t bear it. A peace would come, perhaps. But it would not be today. There was no hesitation in her heart or her body as she darted forward, placing herself between the man she loved, who believed her a betrayer, and the Horde leader, who believed her true.
May Gul’dan still think so, she thought, then spoke, harnessing her anger and rage into hard words. “Who will obey you if you go to war with your own kind?”
He stared at her, his green eyes venomous, her life in his hands. Calculatedly, Garona let her voice quiet to tones of reason. Earlier, Gul’dan had given her a title she had dreamed of all her life: orc. She had honor in the Horde’s eyes, exactly as Llane had anticipated. The warlock could not attack her outright, but her words had to be exactly right—or she and Lothar both would die.
“You saved us, Gul’dan. Brought us to this new world. But we cannot abandon our ways. If you do this, you will lose the Horde. You are our chieftain. We already know you are strong with the fel. Now, it is time to show us a different kind of power. A chieftain puts the needs of his people first.”
Unbidden, and unwanted, the memory rushed back. Standing with Taria, speaking of Durotan. He freed me… and he is loved by his clan. He puts their needs first. Always. He is a strong chieftain.
Strong chiefs must earn their clans’ trust.
Taria, giving Garona her dagger, which Garona had returned embedded in Llane’s throat.
Furiously, Garona pushed aside the image of the widowed queen, focusing only on Gul’dan. She had the power of the truth behind her, and he knew it. His eyes darted to the one orc who had spoken out, then back to her. Garona forced herself to sneer as if in anticipation as she added, “There will be other days to kill humans.”
I have lost so much today. Llane. Varis and Karos. The trust of good people. You will not take Lothar, too. You will have to go through me to do so.
Lothar had paused, stiff, when Garona had placed herself between him and Gul’dan. For a horrible, wonderful moment, he thought she would explain what had happened—that she was no traitor. But no. She argued for his life, he could see that. But only for her own reasons.
The orcs who held the gryphon released her to him. He laid his friend across the creature’s back and, suddenly feeling every one of his injuries, climbed up behind him.
The gryphon rose, carefully, as if she understood what she bore. As she climbed skyward, Lothar, unable to help himself, took a last look at Garona.
Their eyes met. He could not read her expression. Then, mercifully, the gryphon leaned into the wind, and her strong wings bore him away from the battlefield, away from the Horde, away from the green-skinned woman he had once held in his arms, and thought true.
23
Khadgar leaned out the window of the inn, gazing at Stormwind as it unfolded itself below him. He’d spent many hours in this room, but his gaze had been focused elsewhere: on books, on puzzles. He’d read by candlelight more than daylight. Now, his gaze roamed over the blue roofs, the beautiful white stone cathedral, and lingered on the statue to the Guardian of Azeroth.
A role that could have been his, had things been different.
“It’s just as well,” came a voice. Khadgar jumped slightly and looked up to see Anduin Lothar leaning against the doorframe. The older man grinned. “You would have made a terrible Guardian.”
Khadgar laughed a little. “Saving the world isn’t a one-man job. Never has been.”
Lothar said, with unwonted kindness, “I would have helped out.” He closed the door behind him and pulled out something from beneath his shirt, tossing it onto the table. It was a small dagger, exquisitely wrought, its jeweled hilt winking.
Khadgar’s breath caught. “Garona’s dagger.”
“I pulled it from Llane’s neck.”
It wasn’t possible. Garona would not have done such a thing. She couldn’t have. Khadgar stared at the blade, then up at Lothar, and stated, firmly, “There has to be an explanation.”
“Yes. She made her choice.” Lothar’s blue eyes were hard as chips of ice, but there was a tightness at their edges that spoke more of pain than of anger.
No. Khadgar didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. “I don’t believe that.”
He didn’t shrink from Lothar’s perusal. At last, the commander said only, “Maybe you and I didn’t know her as well as we think we did.” Lothar nodded toward the dagger. “I just thought you deserved to know.”
And he was gone. Khadgar stared at the blade, given by a queen to someone she had trusted, but that had, somehow, ended up in her husband’s throat.
He stared at it for a long time.
Taria had dressed with great care. Her hair had been styled, her crown set upon it. Cosmetics gave her artificial color, but did nothing to conceal the pain in her eyes and exhaustion that caused her cheeks to appear hollow. And that was all to the good.