Warcraft: Assassin - Part 13
We're coming up on the end of Assassin now, one more chapter plus the rather short epilogue! Thanks for reading!
Title: Assassin
Part: 13/14+Epilogue
Word Count: 6127
Includes: This section explicitly includes violent death, blood, gore, and perhaps slightly too many details about the previous points. Discretion is advised.
Pairings: Technically, none.
Summary: The founding of Durotar, and lessons in history from the mouth of one who has been a part of it: Garona Halforcen.
Previous: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
Thrall sat in stunned silence. He had read of the assault on Stormwind, read of the betrayal from the point of view of men like Anduin Lothar and Uther the Lightbringer, but to hear it from Garona’s own lips made his stomach sink.
No wonder they hate us, Thrall thought. No wonder they hate her. He cleared his throat to ask, “What happened next?”
Garona met his gaze steadily, and Thrall flinched under her look. She had brought him this far, and she seemed to know, to understand, what he was thinking. “I was taken prisoner, chained in the dungeons of Stormwind Keep, after Doomhammer seized it as his own. Orcs don’t traditionally keep prisoners. We’d have to feed them. They are usually interrogated and then killed. Some consider it to be a luxury, to hold someone captive and deal with them at their leisure.”
“...it’s not a luxury for the one in the cage,” Thrall noted, and glanced down at his hands. They shook, and he commanded them to stop, without much luck. “So you were Doomhammer’s prisoner.”
“I was. I learned, in time, that Doomhammer had turned on Blackhand moments before the attack on Stormwind. That Doomhammer used my distraction to secure his status as leader of the Horde, of the Blackrock. It was a victory I bought him. That Gul’dan bought him.”
Thrall hesitated. “You said… was Gul’dan controlling you, through the brand? Was that why--”
“No,” Garona stated flatly. “While I am branded, as all agents of the Shadow Council are, Gul’dan’s words convinced me to betray a friend. He convinced me that it was the only way. The brand is used to track us, and if I had fled, he would have boiled my blood in my veins. It was a contingency, not direct control.”
“You said he couldn’t always find you,” Thrall pointed out. “He may not have after that.”
“Not something I realized then,” Garona replied. “That took time, and I learned more of what the brand did as I tracked down the Shadow Council’s agents. I believed Gul’dan to be more powerful than he was, more all-seeing. Everyone believed that, even Doomhammer.”
“I see,” Thrall said, though his heart ached. He didn’t want to ask what had happened next, and Garona read it in his expression.
“I will not give you the details, but I will tell you what was done. Doomhammer interrogated me. He demanded to know where Gul’dan was and what he was planning. Eventually, I told him of the demons and the Shadow Council. I learned, with time, that Gul’dan had retreated to Northshire Abbey immediately after I was sent to Stormwind. Medivh had called to him, informing him that he was under attack and needed help. Gul’dan, rather than actually aid him, dug into Medivh’s memories for a specific location, and he was in the process of doing that when Lothar killed Medivh. He fell into a coma.”
“The Tomb of Sargeras, Gul’dan’s true goal,” Thrall murmured. “Where he met his end.”
“Yes. There was much I couldn’t tell Doomhammer, and he didn’t believe me about much that I did tell him.” Garona looked at her hands, studying them for a time. Thrall’s heart sank further.
“I’m sorry, Garona, so sorry. He never said… did he--”
“Doomhammer was many things, Thrall. A brute, an idiot, and a coward, but he was not a rapist. He broke both of my arms and left me in a jail cell to rot. He didn’t believe I deserved a clean death, for all the hurt I’d caused him, nor that I deserved release from my own hurts.” She flexed her fingers briefly. “He likely lived to regret that.”
“He shouldn’t have been so cruel,” Thrall said. “No matter what.”
“You are so naive,” Garona murmured softly, almost to herself. “When he left to seek out Gul’dan, I broke from my cell. Having two broken arms was nothing compared to the numbness I felt. I killed the guards left to watch over me and I fled.” Thrall flinched again, but said nothing. “I made my way through the shadows, letting the cold numb me further, to Karazhan. There was… nowhere left for me to go. No Stormwind, no clan, no Draenor. With Doomhammer in charge, I could no more trust my supposed allies than I could my enemies. I wasn’t even sure which was which, at that point.”
“There couldn’t have been much left there either, considering what had happened,” Thrall ventured, and she nodded to him once.
“Tower’s Shadow Village was empty and ruined. The shadows howled and wailed from all the dead. Karazhan’s ruin was complete. What had been left intact by the battle between Aegwynn and Medivh had been destroyed by those coming to fight Medivh. Khadgar took them in. They destroyed the secret passages. All I had to do was follow the path of destruction up.”
Thrall watched Garona as her expression shifted, emotion twitching over her features like the shadows of things forgotten.
“I found him in his inner sanctum. The globe he used to speak to Gul’dan was smashed. They had stabbed him in the heart and then decapitated him, though they didn’t take his head with them. Lothar was not the type of warrior to bring his king a heart or a head as proof. His spellbooks were gone, or heaps of char. Anything they couldn’t take with them was destroyed. The book we’d once given Medivh as a gift… gone.”
“He was free, I think,” Thrall said as she fell silent. “You’d said he was doomed from the beginning, since before his birth… but as a ghost, there was no trace of the demon in him. He had broken free in death.”
“I know,” Garona said quietly. “I wonder if that’s what Khadgar finally realized. I wonder if anyone else could have done it. Killed him and freed his spirit. Perhaps… that’s what we were for. Those who grew close to him. To finally stop him when no one else could. I wish I had been there. Stormwind would never have fallen.”
“I’m sorry,” Thrall began, and Garona began to speak again, as though he had not.
“The least I could do for him was to put him to rest,” Garona continued. “I put him in one of the stasis chambers, where he’d keep samples, until I healed. I splinted my arms and scrounged food while they healed. Then, when I had the strength for it, I brought his body down to the ground floor, and found a place under one of the ruined trees. I buried him there, and chipped his name into the stone. I buried my daggers, the ones that had butchered Llane, with him. I was a fool, Thrall, and it hit me then, all of it. Gul’dan had never intended for any kind of bright future for the orcs. He sought only to use them. To use Medivh. To use me. Everything was ash and dust.”
Garona fell silent, her head bowed. Thrall let the words soak into him, mingling with every story Orgrim and Grom had told him, every Frostwolf tale. It only took him a moment to decide what to do. “Garona, may I touch you?”
Garona looked up at him sharply, and nodded once. Carefully, Thrall leaned in and embraced her, gathering the smaller woman. She felt fragile and strong all at once as she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. He murmured to her softly, rubbing her back. “We will make it right,” he promised. “We can’t change the past, but the orcs can still have that bright future you believed in.”
“You’re too good,” Garona complained, but softly. “Too naive. I stabbed the last person who trusted me in the back, and you’re hugging me.”
“Actually, you stabbed Llane in the front,” Thrall pointed out, and it startled a weak laugh from Garona.
“I’m not sure where you picked up a morbid sense of humour from,” Garona muttered, wiping at her eyes. “Do you think you’re funny?”
“I believe I’m a little bit funny,” Thrall said, rocking her. For a time, they sat in silence, Warchief and Assassin, sharing comfort. When Garona pushed against him, his arms opened and she sat up. Her eyes were dry, though they hinted at blue-grey, making them look larger than usual.
“After the burial, I began to plan,” Garona said, and coughed to clear her throat. “I hadn’t thought about what I’d do before then. I knew I had to make up for what I’d done. I’d allowed Gul’dan to convince me that he cared for me in any way, that he had the best interests of the orcs at heart. A part of me had… genuinely hoped that he could love me, as a father should love a daughter, that all he’d done for me was for a greater end, and because of that, many, many people died.”
“I understand,” Thrall said. “Blackmoore… I’ve spoken of him before. He was cruel and terrible, sometimes carelessly so, sometimes deliberately. The name he gave me, the purpose he trained me for… and Tari. My sister deserved better. She deserved the world and not a cage. Not death. There was a time I believed that if I just did the right things, appeased him, he would love me. He would be proud of me. We spoke of it some weeks ago… table scraps. I wanted table scraps.”
“Neither of them were worthy of love, only of hate,” Garona said. “I wish I could have found you in time to spare you from that.”
Thrall stilled, staring at her. “What do you mean?”
~ * ~
Garona ran. There were plenty of shadows to hide in, cast by so many trees that it obscured much of her ability to see, but she was not skimming through darkness, not this time. She needed to see and be seen. Her footfalls were near silent, the crunch of leaves going unheard, and the snapping of twigs so soft as to be thought far away. In better circumstances, she would leave no trace.
At the moment, she didn’t care. She had to find them, and fast, before it was too late.
It had taken time to recover from Doomhammer’s torture. Medivh’s burial had taken much from her, and the revelation of what she’d done had fallen on her shoulders like lead. By the time she had left Karazhan, months had passed.
Rather than pressing his advantage, Doomhammer had waited three months before pursuing the humans north. This had given Lothar time to warn King Terenas Menethil of Lordaeron of the orcish threat. Lothar had impressed upon him that the orcs were not a minor concern, or something to be observed by the diplomat-king, but instead that there needed to be a call to action of the other human and non-human nations. Orc aggression had pushed the six remaining human nations, the elven nation of Quel’thalas, two of the three dwarven kingdoms, and the gnomish stronghold to unite to face the combined threat of orcs, ogres, trolls, and goblins.
Khadgar once told me that it would take the greatest threat in the world for them to all agree on something, and he wasn’t wrong, Garona thought, shame flushing through her, though she didn’t let it break her stride.
Once the Horde had marched north, she had done all she could to delay them, killing key figures, sabotaging war efforts, and gloated as the humans beat the orcs back. She had not reckoned with Lord Perenolde, the leader of Alterac, betraying his people to the orcs, and her efforts had come to little as the orcs had pushed forward to Lordaeron, the heart of the Alliance.
Then she’d caught wind of a rumour that had sent her into Alterac proper, propelled as though she could outrun destiny.
Gul’dan didn’t know where they were until Durotan and Draka came out of hiding, Garona thought. He could never infiltrate the Shadow Wolves, never find a gap in their armour to exploit. Now they’ve come to whisper to Doomhammer, and Gul’dan has signed their death warrants.
The siege would be starting soon, or perhaps even now. Sieges lasted a long time, and the orcs, taught by the goblins, had taken to them quickly. They had mastered powder and weapons easily, and Garona had even heard that they commanded the dragons of Azeroth, thanks to the Dragonmaw.
That didn’t matter to her right at this moment. She had made her decision. I must find them, I--
She broke out into a clearing, and at a glance, she realized she was far too late. Four orcs lay sprawled in the clearing. Two, a man and a woman, wore leather trimmed with white fur, and adorned with bright blue cloth, beads, and a small number of charms. Black blood obscured much of the fine work as they were cut in a dozen places. They lay barely out of reach of each other's arms, though the man seemed to be reaching for a basket that lay beside him, cut open and thrown aside.
There were wolves, two of them, white and huge. She had heard of Alteraci frostwolves, though they lived only in the coldest places, and had never before been seen in the lowlands. Their jaws were soaked in black blood, and their own blood, as red as a human’s, soaked their white fur and dried, stiffening it in clumps like daggers.
From the way the violence spattered around them, in the dirt and over the brush and trees, the orcs had fallen first, and the wolves, berserk with rage and anger, had followed.
The assassins were arrayed around them: throats torn out by wolves, chests slashed open with axes and stabbed by spears. Garona moved to them, checking their clothing. They wore the red and black of the Blackrock clan, and she felt anger surge through her.
Doomhammer, you fool, you idiot! she growled silently as she turned one of the assassins onto his stomach. Did you not think Gul’dan would watch you every waking moment, looking for weakness?
She yanked the assassin’s head up, tugging at his long, shaggy, coarse hair. The symbol of the Shadow Council, tattooed above his hairline, glared back at her. She dropped the assassin as her face twisted into a snarl. With each body she checked, her movements grew jerkier and more violent. Each one bore the same mark.
Finally, as though delaying could somehow change their fate, Garona moved to Durotan and Draka. The chieftain of the Shadow Wolves had aged since she had last seen him. Though he was no older than Doomhammer, he had deep-set lines around his mouth and eyes, as though he’d spent much of the past eight years since he’d been exiled worrying.
Slowly, she knelt at his side, her fingers skimming over those lines, before moving to close his staring brown eyes. Durotan... I’m sorry. You deserved better than this. You both did. Turning slightly, she looked over Draka. She had new scars, and her expression, even in death, was defiant. You were stronger than Gul’dan ever understood. No one was more brave, more deserving of a chieftain mate than you. I was too late. Did you ever--
Garona looked over at the basket as realization struck her. This was no container for food or supplies. They had packs enough for that. Though it had been torn open and the blanket it must have held was gone, the carefully woven container could only have had one purpose. Even their child… no. Gul’dan’s destroyed their legacy. Durotan’s legacy. The Frostwolves were the only clan to ever stand against him, to defy him until the very end. They didn’t even have the decency to leave the child behind with their parents.
Garona tried to tilt the basket upright, but it rolled over. Tears dripped from her cheeks as she wept silently, surrounded by the deaths of those she had hoped to save. A bird’s call, loud and close, shook her from her silent mourning, and she wiped at her eyes. She caught a flash of the pendant charm of two moons on her bracer. Before she had escaped Doomhammer’s clutches entirely, she had stolen it from Gul’dan’s seized belongings, and left a knife in its place. She hoped it kept Doomhammer awake at night. She hoped he was dead, broken by the humans.
Hate fizzled in her veins, and she pushed herself up. It took time to find enough wood to build a pyre for four, and more time to drag two orc and two wolf corpses onto the wood. The fire took more time still to burn, and Garona watched as they returned to flame and ash, as orcs had always done, freeing their spirits from their bodies. I wonder if they will go to Oshu’gun, or if they will linger. If they will go to the human hell as enemies or to human heaven as fallen heroes. I wonder if they will linger in the Twisting Nether, adding their voices to the cries and screams. She blinked rapidly. She moved to one of the trees, and began to carve.
Durotan.
Draka
Unnamed Child.
The assassins, she left to the vultures. They deserved nothing less than to be torn apart, as she was, as she felt her heart, already brittle from loss and anger and hate, shatter into dust.
~ * ~
“I’m sorry I didn’t think to seek you out,” Garona said. “I believed the trail that went through the clearing was from orcs. It was obscured and old. When the rumours spoke of an orc in the clutches of Aedelas Blackmoore, it could have been any orc. I didn’t make the connection.”
Thrall was quiet for a moment, worrying the Frostwolf carving between his fingers, the one he had found in Orgrim’s collection of keepsakes, preserved even from his capture. Emotion surged through him -- gratitude that Garona had tended to his parents, anger at their deaths, sadness, loss -- and finally he spoke. “I won’t say I’m happy that I grew up away from my family, but I’m glad I was not torn apart by animals in infancy. I’m not happy that Blackmoore granted me an education only to use me for his traitorous schemes, but I’m glad that I met Tari and Sergeant. I’m not happy that I was taught to be a gladiator so that Blackmoore could bet on me, but I’m glad that I could fight to save my people.”
“Life is like that,” Garona pointed out. “You don’t have to be grateful for the painful things that happened to you. They aren’t good for you, they hurt. Life is about surviving the pain, and learning what causes it so that you can avoid it in the future.”
“There is no virtue in suffering,” Thrall murmured, and Garona nodded her agreement.
“If I could have lived a happy life without pain or death I would have chosen to do so, but as things are, I learned to survive in spite of that pain, not because of it.”
Thrall nodded his own agreement, and considered. “What did you do after that, while I was growing up in Durnholde?”
“Spying, mostly. The Horde didn’t need my help to fail. They failed at Lordaeron, though it was a near thing. Gul’dan and Cho’gall never provided Doomhammer’s armies with support, and the mages overwhelmed them. They lost their dragon support too, though Doomhammer had believed they wouldn’t need it. They retreated from Lordaeron, down the continent, harried by the dwarves and gnomes.”
“You must have been happy about that,” Thrall observed, watching her features. She sighed.
“In some ways, I was pleased to see Doomhammer humbled, especially because his downfall came from the same source as my own, but at the same time, the one thing Gul’dan was correct about was that the humans would have never let the orcs stay. The Alliance was pushing them back towards Draenor and the Dark Portal. The damage had spread to fill much of the southern swamp, and the land was dying.”
“Orgrim spoke of the retreat. He said that he had tried to return to Blackrock Mountain, but Blackhand’s sons refused to allow him entry. They watched as the Alliance crashed into the Horde.”
“That much was true,” Garona said. “Rend and Maim wanted nothing more than to see the Backstabber fall, even if it meant the Horde would fall with him. Half of the Horde’s races were not even of Draenor.”
“That’s… petty and sad,” Thrall noted, and Garona snorted, a faint gust of wind, easily lost.
“Those are excellent words to describe the twins. There was a last, pitched battle at the foot of Blackrock Mountain. Doomhammer and Lothar fought. He’d believed that, should Lothar fall, the Alliance forces would weaken as they had when I’d killed Llane.”
“The history books claimed that Lord Lothar was ambushed, while Orgrim always said it had been a fair fight,” Thrall observed. “But you’d know the truth of it.”
“It was as fair as Doomhammer ever is,” Garona replied. “No ambush, but they both had guards. Doomhammer killed Lothar, and demanded the humans retreat. General Turalyon, one of the paladins trained by Uther, took up Lothar’s shield and fought back.”
“Orgrim said he was astonished at their power,” Thrall said. “That if he had to have his behind kicked through his spine, that Turalyon was worthy.”
“The Silver Hand was well-trained and fought expertly, throwing back much of the fel magic the warlocks threw against them,” Garona noted. “Uther had finally made up his mind about choosing to fight.”
“Though the paladins were not perfect, nor untouchable,” Thrall growled. “They could fall.”
“All can fall, and the higher up they are, the longer and more painful the drop,” Garona reminded him. “Doomhammer, as you know, was captured and dragged north in chains, brought to Terenas and the prisons in Lordaeron.”
“He only rarely spoke of it, though he told me he knew what it was like to be kept in a cage for the entertainment of humans.” Thrall frowned, and for a bare moment, he felt Garona’s touch ghost over the back of his hand; comfort, in her way. He offered her a smile, and she returned one.
“Did he ever tell you why they kept him for so long?” Thrall shook his head. “It was part of a scheme of Terenas’, one few, if any, still know about.”
“What scheme?” Thrall asked, looking startled.
“Terenas knew that capturing every orc would be a trial. Keeping them all, prosecuting them all, would be ruinous.” Thrall opened his mouth to object, and Garona raised a hand. “I know how that looks from this side of history, but Terenas didn’t intend to keep the orcs in prison camps indefinitely. He wanted Doomhammer to lead the orcs away, back to Draenor or elsewhere.”
“But the Portal was closed,” Thrall said. “They couldn’t have known then that it would open in a few years.”
“No, they couldn’t have, but Terenas was determined.”
“I had no idea.... and Orgrim said nothing to me. It’s not in any of the books,” Thrall said. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure, because you do know of its effects, even if you didn’t know why,” Garona replied. “The Alliance nearly collapsed under the weight of Terenas’ risky idea. It did fracture. Gilneas and Stromgarde left the Alliance due to Terenas’ ‘merciful’ treatment of the orcs. Kul Tiras nearly left, but returned after Doomhammer’s execution order was made public. The elves of Quel’thalas seriously considered returning to isolation, simply barring the Gate of Three Moons and never opening them again.”
“It seems the Blackhand twins aren’t the only ones capable of pettiness,” Thrall growled. “Instead of letting our people go elsewhere, they were kept in cages, made to starve and suffer and abused due to Terenas’ so-called mercy.”
“The other choice was genocide,” Garona noted quietly, and Thrall jerked back. “Greymane and Trollbane wanted to see the orcs killed until the camps ran black with orc blood. The orcs would have done it, killed the humans instead of keeping them as prisoners. They did not have prison camps.” Thrall felt sick from the knowledge, and Garona saw it in his eyes. She continued. “Doomhammer never spoke of it because Terenas’ great scheme failed, and he was nearly executed by the crown.”
“But why?” Thrall asked, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Why did Terenas change his mind?” When Garona remained silent, he pressed on. “You know, I’m certain you know. You haven’t told me all of this just to say nothing.”
Garona watched his expression and nodded once. “I will tell you.”
~ * ~
The war between orcs and humans, between Horde and Alliance, was over. Doomhammer’s capture had signalled its end. Garona had moved between the camps when they had been temporary structures close to the Dark Portal, overseen by Danath Trollbane, and she had avoided Alleria Windrunner’s patrols as they had hunted the Bleeding Hollow. She had seen Nethergarde Keep, bright with new stone and wood, adorned by the banners of Dalaran and the Kirin Tor. She had avoided Stormwind when Varian Wrynn, young but no longer a child, had returned under guard with Bolvar Fordragon and Turalyon as his escort, to rebuild what had been destroyed.
Then the Dark Portal had opened again, and she’d raced north from the Swamp of Sorrows, following the carnage. Grommash Hellscream, leader of the Warsong clan, older and harder and leaner than she’d seen him last, had led his forces north, smashing through that which was fragile and newly built.
And then… they stopped, Garona thought. When all the orcs who could escape to Draenor had gone, the Alliance’s forces followed. Then the Portal closed and they were trapped to die.
Khadgar had lived through Karazhan and Stormwind and Dalaran and Lordaeron, only to fall on Draenor. Damn Ner’zhul. Damn the demons.
When the Portal had closed that final, fateful time, the orcs had ceased to fight. Instead of proud, brutish, fierce warriors, they were as tired, beaten children. They were exhausted. It had taken little for the humans to round them up. If any hint of defiance had remained, it was the announcement that Orgrim Doomhammer was to be executed that destroyed it, as surely as Llane Wrynn’s death had destroyed the defiance of the Azerothians.
Good, he deserves it, Garona thought, even as she slipped through the shadows of Whitestone Castle. The thought, as well-deserved as it was, sat poorly with her. It was robbed of its venom by the sight of the orcs, herded into camps, watched over by humans who prodded with staves and spears and swords if they felt like the orcs moved too slowly. There were no trolls in the camps, no ogres, no goblins.
No one leads the orcs now, she admitted. Gul’dan is dead, and Cho’gall with him. His abominations, the warlock-knights, fled to Draenor and are likely dead too. The chieftains fled first, to Draenor, only to die there. There are no clans any more, no leaders. She grimaced as she watched the silver-and-white liveried servants hurry from one place to another, and she moved in further. Much of the castle was devoted to politics, to the bureaucracies that kept a vast, intricate kingdom, extended by alliances made during war, functioning. The one time the orcs need their Warchief, he’s going to do them the unfortunate turn of dying.
Word had spread far and wide of Doomhammer’s imminent demise. She wanted to see it with her own eyes, but everything she’d observed on her journey to the event had filled her with unease, rather than triumph. They need someone to wake them up, or they will die, she thought angrily. I care nothing for the fool warriors, but the children, the hunters and farmers… they are all trapped together. Humans only see the green skin and the blood on their hands.
Her fingers clenched briefly, but she eased forward, skimming through the shadows easily. If I knew more…
With a silent growl, she continued her journey deeper into the castle. If she had been intent on assassination, rather than information, she would have had her pick of targets: Terenas was in his office, speaking to Uther, called Lightbringer, about supplies for the camps.
Gone was the young man that Garona had discussed peace with. Instead, at twenty-five, Uther’s temples were greying from the stress of leading the Silver Hand, and instead of a skinny child, unable to lift a sword, he was broad-shouldered and well-muscled, and was beginning to grow a beard and mustache.
Humans have ridiculous facial hair, Garona decided. Terenas, the human king, did not seem like much of a warrior. His hair was shoulder length and pale blond, generously mixed in with white. His eyes were a watery blue, and he kept a trim beard and mustache, much like Uther was attempting to cultivate. Terenas was not a warrior: Garona could see no muscles under his white silk robes, and they were trimmed with gold, a reminder of wealth long out of orc reach. He was a politician, a leader though charisma, wisdom, and manipulation rather than strength of arm. Llane would have liked him, I think. I wonder if Varian does.
Listening in on their conversation brought her little information, and she moved on. She found guards grumbling about their schedules for patrols, talking about how, soon enough, they wouldn’t be assigned to the ‘special prisoner’ down below. Doomhammer lives yet, I see, Garona thought, and then paused.
“The Princess hasn’t been down to see him much,” one of the guards was saying. “Not since Himself disappeared, sending everyone into a tizzy.”
“Shh, don’t even speak of it,” another guard hissed. “Y’can’t bring him up without upsetting the lot of ‘em. Asides, it ain’t right, a fine lady like Calia talkin’ to a dirty orc.”
I’d imagine, living in that cell, he’s fairly filthy, Garona thought, trying to summon up pleasure at that and failing. So where has Princess Calia been if she hasn’t been with Doomhammer… and why would she be with him in the first place?
Garona moved on, searching for private quarters. She did not find the princess, but she did find the Prince. Arthas, younger than his sister by nearly a decade, had a pair of dolls in his hands. As she observed, and listened to his soft murmurs, she realized one was meant to be an orc, the other a knight. The knight, it seemed, often won.
Why is he so quiet? Garona wondered. Is someone napping?
A moment later, as Arthas continued on his quiet crusade, Garona caught a voice, that of an older woman, speaking. Her words were indistinct, but that seemed not to matter to the young prince. He went pale under his tan and fell silent, curling against the wall.
What could that mean? Garona wondered. Arthas said nothing, did nothing, until the voice faded, and then he hurried off. Garona followed him, silent and curious. The young prince let himself into a room, and Garona slipped in after him, a silent, swift shadow, and looked around. Arthas had entered a suite, and he immediately went to one of the chairs, clambering up into it. There was a scattering of books and toys around the room, and the table was gouged and scratched, as though someone had hit it. He curled up, and seemed to wait.
“Oh, Arthas, it’s alright,” came a voice. This was not the woman’s voice that has spoken earlier, and Arthas’ response was the exact opposite of the previous one. He uncurled and ran towards a young human woman, not quite eighteen summers old, and flung his arms around her. She lifted him briefly, hugging him in return.
“Callie, Callie, I wasn’t making any noise, I promise,” the boy insisted. “But I heard her--”
“She can’t hurt you, not any more,” the girl said, stroking her fingers over Arthas’ hair. Princess Calia Menethil shared many features with her brother and father, her hair less golden than her brother’s, though far less pale than her father’s. Her eyes were not watery, nor were they sky-blue, but instead were icy blue and sharply focused. Garona could see she wore gloves, thin and fine and lacy, even indoors. The princess’ gaze darted around, as though seeking secrets from the shadows, and Garona avoided her gaze, moving past her. She left the siblings to talk while she went to Calia’s room.
Here, she found musical instruments, a large harp, a violin in its case, a full piano laden with sheet music. Garona examined each curiously, and then looked away. Orcs prefer drums, she thought, and moved on. Calia’s floor was stone, and Garona saw a pair of slippers tucked under her large bed, the blankets neatly tucked in.
A fur or three wouldn’t kill you, Garona thought wryly, and then her eyes fell to the chest at the foot of Calia’s bed. She moved to it swiftly, and paused, listening. Calia was telling Arthas that it was time to study anyway, and Garona nodded to herself.
She knelt by the chest, and withdrew wires from her sleeves. The lock could not resist her long, and there were books within, neatly stacked. Garona picked up one, glancing over it. Just a diary, she thought as she leafed through it absently. I wonder if-- She spotted Doomhammer’s name, and hurriedly went back. As she read, her eyes widened.
Terenas wanted peace with the orcs? With Doomhammer? And he sent his daughter to chase it? She skimmed the words swiftly. Daval Prestor… that name doesn’t sound familiar, but-- Garona blinked. Prestor and Calia were engaged. Then he disappeared, after she called on an archmage, Krasus Goldenmist. Wasn’t he a member of the Six? Khadgar might have mentioned him. This must be who the guards meant, but… Reading onward, she found Calia had a scheme of her own to free Doomhammer. She will die, or he will, she--
[I love him, and I cannot allow him to die here. Not after all that has been done. I won’t let Daval Prestor ruin Father’s plans! I know that Orgrim regrets his mistakes, and has only done what he could to help his people. Much of what he has told me has pained him to admit, and he has freed himself. He may even regret hurting Her. He seems to, at any rate. I cannot let him die. It must be soon, when Arthas is busy and Father and Uther work late into the night.
I cannot fail.]
Garona ground her jaw. I would bet he doesn’t regret it in the slightest. She carefully put the diary back, and then locked the chest again. Swiftly, she departed, past childish voices and adult grumblings. Down and down into the dungeons. It was cold here, without the careful work done to keep Lordaeron’s icy Winter winds out. Garona noticed how few guards there were as she moved, and recalled what she’d seen in Calia’s diary. The princess was altering the guard schedule to avoid casualties, but Doomhammer is as subtle as a punch in the face.
Did she want to let Doomhammer go? Didn’t he deserve death in the most humiliating way possible? She pushed these questions aside as she slipped down to observe him more closely. As she suspected, he was not clean. The clothing he wore was stained and greasy, his hair filthy. He was scarred in new ways, by burns. Garona frowned. She mentioned Prestor tortured him, but not her father. How could one human do this without help?
The former Warchief was muttering to himself, pacing and sitting on his narrow, hard bunk in turns. Sometimes, the muttering was punctuated by a name, Durotan or Gul'dan, and Garona's expression soured. If Doomhammer is going mad, he'll be even more useless than usual. It could be the pressure of the execution order that's sent him over the edge. There's something to be said for the certainty of death, though--
Doomhammer rubbed his hands over his face, and then let his head rest there, cradled. "I... regret what I did." Garona froze, wondering if he had heard her. He could not see her, certainly he was not looking at her. She wondered who he spoke to. "I regret that I used torture to get information from Garona. I regret that I was so vengeful as to leave her alive so that she could suffer. To your enemies, mercy."
Her stomach rolled suddenly. So much of her life had been about anger and hate for warriors like Doomhammer. As he sighed, as though he had released a great burden, hers only weighed more heavily on her. To your enemies, mercy. If Doomhammer dies here, it is over. No one will ever lead the orcs, not with Durotan dead, his legacy destroyed. The humans will enslave the orcs forever until the last light dies. Doomhammer… must live.
Gul’dan would have let Doomhammer die. Ner’zhul, certainly. Half of the other chieftains would not lift so much as a finger once Doomhammer had fallen… but she was not a chieftain, not a leader. She was an assassin, a blade in the darkness. She had, right now, a choice. Her gaze fell to Doomhammer, and her eyes narrowed.
I have made my choice.
[ Chapter 14]
Title: Assassin
Part: 13/14+Epilogue
Word Count: 6127
Includes: This section explicitly includes violent death, blood, gore, and perhaps slightly too many details about the previous points. Discretion is advised.
Pairings: Technically, none.
Summary: The founding of Durotar, and lessons in history from the mouth of one who has been a part of it: Garona Halforcen.
Previous: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
Thrall sat in stunned silence. He had read of the assault on Stormwind, read of the betrayal from the point of view of men like Anduin Lothar and Uther the Lightbringer, but to hear it from Garona’s own lips made his stomach sink.
No wonder they hate us, Thrall thought. No wonder they hate her. He cleared his throat to ask, “What happened next?”
Garona met his gaze steadily, and Thrall flinched under her look. She had brought him this far, and she seemed to know, to understand, what he was thinking. “I was taken prisoner, chained in the dungeons of Stormwind Keep, after Doomhammer seized it as his own. Orcs don’t traditionally keep prisoners. We’d have to feed them. They are usually interrogated and then killed. Some consider it to be a luxury, to hold someone captive and deal with them at their leisure.”
“...it’s not a luxury for the one in the cage,” Thrall noted, and glanced down at his hands. They shook, and he commanded them to stop, without much luck. “So you were Doomhammer’s prisoner.”
“I was. I learned, in time, that Doomhammer had turned on Blackhand moments before the attack on Stormwind. That Doomhammer used my distraction to secure his status as leader of the Horde, of the Blackrock. It was a victory I bought him. That Gul’dan bought him.”
Thrall hesitated. “You said… was Gul’dan controlling you, through the brand? Was that why--”
“No,” Garona stated flatly. “While I am branded, as all agents of the Shadow Council are, Gul’dan’s words convinced me to betray a friend. He convinced me that it was the only way. The brand is used to track us, and if I had fled, he would have boiled my blood in my veins. It was a contingency, not direct control.”
“You said he couldn’t always find you,” Thrall pointed out. “He may not have after that.”
“Not something I realized then,” Garona replied. “That took time, and I learned more of what the brand did as I tracked down the Shadow Council’s agents. I believed Gul’dan to be more powerful than he was, more all-seeing. Everyone believed that, even Doomhammer.”
“I see,” Thrall said, though his heart ached. He didn’t want to ask what had happened next, and Garona read it in his expression.
“I will not give you the details, but I will tell you what was done. Doomhammer interrogated me. He demanded to know where Gul’dan was and what he was planning. Eventually, I told him of the demons and the Shadow Council. I learned, with time, that Gul’dan had retreated to Northshire Abbey immediately after I was sent to Stormwind. Medivh had called to him, informing him that he was under attack and needed help. Gul’dan, rather than actually aid him, dug into Medivh’s memories for a specific location, and he was in the process of doing that when Lothar killed Medivh. He fell into a coma.”
“The Tomb of Sargeras, Gul’dan’s true goal,” Thrall murmured. “Where he met his end.”
“Yes. There was much I couldn’t tell Doomhammer, and he didn’t believe me about much that I did tell him.” Garona looked at her hands, studying them for a time. Thrall’s heart sank further.
“I’m sorry, Garona, so sorry. He never said… did he--”
“Doomhammer was many things, Thrall. A brute, an idiot, and a coward, but he was not a rapist. He broke both of my arms and left me in a jail cell to rot. He didn’t believe I deserved a clean death, for all the hurt I’d caused him, nor that I deserved release from my own hurts.” She flexed her fingers briefly. “He likely lived to regret that.”
“He shouldn’t have been so cruel,” Thrall said. “No matter what.”
“You are so naive,” Garona murmured softly, almost to herself. “When he left to seek out Gul’dan, I broke from my cell. Having two broken arms was nothing compared to the numbness I felt. I killed the guards left to watch over me and I fled.” Thrall flinched again, but said nothing. “I made my way through the shadows, letting the cold numb me further, to Karazhan. There was… nowhere left for me to go. No Stormwind, no clan, no Draenor. With Doomhammer in charge, I could no more trust my supposed allies than I could my enemies. I wasn’t even sure which was which, at that point.”
“There couldn’t have been much left there either, considering what had happened,” Thrall ventured, and she nodded to him once.
“Tower’s Shadow Village was empty and ruined. The shadows howled and wailed from all the dead. Karazhan’s ruin was complete. What had been left intact by the battle between Aegwynn and Medivh had been destroyed by those coming to fight Medivh. Khadgar took them in. They destroyed the secret passages. All I had to do was follow the path of destruction up.”
Thrall watched Garona as her expression shifted, emotion twitching over her features like the shadows of things forgotten.
“I found him in his inner sanctum. The globe he used to speak to Gul’dan was smashed. They had stabbed him in the heart and then decapitated him, though they didn’t take his head with them. Lothar was not the type of warrior to bring his king a heart or a head as proof. His spellbooks were gone, or heaps of char. Anything they couldn’t take with them was destroyed. The book we’d once given Medivh as a gift… gone.”
“He was free, I think,” Thrall said as she fell silent. “You’d said he was doomed from the beginning, since before his birth… but as a ghost, there was no trace of the demon in him. He had broken free in death.”
“I know,” Garona said quietly. “I wonder if that’s what Khadgar finally realized. I wonder if anyone else could have done it. Killed him and freed his spirit. Perhaps… that’s what we were for. Those who grew close to him. To finally stop him when no one else could. I wish I had been there. Stormwind would never have fallen.”
“I’m sorry,” Thrall began, and Garona began to speak again, as though he had not.
“The least I could do for him was to put him to rest,” Garona continued. “I put him in one of the stasis chambers, where he’d keep samples, until I healed. I splinted my arms and scrounged food while they healed. Then, when I had the strength for it, I brought his body down to the ground floor, and found a place under one of the ruined trees. I buried him there, and chipped his name into the stone. I buried my daggers, the ones that had butchered Llane, with him. I was a fool, Thrall, and it hit me then, all of it. Gul’dan had never intended for any kind of bright future for the orcs. He sought only to use them. To use Medivh. To use me. Everything was ash and dust.”
Garona fell silent, her head bowed. Thrall let the words soak into him, mingling with every story Orgrim and Grom had told him, every Frostwolf tale. It only took him a moment to decide what to do. “Garona, may I touch you?”
Garona looked up at him sharply, and nodded once. Carefully, Thrall leaned in and embraced her, gathering the smaller woman. She felt fragile and strong all at once as she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. He murmured to her softly, rubbing her back. “We will make it right,” he promised. “We can’t change the past, but the orcs can still have that bright future you believed in.”
“You’re too good,” Garona complained, but softly. “Too naive. I stabbed the last person who trusted me in the back, and you’re hugging me.”
“Actually, you stabbed Llane in the front,” Thrall pointed out, and it startled a weak laugh from Garona.
“I’m not sure where you picked up a morbid sense of humour from,” Garona muttered, wiping at her eyes. “Do you think you’re funny?”
“I believe I’m a little bit funny,” Thrall said, rocking her. For a time, they sat in silence, Warchief and Assassin, sharing comfort. When Garona pushed against him, his arms opened and she sat up. Her eyes were dry, though they hinted at blue-grey, making them look larger than usual.
“After the burial, I began to plan,” Garona said, and coughed to clear her throat. “I hadn’t thought about what I’d do before then. I knew I had to make up for what I’d done. I’d allowed Gul’dan to convince me that he cared for me in any way, that he had the best interests of the orcs at heart. A part of me had… genuinely hoped that he could love me, as a father should love a daughter, that all he’d done for me was for a greater end, and because of that, many, many people died.”
“I understand,” Thrall said. “Blackmoore… I’ve spoken of him before. He was cruel and terrible, sometimes carelessly so, sometimes deliberately. The name he gave me, the purpose he trained me for… and Tari. My sister deserved better. She deserved the world and not a cage. Not death. There was a time I believed that if I just did the right things, appeased him, he would love me. He would be proud of me. We spoke of it some weeks ago… table scraps. I wanted table scraps.”
“Neither of them were worthy of love, only of hate,” Garona said. “I wish I could have found you in time to spare you from that.”
Thrall stilled, staring at her. “What do you mean?”
~ * ~
Garona ran. There were plenty of shadows to hide in, cast by so many trees that it obscured much of her ability to see, but she was not skimming through darkness, not this time. She needed to see and be seen. Her footfalls were near silent, the crunch of leaves going unheard, and the snapping of twigs so soft as to be thought far away. In better circumstances, she would leave no trace.
At the moment, she didn’t care. She had to find them, and fast, before it was too late.
It had taken time to recover from Doomhammer’s torture. Medivh’s burial had taken much from her, and the revelation of what she’d done had fallen on her shoulders like lead. By the time she had left Karazhan, months had passed.
Rather than pressing his advantage, Doomhammer had waited three months before pursuing the humans north. This had given Lothar time to warn King Terenas Menethil of Lordaeron of the orcish threat. Lothar had impressed upon him that the orcs were not a minor concern, or something to be observed by the diplomat-king, but instead that there needed to be a call to action of the other human and non-human nations. Orc aggression had pushed the six remaining human nations, the elven nation of Quel’thalas, two of the three dwarven kingdoms, and the gnomish stronghold to unite to face the combined threat of orcs, ogres, trolls, and goblins.
Khadgar once told me that it would take the greatest threat in the world for them to all agree on something, and he wasn’t wrong, Garona thought, shame flushing through her, though she didn’t let it break her stride.
Once the Horde had marched north, she had done all she could to delay them, killing key figures, sabotaging war efforts, and gloated as the humans beat the orcs back. She had not reckoned with Lord Perenolde, the leader of Alterac, betraying his people to the orcs, and her efforts had come to little as the orcs had pushed forward to Lordaeron, the heart of the Alliance.
Then she’d caught wind of a rumour that had sent her into Alterac proper, propelled as though she could outrun destiny.
Gul’dan didn’t know where they were until Durotan and Draka came out of hiding, Garona thought. He could never infiltrate the Shadow Wolves, never find a gap in their armour to exploit. Now they’ve come to whisper to Doomhammer, and Gul’dan has signed their death warrants.
The siege would be starting soon, or perhaps even now. Sieges lasted a long time, and the orcs, taught by the goblins, had taken to them quickly. They had mastered powder and weapons easily, and Garona had even heard that they commanded the dragons of Azeroth, thanks to the Dragonmaw.
That didn’t matter to her right at this moment. She had made her decision. I must find them, I--
She broke out into a clearing, and at a glance, she realized she was far too late. Four orcs lay sprawled in the clearing. Two, a man and a woman, wore leather trimmed with white fur, and adorned with bright blue cloth, beads, and a small number of charms. Black blood obscured much of the fine work as they were cut in a dozen places. They lay barely out of reach of each other's arms, though the man seemed to be reaching for a basket that lay beside him, cut open and thrown aside.
There were wolves, two of them, white and huge. She had heard of Alteraci frostwolves, though they lived only in the coldest places, and had never before been seen in the lowlands. Their jaws were soaked in black blood, and their own blood, as red as a human’s, soaked their white fur and dried, stiffening it in clumps like daggers.
From the way the violence spattered around them, in the dirt and over the brush and trees, the orcs had fallen first, and the wolves, berserk with rage and anger, had followed.
The assassins were arrayed around them: throats torn out by wolves, chests slashed open with axes and stabbed by spears. Garona moved to them, checking their clothing. They wore the red and black of the Blackrock clan, and she felt anger surge through her.
Doomhammer, you fool, you idiot! she growled silently as she turned one of the assassins onto his stomach. Did you not think Gul’dan would watch you every waking moment, looking for weakness?
She yanked the assassin’s head up, tugging at his long, shaggy, coarse hair. The symbol of the Shadow Council, tattooed above his hairline, glared back at her. She dropped the assassin as her face twisted into a snarl. With each body she checked, her movements grew jerkier and more violent. Each one bore the same mark.
Finally, as though delaying could somehow change their fate, Garona moved to Durotan and Draka. The chieftain of the Shadow Wolves had aged since she had last seen him. Though he was no older than Doomhammer, he had deep-set lines around his mouth and eyes, as though he’d spent much of the past eight years since he’d been exiled worrying.
Slowly, she knelt at his side, her fingers skimming over those lines, before moving to close his staring brown eyes. Durotan... I’m sorry. You deserved better than this. You both did. Turning slightly, she looked over Draka. She had new scars, and her expression, even in death, was defiant. You were stronger than Gul’dan ever understood. No one was more brave, more deserving of a chieftain mate than you. I was too late. Did you ever--
Garona looked over at the basket as realization struck her. This was no container for food or supplies. They had packs enough for that. Though it had been torn open and the blanket it must have held was gone, the carefully woven container could only have had one purpose. Even their child… no. Gul’dan’s destroyed their legacy. Durotan’s legacy. The Frostwolves were the only clan to ever stand against him, to defy him until the very end. They didn’t even have the decency to leave the child behind with their parents.
Garona tried to tilt the basket upright, but it rolled over. Tears dripped from her cheeks as she wept silently, surrounded by the deaths of those she had hoped to save. A bird’s call, loud and close, shook her from her silent mourning, and she wiped at her eyes. She caught a flash of the pendant charm of two moons on her bracer. Before she had escaped Doomhammer’s clutches entirely, she had stolen it from Gul’dan’s seized belongings, and left a knife in its place. She hoped it kept Doomhammer awake at night. She hoped he was dead, broken by the humans.
Hate fizzled in her veins, and she pushed herself up. It took time to find enough wood to build a pyre for four, and more time to drag two orc and two wolf corpses onto the wood. The fire took more time still to burn, and Garona watched as they returned to flame and ash, as orcs had always done, freeing their spirits from their bodies. I wonder if they will go to Oshu’gun, or if they will linger. If they will go to the human hell as enemies or to human heaven as fallen heroes. I wonder if they will linger in the Twisting Nether, adding their voices to the cries and screams. She blinked rapidly. She moved to one of the trees, and began to carve.
Durotan.
Draka
Unnamed Child.
The assassins, she left to the vultures. They deserved nothing less than to be torn apart, as she was, as she felt her heart, already brittle from loss and anger and hate, shatter into dust.
~ * ~
“I’m sorry I didn’t think to seek you out,” Garona said. “I believed the trail that went through the clearing was from orcs. It was obscured and old. When the rumours spoke of an orc in the clutches of Aedelas Blackmoore, it could have been any orc. I didn’t make the connection.”
Thrall was quiet for a moment, worrying the Frostwolf carving between his fingers, the one he had found in Orgrim’s collection of keepsakes, preserved even from his capture. Emotion surged through him -- gratitude that Garona had tended to his parents, anger at their deaths, sadness, loss -- and finally he spoke. “I won’t say I’m happy that I grew up away from my family, but I’m glad I was not torn apart by animals in infancy. I’m not happy that Blackmoore granted me an education only to use me for his traitorous schemes, but I’m glad that I met Tari and Sergeant. I’m not happy that I was taught to be a gladiator so that Blackmoore could bet on me, but I’m glad that I could fight to save my people.”
“Life is like that,” Garona pointed out. “You don’t have to be grateful for the painful things that happened to you. They aren’t good for you, they hurt. Life is about surviving the pain, and learning what causes it so that you can avoid it in the future.”
“There is no virtue in suffering,” Thrall murmured, and Garona nodded her agreement.
“If I could have lived a happy life without pain or death I would have chosen to do so, but as things are, I learned to survive in spite of that pain, not because of it.”
Thrall nodded his own agreement, and considered. “What did you do after that, while I was growing up in Durnholde?”
“Spying, mostly. The Horde didn’t need my help to fail. They failed at Lordaeron, though it was a near thing. Gul’dan and Cho’gall never provided Doomhammer’s armies with support, and the mages overwhelmed them. They lost their dragon support too, though Doomhammer had believed they wouldn’t need it. They retreated from Lordaeron, down the continent, harried by the dwarves and gnomes.”
“You must have been happy about that,” Thrall observed, watching her features. She sighed.
“In some ways, I was pleased to see Doomhammer humbled, especially because his downfall came from the same source as my own, but at the same time, the one thing Gul’dan was correct about was that the humans would have never let the orcs stay. The Alliance was pushing them back towards Draenor and the Dark Portal. The damage had spread to fill much of the southern swamp, and the land was dying.”
“Orgrim spoke of the retreat. He said that he had tried to return to Blackrock Mountain, but Blackhand’s sons refused to allow him entry. They watched as the Alliance crashed into the Horde.”
“That much was true,” Garona said. “Rend and Maim wanted nothing more than to see the Backstabber fall, even if it meant the Horde would fall with him. Half of the Horde’s races were not even of Draenor.”
“That’s… petty and sad,” Thrall noted, and Garona snorted, a faint gust of wind, easily lost.
“Those are excellent words to describe the twins. There was a last, pitched battle at the foot of Blackrock Mountain. Doomhammer and Lothar fought. He’d believed that, should Lothar fall, the Alliance forces would weaken as they had when I’d killed Llane.”
“The history books claimed that Lord Lothar was ambushed, while Orgrim always said it had been a fair fight,” Thrall observed. “But you’d know the truth of it.”
“It was as fair as Doomhammer ever is,” Garona replied. “No ambush, but they both had guards. Doomhammer killed Lothar, and demanded the humans retreat. General Turalyon, one of the paladins trained by Uther, took up Lothar’s shield and fought back.”
“Orgrim said he was astonished at their power,” Thrall said. “That if he had to have his behind kicked through his spine, that Turalyon was worthy.”
“The Silver Hand was well-trained and fought expertly, throwing back much of the fel magic the warlocks threw against them,” Garona noted. “Uther had finally made up his mind about choosing to fight.”
“Though the paladins were not perfect, nor untouchable,” Thrall growled. “They could fall.”
“All can fall, and the higher up they are, the longer and more painful the drop,” Garona reminded him. “Doomhammer, as you know, was captured and dragged north in chains, brought to Terenas and the prisons in Lordaeron.”
“He only rarely spoke of it, though he told me he knew what it was like to be kept in a cage for the entertainment of humans.” Thrall frowned, and for a bare moment, he felt Garona’s touch ghost over the back of his hand; comfort, in her way. He offered her a smile, and she returned one.
“Did he ever tell you why they kept him for so long?” Thrall shook his head. “It was part of a scheme of Terenas’, one few, if any, still know about.”
“What scheme?” Thrall asked, looking startled.
“Terenas knew that capturing every orc would be a trial. Keeping them all, prosecuting them all, would be ruinous.” Thrall opened his mouth to object, and Garona raised a hand. “I know how that looks from this side of history, but Terenas didn’t intend to keep the orcs in prison camps indefinitely. He wanted Doomhammer to lead the orcs away, back to Draenor or elsewhere.”
“But the Portal was closed,” Thrall said. “They couldn’t have known then that it would open in a few years.”
“No, they couldn’t have, but Terenas was determined.”
“I had no idea.... and Orgrim said nothing to me. It’s not in any of the books,” Thrall said. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure, because you do know of its effects, even if you didn’t know why,” Garona replied. “The Alliance nearly collapsed under the weight of Terenas’ risky idea. It did fracture. Gilneas and Stromgarde left the Alliance due to Terenas’ ‘merciful’ treatment of the orcs. Kul Tiras nearly left, but returned after Doomhammer’s execution order was made public. The elves of Quel’thalas seriously considered returning to isolation, simply barring the Gate of Three Moons and never opening them again.”
“It seems the Blackhand twins aren’t the only ones capable of pettiness,” Thrall growled. “Instead of letting our people go elsewhere, they were kept in cages, made to starve and suffer and abused due to Terenas’ so-called mercy.”
“The other choice was genocide,” Garona noted quietly, and Thrall jerked back. “Greymane and Trollbane wanted to see the orcs killed until the camps ran black with orc blood. The orcs would have done it, killed the humans instead of keeping them as prisoners. They did not have prison camps.” Thrall felt sick from the knowledge, and Garona saw it in his eyes. She continued. “Doomhammer never spoke of it because Terenas’ great scheme failed, and he was nearly executed by the crown.”
“But why?” Thrall asked, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Why did Terenas change his mind?” When Garona remained silent, he pressed on. “You know, I’m certain you know. You haven’t told me all of this just to say nothing.”
Garona watched his expression and nodded once. “I will tell you.”
~ * ~
The war between orcs and humans, between Horde and Alliance, was over. Doomhammer’s capture had signalled its end. Garona had moved between the camps when they had been temporary structures close to the Dark Portal, overseen by Danath Trollbane, and she had avoided Alleria Windrunner’s patrols as they had hunted the Bleeding Hollow. She had seen Nethergarde Keep, bright with new stone and wood, adorned by the banners of Dalaran and the Kirin Tor. She had avoided Stormwind when Varian Wrynn, young but no longer a child, had returned under guard with Bolvar Fordragon and Turalyon as his escort, to rebuild what had been destroyed.
Then the Dark Portal had opened again, and she’d raced north from the Swamp of Sorrows, following the carnage. Grommash Hellscream, leader of the Warsong clan, older and harder and leaner than she’d seen him last, had led his forces north, smashing through that which was fragile and newly built.
And then… they stopped, Garona thought. When all the orcs who could escape to Draenor had gone, the Alliance’s forces followed. Then the Portal closed and they were trapped to die.
Khadgar had lived through Karazhan and Stormwind and Dalaran and Lordaeron, only to fall on Draenor. Damn Ner’zhul. Damn the demons.
When the Portal had closed that final, fateful time, the orcs had ceased to fight. Instead of proud, brutish, fierce warriors, they were as tired, beaten children. They were exhausted. It had taken little for the humans to round them up. If any hint of defiance had remained, it was the announcement that Orgrim Doomhammer was to be executed that destroyed it, as surely as Llane Wrynn’s death had destroyed the defiance of the Azerothians.
Good, he deserves it, Garona thought, even as she slipped through the shadows of Whitestone Castle. The thought, as well-deserved as it was, sat poorly with her. It was robbed of its venom by the sight of the orcs, herded into camps, watched over by humans who prodded with staves and spears and swords if they felt like the orcs moved too slowly. There were no trolls in the camps, no ogres, no goblins.
No one leads the orcs now, she admitted. Gul’dan is dead, and Cho’gall with him. His abominations, the warlock-knights, fled to Draenor and are likely dead too. The chieftains fled first, to Draenor, only to die there. There are no clans any more, no leaders. She grimaced as she watched the silver-and-white liveried servants hurry from one place to another, and she moved in further. Much of the castle was devoted to politics, to the bureaucracies that kept a vast, intricate kingdom, extended by alliances made during war, functioning. The one time the orcs need their Warchief, he’s going to do them the unfortunate turn of dying.
Word had spread far and wide of Doomhammer’s imminent demise. She wanted to see it with her own eyes, but everything she’d observed on her journey to the event had filled her with unease, rather than triumph. They need someone to wake them up, or they will die, she thought angrily. I care nothing for the fool warriors, but the children, the hunters and farmers… they are all trapped together. Humans only see the green skin and the blood on their hands.
Her fingers clenched briefly, but she eased forward, skimming through the shadows easily. If I knew more…
With a silent growl, she continued her journey deeper into the castle. If she had been intent on assassination, rather than information, she would have had her pick of targets: Terenas was in his office, speaking to Uther, called Lightbringer, about supplies for the camps.
Gone was the young man that Garona had discussed peace with. Instead, at twenty-five, Uther’s temples were greying from the stress of leading the Silver Hand, and instead of a skinny child, unable to lift a sword, he was broad-shouldered and well-muscled, and was beginning to grow a beard and mustache.
Humans have ridiculous facial hair, Garona decided. Terenas, the human king, did not seem like much of a warrior. His hair was shoulder length and pale blond, generously mixed in with white. His eyes were a watery blue, and he kept a trim beard and mustache, much like Uther was attempting to cultivate. Terenas was not a warrior: Garona could see no muscles under his white silk robes, and they were trimmed with gold, a reminder of wealth long out of orc reach. He was a politician, a leader though charisma, wisdom, and manipulation rather than strength of arm. Llane would have liked him, I think. I wonder if Varian does.
Listening in on their conversation brought her little information, and she moved on. She found guards grumbling about their schedules for patrols, talking about how, soon enough, they wouldn’t be assigned to the ‘special prisoner’ down below. Doomhammer lives yet, I see, Garona thought, and then paused.
“The Princess hasn’t been down to see him much,” one of the guards was saying. “Not since Himself disappeared, sending everyone into a tizzy.”
“Shh, don’t even speak of it,” another guard hissed. “Y’can’t bring him up without upsetting the lot of ‘em. Asides, it ain’t right, a fine lady like Calia talkin’ to a dirty orc.”
I’d imagine, living in that cell, he’s fairly filthy, Garona thought, trying to summon up pleasure at that and failing. So where has Princess Calia been if she hasn’t been with Doomhammer… and why would she be with him in the first place?
Garona moved on, searching for private quarters. She did not find the princess, but she did find the Prince. Arthas, younger than his sister by nearly a decade, had a pair of dolls in his hands. As she observed, and listened to his soft murmurs, she realized one was meant to be an orc, the other a knight. The knight, it seemed, often won.
Why is he so quiet? Garona wondered. Is someone napping?
A moment later, as Arthas continued on his quiet crusade, Garona caught a voice, that of an older woman, speaking. Her words were indistinct, but that seemed not to matter to the young prince. He went pale under his tan and fell silent, curling against the wall.
What could that mean? Garona wondered. Arthas said nothing, did nothing, until the voice faded, and then he hurried off. Garona followed him, silent and curious. The young prince let himself into a room, and Garona slipped in after him, a silent, swift shadow, and looked around. Arthas had entered a suite, and he immediately went to one of the chairs, clambering up into it. There was a scattering of books and toys around the room, and the table was gouged and scratched, as though someone had hit it. He curled up, and seemed to wait.
“Oh, Arthas, it’s alright,” came a voice. This was not the woman’s voice that has spoken earlier, and Arthas’ response was the exact opposite of the previous one. He uncurled and ran towards a young human woman, not quite eighteen summers old, and flung his arms around her. She lifted him briefly, hugging him in return.
“Callie, Callie, I wasn’t making any noise, I promise,” the boy insisted. “But I heard her--”
“She can’t hurt you, not any more,” the girl said, stroking her fingers over Arthas’ hair. Princess Calia Menethil shared many features with her brother and father, her hair less golden than her brother’s, though far less pale than her father’s. Her eyes were not watery, nor were they sky-blue, but instead were icy blue and sharply focused. Garona could see she wore gloves, thin and fine and lacy, even indoors. The princess’ gaze darted around, as though seeking secrets from the shadows, and Garona avoided her gaze, moving past her. She left the siblings to talk while she went to Calia’s room.
Here, she found musical instruments, a large harp, a violin in its case, a full piano laden with sheet music. Garona examined each curiously, and then looked away. Orcs prefer drums, she thought, and moved on. Calia’s floor was stone, and Garona saw a pair of slippers tucked under her large bed, the blankets neatly tucked in.
A fur or three wouldn’t kill you, Garona thought wryly, and then her eyes fell to the chest at the foot of Calia’s bed. She moved to it swiftly, and paused, listening. Calia was telling Arthas that it was time to study anyway, and Garona nodded to herself.
She knelt by the chest, and withdrew wires from her sleeves. The lock could not resist her long, and there were books within, neatly stacked. Garona picked up one, glancing over it. Just a diary, she thought as she leafed through it absently. I wonder if-- She spotted Doomhammer’s name, and hurriedly went back. As she read, her eyes widened.
Terenas wanted peace with the orcs? With Doomhammer? And he sent his daughter to chase it? She skimmed the words swiftly. Daval Prestor… that name doesn’t sound familiar, but-- Garona blinked. Prestor and Calia were engaged. Then he disappeared, after she called on an archmage, Krasus Goldenmist. Wasn’t he a member of the Six? Khadgar might have mentioned him. This must be who the guards meant, but… Reading onward, she found Calia had a scheme of her own to free Doomhammer. She will die, or he will, she--
[I love him, and I cannot allow him to die here. Not after all that has been done. I won’t let Daval Prestor ruin Father’s plans! I know that Orgrim regrets his mistakes, and has only done what he could to help his people. Much of what he has told me has pained him to admit, and he has freed himself. He may even regret hurting Her. He seems to, at any rate. I cannot let him die. It must be soon, when Arthas is busy and Father and Uther work late into the night.
I cannot fail.]
Garona ground her jaw. I would bet he doesn’t regret it in the slightest. She carefully put the diary back, and then locked the chest again. Swiftly, she departed, past childish voices and adult grumblings. Down and down into the dungeons. It was cold here, without the careful work done to keep Lordaeron’s icy Winter winds out. Garona noticed how few guards there were as she moved, and recalled what she’d seen in Calia’s diary. The princess was altering the guard schedule to avoid casualties, but Doomhammer is as subtle as a punch in the face.
Did she want to let Doomhammer go? Didn’t he deserve death in the most humiliating way possible? She pushed these questions aside as she slipped down to observe him more closely. As she suspected, he was not clean. The clothing he wore was stained and greasy, his hair filthy. He was scarred in new ways, by burns. Garona frowned. She mentioned Prestor tortured him, but not her father. How could one human do this without help?
The former Warchief was muttering to himself, pacing and sitting on his narrow, hard bunk in turns. Sometimes, the muttering was punctuated by a name, Durotan or Gul'dan, and Garona's expression soured. If Doomhammer is going mad, he'll be even more useless than usual. It could be the pressure of the execution order that's sent him over the edge. There's something to be said for the certainty of death, though--
Doomhammer rubbed his hands over his face, and then let his head rest there, cradled. "I... regret what I did." Garona froze, wondering if he had heard her. He could not see her, certainly he was not looking at her. She wondered who he spoke to. "I regret that I used torture to get information from Garona. I regret that I was so vengeful as to leave her alive so that she could suffer. To your enemies, mercy."
Her stomach rolled suddenly. So much of her life had been about anger and hate for warriors like Doomhammer. As he sighed, as though he had released a great burden, hers only weighed more heavily on her. To your enemies, mercy. If Doomhammer dies here, it is over. No one will ever lead the orcs, not with Durotan dead, his legacy destroyed. The humans will enslave the orcs forever until the last light dies. Doomhammer… must live.
Gul’dan would have let Doomhammer die. Ner’zhul, certainly. Half of the other chieftains would not lift so much as a finger once Doomhammer had fallen… but she was not a chieftain, not a leader. She was an assassin, a blade in the darkness. She had, right now, a choice. Her gaze fell to Doomhammer, and her eyes narrowed.
I have made my choice.
[ Chapter 14]