-Months ago-
Thrice-scarred Captain, the might of the Warsong is on the march. The drums beat silent this day and the ravagers think they walk hidden paths, or that the wretched rays of light blind our lambent eyes.
Dread warning, thrice-scarred Sentinel; the numbers that gather threaten to flood over our meagre scouts. Even the Chorus of Iron is bedecked for battle.
Scout Darktide has spied the towers and walls of Warsong Camp and the Splintered Post, naught but children and the lowliest peons remain, in much-tested armour and with rust-pitted weapon. Not a true warrior amongst them.
Unfurl the Silverwing lest moon-drenched Astranaar drowns in merciless day.
-Urgent missive delivered to Sentinel Captain Messinal Halfspear from Scout Leader Faiden Whispertongue-
Most Revered Commander Ravencall,
Upon receiving Scout Leader Whispertongue's missive I ordered the Silverwing companies under my command out to his position to shadow the movements of the Warsong, and to determine their goals if possible. It is my belief that we have as yet remained undetected, and I commend the scouts for their skills, even in this most bright of days.
The Warsong are heading to the south and east towards the Barrens and the Mor'shan Ramparts. I speculate that Orgrimmar has called up further forces for the assault into Northrend. If so, it leaves the orcish incursion points into Ashenvale very vunerable. I understand it is beyond the remit of my position, but my Silverwing are eager to remove this blight from our blessed groves.
I shall continue to have my scouts monitor the movements of the Warsong until their purpose becomes clear.
By the grace of the Goddess,
Captain Halfspear
Spear Captain; Vigilance denied, we can go no closer. The greenskinned host travels not to new Orgrimmar, not to mercantile Rachet. A thorn in our side pulled by most hated allies?
The Warsong march to the Maw and in such numbers victory is assured.
Praise be to the Warleader?
-Report from Scout Leader Whispertongue to Sentinal Captain Halfspear-
Most Revered Commander Ravencall,
A most unusual day just past. The Warsong forces marched to the cave system that has come to be known as the 'Maw', on the borders of the Barrens and our own Ashenvale. Since the defeat of the Legion in Kalimdor, the caves have been occupied by a remnant company of demons. They have been trouble to both Horde and Kaldorei for some years now, raiding for resources, their base requiring a large force in order to dislodge – forces that I have not been given leave to command.
The orcs assembled at the Maw for most of the day and around dusk began the journey back to their camps. Upon the reports of my scouts, I rode to the Maw myself and I can inform you without doubt that the demons are gone.
It appears they have been utterly annihilated, for not even a single body remains. I am puzzled by this show of force from the Warleader and await your response.
However, it seems the opportunity for vengeance on the camps has passed.
By the grace of the Goddess,
Captain Halfspear
There was little to set the Maw apart from any number of the caves that riddled the the termite-mound like hills that sprouted throughout the Barrens. If one had the inclination, you might just be able to make out the crude sigils daubed in some red liquid on either side of the dank, dark opening, but the occasional spring rains had almost washed those back to nothing. The more careful observer, standing there at the entrance, might feel the rolls of heat that the black mouth breathed out or hear the faint echoes of some unknown tongue.
The bones of incautious observers could be found in various chambers of the cave system, their depth one measure of their owner's efficacy.
For all its innocuous appearance, the Maw was a deadly pit. Its inhabitants had withstood all attempts from elf and orc to dislodge them, the narrow cave mouth providing the most potent bottleneck to break charge after charge. That, and the demons seeming apathy had turned the Maw, in the eyes of the leadership on both sides, into a minor nuisance, a problem far down on their list of priorities.
Oh adventurers of all shapes and colours took it upon themselves to venture into that place, some wrong to right, some point to prove. Orc cubs too young to know stupidity from bravery, or an elf too freshly wounded by loss to think – they were all rarely seen again.
Rutgar swilled the lukewarm water around his mouth, spitting it out onto the dry, dusty earth. It came out brown, but he didn't have to think about that long before it was sucked into the thirsty, thirsty soil.
It had not been a long march, nor, compared to his experience, a terribly diffcult one…though trying to keep the movement of that many battle-hungry orcs as quiet as possibly had not been easy.
He rubbed his knuckles. It amazed him that after all he had been through, that it still pained him to break a jaw. You would have thought his fist would be used to it now.
No matter.
The wide, mottledskinned orc brushed some of the dust from the march from his face, restoppered the flask and threw it back to the pup who has offered it to him, the smiling face lopsided with swollen jaw. He shook loose the muscles of his thick, short neck, like nothing more than a grazing buffalo.
Bigger things to worry about now.
Rut pulled the heads of his hatchets loose and let them drop back into their belt loops. His hands unconsciously danced over his armour, pulling straps, checking buckles and testing plates. It was a ritual every soldier had gone through a thousand and one times before, and Rut was nothing if not a good soldier. He strode towards the Warleader, surrounded by his Chorus, spitting once more to punctuate his arrival.
The banners of the Warsong flapped fitfully in the desultory breeze.
The lion-yellow eyes of the Warleader, his warleader turned towards him.
'It is just as I remember it Lord. Time will have only made them weaker since I was last blooded here, but that hole will prevent us from bringing our numbers to bear,' Rutgar rubbed the back of his neck with one mottled paw, 'We'll win, but it's gonna be messy.'
He knew that his warleader knew all this, anybody with half a brain could see that attacking a cave mouth barely three men across filled with demons would be costly, but he didn't even know why they were here.
The amber eyed orc simply turned away, stony face expressionless.
Spirits below, no one knew why the Warleader had mobilized the Warsong for this, most were just happy at the chance to kill some demons.
Not that there would be much fight in them.
Even when Rutgar had come here last, years ago now, in a routine patrol, the scum had seemed…lacklustre. Which for demons, was very out of character. Oh they had fought well enough, driven off the orcs with roars that rumbled straight to your chest and blows that could shatter steel.
But there had also been a diffidence…the odd feeling that it did not really matter if they lived or died.
Every so often, Rutgar had heard, one of the creatures would wander out, down towards the Crossroads, or north into Elven lands. Deserters he had thought, but it was more than that. The demons must have known that they would never be allowed or able to reconnect with their kin, heck, the Portal was on a different continent! No, these demons were deserting on life, giving up.
Rutgar had no time for them.
His silent reverie was broken by a grunt.
The Warleader was staring at the cave entrance, where two bulky felguard had emerged, their twin maces held almost casually in meaty fists. The blue-skinned, muscle-bound demons glanced up at the ranks of orcs before settling on boulders to either side of the entrance. They were in no hurry to engage the greenskins.
'Rutgar,' the broad orc stiffened and turned towards his lord, 'you and the warlock will accompany me.'
Rut shared a glance with the ancient, misshapen Raleek the Spurned – though to be honest, the warlock's sneer from under his cowl was the only reply he got.
'Accompany you…where Warleader?' he asked
The Spurned let out a hacking cough that could have been a laugh. His lord just smiled that closed mouth smile and pointed towards the cave.
'Down there Warleader?'
'Down there Rutgar.'
He cocked his head, the sniggering from Raleek was not helping his understanding of the Warleader's thoughts.
A hand clapped onto his shoulder.
'A leader needs a standard bearer Rutgar, and you shall be mine.' A smooth wooden pole was shoved into his hands, a banner furled at the crosspiece.
Rutgar was reeling, what was the Warleader thinking? Going down there alone? Rut was confident in his own abilities to kill demons, and the Warleader's skills and Raleek could probably conjure something dangerous, but those monsters could pour out of that cave like a foul flood.
But the Warleader was already striding down the slope towards the Maw, the Spurned hobbling along as best he could. Rutgar hurried after them.
His warleader had planted himself about twenty yards away from the Maw hands clasped behind his back, and the damn fool hadn't even removed the peace loop from the from the hilt of his broadsword. Raleek gasped his way to just behind his right shoulder. The felguard began to stand, the looks on their tiny faces one of wary confusion, as they readied their hideous maces. Rutgar had one hand on a hatchet as he closed on the left shoulder of his lord.
'Unfurl my banner Rut.'
He didn't let his eyes leave the two demons as he reached up for the leather strap that would release the proud Warsong mark. He yanked down on the strap.
There was a silence where there should have been the boasts and battle cries that was the song of war. The demons looked even more confused than before, glancing at each other as if trying to decide what to do.
Rutgar looked up, and his jaw dropped.
He didn't even know there was a white banner in the Camp. He stared at the back of his lord.
What was he doing?
'Bring out your master,' the Warleader growled.
The eyes were seen first, easily nine feet from the uneven ground, glowing a hungry blood red. The horns were next, emerging into the light, ugly jagged curves that added another two foot to the Dreadlord's height. Next came the pallid, strangely beautiful, completely hairless face. The beast kept his wings wrapped around his body like some kind of wretched old leather cape.
Saemonvragas was not the most powerful of Nathrezim, not like always-starving Mal'Ganis or great Mephistroth, but even still, licks of darkness rolled off him, probing at their feet, though they recoiled from the Spurned.
White lips peeled back and a vivid red tongue snaked out from between needle-like fangs.
'Why have you come here, slave?' the Dreadlord's voice, was the voice of temptation itself, speaking in flawless orcish.
Rut stiffened at that, fingers closing around hatchet head, ready to draw.
The Warleader only chuckled, low and long.
'Look further demon, you see what I have brought here, what destruction I could order here. There is no doubt to the outcome should the Warsong be loosed upon your,' the Warleader's lips broke into a hint of a sneer, '…kingdom.'
The Dreadlord's perfect visage split into an inhuman snarl and a clawed hand shot out from the living cloak, the smallest finger missing. 'You come to mock then? I could take your souls and inflict such torture on them before even your dogs could descend the slope.'
The orc raised his hands placatingly, 'I am the Warleader. I am not like those who have come before. I have not come here to slay, though it would not pain me to order it – I have come to talk, to deal. I can offer you an escape, I can offer you your lives.'
Rutgar, one of the Chorus of Iron, left hand of the Warleader, veteran of a hundred and one battles, felt his mouth go dry.
'I can offer you a purpose.'
They were back on the march just after dusk, leaving nothing in their wake. Let the Kaldorei puzzle over that in their trees.
There were grumblings, of course there were, some wounds were far too fresh for the what the Warleader ordered. But grumbles were all there was, the ties of loyalty were too strong for anything but obedience. For this man they had denied the Warchief, Thrall – had stayed when all others had sailed across the frozen seas.
His plans trailed down unseen paths. They could not know his thoughts, but they knew that wherever he led, they would follow.