In the depths of the Vindicaar, a death gate opened up. One of several portals from the order halls, nary a soul noticed as a lone armored soldier walked through. Among the throngs of draenei workers, the death knight turned back to see Sally Whitemane, one of the Four Horsemen, staring at him from the other side of the gate with her dreary eyes.
Her tired visage mismatched the iron in her words. "The Deathlord is pleased with your progress and alerted the notables to your presence," she droned in a lifeless voice. "Earn respect for the halls of Acherus or don't come back." As was her habit, she let the gate close before he could reply, causing the man in black to once again wonder how different his service to the Deathlord was from his service to the Liche King.
Sighing despite not needing to breathe, he took his leave and walked through the halls of the draenei ship - the visual design was easy to follow, as if designed to allow easy access and movement. In the main hall, he saw a measure of commotion among several of Azeroth's leaders hovering over what appeared to be a command desk. He'd seen the same scene play itself out in countless other settings to the point where he wondered when it would end. As he'd done many times before, he reluctantly approached the glowing circular table without a word and waited for the half a dozen or so people to calm down.
A demonic-looking purple elf with a face twisted into a permanent sneer seemed to aggressively question even those who weren't opposing him. "The Felfire Armory has been sundered by the leader of the Unseen Path; if we don't act now, the Legion won't give us another chance to strike," the eyeless man whose civilization summoned the Legion in the first place insisted.
Turalyon, who the man in black had fought both with and against, shook his head. "We can't act on information we received only ten minutes ago; our forces need more time."
More of those gathered around appeared as if they wanted to say more, but the well-known Archmage appeared to recognize the man in black for all the wrong reasons. "Look, look, this is the one we sent for," Khadgar said while waving for the man in black to draw nearer.
Alleria tried to calm the others down as well, speaking about the newcomer as if she actually remembered him. "Yes, he's not lost a battle since the Knights of the Ebon Blade sent him to us at the Broken Shore. I believe he should be involved in this."
Illidan's eyebrows waved as if he were going through the motions of an eye roll. "Another voice clamoring to be heard?" he asked incredulously.
Not realizing that she'd felled the man in black in the Second War just as he was about to behead Khadgar, Alleria continued pressing the issue. "Illidan, this is Lazare Garamonde. The one who reinforced the contingent from Skyhold when they were befallen by the sneak attack last week."
"I know who he is."
Also having forgotten the man in black personally, Khadgar joined the chorus. "We need every sound-minded field commander we can find, especially if we decide to act now. The Deathlord has sent him to us specifically to unblock the gates for the rest of our forces to assault the Burning Throne; somebody needs to clear those gates." Khadgar stared up at Illidan, silently pleading for his peer to rescind his opposition. Just as silent, the horned elf refused to affirm the point out loud, merely ceasing his opposition.
With all of them silent, eyes eventually turned to Velen, leader of the ship and once leader of the planet. The sage looked at the others as if requesting permission to speak - all the others save the dark newcomer.
"Lazare Garamonde, field commander of the Ebon Blade, I welcome you. This is our situation; hear my words and consider them carefully.
"The Legion's artillery platform was confirmed as destroyed by the Unseen Path mere minutes ago. The Kirin Tor sabatoged their air support, and the Conclave demolished the gate to the Burning Throne. They've reacted by besieging our ground forces elsewhere in the Wastes, and their troop movements elsewhere on the planet suggest a counter strike is looming.
"This ad hoc council, if we can call it that, is considering a final push into the Burning Throne, but we lack the reinforcements to confront both the Legion battalion blocking our way and the forces of Sargeras within the Throne itself. We can't do both and won't receive further reinforcements from Azeroth for the next few hours due to a Legion counterstrike already underway on the Broken Shore. The Legion's artillery support in the Wastes May have been destroyed, but we don't know how quickly they can perform repairs.
"If we decide to make a final push through the gate now, at this moment...will you be ready?"
So many times since he'd been pulled out of retirement, Garamonde had been made to stand before tribunals and councils of officials, never asked so much as how he was doing before being given orders. Velen was the first person to actually consult the knight in ebon plate before sending him in to a war zone; the novelty was downright endearing. The irony, however, was that after having his future made a plaything for higher ranking officials since this war had begun, Garamonde found himself without significant words to share once he was finally given the opportunity to speak.
"How many?"
His question to answer a question caught the others off guard, and a few of them shared curious glances among themselves. Velen, however, seemed to understand.
The sage leaned closer, but didn't lower his voice. "You're asking how many troops are amassed at the gates of the Burning Throne?" Velen asked for confirmation.
Illidan's sneer grew more pronounced. "Endless," the demon elf interjected.
Irritation marked Garamonde's voice as well. "How many?" he repeated.
"The Legion knows no end," Illidan said.
"How many?" Garamonde repeated again. "How many troops comprise this battalion and what are their divisions?"
"You don't know what you're dealing with," the horned elf said dismissively.
"I know that I'm dealing with a force I've defeated every time I've faced them," Garamonde answered, grabbing the attention of the others despite his own distaste for the appeal to authority. "I know I'm dealing with a proper army and not attacking scattered demons in the darkness, nor relying on the power of deities which can bleed to send down miracles on a handful of chosen heroes...
"And I know that I have more experience commanding organized companies of regimented, uniformed soldiers than half of you at this table." He pulled a sheet of paper which had been tucked under his belt along with a ball point pen sold to him by an inventor in Dalaran. He began to jot down notes, but quickly spoke again lest anyone attempt to argue about his past military positions.
"So...please. If I'm to be the sacrificial lamb of this operation, allow me to perform a field commander's job properly. Allow me to measure, then to calculate, then to judge, then to plan...because that's how a pitched battle between two armies on open terrain is actually conducted.
"How many?"
Angered by the insolence of a nobody in terms of Azerothian politics, the Betrayer relented for reasons only he was likely to understand. Garamonde assumed that what won Illidan over, as it had won many others over, was the fact that the death knight clarified that it was he who would absorb the brunt of an enemy's attack so the others could safely charge in thereafter.
"Two contingents of the battalion in the north and the south; we have companies from the Horde and the Sentinels to face those down respectively," Illidan said, the altered man's sneer dissipating up ever so slightly. "The final contingent in the center is two-hundred infantry strong, three quarters of which are felguards; the rest are imps. Each unit is managed by a shivarra or a mortal warlock, respectively. The troops outnumber yours by a factor of two. You will have no support in the time period during which most battles start and finish."
Garamonde wrote everything down by hand, the only one at the command table to do so. With his primary critic sated, the others actually watched at the speed with which the undead human performed mathematical functions. When both sides of his sheet of paper were covered in writing, he held it up to examine it.
"I will clear the gates in less than two hours."
"Good, that's good," Khadgar said with relief, though Alleria and Turalyon both shot him skeptical looks. Illidan only stared at the death knight, any emotions other than derision unreadable on such an unchanging face.
Velen, however, appeared sincerely relieved to an extent that Garamonde wondered how heavily the conflict must have weighed on the elderly leader. "Praise the Light...praise the Light," Velen whispered with his weary eyes closed. He looked at Garamonde, addressing him with a respect neither the Deathlord nor the Four Horsemen ever did. "We will provide everything you need...but you must leave right now."