March, march, march,
Steel on your face,
Steel in your heart.

March, march, march,
March from the womb,
March to your doom.

March, march, march,
March through the pain,
March through it all.

March, march, march,
Die marching.

Prologue

13th Thoradin, King's Year 598 – 6 years after the opening of the Dark Portal

The rain did not relent, washing away the stench of fresh blood and those familiar scents of sweat and leather and steel. But the cool fresh air of the Highlands did not arrive with the rain now as it should have; instead, a dark haze of burnt flesh, dark magic, and evil lingered in the midday air, as the dead and the dying were trampled, mutilated, and captured by the advancing orcs.

Courage and valor had been no match for the ferocity and savagery of the Horde. The battle standards of Lordaeron and Stromgarde lay torn and bloodied in the mud just as ingloriously as the men who had carried them into battle.

The Horde surged forward across the Thandol Span, the enormous dwarven bridges which connected the Arathi Highlands to the Wetlands, and thus deprived the Alliance's advantage of a choke point. The looting and pillaging of the Alliance war camp began in earnest and their march north would halt for a few brief days if the humans were lucky. For soon they would sweep across the Highlands as they had done the lands in the south and it seemed that nothing would be able to stop them.

Those few who had survived now fled the field and of them those who hadn't the advantage of a horse could still be seen in the distance making their way north on foot. Some were slowed by the injured while others left behind both arms and armor to flee from the coming onslaught more quickly.

Orcish raiders were not content to simply allow them to retreat, however. Those on foot were unlikely to be able to outrun their pursuers but that didn't stop them from trying. Captain Alexander Wymorland had had his legs crushed by an ogre and was bleeding from several deep wounds. His son, a private, had lifted the Captain up in his arms and was struggling to carry him away to safety.

Swords and shields were quickly abandoned, but Captain Wymorland's plate armor took too long to remove and time was of the essence. Unfortunately, this did little to aid Private Wymorland in his struggle to save his father's life.

"Damn it, boy! Leave me behind. Think of your sister and your mother. I am already dead, but who will protect them if you die?"

"No, you old bastard, I'm saving you! We can still make it!"

But despite his valiant words every step was a battle and the two progressed slowly with the orcs following close behind and gaining ground. The final shouts of other survivors close by alerted them to the proximity of the orcs at their heels. Just as they reached the top of one of the Highland's many hills the Captain saw orcish raiders descending upon four men who refused to leave their injured comrades behind. Even the wounded lifted their broken blades in defiance, but they were no match for their pursuers. Looking up, the orcs set their sights on new targets.

"No, boy, you aren't going to die just for my damn dead husk. You have to grow up and make the hard decisions in this life! Survive, damn you, survive!"

Before his son could refute him the Captain pushed himself out of his exhausted son's grasp and the two of them tumbled down the hill away from the orcs. Private Wymorland picked himself up as quickly as he could, but it was not nearly fast enough. The Captain drew his dagger from his belt and plunged it into his own throat.

Private Wymorland was at his father's side too late. Choking and sputtering blood, the Captain pushed his son away with all his remaining strength and breathed his last breath. Trembling, Private Wymorland set the body on the ground and ran as fast as he could.