Light's Hope, Eastern Plaguelands (Year 25 ADP)
The company of Orcs, Tauren, and Trolls stamped its feet restlessly in the chill dawn. Dukhor even shivered a little, though cold rarely affected him. The last time he'd set foot in Tirisfal Glades, the kingdom of Lordaeron was held by humans, and his coming wasn't nearly as welcome then as it was now. But the people who tended the farms, who manned the city walls, who defended this land from the invading Orcs, were alive in years past. Not so now.
Standing on the border in a place known only as the Bulwark, the Horde recruits stood at attention, awaiting orders. Captain Rukalekk still conferred with a nervous human courier from an Alliance cell of the Argent Dawn; Dukhor sensed that their routine sortie into the western end of the Plaguelands was about to be rescheduled.
"I hope you ate your fill," Kuadanath murmured beside him. He glanced up at his friend's bovine face and grinned.
"Enough for both of us."
"If you fall...," she said somberly, letting the now-familiar vow hang. They exchanged understanding nods. If you fall, I will burn you.
Finally, the captain saluted the courier and sent him off with a reply. Then he turned to the ranks of soldiers girded for battle.
"Plans've changed," Captain Rukalekk snapped shortly. "Our... 'brothers' at Light's Hope are besieged. It's up to us to break it." Dukhor noticed the captain's expression flicker. Rukalekk, like Dukhor, was a veteran of the wars, a child of the homeworld. Though many factional differences were set aside at Mount Hyjal only a short while ago, Orc memories were at least as long as the humans'.
The Argent Dawn was technically neutral, ignoring political disagreements for the common good. Yet there remained enough animosity and distruct between the Horde and Alliance that the 'cells' were not integrated. A strong Horde presence existed at the western end of the Plaguelands, while an equally strong Alliance force held position on the eastern border. Rarely did they meet on the field in between.
"Report to the quartermasters; get enough rations for a two-day hard march," the captain continued. If any were dismayed at the order, none voiced it. Rukalekk was known to be free with a cudgel upon the head of any grumblers. "I want you all assembled at the gate in a quarter hour. Anyone who isn't there'll be left behind. I better see your asses running to catch up." He gave them all a beady glare, then grunted. "Dismissed."
Dukhor and Kuadanath hastened to the suddenly swamped quartermasters. One was a Dwarf from the Chillwind cell near Andorhal, at least until his passage to the eastern hold could be secured. The camp was overrun, leaving several Alliance members stranded too far from Light's Hope to make the trip safely with so few. Dukhor smiled down at him when Bergum handed over a half dozen ration packs.
"Yuh got escort," he said in heavily accented, halting Common.
Bergum sagged for a moment. "Would've preferred a wyvern, if it could be spared. It's gonna be a runnin' fight all the way out there."
Dukhor's grin broadened. "No worry, small one." He thumped his chest confidently. "I keep you safe."
"Mind your tongue, lad," Bergum snorted good-naturedly. "I was fightin' nasties before yeh twinkled in yer da's eye."
Several soldiers laughed heartily. None shrank at the chance to fight these particular 'nasties' – the plague had spread throughout the region, infecting towns and villages and turning the inhabitants into the mindlessly vicious undead. True death was a mercy the soldiers of the Argent Dawn were duty-bound to deliver. Though the Orcs were released from their blood curse not so long ago, it was in their nature to fight. Dukhor far preferred the foe they now faced; he'd found a worthy ally in the Alliance, once the ugly past was put to rest. Though it remained an obstacle for many, at least here, among the Argent Dawn, there was cooperation and peace, of a sort.
As the soldiers of the Argent Dawn formed up at the gateway to the Plaguelands, Dukhor's chest swelled with purpose. He hefted his warhammer, lost for years while he languished in the camps, then returned to him by a clanmate who'd found it on the battlefield. Passed down from his father, it was one of the last remnants of his younger years, a symbol of the family he once knew, and a memento of his youth on the homeworld. Looking at it now, he remembered a time years ago when he'd used it, not to destroy, but to save, and he saw again the face of his human. Like the blazing sun embossed on his tabard, she shone like a beacon in his heart, reminding him always to choose the path of honor.
Beside him, Kuadanath strung her bow, then patted her restless raptor. "Remember we slay innocents afflicted by no fault of their own," she told him. For a moment, Dukhor's mood sobered.
"Aye," he nodded. "I know."
Kuadanath smiled down at him. "I remind myself as much as you."
"Form up!" Captain Rukalekk barked, now striding to the front of the assembled troops. "Our goal is Light's Hope, but we'll take out any Scourge we come across. We'll pause only long enough to burn the corpses – yours included, if you're too slow. Don't be slow; your ancestors won't think it's funny that a dead thing killed you." The captain smirked, then turned toward the gateway. "Forward!" he shouted, and led the troops from the Bulwark into the Plaguelands.
Miles away at Light's Hope, Miona's hands shook as she wrapped a bandage about a young soldier's torn arm. Outside the chapel, the sounds of battle raged on, as they had for days. Makeshift barriers were thrown together, and the soldiers of the Argent Dawn fought fiercely, but Miona feared it was all in vain. They were clearly backed into a corner, the mountains behind, and the Scourge attacking from three sides. Few held out hope that the messenger got through the gauntlet. He'd had plenty of time to reach the Bulwark and return, if he still lived.
To add to the Argent Dawn's growing dismay, a terrifying creation of malice now hovered over the ruins of Stratholme to the north. None knew the floating citadel's name, but it had increased the number of undead in the area, and now those additional horrors were determined to destroy the last bastion of the Light in the east.
"Miona, help me with this!" a high-pitched voice called. Pausing, Miona turned to see a diminutive gnome mage attempting to activate the mechanism that opened the floor with one hand, while the other held several scrolls and a thick book.
"Oh Bralla, really!" she scolded, and hastily tied off the soldier's bandage. Then she hurried to her employer's side.
When Miona found herself without recourse after the internment camp's destruction, she returned to Stormwind and took up odd jobs here and there to make ends meet. By happenstance, a group of mages visiting from Dalaran were in need of transcribers, for the many works in Dalaran's libraries were crumbling from age. That Miona had no talent for magic was a boon; there was little chance that she might inadvertently activate a spell while copying it to a newer and sturdier parchment. Eager for meaningful work, Miona signed on, and found herself once again in Hillsbrad.
But not for long. Dalaran fell victim to the Legion's attempt to invade Azeroth, finally quelled at Mount Hyjal only a year or so ago. While the city was being rebuilt, Bralla and Miona took up residence in Theramore, where Lady Jaina Proudmoore herself enlisted members of the Kirin Tor to add their skills to the Argent Dawn's efforts in the Plaguelands.
"Let me have those," Miona murmured, relieving the gnome mage of her burdens. "Where do you keep finding these scrolls?"
"The usual places," Bralla replied absently. She pressed a nondescript brick in the stone wall. There was a loud grating sound of stone across stone; a portion of the floor slid aside to reveal a stairwell leading into darkness below the chapel. "These are the last I brought from Dalaran," she explained as she hurried down the stairs. As the shadows gathered about them, she raised her hand, and a bright white light flared. She released it, and the light hovered ahead of her, leading the way into the catacombs.
"I don't much care for this place," Miona commented, her eyes darting from left to right as they passed. The walls were lined with niches in which the bones of hundreds rested silently. It was said that the grounds of Light's Hope were blessed by the Light, and these remains could not be raised as Scourge, yet Miona couldn't deny the unease that close proximity to the dead inspired.
"It's just bones," Bralla reassured her. "Just round this corner. Ah, here it is."
The chamber wasn't large, yet seemed full to capacity. Chests and shelves had been brought in to store the precious scrolls and books rescued when Dalaran fell. Bralla had been one of many evacuated at the last possible moment, her faithful servant and friend Miona at her side, their arms laden with scrolls. Until such time as the library was restored, the collected works of generations were kept in the safest place available, or so it had seemed before the necropolis appeared to the north.
Bralla carefully added the newest scrolls to the stack on the shelf. Sighing, she laid her tiny hand on the pile.
"I want to index these, and sort them by subject matter," she mused wistfully.
"You'll have your chance, I'm certain of it," Miona told her bravely. Bralla smiled.
"And you will help, won't you?"
"Of course I will." For a moment, Miona was back in Dalaran, facing a daunting room of dusty tomes, the ever-cheerful little mage describing her categorization system in her high-pitched voice. Twin dark brown ponytails bobbing merrily, Bralla darted from bookcase to bookcase, her face alight with joy at the 'gift' of such a disorganized mess as that rarely-visited library room. Her enthusiasm was difficult to resist, and in Bralla's own way, she helped Miona shed much of the sadness that had followed her since the camp was overrun. Though many of the soldiers were deserving of the fate dealt them, there were a few who'd bravely aided her efforts, and now mouldered in their graves. Such was the way of war, she supposed.
Now, however, the war thrust upon them was against their own. Innocent farmers and townspeople were infected by the plague that spread across the land in the form of tainted grain. She well remembered, for it was not so long ago, the day when the crown prince declared Stratholme a lost city, and led the soldiers in the bloody massacre of thousands. Now Arthas Menethil reigned in a frozen land to the far north, his heart as ice-bound as his throne. It was said the undead heeded his call, and obeyed his commands, no matter where they were. It was undoubtedly his voice that urged the legions of undead in their assault upon this place.
The ground shuddered suddenly, as though a heavy weight had fallen above. Miona and Bralla exchanged anxious looks, then the mage scurried out of the room, Miona on her heels. When they reached the chapel, Bralla hastily pressed the brick, closing the door and securing the treasures below. A peek out a colored glass window revealed the cause of the impact.
A giant flesh golem, fully two stories tall, was brought down by the defenders. Their cheers were short-lived, however, as another golem lurched forward out of the haze that hovered over the battlefield. From her vantage point in the relative safety of the chapel, Miona could see that the men were flagging, their reserves almost spent.
Bralla floated to the window on a levitation spell. "Oh dear," she breathed.
"This is the end, isn't it?" Miona said quietly. The gnome laid her hand on Miona's shoulder, but did not reply.
Quite suddenly, a cheer rose, much louder than the first. Bewildered, Miona tried to see what renewed the soldiers' resolve, but their hands pointed beyond her sight.
"Come on!" Bralla cried. "Let's go see!" She led the way on a current of magic to the door of the chapel, and flung it open with a wave of her hand. Then Bralla laughed. "I never thought I'd be so glad to see the Horde charging into battle!"
At least a hundred fresh troops, all wearing the bright sun tabard, were thundering into the fray. At the head of the charge, an Orc carried the distinctive Horde symbol in black on a red banner. They struck hard, and their wedge formation drove through the western front of undead like a hot knife through butter. Miona recognized the sturdy bulk of Orcs, the wiry frames of Trolls, and the tall horned heads of Tauren. Lightning crackled from the hands of shaman, arcing from one foe to the next in a chain. Balls of fire erupted among the undead, scattering them in all directions. Axes and warhammers rose and fell with precision as the Horde members of the Argent Dawn cut a swath through their foes.
Though it was a fierce battle, Miona felt no fear that her people would be caught up in the Orcs' bloodlust. It was well known that the Orcs had rid themselves of the demonic taint, and now embraced honor. Though most wore concealing helms, she knew if they shed them, she would not see a single red eye among the Orcs. They were entirely free.
"We'd better get busy," Bralla said briskly. "They'll want water and rations after this fight, I've no doubt." The mage's confidence that the Argent Dawn would prevail brought a smile to Miona's face.
More than an hour passed before the undead lines were broken, and they were either truly dead upon the field or in retreat. Laborers were detailed out to gather up the corpses – both Scourge and Argent Dawn – and burn them in great pyres lest they be raised once more. All about the hill upon which the chapel stood, uniformed men and women lounged or slept. The weary commanders of both cells conferred, no doubt making plans to deal with the necropolis now that their numbers were twice what they'd been. Miona and Bralla led a handful of civilians in the task of refreshing the soldiers.
Miona had just one packet of rations and a waterskin left when she reached an Orc soldier slowly removing his helm to run a great hand through his sweaty hair.
"Here," she offered, and he looked up at her with warm brown eyes. Miona's mouth gaped open. "Oh my goodness, you're here! I am so glad to see you!"
The Orc – her Orc – grinned with happy recognition. "Glad to see you, too."
"And you speak Common!" she cried with relief. With no other thought in her head but to take advantage of this moment, Miona swiftly sat before him, quivering with joy. "I have so much to ask, so much to say. I wanted every day in the camp to tell you... to thank you..."
"Please," he interrupted with a laugh. He pressed a great green hand to his heart. "Dukhor. You?"
"Of course, of course," she replied, flustered. "I am Miona." Without thinking, she reached out and grasped his hand. He'd removed his gauntlets, and his flesh was warm. "I'm so very happy to see you well."
"Miona," he repeated softly, his voice a deep, rich rumble. "You are here." Once more, he touched his heart, upon which the bright beacon of the Argent Dawn insignia was embroidered. "You remind me of honor. Always."
"And you are here, also." She mimicked his gesture. "I would not even once have looked on your people... as people, if not for you."
"You save me in camp," Dukhor told her. "You heal me. You show me, Alliance has good people."
Miona blushed at the intensity of his gaze. Her eyes fell upon the mighty hammer lying at rest by his side. It was almost as familiar as his face. How had he reclaimed it after so many years in the camp? Time enough for such things later, she was sure. A more pressing question leapt immediately to mind. "I have always wanted to ask you. That day, so long ago. Goodness, I was a child minding children." She laughed to herself. "You spared us. Why?"
He sighed, and his weary face relaxed into a smile. "No honor to kill child, or weak, old. Only warrior death gives honor." His expression clouded. "I killed many childs in wars. Many weak, old. Captain give orders; no choice. I must obey."
"But that day...," she prompted.
"Captain far away. No others to say, 'kill them.' My order to me, 'let them live.'" He smiled again. "You live many year, and save me."
"It is ironic, isn't it?" she chuckled. "I always wondered if you might have been in serious trouble had anyone known."
Dukhor nodded. "Chieftain kill me. Captain kill me." Then he laughed. "Everyone kill me." Sobering again, he went on fiercely, "I don't fear death. But I don't want... hmph." His brow furrowed as he grasped for the right words. Miona guessed that he'd only recently begun learning the language, and it frustrated him sometimes.
"A pointless death?" she suggested, and he nodded.
"If captain see, I die, you die, childs die. No point. But, no one see, I live, you live, childs live. It is good." Furrowing his brow, he asked, "Childs with you. Did they live?"
"Yes, they did," she assured him. "They still write me now and then. All have children of their own." She smiled fondly. "Daren, who swore he could take you all on himself, is now a priest of the Light. A healer, not a fighter."
Again, Dukhor grinned, clearly pleased to know the children survived. For a moment, however, his expression reflected an almost cruel smugness. "Commander of camp. What happen?"
"Oh. Commandant Fredericks," she nodded sadly. "I confess, I didn't fully grasp his madness until after the camp fell. There were inquiries, accusations. Many thought he survived the... the liberation by hiding, while his men were slain. I learned a month or so later that he took his own life."
Her Orc grunted with amusement. "Good. Tell me, 'Fight me, you pig. Give back what you took. You owe me.'" Dukhor shook his head and grunted. "I owe him nothing. He did not deserve warrior death."
"No, I suppose he didn't," Miona agreed. "The wickedness he encouraged in his men... There was no excuse for it."
She was suddenly aware that his thumb was lightly stroking her wrist, and his voice had lowered in pitch. Her cheeks reddened under his gaze.
"You, now. What you do since camp?"
"Oh, nothing exciting," Miona chuckled nervously, waving her free hand. "Although I was obliged to slay a fel hunter that had gotten into the library when we were evacuating Dalaran." She covered her mouth to still another tittering laugh. "I don't know how I can even smile, when at the time, I was terrified. But Bralla was so intent upon rescuing every single scroll before the city was destroyed. She was flitting about the room, her arms loaded down, and suddenly this great red beast burst in..." She shuddered. "I threw a book at it first; it was the only thing close. Bralla actually chastised me for that!" Laughing, Miona shook her head. "In the end, the curtain rod the thing had pulled down when it crashed through the window served me better."
The Orc's brow rose with surprise, then he nodded knowingly. "Miona is fierce. Faced me with fork stick." He grunted with amusement. "You would strike me? If I attack in barn?"
"Yes, I most assurely would have," she confirmed with a laugh.
"You kill demon," he said approvingly. "It is good. Demons..." He spat on the ground to the side, and for a moment his expression was angry. "Demons make us forget honor. Make us go to war against weak and helpless. Make us do things..." He shook his head firmly. "We will never serve them again."
"I know. Your people are now as noble, or as hateful, as any who are free to choose," she agreed. "I am pleased by your choice, Dukhor. I suppose I have always believed you... you must have a noble soul." Her cheeks grew hot again, and she ducked her head.
Dukhor's gentle rubbing along her wrist seemed slower, and more intimate, than before. "Miona remind me of honor. I never forget."
"What about you?" she asked, her voice unsteady. After so many years, and so many moments shared, she felt she knew this Orc as well as she knew herself, and yet not at all. She wanted to know him, to learn his history, to walk at his side. The warmth of his hand, the deep rumble of his kind voice, and the way he looked at her, made her heart beat faster. "I heard there was a city in a desert..."
"Yes. Orgrimmar," Dukhor supplied proudly. "City is big. It is good home for Orcs." He held up his free hand and formed a fist. "Work hard to build. Many months. Strong city, like Orcs." His brilliant smile shone again, and she laughed.
"I have never seen you smile, until this day," she observed, shaking her head in wonder. "You were not smiling as you sent me and the children to safety. And of course, you had no reason to do so in the camp. But now..." She gestured helplessly. "I was told your company fought a running battle for two days from one end of the Plaguelands to the other. You were forced to burn several of your number along the way. Yet you smile! What makes you so happy today, of all days?"
"Miona is here, and we talk, first time," Dukhor replied. Perhaps afraid he'd been too bold, the Orc quickly added, "I fight with honor. I fight to... to save land. For your people and mine. It is honor to protect land for all people. This land is home to me now." A flicker of sadness briefly creased his brow. "I defend land at... at... Hyjal. Your people... we fight together. As one. No Horde, no Alliance. Only one people, one land."
"That is how it should be," she agreed, squeezing his hand. "And so you joined the Argent Dawn?"
He grunted a laugh. "Thrall tell me to join. Rep-... repre-..."
"Represent?"
"Yes. Rep-re-sent Horde. Speak human words. Fight undead." Then he frowned. "But not Forsaken." He curled his lip, clearly displeased with the recent alliance with the undead faction.
"You no longer wear a beard," she pointed out, steering the conversation from an apparently uncomfortable topic. He laughed. So booming was his laugh! It spoke of joy felt deeply.
"Itch," he explained, scratching at his rough cheek. "No choice in camp; no blade."
"I remember," she nodded, "how smooth your face was when I first saw you."
He ducked his head almost shyly. "Too young for beard."
"Were you?" she gasped. "You seemed... grown."
"Big, not grown."
"Well... how old are you now?"
He pondered how best to answer the question, and finally sighed with resignation. Leaning forward, he drew on the dusty ground three slashes, then another seven below it. He paused a moment, and added an eighth.
"You are thirty-eight years old," Miona guessed, glancing at his face for confirmation. He nodded, then grinned.
"Old enough for beard now."
"I should say you are," she laughed.
"You," he said, nodding at her. "How many?"
"The same," she replied, suddenly feeling sad. "So many years of war. I've lost count. And now I am too old for..." She forced a smile. "It is no matter."
His hand about hers squeezed gently, sympathetically. "No mate?" She shook her head. "One will come," he told her confidently. "That is promise."
The way he looked at her in that moment clutched her heart and stilled her breath. "Dukhor..."
"It is promise," he repeated firmly. As he'd done before, he pressed his hand flat against his heart. "Promise."
"Enough lollygagging!" a loud, rough voice called. "There's work to be done! Horde, off your arses and get in line!"
Dukhor's expression became frustrated at the sound of his commander's voice. His grip on her hand tightened. "I want to say many words to you, but I don't know them all."
"Return to me, and we will discover them together," she replied solemnly. "That is my promise."
Firming his mouth with purpose, Dukhor rose. He held her gaze for several heartbeats before turning to join the ranks of his fellows.
"Wait!" Miona called, and he turned. She fumbled the plain brown ribbon from her hair and tied it to his tabard with shaking hands. "Light protect you, and guide you back to me."
"Ancestors bring us together, many times," he told her, his voice a low rumble. He touched the ribbon upon his breast as though he spoke an oath. "I will come back to you."
His smile was affectionate, his gaze warm. She had no doubt his words to her later, though halting and broken, would echo the song of her own heart. Holding the memory of his smile close, she watched him march northward with the Argent Dawn, his head held high, bearing her token proudly.
References:
Kuadanath = First appears in Diary of a Mad Gamer Chick in chapter 9. She has the distinction of also being my main toon in the game. ;)