Chapter Ten: Rage and Guile
Late Autumn 606, Zeth'Kur, Dreanor
Aerth Swiftblade could barely contain his anger as he regarded a man he had once respected, even admired. A man he had counted as a comrade and friend. Beside him, Illadan Eltrass looked at the failing man with contempt, a contempt mingled with sadness.
High General Turalyon, commander of all Alliance forces, kept his face neutral, as lively as marble, yet his eyes smouldered.
"The damage to your forces was substantially higher than that of any others, General Minvare." The paladin said with forced calm.
"So I heard."
"And do you have any explanation for such heavy losses. Losses which, I may add, we cannot afford to have?" The blonde man mused with restraint.
It took a moment for Rellon Minvare to respond. During that time, Swiftblade looked at his former friend and was appalled by the changes. Minvare, during the Second War, had been a rock of wry calmness, not being upset by reversals, even defeats. His steady leadership and calm moves had kept him victorious in the end, and he had deservedly become a legend to his men.
But now…
Now, what Swiftblade saw was a strained, drawn-out man, a man with little to no patience left. His eyes were sunken and haunted, his appearance ruffled and downtrodden. There was also the resentment, far higher than anything Swiftblade had ever felt from the man. Rellon Minvare was gone. Not only in spirit, but in body.
"The orcs attacked fiercely, with successive waves. There was little time for redeployments." The disgraced General grunted. Despite the ache he felt, Swiftblade also felt a great deal of irritation, and it resounded as he answered in a sharp voice.
"Light take me!" he growled, "I saw the orc movements. The orcs here aren't adapted, and they used basic Horde tactics, without improvements! We've all learned to fight despite the successive waves."
"Indeed." Eltrass said, "Your skills have greatly decreased since we fought together in the previous war. I respected your skills, we all did. But this is making you increasingly unfit to command."
Minvare shrugged, still looking at the three men seated in front of him levelly. Swiftblade wondered if his former friend, from whom he had forcibly taken command, realized what he had done. Could the hate and frustration have driven him from his well-grounded sense of morals?
"I'm thinking of making Jonathan take command of your troops, General." Turalyon mused. "I already sent a message to the dwarves. There is one excellent general there. I am thinking he should replace you."
"This must be an elating moment for you, isn't it just, oh High General of the Alliance?" Minvare frankly sneered.
"If you think that, then you really never understood me at all." Turalyon replied calmly. "Your skills were never in doubt in the old days, and you had my respect. That you lost both is all the more regrettable."
Minvare's sunken eyes flashed, his brows constricting. "Don't ever talk to me about respect or regret!"
Swiftblade looked at Eltrass, who nodded. The human and the elf had both felt the air electrify again. Would the dam burst today, or would it be another day? Recently, it had drained the man to wait for that terrible moment. Turalyon and Minvare, after all, were by no means people who could be taken lightly in any sense.
"This has gone on far too long. I have been lenient up until now, but there are limits." Turalyon stated.
"Lord Turalyon." Swiftblade cautioned, but the paladin continued, unheeding.
"Let me finish what I have to say, Lord Swiftblade. Lord Minvare, you have proven yourself utterly unfit for command. You have refused to rectify your orders and formations, let morale decline in your army, and sacrificed your men in something you could have easily avoided." The paladin's eyes narrowed. "You are a disgrace to the Light."
"Ah! The Light! You Paladins and your Holy Light! Parading your righteousness everywhere you go!" Minvare growled, "And yet, you have served injustice before! Your were its instruments!"
"What the Order of the Silver Hand did, it did because the Alliance Council decided it. We obeyed orders, as we are knights as well. As for the one whom you speak of…" Turalyon sighed, and Swiftblade closed his eyes. It wasn't something anyone Swiftblade knew liked to recall: the arrest, the trial, the judgement. But Turalyon wasn't quite done. He fixed Minvare with a steely stare.
"As for her, she was a proud soldier to the very end. She would despise the wreck you have become."
Minvare, for all of his physical weakening, could still move like lightning, it seemed.
One moment, he was sitting across from them, tense. The next, he had bowled over the paladin and was on top of him. Minvare's weight and position gave him an instant advantage, and he punched the High General across the face with indescribable rage.
"Damn you! You and your so-called Light!" Minvare roared, and punched the other man again.
By then, of course, Swiftblade and Eltrass intervened. Although neither could quite match the frantic man's strength, they managed to peel him off somewhat between the two of them. The commotion reached outside, of course, as did Swiftblade's call for the guards.
In moments, the two guards who were stationed outside the tent had hold of Minvare, looking flabbergasted at what they just had to do. Swiftblade couldn't blame them; it must have been quite disheartening to see the four men who commanded the expedition engaged in fighting.
Swiftblade gave the angry Minvare a glance which was both angry and saddened. Then he gestured to the guards. "Escort him to his private tent. On my personal authority, and that of Lord-General Eltrass and High General Turalyon, he is to be kept there until further notice."
"Sire!" they acknowledged as one, and left, taking the disgraced hero with them.
They were barely out that Swiftblade rounded on Turalyon, who was getting back on his feet. He pointed an angry finger at the other man.
"Lord Turalyon! That was uncalled for!" He accused.
Turalyon closed his eyes a moment, and put his right hand on his bruised face. A soft light emanated at once, and the swelling and redness disappeared as quickly as they had –violently - appeared.
"In what way was it uncalled for, Lord Swiftblade?" Turalyon asked sharply. "He is derelict in his duties; he has endangered our men and our mission for the nations of the Alliance. And for what reason? Because he broods in hatred!"
"That is so, and he should be punished." The greying general mused, frowning. "But there was no necessity to fling Goldenhorn's name in his face that way! Where she is concerned, how can we say his brooding is WRONG! All three of us were at that Light-cursed trial! We saw and we let it happen! How can we be surprised that his mind is unsettled?"
"Lord Swiftblade, you are the one who recommended him. Who insisted that he came." Turalyon mused, giving Swiftblade a level look, which was returned. The eye contact was quickly broken, however, when the elven general came between them.
"Now, I do think that this one fight is quite enough." He mused calmly, but with command. "As humans go, you two are remarkable. Remarkable enough, I'm sure, to see where we are. Do you see it, or will you fight like common thugs?"
That made Swiftblade pause. Scowling at the High General, knowing he wasn't truly angry at the man, he stormed out, passing men who, seeing the general's face, worked hard to step out of the way. He barely acknowledged the men as he went through the vast camp.
'You remember it all too well, don't you, Aerth?' his mind told him. 'Oh, you didn't like it. You tried to prevent it. But, when it comes down to it, you watched like everyone else as it happened. Where was the justice in that? What if it had been Eira?'
He knew the answer for that one. He would have died before it happened. That was why he understood. That was why he had 'arrested' Jonathan to give a pretence, a pretence he felt to be false now. Yet he knew where the rage came from.
That was why he couldn't quite blame Minvare despite what happened.
And, because he understood, and had seen the man's actions, he knew he had made a very dire, very personal, mistake.
Late Autumn 606, Fort Highcreek, Alterac
Hellscream studied the fortifications and found that they were simple, yet adequate for the intended task.
The humans had built reinforced stone buildings – barracks, if he was any judge – as well as a stable, a small human temple and several other, smaller, buildings. The entire compound had been encircled by a single stone wall of about one and half orcs thickness to it.
He thought that there might be three, perhaps four, hundred humans inside. With the walls, it could survive a battle from a larger force. Still, it would be no match against thousands of orc warriors.
The other compound to the west was somewhat larger, and he thought that there were at least five hundred humans inside. These people – less than a thousand – were responsible for much of Alterac's southern regions. If they were destroyed, the Alliance would be destabilized long enough for Alterac's uprising.
Not that Hellscream cared whether it would succeed or not. The Alliance could kill everyone in Alterac; all the chieftain wanted was the arcane elements that Ner'Zhul needed to make the Horde powerful once more. That was why he had sent his very best scout, Lirasha, on reconnaissance in the wider area. That was why he had gone closer to the target of his people's coming attacks.
"So, what do you think?" The chieftain asked.
"Honestly, chieftain, aside from being sick at the idea of helping the humans…"
"We've been through this. My decision is made. What do you think?" Hellscream asked, more forceful this time.
Lirasha, a female, was considered small and delicate by orc standards. Many newer grunts wondered why a female like her was within the armies at all. Some had even eschewed advice from more experienced soldiers and attempted to 'put her in her place'. They hadn't survived, killed quickly by the scouts's swift and deadly knives. Hellscream knew her worth, and so waited for her opinion, even forgetting about her frustrated outburst.
The scout took a mere moment to consider. "They have more troops around. If they gathered everything, they might put two thousand against us."
Hellscream looked at the human fortress from the gloom of the trees, frowning. Two thousand, while he had nearly nine with him.
"We could take two thousand. However…" he almost choked, but continued after a moment, "However, we're no here to start a war. Not yet. Can they be taken?"
"If we move quickly, maybe." She sounded hesitant.
He raised an eyebrow. "You're my best scout. If you're thinking something useful for me, say it." He commanded harshly. "I have no time to guess what's on your mind." He added, pointing a finger at her, fingering his axe.
The scout sighed. "We'll pay in blood to take the bases. I don't like seeing that blood lost to the humans like that."
Hellscream understood the sentiment. All of this political gameplay seemed no surprise to orcs who had fought in the human lands for many years, but it didn't suit him. He was a blademaster, he loved to fight, and everything else came from that. Far from mentally inept, Hellscream carried the single-minded battle-lust which had affected the orcs as a whole, and which the Warsong Clan had embraced with vigour.
But the humans, it seemed, were all about deals and politics. From what he'd been able to learn of them in the time he'd been on their world, the seven main human clans had spent most of the last several centuries bickering that way, instead of the straightforward ways of the battlefield.
They were repulsive, and alien, to the orc. And he had no choice but to go along with it.
"Believe me, I'm not joyful about helping them. They should have been crushed long ago. And if I have my way, they WILL be crushed like they should be. In time. But until we get back the power we need to do that, we need to be…patient." He stated the last word with a cynical chuckle. Patience had, after all, never been Hellscream's forte.
He'd ordered his men to hided deep into the forest to avoid detection. Aside from a bandit hold – which they cleared and took for themselves, the woods had been no problem to settle into. So, from the woods, the orcs prepared to make war on the humans at the request of other humans. It was a bitter thought to say the least.
One good thing had been that the humans of Alterac, wishing to aid the orcs, had sent several dismantled catapults, remnants of the orc bases which once stood in the region. It had been a good help, and raised the Warsong Clan's chances by much.
The orc warriors themselves were increasingly restless. There had been no fighting for too long, and many had problems standing it. The ban on training – to avoid detection – had only compounded the problem. Three times, already, Hellscream had been challenged by battle-lust-blinded orcs. He had put all three down easily, but it hadn't calmed things.
One thing was clear: it was time to fight.
Or his men would begin to truly fight themselves. He had no intention of letting that happen. He'd kill them all before he'd allow them to disobey him that way.
He made the plan simple: the catapults would pellet the defences until they were weakened, then the infantry would charge in. He knew that some of the human mounted warriors would attempt to break the siege, but there seemed to be rather few of these, and he thought that the few ogres he'd managed to round up would manage fine.
There were few questions. Not that he had expected any. His people were used to warfare and, mostly, were used to obeying his orders. There was one question, however, which came as no surprise, and to which he found no hasty answer.
"How do we know the pinkskins'll keep their word?"
Hellscream had a rather hard time with that one. In truth, there WAS no way to know this with any certitude. The humans had proven treacherous at times, and he didn't put it past them to say one thing and do quite another. He didn't show these doubts to his people, though: to do so was to invite weakness – and possible replacement.
"I don't think that the humans of Alterac can afford to have us as an enemy. They've already angered everyone else." He mused. "They'll keep their word, or we'll secretly tell the Alliance just where the rebels seemed to be holed up."
They didn't actually like that much, either. It sounded like they would do what the humans would want, one way or the other. Hellscream, however, had come to a painful realization; The Alliance had the upper hand in the present, the Horde did not. Although his heart and very blood burned with the need to see the humans humbled, their will broken, their lands sundered, Hellscream did manage to see that that wouldn't help him achieve his goals.
He would play by the human rules until he had what he wanted. But the moment he did have it…
"Well, we'll think about the details later. We have two forts to take down! Get everyone ready for battle!" he ordered, and received a rough cheer for the pronouncement.
He walked away from his people, and towards a secluded place near the camp. All the while, Hellscream watched if anyone followed. His orders had been given, and he would lead the effort. But, before that, he had one last thing to do.
The death knight was waiting where he had said he would. Of all the allies he had found, Hellscream knew that they might be the most dangerous, and were probably the most insidious. But they were also quite powerful, and he liked to work with power effectively.
"Are there human spellcasters?" He asked with all the steel he could muster, covering his unease. The rotting carcass spoke as if from death itself.
"Yes, there are. But they are weak, and they have little power compared to us."
"Then you know what I want you to do." Hellscream said decidedly. He did not make it a request. It would not do. To the Death Knights, one did not soften or hesitate. One only gave commands.
There was a moment of eerie silence, as no insect or animal stirred from the very presence's effect. Hellscream also held his breath and his peace, but kept his steady gaze on the hooded, glowing-eyed face. At long last, the former human spoke.
"Yes. And we will." The cold, spectral voice uttered. "You'll have your victory here, and your victories later. But we are not chained by you. If you ever slip, we will destroy you easily."
Hellscream grinned with no mirth whatsoever, his eyes cold.
"Do what I want, and I'll risk damnation, lost soul."
Late Autumn 606, Sunshire, Azeroth
Eira Fregar Swiftblade couldn't believe that she was doing something like this. She had been born and raised as the daughter of the late Duke Fregar of House Fregar, a line which had endured for centuries. She knew, from her upbringing and personal inclinations, that sometimes a noble had to make political compromises, whether said noble liked it or not.
She watched as the carriage carrying Lady Katrana Prestor, a woman she personally neither liked nor trusted, rumbled through the wide main street of busy Sunshire. She watched, and wondered just how much she would soon have to compromise.
She stood within her husband's private sanctum. Aside from Aerth, only she was allowed without any permission. Even their oldest soon, Vedran, was forbidden entry without his father's permission.
It wasn't an especially secret room, as a window let the sunlight filter in, lightening the tones. In keeping with his own habits – which Eira knew, had been picked up from years of campaigning – the room was kept tidy, with each item at a determined place, in a functional way. A small bookshelf stood near the dark, wooden desk and the comfortable chair. The books there weren't much for leisure, but were military treatises, often annotated with Aerth's own observations.
What was important, in this room, were the maps and trophies. The maps were of all kinds, of all shapes and sizes, rolled up or spread on part of the desk. All had served at some point. The trophies were weapons: Aerth's footman blade, carefully preserved all these years; the axe of a powerful orc warrior, the teeth from a black dragon's maw. And, contrasting with the rather martial feel of the place, a rather large portrait of Eira herself, made when they had been exiles at Taren Mill.
She sighed, and wished her husband was with her as she headed towards the main hall. Unused though he was to politics, he had a straightforward way about him which might have helped in dealing with Katrana Prestor.
Lady Prestor was as charming as ever, of course. Haughty, well-dressed, and beautiful, she appeared the elegant paragon of what a noblewoman should be. To the servants and soldiers, she was gently patronizing, while she walked through the halls of Castle Swiftblade and praised it.
"To think it was rebuilt with such care after such devastation." The black-haired lady murmured, "I can scarcely believe it."
"Yes, well, my husband was able to secure help from the dwarves of Khaz Modan. Their skill at stonework allowed rebuilding to proceed quickly enough."
"Yes, I do recognize some dwarven hands in all of this. Still, it is a beautiful stronghold from which your House can grow powerful." Katrana replied smoothly.
Eira kept herself from frowning. Already, Lady Prestor was beginning to make insinuations about the nobility's everlasting power plays. But she knew such things as much as she knew how to breathe.
"Indeed. With my lord and husband's reputation and friendship with the king, I fear nothing for our continued prosperity in Sunshire." She smiled politely. Katrana laughed softly.
"Ah, you saw through me, as expected. House Fregar was always shrewd, or so they say in the court." The smile broadened. "Yes, I will admit that I would seek some aid from House Swiftblade's might."
Eira couldn't help but give a sardonic edge to her voice. "You would need help from our fledgling house, you who has the king's ear?" She queried.
"I do have some political weight, and my wealth is substantial." Katrana admitted readily, "However, I have nowhere near the military might that House Swiftblade has. Don't look so dubious, Lady Swiftblade. Your husband has the largest and best-trained forces in Azeroth, and he knows most human, dwarven and elven military commanders personally. If that is not an incredible military potential, then what could it be?"
"Well…"
"And this castle, this city, these lands. All rebuilt and prosperous, so soon after we retook the realm. There is usually a great deal of orc raids on such rich farmlands. Yet, how many have there been here recently?"
Eira frowned. She hated to admit it, but she had never though about military matters much. She could – and, often, had – outwit her quick-witted husband on many occasions when it came to history and the court, but had also known she was no match in terms of military knowledge and the knowledge of the common folk. She had let him take care of all the troubles while she took care of re-establishing trade and prosperity.
Still, she had listened to Aerth often enough to realize just how many orc attacks had threatened her lands recently.
"None," she answered steadily, "Not in the last three years. I see what you mean. I suppose our forces are blooded and effective. The question, Lady Prestor, is why you would need it."
"You have seen the tragedy at the House of Nobles' meeting hall, did you not?" Katrana asked.
Eira felt a chill. She remembered that event indeed. The broken body, slung over the meeting table, in the midst of all the security the meeting hall was supposed to afford. The red scarf, arrogantly laying claim to the murder. Yes, she remembered. She also knew enough of the dangerous and unpredictable Defias Brotherhood to make a good guess in what all of that could now mean.
"You think that they mean to move against you, now?"
"Move against me? Doubtless. But also against you, Lady Swiftblade."
Her first thought upon hearing that wasn't anything related to herself, but rather on her children. Her concern for them exploded, nearly blinding her, before she managed to bring herself under control.
She had seen her brother and parents die by orc axes. She had known the terror and despair of the Exodus from Azeroth. She had seen battle, had walked the dangerous depths beneath Lordaeron's mighty capital. She felt no fear for herself. She could handle danger if it came to her. Her children, however… they were different. She'd sheltered them from such realities. For them to be put in danger…
"I see, from your eyes, that you understand now." Katrana's voice interjected. Blinking, Eira looked around the halls which now no longer seemed as safe as she had once felt they were.
She led Katrana Prestor to her own reading room. More furnished in books and fine art than Aerth's room, it had been crafted to be her personal refuge. Like Aerth's room, only her husband could enter without announcing himself. And, like her husband's room, it had been subtly protected by spells from wizards who owed Aerth a few favours. In that room, no one could hear what they said even if they used spells. And the large gnome-crafted window was as solid as steel for the exact same reasons.
"Impressive." Was all Katrana said before sitting in one of the plush chairs.
"Given what you said, I felt it was better to talk here, where we cannot be heard." Eira said, keeping her worry for her children firmly in check.
"A prudent course." Katrana agreed with a nod, "I take it this room is magically protected?"
"My husband has many friends from his days in the war." Eira stated. "In rebuilding the city and my former home, he asked for many favours owed him by many people. This room is safe, I assure you."
The black-haired, beautiful noblewoman gave a placid smile. "Far from me to question Lord-General Swiftblade's dispositions, but I had to make sure. Yes, Lady Eira, I fear we are in danger. My… agents… have been nervous of late. Moonbrooke's cancerous group might want us silenced."
"But why?" Eira wondered. "Both your house and mine are powerful in the House of Nobles, but killing us would never bring it down. It makes no sense, however you look upon it."
The raven-haired woman looked at Eira speculatively, as if gauging her. Once again, there was discomfort. Even as an ally, she found Katrana mildly intimidating. She couldn't fathom how it would be if they were enemies.
"They may seek to replace us. To coerce us or others. I control many interests in the Kingdom. You have a wealthy, thriving land and the ear of one of the most powerful military men in the entire Alliance. I daresay they could do serious trouble if they killed or captured us. What say you, then, Eira Fregar-Swiftblade?"
Eira found herself chilled by Katrana's stair. Yet she couldn't turn away. She kept looking, oddly compelled.
"To what?" she managed to croak.
"To taking fate by the reins." Came the other woman's voice, who was smiling grimly. "They wish to use us? Then, I say, let them come." She leaned forward.
"We will bait them, lure them. And then, we shall see who controls who."
Late Autumn 606, Fort Highcreek, Alterac
The walls had been stoutly built. Hellscream had to give the humans that much. However, they'd been built with the mindset that the people of Alterac were a beaten people, incapable of mounting the sort of attack needed to damage, much less destroy, the fortress.
In the corner of his mind, the part where the lust for battle wasn't overpowering him, the chieftain of the Warsong Clan had to agree with the logic. He had seen enough of the small, broken country to agree that Alterac was nothing now. Its warriors were few, raided in little bands, with no central authority.
The humans hadn't bothered with factoring orcs into it. After all, what remained of the Horde was too far south to come up and catch them unawares. On that, they had been fatally mistaken.
"Again!" he shouted, and the catapults fired, pelting the weakened walls, concentrating at one point. It held, barely. The humans on top were scurrying, trying to shore up their shattering defences. Twice, a small band of mounted troops had tried to disrupt the catapults. Each time, they had retreated with heavy losses.
He shouted again. The catapults crashed on the walls. With a mighty crackly, like an avalanche, the targeted part of the wall fell down. His host roared in exultation. Now was the time to slaughter the humans inside.
"We will soften them first." A spectral voice called, and forms galloped off on skeletal steeds. Fifteen Death Knights charged the breach, their staves and hands glowing with ethereal magic. But it wasn't that which made the humans at the breach scramble. For, with the Death Knights, came a mass of shambling dead. Corpses risen with the dark powers of magic, they couldn't be held long. But they'd serve well to destroy the humans' will.
But not too much. Where was the glory…where was the FUN in doing that?
"OGTAR-OGAR! Warriors of Warsong!" He screamed, and they howled in response. He lifted his bladed spear above his head. "Kill everyone of them! Don't leave one single human alive! Understand!"
Again, the roar. Bloodshot eyes, wide eyes, squinting eyes showed the same excitement, the same overwhelming lust for combat and blood. Hellscream was barely keeping them – keeping HIMSELF – in check. Soon, they would break inside, no matter what their chieftain said.
"KILL THEM ALL!" he screamed again. "ATTACK!" With that, he ran into the fray.
The humans – along with some long-eared pinkskins, and some short bearded pinkskins – elves and dwarves, the conscious part of his brain told him – were attempting to hold off the assault. But they were tired, and frightened. For two days, they had held the Horde back, and now they were failing.
The dead were on them, destabilizing their ranks, while a few robed humans seemed to try to undo the dark magics. These humans fell very quickly, struck down by the Death Knights, writhing, rotting alive.
None of that mattered. Nothing mattered to Hellscream but the battlefield now.
He came at the massed human and undead like a whirlwind, uncaring that he hit both, and waded into them. One undead was torn apart to get to a human knight, who tried to put up a defence before he was slain. One of the dwarves tried to strike from below with a large axe, but the chieftain evaded and retaliated.
And he roared. He roared the battlecry which had earned him his name in battle. The primal scream wished to give death, and the humans faltered when they heard it. With a laugh and another battlecry, he pushed at them. Behind him, orcs and ogres were crashing into the failed human line.
Some humans tried to open the gates to escape, only to be greeted by more orc grunts and ogres. All routes of escape were blocked, and the slaughter began. The dead revived to fight at their side, bolstering their ranks, making the remaining Alliance troops break formation. 'Cowards! Stand and fight!' Hellscream thought wildly as he slashed at every enemy he could see.
Some tried to flee. They were cut down. Some surrendered. They were cut down.
Some begged for their lives. They were cut down. The Horde didn't take prisoners.
He reeked of human blood. He was damp with it. He had rarely felt so ALIVE!
But they fight was ending, the last Alliance people being put down. With that realization, sanity returned – reluctantly – in Hellscream's mind. He looked at the smashed walls, the battered parapets, and the corpses and blood everywhere. He grunted in satisfaction: this was a complete victory.
"This will gain us nothing." The leader of the Death Knights stated ominously. Hellscream glared at the thing: he hadn't seen it arrive. The bloodlust had dulled his senses, no doubt. "This is only a small fort. The humans won't relinquish their hold on Alterac just from that."
Hellscream shrugged. He couldn't really care less. "We're not here to get these humans their freedom. They made a deal with me, and they're supposed to honour it. They wanted us to destroy the two main fortresses in the region, and we just destroyed the second." He watched as the human flags – an upraised grey fist on a field of crimson was the design – were rounded up and used as tinder. Soon, the fort would be burned to the ground, and the Horde would be gone.
"What if they ask more?" The Death Knight wondered. "Humans always ask more. That is how they are."
"It wouldn't be very healthy of them. I honour my promises. And I promised myself that I'd cut any human who tried to 'ask more' open right away." He snarled softly.
"But that won't get us the arcane item we've come for." The Death Knight mused coldly, and reasonably. Hellscream hated these things. They were devoid of any bloodlust, of anything. They no longer felt the battlefield at all.
What bothered Hellscream even more was that the cursed thing was right. He couldn't afford to react too harshly. He was in enemy territory, and wouldn't be a match against a very large army.
He wasn't about to say so, of course. Still, it rankled not to be able to gain some merit from the act. Hellscream feared Ner'Zul, and so followed him. He also believed that the shaman would bring the Horde back from the mess Doomhammer and Gul'Dan had made. But he couldn't stand being ordered about by humans who couldn't free themselves with their own power.
He looked around. Most of the moaning had already been silenced by orc axes. But he saw two of his people dragging a human in shattered mail. The human was struggling feebly, obviously spent.
"Stop!" he ordered as he came forward. They looked at him a moment, then bowed. Reaching between the two, he yanked the human's head back by the hair, and forced the soldier to face him.
The youth – he must have been barely out of orclinghood – gazed at the blood-drenched Hellscream in horror and fear, but did not flinch. Instead, the emotion which seemed to dominate was anger. No, not anger. Rage. Unbending hatred. The human's eye wanted him, wished him, to die.
He liked those eyes. No wonder the little human had lasted so long: people with strong hate often made good survivors.
"Human." He growled, "You've survived all of this. You've seen it all. You know our strength." The human's hate only deepened. Oh, Hellscream liked this one.
"Because of that," he continued, "I'm going to let you go. Alive. To your people. What's the name of that clan or…nation… of yours?"
"Stromgarde!" the human said, defiantly, angrily. One of the grunts hit him to keep his manners straight. Hellscream nodded thoughtfully.
"Well, Stromgarde. Good. Go back there. Go to your army, go to your leaders, go to your Alliance! Tell them the Warsong Clan did this! Tell them that their war isn't won, and that Grom Hellscream will make them weep blood soon!"
"The Alliance'll destroy your filth one day!" the human said, and was hit again for his trouble.
"We'll see, won't we." He looked at the grunts. "Give him a dagger and some food, and throw him out." He then turned away from the hate-filled face.
The Death Knight had been looking at all of this in what could almost pass as curiosity. What, the spectre must be thinking, was the point in all of this? What could be gained by giving the humans a cause to go to war again? It was unreasonable. Nothing but the challenge of an orc possessed by bloodlust.
This was exactly what Hellscream wanted. Let the humans gather. Let them form their armies again. Let them come at him.
He would gleefully welcome them with his own Clan, and his own blades!
Late Autumn 606, Sunshire, Azeroth
It was stated with all of the strength and authority that a thirteen year old could muster. Given that Vedran Swiftblade was the son of the duchy's rulers, it gave him some weight. Moreover, he said it as loud as he could, so that no one could miss his meaning.
"Its NOT fair!" He declared, standing there in the middle of Swiftblade Castle's training ward. What frustrated him was the way the three knights present – Sir Holgar, Sir Manifred and Sir Grandfox – welcomed the noise: through complete neutrality. They calmly continued to play cards.
"And what isn't fair this time, lad?" Holgar, the eldest of the three, asked. Grey-haired and wiry, he had a long moustache and a short beard. A scar nearly ate part of his cheekbone - a relic from a past battle.
Vedran found himself a bit cut short by the calm question. He disliked it when Holgar asked him his reasons. The old knight was better than his parents at trapping him with his own words. But the stubborn will which had allowed Eira Fregar to survive being a madman's hostage and had made Aerth Swiftblade a renowned hero flowed in his veins too much.
"It's unfair that I am stuck here with Jasla and Rellen." He muttered. He found Jasla, his nine-year old sister, annoying at best. Rellen, of course, was too small to have an opinion on. Still, being in the castle rankled. "I am here, safe, while Father is off fighting in the war, and Mother's off with that black-haired lady!"
"And how is that bad?" Holgar mused. "Place is safe. You got good food, coins, and servants. Lots of lads and lasses'd want your place."
Vedran almost cursed. The three men couldn't understand. They'd fought in the war, they earned their reputation. How could they understand that the Vice-Duke of the Duchy of Fregar-Duraz wanted something more than a pretty castle and servants? They couldn't, of course. How could three common men understand him? He began to pace.
"The castle, the duchy… it isn't important to me." He grunted, his eyes downcast. "The city's too peaceful, too. Where are the orcs from Father's stories? He said that they attacked this place once!"
"That they did." Grandfox muttered, his voice low. "Let's hope they never come to our walls again." Vedran's incredulous manners must have shown, for the knight – big and sturdy, with flaming red hair – gave a grin. "Surprised I don't want to fight? Not all of us like fighting. Really, I fight only because of the Lord-General."
"That's right!" Manifred agreed, taking out a gourd "Most right! Here's to Lord Aerth Swiftblade, the best damned general there ever was!" He took a swig and belched, while the other two gave empathic nods.
"Great man, our Lord. The Lady, too." He gave Vedran a look the boy didn't like much. "You've got big shoes to fill, and you're not there yet."
Vedran bristled. It didn't seem to particularly impress the three men. Behind them, a servant passed and bowed.
"Young master, your meat is served." She said. The three knights chuckled at that. Vedran felt humiliated. He gestured for the servant to go away, and glared at the three men.
"You think I am not ready?" he said, hating the testy edge to his voice. "I've been practicing swordplay for nine years! My father knew nothing about it before he was two full years older than I am.
At that, the knights looked at him. They didn't really seem to take him more seriously. Rather, they seemed to be gauging him a bit, judging his worth quickly. Then Holgar spoke, his voice rather cynical.
"Lad, your father, a great man as I said, learned more in thirty days during the First War than you did in your nine years. You'd better learn how the world turns before you start spouting nonsense." The greying knight said. He sounded helpful rather than admonishing. It only infuriated the boy further.
"Who do you think you are?" he shouted, "Speaking to me like that. If Father heard you-!"
"He'd nod, laugh, and play cards with us." Manifred interjected, and all three men laughed.
He gritted his teeth. It wasn't like this with Vedran's father. Vedran had, during his short – so short! – stay in Aerth's camp, seen his father around people like Holgar. They always spoke to him respectfully, always catered to him. They showed him the respect due a noble.
'Maybe that's because they respected Father, no? He was their commander, and he was trusted.' An inner voice told him. And, indeed, the men at the camp at seemed ready to jump at any of Aerth Swiftblade's commands. Vedran wanted that kind of respect. 'And I should have it already! Father earned it through his efforts, but he had to! He wasn't born a noble. I was! I should have the respect right now, Light!'
"Then I'll go see father again! I'll join his army and –"
"Don't you start being dumb now!" Holgar said, and Vedran saw the man rise. Even out of armour, he was an imposing sight. Despite his age, only Vedran's father and Thorsen Klamfer, a former, scarred veteran who now owned an inn, could match the man in battle in Sunshire. Aerth Swiftblade had named the man Captain of the Garrison in no small part due to the man's prowess.
"Don't you start!" Holgar continued, pointing a finger, his face pinched in exasperation. "Going off to join Lord Swiftblade's army? Are you daft! What good would you be, aside from washing the mail?"
"My training…" Vedran huffed, but he was cut off by the knight's glare.
"To the Beyond with your training! The men we sent to Dreanor were the best we had. The best veterans. Each of them's faced the Horde a hundred times and survived! And you say you're going to join them? Lad, they'll laugh at you, then send you packing here – again!"
Vedran flinched. So did Manifred and Grandfox.
"Now, now, Sir Holgar." Grandfox mused, "No need to get so upset. It's just the lad's youth speaking. He doesn't understand. He'll learn in time."
"He better learn now." Holgar grunted. "Fool idea, joining a war when he's pampered. Wouldn't last three days as he is! And then, there was Lady Swiftblade."
This was the last straw in Vedran's mind. He stepped toward the knight, his face forced into an angry grimace. It was only when he stood closer that his reason returned. He saw the man's girth under the tunic; he saw the large sword strapped to his side. He knew, beyond all manner of doubts, that there was no way he could defeat the man. It would be as foolish as hoping to win a sparring match against his father.
"I will remember this, Sir Holgar." He vowed.
"I hope so, lad." came the even retort. "And, unless the Light guides me wrong, you'll thank me for the words one day. We live in a dangerous age. People have to earn respect through more than birth, unless you want to live in Stormwind. You'll see, you'll be thanking me."
"I refuse to believe that!" he retorted angrily, and turned away, leaving the courtyard with all the dignity he could still muster.
The halls were large and pristine, the work of dwarven and human hands having restored it, stashed portraits and tapestries, hidden by Vedran's grandfather, girding them. Here and there, he came upon new additions. A coat of arms there, a set of full plate, a long, battered blade here. Without knowing it, he came to walk through the hall where the portraits of the lords of Swiftblade Castle hung.
House Swiftblade owned the Duraz and Fregar lands, and was both respected and wealthy. But it was young, barely fifteen years all told. As such, only one portrait was hung. Vedran gazed at his father's face thoughtfully.
For all of his opinions about the differences between those of noble blood and those of common birth, he knew special commoners transcended that difference. His father had been just a clockmaker's son, Vedran had been told, and yet had risen to become a soldier who helped fight the green-skinned orcs back. And a lord who had King Varien Wrynn's ear.
Vedran had been raised with the knowledge that he would have to follow in his father's footsteps, and keep the family name as strong as it was presently. 'But how can I do that, Father? How can I, Mother? How do I win the place both of you have earned?' He thought.
It was then that the thought struck him.
"Of course!" he exclaimed, "How silly of me! I followed Father to his camp, but that was a foolish move! How can I gain anything if I stand in Father's shadow all the time? Father didn't become famous like that!"
He was filled with a giddy feeling. He knew what had to be done. Aerth Swiftblade had earned his place.
Vedran Swiftblade would earn his own.
One way, or another, Vedran was going to become a great hero, too!
Early Winter 607, Bronzegate Ruins, Wildlands
He wasn't certain if it was age preying on his body more than he thought, or because of his suspicions. Yet, Argal Grimfrost was certain of one thing: he knew that voice from somewhere.
The message had been given to one of his farthest-ranging orc scouts, who had quickly carried it over to the chieftain. The message had been brief and clear: one who wished to aid the Horde wished to meet the Chieftain of the Dire Fangs, and discuss. They could meet at the abandoned fortress of Bronzegate. He could bring two others with him.
He had taken Riakar and Kerak's advice on the matter, and had discussed it with the elders of Orc's Rest. In the end, he had gone to the old, ruined bastion with his two trusted advisor. There, he had met two rather strange and chilling individuals. He looked at them once more as they spoke, in the shattered room which had been, it seemed, the fortress' war room.
Both were cloaked, hoods and gloves and heaving clothes hiding all features. The one seated, obviously the leading figure, was slightly hunched, and seemed to follow to mannerisms of those humans who practiced the foul arts of the arcane without proper control. Yet the figure spoke with a raspy, female voice. It was that voice which bothered the old orc.
The other figure hadn't said one word for the entire proceedings. Dressed in grey, only its eyes were visible. Those were human eyes. Human eyes with no emotions whatsoever left in them. Two gleaming sword were strapped to the grey-clothed human. She – he assumed the bodyguard was female - stood next to the magic-user, arms folded, calm yet ready to spring like a panther.
Beyond it all, he disliked what he was hearing at that moment.
"An alliance?" He asked.
"Quite so. It would be to our benefit." Said the familiar voice. "You need power to protect your people. I need strength and manpower for my goals. We each can provide what the other needs.
Grimfrost looked at the other two orcs. Kerak was impassive, a wall of granite few would dare attempt to chip away or climb, lest death suddenly came on them. Riakar, however, was looking tense, staring at the black-garbed one with restraint. There was an edge of fear in the shaman's normally peaceful eyes.
"You talk of goals, and benefits. My goals are to rebuild the orc people and avoid conflict as we rebuild." he answered, "How would helping you benefit me in any way. I have no interest in fostering conflict in Dalaran at all."
"Not even to weaken the humans' alliance?" The voice replied smoothly.
'Yes, I've heard this voice before. But where?' he wondered, while pondering what had been said. With each day, it seemed that Orc's Rest was becoming more permanent. Houses were sturdier, the wall was reinforced, and more terrain was cleared. Seven winters had passed since he'd brought his Clan – no longer could Grimfrost see them as anything else – and it seemed that some of the old bloodlust was being drowned by a shaky hope.
His colony was too young to risk a conflict of any kind. Monsters, they could handle. But anything to do with humans or the more warlike orcs might plunge all the work and hope into chaos.
He shook his head. "I'm too old an orc to think we can weaken the humans enough with that. At best, it'll cause them an annoyance. At worst, they'll angrily search for us. I can't allow my people to be found. I won't take that risk."
"Strange to hear this from Argal Grimfrost, the best of Orgrim Doomhammer's leaders, the Warlord who sacked Grand Hamlet and Northshire Abbey."
He narrowed his eyes. "I was right. You do know me, don't you?" he grunted. Beside him, he felt Kerak give him a look. Riakar tensed further. The grey-cloaked figure seemed, for his or her part, to be a lifelike statue.
There was silence, broken only by the wind blowing through from outside, echoing down the shattered halls like the cries of ghosts. The hooded figure didn't move, nor did she say anything for a long moment. It seemed, to Grimfrost's mind, rather pensive. Then again, it might only have been his imagination.
"Does it matter?" the figure asked at length.
"It might." He mused, leaning forward. "I've made many enemies. If you are one of them, I have no reason to even consider helping you."
"And if I say that I am not your enemy?"
"Then I'm going to ask for proof. And then I'm going to need an explanation for bothering with Dalaran at all."
It certainly made no sense to him. Dalaran was small and, despite its many magic-users, not really a powerful member of the Alliance. It was surrounded by Gilneas to the west, Lordaeron to the East and North, and by the Great Sea in the South. Grimfrost also knew that very few orcs remained in that country. In short, going these was a grave mistake at best, suicide at worst.
"We have a plan in the works." The hooded figure stated calmly. "For that plan to work, Dalaran's magical powers must be ruined."
"And why would it be so necessary?"
"That is something I will gladly tell you… if you join us. We could use your talents as a warlord."
That last sentence angered him. It seemed that everyone wanted his talents to make war, while he was desperately trying to make peace, with himself and among his people. He understood where the queries came from, and appreciated them up to a point. But to be solicited that way was becoming increasingly… grating on his nerves.
'Besides,' he thought to himself, 'I can't trust this one. Not yet, at least.'
"I led my people away from Blackrock Spire to prevent casualties among them."
"Some say you fled."
"They may say what they like about me. I know, as a warlord, that the battle was over. The humans were in a frenzy, had taken our people completely by surprise. We were breaking, and no act of mine could have changed that." That was what he told himself, at any rate. 'The part of me which doesn't wonder if, perhaps, I didn't act to punish Orgrimm's callous handling of innocent lives.'
"Enough playing with words." Kerak grunted, looking upset by the turn of event." You want our people, and what can you give us in exchange. We have magic, soldiers, food. We're almost completely self-sufficient. What can you offer us?"
The discussion hinged on that question, Grimfrost realized. If there was no satisfactory answer, the meeting would end then and there. He couldn't notice that the former champion's declaration had any effect, however.
The hood seemed to rise ever so slightly, and the old orc was certain that eyes were steadily fixed on him. The black-gloved hands clenched slightly, the first sign of nervousness that he had been able to detect so far.
"Information."
This stumped him, and it must have shown. Of all the things he had thought that this one could say, she found one of the things he hadn't thought of.
"Information?" he finally asked. "About what?"
"Positions of internment camps. Guards. Situation. Allies. Enemies. Everything to one day free your people when you are ready."
This caused all three orcs to look at each other in surprise. It was tempting, the other two's eyes told him, but was that strange person truly saying the truth? There was no way to know it for certain.
Still…
"I will thing about it… if you tell me who you are." He mused, "If not, I leave."
The figure sighed. It seemed resigned to something. "Very well, Argal Grimfrost. I can't readily refuse the greatest of the Horde's Warlords, can I?"
And, with that word, the figure pulled its hood aside, and all was revealed. Grimfrost could only gape as he recognized who it was.
"You…! But then…" he choked. It was surreal, but it made sense.
Oh yes. It made terrible sense. And it also told him that he could never, ever, accept whatever the offer made was.
The Land Bridges
The Land Bridges were discovered by the humans of Arathor thousands of years ago, and were used extensively, to trade with the southern nation of Khaz Modan. It also served as the passageway which took the first, pre-Azerothian settlers to the untamed forests of Elwynn, where Stormwind and Northshire were founded.
During the Second War, the entire southern continent came under the Horde's control, with the few remaining humans enslaved or in hiding, and the Dwarves having retreated to their underground fortresses. It was at the land bridges that the Alliance and the Horde fought for many years, spilling the blood of tens of thousands in attack and counter-attacks.
Engines of war, powerful magics, and devastating melee took their toll, and the bridges nearly collapsed when the combined armies of the Alliance pushed the Horde back. It was soon decided to abandon the Land Bridges, and the dwarves were solicited by the Alliance Council to build two large, genuine bridges over the expanse, a sign of peace and resolve. Today, the Thandol Span is almost complete, a boon to many, as the Land Bridges are no longer a place of trade, but one tainted with the torment of the dead.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I am EXTREMELY sorry about all of this! I didn't abandon the story. It was just that, well, the last two months have been the hardest I've had for a long while, and it was hard to keep up. Now, however, things have settled down, and everything's all good, so I should be back to normal schedule from now on. I deeply thank everyone for their patience with me!
-Jeremy