Chapter 10: Links
Lotus tel'Tallon found the blood elf wandering aimlessly outside the walls of Honor Hold. He'd dressed down in a clean white tunic and baggy brown trousers, a far cry from the blood stained armor they'd found him in. She'd assumed the shoulder pads had made him look larger than he was, but his chest was still quite broad. She spied a newly healed scar that dug into his left breast, right above the heart. It looked quite new, pink and shiny swollen. More scars and old wounds crisscrossed his torso, the signs of his heavy burdens.
Alaric stared up at the sky, looking at the endless fields of stars banding across the chilled night sky.
"Trying to spy Azeroth?" Lotus announced her presence with the question. Alaric was not taken aback. He seemed to anticipate her arrival.
"I am studying the new constellations." He answered absentmindedly.
"Constellations?"
"The positions of the astral bodies; they're different from Azeroth…beautiful in a way, though the Nether mars their presence." The nebulous bands of the hellish realm snaked about as they always had, looping around stars to drink their energies, stretching beyond the eye's reach.
"You can take the bunk in the first barrack to the right of the south motte and bailey. Danath's gift to his honored guest." She said with thinly veiled sarcasm.
Alaric ignored her, opting to continue staring at the sky like an idiot. Lotus' hand twitched in annoyance.
"The others are asking why you don't use the power that got you here to take them home." Lotus said.
"I can't. It was a one way trip." Alaric answered without any hint of regret.
"You're lying." The elf woman stated.
"And how would you know? You understand nothing about me. I know that you don't trust me or like me. You've had your bow on me since the moment I was brought within these walls."
"I can read you like a book, Alaric'Quel. From the way you were dressed when we found you, you had obviously been in a battle. What happened? Are you really just running from whatever it was that beat you, rather than being strong and standing up to it? If so you are a coward."
Alaric seemed to be enjoying Lotus' intuition, smiling slightly.
"And so why would I run to this place? It is as close to hell as anything."
"Because you knew where it was. You knew that you had people who would take you in, either us or your bloody elven bastards. But – If you could not stand something so powerful as to challenge your sense of the way the world should be, then you are an egotist, and you came here for the same reasons that your brethren did; for power."
"But if you really did come here to reunite the broken kindred's of elf and shepherd them back to old Quel'thalas then you must know a way back, for above all, as a mage you discern that there is no simple passage through the Void between the universe's worlds. If this is true and everything you have claimed to be is genuine, then you are a liar for telling us you cannot take us home to Azeroth. I say that you know a way back, but refuse to speak it for us-the Sons of Lothar, for you favor those vile cousins of yours."
"Coward, power-hungry, or deceiver, you are cast in a wicked light." Lotus finished. For a moment, there was silence. Alaric's eyes flashed green and uneasy for the briefest moment before his calm returned.
"If our people are truly mad, I will find whatever it is that drove them so. They cannot be beyond redemption. You cannot truly believe that elf can fall on elf in such a manner, can you? Not since the days of the most ancient Sundering has such an atrocity occurred."
"Twenty four Sons of Lothar died the day they came into our walls. I saw brothers and sisters die beside me."
"You judge an entire people on the deaths of just twenty four?"
"Just twenty four?" Lotus hissed, incredulous. She stepped forward and in an instant and slapped Alaric across the cheek, twisting his head to the side.
"They were our family. How dare you say we don't have the right to judge? We built a way to survive in this shithole. For decades we had only each other." She could hear her own heavy breathing, her anger threatening to break into tears. She could see the faces of the slain Sons of Lothar lying in the dirt trench after the blood elves had taken what they wanted and left. She heard the bugle echoing as they were covered in the red soil of this world.
Willem, Veera, Tannyr
"I've seen plenty of family die. I know what it is like. I was there when Silvermoon fell; when nothing less than the utter genocide of our people took place."
"I saw nothing less than the wholesale slaughter of innocents, their torrents of blood filling the streets. I saw children smothered by their own parents rather than face the fate that was befalling them. I was there at the docks, when tens of thousands drowned trying to flee to the last boats. The bay was so full of bodies you could walk a mile to shore without touching the water. And those are just glimpses of the horrors that took place day by day for years."
"I have witnessed armies rising out of the killing fields; the very souls I'd fought with not a hour before now mindless husks controlled by some lich or necromancer. I've tasted the ashes in the air from the shattered cities of a half dozen nations. You couldn't imagine the things I've seen. Until you realize loss on the scale of civilizations you won't understand me." Alaric said without looking at her. His tone was cold and condescending.
Bleda, Harma, Oulin, Alistair
"I don't care what you've seen. You are a brute who cares little for the meaning of lives. I was always taught by our high elven kin that life is the most precious resource of all. Do you see nothing in the eyes of those around you? Are lives just numbers?"
"Pain is relative." Alaric argued. "To overcome pain, you must disconnect yourself from it. I learned long ago to remove myself from the blood on my hands. It's the only way to truly command. Ignore it, command it, and master it. Use it to fuel you."
Naelin, Anduin, Brethias, Jethica, Aurelian
"Running from pain and not accepting the consequences of your actions; a craven way to live." Lotus stepped back. Alaric's cheek had begun to turn red.
"What I am doesn't matter. I used to care about justice and honor. I thought I cared about revenge when we stormed Northrend." Alaric seemed to stare right through her, his eyes glazing in memory. "Only one thing really matters."
Lotus waited for an end to his statement. Instead, the elf shook his head and stood up straight.
"I will return our all of our people to Azeroth; the Sons of Lothar and the blood elves. We will return to heal and rest. The wars have been long, and we need to bind our wounds. Splintered, the pack will die...whole, the pack survives, strives, and succeeds."
"Those you wish to reconcile us with - they turned on us like wild beasts. I saw them drain the life from mages for their mana. They burned our hospital and melted our walls. Since that day, they've not come hither. No one has seen them or heard of them save the whispers from the Mag'har orcs and the ethereal traders. Do you think we will simply forget what happened? These people are not the same as you remember them. These people here though, the sons and daughters of Azeroth are more your people than they."
Alaric put on a stubborn face. ""Then I shall cleanse those who committed such foul acts. These elves cannot all be corrupted. Prince Kael'thas is a smart and strong leader. He is my blood. The Prince came here to find a cure for our magical addiction, not revel in some fantasy kingdom of debauchery and bloodshed."
"And what of us? Will you take us home with you?" Lotus asked.
"I will try. We owe much to the soldiers of the Expedition, but I owe even more to my people. If you don't come with me, I do not know if we will have the power to open a Gateway indefinitely."
"And you expect us to wait for you to return? We cannot leave our lands without being utterly destroyed by the Horde. You know this."
"To my name I have a legacy of sin and death, and I will not let it be for naught." Alaric said.
He would leave us to distract the orcs and demons from his journey east. Lotus felt cold as she realized the elf's intentions. He was not the kindling hope that Danath had thought he was.
"I gave my word to fight with you - for now. But the reason I came here stands: I will reunite the elves. We will go home."
He refuses to listen.
"The world is not so kind as to allow everyone a happy ending, Faltron'Quel. Your quest is folly." Lotus turned to walk away.
"We'll see." She heard Alaric mutter in Thalassian.
I pity you, Alaric. If that is what you really want, then you will be sorely upset. You can't will things to happen, no matter how much you want. Lotus thought as she strode away.
Honor Hold
Alaric'Quel sat almost totally enveloped in the shadows that draped the end of Honor Hold's long hall. Ten hearths blazed, the Draenori fungus-wood giving off a unique, sour smoke. The swirling, smelly clouds made the dusty banners that hung from the rafters somewhat hazy. Alaric blinked through the stinging smoke trying to make out what exactly was embroidered on their cloth.
The hall had been empty save for an old man and woman sweeping red dust into neat piles. Then a group of soldiers had entered the hall, swigging skins of something. They'd been laughing and joking until they saw him, staring at them passively from the shadows.
Disliking his stare, they removed themselves to the far end of the room, creating an awkward space. Every once in a while one of the burly oafs would shoot a suspicious or hateful glance. They were speaking about him in hushed tones, although Alaric could pick up on some of their conversation with his elf-ears.
Perhaps they wonder why I don't come over to speak with them? Alaric wondered. Alaric had always removed himself from the commoners, whether the peasantry or the soldiers under his command. He'd kept to his select inner circle of friends, confidants, and equals. It was not that the elf saw them as less than he, or was a supremacist in any way, it was just that…
The more bonds, the more pain, he thought. It was one thing to fight alone, but to command hundreds of men and women who would die on a word or motion your hand? Removing oneself from situations where you grew to care for masses whose lives and blood was on your hands was necessary when commanding from high above.
Alaric rubbed the cheek where Lotus had struck him. She clearly did not agree with this philosophy.
But you no longer command anything, voice chirped in his mind. You gave up your commands, your responsibilities, and passed them onto Dethal and the others when you came here. These are not your men. They are just other people, the same as you.
Still though, the elf did not move. He just stared, watching the faces at the end of the room grow dark at his watchful silence. They looked at him with the same eyes that Lotus did - boring, accusing gazes.
Lotus was interesting though, that much Alaric admitted to himself. She was passionate and very strong. In better times, she would have eventually been the model matron. In some strange way, Alaric found that he admired her convictions, naive as they may be.
"Fuckin' blood elf. Ought to rip his eyes out like they did to Hammon." Alaric heard one soldier mutter in his cup, clearly drunk at this point.
Bitter old men on a bitter world, Alaric thought.
"Oi! That's enough Bryne! He's a friend from Azeroth." A tall, blonde man hissed back. He had been quiet this whole time, but Alaric remembered him being one of the loud ones when they'd captured him.
"I apologize for my idiot friend's behavior." The blonde said, standing and walking over to Alaric. He held out a hand. "Jurgen's the name." He flashed a broad smile full of yellow, crooked teeth.
"Jurgen Klein. I remember." Alaric answered, clasping the man's hand. Jurgen let loose a howling laugh that took Alaric by surprise.
"Join us, will you? Our honor begs a guest to drink all he can hold in Honor Hold." Klein offered Alaric his beer. "It's the only thing recreational here, besides."
"No thank you. I don't partake in drink." Alaric waved the wooden cup away.
" Ya - Ya' don't partake?" Klein shook his head in dismay but quickly changed the subject. "Tell me about you. I want to know about the life of Alaric'Quel; the elf who broke the Void." The soldier's friends ignored the exit of the lofty blonde and continued to chatter amongst themselves.
Alaric smiled. "There's not much to tell I'm afraid. It would be mostly the same as your story I'm sure. I traveled a bit when young, fought in a few wars, went on some boat rides and traveled more, then fought some more. In all, my life makes for a repetitive story."
Jurgen frowned. "Well fine enough then. Let me tell you bout' the life of Jurgen Klein! It's nae' been repetitive! I've lived near four decades and already conquered the tallest mountains on two worlds! I swam across the Pelops Straight in a single night! I can drink...well, not nearly as much as a dwarf."
"I was an orchard hand when I was young, picking ripe and juicy peaches. Helped out on my father's farm until a circus came to town. The ladies had heard of my abilities with my...hands, and the men heard my lyre. 'Ner a coin purse held its own job when I was through with a town! I was king of the world, until the day some Dalari recruiters plucked me down from my throne by a tavern's hearth."
Alaric found himself chuckling at the bombastic man's self-spun tale. Jurgen went on for about an hour with hardly a pause. In the end, Alaric found himself enjoying the first real company outside of war councils and strained greetings in quite a while.
The hours passed as Jurgen recounted his bawdy life tales, laughing and jumping around like a man possessed. Clearly, the alcohol had gotten to him. Alaric found himself laughing at some of Jurgen's stories, and being genuinely intrigued by others.
"When we lit the torch, we found m-my fatha with the goat! Again!" Jurgen stammered and howled with laughter. He'd told the account two times before already, each time being slightly different.
He doesn't remember telling me, Alaric realized. The man was dead drunk.
The door to the great hall burst open, letting in a gust of cold, dry air. A man decked in armor rusted at the joints entered the hall tracking red mud. Alaric could already hear the sighs of those two who'd just cleaned the floors.
"Jurgen, we've been called up. Gather the lads." Meric Bastonn ripped off his horse-hair crested helmet. Alaric saw the footman glance at him for a moment before returning to the incessantly giggling Jurgen.
"Are we-going-to a brothel Mer?" Jurgen burst out into a fresh round of hoots.
"Stand up you idiot. Quit your fantasizing. You know there's not a brothel here. Remember brother: new world, new order." Meric shook his head in dismay at his comrade's inebriated antics.
"Aye, sir." Jurgen tried to straighten himself before collapsing to the ground in a puddle of intoxicated unconsciousness.
Alaric smiled wryly as he spied the vein throbbing with annoyance in Meric's temple. The man simply stared at his fallen soldier for a moment before turning his green eyes on Alaric.
"If you need another soldier, I'll partake in your mission." Alaric said, standing up. He stood a head taller than Meric, but the man across from him was twice of wide with muscle beneath his plate armors.
"You'll do. Your gear is in the armory. The clerk will know which set to pick up when you walk in." Meric acquiesced.
Alaric was somewhat surprised that these Sons of Lothar would just let him fall into place with them after the treatment he'd received so far. His surprise turned to eagerness quickly though. Eagerness to see this new world, to prove himself an aid to the cause of Honor Hold.
"And here I thought you didn't want me outside the walls of Honor Hold." Alaric said.
"What're you going to do? Run off into the wild? You know nothing of Draenor. The sun is different, the stars are foreign, the very dust is alien to you. You wouldn't last long out here by yourself."
"All the more reason to prove my worth to you. May I ask what we're seeking to do? Kill more orcs?" Alaric stood, gathering himself.
"There are far worse things than orcs on this world, Alaric'Quel." Meric threw open the doors, letting the afternoon sun blaze into the dank room.
Outside the castle's walls a crowd of soldiers gathered around a post, loading up their tied-off mounts. Lotus tel'Tallon's slender hands worked her mount's mane, soothing the horse as she untied her from the post. A swarthy, short man balanced two falchions on either hand, nodding with satisfaction before sheathing them behind his back. Another man, tall and muscle-bound with closely cropped dark hair and wide, grey eyes glaring at him. Curiously, the man had one dark eyebrow and one white one. Several dozen other riders were sheathing swords and securing baggage on their mounts.
"Fear not, Burdock. He's with us." Meric said, pointed to Alaric's mount; a brindled Borlan mare, with the characteristic lanky legs and streamlined body of its breed. The breed had been selected by many a Tirassian marine for its speed along the relatively flat, green plains of Kul Tiras.
"Where's Jurgen?" the large man asked.
"Likely regretting his decisions. Alaric, this is Burdock Trafford." He is Gilnean, so don't feel uncomfortable with his suspicious stares." Meric said.
"Is that a sense of humor, Mer? And all these years I thought you were dry as a rock." The short, swarthy swordsman smiled. A mouthful of gold teeth shone in the sunlight.
"This is Sinbad Slywaters. Don't trust him except in battle."
Sinbad laughed, eyeing Alaric up and down. "I didn't think ye'd live after the blow Burdock gave you to the head when we found ye. But now ya'r riding with us."
"Honored." Alaric answered brusquely. He turned his attention to their obvious commander, Meric. "What are we after?"
"There are three castles that guard the aqueduct; Honor Hold, Fort Highwater, and Castle Cloude. Several times the Horde has made concerted efforts to take them down and surround us, but we've beaten them off before. One of Archmage Gilda's apprentices scryed a band of warged orcs and ogres making their way toward Highwater. As far as I understand, they've set up a number of automated fields which warn them whenever intruders near, like a tripwire."
"Is there no blinking line between here and your castles? I assume they are close enough, and the ambient magic of this place is more than enough to teleport our numbers." Alaric asked.
Meric frowned, and Lotus came to his rescue.
"It is exactly that chaotic ambient magic that prevents us from setting up permanent lines to teleport from one location to the next. Unlike Azeroth, there are no Ley-line roads to work with, no way to use magic to transport one beyond what they can clearly see and mark."
They departed Honor Hold by the northern road, thirty strong. They made their way down a dusty path that led into the foothills of the ominous mountains. The land was sun-baked and dry, the soil under their horses' hooves curling back and cracking in protest. Alaric could almost feel the pain of the land as he looked around at the endless badlands. He could see what had once deep riverbeds, withered away forests, fossils stretching far beyond his elvish gaze.
With every gust of wind, alkaline dust blew in their faces, stinging eyes and flesh. Even near-immune to the elements as an elf, he felt his throat drying out as they neared their first target.
A rickety picket tower and small compound below it had been constructed amongst the ruins of some old city, blending in with the pillars and hollow shells of old buildings. The compound was covered in red clay to disguise it among the ruins of some old city.
"What was this place?" Alaric asked, curiously peering at the what was left of the alien architecture.
"Ancient draenei cities. There are many such ruins scattered across Outland. We use these ruins as a meeting place with the draenei traders. We usually find them scavenging or wandering nostalgically here." Lotus answered. "We have items they need, and they have things that we need."
"And what happened to these cities?" Alaric asked. The rubble stretched on for at least a half mile, down a series of hills. The ruins were punctuated into semicircles around a dried out riverbed. Some buildings were tall, honeycombed structures. Others were broken domes, filled with the shifting desert sands.
"War, famine, pestilence. Everything that is abundant on Draenor." Burdock spoke up, shaking his head.
"Quiet." Meric hissed, motioning for them to dismount. Alaric felt it too. The wind had died down, leaving only silence and the smell of blood.
The troop slowed, fanning out to ensure no sudden encirclement. Three bodies, mangled and headless, were impaled on steaks that hung off of the watch tower. All six hands of the bodies were also missing.
Above the dangling corpses was an orc flag, from which hung the three mutilated heads. To each forehead was pinned the missing hands.
"The Bladefist's mark." Meric spat. The bloody flag rippled a bloody crimson with a crushed orc hand emblazoned in the center.
"Monsters." Burdock began to swear under his breath.
"Does this happen often?" Alaric inquired. He regretted his lax choice of words when Lotus and the others shot him venomous glances.
A touchy band, these people.
"No, it does not. You seem to be bringing the luck with you, Quel." Sinbad shook his head.
"This doesn't seem like luck." Alaric watched as the bodies swung back and forth on the creaking rope.
"I never said which kind."
Alaric lifted his hands, channeling the power that almost seemed to writhe in the very air around him. The bodies and gruesome banner burst into magical flame, cindering the remains.
"What in the Seven Hells are you doing?" Burdock pushed Alaric to the ground. The tower figure of Burdock stood over him with clenched fists.
"Cremating them." The elf said as he stood back up, holding back sudden anger.
"I don't know what kind of customs your clan follows, but we bury our dead, Alaric." Lotus said with a tone that reeked of disgust and continued annoyance. Alaric sighed in resignation. Suddenly, the wind picked up. The smoke from the bodies swirled and then slanted horizontally.
The horizon had begun to redden. Alaric felt his eyes stinging even more.
"A dust storm is rising." Someone spat.
"That was quick." Another commented.
"If this orc band has already hit the outer towers, then Highwater will be well under attack by now. To me, we ride to our brothers!" Meric grabbed the reins of his mount, pulling himself back onto it. The riders formed up behind him, galloping at full charge.
More plumes of smoke rose beyond a copse of dead trees on a hill. The wind had come to full gale, whipping and snapping around them. It had become hard to see beyond the copse...then, the trees disappeared. Then, the riders in front of Alaric shrunk of black shadows. He could barely make out the shapes of his companions, but did notice that some had wrapped cloths around their mouths and noses to keep out the dust.
Distant shouting and screaming carried over the wind. The battle was nearby, but where? They couldn't see anything! Brightness flared in the haze off to their life, signaling a wall of fire.
Alaric tried to shout for Meric, Lotus, or anyone, but none heard him. They continued at full tilt, right into the flank of a thick formation of orcs. Alaric saw Meric and several others thrown from their horses in the sudden confusion. Their wave was moving too quickly now to stop dead though.
We rode right into them! Alaric realized in astonishment. The surprise hit the orcs as hard as the riders. Ripples went through the thick columns of green, brown, and red skinned monsters. Orcs flew backwards as the horses reared with fear and foaming moths.
"OVER THEM!" Alaric heard Meric's voice boom over the whipping wind, orc screams, and frantic neighs. The momentum of the riders carried them deep into the orc line, which began to buckle under the weight of dozens of armored horsemen.
Alaric grasped the cold steel that had been given to him from the Honor Hold armory. It was nothing like Quel'Barrer, but it would suffice for killing orcs. He swung the curving falchion down at a particularly muscular and tall orc with a mane of black fur running down his back. The beast slammed Alaric's sword-wrist with surprising speed, sending the blade spinning away into the dust. The elf realized that even on horseback, the orc towered over him.
A hammy fist slammed into his face, making white stars dance in front of Alaric's eyes as he fell from the horse. The world's sound blotted out into a dim hum. The elf found himself lying on his back, choking on a metallic tasting liquid. Half-consciously, he raised his head to see the orc lifting a giant, jagged axe and cutting his horse's head clean off in a single stroke. More blood sprayed onto the supine elf as his mount's headless body was thrown to the side by the orc's giant charging frame.
Just as the monster seemed ready to stomp the life out of Alaric, three quarrels buried themselves deep in the orc's skull, two of them in its eyes. Someone stepped over Alaric. Another kicked at him, breaking a rib. A corpse, Alaric could not tell which, fell on him with crushing weight. The elf felt a sleepy longing aching in his head.
"No!" He told himself out loud. He reached out to the pain. Felt it and embraced it. You're alive! Get up! UP!
With all his strength, Alaric threw off the dismembered body that had fallen on him. He wiped away the blood from his broken nose and burst lip. Fresh streams took their place. A screaming orc appeared in his peripheral, arm outraised with a bloody maul.
Alaric spun and conjured the arcane, letting his hate for the greenskins act as a focus for his channeling. The orc instantly fell to the ground, flame consuming it from the inside out. Whirling around, Alaric grabbed another orc by the head and channeled currents of magic into the creature's skull. Backing away, the orc's eyes melted in their sockets and an unearthly, bloodcurdling scream erupted before being cut off by the internal flames.
"Back, back!" Sinbad Slywaters called out as Alaric stumbled into him in the chaos. "The ogre!"
The two-headed behemoth swung a wooden club back and forth, killing Horde and Alliance alike. In the confusion of the dust storm, it had gone completely berserk. Feathered arrows covered the savage, making it look more like a porcupine than anything else.
Alaric remembered the ogres that had razed dozens of Quel'thalas villages in the Second War. The fires of the forests burned in his memory, and brought forth blazing orbs in his hands. With a hiss, Alaric let loose two jets of white-hot molten death. The ogre fell as its legs were seared out from under it. Dozens of orcs cried out as the flames engulfed them as well.
"Stop Alaric! You might hit our own! It's impossible to tell in this dust!" Sinbad shouted out to him, grabbing the elf's shoulders.
Alaric let the fire go for an instant, instead reaching for another element of the arcane; air. Air had always been his weakest element when studying with the Kirin Tor, but he'd found fast comradeship with Anglus Antonidas who's strengths complemented Alaric's weaknesses. From Antonidas, he'd learned the trick for control of the air currents. In return, he'd helped Antonidas write one of his many theses and treatises while they both studied at the Violet Citadel.
A strong gust of air exploded outward, with Alaric at the epicenter. The dust storm blew outward, disappearing as the seconds drew out. The now cleared air revealed the orc raiding party, or what was left of it, retreating as their cover had been blown and their flank decimated. Burdock Trafford and a few other horsemen chased down some of the fleeing orcs.
What was Fort Highwater, a wooden motte-and-bailey, burned. The garrison, now evacuating the burning wreck, looked on helplessly. Alaric heard Meric screaming at the garrison to put out the flames.
As Alaric approached, Meric turned away from what looked to be the garrison commander.
"You look like shit." Meric commented as Alaric tried to wipe away a new wave of blood pouring from his shattered nose. He could already feel his face swelling and purpling. "Can you conjure water to save these ingrate's holdfast?"
"There's nearly no water in the atmosphere. I can't gather what is not there. Can they not use the aqueduct?" Alaric motioned to the long arches of the waterway that fed down to Honor Hold.
"They say there's no water. The aqueduct has been cut." Meric cursed and spat.
"Then this...was a diversion?" Alaric realized.
Meric nodded. "They must've hit us simultaneously. The garrison reported the water ran red before they were hit. Blood from Castle Cloude, likely. If the water's been cut, then Cloude has already been overrun. We've been outflanked and deprived of water. At best, Honor Hold has a week, two week's supply saved up. Then..."
"...and then we all die." Lotus tel'Tallon finished, picking her arrows from the scattered bodies.
Hellfire Citadel, Outland
Kargath Bladefist watched from the ramparts as his various bands of warriors returned from their battles.
They chanted marching songs in their harsh native Orcish as the black gates of the Citadel swung open for them. The Warchief of the Horde broke into a twisted grin as his victorious champions began to pile elf and human ears and noses. He could smell the fresh trophies and blooded weapons from up here, sixty feet up on the haphazardly constructed ramparts of Hellfire Citadel.
"Delicious." An orc at his side licked his lips. The short, broken tusked orc with a hugely bloated belly was Noszer Alleater, Warlord of the Bloody Howl clan. The orc preferred the name Meat Pile, which his clan had given him when he'd eaten two entire boars and a human limb in a single sitting.
Drawing up his clan from the remnants of others following cursed Ner'zhul's botched attempt to escape the Draenor, Noszer had quite literally eaten his way to the top until he found something he couldn't consume; Kargath. Having slain and consumed any orc in his domain powerful enough to challenge him, Noszer had moved on Kargath's Shattered Hand clan turf. At that point, he had pledged his loyalty to his new Warchief, and together the Bladefist and the Alleater had reunited the broken orcs of Draenor.
"Calm, Noszer." Hamilcar of the Laughing Skull clan growled. Among all the chieftains Kargath had gathered, Hamilcar was the most levelheaded. A dozen other orc chieftains stood with Kargath, the Alleater, and Hamilcar, watching as the dismembered pile grew thick and tall with more body parts. Eyes gleaming, many of the chieftains stomped their feet in approval. A few hung back though.
For nearly twenty years, Kargath fought with his fellow orcs to claim the mantle of Warchief of the Horde. Through blood and conquest, he had rallied nearly all the old clans of Draenor to his cause. After the diabolical Illidan Stormrage had arrived and enslaved the pit lord Magtheridon, Kargath had pledged his loyalty to the night elf in recognition of his suzerainty over the world. In return was blessed with the handling of Magtheridon's prison and all the fel magic sources that came with it. His warlocks channeling the fel magic of Magtheridon, Kargath was able to transform his Shattered Hand into the most powerful army in Draenor.
Illidan soon became a non-factor, preferring to secluded himself within the Black Temple rather than rule over his new world. When the day came that Kargath refused to pay tribute to Illidan, not a whisper had come from the Black Temple.
Illidan is dead, most likely. Dead or gone, Kargath had told himself. With his clan newly empowered with daemonic energy, he had gone on to conquer or kill all the orcs left in Draenor, save the nomadic Mag'har clans. In turn, the Shadowmoons, Bonechewers, Laughing Skulls, Bleeding Hollows, Dragonmaws, Bloody Howls, and more had fallen under the sway of his Shattered Hand clan.
Still though, there were those who were unsure of Kargath's leadership, or Illidan's impotence. They stood together in the back of the crowd. These four had pledged their word to the Horde, but words were hot air and not conviction. Kargath knew their kind. They would need...convincing.
A grunt appeared before the chieftain gathering, a fine coating of red gristle splattered grey matter coating his rough leather tunic. The orc pounded his chest and bowed before Kargath.
The Bladefist stood above his chieftains by a good foot, and was distinguished by his markedly different skin color. Down his back, a ferocious line of sharp, browning bones extended outward from his spine, piercing through the knobby skin of his back.
"Warchief, we have crushed the human castle at the foot of the mountains. The warlocks were able to disguise our advance until we were able to fully surround the enemy and cut them off from reinforcements. The diversion at the middling fort slowed them long enough for us to fully break their water supply line as you commanded. We took fifty six ears from the middling, and over three hundred from the foothill castle."
"Excellent." Kargath smiled, feeling his peeling red flesh began to crack at the seams of his mouth. The pain exhilarated him. The warlocks had soaked him in the power of the demons, slowly transforming him into an even greater weapon.
"Do you believe in the strength of the Bladefist now!?" Kargath bellowed to his chieftains. "We have won a great victory against the humans, but this is but a taste of what is to come. No longer can their great walls and magical spells protect them. Danath and his lickspittle will now be forced to meet us in the field where our strength is greatest in hopes that they can push us back long enough to repair their false river."
"We will follow you Warchief!" A voice cried out from the gathering.
"Kargath Bladefist will return the Horde to its glory!" Noszer screamed, beating his belly with hammy hands.
"We will be greater than when we first drank the demon blood!" Another agreed.
One grey bearded orc brooded quietly behind the rest.
"What say you, Tuul?" Kargath insinuated. Tuul was old, one of the few orcs that remembered the days before the first gifts from the demons.
"What is this victory you speak of? A few hundred dead on their side and ours. We don't have the numbers we had in Doomhammer's day. The greater whole of our people passed to Azeroth. The orcs of Draenor are a dying breed, but you insist on fighting this ancient war?" Tuul responded. "I only suggest that we should conserve our strength and rebuild more. Let us return to our ancestral lands to heal and purge our souls." Three other chieftains nodded silently.
"You would have us make peace with the Alliance? To live with these invaders in our lands?"
"For a time only." Tuul stated tacitly. "For decades we have battered ourselves against the humans. We will overwhelm them in time. But we must maintain the survival of our people before all."
Kargath walked over to Tuul, towering over the lesser orc.
"The Horde is a machine for war. The industry of our people is carnage. To have peace is to rust our blades. To have agreement is to die. In war we are honed to razor-sharpness and cut away the weakest of ourselves. While I live, the orcs will never become soft. We will achieve our potential, take back this world, and use the power we have harnessed from the demons to defeat them and conquer all the stars in the sky. Under me, as under Blackhand and Doomhammer, the strong will thrive and the weak will feed them." Kargath said.
"As you say, Warchief." Tuul acknowledged, bowing his head. The look on his face said he was not defeated though. This one was a cancer that would eat the Horde inside out. None of the old guard could remain who still spoke against the Warchief.
"Any share the dreams of Cheiftain Tuul Zaiat will share his fate. He will simply disappear like a stone dropped in water." Kargath stated.
The old orc's eyes went wide in realization. In the swiftness of a second, Kargath lifted his artificial scythed hand and in a single motion cut Tuul from shoulder to waist. The two halves of the hapless orc splattered onto the ramparts before the rest of the audience. The chieftains, save the unconvinced three, erupted into cheers.
So, it will take more than strength to convince them. These clans must either be turned or disposed of.
Nothing would be more convincing than total victory over the Alliance. A return to full, uncontested control of Draenor's heartlands would be the final seal in the reunification of the Horde and the ascendancy of the orcs once more. With the Twisting Nether's spiraling bands approaching in the skies once more, the time would never be more ripe than now. Their warriors would be at their strongest, the warlocks at their most powerful.
Kargath faced his warriors below to address them.
"Without their water supply, the humans in Honor Hold will come to meet us in haste. When we slay them, collect their bodies. We will pick the bones clean and use them to pave a road to the ruins of their castle so that all who cross it will remember the folly of resisting the Horde!"
"FOR THE HORDE" Thousands of throats erupted all throughout the Hellfire Citadel.
Honor Hold
A sad funeral dirge played out as the carefully wrapped remains of the slaughtered were transported to grotto beneath the rock that Honor Hold sat on. The great fist of stone dominated the landscape, but gave no sign of sympathy or comfort for the assembled Sons of Lothar. The chilled air was silent save the songs of three women; a child, a warrior, and a crone.
Alaric recognized the song as My Children of Olein. It was an ancient elegy first sung at the burning of the legendary human city of Olein in the Tartaris Mountains in what was now Lordaeron. The heartrending tune was accompanied by even more poignant lyrics.
...So go my child far into night,
Sleep soundly babe in arms so tight,
Let not the tears wake your rest,
While fires burn red light,
Have strength my child in this test,
Life tis but a jest.
Wind howled dully through the night as the bodies were carried into the catacombs. When at last the final pallbearer reemerged from the caverns, the assembly broke. Alaric saw some faces with tears glistening in the torchlight, while others held stony anger.
Alaric felt their sadness biting at him, reminding him of the utter grief he had felt when Quel'thalas fell. So many of his people had fallen into a catatonic shock on the voyage out of the Bay of Silvermoon. He himself had felt like he was a wooden puppet, pulled along only by some false strings until Prince Kael'thas had reignited the flames in his heart.
In war, those you fight with and suffer with are your closet family, the elf told himself. He'd always known that fact, even in icy Northrend or the jungles of Ashenvale. Again and again, he'd distanced himself from the thousands of souls following him, trying to ignore that feeling. It was the only way to send thousands to their deaths and remain sane. But now, amongst them...
He stood and listened to the only noise on the field now; footsteps. Suddenly, a warm hand clasped his shoulder. It was Meric Bastonn, flickering shadows casted across his face. A gust of wind caught the flame of Meric's torch and shone the light on his face, revealing a wet face and puffy eyes. The licks of light disappeared, but the image burned into Alaric's mind.
"You did well today, Alaric. The Sons of Lothar will need you in the days to come." Meric shuffled off with the others in the darkness, their torches snaking back up the trail to the patchwork walls of the castle.
Alaric stood for a time, watching the snaking current of fire weaving back and forth with each step. He felt in that moment as if he understood these people a little better. Despite their coldness, they clung to each other desperately. Every life mattered, everyone was family. All the effort and energy of their lives had been expended digging a niche in this hostile world knowing that though they held the past in their hearts, they could never return to it. And yet here he was; a ghost of their memories, a reflection of their nightmares.
Fighting for dreams. Fighting for each other. They were remarkably similar to him, and so completely different.
When the procession of swaying torches thinned and disappeared, Alaric began his ascent to Honor Hold alone. Perched on a cliff around the corner of the castle's great iron gates was Lotus tel'Tallon.
"Kargath has our king in check. We will move soon." She said, sensing the elf approaching.
"Then I will go with you." Alaric responded.
The she-elf's eyes glittered in the starlight as she surveyed the Hellfire Peninsula. Her eyes and lips tightened in surprise, but she did not look away from the baked plains and craggy canyons.
"For how long, though? What of your quest?" Lotus asked. She turned to look at him.
"I will see this battle through and ensure that the sons and daughters of Azeroth are safe. To take us all home though, I will need the help of many skilled mages. I can...create a gateway, but to sustain it I require the aid of powerful magi. The blood magic of the elves here can hold such a portal open. With enough luck, we can hold it long enough to bring everyone to Azeroth."
"Then how did you come here?" Lotus swung herself around.
"With the waters of the Well of Eternity. I travelled to mystical Hyjal with a band of brave warriors. With their aid, we gathered the nourishment of Nordrassil the World Tree. With this power, we retook Quel'thalas." Alaric explained, skipping to the main points.
"Quel'thalas." Lotus tasted the word. "I was born on the Amani Borders to the Tallon tribe. The blood of the Rangers ran in our family. I remember running through the tall pines in the fresh autumn snows. My sisters and I caught hares in special traps that our mother and father showed us how to make. We would then let the hares go and chase after them until we were breathless."
Alaric nodded, remembering the crisp, fresh air of Quel'thalas as the seasons changed in the Borderlands. In the Heartlands, within the Sungates, the seasons rarely came and went. The land was bathed in an eternal mix of green springs and golden autumns, kept perpetual by the power of the High Elves that lived there.
"I was born in to Duke Ruahal Tenar'Quel of Tranquillen Village. My father, then I, were Stewards of the Tetrarch Sanguine Amulets that King Anasterian wore on occasion. When great victories were had, he would celebrate triumphs down the streets of Silvermoon wearing them. They were the most beautiful objects ever carved from the earth by elven hands."
"That is how I met Prince Kael'thas. One day the Prince and I stole one of the Amulets away from its altar. We took it to the Goldenblood which ran near my father's chateau to marvel at its deep colors and radiance. We played at being King ourselves, stamping around the riverside in mock parades...when we dropped it into the waters."
Alaric the motion of something slipping from his hands. Lotus giggled.
"You lost one of the King's most prized possessions? A crown jewel? Just like that?"
"Indeed." Alaric laughed, feeling lighthearted for the first time in a long while. "The King was so furious that two mischievous sirelings could so easily take one of the four Amulets that he sent my father far off to Stormwind to act as Ambassador."
"You mean exiled him?"
"Initially, yes. But Anasterian forgave my father for he was a kindly and wise soul. He asked if my father would not return to Tranquillen, but Ruahal Tenar'Quel decided he was of more use to the king by representing his interests in Stormwind than rather than sitting on old treasures."
"The older elves at Allerian Stronghold, those who managed to glimpse Amulets during the King's triumphs, told me of their raw splendor and magnificence. How I wish I could see such things. Growing up on the Borders meant we had the glory of nature, but none of the opulence of the capitol. When the orcs came burning the forests, I had just ranked as full Ranger. I fought with the Alliance from Quel'thalas to the Dark Portal and beyond, never since glimpsing the home I left behind."
"The Amulets are gone." Alaric said, feeling the happiness of reminiscence dissipating. "They melted to slag along with all of the royal treasures when the Scourge razed Tranquillen to the ground. They are ruined and buried in the ashes of our civilization."
"But what of the one in the river?" Lotus asked.
"What?"
"Was it ever recovered?"
"Indeed it was not." Alaric laughed, seeing her point. He had never thought that one of the most crucial symbols of elvish heritage might still exist, half-buried in the mud of a river somewhere.
"Then perhaps there is hope I can see it yet." Lotus brightened.
"I suppose there is always hope." Alaric responded. The two laughed. When the laughter subsided, Lotus returned her eyes to scanning the horizon.
"I am on sentry duty until the moon crests the mountains. You should get some rest. You fought well today." She said, closing their exchange.
"I misspoke this morning..." Alaric fumbled at an apology for his callous words in their previous conversation.
"You're not so bad after all, Alaric'Quel." Lotus said, continuing to examine the desolate landscape.
Smiling, Alaric turned to face the walls of Honor Hold. Walking through the causeway and gates, the elf stopped to stare at the skies once more. He reached into his pocket, and fingered the Vial he hadn't told Lotus about.
The stars burned as ever, but the alien bands of the Nether swirled ominously like drops of blood in water. Somewhere beyond its shroud, Azeroth awaited. Alaric turned his gaze to the east, where Kael'thas and his kin waited.