Chapter Thirteen: Schemes and Findings
Winter 607, Auchindoun, Dreanor
Kilrogg Deadeye had been awakened by a powerful explosion. It had shaken the ground, and had startled it. Had it ended there, it might not have warranted his attention immediately. But the explosion was followed by another, then another, and then many more in succession, and the aged orc could hear the chaos it was making across Auchindoun.
He knew it quite well, that sound. The sound of a human battleship's heavy cannons. He had forgotten all about sleep at once and gone outside.
He was watching now, as an unknown number of human warships, staying outside of the torches' range, hit his fortress with explosive cannonballs. Those contraptions had been murderous during the last war, and the goblins had never quite come up with something to even the odds. Even if they had, however, it would be no use, as Auchindoun boasted only three juggernauts and a handful of other ships.
But it wasn't quite the worst of it. What was worse was that the sentries and guards reported that three land forces appeared to be surrounding Auchindoun from the east, south and west, even as the human ships hammered down from the north.
"How did they get so close without our noticing it? Where were our scouts?" He roared to one of his warlords. The younger orcs, larger and fitter, still shivered from Deadeye's tone.
"We don't know, Chieftain." He answered quickly, "They haven't reported since before nightfall. But if they were destroyed, it can only be those elf rangers."
Deadeye nodded. It was the only thing he could think of, as well. Rangers, aided by magic. Ships, certainly aided by magic. The humans and the orcs had begun their decades of wars with even magic, but Doomhammer's purge had crippled them in a way that the Horde never recovered.
"They disembarked at nightfall, slipping by us, encircling us, and then setting their ships before we knew it." The chieftain grunted. "Well-planned, but with such heavy risks…"
At that, he had a thought. Not an amusing one, but it fit his experiences with the humans. He gestured to his best sentry to try and spot the banners on any of the forces.
"Look for the animal on the banners." He grunted. It took the sentry only a few moments before he spotted one, barely visible in the darkness, and yet just recognizable enough: a flying form around what appeared to be a human sword.
The Wyvern Army. The Army of Aerth the Trickster. Deadeye nodded pensively, keeping his anger back, preventing it from altering his thinking. The Trickster. It fit what had happened. Swiftblade had always been daring and effective in his manoeuvres. The chieftain knew that risked movements were more often than not calculated by the human.
"So, here I am fighting the human who matched Argal Grimfrost blow for blow on the battlefield." He grinned tuskily. The old warrior in him was worried about the prospect, but also elated at the idea of fighting an opponent who had gained respect even in the Horde.
"The Trickster…" One of the warlords began, and then it was all they could to remain standing when one of the battleships hit the wall beneath them. It did not give way – it had been built for more than that – but the tremor nearly sent them all down far below, to their deaths.
Deadeye regained his balance angrily. He had no intention of letting the enemy have its way with him. "Warlords! Ready all of our catapults! Have them fire towards the sea, just beyond the light!"
"But, Chieftain, we may never hit one of the battleships at all."
"We might not, but they don't know that we can't see them. At least they won't be as brazen with us! Do it!" He snapped, and orcs were hurried out to give the necessary orders. Deadeye glowered. "Look at how unprepared we are!"
"Its not our troops' fault, Chieftain." An older orc growled, "We're not as many as we should be. Four thousand troops here, and no support. We never thought that the humans would attack so quickly."
Deadeye snorted. NER'ZUL hadn't thought it possible. As powerful a shaman as the orc might be, he was a poor warrior and warlord. Deadeye had seen the humans enough to know that they could be dangerously sly and resourceful, and that they had leaders to take advantage of those.
Aerth The Trickster was one of those humans. Knowing this, Deadeye looked away from the sea and towards the amassed bodies of Alliance troops.
"Three armies? Impossible." He reasoned. "Even with all of his luck and cunning, Swiftblade can't have brought that many. Too much risk. Turalyon'd never allow it." He sniffed at the damp, sooty air a moment. "Do you want to confuse me? Do you want me to guess?"
"Chieftain?"
Deadeye looked at the sentry, who had stayed with him. "Youngling, you never came with us to the human homeland, did you?" he asked, and he worked to make his tone gentle. For all of their flaws – which were in many way self-inflicted – and despite their curse – which often caused overwhelming guilt to the elder orc – his people remained his people.
The young orc, who had been so keen-eyed, shook his head respectfully, clearly in awe at being addressed by his own Chieftain like this. "No, Chieftain, I was too young."
"Then you have much to learn, orcling. Look on those armies, waiting in the darkness. What do you make of them?"
The orc looked rather aghast at the question, which slightly annoyed Deadeye. Seeing that his chieftain was serious, however, the younger warrior studied the darkened masses attentively.
"They're staying there. Just so we can see them, but they're not attacking." He said at length.
"Good. But they would have catapults to attack us. Why do you think they're not doing it right now?"
The orc looked lost. "Waiting for us to charge them?" he asked, and there was a glint of glee in his eyes as he suggested that. Bloodlust was alive in all of them, even the young ones, perhaps especially them.
Deadeye held himself fast as another tremor battered the walls. The catapults began to echo back in response. Still, the old orc gestured around him, and at the three armies they were seeing massing. It was Aerth Swiftblade fighting out there. He could not allowed himself to think along ordinary lines.
"No. If they really had three real armies to attack us, they'd have done it already. Their placement is achieving their purpose, along with the bombardments. Look at this! They have us perfectly cornered. With three armies, all they need is to sweep in, and we're joining the ancestors!"
The younger orc shivered at the taboo, but the elder one never even flinched. Kilrogg Deadeye hadn't survived that long by being bothered by such things.
"Then why?"
"Its impossible to tell for sure" he said with an undertone of anger, "But I say that they're trying hard to make themselves seen. And that can only mean one thing: those forces are bait. The Trickster wants to see us make a mistake he can use against us!"
The younger orc bristled at that. Deadeye could tell what the youth was thinking: that it was, dishonourable, and foolish, and that the Horde would never stooped to such things. However, the Horde in the human lands had learned quickly. It had never been enough, however.
"We have to crush him. But how do we do that, chieftain?" At that, Deadeye smiled plainly, his old tusks clearly visible.
"We try to be tricksters ourselves, my young friend." The chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow Clan stated, his eyes hard on the Horizon, searching for that dangerous human leader.
Winter 607, Auchindoun, Dreanor
Danath grinned. This was the thing he was good at. Not the things that the nobility did. He had never been very good at the court, at parties and other celebrations. He had never been a good caretaker of his own, private lands and wealth. It hadn't been in his blood, though he was cousin to Thoras Trollbane himself.
What he was good at was warfare. From his youth, he had been fighting. Bandits, monsters, even trolls had been fair game to him. And when Anduin Lothar had given his call for unity and brought together the massive armies of the Alliance to fight the Horde, Danath had been the first to go, and had struck from the front for the entire war.
But a good fight was sweeter if the odds of winning were greater. And he had confidence in the man who was walking beside him. Swiftblade had fought on the battlefield enough to warrant respect, but it was his peculiar genius which footmen and knights alike admired.
"So, General." He said, his grin spreading under his bushy, greying beard. Even though Swiftblade was neither small nor slight, Danath towered over him, so that the other man had to crane his neck upward. "What foolishly creative plans did you create for us poor confused footmen to follow?"
Swiftblade gave a small elbow hit to Danath's stomach. "I didn't know that my own strategies were that hard to follow."
"Well, that's only because you have good subordinates, I think." Danath smiled.
"Arrogant today, aren't we?" Swiftblade answered, grinning from below. The far larger human shrugged.
"And you aren't, Lord-General Aerth Swiftblade, Invincible General and Fox of the South?" He quipped.
Hearing the grand titles that services and a growing fame had granted him, the general who was intent on bringing down Auchindoun gave a wry chuckled and ran a mailed hand across his grey hair. "Good point, my friend, good point."
Danath knew that most Commanders and no Captain would ever talk to the supreme commander of a large task force so lightly. But Danath had known the other man since Swiftblade had been an upstart general who had just begun to shine. Danath had long served under General Jennala – the Light keep her soul safe – before serving this other man, and had taken his familiar ways with him. Ever since, they had talked to each other the same way they were presently doing.
Danath looked at the looming Horde fortress, still being pummelled by their battleships at irregular intervals. "How are you going to take that fortress?"
"Take it? I haven't thought of that part yet." Swiftblade mused idly. Danath was taken aback by the simple answer. The general was known for his peculiar and spectacular tactics, but this was somewhat of a new stretch. Danath looked about the camp, but saw that no one was nearby. He sighed in relief. Swiftblade looked amused. "Come, my friend. I'd never speak like that in front of the troops."
"So I find myself blessed with your incomplete plans alone." Danath muttered ruefully. "Fifteen years of campaign and you still stagger me."
"My plans for taking Auchindoun are incomplete, my friend, because I don't find them all that important to this operation."
"But our orders…your orders…"
"Those orders are for us to crush Auchindoun as a supply point and staging point." Swiftblade brought his lips together stiffly. "On that point, my plans are almost complete."
Danath blinked, and he felt the beginnings of a headache. Talking with Swiftblade about tactics often did that to him. The man was sometimes too convoluted for his taste. Even though the plans, he admitted to himself, worked most of the time.
"You, general, are as confusing as ever."
"So my lady wife keeps telling me."
"Lady Eira is as wise as she is beautiful. I would never dare defy her opinions of you, general." He said, bowing slightly, and at that they both chuckled.
Swiftblade regained his seriousness and continued walking, passing near a sentry and answering the soldier's salute with a nod. He seemed absorbed in something, looking at the looming Auchindoun, where many enemies were awaiting the assault.
"We will never be able to attain our objectives with conventional attacks and means, old friend." He mused at long last. Danath gave the fortress a look. It was a formidable bastion, but he didn't find it as daunting as Blackrock Spire, and said so.
"And there were many more orcs at Blackrock Spire." He pointed out.
"Many orcs, but orcs with no morale, dwindling supplies and hopes. And there were forty times the number of men we have here. The situation is not similar." The general shot back.
Danath felt frustrated again. Swiftblade had always been keen on explaining actions when someone needed to know, but the man also liked to keep some mystery before the battle was joined. Friends were no exception to this rule, it seemed. The veteran warrior shook his head and sighed.
"It seems you want me to be plainer…" Swiftblade mused.
"Does it show so much?"
"Incredibly. Alright, Danath. We have a powerful fortress here, and I doubt we can hold it even if we did manage to take it. So, I don't intend to take it at all. Wait a moment! I won't take it, but the enemy will find it unusable when I'm done." Swiftblade pointed a mailed finger at the orc bastion. "I will force Kilrogg Deadeye to surrender, which will crippled the Bleeding Hollow Clan and deal a blow which, hopefully, will stall whatever plans the Horde has for us."
Danath blinked. "This sounds like you're taking a very large risk, General. If we lose as many men with this, without even taking the fortress…"
"It will be the end of us in the long run." Swiftblade grinned, letting his arm drop. "So I will work to minimize casualties and win at the same time."
"Heh. Arrogant as always."
"That is the attitude we need right now: arrogance. But arrogance backed by a plan." Swiftblade shot back. "Don't worry about the latter. I have one, and you'll hear it all in due time. I will leave you this small clue: it is all about confusion, deceit, and troop movements."
The enormous human warrior brushed his beard. "If you say so, I'll trust that. You've never led the men astray yet, and I think you won't this time. But this isn't for me, those complicated plans. I'm a frontline fighter, and so are my men."
Swiftblade and Danath came to the general's tent, and stopped near the knights guarding it. The greying general who had once saved the entire war effort with a small, dysfunctional army, clasped his hands together. He seemed almost relieved by Danath's last utterance.
"And so, my friend, we will have fighting. Because, if our deception is to work, our strength must be quite real when we do strike." The general grinned, gave a small bow, and entered his tent.
Behind him, Danath shook his head ruefully, smiling all the same. Aerth Swiftblade was a hard man to understand at times, but he always kept his promises. If he said that there would be heavy fighting, it meant what it said.
And that meant that Danath's men would be pushed to their limits.
The veteran would never wanted any other way.
Winter 607, Lioris Plains, Lordaeron
Uther Lightbringer had other things to do.
As leader of the Knights of the Silver Hand, he had to rally his Order and prepare his brethren to aid the arcane nation of Dalaran, a feat which might drain him greatly. He also had to act as an ambassador to the elves and the nation of Gilneas to keep them from withdrawing support from the Alliance while the expedition was yet fighting on the Horde world.
He also had to look upon Rellon Minvare, whom Turalyon suspected to have become unbalanced. To have such a powerful individual on the way to insanity was the last thing the Alliance needed.
All of these tasks were important, crucial even.
'So why,' he thought in irritation, 'Am I riding to catch up with a disobedient Crown Prince?' Yet, he had sworn himself to King Terenas during the Second War, and it was the paladin's unspoken duty to look after the youth as best he could.
He heard sounds of a gallop ahead, and urged his own steed on. His charge was nearby. Within moments, he was in sight, and gave a great yell to gain the young man's attention.
"Prince Arthas! Stop at once!" He shouted. The prince looked behind him in surprise, spotting the bigger man and the larger warhorse easily. The youth was mastering his riding horse well through years of tutoring, and he was arrayed in impressive, fluted armour perfectly fitted for his size.
Surprise and the arrogance all of high nobility seemed to have warred upon Arthas' youthful, handsome face. Finally, the youth pushed blonde hairs away from his forehead and laughed, forcing his horse to a halt.
"Uther!" The Crown Prince of Lordaeron shouted happily, his eyes as animated and his voice as strong as ever. "Its good to see you!"
The paladin brought his horse to a halt near the prince's own, but fixed the younger man with a pointed stare. "Aye, lad, so I would like to say myself. But I cannot. Not when I come to see that you took a horse and rode out, leaving your bodyguards and the safety of your summer mansion on a whim!"
The prince's smile slipped in a moment, and the blonde head turned away. "There was no choice! I cannot stand being cooped up like a child!" He snapped. The paladin grunted with disapproval.
"That sentence, in itself, proves you a child still! When you can stand to obey orders, you will have proven your growth to me and the His Majesty!" When Arthas flashed him an angry look, Uther raised a stern finger for silence. "Do you think Lord Lothar managed to create the Alliance and led us so well by relying only on whims?"
He had the lad, and he knew it. For all of his bravado, the young man had grown upon stories of the great heroes of the First War, and the figures of the Second. Of them he particularly admired Lothar, whom he had met as a child but did not remember much. It was enough to sober the prince.
"I…that is true, I suppose."
"It is. Lord Lothar, a great man if there ever was one, didn't act on whims, Prince Arthas." He admonished. "He held to his obligations and waited for the right moment."
It wasn't particularly true – stories of Lothar's wilder days were well-known in Stormwind's society and talked about amongst the few Knights who had survived both the First and Second War. But he wasn't about to say so. He looked at the downtrodden Prince and sighed.
"We are near a place that I think you should see. Come, Prince." He mused, turning his horse about and leaving the dust road. Arthas seemed at a loss by the sudden decision, and loudly asked where they were going.
"You will know soon enough. Come, come, it is barely an hour's ride by these woods." He mused. The prince, grumbling, eventually followed, as Uther had known he would.
The woods were quiet, except for the usual noises of life. Still, the Lightbringer held to his weapon firmly, and Arthas's grip on his ornate sword was nothing short of frantic. Woods were never totally devoid of danger, even ones near the capital city of the world's strongest human realm.
"What do you wish me to see?" Arthas asked with trepidation.
"Patience."
Uther had long been in the parts around the mansion where the Prince had spent many of his summers. He knew these woods, and what lay behind them. In fact, many had worked so that the prince never stumbled upon what he was about to show the youth. The paladin, however, thought that the wide-eyed, future king, saw reality for what it was.
The woods weren't very long, and so the two came upon their destination in due time. When the prince saw the scene, he recoiled slightly.
"L-light! What happened to this place!" He cried. Uther only studied the scene with sad eyes.
"The war happened to this, and it has never departed."
Before them was a scene repeated manifold across the nation and throughout the continent. The green grass and cultivated lands of Lordaeron's breadbasket were rent and torn, and only sparse vegetation had grown back in the intervening years. Charred, rotting remains of powerful weapons and catapults dotted the landscape, the remnants of what had been armours and broken weapons, half-buried in the earth and covered in rust and dust.
"You knew of the glories of the Second War, Prince Arthas, but you saw little of its darkness." The paladin said seriously. "Even when the capital came under direct siege, you were too young, and you were protected from the worst. This, this is the Second War. This is where the Alliance met the Horde and finally pushed it back from Lordaeron."
"Lord Lothar's counterattack?" The prince asked haltingly, looking at the dead, eerie scene before him in a daze.
"Aye, indeed. Lord Lothar, aided by many of the finest generals in the Alliance, managed to rally our forces and met the Horde, which was caught in a severe civil War. The battle here cost highly in blood, and saw many dead before its end. Look, my Prince, look at these mounds."
Arthas looked, and contemplated the two mounds, standing like tiny mountains on each side of the battlefield. "These are?"
"The dead, Prince Arthas. Many lost their lives here, on both sides. We had to bury them in mounds, for there were so many of them. It took us many days and nights of hard labour. I think that no one will inhabit these parts of fair Lordaeron for years, if they ever do."
Arthas gave the paladin an indignant stare, as if he had been slapped. His eyes fairly burned. "You mean you gave those… foul orc, troll and ogre BEASTS the same treatment as you gave Alliance soldiers?" He would have said more, but was silenced by Uther's warning glare.
"Have a care, Lad, with what you speak of." The aging man snapped, his tone reproachful. "We of the Holy Light are not beasts, and we seek to honour the dead. ALL of the dead. In this way, we stand above the savagery of the orcs. War, as you can see, is not as clear-cut as you may think. You have much to learn."
Arthas looked away in frustration, yet his eyes could not escape the remnants of the hate-filled, bitter fighting which had taken place between two titanic armies year ago. Uther looked at the boy gravely.
"And so, I think it is time for you to learn more about the world." At that, the prince looked at him in surprise. "Prepare yourself, Prince. You will aid me on my mission to Dalaran." He cut the boy off before he could speak, leaning forward gravely.
And then, the leader of the Knights of the Silver Hand made a decision which was neither cruel nor merciful for the future leader of the greatest human nation in the world.
"There, I hope, you will se the truth of what this world is, and you will let it make you wiser than you are now." He gave the countryside a last sad look.
"For, Prince Arthas, wisdom may yet stop this tragedy from ravaging our world once more."
Winter 607, Moonbrooke, Azeroth
Moonbrooke, Eira saw at once, had seen better days.
She had once been at Moonbrooke in her youth, before the world had been irrevocably changed by the Horde's arrival. Her memories of the city, however, were made sharper by her husband's recounting her of his own childhood.
Before the war, she knew, Moonbrooke had been the smaller sister to Goldshire in Elwynn. Although it never reached the heights of Sunshire, it was a prosperous city, with well-kept walls, a healthy marketplace, and many houses for the mighty and the meek alike. Sitting against the hills, it was surrounded on most sides by wide fields and pastures.
Her husband, Aerth, had never found the time to visit his old home after he had brought what remained of his parents to be interred in castle's mausoleum; There had been too many things left to be done, and between his role as husband, duke and general, there had been no time.
She was glad of that.
"Hardly the life our people wanted to rebuild, is it?" Lady Katrana said as she glided beside her. Alongside them, soldiers from House Swiftblade kept close, as if the enemy could strike at any moment. In Goldshire, she would have found it excessive. Here, however…
The city had been rebuilt, but nowhere near to its former glory. Everywhere, the buildings seemed to sag, still sporting old wounds or having been patched with shoddy materials. Eira had seen little in the ways of the lively market her husband had often told her of. The place where he'd often helped his mother buy food for dinner was nowhere to be seen, although the spaces still existed.
And the people, they seemed haggard and lifeless to her eyes. It was like the enter area of Westfall was disintegrating before her very eyes, the region seeped of its life. The abandoned farms had been a shock, but to see the former agricultural bastion in such a state was far worse than that.
"Can they truly have done this? Killed the prosperity in the area?" She wondered. The raven-haired noblewoman gave Eira a look.
"Far from improbable, my good Lady Eira. Their thirst for vengeance may have blinded them to what they are doing?"
"We should simply have paid them. I and my husband warned the House of Nobles, warned the King about such a thing!" she growled, indicating the withering city, with its crumbling walls and depressed citizenry. "This…this could have been averted."
"There is little to be done about this, except for moving on, is there?" The powerful Noblewoman mused at that. Eira gave a cool glance, and then looked around. Some gave her looks she didn't quite like, but held back from her guards. Well they should – they were well-paid, and had been personally chosen by Aerth for loyalty and skill.
"This is a dangerous place to spend even one night. If this foolhardy review is to be relatively safe, we need a place of safety." She reasoned.
'A review…' she thought scornfully. 'What am I doing? Certainly, the Brotherhood is causing problems for Stormwind and the House of Nobles, but how can we hope to make this right? We have the wrong bearing, the wrong methods. Even now, we look like high nobles coming to glare down at these poor souls.'
All very logical, all very right. But Eira, of the vanished House Fregar, had always been one to continue a task, even when the odds seemed poor. It had seen her through Sunshire's destruction, through her being Duraz's prisoner, dodging his advance and through the tainted catacombs beneath Lordaeron's capital city.
Good or ill, her will had told her to take on this task. The Light willing, she would find a way to be of use.
Her guards stiffened a moment, and as she looked, she saw the man looking sideways, towards an alley.
"What is it?" she asked softly. "Speak without fear, but swiftly." He bowed slightly, still giving the alley they'd just passed a few glances.
"T'seemed to be someone there, m'lady." He stated respectfully. "It be gone as soon as I looked, Light be m'guide. Someone quick, there, m'lady. Those here eyes're sharp."
She didn't doubt him. A chill ran through her being, and she worked to conceal that fear. This place was desperate, and dangerous. Walking through the streets like this would be imprudent.
"Lady Prestor, a safe place might well be necessary now." She urged. The other lady, who had obviously been listening, nodded grimly.
"I have such a place. Let us go at once." She mused, and led the way, the guards flanking them through the muddy, smelly streets of Moonbrooke.
The place was a small mansion, in relatively good repair compared to the rest of the area. A rather tall wall surrounded it, and two guards in unfamiliar livery opened the gates after a few words from the Prestor matriarch. Eira barely contained a sigh of relief when the gates – rusted but sturdy – closed behind her group. Even the guards relaxed.
"Is Lord Zavier here, guard?" Lady Prestor asked smoothly.
"Yes, Lady Katrana. Our Lord is awaiting you inside the mansion." The guard then bowed and returned to his duties.
"Lord Zavier?" Eira asked. She had never heard of the name. Certainly not a very powerful name in the noble circles. The other lady, however, seemed rather pleased.
"A friend. A lord of the lesser House of Mearine. An excitable fellow, so do not be surprised if he seems… queer." The conversation seemed to be over as far as the other noblewoman was concerned, for she made her way towards the mansion at that instant. Glowering slightly, Eira followed, guards trailing.
The mansion's heavy doors opened, and out came a strange man.
Strange was the only one Eira could think off when she saw him. Dressed in robes of bright purple and green, with slashes of yellow and blue, made his appearance hurtful to the eyes. This was made only worse by the fact that he wore a bright, red scarf around his neck to fight the cold air.
But what she saw the most was the man's face. White as a sheet, so much so that even his eyes seemed to be colourless, it made his appearance both clownish and slightly unnerving. His smile seemed genuine, but his movements, quick and agitated, only served to further alienate the noblewoman from her host.
Strange. It was the right word, she decided.
"Welcome, my ladies, welcome!" He said in a surprisingly pleasant, even melodious, voice. He came to quickly kiss Lady Katrana's hand. "Ah, milady! Seeing you gladdens my heart, and showers me with happiness!"
"Suave as ever, my Lord Zavier. It is good to find you unchanged. But I have one who travels with me who should be welcomed as well." The lady said, and the man clapped his hands and quickly went to see Eira, who fought off an urge to step back.
"My, yes, how rude. Lady Eira Swiftblade, I know of you. Your husband allowed me to reclaim my old home, for which I thank you and your House eternally. I must say, the honour is nearly too much." He excitedly kissed her hand. "But where are my manners in the end! Forgive my impudence. Milady, I am Zavier Mearine, sixth Count of Moonbrooke of my line."
"Yes, so I gathered. I heard of the name Mearine through my Husband before." She said. Her only visit to Moonbrooke had been brief and had been too long ago, yet she did remember Aerth telling her about the ruling family his city had. Whatever the case, this seemed to please her host.
"Oh, the mighty General Aerth Swiftblade has heard of my family! I am honoured indeed. Please, come inside, come inside." He smiled widely. "We will talk more of this inside.
Strangely, for some reason, Eira did not feel very safe from those words.
Winter 607, Violet Citadel, Dalaran
A shield made of pure magical energy blocked the demon's strike, giving Rena Delado time to complete her spell. Brought forth from the ether, tendrils of arcane might grasped at the hulking beast, holding it in place like vines. The creature struggled, its roars deafening the archmagess' ears, yet the spell held it in place.
Rena panted in exhaustion, burning from several wounds which, while serious, were not life threatening. Three of these beings had fallen to her groups's hands, along with a dozen lesser monsters, and the battle was telling on her.
The warmages with Delado were almost drained of strength, when they were standing at all, and as such couldn't help in finishing off the last one. Fortunately, she had the beat exactly where she wanted.
She focused her mind and her remaining energies in creating a small link, feeling out the energies of her opponent and arranging the arcane eddies to force the creature into the beyond. Strings of arcane knowledge, crafted into awkward words and channelled through careful skill, created the invisible vortex. It was a feat that most wouldn't have been able to do in the circumstances, but Delado had never been considered average.
The creatures's power attempted to resist, but Delado ceaselessly continued her litany, forcing herself to forget fatigued and fear, concentrating only upon her enemy. Finally, she felt the other plane take hold of the creature, being drawn to it, and quickly drawing it back with it.
A moment of struggle, a scream of inhuman rage, and then the creature became translucent, and disappeared completely. Its presence gone, the archmagess stopped speaking. She swallowed and fought to keep herself steady, but the drain was too much, she collapsed backward.
Hands took hold of her before she slammed on the floor, and the tired warmages took her to what was perhaps the only chair left nearly whole in the sect's chambers. She nodded her thanks, and took hold of a vial of blue-white liquid. She coughed, working on the cork, as the others engaged in several activities around her.
"How many did we lose here?" She rasped.
"Two, Mistress Rena. Ferad and Kara are dead, and we fear for Ioluk." One of the warmages, a battered man of unknown age, told her. He seemed as spent as she was, although his own wounds seemed light.
Rena gritted her teeth. "That will be the ninth and the tenth deaths since we began this search in this group alone." She pointed out. The man, who had been there since the beginning, nodded. Slowly, the cork was coming off, and she used that distraction to forget the pain.
She looked around in disgust. Even at first glance, she was certain that they'd find nothing worth their time and efforts. Still, that they had lost ten warmages – the elite soldiery of the Violet Citadel – worried her. If these were nothing, how hard would the true cult be? It was a question she regularly lost sleep on.
The cork came off. With a sigh, she drank the fluid it contained in seconds, forcing the concoction down her throat.
As soon as it was inside her, she felt the strange magic – the energies of the Holy Light, some would say – course through her. The pain began to fade, and her strength seemed to return quickly. As she looked, lacerations on her arms, closed, the bones in her right hand righted themselves, and bruises faded. Although it would take several minutes for her health to be fully restored, she could now move with no problem.
She saw as she stood that the warmages had forced the concoction down the terribly wounded man's own throat, for he seemed to sleep normally. Beside him, however, were two shrouded bodies. She shook her head grimly.
She would try to see if priestly magic might bring their souls back long enough for the bodies to be treated, but she held little hope – few priests could bring the dead from the afterlife, and most of those. Lived well away from Dalaran.
"Such a waste." She quickly came to one of the searching warmages. "Anything?"
"No luck." He answered.
"No papers, no clue, nothing?" she said.
"So it seems, Mistress."
She looked about the room in growing anger. It was a deep cellar, below a normal-looking inn. Located just outside the city proper, it had be the center of a powerful cult, a cult of conjurers. She had learned of them by chance, and had decided to strike in case these were related to the ones who had, not so long ago, attacked the center of magical learning with surprising savagery.
There were traces of corruption her to be sure, and the acolytes of the cult had fought like berserkers, yet there was nothing conclusive. At best, this would be put down as another cult working outside the formal laws of the Kirin Tor. An embarrassment, perhaps, but hardly helpful.
Fighting on Dreanor suddenly seemed infinitely more meaningful to her. At least there were tangible results to it!
"Very well." She forced herself to say bitterly. "Have the place noted in the journals. We will report this cult to our authorities once we are certain that we have eliminated it."
"As you wish, Mistress Rena." The warmage said.
'Still,' the archmagess thought as she moved about the room, filled with bodies and the remains of foul demonic beings 'I find it strange that such a small group was so well-prepared to receive our foray. Summoning those three full demons, with the added strength of those weak, impish creatures, must have taken tremendous magical might.'
She recalled her fight with the one who had seemingly led the cult, and found that the man had been no challenge to her power. Strange, given that this was work on a level which even she would have been rather impressed with.
"Mistress!" one of the warmages said. "I may have found something of note on this scroll!" Hearing this, Delado hurried over the charred remnants of the battle-rent room.
The warmage presented her with a half-burned scroll, opened to reveal a letter of some sort. Taking it from the other's hands, she carefully began to read. She frowned, then stared at the letters scrawled on the parchment.
"Now, this is very interesting." She admitted, as a grin spread on her face. The warmages, having by now gathered about her, glanced at each other.
"I cannot decipher it, Mistress." The warmage who had given her the scroll pointed out. "It is neither of the human language, nor the elvish, nor arcane."
"Nor would it help to understand goblin, dwarven or even orcish scripts. This is different indeed." She finished reading. "This, friends, is dragon speak, perhaps the oldest script in existence, older than elven script by thousands of years."
She tapped the parchment. "This is a rare find, one which should go, as foul as it might be, to our arcane loremasters at once. This is part of a ritual to bring demons into our world, using the ancient magical energies of the Aspects themselves, generating even purer magic."
"How can a small cult have hold of such a thing. "A female warmage cried. Delado nodded pensively, her grin not budging.
"How, indeed? Because I think that they had someone who provided them with means. These poor, damned souls here were a very tangible decoy, a doppelganger of sorts."
"How do you know, Mistress?" One warmage asked.
"Let us say that I have a very strong feeling about this." She said, looking at the small drawing of a black crescent over a wave. The sign of Gul'Dan. The sign of the Shadow Council. She gave the assembled warmages a sharp stare.
"Handle this. The Kirin Tor must be made aware of this. At least, we have a link to our hidden enemy." She stated.
And, using the last of her strength, she summon her magic and was gone from the sullied cellar.
Late Winter 607, Auchindoun, Dreanor
The attack came from the west on the first day.
His forces had prepared for the assault, and so when the western force began to move towards them quickly, Kilrogg Deadeye's forces were well prepared.
The human forces made heavy usage of catapults and ballistae. Great ladders attempted to go upward, and archers exchanged volleys over the battered walls. For two hours, the humans continued their offensive, and things quickly moved into a stalemate.
Then, when two had passed, the humans swiftly recovered, regrouped and then moved swiftly to strike upon most battered parts of the eastern walls. Swiftly, the orcs moved to redeploy, but as soon as they'd arrived, the humans had moved away, regrouped, and attacked the southern walls.
And so it went, to the chieftain's disbelief, as the forces kept shifting this way and that, battering the walls and yet not allowing the defenders time to counter their offensive. West came, then east and then south, to be followed by the east, and the west, then the south. Such was the first day of battle. By nightfall, the humans had retired to their camps, and lights could be seen from them.
In the orc camp, hundreds of orcs, angered by the humans' lack of honour in combat, had prepared a sortie. Deadeye learned of it, but nearly four hundred of the hot-blooded orcs had opened the gates and charged, and it took all of his presence to keep the rest of the bloodthirsty warriors from doing the same. There was a ruckus, which ended within an hour. As Deadeye had known, Swiftblade had been ready for a hot-blooded attempt at attacking his camps.
The next day came, and the human forces struck with force around the western walls, then turned to strike at the eastern ones before heading towards the southern walls. It was at that moment, Deadeye knew, that he had made a dire mistake.
Seeing the movement, exactly similar to the one the day before, he had ordered his army to concentrate on the southern walls. As the troops moved, lookouts told him of ballista moving towards the western walls. He then knew that the rules had changed. Hoping to keep them off-balance, Swiftblade had changed the way his army would move. He wondered how they could move so swiftly. Mages? Secret signals? He didn't know, aside from the fact that this army was nimble and effective.
And then, in the agitation of the sudden redeployment, a force of humans came from the east and struck at the barely-defended walls there.
Deadeye could feel the situation escaping him, slipping through his fingers.
It made him more than wrathful.
"Bring our people about! But don't let the western walls undefended!" he called, his voice booming over the din. "Have the ogres throw boulders at them. Keep them back!"
His people moved to their position. He could feel the strain in them. He didn't feel more fear, but rather a rising wrath. Not a good thing, he knew, even though he felt the same way as they did. To leave right now meant that Auchindoun would fall. During the war with the Alliance, such attacks had never worked against the sly Swiftblade, or the cautious Minvare. They had always been prepared.
The troops were moving quickly, but weren't going to their most useful postings. Many gripped weaponry, most were raging at the humans, and were made even angrier by the jeers coming down from the attacking humans. Volleys began to be exchanged again, and screams and shouts erupted from both sides.
"What's happening?" One of the orcs with Deadeye exclaimed angrily. "How are the humans able to move around like this.
"Mages. Making small portals from place to place." Another orc growled. "They did this a lot during the wars in the human world."
Deadeye nodded. He had been thinking the same thing. But human spellcasters were limited in number, and would be tired eventually. If they could hold out just this day, Swiftblade would have to retire and rethink his battleplan. It would allow the Shadowmoon Clan to send in reinforcements.
'Reinforcements?' he thought in angry sarcasm. 'As if my clan isn't nothing but a buffer for that senile shaman?'
"We have to keep them off the walls." He mused, "And find a way to escape this place." He saw them look at him with wide eyes. To the orcish people, fleeing and retreating were absurd ideas. Nobody thought them. Or, more likely, nobody dared to act on such ideas. Even the terrible wars with the humans hadn't shaken this habit out of them.
"Flee? Never!" One orc said. "Do you want us to flee like cowards?"
"I want us to live to fight another day. Auchindoun is failing. Look at our people. Rage fills them! How are they going to fight the humans after today?"
"Our blood makes us stronger than the humans!" one interjected angrily. Deadeye felt his own rage rising. Only decades of experience kept the red haze away.
"Our blood makes us stronger in body, but strength means nothing here! We're acting with too little discipline! Put those males to their proper posts. Reinforce our gates! We can't allow the walls to get…"
He didn't finish his sentence. It would have been superfluous after the next moment.
Part of the southern wall was shaken by a great explosion, and parts of it, already weakened, crumbled. It had been a part of the wall that the human ships had targeted much. He wasn't surprised to see it happening there.
He was shaken off his feet by the blast, but few cries of pain sounded over the cries of panic and anger. 'Why not?' he sneered inwardly, 'I've just a few orcs in the south. Well-played, human.'
"The humans have broken the southern walls! Treachery!" One orc growled. "Warriors, prepare to push them off!"
Deadeye quickly made his way to the top of the shattered wall, even as the men milled about, grasping axes and lances to repel the enemy. He came to the top of the wall, expecting to see the humans converging, with their dwarven attackers and their elf archers raining arrows. He was expecting a powerful strike.
However, what greeted his eyes surprised him greatly.
The humans were regrouping, but not advancing. Instead, their forces were gathered out of range of lance or catapult. Patiently waiting. Gently gazing.
Patently sneering at the gathered orcs, it seemed to the elder orc's eyes.
"Well played, human. You deserve to be called Trickster." He grunted. Swiftblade was acting blatantly, and there was no way out of the trap.
The facts were now simple: his people could either attack, or escape. With the walls broken in, and orcs whose bloodthirst would be high, there was little choice.
The humans would wait until they did. Their mages must be totally drained by now, one could surmise, but the chieftain knew it meant nothing. The massing force was at least three times his own, and they were orderly. One way or another, his people would fall. Except if he did the unthinkable. Except if his people escaped.
"Gather all of the strongest orcs, all of the ogres, to me. Rakor, when I attack, I want you to lead those who remain with you. Take them west, far from the battlefield, to our secret fortresses."
"Chieftain! I can't leave in the middle of-" The young orc began indignantly. But the old orc stopped him at once with a one-eyed glare.
"Enough! We are defeated! We can't hold Auchindoun, but I won't have all of our forces perish here! Now go! As for the rest of us…" he looked over to the waiting human forces, to the wyvern flag waving in the distance, and grinned, his old tusks showing proudly.
"As for the rest of us, we'll thank Swiftblade the Trickster for that highly entertaining little game."
The Ban of Conjuration and Necromancy
The elves had never been inclined to teach more than basic magic to humanity, yet humans developed magic to great levels, eventually discovering the powers to reanimate corpses, as well as a way to bring otherworlders into their home plane. Eventually, incidents became dire enough that the elves acted, petitioning the Kirin Tor to stop some areas of magical research.
After an undead experiment killed nearly a thousand people in the Violet Citadel itself, the human mages acquiesced to the elven demands, and a writ was made in -486. In the Ban of Necrotic Arcane and of Corporeal Transference Arcane, magic received stricter laws, which remained in vigour for nearly eleven centuries.
The Ban, however, was by no means popular in many groups, and to this day, cults abound which delve into the forbidden lore, unwittingly endangering not only themselves, but the very essence of the world.