Chapter Five
A small group of bar patrons opened the door, gave slurred goodbyes back to their friends still enjoying the evening, then tripped out into the still-damp streets of Tyr's Hand. For a brief moment, the open doors let in a few rays of sunshine into the tavern. After the drunken group left, two barmaids rushed to clean their table; unfortunately, the drunkards had left some unpleasant surprises for the ladies to handle. Daellin could hear the barmaids groan before they diligently went to work. All the while, the rushed ladies were taking orders and keeping the rest of the common rabble in check.
"Kudos to your ladies," Daellin remarked as he admired their skills in multitasking.
Ahran nodded and replied, "Aye, I'd be lost without 'em. Truly, the backbone of this place."
The paladin grumbled as his fist clenched, still feeling the agony this city brought all those years ago. "I wish you were there with me. Back in Tyr's, I mean. Just an absolute mess and I was useless as a bag of shit," Daellin muttered. "You always know how to deal with hard shit. Shit." He swung his head back and closed his eyes, feeling the rush of blood and alcohol flush his face.
Ahran shook his head. "You were the man this city needed during that dark hour. Without you things would have been far worse. You know how to take the lead, inspire, and all that jazz." His barmaids were bringing back a steady flow of dirtied mugs from the bar floor to keep his hands busy. He methodically rinsed the mugs into a bucket of water and cleaned them with a well-used rag. While he took care of the mugs, the other bar workers took food plates, some with food scraps clinging to the sides, to the back for the boys and girls the tavern employed for dish cleaning. Still in his work trance, Ahran added, "Without your presence, this city wouldn't be as prosperous as it is today."
Daellin looked down into his empty mug, looking for the words to say. He had been holding on to it for sometime but had yet to call for another round of ale. Perhaps deep down he did not want to bother Ahran with yet another glass to clean. Instead, he swirled the glass around in his hand under the tabletop, out of Ahran's sight. Daellin looked back to his friend and said with a half-smile, "Without your presence, this city would be more dry."
Ahran chuckled as he placed another mug on the drying rack. After dutifully inspecting a questionable viscous fluid in a mug and promptly throwing the whole glass into an unseen trash receptacle, he turned back to Daellin and pointed out, "You'd be dying of thirst! This whole city would be trying to make ale out of the shit water."
Daellin nodded in agreement as he finally mustered the strength to bring his empty mug up to the tabletop and push it aside. When his favorite bartender raised an eyebrow, Daellin motioned with his hand that he had enough for the evening. Instinctually and methodically, Ahran grabbed the mug and went through his cleaning ritual. "Well," Daellin began as he watched Ahran's hands blur in motion, almost captivated in how rhythmic it was, "if Alterac had anything to say about it, then Tyr's would have had bigger issues than ale."
Ahran suddenly stopped his cleaning routine. "Yeah…" he muttered before he continued cleaning the cup. "It's mad how they betrayed us. And for what?! What did they hope to gain? Some dirty greenskin gold?!" Ahran's voice crescendoed to the point of yelling, all the while further straining his grasp on the glass in his large hands.
"The pleasure of sucking on orc toes," Daellin joked, trying to cool down his friend. However, his friend did not laugh at this jest. Luckily, none of the tavern patrons gave the two any mind, instead still caught up in their drunken debauchery or hassling the barmaids. With mug in hand, Ahran leaned in close to his friend to the point where their noses almost touched. Daellin felt the heat resonate from Ahran's agape mouth.
A wave of heat escaped Ahran's lips when he asked, "Why the hell would anyone help those beasts?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that it happened and the Alliance took care of it."
Ahran momentarily looked down at his bar top before adding, "Uther never did tell me the full story about how you were involved in that mess. What went down in this forsaken city those years ago?" Ahran hushidly asked. In addition to the sweltering heat, the distinct scent of alcohol brushed over Daellin's face like an elven artist painting the forests of Quel'Thalas.
With an even lower voice, Daellin sighed, then replied, "Heard it from the grape vine when we arrived at Tyr's. I did my duty by reporting it to my superior officer." Daellin knew that his friend was smart enough to realize the very scant explanation was a brief synopsis of a bigger story, one that may be sensitive to certain ears. However, Ahran was not one for secrets. Thankfully for the two, there were hardly many wandering ears left in the tavern to eavesdrop on their conversation. With the storm finally over, a few more drunkards grew the inspiration to either head back home or continue their carefree adventures elsewhere. Currently, only a few scattered souls remain to either press their luck with a barmaid or in denial that their life must resume once they leave the establishment.
Neither man moved an inch while maintaining direct eye contact. Right as Ahran moved his lips to press his friend further, Daellin asked with a grin "Going in for a kiss?"
"You wish," Ahran snorted as he pulled away quickly and turned his attention to the drying rack. The faintest hue of red blossomed across Ahran's nose bridge as he stacked the dry mugs and cups in the back of his work station. Daellin did his best to not point out his friend's blush. "The whole ordeal was a lifetime ago. In any case, that unpleasant business was taken care of," Daellin said.
"The whole damn war was unpleasant business," Ahran grumbled.
"You can't tell me you had fun staging the counter-attack in Hillsbrad or defending the Capital at Tirisfal?"
Ahran shrugged, "It was kinda fun killing orcs with their tails between their ass cheeks."
"Aye, it was. Chased those tucked ass cheeks all the way down the entire damn continent."
"All the way to Blackrock."
Months following the Tyr's Hand Rebellion…
Daellin heard from his Stormwind comrades in the army that the climate in the far south was more pleasant than anything he could imagine. They would describe the region with hunny words of tranquility and serenity. Instead of cool springs and brisk autumns of Lordaeron, the south was refreshingly temperate year round. However, the region he rode into was not refreshing- no, far from the truth.
Instead, the barren land that the Alliance had chased the fleeing orcish Horde was afire like the wickerman on Hallow's Eve. The denizens of this corner of Azeroth dubbed this area the Burning Steppes, a most apt name. While the land was once verdanant, a cataclysmic event hundreds of years ago scorched the land, rendering it virtually uninhabitable. Lava pooled from the top of the mountains that circled the region like the rim of a cauldron, then flowed down the slopes and into the scars that etched the ground. The air was too heavy for a mortal to survive for an extended period of time comfortably. Furthermore, the very sky was darkened from the soot and smoke that blocked out the sun, creating an eerie sense of eternal night. A perfect home for extra dimensional demons.
But it was not the lava pools or smoke clouds that drew Daellin's attention. Rather, off to the west, a giant mountain pierced the sky like an assassin's blade. It dwarfed the other mountains around it like an elf amongst gnomes, while an active volcano spewed forth molten lava constantly. Even though he should have been focusing on avoiding any lava pits while riding on top of Glory, his eyes lingered on the intimidating spire known as Blackrock Mountain. The catacombs deep inside this mountain, a cavernous system of arteries, served as a fortress for the orcs since their initial invasion of Azeroth. In the paladin's mind, he hoped that it would serve as their tomb.
While Daellin's eyes were glued to the piercing spire, a war horse caught up to his side from behind. Without looking, he assumed it was one of his subordinates under his direct command, asking for orders. However, it turned out to be his mentor, Uther. "Look alive, lad," Uther told his comrade. The younger Silver Hand paladin snapped out of his trance. Much like how Daellin was riding on top of his horse Glory, Uther rode upon his armor plated white horse. Both Uther and his horse's armor glowed gold, in stark contrast to the bleak darkness of the Burning Steppes. Around the two paladins, scores of other Silver Hand knights, adorned in similar mail and plate, charged forward on their trust steads. "If you keep your eyes off the ground anymore, you will take a swim in some lava!"
"Of course, master!" Daellin called back, straining his voice to carry over the sound of groaning earth and bubbling lava. "Sir, do we have an update from the frontline?!"
Before Uther could answer, a loud sound echoed throughout the entire valley. The two paladins turned their attention to the horizon ahead and spotted a few Alliance siege engines launching volleys of boulders and fire towards Blackrock. "Well, there's your update," Uther remarked, "Go with the Light, my friend!" With that, Uther steered his stallion away from Daellin to take the lead of the Silver Hand cavalry.
Of course, Uther. The Light will never fail us. Daellin mustered his strength to not look back at Blackrock and instead at the scores of knights alongside him, in between glances at the ground for any lava pits. He marveled that for the first time in this Light-forsaken war, the entirety of the Silver Hand was in one location. The likes of Saidan Dathrohan and Tirion Fordring, masters of the Light, rode alongside Uther at the front, creating a spearhead of radiant Light. His gaze turned to the left flank and spotted Ahran. Adorned in a similar suit of plate armor on top of his steed, he was leading a small knight squadron. Daellin urged Glory to his left so that he could get closer to Ahran.
"Lord Ahran, Hero of Hillsbrad and Savior of Lordaeron!" Daellin called out to get his friend's attention. "Orders, your glorious highness?!"
Ahran turned his head to the right to see Daellin waving his arm like a lunatic. Ahran lifted his helmet visor, grinned, and called back, "Shine my boots, boy!"
Daellin laughed as he pulled up to Ahren's side, making sure to match the fast pace of the other mounted knights. "Win a few battles and suddenly you think you're high and mighty," Daellin teased.
At this point, the paladins could see more of the Alliance army and the towering siege engines that littered the frontlines emerge on the near horizon. They noticed that the Horde had yet to engage with the Alliance in the open field. Good, I was looking forward to a good fight. Especially after the waning battles in the Lordaeron campaign, it became clear that the Horde was on its last legs and the end of the war was in sight. The Alliance just needed to hammer the last nail in the coffin.
Within the hour, the entire Silver Hand force arrived at the sieglines drawn by the Alliance. Thousands of soldiers, from knights to mages, scurried about. Daellin noticed humans like himself worked alongside the elves of Quel'Thalas, the dwarves of Khaz Modan, and the Gnomes of Gnomeregan. In the rear of the main force, the elvish Farstriders and magi had created ranks to support the siege engines with volleys of arrows and arcane bolts. Within the gigantic Alliance encampment, the legendary blacksmiths of Ironforge tended to their axes and swords while their gnome brethren went about tinkering on their wonderful, albeit confusing, creations. However, none of this inspired Daellin as much as the prevailing human spirit that surrounded the army.
"Make sure he's taken care of," Daellin instructed the squire as he handed over Glory's reins. The paladin noted that the boy, no older than thirteen, wore the colors of Lordaeron with a pendant that showed the distinctive 'L' insignia of their kingdom. The boy bowed deeply then led the warhorse towards the makeshift stables. Daellin watched his trusty mount whinnied at the sight of other horses and picked up speed to get some well deserved rest among his kind. The paladin walked away and found himself in the mass of humanity gathered together in their common goal. Never in his life had he seen so many Alliance members in one place, not even during the Lordaeron campaign. The Andorhalan knight was so moved that he placed one hand on his libram satchel, recounting the various entries he had written during the past year. The memories, both happy and terrible, flooded in his mind.
"Daellin!" Ahran called out as he emerged from a congested crowd, pushing through the dozens of soldiers to get his friend's attention. "Uther and the others are meeting with Alliance high command right now," he told Daellin and beckoned him over before he turned back into the large crowd. Daellin took a few steps forward but stopped in his tracks before fully diving into the crowd. He groaned at the sight of dozens of people of various races standing shoulder to shoulder, moving like tidal waves crashing the beaches of Lordaeron. The paladin did his best to push his way through the chaos, taking advantage of any breathing room he could find in the tight corners. He hoped to run into Ahran but could not find his ally in the madness. Exhausted from the pushing, he stopped for a breather. He realized the constant shoving and pushing had ceased. Everyone's gaze was facing the same direction. Daellin tracked their gaze and saw the source of everyone's attention.
The lion of Stormwind, Anduin Lothar, stood on top of a series of wooden scaffolding. Daellin couldn't help but mentally applaud the structural integrity of the jankity scaffolding, as Lothar was wearing his full combat armor- gold and blue painted steel plate with mail chain. The most striking attribute of his attire were the two giant lion faces protruding from his shoulder pads. Within his grasp was his famed Royal Sword that was as long as its wielder's age. Despite no rays of sunshine above, the blade glowed like the harvest sun. The Stormwind refugee and Supreme Commander of the Alliance raised his hand for silence. The crowd, Daellin included, grew silent in admiration of their bold leader.
"Brothers and sisters, we stand here today on the precipice of history," he called out, his voice carrying throughout the entire valley. While his long, white beard and deeply receded hairline physically showed the lion's age, his booming voice still roared with vitality. "Before you lies the coffin for the hellish monsters that have taken so much from us!" Each line was received by a deafening round of hurrahs from the expansive audience. "Indeed, we all have lost so much in this war, yet we can not back down now! Our finest hour still lies ahead. These trying times will be rewarded when we stand victorious on top of a mountain of greenskin corpses! No other force in the history of Azeroth has done what we have done. From the forests of Quel'Thalas to the mountains of Khaz Modan, from grand Lordaeron to proud Stormwind, we serve as a testament that Azeroth will not fall to demonspawn! For the Alliance!"
The whole of the Alliance army roared and cheered for the Lion's proclamation. The roar was so loud that it seemed that cheers all the way from Lordaeron accompanied them. Daellin joined them with an enthusiastic round of applause alongside the other Silver Hand aspirants beside him. Lothar gracefully walked down the scaffolding, forcing the wooden structure to undergo one final test of structural integrity, and out of Daellin's eyesight into the mass of Alliance that swallowed the lion like a whirlpool.
Without warning, a hand tapped on Daellin's shoulder. He snapped, hand palming the pummel of his sword, to see Uther standing next to him with a few other knights. "While I won't be able to top that but we do have our own meeting," Uther told Daellin.
Daellin relaxed his grip on the sword. "After you, sir," Daellin replied and followed his mentor. It was a challenge wading through the Alliance army. What was most challenging was making sure not to bump into a dwarf or step on a gnome. Despite the difficult travel through the swarm of bodies, the paladins found themselves outside the mass of people and out in a more spacious environment, even if the environment was dreadful and void of life. About a hundred paces away, a modest hill sloped towards the sky. On top of that mound, Daellin spotted a few Knights of the Silver Hand, their armor coated in soot, conversing outside of their tents.
As the knights walked up to the encampment on the hill, Daellin took note of the famed first generation of Silver Hand paladins that were standing around a war table, with the few second generation paladins and aspirants tending to the tents and supplies. Hunched over the war table, moving pieces around like an intense game of chess, was Turalyon. The halls of Lordaeron noted that the venerated disciple of the Holy Light had single handedly inspired the human nations to unite prior to the war. His actions during the war, including his heroics in saving the elven kingdom of Quel'Thalas from the Horde, rewarded him in being Lothar's second in command of the Alliance. Even now, when most of the Alliance were resting with the siege engines carrying the load, he was hard at work strategizing.
To Turelyon's immediate left stood Gavinrad, a gruff knight of Stormwind. His neck would not stop nodding in agreement, even if he had no idea what he was agreeing, to the moves made in the game of war chess. Each movement of his head forced his unkempt black beard to scratch his sternum. If there was a knight that had the most at stake in eradicating the orcs off the face of Azeroth, it was Gavinrad. Much like his fellow countrymen, he lost everything in Stormwind's razing, including his betrothed. The fires that burned down his life pointed him to a new direction; to be reborn in the Light's warmth and ensure that others would not fall the same fate as him Back during his training in Stratholme, Daellin noticed the beast known as the Dire was fierce in combat but was remarkably just as compassionate, a demonstration of how Gavinrad utilized his life's experience as a skilled swordsman and embracing the Light.
Away from the war table, on a rise overlooking the expansive Alliance military, Tirion Fordring looked over the Alliance encampment. Tirion had been knighted at a young age due to his demonstrations of courage and piety seldom found in the human kingdoms, especially so for a young man barely old enough to hold down his liquor. Based on these attributes, Alonsus Faol selected Fordring to be trained as a paladin based on glowing recommendations throughout Lordaeron. While many Silver Hand aspirants fell in combat training to his piercing green eyes that sent daggers like his combat maneuvers, the proud knight would lift the defeated up and join them in prayer.
Lastly, standing besides Fordring, Saidan Dathrohan was discussing something of a military nature with his close friend. The warrior from Lordaeron was a giant winter beast of a man, standing nearly six and a half feet tall with powder white hair that stretched down to his waist. Daellin had fought alongside Saidan back in Lordaeron against the Horde and admired his combat acuity. However, it was his faith that was world renowned. His devotion to the Holy Light was rewarded with the libram of holiness bestowed upon him by Faol. Early on in his quest to become a Silver Hand knight, Daellin noted that the sparring duels between Tirion and Saidan were some of the most ferocious encounters he had ever seen. Their fighting spirit was just as big, if not more so, than their physical stature. Many walls were dented and cobbled roads shattered in their duels. Regardless of the outcome of the duel, the two would laugh and joke with one another. At times it reminded him of his friendship with Ahran.
"Gentlemen," Uther announced to the others as he approached the war table, "file in."
Tirion must have said something in jest to Saidan, as when the two walked over as he tried to hide a mischievous smile while Saidan's eyes rolled so far back into his skull that the whites of his eyes were exposed. Amongst the growing crowd of paladins, Daellin noticed that Ahran arrived with a crowd of aspirants, no doubt giving words of wisdom and encouragement during this lull in combat. The two Andorhalan men exchanged knowing winks as the crowd ceased all conversations out of respect.
Uther cleared his throat before continuing, "Keep sharp, lads, I won't repeat myself. Lothar has ordered the Silver Hand to conduct an operation on the outskirts of Blackrock while they continue the siege. The scouts reported of an altar that the beasts use for nefarious purposes; principle of these purposes is the rapid creation of ogre magi. If we do not destroy this asset, then we run the risk of being outflanked by these hellish creatures."
Heads, armored or not, nodded in understanding. Daellin, glancing over the new recruits, could tell those that were itching for a battle and those that were painfully anxious. The first two paladin generations were well acquainted to combat, while many of these knight aspirants had yet to see bloodshed. Many of the youngbloods without their helms showed the whole world the white in their face.
Following Uther's announcement, Turalyon added, "Brothers and sisters, it has been a trying time for us all. Through it all, the Holy Light has blessed and guided us, even if the odds were stacked against us. Trust your fellow man and the Light and we shall come out this war victorious!"
A round of hurrahs bellowed from the knights as they scattered from the war table and back to their tents. The esteemed leaders of the order went back to strategizing- to Tirion's chagrin and Saidans's glee. As for those breaking for their tents, while the thought of a brief respite before battle was a decent pulling factor, the strong aroma of meat lingered out of the tent flaps was what lured them the most. Daellin, too, followed the smell and ran into Ahran doing the same.
"Care for a home cooked meal before our hour of triumph?" Ahran asked with a little spice of sarcasm sprinkled on as he directed Daellin to his tent. Without saying a word, Daellin agreed to the proposition with a grin. Before them, a pillar of smoke bellowed out of the entry flap of the humble abode. While it was not as small as what the new recruits and squires had to sleep in, it certainly would be cramped for the two.
"You call this home?" Daellin asked in jest as the two bent down and walked into Ahran's tent. Considering the cramped conditions in the tent, it did not help that the two were still wearing their full plate armor, only worsening the space situation. In the middle of the tent, a simple campfire flickered with a spit over it. The source of the pleasant smell that pulled Daellin to his friend's tent was a few appetizing slabs of pork hung over the flame. Ahran tore off a slab and tossed it to Daellin while grabbing one for himself as well. They simultaneously ate their first bites together; a wave of euphoria flushed over their faces as warmth entered their body. It was not the warmth that burned their skin due to the Burning Steppes' climate conditions but rather the warmth one feels with good company.
"By the Light," Daellin moaned in between bites, "this is good. Have you thought about cooking instead of orc slaying as a profession?"
"Only if I get to enjoy what I make," Ahran replied, already done with his meal, as he went to a small chest in the corner of the tent. He pulled out a simple capped mug and, with a beaming smile across his face, asked, "Wanna swig?"
Daellin's eyes were just as loud as his exclamation, "Do I?!" He nearly jumped into the campfire as he lunged at his friend to grab the offered mug. The smell from the contents of the mug overpowered the pork as if they were knees deep in an Ironforge alehouse. Daellin took a modest gulp of the beverage, moaned in pleasure, and whipped his face. Even though the drink was as warm as the lava that poured out of Blackrock, the spice and tang of the drink was enough for the paladin. Still savoring the flavor on the roof of his mouth, he asked, "Double Loch Ale?"
"Aye," Ahran answered before taking a gulp himself. "Don't tell the others. I have just the one. Plus, I think Turalyon would have a cow."
"If only you had an entire brewery with you. That would definitely raise everyone's spirits."
"What I would do with an entire brewery…"
The two shared another sip of the beer and once again experienced sweet bliss. Growing up in Andorhal, the grainery capital of the kingdom, gave the two many opportunities to taste the various brews that flowed through the city just like how Lake Darrowmere flows throughout the kingdom. Since joining the Silver Hand, however, they seldom had the opportunity to have a cider or ale; not because of any strict rules within the order but simply from a lack of time due to study, sparring matches, or community service. Then, of course, there was a war to fight. The two savored this moment with gleeful smiles on their faces.
A series of loud explosions interrupted the ale tasting. At first, confusion drew over their faces. Another round of explosions changed the look of confusion to concern. Just then, Saidan ran into the tent and yelled, "Orcs!" before running out in a flash. The two stood for a moment, stunned from the loud series of explosions that had rocked the tent and Saidan's exclamation that was even louder. After a moment, Ahran frantically tossed the capped mug back into his chest while Daellin grabbed their swords. He tossed Ahran's blade as the two left the tent to a scene of sheer chaos.
Both paladins' gaze fell upon the large slope that led from Blackrock to the Alliance's position. An unfathomable amount of orcs, ogres, and trolls charged down the slope, chanting and yelling in alien tongues. Knights and soldiers alike barely had time to reach for their weapon, if they did at all, before one of the beasts was upon them. The blood curdled war cries of the Horde were met by agonized screams of slain men. The orcs wore little to no armor, wearing only fur lined boots, shoulder pads, and, occasionally, loincloths. Many charged in naked, their green skin heavily tattooed in demonic symbols or patterns that faintly glowed. From their raised position on the nearby rise, the knights could see Lothar alongside Uther and Turalyon, who must have returned to the main Alliance army earlier, rallying the army as best as they could. However, the Silver Hand was completely cut off from the main force, as a colossal column of Horde separated them and the rest of the Alliance.
"We need to reach Uther!" Gavinrad cried out to the assembled Silver Hand as he put on his horned helmet and unsheathed his massive sword. The knights responded in affirming hurrahs as they frantically made sure their armor was fully equipped and weapons at the ready. Gavinrad was latching one of his gauntlets tight when a green blur jumped behind him. The knight turned to see an orc's axe on a downward arc aimed directly for his head. Before he could react, a skinny rapier pierced through the abdomen of the orc, sending it sprawly to the ground, dead. Gavinrad looked over to see Saidan, several yards away, nonchalantly reaching for another sword from one of his squires.
"You owe me a sword," Saidan called out. There was no time for accusations of debts as the entirety of the Silver Hand rushed down the hill towards the spontaneous battle. As they ran down, a volley of purple arcane bolts rained down from the mountain range, damaging and destroying many of the siege engines that held the front of the Alliance line. Even more shadow bolts snipped random knights and soldiers as they tried their best to reestablish order and their positioning. Even the fantastical flying contraptions that the gnomes designed and built were being destroyed before they could take flight. It was clear that the Horde had the upper hand due to this cunning surprise assault.
Without their mounts, the knights had to fight at equal footing with the orcs. However, the blood crazed monsters from another world dwarfed the humans in stature and in muscle mass. What the knights lacked in sheer muscle volume, they made up with tactical mastery and a clear mind. Despite the stacked odds, Daellin and his fellow knights cut through the orcs to reach their paladin comrades. Daellin searched for his mentor within the flurry of bodies, man and orc alike. It took several moments for him to locate Uther, who was rushing ahead into the thick of battle. Much like many times before, his hammer swung from one orc skull to another, creating a barbaric symphony of rattled bone. In the darkness of the setting sun, soot, and slaughter, the mentor to so many glowed like a beacon in the night.
"To Uther!" Daellin called out to his fellow paladins right before he had to dodge a wild swing from an orcish axe. Using his momentum, he slashed the orc with the edge of his sword, sending the greenskin to the ground in a pool of its dark blood. Simultaneously, Ahran impaled the belly of another orc that had attempted to bash his head in. Light, please grant me your strength, Daellin prayed as he gripped his sword tighter. Warmth flowed through his veins as he stabbed the thigh of an orc that was about to kill a Silver Hand aspirant. The orc fell to its knees, howling out in its tongue, before Daellin beheaded the beast in a single slash.
In the midst of the chaos, Daellin noticed that the other paladins glowed in a golden aura similar to Uther while they slayed their foes. What struck him the most was how they all had righteous fury permeating from their visages. Perhaps he, too, looked the same. His appearance was not his concern at the moment; he had to reach his mentor, Uther, and help lead the counterattack. The paladins pressed on, determined to reach their holy mentor. The large man was within their reach, just had to push through another row of orcs…
Before the paladins reached Uther's position, a volley of shadow bolts crashed upon his position, kicking up a cloud of smoke and debris the size of a house where the lord-paladin was standing. The Silver Hand, Daellin included, cried out for their master but did not hear a response. All the while, orcs were advancing on their position, their barbaric tongue snuffing out the human calls. Daellin yelled out in anger as he slashed another orc down as he tried to reach the cloud of smoke. Still more orcs came. With each body that fell to Daellin's sword, more sickly dark red blood stained the blade. Even more blood caked on his armor.
As Daellin pushed through the green bodies, he finally entered the cloud of smoke and soot. He repeatedly called out to Uther, reaching out for the venerated paladin. The smoke from the blast caused his lungs to burn and cough violently. His vision was blurred to the point where shapes were only vague outlines. Suddenly, a response in the form of the dust cloud suddenly evaporating into nothingness. In its place, a large bubble of gold energy resonated, blinding the orcs around it, with Uther kneeling inside. The burning sensation in Daellin's body ceased and was replaced with a comforting presence.
The leading paladin of the Alliance rose from his knees and raised his warhammer to the sky. "Paladins!" Uther called out while maintaining eye contact with the incoming orcs, but turning his warhammer to the mountain range west of Blackrock, "We need to take out their altar!"
"We are at your side, Uther!" Daellin called back. The rest of the Silver Hand finally arrived from their engagement with the orcs and turned their attention to the mountain range Uther was pointing at. Squinting, Daellin noticed a path from the bottom of the slope where the orcs ran down that trailed up to the mountain range. On this outcropping, the Silver Hand could spot the fiendish orc warlocks and ogre magi casting the volleys of spells that were ripping the Alliance apart. That must have been the altar they were alerted to. The only thing between them and the altar was hundreds of orcs, trolls, and ogres. Nevertheless, the paladins knew what they had to do.
The two forces charged at one another with ferocity. Daellin's first opponent in this onslaught was a towering orc, garbed only in a loincloth, two axes, and red runes that marked all over its body. Daellin parried the two-axe blow before countering with a quick jab through the abdomen with the business end of his sword. The orc flailed one of its axes at the knight one last time, falling well short, before its life left its eyes. Daellin pulled his sword out of his slain foe and noticed Ahran doing the same by his side. Up ahead, Uther was smiting a group of trolls with Holy fire to match his fiery passion. All that remained was ash.
"C'mon! We can't let the old man have all the fun!" Ahran exclaimed before continuing to charge forward. His charge outpaced the rest of the Silver Hand and he found himself alone in a sea of orcs. However, this did not change the outcome of battle as more orcs fell to his blade in swift fashion. His blade danced in blood like cannibal at a festival. However, he stopped his parade when his next adversary approached.
"Puny human!" a towering ogre, the size of several men stacked from head to toe, growled as it swung its oversized club at the knight. Ahran lept backwards to avoid the blow, but the head of the club still glanced off his plated thigh. He grimaced, although glad it was a glancing blow instead of a direct hit. The paladin stumbled as he tried to establish his stance before the ogre could attack again. The ogre, yellow-skinned with glowing runic tattoos, lumbered forwards for another attack. Ahran knew if a full blow landed, he would be a dead man.
The ogre lunged its tremendous weight forward with another swing of his club. This time, Ahran was prepared. He rolled under the swing of the club and found himself at the ogre's blind side. The knight stabbed his sword into the ogre's exposed side, making it cry out in agony. The giant staggered a few yards as it tried to regain its footing, the sword still plunged in its side. Ahran confidently muttered, "The bigger they are…" before running towards his sword, still impaled in the ogre's side. The ogre was too disorientated from pain to engage with the paladin before he grasped his sword and ushered the Light through his muscles. With the Holy Light, he had the strength to push his sword further into the ogre's body, then pull down through its insides. After freeing his sword, gore and guts exploded out of the ogre's body with great force as the beast fell to the ground, motionless.
"The harder they fall."
Ahran smirked as he flicked the blood off his sword. It dawned on him that he was still alone, so he turned to find his fellow paladins. Daellin, leading his own squadron of knights, had joined up with Saidan and Tirion in dispatching a group of orc warriors. The horde were fighting with a level of bloodlust that none of them had seen but this acted as a double-edged sword. While the orcs' already impressive strength was amplified in their craze, their sense of strategy was visibly lacking. Despite being outnumbered, the human knights could defeat these orcs as long as they worked in tandem to perfection. This created a ballet of sword and body with the musical accompaniment of blood curdling cries.
"Incoming!" Gavinrad called out as he raised his shield. The rest of the knights followed Gavrinrad's warning and saw a volley of purple bolts moments away from descending on their position. Those with shields mimicked Gavinrad, while others crouched down besides their shielded allies. Without hesitation, Daellin called upon the Light to create a golden screen over the Silver Hand. The shadow bolts crashed into the Light shield, straining Daellin as he tried to maintain it. Thankfully, Daellin stood strong just long enough to block all of the shadowbolts. The orcs around the protective orb were not as lucky.
Uther placed his hand on Daellin's shoulder, nodded, and continued to press forward. Behind them, the battle continued to wage between the Alliance and Horde, with many on both sides falling. The black earth below the mortals was now eternally stained red. Despite their tremendous losses during their attack, the fiendish orcs had split the Alliance forces in two. While level headed men and women were able to hold their own, many more panicked with each volley of shadow energy launched from the mountain ridge. The situation was turning dire.
The Silver Hand, determined to execute their objective, marched uphill on the unsteady and rocky path up the mountain range. The heat seared their skins and their very bones ached as they frantically pressed on. To Daellin, it was eerily reminiscent of physical conditioning when he was a student in Stratholme scaling the side of Lordaeron's mountains as Uther laughed from the top of a ridge. Granted, this time it was not Uther laughing at the top but rather murderous orcs slaying his fellow soldiers with their unholy magic. Even still, more orcs were on top of the altar summoning enslaved demons or altering ogres into the two-headed ogre magi that had caused the Alliance much trouble. The chaos of this battle did not stop the production of hellish monsters as the Horde continued its assembly line of unspeakable acts.
The altar itself was a raised stone platform with three towering statues of hooded orcs facing inwards. Dark unholy magic, alien to Azeroth as far as Daellin knew, snapped and cracked all around the platform, creating a lightning storm of fel energy. "Daellin, Ahran! Take the ridge! We will destroy the altar!" Uther ordered as he led the charge alongside Saidan, Tirion, and Gavinrad. Ahran and the young aspirants grouped up with Daellin as they turned their attention to the ridge.
Dozens of orcs and ogres met their gaze with a barrage of magical bolts. Daellin and Ahran reacted quickly by dodging the dark spells and readying their swords. Not all of the aspirants were as quick but those that remained standing followed their superiors' lead. The two leading paladins met the first orc within reach simultaneously, with their swords both piercing the warlock's chest. Without dwelling on the gorey act, Ahran continued to push forward to his next opponent while Daellin turned back to see the aspirants that were hit by the dark spells. With determination growing in his heart, the paladin took a few steps, raised both his hands above his head, and channeled the Light to the fallen. An aura of gold wrapped around the injured and uninjured alike, rejuvenating the attack force.
"Daellin! Need a little help here!"
Daellin snapped back to see Ahran dancing around both swords and spells like a maniac. Much like how he ushered the Light to his allies, Daellin raised his trembling hands and casted an arch of blinding light at the orcs. Several of the beasts were instantly singed with the Holy Light, causing them to fall to their knees and roar in agony. Ahran took the opening and made quick work of them with his sword. However, one last warlock shot a shadow bolt at the paladin moments before Ahran gashed through the orc's neck. The bolt sent the paladin down to one knee, grimacing from the dark energies that seared his existence. Daellin ran over to help his friend up and quickly heal any wounds he had from his flurry.
As the two paladins stood shoulder to shoulder over the bodies of their defeated enemies, the rest of their soldiers ran past to engage the warlocks further down the ridge. This renewed attack forced the orcs to diverge their attention from bombarding the Alliance army to defending themselves from the knights. Ahran and Daellin took the moment to assess the situation, noting that they would soon take the ridge.
"Hopefully the others will destroy the damned altar soon enough," Ahran said.
"Aye," Daellin replied. "You can trust those guys getting the job done." With the altar out of sight, Daellin turned his attention to the wide barren valley below to see how the Alliance were handling the onslaught. It was not looking good. The fighting had reached a fever pitch in intensity, with several bands of the monstrosities making deep cuts into the Alliance's position. The orcs had pushed their wedge that cut the Alliance army even deeper, almost to the point where entire regiments were completely isolated and surrounded. "They need our help." h
"I think the two of us can handle this ridge from here. Shall we send our men down to help?" Ahran asked.
Daellin nodded before jogging towards their squadron of knights, still engaged with the warlocks, and ordered, "Men! We will take it from here! Get down there and help our boys!" After slaying the orcs they were dealing with, the aspirants hurrahed in agreement, and retreated back. This left Ahran and Daellin with only a handful of enemy spellcasters left on the ridge. Unfortunately for the paladins, their numbers included two ogres already sending hellfire their way. The two leapt away from one another to avoid the blast. Where they were a moment ago, only scorched earth remained.
Without audibly devising a plan, the two paladins charged forward with their gleaming swords. The two singled out which ogre they would engage by sending out holy shocks to the large beasts. Daellin took advantage of the stunned ogre by sliding underneath his legs and slashing its ankles. The warlock doubled over in agony, giving Daellin the opportunity to turn around and heave his sword into the exposed ogre's back. A plum of blood splattered out the entry wound that accompanied a pathetic groan of pain, like a boar that had been hit by a hunter's arrow. The ogre collapsed over, dead. Daellin turned his attention to see Ahran pulling his sword out of the neck of his opponent.
The two knights readied themselves for another encounter but found none. The remaining orc warlocks on this ridge had disappeared entirely without a trace. "What the hell? Where did they go? We are better than this!" Daellin asked as he frantically looked up and down the ridge.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Ahran replied after quickly giving up the search. It dawned on the two that the chaotic sounds of battle in the valley below were no more. Confused, the two dashed to the edge of the ledge and saw their fellow Silver Hand knights that were sent to the altar down in the valley. However, the paladins were not entering a scene of chaos and war. Rather, the echoes of steel clashing and men dying, once extremely prominent, ceased. Every individual, be it Alliance or Horde, had their attention turned to the intimidating entrance of Blackrock Spire. Ahrand and Daellin followed their trance to the gradual slope that led into the mountain's mouth and saw two individuals engaged in single combat. Even from the distance, it was evident one was human and the other orc. The large golden pauldrons and grand sword that glistened from miles away made it clear who the human was- the Lion himself, Anduin Lothar.
Daellin and Ahran were silent as they watched the supreme commander of the Alliance exchange blows in the duel. With each crashing blow from the Lion's sword, his orcish opponent responded with a blow from his large warhammer. Each lightning blow that landed sent thunder throughout the valley. Even from afar, Daellin could tell that the two dueling foes were tired from a long engagement as each blow got slower and sloppier. Nevertheless, he knew that his commander would not falter now. He did not abandon his people following their defeat at Stormwind, he would not abandon this fight.
Lothar went to parry another blow from the orc's hammer, like he had done countless times during this engagement. The Lion braced for the impact as the orcish hammer crashed down on the famed sword of Stormwind. A sharp ping resonated throughout the entire quiet valley. Everybody witnessed the Lion's blade shatter into two jagged pieces, sending the human commander sprawling to the ground from the impact.
Daellin and Ahran gasped and felt the same shock that thousands of the Alliance experienced. Before anyone could react from the sword shattering, the orc brought his hammer in a downward arch, striking the crown of Lothar's helm. Like the shattered sword earlier, the sickening crunch of the helmet filled the void of silence. The Lion flattened out on the burnt ground. Lothar's body twitched for a few moments before ceasing any movement, save for blood pooling around his head.
The victorious orc took an unsteady step, one hand pressed against a gaping wound across his torso. Ghastly dark blood leaked out around his fingers, falling to the ground and mixing with Lothar's own blood. Despite clearly being exhausted and wounded, the orc still stood straight and raised his hammer high above his head.
The orc proclaimed something to the heavens in his tongue to end the silence while swaying side to side and spitting blood haphazardly in every direction. The orc even had the audacity to place one foot on the Lion of Azeroth's corpse to demonstrate his intimidating power over humanity to the applause of his fellow green beasts.
"NO!"