Chapter One: Meetings and decisions


Early Spring 588, Castle Whitefort, Lordaeron

Ever since its creation centuries ago, the city of Whitefort had always been an architectural and cultural jewel, only later outclassed only by the City of Stormwind in Azeroth. Nestled between two sets of hills at the northern tip of the gigantic body of water that came to be called the Azure Sea, it was the pride of the Lordaeril people, and not without cause.

Stout towers guarded from the hills, dismissing the need for a wall in all but the northern, land-bound end. The coast was all built up with great docks and fisheries and shipyards, some mercantile and some military, docks which were alive day and night, bringing in shipments from Gilneas, Dalaran, Kultiras, and sometimes some merchants from distant Stromgarde or Azeroth. Above this hub of activity, around the many small parks and groves dotting the great capital, stood the tall, white-walled and grey tiled houses of those who lived there, as well as barracks for the garrison and shops and posts and shrines. Grander and grander the houses grew, from the common folk to the small merchants, then the wealthy merchants, followed by the great mansions and cathedrals of the nobility and clergy, and finally, Castle Whitefort, home of the Ruling Terenas Family.

Known as the most beautiful human castle in the world, surpassing even the magnificent Stormwind Keep, it rose out of the city like a tale of ancient times, tall alabaster parapets and ornate battlements, green inner courts and a great central body. On top of each tower and on many flagpoles proudly in the breeze floated the golden L pierced by three daggers on a white background, the banner of the Kingdom of Lordaeron.

And it was within these ancient, proud walls, in the luxurious throne room where many decisions had been made and promises given for many generations of men, that the present King, Seramus Terenas the Second, was facing dark clouds, and waging a war that had nothing to do with swords.

"Your Majesty!" cried a lord "I must tell you that many here do not agree with your decision to greet this Lord Lothar here in Whitefort!"

"Not only is the court dismayed by this decision," stated another more softly. "But it is also disagreed by many that you should summon the Kings of the other countries on such short notice and so...unceremoniously. King Trollbane and King Greymane are not known to take such things lightly, and we need no ill between our great Nation and theirs, especially Stromgarde."

King Terenas held back his irritation. He heard the voice of pride there, and the anger he felt was that of people who sniveled as soon as something wasn't exactly to their liking. Too many nobles like that existed these days, greedy and soft-spoken, slippery as snakes. He knew those of honest stock applauded him, however they did not say it in as many words, and that, to him, was more than enough.

"To do this, after deliberately giving these wretches lands which rightly belongs to our realm..." started another.

At this Terenas lost patience, lifting his hand angrily and commandingly, immediately shushing the fellow. His eyes widened as he bristled noticeably, and many a noble squirmed beneath his aged but unwavering gaze.

"I have heard enough!" he called in a strong, sharp voice. "The refugees were entrusted to me by King Llane, a man for whom all - including me - have had the deepest trust and respect. Many were the times when Azeroth came to us in times of need. If to repay it, I must give shelter to these people and help them survive, so be it! Does anyone challenge this right that I have to give the lands of Lordaeron to whom I please?!?" and his eyes glared at that.

Not a soul stirred. None dared to. Rarely did this benevolent king work himself up to anger, but when arisen, it was much safer to be silent. Satisfied - and a little disappointed - that no one had taken the challenge - the king continued.

"Lord Lothar is renowned throughout the lands as a great man and a great knight. If King Llane gave him the Regency, then he will be met with all the trappings and ceremony of a proper ruler. And as for the Kingdoms, already I've received word that Kings Trollbane, Proudmoore and Perenolde are on their way to Whitefort as we speak. If they are discontent, I shall deal with that when it comes. But they will be received with full honors, understood?"

A chorus of reluctant assents was heard around the room, and many noble and high-blooded faces looked displeased or cross. But Terenas knew they were a minority, and that they weren't foolish enough - or at least he hoped so - as to try to make trouble with the powerful personages who would soon be visitting the Capital.

After dismissing the irritating Lords and Nobles - who would certainly be back to trouble him sooner than he'd want to, King Terenas settled for a while in troubled thoughts.

The last message he had received from King Llane, only six months ago, had been a hard blow to him. It was still determined, but also had a resigned undertone. The armies were breaking up, the Horde was advancing in terrifying numbers. He was telling Terenas that Lord Lothar would be now the Regent-Lord of Azeroth as he could not bring himself to leave his country, and would have the same power Llane had over the people of Azeroth. It also thanked him for his kindness and friendship in these dark times.

But mostly, it told him to prepare. Prepare for the Horde.

And that, more than anything else, troubled him. For Azeroth had been the mightiest of all nations militarily, and yet had been crushed. What could Lordaeron do against such an enemy?

"What?" he whispered to himself, knowing he had no answer.

Not yet.

* * *

Sirris Fort, Kul Tiras

Its boring here, decided Gerrik Farag, why are we being stationed here again?

Although it might have appeared quite impolite to anyone else who heard it, it was a very good question according to the young footman's views of things. Only two years into his service, and he'd found himself into the smallest of a string of little forts located on the southern tip of Emerald Island, far from Havenport and the main civilized centers of the sea-crossing nation he had chosen to serve. He and about fifty other footmen and archers made up the defense of the barracks, stable, well surrounded by a wooden palisade which gave itself the title of 'Fort Sirris.' as if the place had anything to do with the great stone fortresses which held the same title in the north.

He knew he was taking it worse than most of the others. The others didn't seem to mind the quiet at all, and often teased him about he wanting an attack to happen. Well, perhaps he did, perhaps he wanted something to happen. He hadn't chosen to serve in the Kul Tiras Infantry just to laze around. He was young yet, he needed something to sink his teeth into.

"Still brooding, aren't you my lad." a voice stated tiredly

Gerrick turned at the familiar sound, to face Urass Hotwood, prankster of the Fort, wearing his armor and uniform a little haphazardly. No neatness in the man, not one bit. And he always found a way to irritate those who took their duties even a little more seriously than he did. To people like Gerrick, he was more annoying that a stinging wasp.

"What if I am, Urass?" he snapped a bit too quickly, turning back to stare at the blue vastness of the Great Sea. "Its not like there's anything better to do here!"

"Aw, come on, lad! We got to get to have some good time, or else you'll end up stiffer than a Knight of Azeroth! Lighten up for a minute and feel the sunshine!"

Gerrick only grunted in disgust. Darn the man, anyway? Why was he always in his way?!? He tried to ignore the jabbering teases of his unwanted companion, when he noticed a black spot interrupting the blue oneness of the Sea and Sky. Had it been night, he never would have noticed it. But on a bright day such as this one was, it did not escape his notice.

At first he thought it was fishing boat. After all, there were a few fishing communities around the forts, although they were very minor ones. But as he looked harder he found that it was much too big and strange-shaped to be a fishing ship. Ignoring Urass - who was still jabbering - he went to one of the standing Eyescope and peered into it, finally seeing the craft for what it was.

It was made of wood with a roof of sorts made of clay tiles, reddish in color. It was full of sharp edges and the way it was built reminded one more of the empty carcass of an Ancient Turtle than of a boat. At the stern on a flagpole there floated a banner, what appeared to be a black mountain on a blood red background. He knew it didn't belong to any of the Human militaries, and didn't have the kind of manic style favored by the Trolls and certainly not the sleek magnificence of Elves. Which to him meant only one thing.

Pirates. But what kind had ships like this?

He didn't waste time, as the transport approached the shores, running to the warning bell at the top of the the wooden battlements overlooking the small gates, ignoring the confused shouts of his companion and the befuddled, somewhat sleepy looks others gave him. He ran to it, and taking the cord in his hand, he rang it, again and again, sharply awakening the ever-drowsy outpost.

"Alert! Pirates! To arms, to arms!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

It had the desired effect, although there was much confusion. Woodcarvings, cards and polish were all left as the other soldiers heard, him, some awakening from a nap. Swords were being fumbled with, and quivers of arrows taken. Armor rattled and men swore, feet running to the stairs and ladders leading to the battlements. Gerrick stopped ringing the bell and looked out towards the shore, where the vessel was already in shallow waters. It stopped.

And out of the strange ship jumped and ran nightmarish things.

Green-skinned, like Trolls they were, but much taller and more muscular. Some carried huge axes while others carried spears. They did not seem to have much armor on them, only a strange, frightening mismatch of metal and leather. Their faces were bestial and ugly, and great big yellow fangs jutted from their lower jaws as they uttered a terrifying warcry and charged the open gates, only half a measure upward from them. For a moment, Gerrick stood numb with fear, unmoving.

"Come on, you blokes!" shouted an angry voice, piercing the haze "Close the damn gates before we're done for!"

He turned to see Lieutenant Krentaz only ten paces from him to his left, shouting curses at footmen who were grabbing the wooden gates and closing them slowly. He did seem put out, but not as scared. After all, the salt and pepper bearded, scarred man had been in a Kul Tiras contingent which had fought besides the Army of Stromgarde at the closure of the Sixth Troll war over twenty years ago. The appearance of these beasts mustn't have the effect it normally would on him.

"By God, what are those things?!?" shouted a panicked footman, looking down.

"No time to worry about that!" Krentaz shouted back "Archers, set your arrows!"

The fort had fifteen archers, and all were looking towards the mass of green - seventy at least - running towards the nearly closed gates. Some wore looks of disgust, others of determination, all underlined by fear. But they all reverted to the safety of their training when the lieutenant gave the command, nocking arrows and taking aim. The fort commander raised his arm and looked at the advancing mass. They were merely forty feet from the gates now.

"Loose!" he said, flinging his arm down.

Fifteen arrows shot out. Each hit a mark, six fatally. The greenskins' advance halted for barely a moment. But it was enough. With a last heave, the gates were shut, and men were hurrying putting the bars.

It didn't deter the beasts. Some of them clutched their spears and, under the orders of a taller-than- average one, shot upward towards the fort. Because they had the high ground, many spear were stopped by the battlements, but at least five went over the wall, and knocked out three men, two of them archers. As the mass came on with renewed brutality and fervor, the archers shot again, at the spearmen this time, and another half dozen fell dead, with some others wounded. The axement, however, had reached the walls. Which was only tall as two of these beasts. They started pulling themselves up towards the defenders.

One came up before Gerrick fully realized what was happening, and took a swipe at him. He hadn't much balance, however, so the blow that may well have been mortal whizzed past him, bare centimeters from his face. He screamed, bringing his sword as hard as he could into the creature's neck. Such was the strength his fear gave him that he cut neatly through, and the head popped out in a liquid flash of dark-red blood. The body was still there, axe in hand, jerking, and he kicked it off, making another greenskin tumble down.

He saw that the wall was being assailed everywhere now, with the archers shooting the spearmen and the footmen fighting the axemen as hard as they could. Three had actually made it to the battlement, one near Urass, who didn't have time to scream before he was felled into silence by the greenish, snarling giant.

Still the battle wasn't going that badly, and Gerrick saw lieutenant Krentaz locked in combat with one of the monsters, and seemingly winning. Many died as they tried to climb the wall - already at least two dozen were at the bottom, wounded or dead. The archers - eight of them by now, finished the last two spearmen, and started to fire into the thick of things. Still about thirty beasts were still alive, but now they had lost any element of surprise they had.

The tallest of the beast said something Gerrick couldn't make out, and the greenskins retreated - reluctantly, it seemed. Off the wall they went, a few falling to the archers, joining their leader, leaving the wounded behind. A scream rang out as Krentaz ran his opponent through, coming out with a blade slick with blood. The other two were engaged by three footmen each, and one died when an archer planted an arrow in his neck. The other fell soonafter, but not before taking another man along for the ride.

The beasts were now aboard their ship, rowing away, slowly, and about the fort there was a sigh of relief breathed. Gerrick quickly counted. Twenty-three footmen and seven archers were left, a few wounded among them. Krentaz looked out at the fleeing ship in anger, then ordered half a dozen men out, to finish off those wounded. He did not have to wait long. The gates were flung open, and not six but ten men were out, swords flashing, killing the few wounded amongst the enemy.

Krentaz looked at him. "Good job with the warning Gerrick, without it, their little test might have been successful."

The young soldier blinked at his superior. "A test, sir?"

"Definitely, lad. This was just a small essay, a light tap for fun. Not their real strength, form what I know of tactics." he sighed. "What by the Light is happening?"

Gerrick wondered that too. And he didn't like what came to his mind.

What were those green killers? What did they want?

And to both questions, he dreaded to know the answer.

* * *

Castle Whitefort, Lordaeron

Thoras Trollbane, eight King of Stromgarde, wasn't feeling well. Not that he was sickened or anything of the sort, but he was annoyed and very impatient. Here he was, stuck in a large war room with leaders and important people of five of the human kingdoms. And it seemed they were wasting their time in needless politeness.

There was Terenas of Lordaeron at the head of the table, resplendent and calm, his aged face smiling slightly and giving mounds of polite greetings to his peers. On one side of him stood a man dressed well, broad and strong despite his age, eyes like pieces of steel showing an unbreakable will and an aura of command Thoras almost envied. He wore the royal colors of Azeroth, but no crown, thus this was a...regent?!? Were the rumors true? Was King Llane truly dead?

On the other side stood a man clothed in the white of the Clerics of Northshire - the holiest order in all the human lands. He was older than even aging Terenas and the Regent of Azeroth, but exuded an air of confidence and holiness which pierced him.

And then there were the other leaders. Daelin Proudmoore of Kul Tiras, the circlet of gold the only indication of of his position as king of the Nation of Islands. He seemed to be impatient also of the whole proceedings, but also gave looks to the Regent which seemed inquisitive and friendly. As for Perenolde of Alterac...

Well, the scrawny fellow seemed to swell under the praise which Terenas had given him by coming to this table of discussion. As if Alterac meant anything, with barely any militia to speak of and the least trade balance in the whole known world. Trollbane had had to travel with the fawning toad and vowed he would cut off one of his hands before travelling with such an hollow person ever again.

This inner irritation added to his impatience, and he banged his fist against the polished, carved duskwood, immediately cutting off all discussions and centering the attention on himself. That was his way. Terenas praised, Proudmoore jested and Perenolde fawned. Trollbane's way was bluntness. He heaved his enormous, muscular frame clothed in red and dark brown with a deep purple cloak clasped by a golden pin shaped like an upraised fist - the banner of his kingdom.

"Now, far be it from me to want to cut this short." he said gruffly "But I'd like us all to get to the heart of the matter now and have done. I've lots of duties left unattended in my own lands and I'd like to get back to it." He sat back down heavily.

Proudmoore nodded. "I have to agree. I have some pressing business with my trading merchants and would like to see it settled soon. However, I have a very personal confidence that you aren't wasting our time, Regent-Lord Lothar.

This put off Trollbane and Perenolde quite a bit. The sovereign of Alterac looked aghast for a moment, then coughed a little nervously.

"My apologies, but are you telling us that you are Anduin Lothar, the Knight-General of Azeroth?" he said curiously but evenly. Very politically correct, Perenolde always was. He had no spine, but he had style.

The balding, well-built man nodded grimly. "I am Anduin Lothar, servant of King Llane of Azeroth and keeper of his people by his name and order."

That had an effect on the assembly. Anduin Lothar was known as the greatest Knight of Azeroth, an example of honor and strength, his deeds and heroism many and known throughout the kingdoms. To have a near-legend near oneself was slightly humbling to say the least, and Trolbane decided to curb his impatience slightly with the man. But only slightly. He did, after all, have his pride.

"Very well, I am honored to meet you then, Lord Lothar." he said more gently, but just as firmly. "However, it does not change the fact that we'd need to know why we are gathered here today." Proudmoore and Perenolde nodded assent.

Lothar and Terenas exchanged a long look, and then the old knight stood up tall, coughing slightly to clear his voice. All leaders looked at him expectantly as he composed himself. The first sentence he uttered, however, fairly rocked them backwards.

"First, exalted lords, let me tell you that Azeroth has fallen, its lands taken and its King - my liege - is dead." he said grimly, with a certain effort. Beside the king of Lordaeron, the white-haired cleric bowed his head in what could only be a silent prayer, the grief evident upon his lined face.

Trollbane simply could not fully grasp it. All of his life, the Kingdom of Azeroth had been known as the fabled realm, far to the south beyond the dwarven lands of Ironforge. It was acknowledged to be by far the strongest and most advanced of all human nations, its Knights legendary in their prowess and its Clerics awe-inspiring in their faith, with an order of Conjurers rivaling the Kirin Tor of magocratic Dalaran. To think that such greatness was now lost seemed...well..it was unimaginable. Perenolde and Proudmoore's expressions, he saw, reflected much of what he thought. There was a moment of silence.

Then pandemonium broke out.

"How can this be?!?" squeaked Perenolde.

"Was it a plague? A scourge of some kind?!?" The King of Kul Tiras asked worriedly.

"Your army's size was nearly twice Lordaron's at peacetime!!" Trollbane roared. "What could beat you? An army of bandits?!?"

"We need answers and we need them now!"

"Damn you, answer us, Lothar!"

"SILENCE, MY LORDS!!"

The aged voice of Alonsus Faol cracked like a whip, carrying the strength of pure Faith and determination. To have the most powerful, wisest Cleric in all of the Known World shout was enough to quell the rising voices of three rulers. The white-haired, white-robed man fixed a calm but firm gaze upon them, and even Trollbane, who had faced down the fiercest of Trolls and stood unmoving under the ageless glares of some Elven warriors, fell into a meek silence. Seeing that order had been restored, the Archbishop turned to King Terenas.

"Forgive my rudeness, Highness, but I feel that I must speak now." he said, his voice now firm but soft and wise.

The king nodded with a respectful smile. "No need for forgiveness, Your Eminence. I would have said the same mere moments later. Speak freely and tell them what you have told me, so that they may understand."

The old man nodded, and rose to his feet, facing three expectant highborns. "Highnesses, hear me and believe me as you would believe the Light." he started softly. "Azeroth, my beloved homeland, was broken and destroyed by no plague as you might think. But a scourge could be the truth, for so they came on us: like a scourge."

"Whom?" asked Trollbane despite himself.

"The Orcish Horde is what they call themselves, and what we will forever call them." was the answer. "They came out of the Black Morass, the empty marshes east of our realm, following the call of...of one whose evil escaped our notice." His traits turned pained for a moment, then resumed their saddened serenity.

"We fought them, the Knights of the Horse, the Clerics of the Order of Northshire and the Conjurers of Karal, along with the greatest army any single human realm had ever mustered. Fought long and hard, and stemmed them for a long time. But in the end, it wasn't enough, and the bestial orcs overtook us, and killed two third of our populace, the rest escaping only through one king's insight and another's kindness." he fell silent, looking at them all for a moment, then sat down again. Distraught silence reigned for a few moments as minds tried to reconcile what they had heard with their knowledge of reality.

At length Proudmoore rose, his expression greatly troubled. "What you say...it seems...surreal." he stated awkwardly. "But if the Archbishop of Northshire Abbey says that it is so...then, it must be."

"What is the extent of this...Horde's...army strength?" Trollbane asked more practically, leveling a look at Lothar. The Regent looked old for a moment, and that made the ruler of Stromgarde feel what he almost never had in his life: terror.

"The total extent? Our best minds say that their army could be over one million." the great knight stated tiredly.

That shook the room. Perenolde blanched and shook, Proudmoore sat back down heavily, and Trollbane gaped, all overwhelmed by the figure. One MILLION. Trollbane's dear kingdom had this number of registered citizens, and besides Lordaeron and Azeroth, it was the most populous. To think of such a vast army was mind-numbing.

"By the Guardians," Perenolde stuttered "What hope do we have against such a massive outpour?"

Lothar banged his fist on the table. "There is hope!" he said confidently, his eyes suddenly alive. All except Terenas and the Archbishop looked at him in disbelief.

"Hope? Where do you see hope?" Proudmoore asked hesitantly.

"By the fact that the Horde, although it was a coherent entity during our war against them, is no longer like this. We learned during the war that two things held it together. The Shadow Council, formed from the best of their breed of dark mages, and the Warchief Blackhand. Now, just before the last ships of the Exodus left, I learned Blackhand had been betrayed and killed, and that a civil war was on inside the Horde. Moreover, it appeared the Shadow Council had been largely destroyed by the one who usurped Blackhand's place."

"Without these two elements, the Horde will be separated into clans which may not - and if they do, only loosely - work together. Thus, in the place of one immense army, we might face four or five big ones. These, we could take out one by one. However, there is only one viable way for us to do so."

Trollbane looked at Lothar, then at the quiet Terenas. "Seramus, what does this mean?"

The King of Lordaeron rose besides Lothar, his bearing regal and determined, his expression set.

"Simply that in order to win this war, we will have to work together. Absolutely, completely. One force, unified. One army, one fleet." he said gravely.

"What are you saying?" Perenolde asked.

Lothar looked at them all. "I propose that the Nations of Azeroth, Lordaeron, Stromgarde, Kul Tiras, Alterac and - if hope is not cheated and if a miracle happens - Dalaran and even Gilneas unite all of their fleets, militia, regular forces, mages and resources in one great Alliance under one - and ONLY one - High Command. By uniting, we have a chance to live and defeat the Horde."

And at that, pandemonium started again in the War Room of Castle Whitefort.

* * *

Late Spring 588, Near the village of Nelladas, Quel'Thalas

All was quiet in the Quellaras, the High Forest in the Tongue of Men, save for the rustling of new leaves, the chirp of birds and the skittering of small animals. Towering oaks, maples and pine trees adorned this part of the forest, reaching high into the heavens, awe-inspiring in their age and natural beauty. And yet, for all the quiet splendor and calm of this part of the ancient elven Realm of Quel'Thalas, war was afoot. A very stealthy war, but a war nonetheless.

More silent that squirrels, green-garbed people in supple leather armor, quiver and bow slung on back and short blade at the side jumped from tree to tree, unseen by the denizens of the woods, as was their wish. No man could ever have hoped for such stealth, but these were not men, but Elves - Sun Elves, denizens of the realm, and part of the Armies of the Silvermoon Council. They were on a mission of extreme importance. And none knew this more than the one leading them.

Tall and strong as far as elven standards were concerned, this man wore a cloak which concealed him completely if he so wished, and possessed a dexterity and stealth even the elven warriors found impressive. Not only this but few matched his skill with the bow. But then again, he was Illadan, a Ranger, the Elite of all the warriors of the realm, and high even amongst these. Fifteen Ranger Initiates followed him, along with eleven of the Elmeraldis Maigicalios, the Mages of the Order of Emeralds. And behind trailed two hundred soldiers of the Regular Army.

A very powerful force indeed. But then again, they were about to face a powerful, dangerous foe.

Quiet amongst the birds and animals. Immediately Illadan stopped, raising his hand. The silent column, he felt, stopped in an instant, and stood unmoving and unseen amongst the branches of the trees. He listened for a moment, using senses honed beyond mortal imagination, and easily picked up noises. Oh, subtle ones, that might have escaped most, but not he. Steps. Stealthy, but heavy ones.

Trolls. Five of them.

He turned into the wood, towards the well-hidden Rangers that even he could barely detect, silently pointing downward, then quickly to five of them, and then sharply raising his hand. Then he waited.

It wasn't long before five, limb and huge trolls came around, peering here and there warily, looking for threats, but missing the hidden elves completely. They passed below them. And Illadan slashed his hand downward. Instantly five bolts burst through the foliage almost in the same instant, each one imbedding itself in the skull of one before they could react. They didn't even have the chance to cry out before they dropped almost as one, twitching, dead. He waited a moment, then resumed gliding from tree to tree.

'Seems like we are arriving, eh?' came a female voice in his mind, a voice he recognized as Sillis, the highest-level mage in the group. They were travelling in complete silence, but it didn't stop a strong magess like she was.

'Yes, Sillis. We are close to Nelladas. Or at least what remains of it.' he thought back.

'What should we expect?' she asked, although the tone of her mind-voice suggested she had a very clear idea of that.

'Trolls and dead villagers.' he said bluntly. And the conversation stopped at that.

They soon reached the village, and for a moment stared in horror. Nelladas had been a village of over a thousand souls, its people very hermit-like and tending to their gardens and houses and not caring about anything outside the smooth stone walls that guarded it. Now this very wall was empty or broken, and the sole gate that allowed entrance lay shattered, its pieces strewn about the field. Wisps of smoke still fluttered from the burned carcasses of houses, and immolated or simply slain bodies of elves - men, women, children - lay on the streets. At the gate, about twenty trolls stood guard, others certainly occupied in looting.

Cold anger took hold of Illadan, and he positioned his archers and rangers throughout the trees for maximum efficiency with silent gestures, then gestured to where Sillis and the other mages were and pointed to the Trolls sharply.

'Very well. I will bring an ally to us.' she said Soft words were uttered, and the leader of the strike force feared they might be over heard. But the trolls just looked around and spoke in their guttural tongue, unheeding.

But they did as the earth rumbled in front of them, and the soil quickly took a humanoid shape which towered over even the tallest of them. The elemental, nudged mentally by Sillis, focused its anger at being ripped from its home dimension upon the twenty trolls and attacked savagely, killing two before the rest could even react.

As the commotion rose at the gate and troll voices were heard from within the walls, Illadan quickly, with gestures and whispered words, prepared his forces. Leaving a hundred archers up in the trees, he arrayed the rest behind him, a column ten people large and ten people deep, with the ten lesser mages on either side, just behind. Bringing the front were he, the other Rangers, and Sillis. They were soon ready and advanced quickly.

The trolls had just finished the elemental with their axes - not an easy task, and seven others had fallen to its blows before they had killed it. The group of twenty trolls had become one of nearly seventy by now, with some showing the side fangs which was the tell-tale clue that they were the regenerating, stronger trolls called the Berserker for their savagery. One of them, wearing a longer mane of stringy hair, shouted when he saw the advancing column, but before he could say any thing half of the troll forces - including all except three of the berserker, were coming at them, howling for their blood.

Illadan raised his now-drawn sword and the army spread out, militaristic, forming a crescent, arrows nocked a moment later. Axes flew at them, and a few elves fell, but he did not budge, until they were thirty paces from them. Then he flung his arm down. Arrows shot from above and below, two hundred shafts which tore into the troll ranks, stopping the charge cold. At least twenty fell from it, but by then the other half, almost all of them wounded, were barely fifteen paces from the rangers, who drew their slim long swords and, with a cry, followed Illadan into the slaughter.

The wounded trolls had no chance. They tried to put up a fight, but the rangers were masters of dexterity, and dispatched them quickly, the leader of the elves dispatching three himself. Then something whizzed a hair's breath from him. An axe. Then another. And another. The remaining trolls were bunched together and, under the command of their own leader, were launching projectiles. The rangers backpedaled quickly, avoiding the worse, but four still were wounded.

"Sillis, its up to you!" Illadan shouted.

Immediately globes of fire burst towards the trolls, hitting them, setting three on fire. The mages had launched their assaults. Taking advantage of the confusion, Illadan ordered all of the elves to draw their short blades and attack. ninety immediately converged on the thirty trolls with yell and elven oaths. Axes took eight of them, including one of Illadan's ranger, but still they came within range, and bloody melee combat ensued. The trolls had the strength and stamina, but the elves had dexterity, speed, and numbers. And out of the forest soon came all of the remaining soldiers, and within moments, the trolls broke, the dozen remaining survivors trying to flee. five were shot dead before they could, and Illadan sent thirty fresh soldiers and four of the rangers against them. They would not escape.

He then looked out fully at the devastation wrought. A thousand villagers dead, along with nearly twenty elves of the strike force. Their bodies lay twisted on the soil, next to troll bodies. Heaving a sigh, he ordered the healing potions distributed and the wounded taken care of, then entered to inspect the village, followed by Sillis and three of his rangers.

The village was really smashed up, and the fact that there were no more than a few troll lying about showed that the attack which had destroyed the village had been quick, fierce, and cunning.

"I don't understand." stated one of the rangers, a young, rough fellow named Lorin. "Trolls have never showed this kind of focus and ability before."

Illadan nodded wearily. "I would normally agree, but these days...these days the trolls have become imbued with tactics, and have won more victories against us and both the human realms of Stromgarde and Alterac." he paused "But this...this has never happened to this extent before. What kind of demon was leading them."

"This one my friend." called Sillis grimly, rising from where she'd been inspecting a troll corpse. "Come and look at the thing's forearm and it'll be clear to see."

He came over and looked at the great, green forearm, and then stepped back, his eyes narrowing. On it was a mark, seared there by hot iron. It was the elven rune representing the letter 'Z'. Using runes was something no troll leader dared to do, for doing so always incurred the wrath of the elven people. Yet there was one who was fearless enough, and perhaps powerful enough, to laugh at Quel'Thalas...

Of course. How blind he had been. The explanation was self evident. The strength and cunning...only one Troll had ever managed such intricate raids.

"Zuljin." he spat.

Things were suddenly starting to look very grim for his beloved homeland.

* * *

Cross Island, Dalaran

Nine hundred years past, the first human mages of the world, having learned their arts initially from the Ancient Elves which remained still, split into two factions of separate ambitions. One group decided to go to the north to found a small realm ruled by their order, and prefered illusion and transmutation arts, while the other went south and, instead of ruling, remained largely secretive but loyal to the then-young Nation of Azeroth. These prefferred conjuration and divination magics. In time they became great schools, the most powerful in the Human World. The Mages of Dalaran ruled by the Kirin Tor from the Violet Citadel, and the Conjurers of Karal, ruled by the Karal Tor from the Eleraz Towers. The two were never enemies but always rivals as their spheres of influence grew. So it had been for centuries.

So it must stop if any of the Orders, from the powerful Kirins and Karals to the small Grey Wands of Gilneas, would survive.

But few knew better how hard it would be to make old wizards listen, especially those who controlled an entire nation and had great magics at their disposal, then Gerath Daretyl, Archmage of the Order and Head of the Karal Tor. After all, when the Horde first came, he'd been very haughty himself. Fortunately it had been Nielas Arran, their greatest mage and the unfortunate father of Medhiv Arran, who had been head of the council then. Now the sorely-needed archmages was dead, killed and killing his own son with the other Azerothians who had broken into the twisted sorceror's tower.

So it was up to him and two who had always pushed for fighting the Horde.

Both were impressive, as they were barely in their early forties, and yet were both archwizards in their own right. One, the most eloquent and outspoken of the two, sporting a small, greying beard and sharp dark eyes, was Khadgar Cuarras, an extremely learned mage who had been Nielas's most proficient pupil. The determined man had often spoken with Nielas about the supposed Portal which Medhiv had created, and had spent all of his scarce leisure time reading on the magics of dimensions and transportation, and had read and reread Medhiv's spellbooks. Gerath was glad to have him along.

The other wasn't outspoken, almost shy in fact, and didn't have Khadgar's impressive bearing. Slight of frame, with black hair increasingly mingled with grey strands, Rena Delado seemed like a petite, uncertain mage of average skill. This was only an impression, however, quickly dispelled by those who'd seen her in action. Although truly shy in interpersonal relations, she was incredibly skilled, and her ability of spellcraft nothing short of astounding. Although superficially opposites, she and Khadgar had a long friendship and made an incredible team. She too, would be welcome.

God, anyone would be welcome as company when meeting the Kirin Tor.

They were being led through the paneled, magically-lighted passages of the great, castle-like Violet Citadel, and looked upon with wary respect by the mages and soldiers who saw them pass. He cared little for that, cared little for the rivalries and suspicions, as long as the Magocracy of Dalaran entered Lothar's Alliance.

Finally they came through a door and looked out a great hall filled with bookshelves, with the purple banner of Dalaran here and there. A round table was set in the middle, with six ornate chairs, of which three were occupied by men cloaked in the deep purple and copper red of the Order of Kirin. The three men seemed older even than he, and had cold looks which didn't bear well for the approaching dicussion.

They rose slowly, not impolitely and not respectfully, neutral in their bearing. "Welcome, brethren." said the one in the middle softly and evenly. "The Kirin Tor welcomes the Karal Tor after all these centuries of separation. I dare hope your journey was pleasant?"

"Very much so." Gerath answered "Dalaran is a beautiful land and very pleasing to the eye."

A slight smile. "We like to think so. But we are being poor hosts. Sit, by all means, and let us talk. Would you like a drink? Quel'Thalan Wine or Highmoon Liquor?"

The old mage shook his head politely. "No, thank you kindly. Refreshments must wait until this is spoken out."

They all sat, and immediately one of two other mages spoke out. "We have been scrying from afar, Lord Gerath, and we can guess much of what you wish to speak of. It is about these orcs and the frantic discussions going on heatedly in Whitefort, is it not."

The archmage nodded after a moment of silence. "Indeed. I will not hide that we are on a mission for Lord Lothar. We'd wish this nation to join the Alliance which will soon be born, along with the five others already discussing in Lordaeron."

This statement was met with an heavy silence, and tension one could cut with a knife. This wasn't good. They looked unsurprised but uncomfortable for all their coldness, hiding their mixed feelings well, but not well enough for he, nor for Khadgar and Rena, who stiffened slightly.

At length the head of the Kirin Tor spoke, his tone only slightly hesitant. "We are not certain we will join your Alliance."

"What?" said Khadgar a little hotly. "The Alliance might be - no IS - our only hope against the Horde! Surely the Kirin Tor recognize it!"

The outburst had no apparent effect on the trio, who still looked serene and decided. However, the tension increased a bit.

"We do not doubt the value of the Alliance, but there are two reasons for which we might not join it just yet." said the one who had never spoken yet. "But there are two reasons for us to consider the matter further."

"And what would these reasons be?" asked Rena softly.

The head of the Kirin Tor looked grave. "First and foremost, there is the matter of Gilneas. We know that King Greymane refused to participate in the parley between the Nations. We have to secure ourselves against them."

Gerath sighed softly, not really surprised. Gilneas wasn't the strongest of all the nations but its strength was still sizable, and its territories and Dalaran were just next to each other. With no fixed boundaries between the two, the past three centuries had been of continuous skirmishes and four full wars. It was unsurprising Dalaran would wish to stay alert, and the old mage's heart sank a little.

"And the second reason?" he asked.

The head mage frowned. "We wish to await the report of the small group we have sent to study the orcs in Azeroth."

"You did what?!?" Khadgar gaped, unable to contain himself. "Are you people INSANE?!? You have killed these men if the orcs found them. This was sheer stupidity! I-"

"Khadgar! Silence!" Gerath bellowed. The younger mage seemed inclined to say more, but at a calming gesture from Rena and a glare from the old conjurer, he shut his mouth in a thin line and simply glared at the Kirin Tor members. The head of Karal Tor turned to them, his eyes spears.

"Forgive the outburst and the tone, but what my colleague said here every magi who has met the orcs would repeat. The power of our schools were ever equal. How can a few survive?" he said gravely.

This seemed to penetrate the mages ever so slightly, and for a moment they hesitated. However, pride took hold of them, as it would certainly have the conjurers had the situation been reversed, and they resumed an air of confidence, almost smug in its cold intensity.

"Perhaps, but still, we will await for news before we decide what to do about you...Horde." said the oldest mage, crossing his scrawny fingers in front of him.

Khadgar leaned forward, and there might have been another angry outburst, hadn't the doors to the great study not opened up to reveal two young mages holding an older one. They seemed terrified and not for no reason. The man was covered with wounds, part of his face burned away by fire or magic, slashes apparent on his charred tunic. The six at the table rose, and Khadgar and Rena went to help the gravely-wounded man, the magess already uncorking an healing potion she kept in a pouch.

"M...my lords...I...m-m-must report..." the man swayed, almost fell, but the two men held him tighter and steadied him. The three older mage and Gerath went to him.

"Ferassius! What happened?!? You weren't supposed to come back from Azeroth for a week yet. What happened!" said one commandingly. Gerath glared at him.

"Come now, this man needs an healer and rest, not questions!"

Before an argument could arise anew, the wounded man spoke again, his tone feverish, panicked. "All dead, the others...got hold of teleportation scrolls...green-skinned mages, did experiment, one killed lord Tebrin, and gave a mockery of life into...it was...they're beasts...hahahaha....beasts, monsters..."

Khadgar muttered a few words and touched the man's forehead, and the wounded man fell into a whimpering sleep. The two young mages laid him down, one going to fetch an healer while Rena and the other did what they could to help the man.

As for Gerath, he stared at the atrociously wounded and burned man - not a novelty for he - and turned a grim stare at the evidently shaken Kirin Tor members.

"Now do you see the danger? Now do you see the need to unite, lest we all become like this poor fellow? Do you not see that we stand at the brink, and that only the Alliance may pull us from it?" he asked.

And for the first time since the discussion began, the three old, cold mages really started to listen.

* * *

Summer 588, near the Ironforge Forteress-City, Ironforge

"Make way! Make way! I have an urgent message for General Flamehammer! Make way!"

When he heard that sentence, Hergal Flamehammer, old warrior of three and a quarter centuries of winters and General of the Third Ironforge Southern Army, actually shivered slightly. He knew what the message would be. He knew now that the danger was near and that they may not all make it inside the Fortress-City after all.

All around him trudged the remnants of the proud Unified Southern Army. Proud no longer, for today had been shameful, no, disastrous.

It had all come the days they had heard Dun Karbal, one of the only four cities remaining outside the Iron Peaks, was under attack by an unknown force from the south. That had raised some eyebrows, of course. Who else but the Kingdom of Azeroth had the strength to stage such a siege? But it was confirmed the invaders weren't humans, and in fact reminded the messengers of muscular and especially brutal goblins. The Stone Lord of Ironforge had immediately summoned his lords and generals, and decreed that a muster of twenty thousand dwarves - the four armies of the south - would be merged under the command of the most capable and respected of their generals, Hergal Flamehammer.

It was a proud moment when they marched out of the great South Gate towards Dun Karbal, thousands upon thousands of dwarves arrayed in mail, axes and shields of a quality and make far beyond human and even elven capabilities, with the grey and gold banners of Ironforge fluttering in the wind, the great Unified Southern Army cheered by thousands of men and women and children from every clan of the immense mountainous city. They had all - including Hergal himself - been confident that their army could withstand whatever foe came against them. After all, they had stood their ground against Azeroth itself once, no?

What utter fools they had been.

Dun Karbal had been razed two whole days before the army set out, and the few survivors - barely five hundred, out of thirty thousands! - had fled to Dun Barath, barely twenty miles south of Ironforge itself. Flamehammer had hurried the pace, and so they had arrived just as the city was being overwhelmed. The sight which had greeted them had been horrifying to say the least.

The city of Dun Barath had been surrounded by a sea of green-skinned monsters, swarming all around, with deadly - if laughably crude - catapults having worn holes into the walls. Ladders were up everywhere, and although the defenders were still holding the line, it was only a matter of hours before they would have been overrrun. Although the army was over four times the Unified Southern Army, the dwarves charged in without a second thought, still confident in their abilities.

It had been a massacre. Although these green-skinned monsters neither had the level of training or the great weapons of the dwarves, they more then made up for it in ferocity and hot-blooded determination. Times and times again the dwarves repelled attacks, losing one of their men to three of them, but weakening more and more. Behind them, as the day wore on, the city fell, and when nightfall came Dun Barath had been a burning pyre, and the agonized screams of the dying echoed back to the shattered remnants of the army. Cut by half, the Southern Army had lost all hope. It was time to retreat, no matter how much everyone wished to fight to the last. Hergal would hear none of it, but instead sent messengers to Ironforge...to prepare the Great Gates.

And it had been a complicated retreat, with the greenskin army overtaking them several times. Finally, after loosing three more thousand men, Hergal Flamehammer, who had fought the Azeroth-Ironforge War as a child and had distinguished himself in the drawn-out Fifteenth Goblin War, asked for a thousand volunteers to stall the enemy. Everyone volunteered, and he had to roughly choose, finally selecting one thousand...to die, to save the larger part. Such were the costs of war, as rotten as rotted wood.

And now, barely a half a mile from the gaping hole which was the Great South Gate - already half close from what he could see, the enemy was starting to over take them again. He waited for the puffing messenger - a young dwarf, probably not even a century old - who gave the dwarven salute hurriedly and spoke quickly and hurriedly.

"General, sir, the defensive lines have been crushed by the enemy." he said, panting slightly.

Flame hammer nodded, inwardly sighing sadly. So it was time to hurry. He looked out at what remained of his army - four thousand dwarves maybe, with many wounded, returning in defeat. Not that he thought they could have done anything against something as massive and brutal as it had been - the only ones who had ever given dwarves this good fight were the humans of Azeroth, but they at least left the civilian population alone, they didn't butcher them. Still, it was a defeat, and the Dwarves of Ironforge never took to defeat very well.

He looked behind him and saw, on the horizon, perhaps three miles away, outlines of a vast army coming up the hills. No time to wait anymore. He immediately ordered a double-quick, and his army made haste the few hundred meters which remained. And as they entered the Great South Gate was lowering very slowly.

The Four Gates were works of art, inserted into a rock which was unbreakable by any save by the best dwarven stoneminers, they each were an ornate, enormous piece of metal thirty feet wide, forty feet high and nearly nine feet thick, raised or lowered through the use of an intricate set of chains and pulleys and still needing the traction of fifty strong dwarves. The opening was ten feet up now, and there were still about two hundred dwarves outside. The general looked back.

The monster's army was now coming up fast, not even two miles from them. He urged the men on, and they filed in as fast as they could. Soon the gate stopped at six feet, and still there were nearly a hundred dwarves outside. Still no one panicked, the pride of those called the Dwaves of Khaz Modan being in full swing. The army was coming up fast behind them, but no one dared whimper, and Hergal would be damned if he'd show any weakness, especially now.

Finally the last group went in as the monsters were coming in shrieking and howling, waving their huge axes and their spears. As soon as the general was within, the gate started its ominous rumble and closed down.

The enemy was seven hundred meters from them. The gate at five feet and closing slowly. They could see the bestial faces now, desperate to reach them, desperate to kill. What fearsome creatures these monsters were.

They could hear them coming even through the rumble now, but by then the space remaining was less than three feet, and they were still at least four hundred meters from the Gate. After a while, it reached floor level and passed into the floor, going ten feet deep. As soon as it did, Helgar breathed a sight of relief. The door was of the purest metal the dwarves could make and set into unbreakable rocks. In Ironforge, this dangerous mass couldn't reach them. They were safe.

Prisoners in their own realm, but at least safe.

"Flamehammer, what in the name of all the First Clan is happening here?!?" came an angry, confused voice. He recognized it. Regarth Blueshield, the High General of the Ironforge Army. He turned to the white-bearded, enervated old dwarf calmly.

"What is happening is that we failed, lord." he said truthfully. "We were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of our enemies and by their savagery."

"What? You had the best equipment and the best arms against these beasts, and you now are telling me that it wasn't worth anything?!?" the older dwarf seemed very indignant about it. Although very old himself, the general of the defeated army lost patience at this point.

"That's unfortunately exactly right, Regarth!" he growled. "Perhaps, with our WHOLE army, we could have beaten back these. But that would have achieved nothing, for I doubt this is all the soldiers they had. In fact, I think that it is a tithe of their forces."

"How do you know this?"

"Just a feeling. But if you would take my advice, you would close East and West Gates, then keep vigilant watch over the North gate, until I have spoken with the Stone Lord and the Clan Elders."

The older general peered at him warily. "I know that tone, Hergal. What plan are you hatching?" he asked

"The only one I may. I have seen the vast numbers of these armies, seen their ferocity, and know of only one race who matched them in numbers and doggedness. I believe that if we use their numbers and tactics, while supplying them help and more advanced armors and weapons. Its just a wild plan, but the only one which seems right somehow."

The other dwarf looked out from bushy white eyebrows, aghast. "General, do you realize what you just said?"

Helgar Flamehammer nodded. "Yes, General. I do." he said gravely "To survive, I fear that our only choice is to unite with humanity and fight them as one group."

What he kept silent, however, were his doubts that even this possibility might not be enough to save his people.

* * *

Late Autumn 588, Castle Whitefort, Lordaeron

The main reception hall of Castle white fort was filled up with people, from the sides of the room where there were ranks upon ranks of Knights and military dignitaries to the balconies filled with silk-gowned and finery-clothed highbloods of Lordaeron and a few others from the other four countries who had joined together there for this historic moment, the day five out of the seven human Nations of the Known World united their forces to fight a common enemy, a feat outpaced only by the War of Darkness thousands of years ago, when all the human tribes without exception had thrown their lot with the Ancient Elves and narrowly succeeded in repelling the supernatural forces known as the Burning Legion.

Elation was running high amongst the nobility, but there were more then a few knights and soldiers - almost all from Azeroth - who were grim about it all. They weren't sure if even the Alliance, as it was, would be enough to hold out against the Horde.

Aerth Swiftblade was one of these warriors sharing these doubts. As he stared at the Archbishop Alonsus Faol, flanked by the ecclesiastic leader of Lordaeron and Whitefort, secretly preferring being back at Taren Mill helping his wife overlook the finishing touches of their newly-built mansion there instead of standing at rigid attention in full battle armor, he doubted. He'd heard some Knights of Lordaeron and Stromgarde talking, confident that such a union of forces would bring the Horde to its knees in no time. It was a proof that they had never fought the Horde.

Aerth had. Had in fact been among the first units to meet them around Grand Hamlet. The Horde Army was terribly vast, and although they always lost the fights to humans when numbers were roughly equal, they usually outranked them by three to one, and that had been at the start of the war. He inwardly shivered to think how many warriors the Horde will be able to field when the Second War - as he'd heard the Horde War in Azeroth being called the First War, he was certain they'd call this one the Second - would break out. He had no doubt that it would be greater then theirs. How much, there lay their hopes. He let go of his brooding thoughts as the Archbishop started to speak.

"People of Lordaeron, Azeroth, Stromgarde, Kul Tiras, Alterac, listen and understand that today is a great event! For although we face a new enemy, an enemy whose strength and ferocity is unmatched in our history save from the shadowy lore that tells of the Burning Legion, know that what passes today is our hope! Today your nations have set aside their differences and united, in a great Alliance to drive the foul invaders from all human lands!"

A cheer went up, but Aerth did not participate. Neither did the great lords like Varien Wrynn or Uther Lightbringer. Unity...yes, the nations had decided to unite, but only after there had been news or what could only be Horde raids in southern Kul Tiras and the shocking - but unsurprising news which came from a few dwarven messengers who had told the distraught leaders the the Dwarven Kingdom - the last relic of the Dwarven Empire which once controlled all of Khaz Modan, spilling into southern Stromgarde and northern Azeroth - had been savagely attacked and beaten, its surviving people trapped in the impregnable Fortress-City of Ironforge. That had finally truly opened the eyes of the debating leaders, and so the Alliance had been agreed upon.

"Today we will hear the pledge of the Nations of the Alliance, and seal the Alliance Charter! Today, we are one people!" Faol ended triumphantly, although Aerth knew the old Cleric probably only said that to unify the feelings of the nobles. It worked apparently, for another cheer went up. "Let the Sovereigns of the Alliance come forward and make their pledge."

They were there, the five leaders of the nations, dressed in their best finery and wearing cloaks the color of their respective nation. Of all of them, only Perenolde looked hesitant about this, the scrawny man looking slightly left and right, even as King Terenas came forward, before the small table where the last sheet of the Alliance Charter, the document which had been written rather hastily in the last two weeks by the pages the leaders had called. Many lines had been written to contain the names of the leaders who would sign it. Not only five names of nations, but ten, for Lothar and Terenas hoped to enlist not only Dalaran and Gilneas, but also Ironforge, Quel'Thalas and even the almost feral dwarves of Northeron. Many doubted this would happen, but one could hope.

Terenas stood before the table, and stood up high, meeting the gaze of many, looking regal and thoroughly royal in bearing. "I, Seramus Terenas, King of Lordaeron, swear the allegiance of the men, women, armies, fleets and resources of my nation to the Alliance to be used in the destruction of the Orcish Horde." And as people clapped their hands he took up the inked quill near the page and signed his name on the first line, then stepped back and returned to the others.

Immediately Lothar stepped forward, not in finery but in the full plate of a general, the only sign of his rank of Regent the blue and gold cloak he wore. He seemed rather uncomfortable with his role as sovereign - if only temporary - of Azeroth, but determined nonetheless, as could be seen in the grim light of his wise eyes. He stepped where Terenas had been moments before.

"I, Anduin Lothar, Regent of Azeroth and official carrier of the will of Mernil Llane, King of Azeroth, swear the alleagiance of the men, women, armies, fleets and resources of my nation to the Alliance to be used in the destruction of the Orcish Horde." he said, his voice carrying his hatred for the Horde.

And so after passed King Trollbane, and King Proudmoore after him, and Aerth started to drift away from it all, thinking of his wife and the few friends he had, all inhabiting the new city of Taren Mill and its environs. He barely notice King Perenolde of Alterac give his pledge, but was snapped back reality as two men materialized near the Alliance Charter. Perenolde fairly reeled backward, gasps and shouts erupted, and many of the knights rushed to the leaders' side, hand on the hilt of their sword. Aerth tensed himself, but almost immediately Lothar raised his arms placatingly.

"Peace! I know this man, Gerath Daretyl is his name, head of the mages of Azeroth! I know not the other, but I doubt not it is in good faith!"

His powerful voice carried over the tumult,and had the desired effect of calming the people down a bit. As soon as they did, the unknown mage spoke.

"Ladies and gentlesirs, I meant no disrespect by this entry, but wished you to know our official position." he said. Tense silence followed for a moment "I am Quedani Delcrantz, Head of the Kirin Tor of Dalaran. The Kirin Tor has debated and reached a decision, and I am here to communicate it. The Nation of Dalaran has decided to throw its full magical might, armies and resources into the Alliance, effective today, and until the human lands are liberated from the Horde!"

General stupefaction greeted the declaration. Then, clapping was heard. Firmly, the Regent of Azeroth was clapping his hands heartily. The other leaders looked at him for a moment, then Lothar clapped, then Trollbane, then all the other leaders, soon the roar of cheer boomed again in the room, and this time Aerth did participate. Dalaran. They had Dalaran with them, and from what he heard of the politics of the North, Gilneas would probably soon give its weight to the alliance, not wishing the good graces of the other nations to fall on their centuries-long enemies. And with all the human nations, perhaps they could entice the Elves of Quel'Thalas to join them.

There might be hope after all. A long road lay ahead, full of death and sacrifices and horrors and strife. But there was hope.

And at the moment, for Aerth Swiftblade, it was enough.