Chapter One: Meetings and decisions


Late Winter 589, Hopelight Castle, Hillsbrad

Lothar looked at his best commanders with a level gaze. "So, gentlemen, how does the build-up of troops go in New Azeroth?"

The five men in front of him shifted a little, until finally Varien Wrynn, youngest but not least of the five, stood up. Lothar wasn't surprised. In almost all the meetings, most of the conversations were done by either Lothar himself, Wrynn or Silphord Duraz. As Duraz was keeping strictly silent today - a strange event - it seemed only fitting that the young man would answer the new High General of the Alliance.

The young man coughed slightly, drew himself up and spoke, his young but seasoned voice carrying easily. "The build-up goes well, my lord. Already nine thousand men have joined our main training camps, and we are expecting more to come by the end of the month. With these new troops, our strength will be up to fifty thousand men total. Hillsbrad has given much, but significant numbers come from the Southshore and Taren Mill regions. Taren Mill, in particular, seems to give us especially cunning soldiers."

Lothar nodded, although he inwardly wondered what the devil the lad wanted with Taren Mill. It wasn't the first time the young, influential knight had mentioned that particular city. He knew, however, that Wrynn would come around with answers eventually, and so said nothing of it.

"What about our fleet strength?"

"Proceeding nicely. As far as that is concerned, our city of Southshore is fast becoming our main concentration of naval construction, as a large number of our best shipwrights and naval craftsmen live there. We should have the fleet at the needed strength before the year is out, my lord."

Lothar stroke his beard gently before nodding, his old, intelligent eyes on the Azerothian generals. "Very good, I'm glad to see everything is proceeding as scheduled. Now I'd wish to move on to another matter. In order for the forming High Command to relay orders in a way which will allow the best deployment, the nation leaders have decided to cut up the Alliance Territory into regions. Twenty such regions have been formed, and each of these will be under the control of a Regional Commander, a military man whom we could trust and would answer only to the nation leaders, to me and to the High Command. What say you, gentlemen?"

Wrynn, who had just sat, immediately piped up. "Is there a Taren Mill region of sorts, milord?"

Lothar couldn't help but grin as the other four knights looked at their younger brethren with irritation and curiosity. "There is. What of it?"

"Yes Varien." said the strongly-built, square-jawed knight named Zeor Tarrak, General of the Second Azeroth Army "What of it indeed? Do you have someone to propose or do you wish to go live in Taren Mill all of a sudden?" A soft row of chuckles followed the question, and Varien grinned widely.

"No, I wish not to go live at Taren Mill. I would wish, however, to name the perfect man for the job of regional commander there."

"And who might that be?" Lothar inquired, and all eyes were immediately glued to Wrynn, who bore the gaze with confidence.

"His name, milord, brethren, is Aerth Swiftblade. Put him in charge of the region there, and I assure you the enemy will never take it." he stated, utterly confident.

Lothar didn't even get a chance to say anything about this decision before, for the first time since the beginning of the meeting, Duraz spoke, his expression caught up between anger and dismay. That made some eyebrows rise, as the man always showed himself to be calm and in full possession of his wits.

"Swiftblade?" he cried "I'm against it! We can't let him have that kind of important position, sir!"

"Why not, Lord Duraz?" Lothar inquired curiously.

The man rose tall, sour and definitely impressive in his fine clothes and the deep purple cape which denoted his high noble rank. The man was more than a fop however. Although he hadn't fought all that much in the First War, he had been shown to be of of their best strategists, and so his position on the Swiftblade affair had much weight. He put his arms behind him.

"For two reasons." he explained, quite calm and scholarly this time. "First of all, he does not have the noble rank for aspiring to this position, let alone have it. Secondly, it has never been proven that the man has sufficient tactical ability to defend one of the main cities of our Kingdom-in-Exile. For those reasons, I beg to reconsider this, Regent-Lord Lothar." he sat back down, obviously satisfied. The elder knight of Azeroth looked at the strategist then back at the younger, even nobler Wrynn.

"Well Lord Wrynn," he stated "What say you to that?"

Wrynn's answer was immediate. "I will answer the two points making up Lord Duraz' objection. The first is the easiest. Although I know quite well Lord Swiftblade was born to the merchant class, he has married the only heir to the influential House Fregar of Sunshire, and by that, has by our laws raised himself to a very high noble position indeed, more than enough to be a Regional Commander."

"But he wasn't BORN a nobleman!" the great strategist protested, only to be stopped by Lothar's silencing hand.

"All great families started from people who had little or no nobility. Continue, Lord Wrynn."

"As you wish, My Regent. The second reason is from what I have seen. When Sunshire was attacked, the man was given command of a squadron of men to waylay the orcs at least three hours, enough to allow the civilians to escape. I had been there at that time, tagging along out of a wish to fight, and very reluctantly put myself under the command of someone whom I thought as an upstart."

"That reluctance soon faded, however, as the man, on the spot, right then and there, thought of a plan of defense which was proven to be flawless. Never had I seen the like. We held for sixteen hours instead of three, and we lost only sixteen men out of the mere five hundred we had. This, and the natural way he had to know when and how the enemy would strike convinced me. So, please, my lord, give him that position."

The other generals muttered between themselves at this, but Lothar could feel that they were impressed. For that matter, so was he. Sixteen dead out of five hundred. Holding sixteen hours instead of three. This was the work of either a lucky man or a very apt one. He looked from Wrynn, who stared back evenly, to Duraz, who seemed quite less patient about it. Something tugged at this stubborn persistence. But he couldn't let it drag him. He was the High General.

"Very well." he stated at last "General Tarrak, please arrange it so this young Lord Swiftblade be made Regional Commander of the Taren Mill Region." Duraz immediately went to talk, but he silenced him with a stern stare. "We need bright fighting men, and I won't pass up the chance for the Alliance to have an excellent strategist in a commanding position."

Wrynn turned to Duraz with a slight smirk. "Anyway, I know your reasons, Lord Duraz. It really was a blow to you that Lady Fregar, fair flower that she is, fell for a low-born knight instead of the man who had as much wealth and influence as you."

At once the strategist's hand was at the hilt of his sword, his eyes blazing, nostrils flaring. "You DARE...!" he spat. Wrynn only looked at him mockingly.

"ENOUGH!" Lothar bellowed, rising from his seat to stand, stretching up to his impressive height. Although getting older, his frame was strong and stout, and his gaze had the sternness which had allowed the man to secure land and goods for his people and forge New Azeroth. Neither of the two men could resist his presence for long, and both subsided, Duraz letting go of his sword reluctantly. "I WILL NOT allow this kind of foolish bickering amongst members of the High Command! The upcoming war with the Horde might well decide the fate of all of humankind, so have a care, sirs!"

The two men settled down at this, and the rest of the meeting continued in a more subdued manner. Within an hour they had decided on the other Regional Commanders which would be put under the command of the generals. Also was decided that the Naval Commanders would be joined under a single Admiral answerable only to Proudmoore, Lothar and on a lesser note the rest of the Alliance nation leaders.

And yet, amidst all that important talk, he couldn't help but think that he wanted to meet this Aerth Swiftblade one day. After all, he seemed to inspire people. Even if, in Duraz's case, it wasn't in a good way.

* * * * *

Late Winter 589, Swiftblade Mansion, Taren Mill

Aerth Swiftblade had earned his name from the way his sword seemed to fly when the thrill of battle took hold of him, slashing back and forth, rending through many an orc soldier. However, when it came to making a decision, he was methodical and rational, a trait hammered in by his deceased merchant father. And this was something to be grateful for, especially when one had received an unexpected promotion.

He squinted and read the the tight, ornate words again. "As you have shown great leadership abilities...rank of nobility being attained... recommended for you grasp of strategy... you are thereby promoted to the rank of Regional Commander of the Taren Mill Forces under the command of... signed, Anduin Lothar, Alliance High General." he read with a tired mutter, his voice fading in and out.

He grunted a cough of disgust, putting down the parchment and looking around at his study. Although all of stone walls, it had no tapestries, no carpets and nothing which involved luxury. In fact, besides a small library - mostly made up of the books saved from Sunshire's destruction, his desk, a table, two chairs and a small hearth, there was absolutely nothing. It was so for a simple reason: Aerth liked no distraction while he was working.

However, right now, he wished he had added some more color to his private spot, as his lady and wife had tried to nudge him to do. It certainly would help him keep his mind off the message sprawled on the wooden desk.

With a sigh, he stood up, walking to the only window in the room and looking out at the city of Taren Mill. The mansion had been built on a slight knoll on the northern parts of the city, and as the window gave sight to the south, he saw much.

Ever there was movement on the dirt streets of Taren Mill. Carts moved about from the growing docks and the roads leading to the smaller hamlets in the southeast. People quarreled frequently, but the armed militia usually broke up the fights before there were serious injuries involved. Servants milled about on errands, peasants and merchants sold and bought their wares in the established marketplace near the keep which served as the meeting hall and the main barracks of the regular army. Indeed, he saw here and there a group of soldiers training, and sometimes a knight riding around.

If the streets had been of cobbled stones and a wall had been around the city, it would have reminded him almost of Sunshire. It was testament to the stubborn determination of the Azerothian people that this work of a decade had been built in two years. And if things kept on the way they'd been, come six months the walls would be nearly built, and a few streets will be cobbled up. Aerth shook his head slightly and heaved another sigh. He had the safety of this city and the hamlets around it to consider now, whether he liked it or not.

Not for the first time, he wished he could talk about it to his wife. She was more the politician than he, and would have given good insight.

Alas, it wasn't possible right now. Eira Fregar was at the weekly Ladies's Tea at the severe Lady Morreni's mansion, where there gathered the wives and ladies of the remaining nobility from Moonbrook and Sunshire. He had learned from her that it was little more than gossiping from women who had been tucked safe away from the fighting during the First War, having seen little death and destruction. It was necessary, however. The Morrenis were an influential family in Taren Mill, and it wouldn't do to irk them.

Politics, so dull and boring. But so light-blasted necessary.

A commotion snapped him out of his reverie, focusing his attention closer to home. From the half-built East Gate a certain number of people were gathered. A group of soldiers, surrounded by an even greater group of onlookers, were hotly debating something with another group whom he couldn't define. He squinted, but couldn't make out any details.

"Might as well go see." he mumbled tiredly "Its better than just standing here not knowing what to do about something I can't change."

He quickly put on his cloak, belted his sword, and called the servants for his horse. Within minutes he was out of his home estate and riding down, passing staring people and finally nearing the commotion. Recognized as a lord and nobleman - although he didn't consider himself one - the people let him pass, and he quickly recognized who those unidentified peddlers were.

Elves. He blinked in bewilderment. Elves wearing the Silver Crescent. Soldiers from Quel'Thalas? The thought was hard to grasp. The Eleven Kingdom was far to the east, north of Stromgarde, and known to be as dangerous as it was beautiful. But it was also said the Elves rarely left their homelands, and then, only a few were ever seen. Here was gathered at least twenty elves, arrayed in supple leather armor, with the fearsome elven longbows and arrows and slender short blades at their side. A war party. But why?

The obvious spokesman of the elves, a slender fellow with tired eyes, damp red-blond hair and a thin, grim line for a mouth, was losing patience with the sentry. "By the Guardians and Hillri Tollon! Can't you humans understand? There are over a hundred of your enemy detaining our Lord Illadan and many of our brethren. They will die if you do not help us!" the last sentence seemed to be forced from the male elf, and many of his fellows looked highly uncomfortable.

Aerth understood why, having read of the way elves thought they never had and never would need the helps of the other races of the Land. The chief sentry, however, didn't seem to know, this, for his stubborn look didn't change.

"Look, elf." the man said. "Our scouts never found any darn enemy this close to this here town. So methinks you got roughed up by some bandits and got ideas for yourself. Don't glare, won't help you. We'll help find the bandits for you, as long as you be tellin' the truth."

This got more than one elf furious, to look by the way their eyes suddenly glittered. Bells ringing of danger in his head, Aerth moved to head off the upcoming confrontation.

"He is telling the truth, soldier." he called sharply "The warriors of Silvermoon never give idle talk, and never lie."

Aerth found himself the center of attention at once, even more so as he dismounted and made his way to the mixed group of help and men. The militia captain bowed as he came close, while the elves only looked at him with wary curiosity.

"My lord." said the sentry respectfully, yet with a look that plainly asked 'what is he doing here?' He nodded to the man, choosing not to raise any more tension than necessary.

"At ease, soldier. These elves wouldn't be bothering you without a good reason. Please take care of that crowd." he stated softly, sweeping an arm to show the gawking folk clustered about. The soldier opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, closed it, bowed again. And with a slightly irritated look, he started to get his men to disperse the crowd. Aerth turned back to the elven spokesman and inclined his head slightly.

"Greetings, Brother of Wind and Green," he said softly. "My name is Aerth Swiftblade, military commander of Taren Mill. I wish to help you, if I can. What is happening?"

The polite, proper tone seemed to calm the elves somewhat, even if they weren't looking any less wary. He suddenly wished he had listened more when his dear Eira had talked to him about elven lore. But at least the one in front of him seemed to trust him a bit - or was holding on to his last chance, who knew? - for he spoke at once.

"Greetings, Knight of Azeroth. My name is Ranil, to the service of King Uruen and the Council of Silvermoon, and my need is dire. A fiendish band ambushed our people two days ago, and took many of our brethren prisoner, to a camp north of this city. We know some of them are trolls, our enemies, but we do not have knowledge of the others. Please help us, if you can."

Aerth calmly considered this. Trolls and an unknown enemy, just north of here. It seemed impossible. And yet why would elves lie thus? He looked at them, and noticed some looked battered from what his senses told him could only be a fight. One in which they had had no choice but to run.

He knew he had to consult with his superiors first, and he would. But that didn't mean that he would wait the days it took for a message to come back.

"Come." he said "Let me see you to the healers, and there you'll tell me everything."

This was the last time he might see action directly, after all. Why waste it?

* * * * *

Late Winter 589, Poorglade's family farm, on the outskirts of Gregburg

"Are ye daft, boy!?! I won't allow it, ye hear me, I won't!"

"Ye can't stop me, pa. Ye know ye can't."

"Like Hell and Back, I can't! No son o' mine is gonna go and get hisself killed in countries we be knowing nothin' about!"

Bram Poorglade stared sadly and resolutely at his father's bowed form, as the older man glared at him in a mix of anger, hopelessness and worry. He had wished to slink away before daylight came, had wanted them to have no time to stop him, no time to change his mind. But he'd been a fool to think he was stealthy enough, he with the feet which always seem to make noise wherever he went. As it was, he had woken up his father, and when he'd told the older man what he intended to do, the rest of the house, his Ma, his brothers and sisters, all had been awakened.

But nothing could stop him from joining the Stromgarde Army. Not even his father's glare. Not even the pleading looks from the rest of his family.

"Oh, Pa!" he sighed "What's that 'bout fighting in other countries? I be stayin' here. The Stromgarde Army's gonna go south, so they say, to guard Khez Modran."

"Its Khaz Modan." said his younger sister, the only one in the family who actually read a bit, and had told him about the outside world and its many names. She subsided as both of the verbal fencers glared at her, gulping and looking away. The rest of the family was silent.

"Aye, that place." Bram said at length. "They not be askin' me to go anywhere else, Pa. I'm just gonna go fight fer the kingdom."

"Rats and Blight, boy!" his Pa cursed at that, his tired, bloodshot eyes flashing. "Yer old man not be an idiot. I've heard King Thoras's Heralds too, ye be sure!"

Bram couldn't help but flinch a little at this. Of course he'd heard. A month or so ago, they'd gone to Gregburg for supplies, and he had wandered through the near empty plaza, spotting a crowd. Curious, he'd gone to investigate, to see the villagers surrounding a man dressed in the white and grey of messenger, with the Fist of the Just, the emblem of the Trollbane Royal House, emblazoned on the front of his shirt. Flanked by two soldiers in full battle armor, he had decreed that a state of war had been declared against a great common enemy, against which Stromgarde's forces were of crucial importance.

He had been moved by hearing his country, the place of his birth, might need him. It had stayed with him until he had finally come to a decision. He would enlist, and go forth and fight under the banner of Stromgarde in the name of this...Alliance.

He should have known that his Pa would have listened in.

But it didn't change a thing to his decision.

"Well, it beats just waitin' around to be killed. Least I can do is go out there and fight the monsters!" he snapped, his voice starting to harden because of the strain of the argument.

It was then that his old Pa's face seemed to go aflame, so red it was becoming. The man muttered a few half-heard words, and the rest of the family - even Ma - inched away from him. Bram braced himself for the scathing words, even for a blow. At sixteen, he already had a good frame from working at the farm, and he knew he could take the shot if it came.

However, his father didn't strike him, didn't hurl hateful words which might have damage the father-son relationship. Instead he grew colder suddenly, staring at his son with wide eyes, as if seeing something through his son. The uncomfortable moment lasted for several moments, until the gre-haired, bent farmer spoke.

"Ye ever seen a Troll up close, boy? Ye ever seen good friends killed by the greenies? Ever seen the sick, the hurt, the blood, the Hell-driven clash of the battlefield?!?" he asked, his tone rising with every word. "Well, I seen it, boy. I been up north fighting in the last Troll War, and it wasn't pretty, not a bitsy!"

That brought Bram short. His Pa a had been a soldier once? None of them knew it. They knew his body showed numerous scars, but the man had always explained them away with accidents on his own Pa's farm, back when he was young and foolish. It was hard to imagine this tranquil, hard-working man fighting the trolls - creatures which hadn't raided this deep inside the kingdom since his father's father had been part of a quickly-assembled group of farmers which had managed to hold off the Greenies until a Stromgarde patrol had arrived and tipped the scales.

But, suddenly, his Ma turned away, and he knew that what he'd just heard was true: his Pa had been part of the Stromgarde Army once.

The older Poorglade saw his face's changes, and snorted derisively.

"Feelin' mighty proud, aren't ya boy?" he asked, his tone one of grim amusement "Well, don't. There's nothing to be proud of. Ye'd be best workin' for the king by tending the fields than by wavin' a blasted sword around!"

His Ma, who rarely spoke when her husband was talking, finally burst in tears, her look helpless and beseeching. "Don't ma boy! Please, please don't go to no fightin'! My old heart won't take it!"

He couldn't help but glare at them both now. Here he wanted something - REALLY wanted to do something other than just feeding the chickens or helping his Pa on his trips to Gregburg - and they were starting to pull him down, to force him to stay! And his Ma was making it so hard, and his Pa looked so angry, but he wanted to go, to see the world and fight in the name of King Thoras. Why couldn't they understand?

"Why can't ye understand!?!" he finally shouted "That be what I want to do!" His balled his fists into tight balls of fury and grief, and took a step back, toward the door and the pack he'd left there. His Pa watched the movement, and bowed his head slightly, giving out a mirthless chuckle.

"My old Pa would laugh at me and say that's just what I asked for, he would. Yer just like me - stupid and packin' no knowledge of what war be." he paused "Wait up here, boy. If ye be goin' to go, I'll give ye somethin'."

And with that his Pa trudged off, leaving him to face the rest of his family. His Ma only sobbed, sometimes going to embrace him as if she'd never see him again, his younger sister looked at him pensively, not betraying her thought, his younger brother told him he was a lucky dog, and the toddlers only cast about cluelessly, too small to completely comprehend, little Lilia sleeping on her older sister's lap.

With a pang, he realized he might never see his small siblings again, or if he did, in many years. They probably will have forgotten him by the time he came back, he realized glumly. But even that couldn't quite sway him - it only made things harder in his heart.

They heard a shuffling of feet, and then his Pa appeared, holding a blade in an unadorned scabbard. The sword had many notches on it, but crude as it seemed, it was in good condition. Obviously the old farmer had secretly maintained it free of rust. The old farmer gave the blade to Bram, who held it clumsily.

"There." he said gruffly "Like that ye be ready for the training grounds, at least! Now be off before I take it back from ye!"

Bram opened his mouth to say something, but he was stopped by his Ma.

"No good-byes. Ye just be goin'! If I say bye, it be bad luck, and I won't have that!" His Pa nodded silently at that, while the other children looked on.

He looked at them all. His father, standing up as proud and as straight as his hurting back could allow him. His weeping Ma near him. His inscrutable sister, who just sat there looking. His brother, whose eyes seemed alight with excitement at the prospect of his brother going off to war. And down the sleeping line of smaller children. He engraved their faces deep in his memory, vowing never to forget them, no matter what may come.

"I will be returning a great fighter, you be seeing." he told them.

And with that, not daring to look back even once for fear that the heartache might force him to stay, Bram Poorglade went to the door of the house where he'd been born, took up his sack, and trudged down the stairs, walking away from his old home bittersweetly.

And walking toward an unknown of war and swords.

* * * * *

Late Winter 589, Klem Pinewood, near Taren Mill

"Wait for my signal to attack."

That is what the human Knight known as Aerth Swiftblade had told him. But the elf warrior known as Ranil Selaï, highest-ranking of the surviving elven Reconnaissance Forces, didn't know if he really wanted to trust that human. For most humans, the question would never have to be even asked, he wouldn't trust them. After all, since when had elves needed to heed mortal humans?

But this one, this human. There was something about him, something the elf couldn't exactly define, something noble without being noble. A simplicity and a grasp of command and strategy that almost demanded faith and trust. It was a strange feeling, one that he'd yet had only form his Lord Illadan, and one he'd never expected to feel from one of the human race. But he had.

And so there he stood, hidden behind a low ridge just outside what Swiftblade had calculated as being the 'Horde Patrol Arc', with nineteen other elven warriors and twenty human ones, trembling and holding their breath each time a patrol came close. Or at least his elven brethren did. The humans were extremely attentive, tense, but never showed any sense of true fear on their faces or bodies. It had taken Ranil a few moments to realize that the humans trusted the Knight implicitly.

And so, his pride prickled at seeing mere HUMANS less afraid than ELVES, the elven leader kept his peace and his position, peeking from time to time at the so called 'Horde Jail.'

It wasn't a pretty sight. The whole compound had been built from an old, abandoned barn, which had been refurbished somewhat, the few windows barred or walled up. A low rampart had been built to provide protection, while a shoddy, ill-kept towers of haphazard make looked out toward the clearing between the trees, a clearing they would have to use for their own fighting soon.

If Swiftblade's plan worked. Which he was starting to doubt. After all, a certain length of time had passed since he had gone, taking ten of his men and a few elven warriors. His doubts were certainly shared, for one of his men - a young, haughty elf by the name of Feodan crawled to him swiftly.

"Sir Ranil." he said quickly, keeping his voice down as much as he could. "It appears clear to me that the human's plan had failed." from his tone of voice, it was as if it had never been in doubt. "I suggest we find a wiser way to rescue our lord."

"Now, you shut your mouth, elf!" spat one of the human soldiers quickly. Startled, the ones from the Elder Race looked at the angry face from one of the Mortal Race. "Lord Aerth Swiftblade always makes good on his promises. If he said it'll work, then it will work."

Flushing slightly under the tone, his pride wounded that a 'lower' being would speak to him thus, Feodan looked down his nose at the human, while the other elves and humans nearby seemed rather unsure about what to do. "If your lord," he said sarcastically "had succeeded, he would have sent us the signal by now. And as you see..."

"And as we see, so he has done!" Ranil said, breaking the disagreement with that sole sentence. Everyone turned to look at at the camp, and all saw the turmoil amongst the orc and troll guards... and the flaming arrow going up, high into the mid-day sky. Seeing this, Ranil did not hesitate an instant. Rising from the ridge, hefting both his long bow and his slender eleven blade, he turned to the assembled group of warriors. "The signal! Men of Azeroth. Elves of Quel'Thalas! Attack!!" and with that he sprang forward, towards the Horde base.

Behind him, uttering cries "For Lothar!" "Azeroth!" for the men and "Carallaï Quel' Tanos!" for the elves, the rest of the group rushed after him, the elves leaping lightly, the humans running nimbly despite their armor.

In the Horde camp, things had turned to chaos. As he approached, Ranil saw human soldiers locked in combat with the 'orcish' soldiers, while elven arrows and Troll throwing axes were exchanged. The enemy seemed utterly taken by surprise, and the warrior instantly knew why it was so.

It was because many of those attacking them were the prisoners themselves.

Two were taking down the enemy at an incredible rate. One, because of his heavier armor, he recognized as Aerth Swiftblade, the man's sword swinging tirelessly, cutting limbs and claiming lives from his terrified enemy. He near him, wielding a bow with the strength and skill few in the world could show, was Lord Illadan himself, his arrows promising death to any Troll or Orc which came within his sight.

Even so, the human-elven strike force was smaller, and there was still one troll on the watch tower, throwing down axes with more accuracy than the others. It was clear that, despite the ferocity with which they fought, both the rescued and the rescuers would fall in time.

However, the very same ferocity of the battle had been carefully engineered by the human lord, and had the effect of distracting the orcs and trolls so as not to watch their backs overmuch trying to contain the situation. As it was, they barely had time to react before forty other enemies surged upon them like a scourge.

The human soldiers fell on the orcs with single-minded hatred and strength, using quick attacks and their greater dexterity to offset their opponents' greater size and strength. And as swords met axes in whirlwinds of blows, Ranil and his men nocked arrows and let loose upon the enemy again and again. The confusion it brought bought lord Illadan the time he needed to finally empty the watch tower of enemies.

The enemy swayed, tried to repulse the attack, but more and more of them fell. Trolls started to fall in greater and greater numbers, and that allowed the elves the luxury of shooting down any stray orc. And ever Lord Aerth's sword slashed and Illadan's arrows sped, until, at last, the last enemy crumbled to the ground with one mighty stroke from a blade through the heart.

A ragged cheer went up, both from light and musical elven throats from rough human ones. The difference of race was forgotten in that cry of victory, and Ranil gladly joined it, adding his cry to the others. But his feeling of elation was short-lived, however, as he saw Aerth and Illadan in deep conversation, pointing this way and that, their gestures precise and their faces thoughtful. They, it seemed, felt it was no time to celebrate. Frowning, the elf went to listen in to the leaders' conversation.

"...you are right." Illadan, was saying. 'We cannot afford to waste time celebrating until we are safe in Taren Mill. I would say we have an hour, no more."

"Then we need make haste, elf-lord. Their commander and the rest of their forces mustn't catch us, or everyone here is done for." Aerth said quickly.

"You mean more of those...orcs... and troll are coming?" Ranil couldn't help but ask. Both the elf and the human in front of him turned and looked at him.

"Of course." Aerth said without preamble, as if there shouldn't be a real need to be explained. "Why do you think I chose this precise moment of attack? Because the base commander, and hie best troops were out, probably gone to tell of his magnificent catch."

Illadan nodded. "He's right. What we've defeated here are only a third of his forces. The orc leader and his forces left three days ago, so he may come back at any given moment."

"We can rid Taren Mill of this infestation by scouring the area - with the rest of the garrisoned soldiers there. With them on the field looking for similar lairs, and the militia keeping the town safe, we will have the advantage." Aerth said, rapping one gloved hand against his other, open hand.

From that moment on they lost no time, calming down the men swiftly, gathering the wounded and the four dead and quickly arranging for makeshift transportation. Dazed by the fast-paced information he had been subjected to, he nonetheless followed the orders, and quickly the larger group was on its way, carrying dead and wounded, surrounded by elves with arrows nocked and humans with swords drawn.

And always in front of him, Aerth and Illadan talked, planned, discussed, and seemed to be getting along very well.

That was good, Ranil found. He hoped Illadan, his Lord, would respect the human commander.

Because after today, he knew HE would.

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Spring 589, Ashan Hills, outside Grim Batol

"So that's what Doomhammer calls a 'glorious victory?'" Gorruth Blazingaxe growled with a sneer that bespoke disgust and contempt. Near him, Horde First-Rank Sagrarith Bluestrike shrugged uncomfortably. It was clear he wasn't thinking all this was as bad as the older orc was making it sound, but he knew better than to start reprimanding the older soldier.

After all, the old orc wasn't to be taken lightly, as were all Blade Masters.

"Its not really what we're used to do, that's true..." mumbled Sagrarith, but whatever he might have said yet was swallowed up as a dangerously sharp blade whizzed out of an ornate leather sheet, swung in an artful arc, and struck the ground with a soft thud, all in one second. This was followed by a soft, bitter chuckle.

"Don't try to soften the blow, youth." he said with an edge of bitterness. His eyes held no laughter whatsoever. "The Orcish Hordes are falling from the magnificent engine of war they were to this - killing people who weren't even going to fight!"

Gorruth saw he wasn't really getting through, although the younger orc respected him too much to say anything. He sighed, not really surprised, but he knew this had been the kind of reaction which had made him doubt his whole purpose on these lands so far from Dreanor, his homeland.

Gorruth Blazingaxe had been born to a brave and honorable line of respected orc warriors, and had been raised to the belief that the only foe worth fighting was one who was ready to meet you blade to blade. He had been found proficient with any form of weapon from an early age, and soon became the pride of his family clan, and had attracted the attention of a group of Blade Masters who worked as Hurruth Grahsht, or as the humans prefered to say, Wolf Riders. They hailed from a small but rapidly growing clan led by an harsh but honorable warrior named Blackhand. It was in this clan that he had grown to adulthood, his skills attracting the envy of many.

He had served the Blackrock Clan when the rift opened and they came to this strange, rich land named by its natives Azeroth. He had enthusiastically agreed with Blackhand when the Warchief had declared war on the human warriors. As most of the Horde thought, he saw these humans as soft, easy to defeat, no matter how proud they were or how tall the walls they hid behind of stood.

What a foolish notion that had been.

The human soldiers were weaker, that was true, but they had armors and weapons of better make, and were more nimble than any orc. And these Knights of Azeroth, THEY had quickly gained his respect. Daring, almost fearless, skilled, they had shown a sense of duty and honor which emulated a Blade Master's quite faithfully. No, these humans weren't wimps. They had fought when the Horde came, and fought HARD.

But, in the end, it hadn't been enough, and Gorruth had been there the day their impressive capital of Stormwind had fallen to their forces. He had been filled with pride then, never doubting that their destiny was to claim this world for their own.

That was, until Doomhammer back-stabbed Blackhand and took his place at the head of the Horde. Everything changed after that. The Horde splintered off into factions, many of which were unspoken enemies of Doomhammer, a few which had no more interest in either side. Their tactics became more and more brutal, more and more senseless, relying on power alone, forgetting the tactics that had allowed them to defeat the Kingdom of Azeroth.

It had been an ever-increasing disgusting display from then on in, as the greater bulk of the Horde embraced the savagery it had shown on the battlefield in their daily lives and every one of their actions. Grim Batol was the sheer symbol of this.

Built on an isolated valley cut by a great, deep river, surrounded by mountains, the orcish city had been built because of the extensive oil deposits that part of the river carried, and soon grew into a veritable fortress from which the Horde's greatest naval shipyards rose. The area was filled with soldiers, catapults and ships, with thousands upon thousands of peons shambling about trying to please everyone except themselves.

The problem was, a small dwarven village had been standing there where the Horde engineers wished to build their naval fortress. The destruction of the village itself being considered inevitable, it wasn't this that plagued his mind. It was the plain brutality with which they had done so, the soldiers killing painfully when it should have been painless.

Disgusting.

Such depravation would end with a dear price, he just knew it.

He just wondered if his race would still be there when the price would be paid.