Chapter Three: And so it begins...

Early Summer 590, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde

It was hot and humid. The sun had risen barely an hour ago, but already the stench of the marshes had heated like some old roasted pig strewn with rotted vegetable stew, the oily feel in the air making the whole place well near unbreathable. Every breath seemed to be foul steam, and every step produced only disgust and a little bit of exasperation. Sweat clung to his eyes, stubbornly, and his armor - the darn clanky, heavy, GOD-BLASTED armor - seemed to change the clothes he wore underneath it to burning steam.

No, Bram Poorglade was far from happy.

Still he trudged on, hearing the swearing and the muttering of the other men around him. Gregsbrug men, from the First Gregsburg Division, part of the proud Fourteenth Stromgarde Army, all of them walking as fast as they could to block an Horde onslaught coming across the Valley. Scouts reported the army was near them now, and had estimated perhaps two hours travel before they were in sight of it.

"Ye be sure t'be there, you do." he mumbled "I won't have you not be there after walkin' through this rat-infested swamp!"

"Hey, don't start wishing for things. You might get them." a voice announced wearily. Bram turned to it and found himself looked on by the eyes of Kerl Bearsheen, a greying, leathery-faced soldier who'd been involved in his share of conflicts in the last Troll War. The man also walked in full footman armor - chain mail with metal shoulders and breastplates, a open-faced helm from which stuck out the red plume - now shriveled and dampened by the whole ordeal - of the Stromgarde army. Added to it was the ever present buckler of wood and steel attached to one arm, and the sturdy, army-grade broadsword in a leather scabbard. Even with the backpacks back safely at the base camp, walking with all this was a nightmare here, and Bram burned with envy when he saw the older man barely breaking a sweat for all of it.

'What madness ever got me in the army?' he thought, not for the first time. Aloud he said. "I think this place be invented to test humans, it be too blasted uncomfortable."

A shrug. "That place is nothing. Its the army in front of us which worries me." the tone with which the soldier had spoken held something in it, and Bram, for the first time since he had woken, forgot his discomfort in the sudden interest. He wasn't the only one - more than one head turned intently, picking up the note in the man's voice.

"What's your meaning?" he asked gruffly, then flushed in embarrassment. He was barely out of training, speaking that way to a veteran warrior was simply out of line. Before he could apologize, however, the man answered, seemingly ignoring the rude way he had been questioned.

"An army two hours before us today, an army a few hours before us yesterday. We hear of it but never seem to catch up. It smells bad, very bad, much like..."

"This place?" Bram finished, giving a disgruntled look around, at the swampy soil, the rotting trees and the slightly foggy air. Other footmen from Gregsburg, some of whom he knew a little, chuckled at that, or groaned in agreement. Kerl, for his part, smile slightly, but the worry stayed in his eyes. His mirth ebbing away, Bram started to feel a knot forming deep in his belly. When old soldiers got that look, it meant things were bad. Even a green recruit like he knew that much. His step slowed imperceptibly, and he stepped quietly near the other man.

"You're not be answerin' me...sir. What's be happening soon?"

"Hopefully, nothing. But there's something about it. It seems like we're being pulled inside something."

"A trap?" the icy knot grew.

"Tha'ts my fear. I know the army commanders don't believe it, but those men have been fighting Trolls all their lives, and those greenskins would have no tactics even if it came and bit them. But I've heard from some people on the front - these...orcs...they're different. Brutal, aye, but crafty, very crafty. If this was a human army we'd be up against..." his eyes widened at that, his face blanched. He looked to his right, where their line ended. "Did you hear that, lad?"

"Hear what?" Bram was definitely getting scared now. "What have you - " and then it came, from the ridge not even a mile off, a grounding roar, bestial, growing in power, second after second.

Kerl's sword flashed out. "That's what! ALERT! THE ENEMY AT THE RIGHT FLANK! ALERT! PREPARE FOR DEFENSE!"

As his bellow came, they came up the ridge, shapes. Man like. Green skin with huge axes, screaming death, promising to drench themselves in human blood. Ever coming, a thick blackness coming towards the startled Fourteenth Army's unprotected flank. He had heard the stories from the front, had imagined meeting Horde soldiers, and found that they were much bigger, uglier and seemed much fierce than the stories told. Panic gripped him, and he fumbled for his blade as the enemy closed the distance.

All around, shouts, oaths and quick prayers were being uttered, feet shuffled around as confusion and fear spread, but many were joining Kerl as well, forming a line. All of the man there had sickly looks, mouths tight and eyes narrowed, but all also held their sword steady as the onslaught came. Behind him, he heard company captains trying to bring order back to the inexperienced mesh which was the panicked Fourteenth Army, but it was clear that it would take time. Time they did not have.

The Horde soldiers were close now, less than a hundred yards. He could see the yellow tusks protruding from their lower lips, their bloodshot eyes ugly snout. The army they wore was mismatched, but each had a axe nearly as big as two arms, and sharpened impossibly for the deeds to come. Still more men came to strengthen the line Kerl had begun, their faces frightened but defiant. Feeling like a fool, ashamed to think he was standing there like some faint-hearted maid while others were putting up a desperate defense, he bid his fear begone, replacing it with the only thing which could make him move: anger. He growled as he took his position, snarling at the coming beasts, keeping the terror away as long as he could.

Seconds later, the enemy struck the thin human line with the force of a hurricane. Bram found himself faced with a an orc half again his height, who trust his axe at his mid section. Instinct took over, and he brought his shield to block the blow. The force of it sent waves of pain through his arm, and he feared it might have broken. How could something be so strong?

He floundered on a defensive, his shield meeting the attacks again and again, hurting him more each time. He gritted his teeth, lashing out then and there with his sword, clumsily. It was block by the haft of the orc's axe. Another shot came. His shield cracked from the blow. His shoulder seemed be ready to pop off its socket. He saw stars and knew he was losing it quickly.

The thought of dying like this, like a man whimpering in fear, a coward not worth the sword he wielded, tore the terror he was feeling like one would spit out a broken tooth. He had left his family, his village, had broken his momma's heart, had stood up to his old Pa for the first time in his life, for this?!? Dying like some dog? Rage filled him at that, a rage that made fear nothing, made the enemy nothing, made all nothing except this - I WILL FIGHT! He howled a battlecry with voice he did not recognize, and went into an overdrive driven by hatred and bloodlust. He started to lose himself in his renewed movements. Block, hit, hit, hit, block, hit, slash, slash. It was down. Slash, stab, slash, slash. Blood, orc blood, everywhere, on him, on the ground. Slash, slash, slash, slash. The motion was becoming mechanical, and his mind finally registered what was happening. He was slashing at a pile of gore. His raging attack had made this. He blinked, then stared in horror, sickened.

'I can't...why...no, its...I could I do that?' he asked himself plaintively, and was surprised when a cold voice answered 'To survive.' He looked around blearily, and was appalled at what he saw.

Human footmen were fighting orc soldiers, both sides with equal savagery, equal abandon. Where the orc soldiers used strength, the humans used speed. Where they used savagery, humans used viciousness. Snarls of hatred erupted from both sides, drowning the screams of the dying and the wounded. The orcs hadn't been in as large in number as it had seemed from his terrified viewpoint, and although many footmen lay on the ground, the tide was shifting in their favor.

Was this war?

A thundering of hooves was heard, and Bram turned just in time to see knights arriving at a gallop, all arrayed in their impressive steel armor, with their horned helms shining, on top of mighty warhorses gelded for battle. They came upon the orc lines like a scourge, smashing heads and limbs with the powerful thrust of their great warhammers. The orcs saw the situation at once, and although a few stubbornly stayed to make a stand - and were cut down quickly for it - most started to retreat, and it was all the officers could do to let the knights take care of the retreating enemy.

A surge of hatred made Bram lurch forward against the retreating orcish backs, and he stopped himself with a gasp. What was happening to him? He looked around, at the bodies lying everywhere, feeling hollow inside. What was happening?

'Oh, Light! So many dead, so many faces stilled, so much blood, blood everywhere, blood and gore and death and the stench..." he stopped the thought with another lurch, and promptly emptied his stomach on the blood-soaked ground, noticing many doing the same.

Was this war?

A hand tapped his shoulder suddenly, and he turned to face Kerl. Bloody, grim-faced, the man did not look sick but rather...sad. And in the older soldier's eyes, he didn't see the accusation or contempt he thought he would see, but, rather, a sort of sympathy, an understanding.

"Come on, lad. We have to regroup away from here." he jerked a finger to the lines which were reforming, minus the men helping the wounded. The dead would stay here, it seemed.

"It was..." he said plaintively, but to his shame a sob tore through him. Here he was weeping like a maiden. But the sympathy in Kerl's eyes only deepened.

"I know. It'll go away, lad. Soon you'll control both fear and rage. You'll learn to live with it."

"No!" he growled suddenly "No, I be not become that...beast! I be not!!!"

"You will lad." the older man sounded resigned "Or you'll die." And, firmly, he directed Bram back towards the lines, were many faces wore looks much like his own. He absently sheathed his sword, not bothering to clean it up. He shook his head, trying to escape the stench, the acrid odor of blood and death.

Was this war?

'I won't become like the orcs!' he vowed savagely 'I'm a human! I'm not a beast, I'm not!'

And for all he took this vow to heart, something in his heart made him doubt he could keep it. And that scared him more than the whole Orcish Horde would have.

No matter what, he would preserve his humanity somehow.

Somehow.

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Summer 590, Dun Algaz, Khaz Modan

Dun Algaz had once been a city, it seemed. A city for those little people, the dwarves, when they were stronger in numbers, before war, disease and probably other events he couldn't fathom had driven them to build themselves a home inside a rock the maps insisted on calling Ironforge. There, the little people had retreated, deeming themselves safe from any and all onslaught.

Argal Grimfrost, Warlord of the Blackrock Clan, almost laughed at the thought of anyone being so certain of themselves when faced with the might of the Horde. Dun Algaz, after all, was more than proof enough of that strength.

The few ruins left by the begone dwarves had long been razed to the ground, and there structures had been erected, great and small. A dozen large barracks, with their stubby stone towers and its closed training space, a few gatherings of stones had built mounds for the ogres. Immense enclosed fens containing an endless supply of pigs, boars and all sorts of poultry animals to provide the butcheries with the meat needed to feed the soldiers adequately. Wooden towers had been erected and manned, faster to build if not as sturdy as their human equivalent. But that wasn't this that made the might of his people prevalent.

It was the leather tents around the camp, endless to the eyes, with the many crude cooking fires, the smithies, and the thousands upon thousands of orcs milling about, jostling, gambling or fighting. All around, he could see armor, axes being sharpened, captains giving their drill to orcs deemed of more use than as foolish, dim-witted peons. Ogres, towering over everyone, walked among them, their dull eyes looking for trouble, eager to find it. And near husks of old trees, to the east, there were trolls, new allies that Warchief Doomhammer had made, practicing at throwing axes, or lounging about in an almost insolent manner. Here, nearly two hundred thousand troops were gathered, and more were due to arrive before the campaign was truly at its height.

Looking up from his chambers high in his spires-doted stronghold of stone and iron, Argal smiled grimly, relishing the days ahead, the destruction he would spread as he made his way north, always north, crushing all in his path until he had achieved his goal: the destruction of Quel'Thalas.

In order to gain the troll warbands from their strange but nevertheless dangerous leader, Zuljin, Doomhammer had promised the Horde would eradicate the elves from the northern forest and give that land to the trolls, all if they would help crush the human nations which had banded against them. Doomhammer had at first thought it a small matter, a trifle they would take care of after the humans had been crushed and scattered like pigs. However, as he learned more of this nation of the Elves, he had decided to speed things along.

The elves, after all, were powerful, centered in a great city of high walls and wards of magic, manned by archers which never missed. The elves had powerful magics and armament, and although their numbers were far fewer than the humans were, they were a force to reckon with. It was then that they had heard the humans and elves had recently entered negotiations to bring Quel'Thalas into that...that Alliance human prisoners claimed to be part of. Doomhammer had deemed the matter of such an union a danger, and had sent Argal to dispose of the increasing headache the elves and their armies and fleets might be fast becoming.

Footsteps were heard, and Argal swiftly turned, fingering the great axe he wore at his hip. He was at the center of his power, but even here - or rather especially here - ambitions ran high, and although he trusted the skills of those under him, he did not trust their loyalty enough to be unarmed when facing any of them. And he slightly stiffened when the one he saw walking towards him was Grathol Towerfist. Taller than Argal himself, nearly as wide as an ogre, the orc who had long been his subordinate was nearly as bright as he was strong. The only thing that made him unsuitable for the highest-level command was his inability to control his bloodlust, a fact that made him a fearful sight on any battlefield, but a buffoon to take decisions under strain.

An uncontrolled well of fury. How contemptible.

The underling was in a good mood these days, as he always was when battle neared or was in war preparations. He gave a salute, fist clapping axe, and a nod which managed to look violent and respectful at the same time.

"Lord!" he growled enthusiastically, his tusks making his grin wider "The army is almost ready to deploy!"

"Is it so?" Argal inquired roughly, his deep voice rumbling "Where are the Stormreaver and Twilight Hammer clans? I haven't seen them, and as long as they haven't shown up, This army sits here and waits!"

Grathol made a face at this: his dislike of anything Stormreaver was well-known. And knowing their leader, Gul'Dan, had headed the cowardly Shadow Council during the subjugation of Azeroth, the warlord couldn't help but inwardly agree. But outwardly, his face contorted in impatience.

"I know what you're thinking, Towerfist!" he growled "And no, I will not move without them. The orders to wait come from the Warchief himself? Would you disobey one of his commands?" he actually made the question a challenge.

Jaws worked on the other orc, and the eyes which looked at Argal flared. The warlord meaningfully fingered his axe, his own expression daring, making the other pause. Argal hadn't become who he was easily, he had become who he was because he was brighter than most, and handled an axe better than most. The challenge hung in the air a moment more, before the taller orc finally averted his eyes, bowing his head in a manner that seemed almost humble.

"I didn't mean that, lord." he said grudgingly "I just say we can crush the humans and the elves with the sheer numbers we have. We don't need to wait for the Stormreavers!" he spat the name in disgust.

If there was one thing which exasperated Argal, it was this: thinking sheer numbers would overrun the human lines. That was what most believed the Horde had done when Azeroth fell under their sway. But Argal knew it hadn't been this way. In the war against Azeroth, he had been an aide to Orgrim Doomhammer, the strongest warlord and general in the Horde at the time. He had seen the humans and their stubbornness, their desire to prevail, and had told Argal that it was why the attack on Stormwind hadn't worked at all. Brute force and numbers were a factor, but without good preparation, an Horde army was just a mob the humans could break and destroy piece by piece.

It was an unorthodox thinking, but it was this thinking which had allowed Doomhammer to outthink the human commander who went by the name of Lothar again and again, insuring the Horde the domination of the rich human lands. He had become a disciple of that method of thinking: might comes first, but thought must come soonafter if it failed. It was sad to see so few others didn't believe it. He knew that Norg Growlshield, who commanded the main forces attacking the human shores from Zul'Dare, was one who believec in overwhelming before thinking. An able commander, but one who would be easily outwitted by a very imaginative or cunning enemy commander.

To the Beyond with all of this! He was in charge here, and if he succeeded, the Horde would be able to ultimately take the eastern part of the alliance territory. And even should Norg fail, the Horde would then be able to crush the eastern nations by land. Especially when they considered the unlikely new allies Doomhammer had made a few seasons before.

He drew himself up. "The Horde can crush anything and will crush those insignificant human armies blocking our way." he failed to mention that the human armies had proven themselves far from insignificant "And we will move north, putting to the flame all that meets our eyes, until we crumble the elven capital and destroy that pitiful race. But it will be done when I give the order Grathol! Do you understand that! I decide when we attack, no one else!" he couldn't help but lace his voice with fury at that.

The taller orc bowed again, more sincerely - or rather, more fearfully - this time. "I will await your order to attack, lord!" he rumbled.

"I expect no less! Send scouts to lay out our course north! I want to know everything about the human positions on the other side of the Three Bridges."

"Yes, lord!" Another clap on the axe in respect, and Grathol was gone.

Argal turned back to watching the immense, chaotic camp, his thoughts on what lay ahead for him and his forces, Doomhammer had chosen him personally, had entrusted him with this mission, and he wasn't one to fail something when he decided he would win. The elves would perish, their immolated bodies a pyre of waning to the human nations!

"So, Quel'Thalas will be nothing but a memory." he vowed softly, his eyes already planning his battle plan.

He wouldn't fail. He had never failed. He would see them all burn.

* * * * * * * * * *

Summer 590, Harpgate Palace, Gilneas

Genn Greymane, King of the Nation of Gilneas, was known for two things beyond anything else. First, that he was one with a greed that directed nearly all of his actions. That greed had shown from the first day of his rule to the present, and had garnered much for his nation. Under his command, he had finally settled the Dalaran-Gilneas borders - with the Black Banner coming up with the best deal, of course. He had strengthened the army, built newer ships and managed, in an unprecedented feat, to negotiate some sea power out of Kul Tiras's utter dominance. His greed had made Gilneas powerful and prosperous, and the people couldn't help but like that.

His second trait was his utter calm. Whether angry, in good humor or worried, one could barely know the difference while King Greymane sat on his throne, surrounded by his court.

But Veredar, his royal advisor, had served the king for nearly all of his eighteen years of rule, and knew what to look for. And as he finished reading his report, he could tell that behind that stony, black-eyed gaze, a rising wrath smoldered.

"...and finally, Fort Denzil was attacked three days ago by a raiding party again belonging without a doubt to the alleged Orcish Horde. The raid was successfully repelled, but the fort lost more than half of its strength in the battle." He rolled up the last scroll and handed it to the king.

Greymane barely glanced at it. Strong-faced, with a strong jaw, large nose and piercing eyes, he looked more like a face carved in granite than anything else. But anger was present behind the calm. It showed in the slight tightening of his lips, the rigidity with which he took the scroll in hand.

"That's the third attack in twenty days." he said at last.

"Yes, Highness."

"Do you think there will be more to come?"

"Doubtless, Your Majesty. This - Horde - seems intent on overrunning both the eastern and western continent at the same time."

"That is not what we had planned, Veredar." was the almost angry response from the middle-aged ruler as he nearly - but not quite - flung the scroll with the others which had been given him on his private desk.

The royal advisor hesitated barely a second before answering. Even here, inside the king's private study, protected by the strongest and most loyal knights of the realm and buffered by permanent spells laid out by Genn's grandfather's order, walls still had ears sometimes. And Dalaran would love to hear anything of what they had had in mind when Gilneas had refused to join the ranks of the Alliance.

The plan had been laid out from a logical viewpoint - that if this Horde had truly taken Azeroth - that alone had been hard to swallow for all involved - that it would move north, crushing or ignoring the dwarven realm of Ironforge, cross the Land Bridges and attack from there. The war would then be fough mainly over Stromgarde, and that meant most armies and fleets would have been pulled out from the west to combat the threat. The drain would have left Dalaran's eastern territory nearly unguarded, and the reach iron hills it contained would have been a nice addition to Gilneas' rising empire. After this act, Gilneas would have sent some troops to the front to help the Alliance. As the war would have probably be waning by then - Azeroth having taken five years to fall, it was confidently assumed the entire human realms would easily crush the threat. So their Army would have been mostly intact, and object as they might, the Kirin Tor would be too weak to fight, and the other nations to busy to rebuild to heed their protests.

It had been a good plan. Logical and cold, perfectly organized. But it hadn't worked out as it had been envisioned.

The Horde attacked both east and west, hitting both sides with an enduring strength that led many to think it might have been more powerful than they had thought. Oh, the battles on the shores hadn't been very big yet, but they were frighteningly frequent, and Gilneas, a near-island, had been swarmed as well. Their armies could manage the raids for now, of course, but the strain was starting to be felt. The fleets were largely unchallenged as of yet, but they couldn't be everywhere at once, and so they protected the seas near Harpgate and the other main ports of the kingdom. And as for the east, well... a large Stromgarde - Kul Tiras defense was gathered near the Land Bridges, but even though it was certified that the men gave as good as they got, the Horde had the advantage of numbers, and their tactics were becoming extremely daring in that area.

In short, and despite the wishes of many, the northern continent entire was now at war. Gilneas, for all its ambitions, couldn't stay away as more and more voices called out from nobility and peasantry alike to take up arms alongside the other human nations.

It was those thoughts which motivated Veredar to speak at last. "That is true, milord, but we must also consider..." a flat wave for silence stopped him short.

"I know what you are about to say." Greymane stated "And I admit I am torn between realities. I know our armies aren't strong enough to hold off the attacks indefinitely by themselves, and that Alliance help has a good chance to help us. But I also know some Kingdoms will make things nearly unbearable for us, with Kul Tiras and Dalaran being those most insufferable." He seemed about to say more, when the door to the study opened with a slight creak. Both men turned in surprise and indignation, but quickly calmed as they saw who it was.

There stood Mariella Vern Greymane, Queen of Gilneas. Stately and refined, she was also astoundingly frail of health, and often took to bed when fatigue overcame her. Such a slight illness had taken hold of her in the last two days, and it was a wonder she was on her feet, a fact strengthened by the slight swaying of her step as she glided towards them.

Greymane rose from his chair while Veredar bowed, and stepped toward his lady with a curious but almost tender look. Mariella was one of the few who had ever broken through the King's cold feelings. He took one of her hands and put the other on her shoulder.

"My lady, you should be resting." he stated in a far less flat tone than he usually did. "What has you about?"

The queen, for all her frail health and appearance, wasn't weak of spirit, and her voice showed the strength she often hid within. "I was aroused by two of our maids talking of rumors. They made me uneasy. Is it true war has embraced the entire world?" the stare which followed reminded both men that this woman could detect a lie a mile off - and Veredar couldn't help but shift slightly.

The King, for his part, did not even attempt to deny the truth. He nodded. "There is hope however. Lordaeron and Azeroth have banded most nations together. We are the last holdout."

"And why is that, my Lord?" was the soft but pointed question.

"I am uncertain this land would be given fair treatment. We have enemies, some of which are very powerful. Yet, in truth, I see that reality demands unification. I am torn."

"Kul Tiras will undoubtedly try to move against us to retake the sea power His Majesty wrestled from them, Highness." Veredar supplied.

There was a moment's silence, as the Queen looked at the King calmly. Veredar had always found them both admirable in their own way, and seeing them together, seemingly having an entire conversation by looks alone, was always overwhelming to those who had never seen the scene. Even he, with his long years of service, was astounded by the way this royal couple overshadowed the previous one.

A soft smile crossed the woman's face. "In any situation there is an advantage, if one is patient enough, do you not think so, my heart?"

Answering grin burst from the coldness, and Genn Graymane grinned. "As always, my Queen, your words are the wisdom I need." he answered, kissing her hand gently.

Veredar felt he was no longer an existing being as far as the two were concerned. A fact he found solidified as his liege looked at him in confusion for a moment. Then determination set in.

"I will walk the Queen back to her private chambers." he stated, the cold fully returned "Meanwhile summon the ambassadors from the Alliance. I sense we will have much to discuss." With the Queen at his side, he made for the door. Veredar scrambled to open it, annoyed that his liege rarely let any maid or servants tend to him in this room.

However, before the rulers of Gilneas walked outside, he felt compelled to ask one last question. "Forgive my impertinence, my liege. But what, in short, will this nation do?"

The king never even looked at him as he answered. "We will join them. We will fight alongside them." A moment of silence, and then, one last sentence whispered so that only the queen and he could hear. "And when opportunity arises...we will strike."

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Summer 590, Council Hall, Quel'Thalas

The Felderess'thas Karei, the Council Hall of Silvermoon, had stood for nearly six millennia, forged from the labor and dedication of the splintered elven population which had shunned - and been shunned by - the elves of Kalimdor. It was a long time standing there, even by elven concept, and Illadan had always been amazed by the sheer grandeur of its massive chambers of marble, its magically maintained fountains and the treasure of art and culture found hung on its walls, engraved and shelved in great libraries of knowledge, and depicted in paintings moving to the heart. The chamber in which he stood seemed like a dome carvern of magnificence, with the ceiling hidden by great lights and the walls engraved in pure magnificence. Even born to the highest blood and leader of an house of no small importance, he usually felt dwarfed and humbled by the mere sight of the estrade with the benches filled by the most prominents of the High Councilors. Here was the heart of Quelloren, the capital of all High Elves, the center of Quel'Thalas.

But Illadan wasn't feeling awe of humility as he stood facing the most influential elves in the nation. Rather, he felt a rising impatience that he desperately tried to quell. The place had been built to last by their ancestors, but these ancestors had known how to fight, and when it was time to stop considering an action and do it. But the two and a half millennia of peace, he was starting to sadly suspect, had made them inflexible, arrogant, and more than a little cold. Checking a sigh of frustration, it was all he could do not to glare at his interlocutor.

High Councilor Fenna, seated on a bench which arose from the lot without really seeming to, was old even by their standards, and yet only her hair, white as snow, betrayed the fact that she had headed the Council for nearly two centuries of time. Slim and long-fingered, face beautiful and utterly neutral, she regarded him much like one would do a wall, but speaking in a tone that made one aware of who she was.

"We have heard your report on the Horde, Lord Illadan." she said coolly "But you will forgive me when I say the proof you have given us is rather insufficient for the endeavors you wish our people to undertake."

"In what way, if I may ask?" he shot back, a little more fiercely than he would have liked to. Councilor eyes frowned at his ever so slight lack of respect, but he cared little. He knew what they faced, he knew the dangers, he had been in the field with the rangers. If he had to shake this Council of old ones, that was exactly what he would do.

If Fenna heard the sting in his voice, she did not react to it. "You say you believe the humans are presently facing an enemy to which even their combined strength might not be enough to repell. You say these orcs had allied themselves with Zuljin - a thousand curses on his name - and that we, consequently, should send most of our armies to these fronts, as well as most of our fleets, to unite to combat this common threat. Have I correctly summarized your thoughts?"

"To a very large extent, lady, that is indeed what I think, and I implore this council to consider it."

Another councilor raised her hand slightly and all focused on her. "Lord Illadan, is it not true that you barely saw any of this Horde beside the group which captured you?" a slight emphasis on the word 'capture'. He did not rise to the bait.

"You are absolutely right, Councilor. However, common sense, my own findings while a prisoner and that which I understood from my captors led me to believe that the Horde is a more then genuine threat which must be dealt with immediately." He took a deep, calming breath. 'They aren't going to like this part.' he thought. "Furthermore, I have had the chance to speak with trustworthy humans which have given me the certitude that -"

A rap interrupted him, and he saw Councilor Ulizar, nearly as old and influential as Lady Fenna herself, interrupt him in an agitated speech. "You seem to forget yourself, Lord Illadan. To take what humans say at face value is madness. Treachery is ever bred in that race, and they would do anything to get us into their wars." his tone picked volume "No, ever since the humans of Arathor made those fool mistakes which nearly brought disaster upon us all, we have stayed away from their affairs. I think we would do well to continue to do so."

There was a definite murmur of assent from the assembly, and Illadan bit back an angry retort. He knew that the elves had been saved by the humans of Arathor, a fact conveniently obscured and forgotten where elves forgot nothing. Lashing out would only made things worse, and he realized, to his horror, that his life on the frontier, fighting trolls and the occasional human - or elven - brigands as a ranger had made him lose touch with this world of intrigue and cold facts, where words imported more than action. His spirit was deflating at his impending failure, when a voice rang out and captured the attention of all.

"Lord Illadan, wasn't the man you talked to a Knight of Azeroth, of the Brotherhood of the Horse?" the voice belonged to Einene of the Caralle Clan, one of the younger Councilors present. With a perfect face, golden hair that seemed to shine, she was a marvel of beauty even among elven women, and her blue eyes demonstrated not only her intelligence but also her penchant for unorthodoxy. She was looking at him directly, and offering him a way out.

At once he realized what it was, and took it up desperately. Of course, it was so simple! He HAD been away from the Council too long. "Indeed he was a Knight of Azeroth. And one of the other humans I spoke to was a Cleric of Northshire, both of which recounted the events which finally convinced me and the recon force."

That wasn't the exact truth. He had spoken to Lord Aerth Swiftblade - a man lacking in noble etiquette, but possessed of a tactical mind he had soon found astounding - but the cleric had only talked to him about healing flesh wound he had received. Still, what the council didn't know, it wouldn't mind. And he knew that the Clerical Order of Northshire was one of the few human orders which even the elven nobility respected - albeit grudgingly. Silence reigned for a moment, and, before anyone could find a way to rebuke his arguments once more, he plunged into an improvised speech, charging as he would in a battle.

"Members of the Council, I am certain you all know about the increased raids upon our villages and even on some of our larger holdings. They are still far from the hart of our realm, but if this keeps on, who knows? Now, these forces wouldn't be attacking us so relentlessly, losing many of their numbers, if they didn't have some means by which they would believe they would prevail." he swallowed nervously, fumbling for words which might convince them all of the danger. "The Horde is supposed to have hundreds of thousands of warriors. If they overrun the humans holding the line right now on the Thandol Valley, what will we do, weakened by endless troll attacks?"

One of the Councilors spoke suddenly. "You are, in short, asking us to send help as a preventive measure."

That wasn't what he wanted at all, but if it achieved his goals, he would do anything. "I believe so, Councilor. And for that we need to send our armies to the front, join this Alliance and give resources to keep our realm safe."

"Our fleets as well, you say."

"Especially our fleets." and for good cause: the Silver Fleet was the largest in all the realms this side of the Great Sea, surpassed only by the Island-Kingdom of Kul Tiras. It was enormous next to what the Trolls might offer the Horde, he was fairly sure of that.

"Another councilor seemed about to speak, when Fenna, who had calmly listened to the proceedings, calmly raised a hand. Calm and silence enveloped the room immediately.

She eyed Illadan with a stare which nearly transfixed him, but he didn't quail, didn't quaver. He knew his arguments were sound, he knew he was right. He met her stare frankly, and was surprised when a smile flickered on her lips a bare second.

"You are certain of yourself? You think we should speak with the Alliance leaders and arrange to merge our forces?" she asked neutrally.

He nodded quickly, trying to restrain the sliver of hope he was feeling. "That is the only thing which might save us from this Horde."

For a moment, silence seemed to fill the entire world. The tension the ranger-lord felt cut have been cut with a knife. If Councilor Fenna decided to take his requests, the rest of the Council would follow. If she didn't, he would never be able to convince them. All of this hinged on her decision. So nervous did he become, he almost forgot to breathe. He watched her in expectation, and he felt the entire realm was watching at that moment with him.

And then, slowly, carefully, she gracefully nodded to him.

And his spirit soared in the same instant

* * * * * * * * * *

Autumn 590, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde

They had to hold until winter. No matter what happened, they simply HAD to hold.

These thoughts had plagued Jennala Ironhorse since the first engagement she had commanded against the Horde, and each time, it seemed just a little more desperate, a little more out of breath. Like her spirit was winding down at seeing the facts of the past seasons, the toll in lives even she had been unable to curb, the lowering of troop morale. They had to hold, but her mind plagued her with two words: Could they?

Could they?... Words no one would ever have thought General Ironhorse, heir to the powerful military house of Ironhorse, the Maiden-General of Stromgarde, would ever entertain, least of all herself. But as she looked at the battle around her, she couldn't help but wonder of it despite herself.

The Horde army had struck her forces - the Seventh Stromgarde, augmented by surviving regiments from the Third Kul Tiras - hard five days ago, with a force nearly twice her own. Luck and tactical sense had made her manage to pull her army right on a steep hill during that first day of battle and hold off the enemy troops until night fell, allowing her to dig herself in. They had had the high ground from then on in. And it just wasn't quite sufficient. None of what she had done, that the other generals had done, that King Thoras himself had done, had kept the realm safe.

Below her stretch in a half-circle, men in armor, wielding maces, lances and swords were meeting yet another rush, while Stromgardian mages cast the odd spell here and there to offset the balance, and Knights in heavy armor rode to and fro smashing at orcs, trolls, and those huge beast which resembled two-headed ogres, strengthening any gap in their defenses. The men - and also a few women - were fighting with determination and a courage that seemed only heightened by the situation, a pride instilled in all of those who fought the Horde, be they from Stromgarde or Kul Tiras, enlisted or mercenary, veteran or green. They all had the same message: I'm not going to break down in front of the greenskins.

And so, every time the Horde climbed that hill, they were violently pushed back down by spell and steal. Orcish blood soaked the hill, and the gore and reddish slime was on each and every soldier present. The Horde soldiers may be savage and possess an incredible brutal power, but it found its match and more in human stubbornness. The lines held.

"Very stiff resistance we're putting up, aren't we?" came an even, strong voice from behind her. She didn't even turn back to see who had spoken. Of the knights and honor guard around her, only one would ever speak to her in such an offhand manner.

She nodded in agreement. "Yes, we are at that, Danath. But if this goes on too long, we will have to abandon this position. And if we do that..." she fell silent.

The black bearded militia captain stomped beside her horse, his large shoulders set stiffly, the man's eyes determined despite the fact it was clear he understood only too well. After the catastrophe at Dun Modr and the Horde taking the Land Bridges, the Alliance had done all it could to prevent the Horde from getting any more ground, from getting out of the Thandol valley and into the richer lands of Stromgarde. Conscription had been stepped up, and they had better knowledge of the terrain, but even then, they were BARELY holding on. Any army breaking before winter, before they could reorganize themselves and bring in reinforcements from elsewhere might prove utterly disastrous.

Jennala refused to let herself think beyond that, covering her self-doubt under a layer of iron. Whatever happened, they wouldn't budge from here.

They couldn't. Not until winter came.

Another wave of Horde troops started climbing the hill in an ever-tightening half-circle, their warcries echoing in the distance. On the high grounds, the Alliance forces answered with their won, egging the orcs forward, into the deadly forest of swords and lances sticking out, ready to deal a grim punishment. In moments the armies met, and Death once again took its eternal reward from the field. At least they hadn't brought catapults in yet.

"Send the six battalion to cover the left flank!" Jennala shouted precise orders to the messengers gathered near her. "You, have the knights cover that breach at the center! Danath, take a few of your men and go help reinforce them. Right wing - what by the Light?!?" Her sudden gasp caught everyone short, and the confusion only grew when she turned to a aide and snapped. "Geras, a Gnome Sighter, now!"

It took only a few moments to get her the sight-enhancing cylinder. She put it over her eyes and stared out the magnifying glass thoughtfully. There...behind the central Horde lines...sudden confusion. Orcs scattered in surprise. An army of small people cutting a bloody swath, some hefting a flag that had...runes...that meant...!

"By the Light! A miracle is upon us!" she cried, scattering the wits of many a commander present by the suddenness of her announcement. "Messengers, here are new instructions. Tell the Knights, all of them, to strike at the center of the Horde lines, along with half the central units. The other half divide in two - even numbers left, uneven right, and once this happens, press forward with all strength. Move!" As the messengers frantically moved away, she turned to the Knights, officers and mounted Honor Guard staring at her. "Prepare for charge! We must seize this incredible opportunity now!"

They probably couldn't know what was going on, but she had long earned their respect, men though they were. They readied themselves within moment, and followed her as she rode, hefting a warhammer crafted so that she could heft it with her lesser strength and yet do as much damage as any mounted Knight.

Understating things would be to say that the Horde was caught off-balance. They had been pressing hard upon the troublesome defenders, and suddenly, an army had come on their rear, an army of plated, small people armed with sharp axes and heavy hammers. Small they were, but doughty. Confusion reigned as the Horde forces attempted to shift its attention, the grunts and Orgres going ballistic, disorder settling for a little while. Too long. For before the Horde commanders had managed to get over their surprise at the sudden appearance of a new enemy army, the humans struck from above with a strength born of anger, hatred, and a booming sense of hope.

The center forces of the Horde army found itself pressed back down from the hill, while behind, the new attack forces were clearly taking advantage of the orcish surprise. The central forces broke into smaller groups as confusion made strategy inadequate. The different battle commanders seemed either unwilling or unable to change their plans on the spot,and so, even though the humans were outnumbered, they started to tear through towards the new army, while the flanks pressed hard to keep Horde reinforcements from coming in. The battle was shifting quickly than most could adapt to it, but the orders the humans had received allowed them to circumvent this.

Jennala Ironhorse, however, had grasped the situation with the ease of someone bred and fed tactics nearly all of her life. She led the attack forces,spotting Danath with some militia, cutting down orcs and trolls at an incredible rate, while knights were busy crushing anything and anyone who came at them with hostility. The orcs suddenly broke in front of her, and she was faced with many other warriors. Short and bearded, powerfully built and arrayed in mail and plate, they carried axes or hammers nearly as big as they, and their banner, A grey stylized mountain with golden runes, swayed in the poignant wind.

She raised her warhammer, bloody as it was from the battle, in a salute to the one in front of the others, the one who seemed taller, and wielded both and axe and a hammer black with orcish blood. "Hail, dwarves of Ironforge! Your help could not come at a better time!"

The lead dwarf actually gave a laugh, his eyes alight with the sheer joy of battle. "Well, lass! I'm not too unhappy of that myself! General Helgar Flamehammer, of the Southern Army at your service! But lets not dally any longer, and talk again only when these overgrown goblins are put down for good! At them, lads!" And with this, he plunged back into the fray, his hammer smashing and his axe slashing both with abandon.

Without a shred of hesitation, she gave a signal herself, and the humans followed the dwarves right back into the battle. Death returned to take its souls.

But from them on, and for the first time in four days, the vast majority of these were orcish ones.

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Autumn 590, Stormwind Keep, Azeroth

In many ways, the once-proud Stomwind Keep suited Gul'Dan's purposes perfectly. Still retaining an air of glory despite its scorched walls and shattered towers, it sat near a great node of mystical powers, excellent for drawing energy. Furthermore, the place had been privy to one of the most bloody and savage combat that even the Horde had ever seen. The last bastion, the last city, standing uselessly defiant one last time, its last soldiers and knights fighting without pause to protect their fool King, giving ground only when all actions proved unnecessary. It had been a costly victory for the Horde, and many spirits and negative forces born of the violence and hatred of the battle. This was perfect for the necromancy needed for the task which Gul'Dan had before him.

Even though he didn't seem close to succeeding.

Wearing a scowl that made the necrolytes near him cringe, the greatest warlock the Horde had ever brought to bear glared at the slowly-rotting corpse in cloven armor laid inside the runic circle of power. The corpse belonged to one of the knights who had died fighting the Horde when they had gloriously taken the capital of the cursedly-stubborn humans. He had learned that the Knights of Azeroth were seen as the greatest warriors in the human world. Even the Knights of Lordaeron had never quite achieved their level of greatness. Which had pushed him to take corpses of Knights for his purposes.

Gathering his energies, drawing upon the forces of magic, Gul'Dan, Warchief of the Stormreaver Clan and former head of the Shadow Council, closed his eyes and began to chant.

"Gark narrakth-sarrakl liionem belra sarravan! Dish liionem belra kurruforkh!" he lifted his hands, feeling the necrotlytes taking up the chant rather than hearing them, as their powers - as great as could be found amongst Necrolytes, paltry compared to the Warlocks who had worked with him before catastrophe befell. He took their energies, channeling them into the Great Beyond, forcing his psyche and his gathered power against the barrier which separated the mortal world and the world of souls. He quickly found it, knowing it as quickly as he did. His voice rose to an high pitch "Kasdar kasdar-lor liionem belra faradon. Beyonfi gereta liionem belra geranom! LIIONEM BELRA HASHUR-KASDARR-LOR!"

He felt the barrier and pushed against it. And for the first time it seemed to yield ever so slightly, and he felt hope that this time it might, just MIGHT, be different. That today he would succeed after so many failures.

And then the forces he was pressing again surged with a force he was unprepared for in his moment of inattention. He felt like he was burning up, and he howled in pain, nearly blacking out. Painfully willing the pain away, however, he cut off his link with the magical nexus and growled and pain and hate-filled curse, smashing a nearby altar with a backlash of his power. The necrolytes seemed both disappointed and afraid, and they looked at him with varying degrees of wariness and terror. With an effort, he calmed himself.

"It did not work." he growled, his green-skinned face strained and twisted. His eyes still blazed. "Months and months of work, and nothing! Curse Doomhammer for putting me in such a position, curse him to the Beyond!"

There was the crux of the problem, in Gul'Dan's opinion. All had been well when the Shadow Council had ruled, keeping Blackhand the Destroyer as their puppet on an unstoppable course to greater and greater power. All through the war, they had been the driving force which had enabled the Horde to stand up to the admittedly potent human sorcerors and conjurers. He had known about Doomhammer. Trusted, wickedly brilliant, the orc had been a threat from the very beginning, but the fact was, he had his uses. The humans were stubborn and well-led, while Blackhand and Kilrogg Deadeye floundered in tactics far too simple for the Azerothians to turn. Doomhammer had the cunning to lead them to victory, and he had. Gul'Dan had planned to take care of him as soon as Stormwind fell.

Alas, during that time a terrible event had rendered him comatose. Doomhammer seized power, and killed all the Warlocks but Gul'Dan himself, forcing him from master to servant, something the warlock would never forget. Doomhammer would die for doing this to him. One way or another.

"Perhaps there might be something wrong with the formula?" one of the necrolytes, perhaps not understanding the expression on his face, and wanting to help. He wasn't in the mood for any kind of helpfulness.

"Don't be a fool! The formula was perfect! More than perfect!" he snarled, rounding on the orcish sorceror, who took a good step back. His temper was quickly back under control. "After all, it was one of Medivh's spells."

That alone was sufficient. Utterly crazy the human mage may have been, but he had been undeniably powerful. So powerful that even Gul'Dan had never wished to cross him, had even feared him somewhat. But even the strongest died when madness and arrogance held sway. Human soldiers attacked the mad sorceror in the last throes of the war, and managed to kill him. It had led to Gul'Dan's downfall. But it had also given him access to Medivh's immense magical resources and spellbooks. It was a mixed blessing if he ever knew one.

This wasn't helping. This wasn't calming him down. He had to think of other things to straighten his mind and banish the headache of this latest failure.

He started to think about his scheme to gain the power denied him for so long. Power which could be unlocked if he could gain access to the fabled Runestone of Caer Darrow of which Medivh had written of in very appreciative terms. A runestone of such power, it could infuse magic, even intellect, into any being. It was one of the main sources of Elven power. And he wanted that power for himself.

It hadn't been very hard to convince Doomhammer to agree to procure the Runestone for the Horde. Even though the Warchief of the Blackrock Clan and leader of the increasingly-fragmented Horde said that he didn't trust him, years of schemes and deceit had made Gul'Dan a master of words, and he had been quick to show, only slightly exaggerating, the threat the elves could be if Quel'Thalas wasn't immediately defeated, and the Runestone taken from them.

"It would be fatal if the elves gave that power to the humans, Warchief." he had said, knowing from Medivh's journals that the elves would never let humans even scent the stone. It had convinced Doomhammer, and he had sent his best commander to gather a large force, break through the Alliance - what a foolishly idealistic name - lines, and both take the Runestone and raze the elven realm to the ground.

The last news from the Stormreaver division he had sent to...assist...that strike force had reported that the army was nearing completion, and that soon they would cross the Land Bridges and storm through the humans. Then he could start to implement his plans...assuming this worked as well.

Which didn't seem to look too marvelous as yet.

He gestured to the necrolytes, who hadn't moved an inch, almost holding their breath so as to not disturb him. How he missed his warlocks. They had had real power, even though none had equaled him. And they hadn't been such whiners - arrogant when using their feeble necromancy, but sniveling as soon as one with power approached. Why, sometimes, he could have killed off the lot of them, so irked he could get with them at times. But killing the lot of them was...

Killing them was...

...actually worth thinking about! If they were filled with power, and he managed to have them give it willingly, and then used it to...it might work. It just might! He grinned at the necrolytes smugly, and they darted quick looks at each other, then back at him, uncertainty drawn tight on their faces.

"Take this-" he gestured to the corpse of the knight "-out of my sight. We won't need it yet. Not today." his smile widened, actually showing other teeth than his tusks. "Today we have another work to do. A great work. One that will end up serving the Horde." 'And serving ME before all else!' he though triumphantly. He almost laughed at the approval and excitement on their mugs.

"What will it take, Lord?" one, the leader, and one of the few whose power wasn't quite that pathetic.

"The entirety of the Necrolytes to assemble at my tower within three months."

"All of them?"

"Yes." he said mildly, yet excitedly "Only then will we succeed at our task." He never mentioned the price which would have to be paid. They would find out about it soon enough.

And whether they wanted it or not, they would pay it, paving the road to the power he craved, and would have. It was, after all, his destiny.