Chapter Five: Strategy and Hope...
Winter 591, Zul'Dare Camp, Near New Azeroth
The human scout let out a shrill, pain-filled scream as a hot brand was pressed with strength to his side, hissing a sizzling sound and filling the interrogation room with the smell of cooked meat. The human, young by the reckoning of his species, sobbed as the brand was pulled away. Naked, chained by his wrists to the wooden ceiling, he had endured hours upon hours of torture at the hands of the questioners. Beatings, burns, cuts, taunts, humiliation, everything had been mercilessly heaped upon him and the two other scouts which had been caught spying on the edge of their camp two days ago. Like the others, he had resisted long, telling them a version of the human commander's plans which was clearly a lie. One had to give the young ones credit - they certainly had spirit.
But they had all broken in the end, and the truth had started to flow from their bleeding, broken lips.
But Gorroth Bleedcut, who led the army amassing at Zul'Dare, wasn't one to take chances, and had decided to ask the prisoners once more. He sniffed at the new smell of sizzled meat and idly remembered that he hadn't eaten yet that day, but rapidly squashed the thought as inconsequential. He shifted his powerful bulk and bent to the smaller frame of the young human.
"Are you certain that you are telling me the truth? Is that what your General Swiftblade is planning?" he asked roughly, grasping the human's neck and forcing him to look at him. "This might be over much more quickly if all you say is the truth."
"Whu-what I said...w-what I seh-said is...all true, I swear!" the human whimpered, coughing blood. The eyes who looked back at Gorroth were panic-filled, guileless, and large with the realization that death was close to him. He didn't appear to be lying. In fact, he seemed to be saying only the starkest truth.
Gorroth looked at the head questioner with stern command. "Is this truth? Are they hiding anything yet?"
The questioner was smaller than the orc leader was - much smaller in fact. Skinny, with a face which seemed a cross between a human and a troll, he only went to the army leader's belt. It wasn't really surprising. The questioner was, after all, a goblin, a race which had allied itself with the Horde when it had crushed the dwarven forces and forced them to hide like vermin in the Forteress-City of Ironforge. They were a weak people, and their great numbers, it appeared, hadn't stopped the fact that they had been on the verge of being chased away from the mountains by the dwarves. Still, Gorroth never for the life of him would have liked being a prisoner of the goblins. Manic, reveling in violence, they always had a light in their eyes that spoke of a boundless lust to inflict pain. The eyes of the questioner were no different, and it always made him feel cold despite the horrors and battles he had seen.
The goblin waved his arms at the young human, who cringed back in fear. "Yes, yes, truth indeed. There's no lie here, no lie. They are telling the truth." he licked his lips, a gruesome wetting "They have no choice but the truth. We've burned away anything else."
Gorroth nodded to himself. "So, they are on an island to the west of us, preparing to strike against out fleet and incapacitate us." Not a bad little plan, and it might have made some real damage if they had been at the mercy of the Alliance cannons pummeling their naval facilities, hampering them.
However, the taking of these scouts - a stroke of luck since most of the Alliance spies were usually a slippery lot - gave his forces a definite edge. With this information, he could turn the tables one General Swiftblade. The Alliance army numbered only six thousand all told according to the little information his own spies had taken before being discovered or killed. He could crush this young upstart general and open the road to the consolidation of their military gains in Lordaeron.
"I still don't like it." said a very deep voice behind him. He turned, and wasn't surprised when he saw the slightly younger form of Hirik Crackskull looking at the bleeding, agonizing human dubiously. And with an hint of disgust. Where the disgust usually would have been directed to the human himself, in Hirik's case, it was directed at the wounds and burns, and the putrefying wounds and filth. The younger orc was very direct in showing his disgust at torture. And Gorroth knew better than to tell the younger one that this displeased show was misplaced.
After all, Hirik was the son of Wreld Crackskull, a skilled and respected Blademaster who had given all of his knowledge to his son. And with the knowledge and battle skills had come the insufferable Blademaster sense of honor. It radiated from every pore of the orc's being. But however much it rankled at times, Gorroth never said or did anything about it, because Hirik was intelligent and lacked the ambition to replace him. A very good second-in-command.
This time, however, the musings irritated him. "You haven't liked this situation since it began, Hirik." he growled "What don't you like about this THIS time?" He knew there was an edge of exasperation in his voice, but he couldn't help it. His tone, as usual, seemed to slide off Hirik. Blademaster focus - another insufferable thing that had to be lived with.
"I don't know...It seems...wrong somehow."
"You will have to be more specific." was the dry reply.
Hirik actually scowled for a moment, then shook his large, angular head. "I can't be, lord. I just think that we're missing something. Somewhere. About this impending battle. The problem is, we might realize it only when we have our nose deep in the dunk."
Gorroth grunted, letting go of the human scout, who slumped. "Great phrasing, and ominous insight. But that doesn't help us. We'll be careful with our plan, but we can't allow the Alliance army to remain in the area. We must clear it out and reinforce the strike forces at Hillsbrad and Southshore." he paused and gave his second a level look "You have read the messages just like me - you know how much this is necessary."
From the grim look he gave, Hirik showed that he indeed knew quite well. The attacks on Hillsbrad and Southshore had been staged exactly when the Azeroth armies were far from their cities, garrisoned only minimally, and thus opening the way for the taking of two main ports. Doing this would insure the Horde a firm foothold into Alliance territory, and would also prevent the western troops from lending their strength on the much-hotter eastern theatre of conflict. However, even though the populations had been evacuated and parts of both cities set ablaze, the smaller garrisons were surprisingly holding their ground. And the Azeroth Armies, having received messages asking for help, were surely already marching to push the invading forces back. If Gorroth didn't send troops by the end of the week, the two Alliance cities would be retaken, and their chance to open a second front wasted.
He couldn't allow it. Wouldn't allow it.
The human prisoner groaned in pain, and the army leader turned an irritated look towards the battered prisoner. "It appears the prisoners won't be of any use to us after today. Kill them." he took in the look of terror in the human's eyes, the look of undisguised disgust Hirik wore, and most of all the sheer twisted delight which lighted the goblin head questioner's eyes. "No torture. A quick, clean death." He turned before the goblin could react and motioned to the other orc. "Come, walk with me."
They walked through the immense Zul'Dare base, taking in the multitudes of grunts cooking, eating or fighting, the bang of steel from the smith, the sulfurous odor from the foundries and the stench coming from the many meat enclaves where they kept pigs and other food sources. The Zul'Dare army wasn't great comparewd to those stationed on the frontlines in Stromgarde, but it still represented the bulk of Horde forces in the east. With the Eastern Alliance Forces engaged and the west preoccupied, this was the time for Gorroth Bleedcut to attain true recognition at last.
"I intend to lead ten thousand troops to take out the Alliance army nearby." he raised a hand violently. "That Swiftblade has just been promoted, which means inexperienced. No one can have a superior grasp of tactics that soon. We will surprise him and crush him for underestimating us."
He clenched his fist at Hirik, who nodded. Still dubiously, damn him to the Great Dark Beyond! That miserable youth still had something on his mind. "Hirik, say what you have to say, because you are starting to bore me with your insolence."
"Its not insolence, I was thinking about what you said, about no one having a superior grasp of tactics so soon after promotion..."
"And?" Gorroth asked, more than a trifle impatient.
Hirik gave him a level look. "I was thinking that, sometimes, there are exceptions. Sometimes, a general is great the day he begins to lead."
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 591, First Alliance Army Sea Base, Herallin Island
Jurin Halfadas wasn't one to let himself relax once the battle was engaged. He firmly believed in being ready for anything, at any time. He knew better than most the importance his fleet would have if Swiftblade's complex but encouraging plan was to work. So it wasn't with any good humor that he walked the hastily built anchorage for the fleet and saw many mariners sunbathing or playing cards. He knew the timetable, and was aware that the term 'relaxation' was to be firmly stamped out of these men until the battle was over, for good or for ill.
He walked to the men sunbathing and bellowed, making them all jump "Get your arses off those rocks, lads! I want you to go help with the rigging of the mast." his face became even sharper than ever when some appeared reluctant to move "Move! You're not a bunch of lizards tanning out, you lazylubbers! You'll get plenty of tan on the sea."
"But, cap'tn we just..."
"I don't give the slightest damn about what you 'just'. No more words! Move before I get you cleaning the lower decks!" he growled.
They didn't take it that well. Indeed there were many faces which looked quite murderous at being forced into hard and tedious work when they'd just finished doing work. But they responded with the usual, formal 'Aye Cap'tn' and went to work. That was all that mattered to him. If they wanted to begrudge him for being a hard mariner, let them. If that meant that more of his ships and sailors would survive the dozy they were about to face, he'd take it without the single flinch. The only thing which bothered him about the hesitation was that they didn't believe in him enough yet. And that could be disastrous.
Jurin sighed and shook his weary head, the brown locks flicking and rustling with the motions. He knew that he was young. Barely twenty-eight winters, and that was just two tendays before that his birthday was celebrated - in his heart as there was no time to bother with such things. The fact that he came from a long-lived family didn't help, the very possible rumor of a hint of elven blood in his immediate bloodline even worse. These all conspired to make him look even younger than he was - a green youth playing at being Fleet Captain.
He, for himself, knew that it wasn't so. He was a Kul Tiran, and a Halfadas, a family that had braved the seas at the command of the Proudmoore Kings ever since the nation had formed its powerful Navy three centuries past. Of course, none of his ancestors had ever held a rank as high as he did now, but the centuries of experience his father had taught him and his brothers meant that he knew more about the sea than most in the fleet. Consequently, he had been promoted to command of a small sloop at a very young age.
Still, he had been more than a little surprised when the new general, Aerth Swiftblade, had chosen him to lead his naval forces, over captains who had more experience with command than he did. He didn't know if it was because the two of them had a similar age, or whether it was because the new commander had seen something useful in him, but Jurin had decided that it just wouldn't do to fail in his new duties. He had confidence in Aerth Swiftblade somehow, the man seemed to know what he was talking about.
Now, he just had to make sure he could do his part.
He walked to the card players. "You four, go on the Saleba and install the new cannons we've received. We'll be needin' the added firepower sometime very soon."
The four looked at him with varying expressions of resignation and irritation, which irked Jurin although he didn't let his face show it. One of them went as far as to ask him, in a whining tone "Why us? We've just started this game here and -"
"And you'll continue that little game WHEN you have TIME!" he replied hotly, glaring daggers into them all "In case you don't know, this place is used as a makeshift stepping stone for a reason, and its not to fool around. Now go to your positions, mates, on the double!"
And one of them, instead of listening to his words, frown in a rather stubborn way and said hotly "Hey, now, our cap'tn said...!"
That was the end of it. For week,s he had worked to make this small fleet of twenty-three ships from Kul Tiras, Quel'Thalas, New Azeroth and Lordaeron work together as a well-oiled naval force, but all the time there had been frictions. Doubts between crews, between captains, and between the sailors and himself. Although he had thought he was being too hard on the whole group, the last comment made him realize that maybe he wasn't hard enough. Surprisingly, this didn't make him blow up like he had thought it would. Rather, it filled him with an icy calm that, from the way the stubborn sailor blanched, must have been seen in his eyes.
"Whatever your captain told you to do, I rescind at once." he said icily, in a voice rendered harder than stone by its very softness. "I am the naval commander and this army which means that the only one I answer to is General Swiftblade. Which, in turn, means I can give you the dirtiest job if you ever try to go around my orders. Is that quite understood?"
His look and countenance, this time at least, did the job. With muttered and hurried "Ayes!", they rushed off like speeding hares. He looked at them going for a time, then melted his icy composure. Another problem solved. When was the next? Being commander of a Fleet was a constant headache. He wondered how the admirals like Julius Xerrelli and King Proudmoore did to coordinate the immense sea forces at their disposal?
He continued walking on the planks for a while and remembered something his father had told him, when he had been just a boy of six summers. He had asked what made a man a great captain, and his father had smiled and whispered in a conspirational tone "The ones who can forget they are, lad. The ones who can forget they are."
He hadn't understood the sentence then, but it was much clearer now. It meant not to lose one's head, to stay the simple sailor he had been to begin with, only harder. Not to become the role, but stay the man. He had been doing well with that on his military sloop, but would it be enough here with an entire fleet?
Oh well, only time would tell him that...
There was a commotion behind him, and it seemed that it was directly heading his way. He turned in curiosity, and was surprised to see a sailor come towards him with a small paper. At the sight, his pulse accelerated. The bemused expression on the sailor's face was evident, and indeed the words on the carrier pigeon paper must mean little.
Except to those who knew the details of the plan. And he was one of the few who had many pieces. He walked to the sailor in restrained impatience, cursing the man for his hesitation. This wasn't the time to hesitate! Why were everyone around him showing such incompetent streaks?
The man started to say something about the message and not knowing if it would be of interest to him, but Jurin barely heard him. He almost clawed the note from the other and read the lines contained here with great intensity.
The message was simple and to the point: The enemy believed. Crush his faith.
He knew what those words meant. Had been waiting to read them with rising impatience. And now it was time to put the complex plan Swiftblade had come up with and told them of. He felt invigorated by the prospect. And also, more scared of failure than he had ever remembered feeling before.
But it wasn't time for him to start doubting himself: he had rowed too far into the waters to come back to port. He thus tore down the fear and self-doubt he felt and stamped on it in the recesses of his soul, covering the broken shard with the pride and determination his family had always been known for. He gave a look to the sailors nearby. The time for thinking was over. now was the time for action.
"All right, mates!" he bellowed in his loudest voice, making them all look at him no matter what they were doing. I want each and every captains here immediately so I may finally tell them Swiftblade's plan!" He swept a lean, athletic arm towards the ships anchored nearby. "To work lads. I want every ships on the sea in the hour!"
He grinned suddenly "We're going to kick the horde in the arse, lads! HARD!" he bellowed.
The men around him cheered at that, calling up oaths and shouting in delight, and all of them went to work to ready for the operations they would have to do before the fighting was over. Seeing them like this, ready to fight, made him wonder why he had ever doubted in his abilities. He would lead them no matter what it took.
And very soon, the Horde would learn never to underestimate the Alliance.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 591, Near the Zul'Dare Camp, New Azeroth
Polla Mendranon, former archer of the Third Alterac Army and now archer for the First Alliance Army, was having definite trouble to hold on to her temper. It wasn't that the ones near her were being that cold or condescending - well, they were, but she was used to that already, or that the situation she was in was in any way one which would get one angry, but she couldn't help herself.
After all, she was surrounded by elves, and she knew that nothing good ever came out of those people.
She secretly smirked in disgust as she saw some of them conferring between themselves, in the elven tongue - even their LANGUAGE seemed haughty and cold -, sometimes looking down their noses at one human who had the misfortune of coming into their line of sight. Arrogant people, who made the most extravagant and queer human seem humble and quaint. She knew what they thought - that there should be no human here in the archers, no matter if the General commanding the entire army was a human himself. Each time one of their faces mirrored such a thought, she found herself despising them all just a bit more.
She was certain that the one in command of the archers, that Ranil, thought the same thing, but he wasn't going to go against General Swiftblade when the man had made clear that everyone should be given equal chances. As if with elves! But the man had been sleek, he'd gone and selected her and sixty other humans to be part of the archery force - just enough so the general would be satisfied, not enough so his elven ways of handling things would be commented or discussed. No. Like all elves, the man wanted to lord it over the humans.
Her anger was getting her nowhere, and she tried to remind herself of the place she was in, that beyond her lay the lives of the people of two cities, and many more if they failed here. Or so the rumor had spread.
Their departure form the base camp had been sudden, and they had been given no information than to follow orders to the letter, in a stern little speech, from Swiftblade himself. She could remember him quite clearly. Tall, garbed in battle armor with a sword at his side, his brown-haired face looking at them with a frightening intensity as he gave his short orders, thereby giving Ranil full authority over a thousand archers. She had caught herself thinking that the man must have foolish streak in him, trusting an elf to what was, from what she could detect, an important phase in the coming battle.
They had gone in a few transports at night, in a lengthy voyage which had deposited them on the other side of the island where fifteen thousand orcs - fifteen THOUSAND - were massed. They had hidden in the forest since then, eluding the few patrols which rumbled past, living in fear of discovery, eating on the run, hiding in trees. A ridiculous endeavor. And all that time their DEAR commander Ranil had led them, with usual elven coldness, not sparing his contempt for those who slowed the archers down, until they had come to a sheer cliff twenty feet high, as slick and slippery as a marble wall. Arriving there, the word had passed quickly, and it had shocked her to the core of her being: When the signal comes, we climb.
Utter insanity. But what else could she expect from a bunch of arrogant, pride-blinded elf?
Her ever-darker musings were interrupted by a soft voice nearby, and she jumped, suddenly turning her head in the direction of the new voice.
"Heck, I didn't think I'd ever meet anyone hating field bread so completely. What's on your mind again, Polla?"
The voice got into the tree where she had hidden herself, and the black-haired, brown-eyed face of one Fand Gamonde looked at her with a bright, optimistic face. He was one of the sixty humans, and not an elf, for which she was grateful, but she had always felt slight distrust towards him. After all, the young man often talked to the elves, and seemed to be genuinely blind to the open contempt they gave him. She sighed, looking at the hard but filling piece of bread she was to eat as breakfast. After the little resumé of events which had gone on in her head, she didn't feel that hungry.
"Its nothing. Just thinking about some things." she said in a cold voice.
"I don't believe that one bit. You still look as if someone had assassinated your mother. Might I ask what it is that's bothering you?"
She smiled for a moment. Nothing if not persistent, that was the reputation Fand had quickly gotten in the archery section. When he asked a question, when he wanted to know something, he prodded and poked until the other person answered him or bit his finger. And in the case he would suck his finger and poke with the other hand. Fine by her. She felt she needed to talk anyway.
She searched for many ways of phrasing what she thought, but finally just muttered "We shouldn't be following that elf."
An instant of utter silence. "And why not? He's been leading us fine this far. A thousand of us and not a single Horde patrol saw us? That's quite a feat, and I know what I'm talking about." he said, his voice level. There wasn't accusation in his voice, or surprise. Just a mild curious tone, stating facts just as mildly.
She knew that he was right. Ranil may have acted like an usual elf bastard, but he had led them well, safe and sound, as deep into enemy territory as one could go. And she knew Fand knew what he was talking about. As a former Azerothian crossbowman, he had had more than his share of battles against the Horde menace, something that she knew she sorely lacked. Still, that wasn't enough to quell her.
"It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. He's an elf. And no human should trust an elf. They look at us and like to lord it over us!"
"I know Swiftblade trust Ranil. And I trust him too. I think you're saying these things without knowing the elves at all." was the reply, still absolutely placid and reasonable. It got her angry, enough that she raised her voice a little.
"Are you blind?!?" she hissed furiously "Thats nonsense. Elves think of humans as fools to be stepped on. I see their look when a human comes to talk to them. They reek of arrogance and scorn for us."
"Their looks might. But not their words."
"What does -"
"You've watched their faces, but you've never gone and talked to them." he interrupted her more sternly than he had been until then, his eyes level and not very warm, she noticed. "In fact you've taken great pain to talk as little as you could to them. That way you've never seen that underneath that mask of contempt, that coldness which largely comes, whether you believe it or not, from the fact that elven faces aren't nearly as expressive as ours, that many of those 'haughty' elves were very nice chaps."
She couldn't help but humph in disbelief at that, and it made his voice go from stern to downright cold. Obviously, seeing her do this had torn a hole through his patience.
"All right. Now I see what I couldn't see before."
"You see nothing."
"I see a damn whole lot, on the mark!" the sharpness of his rebuke stilled her voice for a second. "You don't WANT to talk to them. You don't want to test whether the elves are what they are, because you've convinced yourself of that. Here's my advice: change. Because these won't be the last elves you'll see, the last elves you'll work with. If we're to beat the Horde, we're going to need the kind of archers and ships and sorcerers they can provide. I just hope you realize that and heed my warning. Or else go get yourself killed. The Alliance doesn't need ignorant bigotry." And with that, before she could open her mouth, he vanished.
She stayed there, seething, for a long time, her bread forgotten on the branch she was hanging from. How dare he, that, that...! That damn man had no right to talk to her like that. If he was that blinded, it was his choice not hers. She knew she was right. She knew that the elves were just arrogant, overbearing bastards. Right?
Right?
Strangely, the question tormented her immensely. And it was in this mood, with this sudden nagging doubt, that word came to her that it was time to climb.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Winter 591, Near Baldrock Island, Near New Azeroth
Gorroth Bleedcut felt rather elated at the prospect of the battle which would rage ahead of him as he saw the island and could almost feel the thousand of Alliance troops entrenched there, so confident that they could spy an Horde base without any kind of reprisal. Five thousand troops, the scouts had said there were, five thousand who wanted to go up against his fifteen thousand. Gorroth didn't know if he should bow before the human general's courage or laugh at the human's blatant stupidity.
He stood at the forefront of one of the large horde transport ship, a ship with very little armoring which was made more for transport and troop size than comfort. Twenty such ships, looking like rotted bony turtle shells, were carrying an enormous load of troops, all in all over nine thousand grunts and over eight hundred trolls. Surrounded by twenty fighting ships - two third or so of his fleet, he felt confident that, when sundown came, he would be feasting on the bloody, rotten corpses of the small Alliance forces who had dared to go against them.
And then, he would send his forces to reinforce the failing fools who couldn't fully take Hillsbrad and Southshore, and the Horde would cramp the Alliance before it even became a true threat.
As he rehearsed his invasion plan, the ship's captain tapped on his shoulder, and he turned to the smaller grunt. The orc, who had one broken tusk, bowed roughly and quickly. "Lord, the ships up front signal a few human and elf ships are near."
His pulse quickened. "Have they seen us?" he demanded loudly.
"They did, lord. But the ship sent that they think they can be catched and sunk before they go and alert the humans."
Gorroth considered quickly. He planned to overwhelm the humans with numbers, catching them unawares. Although he was sure that his forces would prevail in a true engagement, the troops he would be able to send to the two cities might not be enough then. He simply couldn't take that chance.
He nodded and flung a meaty, muscular arm wide. "Tell the shiplord he has my permission to pursue. Tell him no ship is to escape!" the other bowed and left, shouting to the ones who were the flag messengers.
He forgot about the matter of the ships as he saw the island come closer. Finally, battle loomed on the horizon. As the human encampment had been erected on the northwestern side of the small, wooded island, they had decided to come from the northeast, where the humans wouldn't have been expecting them to land. As he obliquely saw the fighting ships break formation and cruise after the cowardly-fleeing enemy, he settled back and waited for the landing.
The landing went smoothly, and the transports, hugging close together very near the shore, disgorged its green-skinned, armed and armored scourge of destruction. Shouts were uttered - of challenge, of cursing, or just of groaning from having to stand up on a deck for so long. Those shouts were quelled abruptly by the unit leaders, sometimes quite brutally. They couldn't raise a ruckus after so much trouble. And ten thousand orcs could raise quite a ruckus!
Once order had been regained, and the authority of the strong fully reestablished, the army organized into ten long and rough lines, with the trolls spread out equally. Barely containing the bloodlust and excitement for battle he felt surging within him, he gave the order to advance. The army immediately, enthusiastically lumbered forward.
It was only after two miles of careful walking through the woods that the orc leader noticed something quite odd. There was absolutely no sound. No that it meant none from the surrounding animals, but rather no background noise which told of habitation. He saw the smoke of many fires, ever-nearer, but he heard no distant activity. Six thousand people couldn't be that silent. Something cold and unusual catching hold of him, he ordered a running pace through the woods, casting prudence to the winds. The noise of armor, of cursing and shouting which ensued was ever-greater, and yet from the other side - no reaction! Worry finally gripped him at that realization, mingled with fury at what he was starting to suspect.
It couldn't be! No! He refused to believe it!
But when he arrived, seconds before his vanguard troops did, he could only skitter to a stop in a shock in which amazement hadn't a great part to play in.
Strewn about the field were bonfires, dozens of them, surrounded by stones to prevent any kind of fire taking the surrounding wood. The plain was great, wide, and green, and would certainly have been perfect to lodge an army of many thousands. The problem was, that the plain stood empty, devoid of any people, any tent or equipment. Only the fires remained, and those had certainly been set off an hour before. Even the few who had been sent to light them were long gone...
The Horde army rushed into the plain, many going a hundred meters farther than he did in their blinded bloodlust before realizing the obvious: there was no army here. There never had been an army here, and the only army present on this island was their own. When that realization sunk in, questions and curses flew to the winds.
"By the Spire, where in Blackhand's name are they?!?"
"There's no one here!!"
"Did they just made fools of us??!??"
He didn't know who said that last sentence, it might have been anybody and he couldn't tell in the confused mesh of bodies and shouting, but the sentence struck him, coalescing the feeling which had dwelled for a good few moments in the pit of Gorroth's guts. 'But how can this be? The spies we caught were telling the truth! No one can survive goblin torture without giving away information!' an then a terrible thought struck him 'Unless...he lied to them? To his own people? To let us believe...'
Suddenly the pieces came together from this. The Horde forces taking the majority of its land forces from the Zul'Dare base, driven to an island where no one dwelled. Alliance ships fleeing the scene, provoking the fleet into pursuing - and succeeding because of his confidence he was on the island were the human forces were stationed. Grimly, and with rising wrath and fear, he saw another element that the pursuing Horde fleet had left vulnerable. If those human ships hadn't been fleeing, then...
One of his group leader came to him, his brutal face a mask of worry and questions. "Lord, I don't understand. Where...?"
He didn't get to finish his question, for at that moment Gorroth straightened up and bellowed his rage, making many stagger back from the sheer indignation of the cry. He didn't explain himself, didn't issue orders. He ran back the way he had come, his great bulk scattering lesser grunts as he passed through his own ranks, and into the forest. Behind him was confused pandemonium, but he didn't care. Driven by intense fury, he ran the miles like an orc possessed by a wind spirit, reaching the shore where the transport ships waited for the return of the great strike force.
Or, rather, were they had been supposed to wait. No sign remained of any, of their crew, of the ships. The shores were bare and tranquil, and it was at that moment that he finally understood what the commander of the human forces, that Swiftblade, had in mind.
The humans general had lured them here, not to participate in a glorious, bloody fight but rather...
"To remove our numbers from the fight!!!" he growled "Damn you human! Damn you to the beyond for this!"
He had seen the trees which made up the woods of the island. Frail trees, excellent for fires, but impossible to use as building material. And even when if they managed to make a raft, it would take time, and the battle would be over. And that meant that Alliance ships would be waiting to pick off each small raft one after the other, until his force was destroyed.
There was no way around it: his own self-confidence had stranded most of his forces away from any fighting.
Gorroth bellowed his rage, not caring that other Horde troops were now coming, confused, to check after him, and were probably staring in shock at their predicament. He threw his axe down on the soft ground, where it lay with a thump. An d as he bellowed in anger and outrage, a sentence made its rounds through his being, a sentence a younger, and now evidently wiser, orc had uttered.
'Sometimes, a general is great the day he begins to lead.'
He had found, much to his shame, that it was true with the human general named Swiftblade.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 591, Near Zul'Dare Camp, Near New Azeroth
It took heart and dedication to inspire men to fight, and possibly die, for you. That knowledge wasn't new to the one named Aerth Swiftblade. However, it was the first time, then and there, walking in front of the ranks without his helmet, that he fully felt that pressure for the first time.
He knew he shouldn't be joining this battle, even dressed and armored as a common footman. As the General of the First Alliance Army, he should have stayed behind the lines with a small guard, watching from afar to see if his plan would come to fruition or not. However, in this, the first great battle he had orchestrated, he wanted to be more than the man making plans and barking orders. For better or for worst, he wanted to be part of this battle.
Swiftblade continued to walk towards the center of the lines, saluting the soldiers lined there, some of them old veterans with a grim face, others young recruits who were trying hard to be brave-looking. He saw the light in their eyes as he passed and knew that, if nothing else, the knowledge of his presence on the battlefield would raise troop morale. With a brief grin, he came to stand right next his infantry commander, Kelnam Pedran. The old soldier looked at him in plain disapproval, but instead of voicing yet one more protest, he pointed to the Horde camp.
"They're coming." he said simply.
He looked himself, shielding his eyes from the morning sun, and nodded. "Alright. They're preparing to throw us out. Good. That's what I would do. They've got the better knowledge of the terrain and being on their home ground gives them the morale boost. If it wasn't for the fact that we have a little surprise stashed for them, they could break us and drive us back to the transports."
They had landed on the southern shores of the island, killing an orc patrol before the orcs in it quite knew what was happening, and then gone through woods which had been greatly cleared by the base's peons, scattering the poor souls and making as big a commotion as they could. The challenge was clear: face us or be branded as cowards. He had fought enough battles in the First War to know the Horde on one point: it was certainly arrogant. An hour later, he had seen the base's garrison begin to form lines. Surprisingly well-disciplined ones at that. The one commanding was certainly someone to be reckoned with.
"We go when the archers fire the second volley. Signal them." he said. Pedran nodded and gestured at two men besides them, who took poles in front of them and lifted a great black banner on which a white arrow was clearly sewn. The infantry commander raised his arm to give the signal to advance, as Swiftblade bore his vision on the advancing Horde army. It was near the cliff. Nearer...
"Steady..." he breathed, his eyes never faltering. The enemy was almost positioned. Moments passed, and creaks and fidgeting were heard behind him, and he stood like a tense, rigid bolt. At last his eyes flashed. "Banner down! Now!" he bellowed, and the banner went down as ordered.
Even nearly a mile away, they could see forms immediately standing on the top of the cliff. Ranil's archers, all with one shot ready, let loose hundreds of arrows before they were even seen. The Horde troops faltered, their formation buckling as many were wounded or killed by the mass of arrows. Projectiles went up the cliff in response, but they were few and disorganized, and it didn't stop the archers from nocking and letting loose another arrow shot.
As the shot went down, Pedran's arm came down, and all who hadn't drew their sword and hefted their shield. Ranks upon ranks, the footmen started to walk the distance, until they completely cleared the trees. Then they trotted, as the enemy was breaking up in confusion, trying to get to the archers . The front lines still held on to order, but even they wouldn't be enough. The men raised a battlecry, shill and deep voices crying for orcish and troll blood, and at last, utilizing the enemy's pain and hesitation and slammed hard into the forward ranks.
More than anything else, this time reminded the young general of a battle years past, when he had been just a fresh recruit and had had to fight his way out of the massacre which the Battle of Grand Hamlet had soon become. However, the fear he felt now, the sheer terror which coursed through his vein wasn't running wild. Five years of unending conflict as he fought for his home and what he held dear had hardened him, and the terror didn't control him. HE controlled it.
A grunt came at him to kill him, swinging its axe in a wide horizontal arc, its eyes shining a malefic light as a roar was uttered from its tusks-adorned mouth. Using life saving tricks he had learned long ago, Swiftblade connected his shield to the great axeblade, gritting his teeth as his arm was jarred painfully, muscles screaming. He held firm, however, forcing the swing to continue beyond the intended path, forcing the grunt to swing partly away from him. His sword immediately flashed out, plunging deep into the orc's side. Another roar was heard, and the wounded orc flung itself at him, almost taking Swiftblade's weapon.
The two engaged in a dance which was repeated thousands of times around the battlefield. He put his agility and superior training against the orc's greater reach and strength, his deviousness against its savagery and his armor and shield versus its very tough skin. He deflected a blow, riposted to it with his own, roaring his own fear and hatred, always on the move, always keeping the bigger opponent guessing. Unpredictable, he struck swiftly times and times again, even when he felt his shield being hit and his arm feeling as if it was suddenly on fire. He confused his enemy, blocked a blow aimed for his tight and, growling in beat-like anger, used his shield to snag the axe a second. The orc pulled at its axe for a moment, too enraged to see the danger, but recognition came a second before he struck the green-skinned head, ending the grunt's life in a shower of brains, meat and dark blood which splashed on him and his armor.
He didn't even look twice, turning around to see if other grunts or trolls were about to attack him. He quickly saw that it wasn't about to happen. The ploy had worked. From the cliff, archers took shots at clumps of orcs, while the footmen now seemed to outnumber their enemies. Here, a struggling footman was saved as another human soldier plunged his sword into a grunt's back. There, three human footmen were physically beating a grunt to death, glee plain on their faces. The enemy was in in complete disarray, and it only heightened the acts of malice, the terrible bloodshed. He had seen this many times, and yet had never truly gotten used to the sheer madness of battle. With no enemy nearby, he turned his face away from the worst of it in disgust.
Booms and thunderclaps made him look back quickly, towards the Zul'Dare encampment, where he saw that Halfadas and his small fleet were attacking the Horde fleet harbored there. That meant two very heartening things: they had stranded the main Horde forces, and the fleet which had escorted them had been led on a merry-go-round, right into a place where rocks were very deadly to the unwary. Or those blinded by bloodshed.
The noise finally started to drift away from him, as the Horde forces were pushed back and he lay still, He had killed only one grunt in this battle and he didn't mind that he wouldn't kill another. The Light knew he killed enough in the First War.
As he looked at the ever diminishing battle, the Horde fleet being torn to pieces in its harbor, he saw Kelnam Pedran approach him, his armor and blade slick from dark blood, a wrinkled grin clear to see on his old, tanned face.
"We have them, general!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "They're giving ground, and they'll soon be surrounded. This battle is soon to be over."
Swiftblade nodded wearily. "Our casualties?" he asked, although he could tell that few of the moaning or unmoving bodies were of the Alliance.
"Many hundreds sir, but not that many comapred to the number they lost. The archery attack did them in for us. Your strategy worked magnificently, sir!" and there was a note of respect, of earnest admiration in the old soldier's voice. But why wouldn't there be. His strategy had made his small army win against the odds, using a precise, clockwork method.
Swiftblade looked about the fast-quieting battlefield. Victory. He had lied to men, manipulated information, stranded thousands of enemy soldiers on an island with no food, risked everything on one battle, and had managed to win. The High Command would certainly be impressed. As for himself, he felt ashamed of himself for the ruthless actions he had undertaken.
And he was angry when a little voice told him that he had done the right thing, and furious when he believed it. Victory indeed...but at what cost!
He sheathed his bloody blade and turned his back on the carnage. He'd seen enough for one day. "Handle the rest of this, commander." he said dismissively "This battle is over as far as I'm concerned."
And without waiting for a reply, he started to walk back to the transports, trying not-so-successfully to quell the guilt he felt at the death his strategy had caused.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Spring 591, Near Hillsbrad, New Azeroth
Varien Wrynn felt rather good as he took in the scene before him. All around him, on a prepared clearing set with tents and proud flags, were a few of the most prominent military leaders of the Alliance, many of those, like Wrynn, sitting on the High Command itself. They, like him, wouldn't have wanted to miss this day, the day they properly thanked the General of the First Alliance Army, for his outstanding and unexpected victory at Zul'Dare.
From his position, Wrynn saw Anduin Lothar, resplendent in polished armor with the badge which proclaimed him the High General of Alliance Forces, and the carved, long staff he carried in his right hand, over Aerth Swiftblade's bowed head, telling of his position as Regent of Azeroth. Although he wasn't King Llane, he had the power to bestow ranks and gifts in the late sovereign's name.
"Aerth Swiftblade, son of Faldan son of Gerath," he was intoning gravely "By the powers which our beloved King passed to me here he fell, I bestow upon you the rank of Baron, and acknowledge you, from this day on, as a nobleman by blood, and no longer by marriage. From this day on, House Swiftblade will have its own banner to be proudly hung next to those of the proud names gathered here."
"I will work to be worthy of the honor you do me this day, Milord Lothar." Swiftblade answered, head still bowed.
Lothar smiled a nearly paternal smile. "Your actions and reputation make you twice worthy, Lord Swiftblade. Raise your head, and look at us as an equal."
Wrynn nodded at that. This was good. In fact, this was the least they could do for the man. He had pulled a victory when they expected him only to stall, and by that, had insured that retook Hillsbrad and Southshore. With a sigh, he looked to the east, where the city was plainly visible. It had seen better days. The Horde had ravaged the city with fire, burning more than half the city, and killing many cityfolk before the garrisons could mount effective defenses. For days the battle had raged, and many of the things the Azerothian refugees had built so well, so proudly and so fast, had fallen.
But Swiftblade's victory had bought them the time they had needed to push back the offensive. Without Zul'Dare as a stepping stone, the remaining forces had broken, and raids had almost stopped as Kul Tiras' naval power forbade that any new base be built.
"There is no doubt that we owe this man much. He will be a great ally, I feel." a voice said beside him. He turned his head to look into the solemn face of Uther Lightbringer. Dressed in the armor of a knight, Lightbringer looked much older than he had only a year before, a show of the many works he had done for the Alliance. And the many burdens he had taken.
"I agree, I agree." Wrynn answered, with a smile. "But we owe much to others as well, you more than most. How goes the building of the Order?"
The Order of the Silver Hand. The dream sparked by Uther's zeal and the great Archbishop Alonsus Faol's vision, had taken form after many months. They had carefully selected the purest, most pious, and bravest knights they could find, their standards unimaginably high, and had started something new, unthought of. An order of Knights wielding clerical powers. Just warrior who would be the symbol of mankind's spirit in both mind and body.
Built around on of Lordaeron's greatest churches, a training camp had grown up, with the Knights gathered there being trained in weaponry and, at the same time, trained to meditate, to focus and learn new powers, and to serve the Light. Many were unable to take the stress, the sheer demands the Order made. But some had. And they, like Uther, had become something else.
No longer were they Knights...they were Paladins.
"The Order is still small." Lightbringer answered "Only forty-six of the three hundred gathered at St.Lemuels Cathedral have become Paladins, but more Knights are responding. By the end of this year, I expect the order to have grown."
"You said it would be small..."
"And it will be. But I want at least four or five hundred Paladins as the core for the Order. We will dearly need them."
They stood in silence for a few moments, observing the ceremony and the people around them, each lost in their own thoughts. The Wrynn noticed something and grinned in a way quite unbecoming for a Knight of Azeroth.
"Feh. Lord Silphord Duraz honors us by his absence." he quipped.
"Not truly, surprising, considering he seems to intensely dislike the man the High Command is honoring today." he paused "I was truly surprised when you told me HE got Swiftblade that promotion."
"I have my own idea on this." the young knight told the paladin commander grimly "Remember that the army was untried, mismatched and small. Moreover, it was sent to a very hotspot to act as a buffer, nothing else. I think the good Silphord wanted to see Swiftblade lose face at least, or even..." he fell silent at that.
What was left unsaid was plain enough for Lightbringer. "By the Light! Why? There is no blood between them!" he seemed quite aghast, but Wrynn knew his friend was only speaking because he would never hate to hate. But he knew most weren't so pure. He didn't answer, only pointed for an instant to one in attendance. She was rather hard to miss.
Dressed in a fine deep green gown laced with silver, with her long, wavy and perfectly combed black hair, a feminine body which couldn't be hidden even by the cloak over her garment and a face knights would die for, Eira Fregar stood there, amongst the great generals and nobles of the realm, her eyes alight with excitement and pride. But not only this. In her eyes, every time she looked at Swiftblade, her husband, was the strong spark of love. Born and bred to marry a powerful noble, she had chosen the lowly knight who stole her heart. Romantic, very much so.
"But romance contains its fetid mound of danger, when you learn that Duraz wooed this woman and was rejected." Varien said, knowing his friend had been thinking much like him. The only sign that Uther Lightbringer understood the implications was the tightening of his lips and the darkening of his eyes, sign of contempt and disapproval. Wrynn shrugged. "However, we will need them both in the months - the YEARS ahead. The east might be made safe as we speak. However..."
However, the western theatre of conflict was far less impressive and encouraging. Although many generals had attempted and done the impossible in many battles, although the knowledge of the terrain was used to foil the enemy time and time again, and although the dwarves of Ironforge had started to provide a stronger breed of arms for the armies, the western forces were being driven back, ever northward. Thousands upon thousands of lives had been lost on both sides, and the Horde still kept pressing, winning slowly by the weight of numbers if not skill. Yes, they would need men like Swiftblade and Duraz to head the eastern armies and reinforce the front lines.
Lightbringer clasped him on the shoulder, startling him. "Cast the dark thoughts away for today, my friend. Hope is not lost. The Alliance still lives, and lives strongly. If the Light is just, we will prevail in the end." he flashed a smile "Now, let us go and congratulate the new Baron, shall we not?"
He nodded, but even though he smiled and shared the moment of triumph and optimism with the others, his heart remained heavy.
So much work yet to be done...
...and the war was just beginning to warm up...
__________
BONUS PROFILE #1
Aerth Swiftblade
Birthplace: Moonbrooke, Azeroth
Birthdate: Early Spring 566
Height: 6'
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Present status: Baron, General of the First Alliance Army
Allegiances: The Kingdom of Azeroth, The Knights of Azeroth, The Alliance
History: Aerth Swiftblade was born in Moonbrooke to a merchant family of middling wealth. He was the only child his parents had, and thus was given much more than most children in his position,including the very pricey and complicated gift of a more advanced education with Moonbrooke's clerics. However, as he grew up, the only thing Aerth aspired to was to become a Knight of Azeroth. He looked up to the proud armored Knights in the town and against his parents' wishes, enrolled into the Azerothian Royal Army in 582. After months of training,he was stationed as a simple footman in the small Grand Hamlet garrison, and passed a few very uneventful months there. However, one day, his life changed completely.
The Horde came and attacked Grand Hamlet, overrunning the unprepared defenders in a matter of hours. Caught up in the thick of the terrible melee, Aerth managed to save an older Knight, Sir Heregor Jadeshield, from certain death, and was one of the few survivors of the massacre. Sir Heregor, having lost his squire in the battle, took Swiftblade as the new one, despite his having not an hint of nobility in his blood.
As a squire, Swiftblade fought in the greatly-increased Azeroth Army in many battles, and soon his prowess and, most of all, his uncanny tactical ability brought him respect from the troops around him, and this eventually convinced one of the Lords who led him to pronounce him a Knight. His dream was achieved, but at that moment, he didn't care. Azeroth's great might was failing. As the Exodus to Lordaeron began in earnest, he was stationed with a large army in the City of Sunshire, and was one of those asked to protect the most powerful House of the city, House Fregar. There he met Eira, the young daughter of the family patriarch, and soon fell in love with her. Although she was distant at first, his honest affection eventually won her over, and they managed to marry in secret. Lord Fregar learned of this, but before he could do anything about it, the Horde struck both the cities of Sunshire and Moonbrooke, ravaging them despite valiant efforts by the defenders. Both Eira and Aerth's families were decimated, and the two leaned on each other for emotional support, thereby increasing and cementing their feelings for each other.
It was during the running retreat from Sunshire that Aerth took a few men and, showing his natural ingenious tactics for the first time, managed to bog down the forces chasing them. Varien Wrynn, a Knight of the highest nobility, had taken part in Swiftblade's counterattack and was incredibly impressed.
When the Exodus brought them to the lands 'loaned' by Lordaeron, Aerth and his wife took part in the construction of Taren Mill, and became part of the local nobility there. Thanks to Wrynn's approval, however, he later received the rank of Regional Commander of Taren Mill. During his tenure, he rescued and befriended the powerful elven lord and ranger Illadan, who was instrumental in bringing the Realm of Quel'Thalas into the Alliance. Because of this, Swiftblade's reputation reached the ears of many in the Alliance High Command, and he was given the position of General of the newly-formed First Alliance Army. Unbeknownst to him, the Army was to be used solely as a buffer between the larger armies and the forces based in the Zul'Dare Islands.
However, when the time came, Aerth devised a complex and well-oiled plan which allowed his force of 6,000 to defeat the 15,000 arrayed against him. This allowed the Alliance to foil the Horde attack on Hillsbrad and Southshore, and to push the Horde raiders back to the sea. Because of this epic and cunning victory, Swiftblade was raised to formal nobility with the title of Baron, thereby earning him a right in the military Alliance councils.
As of right now, Swiftblade is in command of the First Alliance Army, raised to 20,000 all told. He is awaiting the time when he will fight the Horde in the western battlefields, and intends to do his best for the Alliance he has sworn allegiance to. He is saddened, however, that he will now rarely take to the field directly because of his increased importance.
Winter 591, Zul'Dare Camp, Near New Azeroth
The human scout let out a shrill, pain-filled scream as a hot brand was pressed with strength to his side, hissing a sizzling sound and filling the interrogation room with the smell of cooked meat. The human, young by the reckoning of his species, sobbed as the brand was pulled away. Naked, chained by his wrists to the wooden ceiling, he had endured hours upon hours of torture at the hands of the questioners. Beatings, burns, cuts, taunts, humiliation, everything had been mercilessly heaped upon him and the two other scouts which had been caught spying on the edge of their camp two days ago. Like the others, he had resisted long, telling them a version of the human commander's plans which was clearly a lie. One had to give the young ones credit - they certainly had spirit.
But they had all broken in the end, and the truth had started to flow from their bleeding, broken lips.
But Gorroth Bleedcut, who led the army amassing at Zul'Dare, wasn't one to take chances, and had decided to ask the prisoners once more. He sniffed at the new smell of sizzled meat and idly remembered that he hadn't eaten yet that day, but rapidly squashed the thought as inconsequential. He shifted his powerful bulk and bent to the smaller frame of the young human.
"Are you certain that you are telling me the truth? Is that what your General Swiftblade is planning?" he asked roughly, grasping the human's neck and forcing him to look at him. "This might be over much more quickly if all you say is the truth."
"Whu-what I said...w-what I seh-said is...all true, I swear!" the human whimpered, coughing blood. The eyes who looked back at Gorroth were panic-filled, guileless, and large with the realization that death was close to him. He didn't appear to be lying. In fact, he seemed to be saying only the starkest truth.
Gorroth looked at the head questioner with stern command. "Is this truth? Are they hiding anything yet?"
The questioner was smaller than the orc leader was - much smaller in fact. Skinny, with a face which seemed a cross between a human and a troll, he only went to the army leader's belt. It wasn't really surprising. The questioner was, after all, a goblin, a race which had allied itself with the Horde when it had crushed the dwarven forces and forced them to hide like vermin in the Forteress-City of Ironforge. They were a weak people, and their great numbers, it appeared, hadn't stopped the fact that they had been on the verge of being chased away from the mountains by the dwarves. Still, Gorroth never for the life of him would have liked being a prisoner of the goblins. Manic, reveling in violence, they always had a light in their eyes that spoke of a boundless lust to inflict pain. The eyes of the questioner were no different, and it always made him feel cold despite the horrors and battles he had seen.
The goblin waved his arms at the young human, who cringed back in fear. "Yes, yes, truth indeed. There's no lie here, no lie. They are telling the truth." he licked his lips, a gruesome wetting "They have no choice but the truth. We've burned away anything else."
Gorroth nodded to himself. "So, they are on an island to the west of us, preparing to strike against out fleet and incapacitate us." Not a bad little plan, and it might have made some real damage if they had been at the mercy of the Alliance cannons pummeling their naval facilities, hampering them.
However, the taking of these scouts - a stroke of luck since most of the Alliance spies were usually a slippery lot - gave his forces a definite edge. With this information, he could turn the tables one General Swiftblade. The Alliance army numbered only six thousand all told according to the little information his own spies had taken before being discovered or killed. He could crush this young upstart general and open the road to the consolidation of their military gains in Lordaeron.
"I still don't like it." said a very deep voice behind him. He turned, and wasn't surprised when he saw the slightly younger form of Hirik Crackskull looking at the bleeding, agonizing human dubiously. And with an hint of disgust. Where the disgust usually would have been directed to the human himself, in Hirik's case, it was directed at the wounds and burns, and the putrefying wounds and filth. The younger orc was very direct in showing his disgust at torture. And Gorroth knew better than to tell the younger one that this displeased show was misplaced.
After all, Hirik was the son of Wreld Crackskull, a skilled and respected Blademaster who had given all of his knowledge to his son. And with the knowledge and battle skills had come the insufferable Blademaster sense of honor. It radiated from every pore of the orc's being. But however much it rankled at times, Gorroth never said or did anything about it, because Hirik was intelligent and lacked the ambition to replace him. A very good second-in-command.
This time, however, the musings irritated him. "You haven't liked this situation since it began, Hirik." he growled "What don't you like about this THIS time?" He knew there was an edge of exasperation in his voice, but he couldn't help it. His tone, as usual, seemed to slide off Hirik. Blademaster focus - another insufferable thing that had to be lived with.
"I don't know...It seems...wrong somehow."
"You will have to be more specific." was the dry reply.
Hirik actually scowled for a moment, then shook his large, angular head. "I can't be, lord. I just think that we're missing something. Somewhere. About this impending battle. The problem is, we might realize it only when we have our nose deep in the dunk."
Gorroth grunted, letting go of the human scout, who slumped. "Great phrasing, and ominous insight. But that doesn't help us. We'll be careful with our plan, but we can't allow the Alliance army to remain in the area. We must clear it out and reinforce the strike forces at Hillsbrad and Southshore." he paused and gave his second a level look "You have read the messages just like me - you know how much this is necessary."
From the grim look he gave, Hirik showed that he indeed knew quite well. The attacks on Hillsbrad and Southshore had been staged exactly when the Azeroth armies were far from their cities, garrisoned only minimally, and thus opening the way for the taking of two main ports. Doing this would insure the Horde a firm foothold into Alliance territory, and would also prevent the western troops from lending their strength on the much-hotter eastern theatre of conflict. However, even though the populations had been evacuated and parts of both cities set ablaze, the smaller garrisons were surprisingly holding their ground. And the Azeroth Armies, having received messages asking for help, were surely already marching to push the invading forces back. If Gorroth didn't send troops by the end of the week, the two Alliance cities would be retaken, and their chance to open a second front wasted.
He couldn't allow it. Wouldn't allow it.
The human prisoner groaned in pain, and the army leader turned an irritated look towards the battered prisoner. "It appears the prisoners won't be of any use to us after today. Kill them." he took in the look of terror in the human's eyes, the look of undisguised disgust Hirik wore, and most of all the sheer twisted delight which lighted the goblin head questioner's eyes. "No torture. A quick, clean death." He turned before the goblin could react and motioned to the other orc. "Come, walk with me."
They walked through the immense Zul'Dare base, taking in the multitudes of grunts cooking, eating or fighting, the bang of steel from the smith, the sulfurous odor from the foundries and the stench coming from the many meat enclaves where they kept pigs and other food sources. The Zul'Dare army wasn't great comparewd to those stationed on the frontlines in Stromgarde, but it still represented the bulk of Horde forces in the east. With the Eastern Alliance Forces engaged and the west preoccupied, this was the time for Gorroth Bleedcut to attain true recognition at last.
"I intend to lead ten thousand troops to take out the Alliance army nearby." he raised a hand violently. "That Swiftblade has just been promoted, which means inexperienced. No one can have a superior grasp of tactics that soon. We will surprise him and crush him for underestimating us."
He clenched his fist at Hirik, who nodded. Still dubiously, damn him to the Great Dark Beyond! That miserable youth still had something on his mind. "Hirik, say what you have to say, because you are starting to bore me with your insolence."
"Its not insolence, I was thinking about what you said, about no one having a superior grasp of tactics so soon after promotion..."
"And?" Gorroth asked, more than a trifle impatient.
Hirik gave him a level look. "I was thinking that, sometimes, there are exceptions. Sometimes, a general is great the day he begins to lead."
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 591, First Alliance Army Sea Base, Herallin Island
Jurin Halfadas wasn't one to let himself relax once the battle was engaged. He firmly believed in being ready for anything, at any time. He knew better than most the importance his fleet would have if Swiftblade's complex but encouraging plan was to work. So it wasn't with any good humor that he walked the hastily built anchorage for the fleet and saw many mariners sunbathing or playing cards. He knew the timetable, and was aware that the term 'relaxation' was to be firmly stamped out of these men until the battle was over, for good or for ill.
He walked to the men sunbathing and bellowed, making them all jump "Get your arses off those rocks, lads! I want you to go help with the rigging of the mast." his face became even sharper than ever when some appeared reluctant to move "Move! You're not a bunch of lizards tanning out, you lazylubbers! You'll get plenty of tan on the sea."
"But, cap'tn we just..."
"I don't give the slightest damn about what you 'just'. No more words! Move before I get you cleaning the lower decks!" he growled.
They didn't take it that well. Indeed there were many faces which looked quite murderous at being forced into hard and tedious work when they'd just finished doing work. But they responded with the usual, formal 'Aye Cap'tn' and went to work. That was all that mattered to him. If they wanted to begrudge him for being a hard mariner, let them. If that meant that more of his ships and sailors would survive the dozy they were about to face, he'd take it without the single flinch. The only thing which bothered him about the hesitation was that they didn't believe in him enough yet. And that could be disastrous.
Jurin sighed and shook his weary head, the brown locks flicking and rustling with the motions. He knew that he was young. Barely twenty-eight winters, and that was just two tendays before that his birthday was celebrated - in his heart as there was no time to bother with such things. The fact that he came from a long-lived family didn't help, the very possible rumor of a hint of elven blood in his immediate bloodline even worse. These all conspired to make him look even younger than he was - a green youth playing at being Fleet Captain.
He, for himself, knew that it wasn't so. He was a Kul Tiran, and a Halfadas, a family that had braved the seas at the command of the Proudmoore Kings ever since the nation had formed its powerful Navy three centuries past. Of course, none of his ancestors had ever held a rank as high as he did now, but the centuries of experience his father had taught him and his brothers meant that he knew more about the sea than most in the fleet. Consequently, he had been promoted to command of a small sloop at a very young age.
Still, he had been more than a little surprised when the new general, Aerth Swiftblade, had chosen him to lead his naval forces, over captains who had more experience with command than he did. He didn't know if it was because the two of them had a similar age, or whether it was because the new commander had seen something useful in him, but Jurin had decided that it just wouldn't do to fail in his new duties. He had confidence in Aerth Swiftblade somehow, the man seemed to know what he was talking about.
Now, he just had to make sure he could do his part.
He walked to the card players. "You four, go on the Saleba and install the new cannons we've received. We'll be needin' the added firepower sometime very soon."
The four looked at him with varying expressions of resignation and irritation, which irked Jurin although he didn't let his face show it. One of them went as far as to ask him, in a whining tone "Why us? We've just started this game here and -"
"And you'll continue that little game WHEN you have TIME!" he replied hotly, glaring daggers into them all "In case you don't know, this place is used as a makeshift stepping stone for a reason, and its not to fool around. Now go to your positions, mates, on the double!"
And one of them, instead of listening to his words, frown in a rather stubborn way and said hotly "Hey, now, our cap'tn said...!"
That was the end of it. For week,s he had worked to make this small fleet of twenty-three ships from Kul Tiras, Quel'Thalas, New Azeroth and Lordaeron work together as a well-oiled naval force, but all the time there had been frictions. Doubts between crews, between captains, and between the sailors and himself. Although he had thought he was being too hard on the whole group, the last comment made him realize that maybe he wasn't hard enough. Surprisingly, this didn't make him blow up like he had thought it would. Rather, it filled him with an icy calm that, from the way the stubborn sailor blanched, must have been seen in his eyes.
"Whatever your captain told you to do, I rescind at once." he said icily, in a voice rendered harder than stone by its very softness. "I am the naval commander and this army which means that the only one I answer to is General Swiftblade. Which, in turn, means I can give you the dirtiest job if you ever try to go around my orders. Is that quite understood?"
His look and countenance, this time at least, did the job. With muttered and hurried "Ayes!", they rushed off like speeding hares. He looked at them going for a time, then melted his icy composure. Another problem solved. When was the next? Being commander of a Fleet was a constant headache. He wondered how the admirals like Julius Xerrelli and King Proudmoore did to coordinate the immense sea forces at their disposal?
He continued walking on the planks for a while and remembered something his father had told him, when he had been just a boy of six summers. He had asked what made a man a great captain, and his father had smiled and whispered in a conspirational tone "The ones who can forget they are, lad. The ones who can forget they are."
He hadn't understood the sentence then, but it was much clearer now. It meant not to lose one's head, to stay the simple sailor he had been to begin with, only harder. Not to become the role, but stay the man. He had been doing well with that on his military sloop, but would it be enough here with an entire fleet?
Oh well, only time would tell him that...
There was a commotion behind him, and it seemed that it was directly heading his way. He turned in curiosity, and was surprised to see a sailor come towards him with a small paper. At the sight, his pulse accelerated. The bemused expression on the sailor's face was evident, and indeed the words on the carrier pigeon paper must mean little.
Except to those who knew the details of the plan. And he was one of the few who had many pieces. He walked to the sailor in restrained impatience, cursing the man for his hesitation. This wasn't the time to hesitate! Why were everyone around him showing such incompetent streaks?
The man started to say something about the message and not knowing if it would be of interest to him, but Jurin barely heard him. He almost clawed the note from the other and read the lines contained here with great intensity.
The message was simple and to the point: The enemy believed. Crush his faith.
He knew what those words meant. Had been waiting to read them with rising impatience. And now it was time to put the complex plan Swiftblade had come up with and told them of. He felt invigorated by the prospect. And also, more scared of failure than he had ever remembered feeling before.
But it wasn't time for him to start doubting himself: he had rowed too far into the waters to come back to port. He thus tore down the fear and self-doubt he felt and stamped on it in the recesses of his soul, covering the broken shard with the pride and determination his family had always been known for. He gave a look to the sailors nearby. The time for thinking was over. now was the time for action.
"All right, mates!" he bellowed in his loudest voice, making them all look at him no matter what they were doing. I want each and every captains here immediately so I may finally tell them Swiftblade's plan!" He swept a lean, athletic arm towards the ships anchored nearby. "To work lads. I want every ships on the sea in the hour!"
He grinned suddenly "We're going to kick the horde in the arse, lads! HARD!" he bellowed.
The men around him cheered at that, calling up oaths and shouting in delight, and all of them went to work to ready for the operations they would have to do before the fighting was over. Seeing them like this, ready to fight, made him wonder why he had ever doubted in his abilities. He would lead them no matter what it took.
And very soon, the Horde would learn never to underestimate the Alliance.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 591, Near the Zul'Dare Camp, New Azeroth
Polla Mendranon, former archer of the Third Alterac Army and now archer for the First Alliance Army, was having definite trouble to hold on to her temper. It wasn't that the ones near her were being that cold or condescending - well, they were, but she was used to that already, or that the situation she was in was in any way one which would get one angry, but she couldn't help herself.
After all, she was surrounded by elves, and she knew that nothing good ever came out of those people.
She secretly smirked in disgust as she saw some of them conferring between themselves, in the elven tongue - even their LANGUAGE seemed haughty and cold -, sometimes looking down their noses at one human who had the misfortune of coming into their line of sight. Arrogant people, who made the most extravagant and queer human seem humble and quaint. She knew what they thought - that there should be no human here in the archers, no matter if the General commanding the entire army was a human himself. Each time one of their faces mirrored such a thought, she found herself despising them all just a bit more.
She was certain that the one in command of the archers, that Ranil, thought the same thing, but he wasn't going to go against General Swiftblade when the man had made clear that everyone should be given equal chances. As if with elves! But the man had been sleek, he'd gone and selected her and sixty other humans to be part of the archery force - just enough so the general would be satisfied, not enough so his elven ways of handling things would be commented or discussed. No. Like all elves, the man wanted to lord it over the humans.
Her anger was getting her nowhere, and she tried to remind herself of the place she was in, that beyond her lay the lives of the people of two cities, and many more if they failed here. Or so the rumor had spread.
Their departure form the base camp had been sudden, and they had been given no information than to follow orders to the letter, in a stern little speech, from Swiftblade himself. She could remember him quite clearly. Tall, garbed in battle armor with a sword at his side, his brown-haired face looking at them with a frightening intensity as he gave his short orders, thereby giving Ranil full authority over a thousand archers. She had caught herself thinking that the man must have foolish streak in him, trusting an elf to what was, from what she could detect, an important phase in the coming battle.
They had gone in a few transports at night, in a lengthy voyage which had deposited them on the other side of the island where fifteen thousand orcs - fifteen THOUSAND - were massed. They had hidden in the forest since then, eluding the few patrols which rumbled past, living in fear of discovery, eating on the run, hiding in trees. A ridiculous endeavor. And all that time their DEAR commander Ranil had led them, with usual elven coldness, not sparing his contempt for those who slowed the archers down, until they had come to a sheer cliff twenty feet high, as slick and slippery as a marble wall. Arriving there, the word had passed quickly, and it had shocked her to the core of her being: When the signal comes, we climb.
Utter insanity. But what else could she expect from a bunch of arrogant, pride-blinded elf?
Her ever-darker musings were interrupted by a soft voice nearby, and she jumped, suddenly turning her head in the direction of the new voice.
"Heck, I didn't think I'd ever meet anyone hating field bread so completely. What's on your mind again, Polla?"
The voice got into the tree where she had hidden herself, and the black-haired, brown-eyed face of one Fand Gamonde looked at her with a bright, optimistic face. He was one of the sixty humans, and not an elf, for which she was grateful, but she had always felt slight distrust towards him. After all, the young man often talked to the elves, and seemed to be genuinely blind to the open contempt they gave him. She sighed, looking at the hard but filling piece of bread she was to eat as breakfast. After the little resumé of events which had gone on in her head, she didn't feel that hungry.
"Its nothing. Just thinking about some things." she said in a cold voice.
"I don't believe that one bit. You still look as if someone had assassinated your mother. Might I ask what it is that's bothering you?"
She smiled for a moment. Nothing if not persistent, that was the reputation Fand had quickly gotten in the archery section. When he asked a question, when he wanted to know something, he prodded and poked until the other person answered him or bit his finger. And in the case he would suck his finger and poke with the other hand. Fine by her. She felt she needed to talk anyway.
She searched for many ways of phrasing what she thought, but finally just muttered "We shouldn't be following that elf."
An instant of utter silence. "And why not? He's been leading us fine this far. A thousand of us and not a single Horde patrol saw us? That's quite a feat, and I know what I'm talking about." he said, his voice level. There wasn't accusation in his voice, or surprise. Just a mild curious tone, stating facts just as mildly.
She knew that he was right. Ranil may have acted like an usual elf bastard, but he had led them well, safe and sound, as deep into enemy territory as one could go. And she knew Fand knew what he was talking about. As a former Azerothian crossbowman, he had had more than his share of battles against the Horde menace, something that she knew she sorely lacked. Still, that wasn't enough to quell her.
"It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. He's an elf. And no human should trust an elf. They look at us and like to lord it over us!"
"I know Swiftblade trust Ranil. And I trust him too. I think you're saying these things without knowing the elves at all." was the reply, still absolutely placid and reasonable. It got her angry, enough that she raised her voice a little.
"Are you blind?!?" she hissed furiously "Thats nonsense. Elves think of humans as fools to be stepped on. I see their look when a human comes to talk to them. They reek of arrogance and scorn for us."
"Their looks might. But not their words."
"What does -"
"You've watched their faces, but you've never gone and talked to them." he interrupted her more sternly than he had been until then, his eyes level and not very warm, she noticed. "In fact you've taken great pain to talk as little as you could to them. That way you've never seen that underneath that mask of contempt, that coldness which largely comes, whether you believe it or not, from the fact that elven faces aren't nearly as expressive as ours, that many of those 'haughty' elves were very nice chaps."
She couldn't help but humph in disbelief at that, and it made his voice go from stern to downright cold. Obviously, seeing her do this had torn a hole through his patience.
"All right. Now I see what I couldn't see before."
"You see nothing."
"I see a damn whole lot, on the mark!" the sharpness of his rebuke stilled her voice for a second. "You don't WANT to talk to them. You don't want to test whether the elves are what they are, because you've convinced yourself of that. Here's my advice: change. Because these won't be the last elves you'll see, the last elves you'll work with. If we're to beat the Horde, we're going to need the kind of archers and ships and sorcerers they can provide. I just hope you realize that and heed my warning. Or else go get yourself killed. The Alliance doesn't need ignorant bigotry." And with that, before she could open her mouth, he vanished.
She stayed there, seething, for a long time, her bread forgotten on the branch she was hanging from. How dare he, that, that...! That damn man had no right to talk to her like that. If he was that blinded, it was his choice not hers. She knew she was right. She knew that the elves were just arrogant, overbearing bastards. Right?
Right?
Strangely, the question tormented her immensely. And it was in this mood, with this sudden nagging doubt, that word came to her that it was time to climb.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Winter 591, Near Baldrock Island, Near New Azeroth
Gorroth Bleedcut felt rather elated at the prospect of the battle which would rage ahead of him as he saw the island and could almost feel the thousand of Alliance troops entrenched there, so confident that they could spy an Horde base without any kind of reprisal. Five thousand troops, the scouts had said there were, five thousand who wanted to go up against his fifteen thousand. Gorroth didn't know if he should bow before the human general's courage or laugh at the human's blatant stupidity.
He stood at the forefront of one of the large horde transport ship, a ship with very little armoring which was made more for transport and troop size than comfort. Twenty such ships, looking like rotted bony turtle shells, were carrying an enormous load of troops, all in all over nine thousand grunts and over eight hundred trolls. Surrounded by twenty fighting ships - two third or so of his fleet, he felt confident that, when sundown came, he would be feasting on the bloody, rotten corpses of the small Alliance forces who had dared to go against them.
And then, he would send his forces to reinforce the failing fools who couldn't fully take Hillsbrad and Southshore, and the Horde would cramp the Alliance before it even became a true threat.
As he rehearsed his invasion plan, the ship's captain tapped on his shoulder, and he turned to the smaller grunt. The orc, who had one broken tusk, bowed roughly and quickly. "Lord, the ships up front signal a few human and elf ships are near."
His pulse quickened. "Have they seen us?" he demanded loudly.
"They did, lord. But the ship sent that they think they can be catched and sunk before they go and alert the humans."
Gorroth considered quickly. He planned to overwhelm the humans with numbers, catching them unawares. Although he was sure that his forces would prevail in a true engagement, the troops he would be able to send to the two cities might not be enough then. He simply couldn't take that chance.
He nodded and flung a meaty, muscular arm wide. "Tell the shiplord he has my permission to pursue. Tell him no ship is to escape!" the other bowed and left, shouting to the ones who were the flag messengers.
He forgot about the matter of the ships as he saw the island come closer. Finally, battle loomed on the horizon. As the human encampment had been erected on the northwestern side of the small, wooded island, they had decided to come from the northeast, where the humans wouldn't have been expecting them to land. As he obliquely saw the fighting ships break formation and cruise after the cowardly-fleeing enemy, he settled back and waited for the landing.
The landing went smoothly, and the transports, hugging close together very near the shore, disgorged its green-skinned, armed and armored scourge of destruction. Shouts were uttered - of challenge, of cursing, or just of groaning from having to stand up on a deck for so long. Those shouts were quelled abruptly by the unit leaders, sometimes quite brutally. They couldn't raise a ruckus after so much trouble. And ten thousand orcs could raise quite a ruckus!
Once order had been regained, and the authority of the strong fully reestablished, the army organized into ten long and rough lines, with the trolls spread out equally. Barely containing the bloodlust and excitement for battle he felt surging within him, he gave the order to advance. The army immediately, enthusiastically lumbered forward.
It was only after two miles of careful walking through the woods that the orc leader noticed something quite odd. There was absolutely no sound. No that it meant none from the surrounding animals, but rather no background noise which told of habitation. He saw the smoke of many fires, ever-nearer, but he heard no distant activity. Six thousand people couldn't be that silent. Something cold and unusual catching hold of him, he ordered a running pace through the woods, casting prudence to the winds. The noise of armor, of cursing and shouting which ensued was ever-greater, and yet from the other side - no reaction! Worry finally gripped him at that realization, mingled with fury at what he was starting to suspect.
It couldn't be! No! He refused to believe it!
But when he arrived, seconds before his vanguard troops did, he could only skitter to a stop in a shock in which amazement hadn't a great part to play in.
Strewn about the field were bonfires, dozens of them, surrounded by stones to prevent any kind of fire taking the surrounding wood. The plain was great, wide, and green, and would certainly have been perfect to lodge an army of many thousands. The problem was, that the plain stood empty, devoid of any people, any tent or equipment. Only the fires remained, and those had certainly been set off an hour before. Even the few who had been sent to light them were long gone...
The Horde army rushed into the plain, many going a hundred meters farther than he did in their blinded bloodlust before realizing the obvious: there was no army here. There never had been an army here, and the only army present on this island was their own. When that realization sunk in, questions and curses flew to the winds.
"By the Spire, where in Blackhand's name are they?!?"
"There's no one here!!"
"Did they just made fools of us??!??"
He didn't know who said that last sentence, it might have been anybody and he couldn't tell in the confused mesh of bodies and shouting, but the sentence struck him, coalescing the feeling which had dwelled for a good few moments in the pit of Gorroth's guts. 'But how can this be? The spies we caught were telling the truth! No one can survive goblin torture without giving away information!' an then a terrible thought struck him 'Unless...he lied to them? To his own people? To let us believe...'
Suddenly the pieces came together from this. The Horde forces taking the majority of its land forces from the Zul'Dare base, driven to an island where no one dwelled. Alliance ships fleeing the scene, provoking the fleet into pursuing - and succeeding because of his confidence he was on the island were the human forces were stationed. Grimly, and with rising wrath and fear, he saw another element that the pursuing Horde fleet had left vulnerable. If those human ships hadn't been fleeing, then...
One of his group leader came to him, his brutal face a mask of worry and questions. "Lord, I don't understand. Where...?"
He didn't get to finish his question, for at that moment Gorroth straightened up and bellowed his rage, making many stagger back from the sheer indignation of the cry. He didn't explain himself, didn't issue orders. He ran back the way he had come, his great bulk scattering lesser grunts as he passed through his own ranks, and into the forest. Behind him was confused pandemonium, but he didn't care. Driven by intense fury, he ran the miles like an orc possessed by a wind spirit, reaching the shore where the transport ships waited for the return of the great strike force.
Or, rather, were they had been supposed to wait. No sign remained of any, of their crew, of the ships. The shores were bare and tranquil, and it was at that moment that he finally understood what the commander of the human forces, that Swiftblade, had in mind.
The humans general had lured them here, not to participate in a glorious, bloody fight but rather...
"To remove our numbers from the fight!!!" he growled "Damn you human! Damn you to the beyond for this!"
He had seen the trees which made up the woods of the island. Frail trees, excellent for fires, but impossible to use as building material. And even when if they managed to make a raft, it would take time, and the battle would be over. And that meant that Alliance ships would be waiting to pick off each small raft one after the other, until his force was destroyed.
There was no way around it: his own self-confidence had stranded most of his forces away from any fighting.
Gorroth bellowed his rage, not caring that other Horde troops were now coming, confused, to check after him, and were probably staring in shock at their predicament. He threw his axe down on the soft ground, where it lay with a thump. An d as he bellowed in anger and outrage, a sentence made its rounds through his being, a sentence a younger, and now evidently wiser, orc had uttered.
'Sometimes, a general is great the day he begins to lead.'
He had found, much to his shame, that it was true with the human general named Swiftblade.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 591, Near Zul'Dare Camp, Near New Azeroth
It took heart and dedication to inspire men to fight, and possibly die, for you. That knowledge wasn't new to the one named Aerth Swiftblade. However, it was the first time, then and there, walking in front of the ranks without his helmet, that he fully felt that pressure for the first time.
He knew he shouldn't be joining this battle, even dressed and armored as a common footman. As the General of the First Alliance Army, he should have stayed behind the lines with a small guard, watching from afar to see if his plan would come to fruition or not. However, in this, the first great battle he had orchestrated, he wanted to be more than the man making plans and barking orders. For better or for worst, he wanted to be part of this battle.
Swiftblade continued to walk towards the center of the lines, saluting the soldiers lined there, some of them old veterans with a grim face, others young recruits who were trying hard to be brave-looking. He saw the light in their eyes as he passed and knew that, if nothing else, the knowledge of his presence on the battlefield would raise troop morale. With a brief grin, he came to stand right next his infantry commander, Kelnam Pedran. The old soldier looked at him in plain disapproval, but instead of voicing yet one more protest, he pointed to the Horde camp.
"They're coming." he said simply.
He looked himself, shielding his eyes from the morning sun, and nodded. "Alright. They're preparing to throw us out. Good. That's what I would do. They've got the better knowledge of the terrain and being on their home ground gives them the morale boost. If it wasn't for the fact that we have a little surprise stashed for them, they could break us and drive us back to the transports."
They had landed on the southern shores of the island, killing an orc patrol before the orcs in it quite knew what was happening, and then gone through woods which had been greatly cleared by the base's peons, scattering the poor souls and making as big a commotion as they could. The challenge was clear: face us or be branded as cowards. He had fought enough battles in the First War to know the Horde on one point: it was certainly arrogant. An hour later, he had seen the base's garrison begin to form lines. Surprisingly well-disciplined ones at that. The one commanding was certainly someone to be reckoned with.
"We go when the archers fire the second volley. Signal them." he said. Pedran nodded and gestured at two men besides them, who took poles in front of them and lifted a great black banner on which a white arrow was clearly sewn. The infantry commander raised his arm to give the signal to advance, as Swiftblade bore his vision on the advancing Horde army. It was near the cliff. Nearer...
"Steady..." he breathed, his eyes never faltering. The enemy was almost positioned. Moments passed, and creaks and fidgeting were heard behind him, and he stood like a tense, rigid bolt. At last his eyes flashed. "Banner down! Now!" he bellowed, and the banner went down as ordered.
Even nearly a mile away, they could see forms immediately standing on the top of the cliff. Ranil's archers, all with one shot ready, let loose hundreds of arrows before they were even seen. The Horde troops faltered, their formation buckling as many were wounded or killed by the mass of arrows. Projectiles went up the cliff in response, but they were few and disorganized, and it didn't stop the archers from nocking and letting loose another arrow shot.
As the shot went down, Pedran's arm came down, and all who hadn't drew their sword and hefted their shield. Ranks upon ranks, the footmen started to walk the distance, until they completely cleared the trees. Then they trotted, as the enemy was breaking up in confusion, trying to get to the archers . The front lines still held on to order, but even they wouldn't be enough. The men raised a battlecry, shill and deep voices crying for orcish and troll blood, and at last, utilizing the enemy's pain and hesitation and slammed hard into the forward ranks.
More than anything else, this time reminded the young general of a battle years past, when he had been just a fresh recruit and had had to fight his way out of the massacre which the Battle of Grand Hamlet had soon become. However, the fear he felt now, the sheer terror which coursed through his vein wasn't running wild. Five years of unending conflict as he fought for his home and what he held dear had hardened him, and the terror didn't control him. HE controlled it.
A grunt came at him to kill him, swinging its axe in a wide horizontal arc, its eyes shining a malefic light as a roar was uttered from its tusks-adorned mouth. Using life saving tricks he had learned long ago, Swiftblade connected his shield to the great axeblade, gritting his teeth as his arm was jarred painfully, muscles screaming. He held firm, however, forcing the swing to continue beyond the intended path, forcing the grunt to swing partly away from him. His sword immediately flashed out, plunging deep into the orc's side. Another roar was heard, and the wounded orc flung itself at him, almost taking Swiftblade's weapon.
The two engaged in a dance which was repeated thousands of times around the battlefield. He put his agility and superior training against the orc's greater reach and strength, his deviousness against its savagery and his armor and shield versus its very tough skin. He deflected a blow, riposted to it with his own, roaring his own fear and hatred, always on the move, always keeping the bigger opponent guessing. Unpredictable, he struck swiftly times and times again, even when he felt his shield being hit and his arm feeling as if it was suddenly on fire. He confused his enemy, blocked a blow aimed for his tight and, growling in beat-like anger, used his shield to snag the axe a second. The orc pulled at its axe for a moment, too enraged to see the danger, but recognition came a second before he struck the green-skinned head, ending the grunt's life in a shower of brains, meat and dark blood which splashed on him and his armor.
He didn't even look twice, turning around to see if other grunts or trolls were about to attack him. He quickly saw that it wasn't about to happen. The ploy had worked. From the cliff, archers took shots at clumps of orcs, while the footmen now seemed to outnumber their enemies. Here, a struggling footman was saved as another human soldier plunged his sword into a grunt's back. There, three human footmen were physically beating a grunt to death, glee plain on their faces. The enemy was in in complete disarray, and it only heightened the acts of malice, the terrible bloodshed. He had seen this many times, and yet had never truly gotten used to the sheer madness of battle. With no enemy nearby, he turned his face away from the worst of it in disgust.
Booms and thunderclaps made him look back quickly, towards the Zul'Dare encampment, where he saw that Halfadas and his small fleet were attacking the Horde fleet harbored there. That meant two very heartening things: they had stranded the main Horde forces, and the fleet which had escorted them had been led on a merry-go-round, right into a place where rocks were very deadly to the unwary. Or those blinded by bloodshed.
The noise finally started to drift away from him, as the Horde forces were pushed back and he lay still, He had killed only one grunt in this battle and he didn't mind that he wouldn't kill another. The Light knew he killed enough in the First War.
As he looked at the ever diminishing battle, the Horde fleet being torn to pieces in its harbor, he saw Kelnam Pedran approach him, his armor and blade slick from dark blood, a wrinkled grin clear to see on his old, tanned face.
"We have them, general!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "They're giving ground, and they'll soon be surrounded. This battle is soon to be over."
Swiftblade nodded wearily. "Our casualties?" he asked, although he could tell that few of the moaning or unmoving bodies were of the Alliance.
"Many hundreds sir, but not that many comapred to the number they lost. The archery attack did them in for us. Your strategy worked magnificently, sir!" and there was a note of respect, of earnest admiration in the old soldier's voice. But why wouldn't there be. His strategy had made his small army win against the odds, using a precise, clockwork method.
Swiftblade looked about the fast-quieting battlefield. Victory. He had lied to men, manipulated information, stranded thousands of enemy soldiers on an island with no food, risked everything on one battle, and had managed to win. The High Command would certainly be impressed. As for himself, he felt ashamed of himself for the ruthless actions he had undertaken.
And he was angry when a little voice told him that he had done the right thing, and furious when he believed it. Victory indeed...but at what cost!
He sheathed his bloody blade and turned his back on the carnage. He'd seen enough for one day. "Handle the rest of this, commander." he said dismissively "This battle is over as far as I'm concerned."
And without waiting for a reply, he started to walk back to the transports, trying not-so-successfully to quell the guilt he felt at the death his strategy had caused.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Spring 591, Near Hillsbrad, New Azeroth
Varien Wrynn felt rather good as he took in the scene before him. All around him, on a prepared clearing set with tents and proud flags, were a few of the most prominent military leaders of the Alliance, many of those, like Wrynn, sitting on the High Command itself. They, like him, wouldn't have wanted to miss this day, the day they properly thanked the General of the First Alliance Army, for his outstanding and unexpected victory at Zul'Dare.
From his position, Wrynn saw Anduin Lothar, resplendent in polished armor with the badge which proclaimed him the High General of Alliance Forces, and the carved, long staff he carried in his right hand, over Aerth Swiftblade's bowed head, telling of his position as Regent of Azeroth. Although he wasn't King Llane, he had the power to bestow ranks and gifts in the late sovereign's name.
"Aerth Swiftblade, son of Faldan son of Gerath," he was intoning gravely "By the powers which our beloved King passed to me here he fell, I bestow upon you the rank of Baron, and acknowledge you, from this day on, as a nobleman by blood, and no longer by marriage. From this day on, House Swiftblade will have its own banner to be proudly hung next to those of the proud names gathered here."
"I will work to be worthy of the honor you do me this day, Milord Lothar." Swiftblade answered, head still bowed.
Lothar smiled a nearly paternal smile. "Your actions and reputation make you twice worthy, Lord Swiftblade. Raise your head, and look at us as an equal."
Wrynn nodded at that. This was good. In fact, this was the least they could do for the man. He had pulled a victory when they expected him only to stall, and by that, had insured that retook Hillsbrad and Southshore. With a sigh, he looked to the east, where the city was plainly visible. It had seen better days. The Horde had ravaged the city with fire, burning more than half the city, and killing many cityfolk before the garrisons could mount effective defenses. For days the battle had raged, and many of the things the Azerothian refugees had built so well, so proudly and so fast, had fallen.
But Swiftblade's victory had bought them the time they had needed to push back the offensive. Without Zul'Dare as a stepping stone, the remaining forces had broken, and raids had almost stopped as Kul Tiras' naval power forbade that any new base be built.
"There is no doubt that we owe this man much. He will be a great ally, I feel." a voice said beside him. He turned his head to look into the solemn face of Uther Lightbringer. Dressed in the armor of a knight, Lightbringer looked much older than he had only a year before, a show of the many works he had done for the Alliance. And the many burdens he had taken.
"I agree, I agree." Wrynn answered, with a smile. "But we owe much to others as well, you more than most. How goes the building of the Order?"
The Order of the Silver Hand. The dream sparked by Uther's zeal and the great Archbishop Alonsus Faol's vision, had taken form after many months. They had carefully selected the purest, most pious, and bravest knights they could find, their standards unimaginably high, and had started something new, unthought of. An order of Knights wielding clerical powers. Just warrior who would be the symbol of mankind's spirit in both mind and body.
Built around on of Lordaeron's greatest churches, a training camp had grown up, with the Knights gathered there being trained in weaponry and, at the same time, trained to meditate, to focus and learn new powers, and to serve the Light. Many were unable to take the stress, the sheer demands the Order made. But some had. And they, like Uther, had become something else.
No longer were they Knights...they were Paladins.
"The Order is still small." Lightbringer answered "Only forty-six of the three hundred gathered at St.Lemuels Cathedral have become Paladins, but more Knights are responding. By the end of this year, I expect the order to have grown."
"You said it would be small..."
"And it will be. But I want at least four or five hundred Paladins as the core for the Order. We will dearly need them."
They stood in silence for a few moments, observing the ceremony and the people around them, each lost in their own thoughts. The Wrynn noticed something and grinned in a way quite unbecoming for a Knight of Azeroth.
"Feh. Lord Silphord Duraz honors us by his absence." he quipped.
"Not truly, surprising, considering he seems to intensely dislike the man the High Command is honoring today." he paused "I was truly surprised when you told me HE got Swiftblade that promotion."
"I have my own idea on this." the young knight told the paladin commander grimly "Remember that the army was untried, mismatched and small. Moreover, it was sent to a very hotspot to act as a buffer, nothing else. I think the good Silphord wanted to see Swiftblade lose face at least, or even..." he fell silent at that.
What was left unsaid was plain enough for Lightbringer. "By the Light! Why? There is no blood between them!" he seemed quite aghast, but Wrynn knew his friend was only speaking because he would never hate to hate. But he knew most weren't so pure. He didn't answer, only pointed for an instant to one in attendance. She was rather hard to miss.
Dressed in a fine deep green gown laced with silver, with her long, wavy and perfectly combed black hair, a feminine body which couldn't be hidden even by the cloak over her garment and a face knights would die for, Eira Fregar stood there, amongst the great generals and nobles of the realm, her eyes alight with excitement and pride. But not only this. In her eyes, every time she looked at Swiftblade, her husband, was the strong spark of love. Born and bred to marry a powerful noble, she had chosen the lowly knight who stole her heart. Romantic, very much so.
"But romance contains its fetid mound of danger, when you learn that Duraz wooed this woman and was rejected." Varien said, knowing his friend had been thinking much like him. The only sign that Uther Lightbringer understood the implications was the tightening of his lips and the darkening of his eyes, sign of contempt and disapproval. Wrynn shrugged. "However, we will need them both in the months - the YEARS ahead. The east might be made safe as we speak. However..."
However, the western theatre of conflict was far less impressive and encouraging. Although many generals had attempted and done the impossible in many battles, although the knowledge of the terrain was used to foil the enemy time and time again, and although the dwarves of Ironforge had started to provide a stronger breed of arms for the armies, the western forces were being driven back, ever northward. Thousands upon thousands of lives had been lost on both sides, and the Horde still kept pressing, winning slowly by the weight of numbers if not skill. Yes, they would need men like Swiftblade and Duraz to head the eastern armies and reinforce the front lines.
Lightbringer clasped him on the shoulder, startling him. "Cast the dark thoughts away for today, my friend. Hope is not lost. The Alliance still lives, and lives strongly. If the Light is just, we will prevail in the end." he flashed a smile "Now, let us go and congratulate the new Baron, shall we not?"
He nodded, but even though he smiled and shared the moment of triumph and optimism with the others, his heart remained heavy.
So much work yet to be done...
...and the war was just beginning to warm up...
__________
BONUS PROFILE #1
Aerth Swiftblade
Birthplace: Moonbrooke, Azeroth
Birthdate: Early Spring 566
Height: 6'
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Present status: Baron, General of the First Alliance Army
Allegiances: The Kingdom of Azeroth, The Knights of Azeroth, The Alliance
History: Aerth Swiftblade was born in Moonbrooke to a merchant family of middling wealth. He was the only child his parents had, and thus was given much more than most children in his position,including the very pricey and complicated gift of a more advanced education with Moonbrooke's clerics. However, as he grew up, the only thing Aerth aspired to was to become a Knight of Azeroth. He looked up to the proud armored Knights in the town and against his parents' wishes, enrolled into the Azerothian Royal Army in 582. After months of training,he was stationed as a simple footman in the small Grand Hamlet garrison, and passed a few very uneventful months there. However, one day, his life changed completely.
The Horde came and attacked Grand Hamlet, overrunning the unprepared defenders in a matter of hours. Caught up in the thick of the terrible melee, Aerth managed to save an older Knight, Sir Heregor Jadeshield, from certain death, and was one of the few survivors of the massacre. Sir Heregor, having lost his squire in the battle, took Swiftblade as the new one, despite his having not an hint of nobility in his blood.
As a squire, Swiftblade fought in the greatly-increased Azeroth Army in many battles, and soon his prowess and, most of all, his uncanny tactical ability brought him respect from the troops around him, and this eventually convinced one of the Lords who led him to pronounce him a Knight. His dream was achieved, but at that moment, he didn't care. Azeroth's great might was failing. As the Exodus to Lordaeron began in earnest, he was stationed with a large army in the City of Sunshire, and was one of those asked to protect the most powerful House of the city, House Fregar. There he met Eira, the young daughter of the family patriarch, and soon fell in love with her. Although she was distant at first, his honest affection eventually won her over, and they managed to marry in secret. Lord Fregar learned of this, but before he could do anything about it, the Horde struck both the cities of Sunshire and Moonbrooke, ravaging them despite valiant efforts by the defenders. Both Eira and Aerth's families were decimated, and the two leaned on each other for emotional support, thereby increasing and cementing their feelings for each other.
It was during the running retreat from Sunshire that Aerth took a few men and, showing his natural ingenious tactics for the first time, managed to bog down the forces chasing them. Varien Wrynn, a Knight of the highest nobility, had taken part in Swiftblade's counterattack and was incredibly impressed.
When the Exodus brought them to the lands 'loaned' by Lordaeron, Aerth and his wife took part in the construction of Taren Mill, and became part of the local nobility there. Thanks to Wrynn's approval, however, he later received the rank of Regional Commander of Taren Mill. During his tenure, he rescued and befriended the powerful elven lord and ranger Illadan, who was instrumental in bringing the Realm of Quel'Thalas into the Alliance. Because of this, Swiftblade's reputation reached the ears of many in the Alliance High Command, and he was given the position of General of the newly-formed First Alliance Army. Unbeknownst to him, the Army was to be used solely as a buffer between the larger armies and the forces based in the Zul'Dare Islands.
However, when the time came, Aerth devised a complex and well-oiled plan which allowed his force of 6,000 to defeat the 15,000 arrayed against him. This allowed the Alliance to foil the Horde attack on Hillsbrad and Southshore, and to push the Horde raiders back to the sea. Because of this epic and cunning victory, Swiftblade was raised to formal nobility with the title of Baron, thereby earning him a right in the military Alliance councils.
As of right now, Swiftblade is in command of the First Alliance Army, raised to 20,000 all told. He is awaiting the time when he will fight the Horde in the western battlefields, and intends to do his best for the Alliance he has sworn allegiance to. He is saddened, however, that he will now rarely take to the field directly because of his increased importance.
