Chapter Six : Moves and musings


Late Spring 591, Haven of the Hand, Lordaeron

"Far from me to doubt the seers of the Karal Tor, old friend, but are you certain of what you are saying?"

"Absolutely. Oh, Light be it, I would be glad to be wrong. But there is no doubt. I have felt it, as well as the rest of the Karal Tor Council members."

The depressing words, uttered in patient, posed tones, were delivered by two old men, one wearing a deep blue cloak covering dark grey garments, and one with a clerical outfit of the purest white. Their faces were lined with hardships and deep with the knowledge revealed by a long life, their hair and beard long gone white. The sight of two such old men in the new sanctum of the fledgling Order of the Silver Hand was seemed to be unsettling, even more so when proud, armored men wearing the symbols of the new order or old national crests, bowed to them in deep respect and reverence.

Of course, the paladins, even caught up in their quest and their newfound holy powers, knew to bow to two of the most powerful spellcasters in the known world.

Alonsus Faol, head of the slowly-recovering Clerics of Northshire, considered what had been said to him and found himself shivering slightly. "So," he said in a quiet voice, stopping at the steps leading to the walls of the holy fortress, looking towards the other old man "The Horde Warlocks have used the power of the Eleraz Towers."

Gerath Daretyl, the head of the Karal Tor Council, nodded simply, his eyebrows furrowed. "Yes, that is what we think as well. Only the warlocks have the power to properly use that kind of power, certainly not the necrolytes. However..."

"However, my friend?" Faol prodded gently.

"However, we felt a great amount of necromantic power being drained, sent somewhere, then imbued into...something."

The more the old cleric heard of this new situation, the more he loathed it. Shaking his head, he started to climb the stairs and found himself wincing as his legs sent him cramps and pains. Walking was becoming awfully strenuous these last few weeks, and he knew that old age might catch up with him sooner than he had expected. He had no fear - he trusted in the Light to see others through without his guidance. However, he would take the time he had and make the most of it in the meantime.

They climbed up, Daretyl following him with no visible pains, and looked out the road cutting through the light forest which surrounded the moat of the newly-renovated castle, silent, each waiting for the other to continue an increasingly-uncomfortable discussion. At length, it was the old mage who spoke once more.

"The way the power has been...corrupted..." his eyes showed anguish at the word "We thought it might well be Gul'Dan himself who orchestrated the rite."

"Not a pleasant thought." He knew of Gul'Dan, of course. Anyone who had been in Azeroth during the First War had heard of him, and all the tales were horrible and wicked. The orc was a very powerful spellcaster, perhaps as powerful as Nielas Arran had been, and he was possessed by the lust of power, the need to keep accumulating it even though he was without a doubt the strongest Warlock - and, if a few rumors were true, perhaps the last - in the Orcish Horde. It was then, thinking of the orc's obvious lust and depravity, that a sentence Daretyl had uttered occurred back in Faol's psyche. "Wait. You said 'something' had been created? But what was it? Did your scrying and seers give you any indication?"

The old archmage didn't properly answer, rather concentrating on a group in the courtyard below. It was a small one, and on the ground, in full armor, knelt about two dozen knight, their hands clasped in prayers, holding a cross between their fingers. In front of them, a cleric was reciting holy words to them, urging them to look in their souls and feel the Light envelope them.

There was a slight thrust of the mage's head towards the courtyard. "What is this?"

Frowning slightly at the bifurcation in the discussion, the Archbishop explained quickly that it was an holy endeavor called Purification, in which all negativity had to be purged from the mind in order to reach the holy magic which special clerics like himself could use.

"That's interesting. So tell me...how many of these...Paladins...are there?" was the intense question. Very intense. Something was definitely amiss. Keeping his eyes mildly but solidly locked with his friend's, he answered slowly, deliberately letting a certain dose of sarcasm slip through.

"Besides Uther? Five. And they can barely control their holy powers yet."

"Anyone close to control?"

"Not enough for your taste, certainly, with the look I spy in your eyes." he answered swiftly "Let us not stray with the subject...or have we strayed at all? Why do you want to know whether the Order is growing quickly? Can I assume that it has to do with our dire discussion? Good friend, what DID Gul'dan create?"

No smile answered his light tone, which gave the old cleric every indication that he had guessed exactly right. He wasn't ready for the shock of the dry, no-nonsensical answer he received, however.

"Khadgar thinks, and I agree with him, that Gul'dan has created undead spellcasters."

For a moment, Alonsus Faol's mind, although buoyed by the strength of his faith in the Light and the keen wits he had about him, froze utterly. The concept that the archmage had just announced was so vile, so contrary to everything he had ever been, that he was stunned speechless for a long moment, his friend looking at him with dark, knowing eyes. After a while, he realized he was holding his breath, and released it, clutching his head. It was this act which gave him the strength to speak again.

"Undead...spellcasters..." he breathed, aghast. "But even the Necrolytes didn't have that kind of power of over the dead! I cannot believe-"

"We will have to. He used the magical crystal of the Eleraz Towers, the magical gift given to us centuries ago by the few remaining Ancient Elves, and called forth spirits to live in bodies which didn't live. And the worst of it-"

"There is a worst?" Faol couldn't help but gasp like a new cleric faced with his first sacrilege. His friend's face became a wrinkled mask of disgust and sorrow and anger as he nodded.

"Indeed, there is. And even I have found it hard to swallow. Knights, old cleric, he used the dead bodies of many of our fallen knights as the template in which to insinuate the dark souls and robbed necromantic magics. The Necrolytes were sacrificed to bring about a smaller, but more fearsome order of spellcasters."

"Our knights..." he whispered, his mind balking at the sheer sacrilege. The knights of Azeroth, the ones who upheld the Order of the Horse, had fought valiantly against the orcish invasion, never faltering, and many of their number had died, many to buy time for the last ships of the Exodus to flee the shores. Stories abounded of the selfless sacrifices, the noble deeds. And although he knew many of the knights hadn't been so great or noble, he knew that they had deserved to have their physical bodies at peace as well as their spirits "Our knights... used for this grotesque mockery of life? To use them against the people they died for?!?" he didn't realize that he had spoken out loud, and was surprised by the snarl of anger contained in his voice. Forcing back calm, he couldn't help to let the word "Sacrilege." slip through bitterly. He leaned heavily on the battlement, and felt Daretyl patting him awkwardly.

"I am sorry, Alonsus, good friend." he said earnestly "Sorry to cause you pain and sorrow. You've taken so much on your shoulders, more than I could live with. But... you had to know. These Paladins you are creating...they might be the force we will need to drive back these undead spellcasters.

The old cleric sighed deeply, feeling calm return to him. At length he nodded, looking down at the fortress wall, the outer courtyard and the forest stretching beyond. "Yes...I...you were right to tell me." he said falteringly, and then his voice gained conviction. "Yes, the Paladins will use their powers to heal holy life and banish unholy life. The destruction of these foul things your seers have dreamed of...it isn't merely a necessity, it is a duty!"

With that he stopped leaning on the wall, and motioning for his friend to follow him, he started down the stone stairs quickly. "I will need you help, my friend. The help of the whole Karal Tor."

Daretyl raised an eyebrow. "You have it. But for what purpose."

Alonsus Faol's voice was full of conviction. "To gather more priests, everyone at hand, any who can help these knights learn. These Paladins were supposed to merely be a healing force standing against darkness."

"But now, I swear by the Light, the Order of the Silver Hand will fight the darkness."

* * * * * * * * * *
Early Summer 591, outskirts of the Fourth Alliance Army Camp, Stromgarde

'Ye be knowin', Bram, that ye might just kill these wee lads?Ye be knowin, nay?' Bram Poorglade, Second Sword in the Fourth Alliance Army, thought wearily as he heard two of the six raw recruits he had with him start to bicker again, and winced. He had learned soon that the kind of speech he had been born and raised with was considered 'backwater, quaint, loutish' and all other kinds of unkind words. His old friend, Kerl Bearsheen, risen from sergeant to lieutenant, had told him to learn to speak as he heard officers speak. "Its the best way you'll get far like you promised your father, laddie."

He had balked, protested, raged and finally accepted this as fact. And although the bright prospects of the war had been dulled by the defeats, the friends lost and the horror of battle, Bram Poorglade still felt loyal to King Trollbane and the Alliance, and wanted to make a mark in it. So with great reluctance, he had started to speak better, to learn to think as he spoke. He didn't know if it had helped that much, but he had soon found himself Second Sword, and Kerl had told him he was being considered for First Sword. Ever so slowly, it seemed, he was rising.

Thus it was with a voice which would boggle the people he had grown up with that he harshly broke up the infighting. "Enough, you brats!" he hissed "This is a patrol, not some picnic summer party at Tyr's Hand! We are far from the relative safety of the main camp!"

"Hey, don't you be startin' to call us brats!" one said, his face flushed, full of spite beneath the footman's helm. "You're not be older than us here!"

That was true in the purest technicality. In fact, Bram was certain he was younger in age than two of the recruits at least. But this wasn't age that the Alliance talked about. It was experience. And Bram had experienced a lot in the last year. Battles and retreats, the gripping despair of always being outnumbered, of the Alliance slowly giving ground. The situation in the west had become better thanks to some hotshot general or other, but that was far away, and here things weren't so good. So today he walked with six men with shining, new armor and new swords, while his own had many nicks and makeshift repairs. Right, he wasn't older in age...however...

"If you KIDS," he spat in an angry voice, stressing the word deliberately "Survive as long as I have, then you can come and tell me what for! But right now the only thing I see are a bunch of greens who think they've seen everything! Think you can handle Horde grunts? Troll axethrowers? You think all this is easy? I hope not. Now be silent!"

He didn't know if his speech had had any effect - it probably hadn't, recruits always refused to see things in the grim light of veterans, he had been no different - but as long as they stopped treating this patrol as a casual walk, he'd be perfectly happy. Thank the Light that the captain hadn't given them a dangerous part of the outskirts to check. He didn't want to think about the things that could happen if Horde soldiers lurked in the area...

It was then that he stopped. Suddenly, startling them all from their mutters and gasps. He listened intently. Wasn't it rather...quiet? The sound of the usual Stromgardian fauna and its insects were heard, but only from farther away, not from close up. He inspected the environs. Bushes were here aplenty in the marshy swamplands of the southern territories, and this early during a summer day, a smoky film of condensation made a slight fog over the area. Not enough to make way impossible, but enough to hide something if need be.

Say, like an Horde scouting group.

He knew this area well now. Not because it was close to his home - although to his concern it was, Gregburg was only ten leagues away, his pa's farm twelve leagues, both too close to the ever-northern front lines - but because he had fought in similar places more than once. Battles, skirmishes, scouting mishaps. Especially scouting mishaps.

He heard a rustle. Fast, but controlled, near the right. Not an animal noise. Damn!

"Ah, mate?" one of the recruits asked, still unceremoniously "How long are we goona stand here?" he jumped back a little when Bram drew his notched but sharp-bladed sword in seeming response. "Light, mate! 'Was jus' asking, ya know!"

The veteran soldier had not time to rectify things to his befuddled bunch of greens. Instead he hissed. "Draw your swords and prepare to defend any moment. We're falling back towards the camp."

"Huh? Come again!"

"Do it!" he hissed, cursing their battle-virgin wits. He was relieved when they fumbled for their swords as his tone, and kept a lookout for any suspect noise. Suddenly more noise erupted from the right. Sixty or so feet away, no more. Too close for comfort, far too close.

"What was that?" one of the footmen, a fearful-looking man who had at least five years on Bram, exclaimed in a loud voice. The Second Sword fought with the urge to throttle the ignorant fool.

"The next one who talks loud like that, I'll execute him without warning. Now you wanted to see if the Horde was as bad as your trainers said it was. You might just find out. Only I know it and I don't want to see it today. Now shape up, put that training to good use. Narik, you have the best eyes, take point as we return towards the camp. The other five just behind, swords ready, guard the sides. I'll take the rear. Now shut up and move!"

He had told that in a quick hiss he hoped wouldn't be heard by whoever was near them, and knew what he had said was a little much to take in. However, the fear he found in their faces as they fumbled to their positions filled him with a sort of satisfaction. Fear was good. Fear was very good to those who could die any day.

As soon as the positions had been established, they started back towards the camp. They were barely a mile out of the early picket lines, but it seemed to be a hundred to him. And so it should, for if the enemy was there like he felt he was, then they could get attacked well before they reached any kind of safety.

He didn't know if the enemy had pinpointed their location, but they had certainly heard something. Rustling was heard again from the right, followed by hisses he could almost hear. The guttural and yet high-pitch sounds he heard were very telling nonetheless. There were three or four trolls out there prowling very near the camp perimeter. They probably wondered if they had been sighted as well, but were still hanging about. This was a relief, however small - an orc patrol would have attacked, and he wasn't sure they would end victorious in such a melee. Alliance armor and weapons and training were superior, but all troops in the Horde had fighting experience, while a large portion of the human, elven and a small part of the dwarven troops lacked it utterly.

They continued on for a while, the men finally sensing the abnormal silence around them, and were past the halfway point before a voice growled an high-pitch order. He had heard it before, knew what it meant, and decided the game was up. Silence had to be cast to the wind.

"Put your shields up, right side!" he bellowed "Protect your body! That's a double-quick now!"

Fear lent energy to the armored legs as six humans started pounding up the slope on the other side of which the Fourth Army was encamped. However, the shields were fumbled at, and before one of the six had time to lift his in place, a throwing axe embedded itself into the side of his head. No helm could have saved him. The corpse made a few running steps before knowing it no longer had a mind and fell face first into the soggy ground. Appalled, the others started to turn around with wide eyes, but Bram wouldn't have any of that.

"Move, you idiots! He's dead and so will YOU if we stay here! MOVE!"

On they ran, breaths rasping, lungs burning, fear driving them. Bram often ran a bit backward, his shield ready, watching the grounds and the rear, but he never saw anything. The fog was lifting, and the trolls would be at a disadvantage now if they could be seen. He didn't think an attack would come. Still, he made sure to push them all back to the first picket lines, where a few footmen were gathered, obviously having heard the noise from afar. To the questioning look of the sergeant in charge, Bram could only pant his answer.

"Patrol...half a mile back. Trolls...must report to the captain...one man dead." he said, simply, and that was all he needed to say. At once the sergeant called for ten volunteers to scour the area for enemy patrols - ten sturdy soldiers holding the look of veterans. Bram said he'd join the next patrol, once his report was made. As he got up, he saw the five surviving recruits, sitting, dazed, shocked, fearful. He wanted to say something encouraging to them, but those would be lies. And Bram Poorglade hated to lie.

So as he made his shivering, tired way to the nearest captain's tent, he looked at the greens. "Now you know why you're kids to us. You gotta learn."

He didn't say any more words to them. Those who would survive the next patrols and battles would learn all the rest on their own, understand the need to leave comrades behind.

And understand the bleakness of this so-called Second War.

* * * * * * * * * *

Summer 591, First Alliance Fleet, on the Great Sea

Smoke was thick in the air as the Dauntless, the proud flagship of the entire fleet, let loose of another devastating volley to port from its impressive array of cannons. The distance and aiming of the cannon crews was perfect, as was expected, and half a dozen shells impacted the hull of the Horde ship, giving it a very effectual coup de grace. As the enemy ship started taking water, King Daelin Proudmoore, the Grand Admiral of the entire Alliance Fleet, stopped looking through his handscope, and turned to the captain of the ship with a cautious grin.

"Order all ships to seize fire. The enemy is crippled and retreating." At the bow he received, Proudmoore nodded and went to lean on the rail of the upper deck, looking at the quickly-fleeing remnants of the Horde fleet they had been chasing for nearly a week. Another victory. Another attempt at reenacting the western theatre of conflict foiled. The problem was, how long could they keep it up?

It wasn't that he had doubts that the Alliance Fleet could take on the Horde on the sea. The ships he had seen had much armor and a great deal of cannons, rendering them fearsome on sight, especially that new behemoth of a ship they had just fought, the one officially called the juggernaut. It was powerful, but its cannons lacked quality, it was bulky, snail-like slow and its maneuverability was nearly nil in combat. A good puncher, but no match for a good Orca-Class Battleship like the Dauntless. This usually was true of most ships, and one-on-one, he always would bet on the Alliance coming away victorious. Add to that the fact that they had more ships on the field, and the outcome of the war was obvious.

On the sea at least.

The problem was, they would need to win on land to truly vanquish this enemy, and that was already a problem. A problem he had no idea how to resolve. Ever since the Kingdom had been formed by his distant ancestors over five centuries ago, Kul Tiras had fought most of its battles on the sea. Certainly, there had been civil wars and uprisings and such, but they had always been minor. There were little dangers on their island, and so the Fleet of Kul Tiras had been the one having the most work to protect the Kul Tiran people. As a result, they were good sailors, but the quality of the land army was less than most.

'Although that is changing.' Proudmoore thought soberly 'But there's no sense worrying about this now. Lothar is in charge on land and he is the best to do the job. If he can't beat back the Horde, no one can.'

Dark thoughts, especially centered on doubts, were unbecoming from one like him, and he banished them forcibly. Instead, he took a deep breath, and went to join the command staff onboard his ship. It wasn't something he relished to do, but there were several things he had seen and felt about recent enemy movements which needed discussing.

Even though The Dauntless was said to be of the Orca-Class battleships, the largest naval bastions in the Alliance Fleet, it was considerably larger, given much more luxury and weaponry than usual ships, formerly being the flagship of the Kul Tiran naval forces and now of the entire forces the human nations could muster. Thus, it was no surprise that the meeting room where his command staff was certainly gathered was bigger than it was supposed to be. Large enough to accommodate forty or fifty person rather comfortably, it had a large square table of polished ironwood and the seats in which the strategists who day after day worked to smooth out the movements of the fleets sat. Although there were no windows, magical, permanent glow-globes lighted the room always as if it was daylight - a rare, extremely expensive commodity which the bought from the Karal Tor of Azeroth before the First War befell, and well worth it.

He entered the room with a grave step, and the people there didn't have the time to open their mouth before he calmly told them. "Its official, ladies and gentlemen. We are being drawn out away from Crestfall Island." he looked at one who had neither bowed nor looked at him when he entered. "Do you not agree on this, Lady Salasai?"

Dressed in the white and gold of a Lordaeron Officer, the woman who had been called to attention only showed her profile. Elevated to the rank of captain when women rarely were allowed on military boats at all, Salasai Grandhunt of the middling House Grandhunt was renowned for her impoliteness and her liability whereas rules were concerned - a true loose cannon.

But a very brilliant one when it came to all-encompassing strategy. And as her ideas had always helped the Alliance thus far, the Island-King was willing to let her have her quirks.

The woman, her blond hair cut shorter than many men did, nodded thoughtfully, her eyes still on the wall where a large drawn map depicting the Great Sea and the fleet movements hung, serving as the center of their fleet strategy. "It would be only the most logical thing, milord Proudmoore. They needed to find a way to anchor their fleet if they were to be any threat at all."

"Since we know where the damn beasts are being spawned from, why don't we go and crush them before they are a threat." a burly strategist, a stromgardian, exclaimed.

"They already are a threat." a smooth voice belonging to a Dalari captain interjected. "That's the only way they'd be getting so bold as to even attempt to attack our main fleet.

Salasai nodded as Proudmoore came to stand beside her, also scrutinizing the map. "Exactly. They must have established an heavily fortified base there, servicing dozens of ships - a sort of response to the facilities we can find say, at Havenport."

A Kul Tiras strategist piped up. "We do have the ships to mount such a campaign, if necessary." and there were many murmurs of approval from other quarters. They stopped as Proudmoore snorted, as close as derisively as he ever did, half-turning to them and encompassing them all with an hard look.

"Don't be fooling around with such notions, people." he said severely, hammering each word with a firm gesture of command. "We may have the number of ships necessary, but such an endeavor would need to have the Horde contained, their troops out of Stromgarde and Khaz Modan, and that's not happening for quite a while yet! We'll need troops to land at Crestfall, and right now all those we have are needed on land."

"And even all those troops are barely holding on in the east." the burly stromgardian acknowledged, his face set. "Season after season, more of my homeland is being razed by the Horde."

Silence reigned supreme as everyone once again took in the bleakness of the situation in the east. Proudmoore knew that the western forces were being transported or marched in as reinforcements, but he sometimes wondered if even that would be enough. Casualties were starting to mount, and although superior knowledge of the terrain had allowed the Horde to lose nearly two troops to one of their own, they always seemed to be the same - relentless, milling, overwhelming. Naval power was one thing, but the one who controlled the lands controlled the resources. If the Alliance lost in the west, and the rich lands of Stromgarde, Quel'Thalas and Alterac fell into Horde hands...the future would be...hopeless.

"If the fate of the Second War lies squarely in the hands of the land forces, what is the fleet to do?" another officer asked sharply.

Proudmoore looked at the map. "We can contain the Horde out of the western countries, disallow their use of the Crestfall base to upset Alliance supremacy over the seas..."

"Hit the shores." Salasai said with her usual impolite way. Proudmoore nearly snapped at her, regretting he,d never taken the woman to task before solely due to her genius, when he noticed the slight smile she wore - and contained his irritation with an effort.

"What do you mean?" he asked shortly, then comprehension dawned as he saw where her slender fingers were circling. "I see...yes...I see what you mean..." he whispered. She turned her head to him at that, and smiled maliciously, her eyes glittering.

"They don't have the strength to strike at our dockyards and foundries, but we do. Lets hit those, slow their naval build-up, and when the land forces drive the Horde back..."

"We will be in a position to crush them." Proudmoore finished, smiling. He flashed a grin. "A bold plan."

"But one which will work, milord. I'm certain of it."

The king looked at the other naval advisors. "Sounds good to me. What do you think of it, gentlemen?"

And amongst the hearty approval the plan received, he had only one thought to had: Now they had to win the war on land.

* * * * * * * * * *

Autumn 591, Bluesight Hills, Azeroth

Gelmar Thornfeet was terribly hungry.

He knew it by the sound that his stomach made - a deep rumbling noise of want, a demand dictated by survival. Most of the time he would have done his best to sate this call for nourishment, but he didn't want to. Nor had he, it seemed, for an eternity. To him, this physical hunger seemed as nothing as the hollowness he felt in his soul, a dark void which sucked all thoughts and forced him to flee. Away, far away. As if to forget.

Forget the betrayal. Forget the deaths. Forget the shattering of his illusions.

He still wore the dark robes of necromancy on him, although they were little more than rags, having been through rain, snow, mud and the lack of care of the one who wore them. Once, he had been proud to wear them - absurdly so, it seemed to him in hindsight. He had been proud to use the powers he had managed to wrest from the Twisted Nether, controlling the dead and making them do his bidding in the name of the Orcish Horde.

He had been proud to be called a Necrolyte.

Gelmar had been newly indicted in the necromantic order when the first battles had occurred with the humans. He had been in many engagements, faced perils to gain his allies an advantage. He had given his mind to the magic, and had been willing to follow the greatest orc Warlock, Gul'Dan, to the end of the Abyss.

Until that night, at the tower. Where he had been late in arriving, and thus had seen, from afar, the terrible spectacle. He had heard his brethren - many of them who had been friends of his - cry out in agony, in anger, in desperation, as their souls were ripped from their bodies and forced to feed a device which had been set by the one he had believed the most.

Gul'Dan. He knew it was him, felt it. Knew the last Warlock had coerced the order together to drain them for a dark ritual. They had all trusted him, and had paid it with their lives.

Not knowing what else to do, hearing the death screams in his ears and the foulness of the magic in his soul, he had fled. And had never stopped running.

As the days went by, the last living necrolyte had fought with the urge of going to Blackrock Spire and warn Orgrim Doomhammer, the warchief, of the unthinkable treachery. But an more reasonable part of his mind had stopped him, reminding him that Gul'Dan would never let him speak. To return anywhere near an Horde territory would mean his death. Onward he had gone, for days upon days, forgetting himself, forgetting everything but his anger, his grief and his mindless terror.

Thus, he felt surprise when his knees, weak from the hunger he had denied to fill, collapsed under him as he staggered forward. He blinked rapidly, his mind coming back to the present briefly, but his vision immediately tilted, greying. He felt his body being invaded by an inrresistible weakness.

He shook his head to clear it. "N...no...I must...continue...I..."

But whatever he said, his body was failing just like the light was fading behind the rocky hills he was surrounded by. Falling completely on his belly, his vision blurring and his thoughts incoherent, the last of the necrolytes let himself drift into a darkness he wished would never cease.

The bliss seemed to last merely a few moments before consciousness painfully returned. Gelmar groaned to himself, wondering where he was, but his nose was faster than anything else. Starved for days, it caught the scent of stew. Wild vegetables and meat, it seemed to him, and his stomach growled in angry protest.

"Yes, yes. Calm your ardor, the stew will be ready in a few minutes." came a rather amused, elderly voice.

At the sound of the voice, Gelmar's eyes flared open, and he sat up in one swift movement. The swiftness was almost his undoing, as the weakness gripped him again, and he lay back down what seemed to be a sort of pallet with a groan. Deprived of movement, he quickly scanned his surroundings.

From what he could see, he was in a cave of some kind. Large enough, it seemed, but then that was no surprise. On one of the walls, on rocky outcroppings, were many strange objects and sacks he didn't recognize, and yet to which he felt a strange familiarity to. Little was visible from his viewpoint, except the fact that a fire was blazing near his, and that a figure cloaked in garments nearly as worn as his own robes were.

"Who..." he coughed as his dried throat hurt from the effort, and swallowed hard to allow some wetness in. "Who are you?" he asked, cursing the weakness he felt his voice convey.

"So you ARE conscious!" the elderly voice exclaimed with a jolly tone "I was beginning to wonder if the sleep had truly taken hold of you for good!" and with that sentence, he half-turned in his direction.

As he fully saw the face of the one who had saved him from a cold, hungry night - and probably saved his life in the process - he froze in mind and body, his breath stopping. Before him was a man wrapped in an old brown suit and a grey cloak, his white beard short and quite neatly cropped and his black eyes glinting in the middle of a lined face whose lips were turned upward slightly. But there were no tusks protruding from those lips, no green cast to the skin.

Gelmar's savior was an old human man.

It seemed impossible to grasp. A human! Here! In the Bluehills! Certainly, he had heard that human bands still survived in Azeroth, but they stayed hidden away, in mountaineous places far removed from the main Horde provinces. The Bluehills was near the mountain range leading to Blackrock Spire itself. It seemed a fantasy to think anyone from the crushed human kingdom would live so near what would be death. And yet...

The old man nodded. "Yes, I'm human. Surprising, given the situation here. Don't you think so?"

Although the voice still sounded pleasant, Gelmar balked at the fact that the human had just answered the very questions his whirling mind had been asking him. He struggled into himself, trying to rebuild a sort of composure. However, despite his best efforts, he couldn't help but add a sort of frustrating quaver in his voice as he answered.

"D-do you...are you reading my mind?" he asked in what he hope was a sufficiently dangerous voice. It was an obvious failure, for the elderly human threw back his head and laughed a surprisingly strong guffaw.

"I have forgotten how being young was!" he said at last, amidst chuckles "The power of observation seems often to be mistaken for a magical power, and yet many could have seen your surprise. Given that the Horde controls this territory, I simply made the connections." his chuckles died back, and only a grin and glinting eyes remained. "No, orc. I'm no mind reader."

"But you ARE a sorceror!" Gelmar burst out to his own surprise "I feel strong magicks from you! Although they are...strange..." 'And awfully familiar.' he finished.

The grin slipped from the leathery, lined face, and a sort of odd light started to shine in the dark eyes studying the fallen necrolyte. "You...feel it? You are telling me you can actually feel my powers?" the man asked intently, the tone demanding an answer.

So commanding was the tone, so great the changes in the voice, that all Gelmar could do was nod his head. It sent the elder one into a sort of introspection.

"Incredible...my suspicions were correct then. His powers do not lie in the necromantic fields..." he seemed to suddenly realize the younger orc was still there. "If you can feel my powers, it means that you have the powers of shamanism in your blood - very strong powers."

"Shamanism!" Gelmar repeated in wonder and fear. The shamans of the orc people had stopped existing years ago, replaced by the Warlocks and more recently by the Necrolytes. They were just stories to be told to orclings these days.

"What is your name, orc?" the human asked.

"I? Gelmar Thornfeet."

A firm nod. "Well met, then. My name is Desil Brassgoat. Come and eat the stew with me." his black eyes became almost frighteningly penetrating. "We have much to talk about."

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Winter 591 Horde Main Army Camp, Stromgarde

The Hellbowl Valley had always been avoided like the plague by the people of Stromgarde. Bowl-shaped like its name told, surrounded by hills of reddish rocks, the place had a stale air which made none easy. Moreover, it had no good ground upon which to farm, and not an hint of precious veins of metal had ever been discovered. Thus, the people of the Realm of the Defiant Fist had been only too happy to give the place a wide berth. No human fortification - indeed no human habitat of any sort could be seen for miles. No road went through near. Hellbowl Valley was far from everything.

That was precisely why Argal Grimfrost had chosen it as the grounds from which his army could continue to grow, until it was strong enough to come forward and crush both Quel'Thalas and Lordaeron in a successive series of crushing blows. With the Elves and the main Human nation shattered, the Alliance would crumble, leaving the Horde to pick off and finish off the pieces left. Once the continent was there, it would be a simple thing to amass an armada and raze Kul Tiras' annoying fleets.

And once the entire continent was theirs, the Horde would move on to find others, until like Dreanor, the entire world was theirs. The hardened orc veteran, who had fought battle after battle and had brough himself to this position through sheer effort, could see it easily. The deaths, the destruction, the flames which would scourge the land. The endless agony of the continent, forestalled in Azeroth only because of the ongoing war.

He could see it all so clearly. And was mildly surprised when he felt no pleasure at all from what his mind's eye gave him to see.

He didn't have to concentrate much to remember his last conversation with Doomhammer, one in which his mentor had given him his mission.

"More deaths..." he had said with a bitterness which had made the other orc's eyebrows eyes. Aghast, he had straightened himself and tried to cover the slip "That is, lord, that I see...that I feel..."

"Spare yourself the effort." Doomhammer had cut him off with a frown "I've heard it in your voice, Grimfrost. I've heard the desolation. Don't try to lie to me by telling me its not there, I would feel insulted!"

Grimfrost had prefered silence to saying anything on the subject. He knew that the horde Warchief could do if feeling slighted in any way. At last, however, far from even getting irritated, Doomhammer had sighed - an astounding sight he had only seen once, after a long and grueling battle in which he had barely managed to triumph over the grudgingly-respected Azerothian General, Anduin Lothar.

"I feel the same." he has told him firmly "More deaths. But that is why I need you. Because I have a plan which renders these deaths quite bleakly necessary."

And then, he had told him everything. And Grimfrost had vowed to bring down the Alliance at any cost. He was one who took such vows very seriously.

There was some sort of noise that acquired his ears all of a sudden. Although the camp, immense as it was, was always afire with shouts, clangs of armor, raucous language and the buzz of life, this sound was woefully new to the place. It was a voice raised in anger - not surprising by itself, the Path knew his brethren were capable of much anger at the best of times. No, it was different. New to this place, but not to him. Grimfrost knew what it was only too well.

He had risen and grasped his axe just before he heard the furious shouts of pain from the guards. He had it in hand as a huge shape burst through into his tent, snarling and cursing.In front of him stood Garthol Towerfist, one of his best warriors. He stood with all teeth uncovered, snarling, his eyes red with blood, his every traits deformed by the rage which inhabited him. It was a rage Grimfrost knew well, one he felt everyday, but controlled. There was no control there. There was only the blind need to kill.

"TRAITOR! DIE!!!" Towerfist bellowed, striking down with his axe.

The warlord had seen the blow come, had started to fling himself to one side, rolling and coming to his feet before the blow struck the ground. Hefting his own axe, he slashed at the head of his newfound opponent, but the bloodlust gave added reflexes to the immense orc, and metal met metal in a cacophony of sparks and ringing. Grimfrost almost lost his grip on the weapon as his arms shook, but recovered before the maddened orc attacked again.

He met his opponent's next charge head on, utilizing his skill to deflect the axe to one side, hammering rapid blows to keep Towerfist confused. He knew he had to pour on the attacks without letting the other get much blows in, for although he knew by then that the weapon mastery was squarely on his side, the immense girth of the one trying to kill him remained a very potent danger to his life.

As he parried and thrust another attack aside, he found the breath to ask "What is your reason for this foolish attack?" before slashing.

"Coward! You've dishonored us! While we stand here, our brothers are fighting!" the other orc shouted, his mouth bubbling with froth, his eyes pure maddened hatred "PREPARE TO PAY FOR OUR DISGRACE!!!"

Upward came the axe, catching him at an odd angle, right into the ribs. Luckily, only the flat of the blade hit him. Less luckily, his ribs cracked under the sheer pressure of the blow. He gagged down a cry of pain, feeling the rage swell inside of him, slithering, reaching out. He firmly fought it down, keeping control.

"Fool..." he gasped "Our Warchief himself has ordered me to wait yet..."

"ENOUGH OF ALL YOUR COWARDLY LIES!" the other cut him off, and Grimfrost set his squarish, muscular jaw. The orc was unattainable through reasoning. So be it!

Using all the skill which had driven him from a simple grunt to an highly respected battle commander, Grimfrost brough his blade forward, reversing it just as the axe was about to strike. The handle couldn't take the strength of the blow, and was severed, the axe continuing on its way, taking its master with it. It was only an instant before the giant orc would be back at him, but the second was more than he needed. Even as the other one was continuing his movement, he had taken what remained of the handle in both hand, and swung, with savage strength, at the neck of his would-be murderer.

The other orc never had a chance. Swiftly, and cleanly, the head fell, bounced on the floor, then lay still. The huge body stayed upright for a moment, as if still trying to determined whether it was dead, then fell, twitching.

Argal Grimfrost, once again after so many times, had won a fight against one who questioned his command. Strange that he no longer felt much exhilaration from it. At most, it was only a mild satisfaction.

Without awaiting anything else, nodding as he heard a stale silence outside of his tent, he coldly ignored the stench of death and the smell of freshly spilled blood and took the bleeding head of his former warrior and ally, and walked out of the tent, his back straight, his eyes blazing. He wasn't surprised by what he found there.

There were a very many of his troops there, gathered and looking from him to the bodiless head he held in his hand, assessing. It appeared that the troops had known of Towerfist's ploy to kill their warlord. Once more he felt that strange feeling, that wrongness, but pushed it away as trivial. He held the head right in front of them, sweeping his muscular arms so that all would see what he held, and promptly dropped the gory thing on the soddy soil.

"My orders are to gather my forces here until our warchief Doomhammer gives me the order to attack." he said through clenched teeth. "Anyone who disagrees with these orders - like the is one you see here - is a traitor to the Horde." he raised his voice "Traitors deserve DEATH, nothing else!"

'After all, it is our way of life.' he mused as they all growled approval around him. He grinned at them, although the pride he should have felt was weak. What was WRONG with him?!?

"We number more than three hundred thousand! When we reach four hundred, we will attack the elven cities. QUEL'THALAS WILL BURN!! And so will the ALLIANCE!!"

And they cheered him. Order had been restored, once again. Steeling himself, the most trusted of Orgrim Doomhammer's Warlords reminded himself of his ultimate goal, of the vows he had taken. He would fulfill them.

They might, after all, be the Horde's last hope in the end.

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Winter 592, Tarren Mill, New Azeroth

The orders had come three days ago. Brief and precise, they told Aerth Swiftblade to move his army to reinforce the battered, beleaguered fortress at Tol Barad. The information was sketchy at best, and it rankled deep down inside the young general's mind. The best information they could tell was that the troublesome Horde outpost, built on the ruins of a dwarven city named Dun Modr, had managed to cut off the supply lines to that base, and was putting it in serious jeopardy. The Alliance Navy was unable to bring in much help, as it was occupied containing the horde off the seas themselves. However, the High Command had decided that it would do to send an experienced army to help the dwindling garrison there. It appeared his number had been picked for the task.

Thus, knowing that his time in Tarren Mill would end soon and that he might not be there for months at the very least, the General of the First Alliance Army spent as much time as he could with his wife. Whether it was haggling goods for the keep, decorating with the help of the servants, holding a gathering of nobles or simply strolling around the town or the green of their keep, he was there, beside her.

Like he was doing, walking around near the western walls, down the streets containing the large stone houses and mansions for the rich merchants and powerful nobles in the city. It was a very clean part of the city, heavily patrolled and safe, and yet Aerth always felt endangered when she coaxed him into leaving his sword behind him as they went for a walk. "There's plenty of guards to help us around here." she always said, and he knew it was true. But unlike her, he had been trough five years of war, had assisted in handling the miscreants elements of society as the Kingdom attempted to rebuild, and had been thrust into a position of command in a second war which was proving even bloodier than the first. Because of this, he couldn't help but feel paranoid.

Not that he would feel that much agitation if he was on his own - he knew he could handle himself. But she, his beloved Eira, was the world to him. So he tended to become a sort of husband-bodyguard when they were strolling, which irritated her to no ends at times.

As he passed a footman, he was mildly embarrassed as the young man bowed when he should just have nodded his head in greetings.

"General, Swiftblade. A good day to you, sir!" said the soldier crisply.

"Thank you. A good day to you as well." he answered, checking a sigh. He groaned inwardly as the footman showed an absurd pleasure - the face of the man was actually FLUSHED with it! - from being treated with what seemed to the general as simple politeness. Looking back at the retreating back as they continued walking down the street, he muttered "Light. Can't they stop? Its not like I'm a great hero like Nielas Aran or Lord Lothar."

"Were you talking just now?" Eira asked, raising an eyebrow. Her smile, small but definitely amused, told him she had heard what he had said, and had already drawn conclusions. However, she always liked to have him repeat things for her own enjoyment. It was an old game between them, and as all things with her, it was something he cherished.

"I was saying, as you certainly guessed," he said with a point of sarcasm, "That I'd really wish they'd stop treating me like some sort of great hero."

She blinked, her smile growing full, pleasant, her eyes sparkling. "But, my blunt, blind love, you ARE a hero! Everyone in Tarren Mill knows of the miracle you gave the Alliance by now."

He frowned at her. "Miracle? Perhaps, but I'd think it was luck. I made a HUGE gamble on some things, based on guesses and loose information. Hardly heroic."

She sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if you're not just blind, Aerth." She said, running her hands on her lithe abdomen. Aerth looked at her hungrily. Even dressed in an elaborate fur coat and thick wool longskirt, she still seemed to radiate feminity and a grace he had seen very few women exhibit over his years. Once again, he counted himself lucky that he had won the heart of this vibrant, beautiful and keen-witted young noblewoman.

It had been a rash move on his part, to start courting her, all those years ago. In Sunshire, waiting firmly for the Horde Armies to arrive. He had been a young knight, just indoctrinated into the Brotherhood, and had been entrusted with protecting the daughter of one of the most influential lords of the city, and of the realm itself. He had first done his duty, nothing more, but then, as he saw how like him she was, he had been unable to stop himself. Bracing himself, he had made tentative overtures.

Then his life had changed. At first distant, she had taken to his halting steps and made bold ones of her own. Before he quite knew what had happened, they were seeing each other in secret, with the knowing and snickering complicity of the other knights. They had married shortly after, managing to get a very reluctant, furious approval from Lord Fregar, who had made trouble for them. But then the Horde had arrived, the battle had been joined, and they had, like so many times before, been routed. Many of Sunshire's people had died when it fell, Eira's parents and brother amongst them. Gone was most of her wealth, her standing was diminished as the wife of a non-noble knight.

So he had worked hard to overcome his doubts about his abilities, and given the military and the new town of Tarren Mill his all. He had made an oath to himself to become the kind of man she deserved, a true nobleman with at least some renown. With his rise to nobility, his title of Baron and his position as a General in the Alliance Army, he was beginning to think that, perhaps, finally, he was becoming worth her faith in him.

Now, if only the people would stop looking at him like he was some statue...

Eira might or might not have heard his very thoughts - he wondered about that sometimes, and had once told a good friend amongst the knights that he was lucky he never had to face her as an enemy - she could always tell what he thought. She leaned slightly against him - highly improper, tongues would wag, but who was he to complain?

"You'll be leaving soon." she said softly, earnestly "I'll miss you everyday you are gone."

"As will I, my beloved. I'll want nothing more than to return to your side." he sighed "I'll do my best to return shortly, if events let me."

She smiled as she looked at him, and he felt his heart soar. Even after all these years, he was surprised she could do this to him so easily. Her smile, however, had something new to it, an added incentive he had never seen and which made him wonder. Not that he wondered long, as she stopped and walked in front of him. He felt both fright and exhilaration from her. What was it, by the Light?

"When you return, you won't find me as lonely as you." she said, putting her hands on her midsection again.

The signification of the sentence and gesture confused him. He was a bit hurt that she would feel less lonely than he, but he supposed that it was a taken, since she'd be surrounded by many noble ladies and servants and the remainder of her own things. Still, that didn't explain the queer look she was giving him.

The confusion must have been plain on his face, for her eyes flashed with mild irritation and she intoned, plainly spacing the words. "Aerth, I am pregnant with our first child."

Years down the road, Aerth would find his reaction amusing - a young man reacting to news he was partly wishing for and partly apprehensive about. He stopped moving altogether, and his eyes widened so much that it was a wonder they didn't just pop out and leave him. His throat was as dry as parchment, and instead of the cold, he felt something hot, new, starting to grow in the pit of his stomach, flowing outward. A keen wit, a brave man who had never turned tail and run during battle, Aerth Swiftblade was floored by the prospect of being a father.

This eternal moment, of course, went on for only a moment, before he stepped forward, taking his wife's slim hands into his larger, rough ones. "A-are you...certain?" he asked in a tremulous voice. She gratified his barely-restrained question with a radiant smile which outshone the bright sun.

"Of course I am. I went to see the priests, and they're certain-"

He didn't let her finish. Completely disregarding the disapproving stares thrown their way, not caring one wit about the gossip and outrage which might follow in the nobility, Aerth pulled her into a passionate embrace, which she returned at once. Light, he felt good! He felt more than good! A child! Their child! It gave him faith, gave him the renewed strength to fight.

For her safety, he intended to push the Horde back.

To insure his child never suffered like his parents, he was prepared to defeat them.

Let them come!

__________________________________________

BONUS PROFILE #2

Jurin Halfadas

Birthplace: Lowfield, Kul Tiras
Birthdate: Late Winter 563
Height: 5'10"
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown
Present status: Vice-Admiral, Commander of the First Alliance Army Fleet
Allegiances: The Kingdom of Kul Tiras, The Alliance

History: Jurin was born to a sailor and the daughter of a low-class military seaman, and was thus familiar with the noises of the deck and the scent of the sea from the cradle. One of many children, he showed a passion for the sail which was astounding, managing to scuttle himself on his father's ship on many occasions, and finding himself in trouble more often than he liked to.

By the age of thirteen, however, he was on board his village's fishing fleet, and quickly gained a reputation as a dependable, keen-witted sailor. Life fishing, however, didn't appeal to him much - he yearned for more adventure. Then one day a large battleship docked for provisions, and, acting on a whim, driven by stories of his grand-father's adventure, he managed to convince the captain to recruit him on his ship.

For over twelve years since then, Jurin worked hard, rising from the lowest deck crewmember to the position of captaincy he had coveted. His small ship, under his stern but efficient command, soon became a fearsome sight to pirates plying and raiding the sea lanes.

Then the Second War began, and Jurin was only to happy to follow his liege, Dealin Proudmoore, as part of the Alliance Fleet, where he served for many long months before being shifted to the new and experimental First Alliance Army. There he met Aerth Swiftblade, and the two quickly became fast friends. It was then that he was named Commander, and told to command the small fleet the Alliance had given them. It is largely because of his diligence and faith in Swiftblade's plan that the naval forces managed to operate beyond the call of duty, insuring the First Army's miraculous victory at Zul'Dare.

Today Jurin is in command of fifty ships, and has risen to the rank of Vice-Admiral. He has faith in the Alliance's ultimate victory, and is steadfast in his commitment to the Alliance Fleet.