Chapter Seven : Plans and Actions
Early Spring 592, Hillsbrad, New Azeroth
Silphord Duraz grinned in the onctuous, deliberate manner he treated any situation which amused him, as he carefully looked at the man before him. They were sitting in the small study in Duraz Manor, pleasantly ensconced in leather chairs and sipping wine saved at great risks from Moonbrookian cellars and brought to this small stronghold. The small but growing library clearly showed signs of being new but also showed Duraz's present prosperity. All this made the statement he had heard slightly ludicrous, even though he wasn't surprised to hear it, considering how things were.
"Tell me Falanzin," he asked in a pleasant tone, his thin mouth twitching upward "How is Baron Swiftblade a possible threat to me."
The man in front of him was slight but by no means bony - a short, heavily-laden pack of muscle and sinew. Falanzin Herraru had used this physique to both go unnoticed or force and escape when it came necessary - perfect for the spy he was. He also had sharp wits, and could usually read a situation pretty well. And right now the little, dangerous man was reading dire things for him in the future.
"Swiftblade's actions in the Zul'Dare conflict, his helping the elves escape imprisonment by the orcs, and his general services, are starting to make him a favorite in those of the High Command. Several of the most influential members in it are starting to consider giving him greater rewards."
Duraz shrugged. "There's no accounting for taste. I know Wrynn likes him, Lothar as well perhaps..." he raised an eyebrow at the man questioningly.
"Wrynn and the Regent, certainly, but others are joining the fray. Uther Lightbringer is showing interest, and his Paladins are growing more numerous and more powerful by the day. And where Lothar, Lightbringer and Wrynn agree, many others will be swayed rather easily."
"Such as?"
Falanzin licked his lips before pursuing the matter further "Terenas, Proudmoore and several of the other generals, are starting to show approval of him. Many have been enticed by he being raised to nobility and married to a very high-blooded woman."
Duraz's features darkened subtly, but no more, for the spy had been wise not to speak the name of the 'woman' in question. There was something there that he had difficulty to stomach, but if all went according to the plan, he wouldn't have to churn his brain over it much longer. His face cleared, and he took another from the glass he held in his hand. "Yes, yes, I can just see it. The man is glamorous, and they like that. But how, to be more precise, is this threat to me personally?"
The spy cracked his knuckles, an habit Duraz disdained but endured in light of the situation. After some more lip-licking, he gave the rest of what he and the ones he employed had seen. "Your power base is weakening, milord. Many of the officers who supported you are starting to shift their loyalty and admiration to Swiftblade because of his actions, and to Wrynn for having the foresight of finding a tactician, whom, they say milord, possibly equal people like you or Lothar. Furthermore, your lack of movements, your stationing of your troops here in this theatre, where the horde groups are now very small and very few, is negating your previous accomplishments because Swiftblade is moving towards the eastern theatre." he coughed softly "Their eyes, milord, are turning to him and away from you."
Duraz understood what it meant, saw the logic in what the man was saying easily. How couldn't he? He was a man of great tactical abilities, and yet had chosen to stay close to his home and comforts rather than fight the Horde in the eastern lands. In contrast, Swiftblade - a man completely ignorant of politics and noble maneuverings, was leaving hearth, wife and comforts in order to do exactly that. Why wouldn't the military commanders, these High Commanders safely debating strategies in Lordaeron, rather thump their chest and croon about the proud young noble general instead of the one staying at home where there was little risk?
Oh yes, Silphord saw it all. But he also knew things that even wily Falanzin ignored.
He nodded to the man, keeping his face blank this time - no point letting anything slip through. He took out a jingling sack and threw it lightly to the man, who caught it and opened it. To his grin as he surveyed the contents, he almost scoffed - some wanted so little in life. Commoners with commoner goals.
"I thank you for the information you have given me, Falanzin." he said in what he knew was his best crafted concerned voice. "I will certainly take your words into advisement. Until I move, however, I wish for you and your people to keep an eye on the Swiftblade household and one whatever the High Command is doing."
The man smiled, his eye alight with greed as he taught, no doubt, of the other gems and gold pieces he would obtain from this wealthy, conniving nobleman. Duraz frankly wanted him out of his sight, but kept himself in check. He endured it as the wiry little man gave him a knowing smile and bowed.
"As you wish, Lord Duraz. So shall it be done."
"Good. Now leave. I wish to confer in solitude with my own thoughts about this matter." he said with command.
Soon the door was closed and he was alone with his books and his wine. Having finished his glass, he took the bottle and took a refill. As the ruby liquid glided inside the glass as he swirled it, the powerful Silphord Duraz, Count and General of the Eight Alliance Army, settled back, closed his eyes, and smiled again, utterly relaxed, even as he felt the presence near him.
"You heard, didn't you?" he asked out loud, and after a moment's silence, a soft, eerie voice responded.
"I am aware of what transpired. This man is a fool."
"Granted, a fool. But one with his own uses for now. I will use him until these uses are expended, then drop him like the excrement he is. We, my friend, have other, more important projects. And they, however, do have to do with that insufferable young upstart Baron Swiftblade."
"Yes." the voice agreed swiftly "He is the first step, the beginning of the march, the bottom rung of the stairs."
Duraz snorted this time - poetry was out of place for what they were preparing, and he'd have none of it. Not until he got what he wanted, at least. It didn't matter if the other one was insulted by his attitude - they, after all, wanted much the same thing, and it all began with a single act of subtle cruelty - something Duraz had always worked well with in the past.
"No matter where this damn pup stands, or where his damnable, cursed wench stand, we will assure that this piece falls into place." he opened his eyes, but didn't look in the direction of the one he was talking to. He wouldn't have seen anything at any rate. Magic-users! "Now, my question is simple : do you have the item?"
There was an hesitation, it seemed, and then the voice came back. "Yes, I have obtained it. Rare, and deadly."
He could feel a surge of triumphant excitement at the words. At last. The plan he had taken years to put into place would begin to unfold. "Can it be administered to our target quickly?"
"I believe it is feasible if we seize the opportunity." the eerie voice answered.
He saw the wisdom in those words. The opportunity had to be perfect, the timing set so that neither of them would be implicated. If they were, not only would the plan crumble to dust, but he would lose even more. They had to play it safe, moving cautiously, and watch the events from a safe distance. Yes, he could see it all. It was a game he knew well, and played like a master.
He closed his eyes again, blocking out the presence. "Proceed at your own discretion then. Just make sure our target gets it soon." he grinned, his gleaming teeth sowing "I want Eira Fregar dead while the fool husband is away."
"Yes. It is the first step."
Indeed. The first step of so many glorious things to come.
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 582, Horde Reaper Fleet, on the Great Sea
Orgrim Doomhammer, Warchief of the entire Horde, was unable to contain himself much longer. The harder he stared at the map strewn in front of him, the more angry he became. It wasn't the map himself which burned him, stoking his ire. No, the map was well-drawn, looted from the vaults of Stormwind Keep itself. It had served him to prepare his massive offensive against the human kingdoms - a monumental thing of which none but himself saw the whole picture. The lines of ink should, had all went well, shown the so-called New Azeroth covered in red lines, with many red dots denoting increased troop movements, in tandem with a similar thrust in Stromgarde. The Alliance would have several armies positioned in blue on the other side, but they'd be scattered, unable to hold on to two fronts.
This had been his first vision of the war. And one man's incompetence had bungled it.
Zul'Dare had been crushed, and because of it he had lost fourteen thousand troops in one stroke, and hundreds of others on the beachheads the New Azeroth front had be supposed to launch from. Now, there were just this odd red point in the western theatre, with blue lines and dots covering the rest. Few of them, of course. They had shifted their forces to the east, lending strength. And because of that the second thrust's progress had been reduced to nearly nothing! He couldn't believe it, but the truth lay there for his eyes to agonize over.
And there was more. The Alliance Navy had shown increased clout, owing mainly to the appalling quickness with which the kingdoms, especially Kul'Tiras and the elven realm of Quel'Thalas, could produce ships. The Horde fleet had ships with more armor and firepower, but it was so very outnumbered that its efficacy was down, making it impossible for the Horde to stage an offensive on the western nations of the Alliance by sea. I they had managed to do it before, if the second front would have been opened, there might have been no need.
Now certain victory no longer seemed close. It had receded back to the horizon, to be reached only through months, years, of bloodshed. Thousands of dead, resources wasted in a unnecessarily-long campaign. All because of one miserable fool who should never have been thrust into command.
Throwing the beautiful map aside, he sat back down on his throne, feeling the deck rock beneath his feet, the sea swaying even the powerful Juggernaut flagship of the Horde Fleet, the Stormhammer. He fingered his great hammer, the one which had served him so well in leading troops against the surprisingly doughty humans of the Kingdom of Azeroth.
"I'd weep if I didn't feel so furious." he growled to himself in an unusual philosophical manner, his eyes flashing.
At that very moment there was a stern knock on the door to his private quarters, and he irritably gave permission to come in. Not really surprisingly, a grunt entered. From his scars and many badges of honor, he was a high-placed member of the crew manning the Flagship, perhaps the first mate. The orc slapped his hand to his chest and nodded his head to Doomhammer, who only nodded back.
"Warchief, we have him. Warlord Bleedcut has arrived."
"He is, isn't he?" he said "Bring him in now, so I may see his sorry snout."
He rose quickly, patting the handle of his heavy hammer, the one which had the name he had taken as his own, as the orc grunt left the room. He knew he didn't have long, but he worked to school his features, to render them as neutral as possible. A neutral impression on his face, he had discovered, promoted fear quite faster than his fury - a fact Blackhand, his treacherous and lecherous predecessor, had used quite extensively during his rule. Although he found the irony quite piercing, Doomhammer used it as well, for it served him.
The door opened quickly, as he had surmised, and there entered Gorroth Bleedcut, the muscular orc flanked by two enormous grunts. The Warlord held himself straight, but the demeanor of the man, from the slight tightening of his eyes to the oh-so slight involuntary slump, was an indication of the way he felt. He had failed and been defeated - no, humiliated! - by a foe he had completely underestimated. There was nothing worst than that to even a grunt, it was impossible to swallow for a Warlord. Knowing how many times he had come close to defeat when he had fought Anduin Lothat's army in Azeroth, Doomhammer felt a wave of pity and sympathy.
It didn't, however, diminish his anger, and it was with a cold voice that he went straight to the point. "Six thousand Alliance troops entered the battle, against fifteen thousand Horde troops. You had almost all of the advantages - the terrain, the fleet, the manpower." his eyes fixed evenly on the disgraced orc. "And yet...when the battle ended, the Alliance had destroyed the Zul'Dare facilities, stopping our western operations cold and allowing them to drive out the few troops which acted as our scouts while the main force, the ones who had to establish beachheads in Hillsbrad and Southshore were...caught...on an island."
His tone had risen through his tirade, and now he truly let loose, his eyes speaking of murder. "Stranded! TEN! THOUSAND! TROOPS!" he bellowed, and so grim was his look so menacing was his voice that Bleedcut actually flinched, and the two grunts on each side of the warlord shifted uncomfortably. Good. Neutrality was good at times, but he felt too angry for it - let them feel and fear his ire!
Although there was fear in his eyes, Bleedcut managed to maintain much of his dignity. "I am ready for any punishment you see fit." he said simply.
"Punishment! I burn to have you executed at once!" he growled. Then he brought himself back under control, his chest heaving, forcing the fire burning strong to die down. He turned away and stepped back towards the table. "You have always underestimated humans, Gorroth, always managed to forget how quickly they adapt and how - unconventional - their means can be! Yet I will not punish, in light of the many battles you have fought and also because of the memory of your father, who had fought bravely beside me and died for the cause when we killed that traitor Blackhand."
"Warchief..." Bleedcut began in a disbelieving voice.
"I don't want to hear it. I don't want to ever see you again. And be certain, that the next time you fail, you WILL die, and your head will be hung on a pike over the gate of Blackrock Spire!" he grunted. He waved his hand to the side. "Get him out of here! The stench of defeat is unbearable to my nose!"
They moved, but has they did he turned halfwit and called to one of the grunts. "Hold."
"Warchief?"
"Bring me paper and ink. I have an important dispatch to make ready at once."
"Warchief! I live to serve you and the Horde."
The grunt was gone, and as soon as the door was closed once more, he picked up the map of the word and examined it under the light of his quarters. He had been foiled in one of his plans, but there was always a way to put a bad element to good use. He could take Gul'dan as an example.
He shivered slightly. After all, perhaps not. Gul'Dan had been the head of the Shadow Council, a corrupting influence over his people, one he had worked hard at eradicating. He had left Gul'Dan alive because of the frank fear of losing all of his potent magic users. The conjurers of Azeroth had been a dangerous enemy, and there were many more in the rest of the realms. Thusm he needed strong magic, for many things. But still, he knew Gul'Dan, for all his compliance to his will, was a very dangerous enemy, and would only wait for the right moment to jeopardize him.
He banished the thought. Defeatism was only helping the enemy. He had been foiled in one thing, granted. But there were many forces present in the vast Horde, many projects slowly coming to fruition, many things he could do still. He looked at the map, seeing the numbers, the positions, and arranged all this within his mind, settling into a game of moves and counter-moves he had been playing with Anduind Lothar for many years. He saw the map, and ideas began to connect, bloom, and solidify. He grinned.
The Alliance might be thinking the tide was turning. Let them truly thinks so. He would surprise them when host final trap would be sprung. And then, he would crush them and claim victory for himself and his people.
And then the real work would begin!
Patiently, filled with plans, he waited fro the parchment and ink to arrive.
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 582, Tol Barad, Stromgarde
Two centuries past, banditry on the Great Sea had reached an all-time high near Stromgarde's western shores. The King of the time, King Thoras's ancestor, had been particularly occupied in fighting off yet another wave of Troll Raiders flushed out of the forests of Quel'Thalas at the northern borders of his lands. So caught up was he, that a powerful pirate-lord by the name of Peliurin had defeated and commandeered a large portion of the Stromgarde fleet, using it to build himself into an upstart power. Looting the nearly-defenseless townships of the Stromgardian coasts, he acquired goods, money and slaves, and built, on an island, a powerful naval base of stone. There, he named himself King of the Great Sea and set about expanding his power.
The dream of conquest and glory were short-lives, however, as the troll raids died down and King Trollbane saw the new peril to his realm. He sent his greatest admiral, Sem Barad, to retake the place. Barad was a great tactician. Using daring tactics, he circumvented Peliurin's forces, convinced units from Kul Tiras to join his fleet, and arranged an all-out attack on the island-fortress. The battle was costly in men and ships, for the pirates were hardened fighters who knew the seas better than anyone, but in the end, the superior numbers of Barad won through, landing inside the port, and taking the fortress-island itself by sword and fire. Peliurin was captured, brought to the King and executed. And the King, pleased with the work of his admiral, granted him the position of Count and the captured pirate island. Admiral Barad renamed it Tol Barad and, through his efforts, the island became a great first line of defense against naval attackers, and a prosperous stop-over for mercantile fleets.
Two centuries after his ancestor's great deeds, Voril Barad, Count of Tol Barad, faced a challenge his ancestor would have risen to meet, and found himself utterly lacking.
It wasn't simply the fact that he was cut off from almost any Stromgarde forces, and that help from other Alliance forces still hadn't arrived. It wasn't, either, the fact that supplies were running low - only a few weeks even with the great stores of the islands and rationing. He had dealt with being cut off once, and accidents had once forced his people into a rather miserable year of dearth once as well. He could deal with those, had been trained to deal with those from birth.
But, for all of his intelligence, he didn't know what to do to break the siege of his island by the horde forces. For weeks they had been raiding his island, but the mighty walls had kept them out. But they had been only small raids yet. They were bound to attack in force soon, and then what would he do.
Voril Barad turned to his wife and gave her a desperate look which irked him but that he couldn't help. Katrina Barad was seated in a chair, an open book on her lap, looking at him with a calm air that made him feel small and petty - probably exactly what she wanted him to feel. Their marriage had been a political arrangement, totally loveless, and so full of strife and bitterness that his elder son had left to live in their small mansion near the capital and rarely visited them. All this, with the stark fact that there were no truly able-minded tacticians amongst the Told Barad garrison and defense fleet, deprived the count of any sort of useful aid and council. This only added to his fear and frustration, and he pointed a shaking finger at the woman before him.
"Instead of reading and looking at me like I'm some piece of lamb, why don't you just spit whatever venom you have and have done with it?!?"
She merely looked serenely at him. This, of course, served only to infuriate him further. He stomped close to her, his fat girth and strong beard making him look comical more than threatening. "Out with it, woman! What do you want to say?"
"What is there to say that YOU would listen to?" she asked mildly.
"I'd listen to whatever makes a little bit of sense. Anything that'll help us get out of this mess!" he said. He knew he was being quite irrational in this, but the weeks of constant pummeling by Horde forces were starting to bring him up the walls. As an answer, his so-dear wife shot him a look of grim contempt.
"You shouldn't be talking of common sense, it doesn't suit you! And as far as this 'mess', as you so eloquently put it, is concerned, you only have yourself to blame and no one else. You received the messages telling you to strengthen your defenses, and you did nothing. You were told to recruit more forces for Told Barad, and you barely recruited a few dozens. The blacksmiths are barely working, the workers from the ore mine are lax, and then you come in and then when these beasts attacked us. I'm not surprised. You were always posturing with no desire for action. A bean-counter living on the pride of dried-up family military history."
He wished he could slap her for this, or at least tell her to quiet about it, even if she wouldn't, but he found he couldn't. And there was a reason for that, a reason he wasn't entirely ready to admit: he deserved this all the way. Completely and utterly deserved these words. He was a lord, he wasn't a soldier. He knew nothing and cared nothing about military matters. Still, his pride forbade him to admit that, once again, she had been right.
"You certainly aren't of any help."
"Since when have you needed or wanted my help, milord."
The sarcastic tone she used to put in her last remark irked him, and he was about to tell her what he thought of her help or her wit when one of the household guards burst in unannounced, panting. His eyes were wide, and the near-panic in his eyes made the Voril swallow whatever stern words he had on his tongue, replacing them with the sweet, icy taste of fear.
"What is it?" he managed to blurt out, and felt stupidly vindicated when he saw his arrogant wife was as pale as a sheet.
The guard panted for a moment more, his hands on his legs, then rose swiftly, choking out the dreadful words. "They're comin' sir! They're attackin' the east wall!"
Voril wasn't entirely surprised by this, it was something he had been waiting to hear for at least a week. But to wait to hear it and truly do have the words thrown at one's face was quite a different thing. For a moment, he stood, helpless, filled with despair. The east wall had been hit so often since the beginning of the siege, it was paper-thin.
"Are they many?"
"Nearly a thousand last I heard."
A thousand... "Call for any man we have to man the east walls and the towers we have there. We can't let them get through!" he said at length. It was a lame plan, with no coordination and no flavor, but he didn't have anything better than to ask the militia just that: hold if you can.
The guard seemed to realize that, for there was some kind of fleeting angry despair which clouded his features. But he controlled himself, and the young man snapped a dry salute. "Yes sir." And departed. As he did, he heard the booms and the sounds of many voices in the distance, then a cry of war and hatred - the voice of a thousand Horde soldiers, calling for battle and bloodshed. And then more booms, from the sole cannon tower left standing, shooting shells defiantly at the enemy.
He looked back to his wife, and found her looking as desperate as he was feeling. A thousand...they'd never attacked with such numbers before, and they were so short in arms and defenses. They couldn't hold. Not this time. Fear twisted his gut, but yet he wouldn't let despair take him yet. He was still a Barad. And that meant that if the Tol named in honor of his proud family was to be overrun, there was only one place where he could be.
With a sigh, his hand went to his side - to the sword which had been in his family for generations, a sword he had never wielded. He would draw it today - the first and probably the last time he would fight.
Funny, he felt not one bit of satisfaction from that thought.
He turned to his wife, and their eyes met. For once no contempt was exchanged, only a bland acceptance of what was coming. There would be no words to bridge the chasm, they weren't children, but none would widen it.
"May you be victorious." she said.
"If the Light is with us, we shall." he said without conviction. And without further adding to the sense of fatalism, Voril Barad shifted his great girth, and with dignity, strode out from his halls for what seemed to be the last time.
Outside, the wall began to fall.
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 582, On the Great Sea, Stromgarde
Aerth Swiftblade was willing to die just then as the boat shifted again under his feet. He supposed the sight of a green-faced man shakily holding to the handrails on the deck of a ship wasn't exactly the most inspiring sight to those soldiers who could spot him, but he didn't care. He was seasick and that was that. Let them live with it. Right at that moment, his body was seriously urging him to empty his stomach into the tumultuous greenish-blue waves underneath him, an urge he was in turn beginning to wish to accommodate no matter how it might affect his image.
At that moment, however, an aide came to him hurriedly, which forced him to resist this urge for the sake of not looking like a fool. He even managed to straighten from his miserable slump on the rail. The aid, however, didn't seem to notice that the supreme commanding officer of the First Alliance Army was about to feed the fish with half-digested stew. Instead, he looked mighty excited and preoccupied about something.
"General, forgive me to interrupt your rest-" he exclaimed.
"I wouldn't call this anything like a rest." he muttered, then managed to dredge up some little curiosity from beneath the nausea. "What's the problem."
"We're in sight of Tol Barad, sir." he seemed to be struggling with words. "But they're under attack, it seems!" And before Swiftblade's sickness-slowed mind could register this announcement, he pointed an agitated finger over the sea.
Swiftblade looked, and saw a large island, enclosed by an high wall of stone. A closed harbor could be seen, and some roofs and towers, topped by a small castle overlooking everything. And from a certain area, he could see smoke.
LOTS of smoke.
The nausea, the musings on life and death and the dubious nature of the ocean fled the young general's mind as he saw it, and his mind related to him the importance of the vision. He didn't need to ask for a Long-Glass for it - he had seen sufficient attacks, had been through enough sieges, to understand what it meant.
"Their wall is tumbling down. Tol Barad is falling." he said, and then he was the soldier who had survived the First War, the general of Zul'Dare and Lord of Taren Mill. The sickness was gone from his mind as his face flushed with the strength of the many decisions tumbling through his mind. He gave the aid a clear, stern look. "Right!" Give me the flag messengers on the main deck on the double. I want them to relay my battle plan at once!"
He didn't even see the aide salute and leave, he was turning once again, looking at the battle closer to him each second. Already the pieces were forming in his head, pieces of information his logic immediately put to good use. He nodded once, firmly, to himself, then left the handrail to walk to overlook the deck of the ship, at the captain's battle position in front of the wheel. He was alert and ready, his step even, calm, composed. He passed many sailors and soldiers and they let him go his way, their eyes holding respect and faith in him. Once he would have felt he didn't deserve it. No he was only driven by the need to see that faith in him rewarded.
He couldn't deny it. Peace was something he loved, but war was the place where he truly thrived.
Once at his place, overlooking the messengers, he started bellowing his orders. First, to send a detachment of ships to clear and secure the harbor, followed by the middle and rear transports and the supply ships. Next, he ordered the remaining fleet to swiftly follow the western coasts of the island, close to the shores, and then follow through the north so that they could land transports as near to the battle as possible. All this came quickly to him, and he knew that although there might be flaws in this plan, it was imperative that they stop the invasion of the island. They couldn't afford to lose Tol Barad, it was the last link they had to the Horde-occupied Thandol Valley.
The ship rocked and swerved as sailors rushed about, fighting to bring all crafts to give all the speed they could give, separating from the rest of the First Army. The ship shifted like crazy under his feet, but he didn't notice. His eyes were on the island, on the smoke. He gripped the hilt of his sword and cursed the fact that he wouldn't be joining the men on this offensive. Although he had done it at Zul'Dare, he had been asked - or more to the point, ordered - not to risk himself if it was at all possible. He was the general. He was too important for the army for it to lose him.
He perfectly understood the logic, but he hated it. And so he looked anxiously as they neared the battle. And then he could see. Hundreds of Horde Soldiers were scaling crumbling, burning walls, barely held back by the tenacity of a few disorganized militia. An hour more, and Tol Barad would have fallen. Cursing the inability of whoever was commanding the island's defenders, he watched as the transports sped towards the shore, just as the cannons of his ship and half a dozen others opened fire on the Horde forces still below the wall. The enemy was fixed upon taking their objective, so fixed that they failed to react to the first volley, losing dozens of their numbers under the crimson, burning attack. They turned to react at the second volley, but by then the first transports had opened, disgorging hundreds of footmen, followed by elves with bows, into the fray. It wasn't long before the battle began between the two forces, the human cannons falling silent.
Swiftblade ran to the for of the ship, gripping the handrail with one hand and watching with a Long-Glass with the other. The two sides were evenly matched thus far, although new transports were almost to the shore. If the units remained united and held, the scales would soon be tipped on the Alliance's side.
"Come one, Kelnam, hold them together, hold them together." he muttered, watching Kelnam Pedran's standard at the head of the fighting. Pedran was one of the best ground commanders he knew, a man who didn't give ground easily. If someone could hold, it was he. Yet when the transport landed fresh units to the battlefield, he let go of the breath he had been holding without knowing in a great gush.
The battle shifted with the arrival of fresh troop, allowing the struggling defenders to beat off the few orcs and trolls still scaling the walls. He saw that the wall was nearly ready to tumble down completely, and felt like when they'd settled Taren Mill a few years back. It had been the remains of a town, with walls in ruins, that Azerothians had worked within and, with sweat and blood and optimism, they had rebuilt and revamped as a great, prosperous port.
"It seems to me that the defense here hasn't been taken care off for decades." he muttered in disgust, then relaxed as the fighting shifted away, the veteran soldiers of the First Army whittling away and pinning the horde forces. It was a short battle, and he knew that his ground commander would have no problem with the clean up. One raid had been handled, one problem resolved.
Now to take care of another one...
"Get a barge down for me." he ordered "I have to go into that fortress now!"
Of course it wasn't as simple as he wanted it to be. First he had to wait for the end of the battle, placated by aides and officers on all sides. Very frustrating to him, but inevitable. Fortunately Kelnam Pedran finished off the Horde raiders within an hour, and he could at last go and see things for himself. And it was about time too - the end of the battle had poured the adrenaline from him, bringing the nausea back with a vengeance.
He resisted it as he climbed aboard the barge, and controlled in as he was rowed to shore. However, the moment he was on the ground, he couldn't help but to breathe an heartfelt sigh of relief. Then, flanked by a dozen of the best warriors in his army, he proceeded directly for the wall, choosing to ascend one of the makeshift ladders still leaning against the wall. He heard shouts of celebration from the other side, and gritted his teeth.
When he came to the top of the wall, he was welcomed by acclamations and thanks, which he ignored until he saw a fat man in opulent clothes, with a sword drawn, step towards him with a grin.
"On behalf of Tol Barad, sir, I wish to-"
"I don't give a damn what you wish. The defense of this island was poor and sloppy, substandard to the strength I have heard of the Stromgardian cities and fortresses. I can assure you that, from today onward, this will change. I am taking command over this compound."
He didn't care that the older man looked flustered and angry at his callousness - he'd have to get used to it. Aerth Swiftblade had been given the task to protect Tol Barad from the Horde. He wasn't planning to fail.
No matter what some incompetent fop might think.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 592, Outskirts of Lunvenburg, Stromgarde
"Come one, lads! To the flank! Flank those bastards!"
The voice of the captain of the regiment rang uselessly in Bram's ears as he moved with others to secure their position. The Horde forces were picking up the fight with the Fourth Army once again, and thus far they were making the bastards regret ever being born. That was just fine to Poorglade, for he had absolutely no intention of letting any orc step one step further, take even one more acre of his beloved homeland. He knew that he wasn't the only one with such a thought. Everyone had been tired, filled with anger and despair at the collective inability of the Alliance forces to stop the Horde Onslaught.
Things had changed, however, when troops from the west had started pouring in, evening things out on the field of battle. The Horde had always won because of sheer superior numbers, but quickly the two forces were shown to be roughly equal.
Bram charged with the other footmen, bringing his sword down on the shoulder of an unsuspecting orc, cleanly sectioning the thing's arm. Blood spurted sluggishly and the grunt howled in pain, lashing out with its axe with his remaining arm. Bram, however, was ready for it's attack, deftly deflecting the blow with his shield, forcing the arm upward and shoving his blade with all the strength that he had, cleaving at the center of the orc's chest, destroying its heart. The orc choked out blood, gave Bram - who had violently torn his sword out - a disbelieving look, and fell to the ground, twitching, already dead.
At his first battle, he would have been aghast by the action he had just done. Now, the battles had hardened his spirit and his heart, and he moved back into the battle without any interest in the orc he had just killed, never sparing a glance.
Everywhere he could see, armored humans, aided at times by the odd elf shooting arrows into the fray, were tangling with tall, brutish orcs and deft trolls, both sides showing equal viciousness. Numbers were slightly in the Alliance's favor at present, which meant the human forces would win this day in the long wrong. Bram grinned a grim smile, hefted his sword and shield and went to the aid of his comrades. Violence became the center of his world, obliterating the rest.
The world became a haze as he clashed with a troll, decapitating it before barely deflecting a blow with his shield. He ran to a spot to reinforce a line, then ran to and fro to breach any gap. Twice an Horde soldier broke through the line of armors, and twice he and a few others had welcomed it with steel. From farther away, he saw Knights running along the line, dealing death to any orc coming their way.
It was an horrible sight of blood and gore, one that should and once had terrified and appalled him. But he was past that now. The dismemberments, the screams, the stench of blood and death, it wasn't more than accessories, necessary things in the grand scheme of war. He continued killing with the same vigor, forgetting the moment in the thrill of the fight and the rush of adrenaline.
It took the sound of horns to bring him out of the violent mire he had willingly plunged into. Brass horns, clear and defiant, acclaiming a victory instead of a retreat - something they had done only too infrequently in the past months. And he could see that it was true, that the Horde forces were falling back in disorder, leaving their wounded in place, littering the battlefield. Already Alliance soldiers were raising sword and shields in a ragged unified cry where satisfaction and bloodlust intermingled. Without thinking he raised his own shield - splattered with greenish blood and adorned with additional marks - and joined in the outburst.
The line had held. The capital was safe.
He had killed beings without anything but gratification and the feeling it was right.
By the Light, what had he become?
That question didn't bother him that much, and he shoved it to his conscience to choke on. He was defending his Kingdom against the greatest threat it had ever known, had watched countless defenders give their lives away in order to safeguard those who couldn't defend themselves, had seen gruesome deaths at the hands of orc, troll, goblin and even from the lumbering, stupid giant ogres. Was it a wonder he wanted to hurt them just as much as they were willing to hurt him?
Was it a wonder he was becoming exactly like the enemy he despised so much?
He snarled at his nagging conscience to shut up. He didn't want to be this way, but the Horde had to be stopped. And if becoming like an Horde soldier meant the Horde battle lines wouldn't break through and destroy the capital and his hometown, well he could live with that. All that remained was to convince himself he was quite sure he believed himself.
"Hey, Bram, wait up, you fiend!" a voice called and he turned to see two mean trudging towards him. All of them were First Swords like him, although Bram himself was the most veteran of the three. They were trudging away from the battlefield like he was, leaving the job of rescuing who could be rescued to the lower-ranked footmen and leaving the ghastly job of finishing off any wounded Horde forces around the perimeter to those who truly enjoyed killing for killing. He suddenly found the stench of raw meat and rancid blood and excrement overpowering to his senses, but chose to wait for the other two nonetheless.
"We sent them home packing, Bram!" one exclaimed with a radiant grin "We're sure going to celebrate this tonight!"
"IF our good lady-general lets us, you mean." the other one interjected.
"Even someone as stiff and prickly as ol' lady Ironhorse'll have to let us feast and drink after the beating we just gave these foul greenskins!"
"I think you fail to see how 'stiff and prickly' General Jenalla Ironhorse is, then..."
"In any event," Bram interjected carefully but with a no-nonsense voice that silenced the other two "I don't think we should celebrate." he said. The first man started to open his mouth, but he forestalled him. "I understand the need for it, but look at us! Our victories are few and far between - we've BARELY managed to ground down the greenskins on our fronts. And that only because we got the help from the armies from the west. Barely." he gave the two a hard look. "And I won't stand having anyone calling the general a stiff prick. She's held the army together. Without her, I think they'd already be at the capital's gates."
The first footmen widened his eyes and raised his armored arms placating, showing dents and small splashes of blood. "Whoa, whoa there Poorglade!" he said quickly. "You know I didn't mean it that way! I'm the first to say the lady-general's the best at what she does, an woe to anyone who says its not so to my face. Everyone here would"
Bram grunted, but he knew the man was right. Everyone in the Fourth Army was utterly loyal to Jennala Ironhorse, from the lowest recruit to the highest-placed knight. She had been unable to stop the Horde perhaps, but her daring, her stubborn tactics had slowed several enemy units and had allowed the Alliance to form a firm line of defense. Anyone would stand by her.
"They say there's one in the west who's got a knack for pulling miracles. They say he's coming around here, although no one knows where." the second footman mused.
"Good! We'll need every good commanding officers we can get our hands on. The High Command sure is more than half-useless, sending money and troops and then going to drink wine and fine desserts1" The first one grunted back with a nod.
Bram agreed. He had heard vague rumors from soldiers from the west, about a man who had beaten an army trice his own through swiftness and decisive actions. They needed that in the east. They needed someone to break the stalemate, and if this general could do it, the High Command had better send him so he and Ironhorse could put their heads together and bring the Horde down.
"Whoever that man is, he'll have his work cut out for him. We're at a bare draw, and I'm starting to wonder if that'll ever turn around, that the wind would shift on our side. We need victories fellows. Many victories. Or we'll buckle and break in the end."
He looked at the two men, daring them to disagree on his prognostic.
And much to his hidden chagrin, both soberly agreed with what he had just said.
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 582, Alterac City, Alterac
Shouts of encouragement resounded throughout cobbled streets, through terraces and walls and blown-glass windows as the citizens of Alterac sent their heartfelt hopes with one thousand troops parading down the streets. Through those streets paraded one hundred Alteril knights, followed by nine hundred footmen, all young men recruited from the provinces and villages around the capital and outfitted through the tireless efforts of the royal smith and other smaller blacksmiths who had given away their time to forge armors, shields and swords. Having received a minimal training, the troops were of in military cadence, walking down the main street to the south gate, hailed all the way.
Even though he was far away, looking in and listening to the celebrations from one of the highest balconies in the Royal Castle, King Perenolde could well imagine that the troops looked superb, dignified. The knights in gleaming plate armor on armored warhorses, followed by footmen, all straight-backed and proud, each wearing the orange and gold colors of the realm, and flying the Golden Eagle, the banner of the realm. It was an array of confidence and power, and there was no doubt the citizens of the capital felt immense pride - justly, probably.
From the southern gate the thousand troops would march to the southeast, reaching the port of Relagir and embarking for a voyage which would send them to Stromgarde, where they would joined the other allied forces in holding the line against the Horde.
He supposed that, were he not in the know, he would also feel the hope vibrating like a torrent from the streets outside the outer walls of the castle. But the problem was that he knew the truth for what it was: the Alliance was bound to fail, and the Horde would conquer the entire continent.
He had known it from the moment Anduin Lothar - that blind fool - told the gathered royals of the kingdoms that the Horde boasted one MILLION troops, and might be continuously reinforced through the Dark Portal. The last numbers of the Alliance military forces told that they were barely over a quarter of that number, even with the participations of the Elves and the Dwarves. He knew that such forces were wholly insufficient to combat such a fierce enemy for long, and so far he had been proven right. Although the Alliance HAD beaten back the attempts at the Horde building beachheads in New Azeroth, the Horde had attacked Stromgarde and taken more and more lands, burning and killing, an unstoppable force.
Even before he received the reports of Horde advance, however, he had already sought the only way he knew which might save his life and that of his realm: cooperation with the Horde.
It hadn't come easily, but he had felt it was a necessary evil, and had contacted the Horde Warchief, Orgrim Doomhammer, to propose cooperation. The Warchief had agreed to leave Alterac out of the invasion's path if Perenolde was willing to work for him, giving information and foiling Alliance plans. The king had initially balked at this, seized by the nagging, sudden fear that the Alliance might just win the war in the end, and the fate his realm would suffer in that case. He had quickly discarded it as impossible, however, and had gone to sell his soul to the enemy of all mankind.
"And now I am caught, like a fly in a web, hoping for the victory of a side I have no love for, wishing for the defeat of the nations I have pledged to follow into this defiant, doomed war." he chuckled as he heard himself. Sometimes the Light could play some of the cruelest jokes on a person!
He turned his head to shoot a look at the man standing behind him. "I will be damned for this betrayal. But I saw no other choice. Was there any other I could taken, Tucio?" he said,
The man called Tucio only looked down at the king from his old, elongated height and deep black eyes and shook his head. "What you did, you did for the people. There is no shame to have in that."
"Even if the very same people are celebrating the sending of our token force to the front lines?" he asked, waving his hand at the clamor resounding throughout the city still.
The elderly man frowned, but his voice remained steady. "Sometimes the people must be lied to in order for the sovereigns to achieve for them the peace of mind they seek. They will understand one day that you did this for them."
Perenolde smiled at the old man. Tucio had been born to butlers and groomed to be a butler in the Royal Family, and had lived his life serving first Perenolde's father and then himself. The man was consequently of complete loyalty towards him and would never allow himself to think that his master might be wrong. It was a comforting thing to have around for certain events, but inadequate when asking for personal opinions on civil matters.
Not that he truly had to ask. He knew that many of his people would resent the deal he had made...even if it was for their own sakes.
"I suppose that we shall have to see, eh Tucio?"
"Yes, Highness."
A quiet resigned sigh escaped him. "Then let us continue on the road we have chosen. Tell me about the plans the Alliance leaders have for Stratholme."
Tucio seemed to straighten even more as he took on a lecture voice that Perenolde had heard since he had been a child. "The Alliance High Command has decided to construct four more oil derrick at strategically placed oil fountains in order to increase efficiency. Moreover, additional constructions yards are nearing completion. This, added to the oil, will certainly accelerate the building of the overall Alliance Fleet."
Perenolde wasn't surprised at this. Almost ever since its founding long ago, Stratholme had been on of the lodestones of oil deposits and oil production in the entire world. Stromgarde had built a large part of its early fortune in selling the large quantities of oil to other countries - countries with large naval forces like Lordaeron, Gilneas and especially Kul Tiras. It wasn't in a any way disconcerting that the Alliance military leaders had transformed the city into one of their main naval strongholds.
"The Horde isn't too happy with the concept of the fleet building even faster, is it not?" he asked, a smile playing at his lips. Although he had no choice now but to stay in this path, he wasn't about to wish orcs and trolls an easy time against fellow humans. He still had SOME human pride left.
"No, Highness, they are not. And their orders for us are quite clear in that they want us to do something about these matters."
It was almost like receiving a blow, these orders. He felt like a lackey, something which wasn't new to him and to any of his deceased forebears. Alterac was a small nation, and had always been manipulated by the three powerful ones around it - Lordaeron, Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas. But to receive it from beings who should be his enemies, to be treated as a lackey by non-humans, that nearly finished him, nearly ignited his pride again.
For one moment, one single moment, he almost decided to stop working for the Horde.
But as quick as the thought came, it was squashed by realism. He had already done far too much to switch back to side with the Alliance. Plans had been foiled by him, he had worked to miscommunicate orders, had sabotaged projects. No, he was committed, with potential danger on both sides now.
So he gritted his teeth, remembered that he was doing this for his people, and asked what the Horde wanted Alterac to do in order to help destroy the Alliance it had betrayed.
And Tucio spoke, and King Perenolde felt sick at heart.
_____________________
BONUS PROFILE #3
Bram Poorglade
Birthplace: Gregburg, Stromgarde
Birth date: Late Winter 572
Height: 6'1"
Hair: Light Brown
Eyes: Green
Present status: First Sword in the Fourth Alliance Army
Allegiances: The Kingdom of Stromgarde, The Alliance, General Jennala Ironhorse
History: Bram was born in a farm on the outskirts of a town named Gregburg, the son of a retired Stromgardian footman. The elder Poorglade had been a soldier who had fought in the Last Troll War in which the combined forces of Quel'Thalas and Stromgarde had nearly decimated that race between 567-570. He never told Bram of his military past, and the boy grew to early manhood as a farmer.
Then the Horde came. The Alliance was formed and Stromgarde started to recruit men into its already-large army to combat the threat. Moved by the patriotism and wishing to make a difference, Bram went to enlist against hs parent's wishing, which forced his father to reveal his past and give Bram his old sword.
Bram was at first horrified and disgusted by warfare when he first saw it, and the first battle he was in was one he still remembers vividly. He got over his feelings - and the backwater speech which made him an element of ridicule - thanks to Kerl Bearsheen, an old veteran of many wars, and has since become of warrior of good skill and judgment, quickly rising to the rank of First Sword, in line for a promotion to Sergeant.
Today Bram Poorglade serves in the Fourth Alliance Army under the command of Jennala Ironhorse, a woman of great capabilities. He is loyal to the Alliance and still wished to leave his mark on the world and make a difference.
Early Spring 592, Hillsbrad, New Azeroth
Silphord Duraz grinned in the onctuous, deliberate manner he treated any situation which amused him, as he carefully looked at the man before him. They were sitting in the small study in Duraz Manor, pleasantly ensconced in leather chairs and sipping wine saved at great risks from Moonbrookian cellars and brought to this small stronghold. The small but growing library clearly showed signs of being new but also showed Duraz's present prosperity. All this made the statement he had heard slightly ludicrous, even though he wasn't surprised to hear it, considering how things were.
"Tell me Falanzin," he asked in a pleasant tone, his thin mouth twitching upward "How is Baron Swiftblade a possible threat to me."
The man in front of him was slight but by no means bony - a short, heavily-laden pack of muscle and sinew. Falanzin Herraru had used this physique to both go unnoticed or force and escape when it came necessary - perfect for the spy he was. He also had sharp wits, and could usually read a situation pretty well. And right now the little, dangerous man was reading dire things for him in the future.
"Swiftblade's actions in the Zul'Dare conflict, his helping the elves escape imprisonment by the orcs, and his general services, are starting to make him a favorite in those of the High Command. Several of the most influential members in it are starting to consider giving him greater rewards."
Duraz shrugged. "There's no accounting for taste. I know Wrynn likes him, Lothar as well perhaps..." he raised an eyebrow at the man questioningly.
"Wrynn and the Regent, certainly, but others are joining the fray. Uther Lightbringer is showing interest, and his Paladins are growing more numerous and more powerful by the day. And where Lothar, Lightbringer and Wrynn agree, many others will be swayed rather easily."
"Such as?"
Falanzin licked his lips before pursuing the matter further "Terenas, Proudmoore and several of the other generals, are starting to show approval of him. Many have been enticed by he being raised to nobility and married to a very high-blooded woman."
Duraz's features darkened subtly, but no more, for the spy had been wise not to speak the name of the 'woman' in question. There was something there that he had difficulty to stomach, but if all went according to the plan, he wouldn't have to churn his brain over it much longer. His face cleared, and he took another from the glass he held in his hand. "Yes, yes, I can just see it. The man is glamorous, and they like that. But how, to be more precise, is this threat to me personally?"
The spy cracked his knuckles, an habit Duraz disdained but endured in light of the situation. After some more lip-licking, he gave the rest of what he and the ones he employed had seen. "Your power base is weakening, milord. Many of the officers who supported you are starting to shift their loyalty and admiration to Swiftblade because of his actions, and to Wrynn for having the foresight of finding a tactician, whom, they say milord, possibly equal people like you or Lothar. Furthermore, your lack of movements, your stationing of your troops here in this theatre, where the horde groups are now very small and very few, is negating your previous accomplishments because Swiftblade is moving towards the eastern theatre." he coughed softly "Their eyes, milord, are turning to him and away from you."
Duraz understood what it meant, saw the logic in what the man was saying easily. How couldn't he? He was a man of great tactical abilities, and yet had chosen to stay close to his home and comforts rather than fight the Horde in the eastern lands. In contrast, Swiftblade - a man completely ignorant of politics and noble maneuverings, was leaving hearth, wife and comforts in order to do exactly that. Why wouldn't the military commanders, these High Commanders safely debating strategies in Lordaeron, rather thump their chest and croon about the proud young noble general instead of the one staying at home where there was little risk?
Oh yes, Silphord saw it all. But he also knew things that even wily Falanzin ignored.
He nodded to the man, keeping his face blank this time - no point letting anything slip through. He took out a jingling sack and threw it lightly to the man, who caught it and opened it. To his grin as he surveyed the contents, he almost scoffed - some wanted so little in life. Commoners with commoner goals.
"I thank you for the information you have given me, Falanzin." he said in what he knew was his best crafted concerned voice. "I will certainly take your words into advisement. Until I move, however, I wish for you and your people to keep an eye on the Swiftblade household and one whatever the High Command is doing."
The man smiled, his eye alight with greed as he taught, no doubt, of the other gems and gold pieces he would obtain from this wealthy, conniving nobleman. Duraz frankly wanted him out of his sight, but kept himself in check. He endured it as the wiry little man gave him a knowing smile and bowed.
"As you wish, Lord Duraz. So shall it be done."
"Good. Now leave. I wish to confer in solitude with my own thoughts about this matter." he said with command.
Soon the door was closed and he was alone with his books and his wine. Having finished his glass, he took the bottle and took a refill. As the ruby liquid glided inside the glass as he swirled it, the powerful Silphord Duraz, Count and General of the Eight Alliance Army, settled back, closed his eyes, and smiled again, utterly relaxed, even as he felt the presence near him.
"You heard, didn't you?" he asked out loud, and after a moment's silence, a soft, eerie voice responded.
"I am aware of what transpired. This man is a fool."
"Granted, a fool. But one with his own uses for now. I will use him until these uses are expended, then drop him like the excrement he is. We, my friend, have other, more important projects. And they, however, do have to do with that insufferable young upstart Baron Swiftblade."
"Yes." the voice agreed swiftly "He is the first step, the beginning of the march, the bottom rung of the stairs."
Duraz snorted this time - poetry was out of place for what they were preparing, and he'd have none of it. Not until he got what he wanted, at least. It didn't matter if the other one was insulted by his attitude - they, after all, wanted much the same thing, and it all began with a single act of subtle cruelty - something Duraz had always worked well with in the past.
"No matter where this damn pup stands, or where his damnable, cursed wench stand, we will assure that this piece falls into place." he opened his eyes, but didn't look in the direction of the one he was talking to. He wouldn't have seen anything at any rate. Magic-users! "Now, my question is simple : do you have the item?"
There was an hesitation, it seemed, and then the voice came back. "Yes, I have obtained it. Rare, and deadly."
He could feel a surge of triumphant excitement at the words. At last. The plan he had taken years to put into place would begin to unfold. "Can it be administered to our target quickly?"
"I believe it is feasible if we seize the opportunity." the eerie voice answered.
He saw the wisdom in those words. The opportunity had to be perfect, the timing set so that neither of them would be implicated. If they were, not only would the plan crumble to dust, but he would lose even more. They had to play it safe, moving cautiously, and watch the events from a safe distance. Yes, he could see it all. It was a game he knew well, and played like a master.
He closed his eyes again, blocking out the presence. "Proceed at your own discretion then. Just make sure our target gets it soon." he grinned, his gleaming teeth sowing "I want Eira Fregar dead while the fool husband is away."
"Yes. It is the first step."
Indeed. The first step of so many glorious things to come.
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 582, Horde Reaper Fleet, on the Great Sea
Orgrim Doomhammer, Warchief of the entire Horde, was unable to contain himself much longer. The harder he stared at the map strewn in front of him, the more angry he became. It wasn't the map himself which burned him, stoking his ire. No, the map was well-drawn, looted from the vaults of Stormwind Keep itself. It had served him to prepare his massive offensive against the human kingdoms - a monumental thing of which none but himself saw the whole picture. The lines of ink should, had all went well, shown the so-called New Azeroth covered in red lines, with many red dots denoting increased troop movements, in tandem with a similar thrust in Stromgarde. The Alliance would have several armies positioned in blue on the other side, but they'd be scattered, unable to hold on to two fronts.
This had been his first vision of the war. And one man's incompetence had bungled it.
Zul'Dare had been crushed, and because of it he had lost fourteen thousand troops in one stroke, and hundreds of others on the beachheads the New Azeroth front had be supposed to launch from. Now, there were just this odd red point in the western theatre, with blue lines and dots covering the rest. Few of them, of course. They had shifted their forces to the east, lending strength. And because of that the second thrust's progress had been reduced to nearly nothing! He couldn't believe it, but the truth lay there for his eyes to agonize over.
And there was more. The Alliance Navy had shown increased clout, owing mainly to the appalling quickness with which the kingdoms, especially Kul'Tiras and the elven realm of Quel'Thalas, could produce ships. The Horde fleet had ships with more armor and firepower, but it was so very outnumbered that its efficacy was down, making it impossible for the Horde to stage an offensive on the western nations of the Alliance by sea. I they had managed to do it before, if the second front would have been opened, there might have been no need.
Now certain victory no longer seemed close. It had receded back to the horizon, to be reached only through months, years, of bloodshed. Thousands of dead, resources wasted in a unnecessarily-long campaign. All because of one miserable fool who should never have been thrust into command.
Throwing the beautiful map aside, he sat back down on his throne, feeling the deck rock beneath his feet, the sea swaying even the powerful Juggernaut flagship of the Horde Fleet, the Stormhammer. He fingered his great hammer, the one which had served him so well in leading troops against the surprisingly doughty humans of the Kingdom of Azeroth.
"I'd weep if I didn't feel so furious." he growled to himself in an unusual philosophical manner, his eyes flashing.
At that very moment there was a stern knock on the door to his private quarters, and he irritably gave permission to come in. Not really surprisingly, a grunt entered. From his scars and many badges of honor, he was a high-placed member of the crew manning the Flagship, perhaps the first mate. The orc slapped his hand to his chest and nodded his head to Doomhammer, who only nodded back.
"Warchief, we have him. Warlord Bleedcut has arrived."
"He is, isn't he?" he said "Bring him in now, so I may see his sorry snout."
He rose quickly, patting the handle of his heavy hammer, the one which had the name he had taken as his own, as the orc grunt left the room. He knew he didn't have long, but he worked to school his features, to render them as neutral as possible. A neutral impression on his face, he had discovered, promoted fear quite faster than his fury - a fact Blackhand, his treacherous and lecherous predecessor, had used quite extensively during his rule. Although he found the irony quite piercing, Doomhammer used it as well, for it served him.
The door opened quickly, as he had surmised, and there entered Gorroth Bleedcut, the muscular orc flanked by two enormous grunts. The Warlord held himself straight, but the demeanor of the man, from the slight tightening of his eyes to the oh-so slight involuntary slump, was an indication of the way he felt. He had failed and been defeated - no, humiliated! - by a foe he had completely underestimated. There was nothing worst than that to even a grunt, it was impossible to swallow for a Warlord. Knowing how many times he had come close to defeat when he had fought Anduin Lothat's army in Azeroth, Doomhammer felt a wave of pity and sympathy.
It didn't, however, diminish his anger, and it was with a cold voice that he went straight to the point. "Six thousand Alliance troops entered the battle, against fifteen thousand Horde troops. You had almost all of the advantages - the terrain, the fleet, the manpower." his eyes fixed evenly on the disgraced orc. "And yet...when the battle ended, the Alliance had destroyed the Zul'Dare facilities, stopping our western operations cold and allowing them to drive out the few troops which acted as our scouts while the main force, the ones who had to establish beachheads in Hillsbrad and Southshore were...caught...on an island."
His tone had risen through his tirade, and now he truly let loose, his eyes speaking of murder. "Stranded! TEN! THOUSAND! TROOPS!" he bellowed, and so grim was his look so menacing was his voice that Bleedcut actually flinched, and the two grunts on each side of the warlord shifted uncomfortably. Good. Neutrality was good at times, but he felt too angry for it - let them feel and fear his ire!
Although there was fear in his eyes, Bleedcut managed to maintain much of his dignity. "I am ready for any punishment you see fit." he said simply.
"Punishment! I burn to have you executed at once!" he growled. Then he brought himself back under control, his chest heaving, forcing the fire burning strong to die down. He turned away and stepped back towards the table. "You have always underestimated humans, Gorroth, always managed to forget how quickly they adapt and how - unconventional - their means can be! Yet I will not punish, in light of the many battles you have fought and also because of the memory of your father, who had fought bravely beside me and died for the cause when we killed that traitor Blackhand."
"Warchief..." Bleedcut began in a disbelieving voice.
"I don't want to hear it. I don't want to ever see you again. And be certain, that the next time you fail, you WILL die, and your head will be hung on a pike over the gate of Blackrock Spire!" he grunted. He waved his hand to the side. "Get him out of here! The stench of defeat is unbearable to my nose!"
They moved, but has they did he turned halfwit and called to one of the grunts. "Hold."
"Warchief?"
"Bring me paper and ink. I have an important dispatch to make ready at once."
"Warchief! I live to serve you and the Horde."
The grunt was gone, and as soon as the door was closed once more, he picked up the map of the word and examined it under the light of his quarters. He had been foiled in one of his plans, but there was always a way to put a bad element to good use. He could take Gul'dan as an example.
He shivered slightly. After all, perhaps not. Gul'Dan had been the head of the Shadow Council, a corrupting influence over his people, one he had worked hard at eradicating. He had left Gul'Dan alive because of the frank fear of losing all of his potent magic users. The conjurers of Azeroth had been a dangerous enemy, and there were many more in the rest of the realms. Thusm he needed strong magic, for many things. But still, he knew Gul'Dan, for all his compliance to his will, was a very dangerous enemy, and would only wait for the right moment to jeopardize him.
He banished the thought. Defeatism was only helping the enemy. He had been foiled in one thing, granted. But there were many forces present in the vast Horde, many projects slowly coming to fruition, many things he could do still. He looked at the map, seeing the numbers, the positions, and arranged all this within his mind, settling into a game of moves and counter-moves he had been playing with Anduind Lothar for many years. He saw the map, and ideas began to connect, bloom, and solidify. He grinned.
The Alliance might be thinking the tide was turning. Let them truly thinks so. He would surprise them when host final trap would be sprung. And then, he would crush them and claim victory for himself and his people.
And then the real work would begin!
Patiently, filled with plans, he waited fro the parchment and ink to arrive.
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 582, Tol Barad, Stromgarde
Two centuries past, banditry on the Great Sea had reached an all-time high near Stromgarde's western shores. The King of the time, King Thoras's ancestor, had been particularly occupied in fighting off yet another wave of Troll Raiders flushed out of the forests of Quel'Thalas at the northern borders of his lands. So caught up was he, that a powerful pirate-lord by the name of Peliurin had defeated and commandeered a large portion of the Stromgarde fleet, using it to build himself into an upstart power. Looting the nearly-defenseless townships of the Stromgardian coasts, he acquired goods, money and slaves, and built, on an island, a powerful naval base of stone. There, he named himself King of the Great Sea and set about expanding his power.
The dream of conquest and glory were short-lives, however, as the troll raids died down and King Trollbane saw the new peril to his realm. He sent his greatest admiral, Sem Barad, to retake the place. Barad was a great tactician. Using daring tactics, he circumvented Peliurin's forces, convinced units from Kul Tiras to join his fleet, and arranged an all-out attack on the island-fortress. The battle was costly in men and ships, for the pirates were hardened fighters who knew the seas better than anyone, but in the end, the superior numbers of Barad won through, landing inside the port, and taking the fortress-island itself by sword and fire. Peliurin was captured, brought to the King and executed. And the King, pleased with the work of his admiral, granted him the position of Count and the captured pirate island. Admiral Barad renamed it Tol Barad and, through his efforts, the island became a great first line of defense against naval attackers, and a prosperous stop-over for mercantile fleets.
Two centuries after his ancestor's great deeds, Voril Barad, Count of Tol Barad, faced a challenge his ancestor would have risen to meet, and found himself utterly lacking.
It wasn't simply the fact that he was cut off from almost any Stromgarde forces, and that help from other Alliance forces still hadn't arrived. It wasn't, either, the fact that supplies were running low - only a few weeks even with the great stores of the islands and rationing. He had dealt with being cut off once, and accidents had once forced his people into a rather miserable year of dearth once as well. He could deal with those, had been trained to deal with those from birth.
But, for all of his intelligence, he didn't know what to do to break the siege of his island by the horde forces. For weeks they had been raiding his island, but the mighty walls had kept them out. But they had been only small raids yet. They were bound to attack in force soon, and then what would he do.
Voril Barad turned to his wife and gave her a desperate look which irked him but that he couldn't help. Katrina Barad was seated in a chair, an open book on her lap, looking at him with a calm air that made him feel small and petty - probably exactly what she wanted him to feel. Their marriage had been a political arrangement, totally loveless, and so full of strife and bitterness that his elder son had left to live in their small mansion near the capital and rarely visited them. All this, with the stark fact that there were no truly able-minded tacticians amongst the Told Barad garrison and defense fleet, deprived the count of any sort of useful aid and council. This only added to his fear and frustration, and he pointed a shaking finger at the woman before him.
"Instead of reading and looking at me like I'm some piece of lamb, why don't you just spit whatever venom you have and have done with it?!?"
She merely looked serenely at him. This, of course, served only to infuriate him further. He stomped close to her, his fat girth and strong beard making him look comical more than threatening. "Out with it, woman! What do you want to say?"
"What is there to say that YOU would listen to?" she asked mildly.
"I'd listen to whatever makes a little bit of sense. Anything that'll help us get out of this mess!" he said. He knew he was being quite irrational in this, but the weeks of constant pummeling by Horde forces were starting to bring him up the walls. As an answer, his so-dear wife shot him a look of grim contempt.
"You shouldn't be talking of common sense, it doesn't suit you! And as far as this 'mess', as you so eloquently put it, is concerned, you only have yourself to blame and no one else. You received the messages telling you to strengthen your defenses, and you did nothing. You were told to recruit more forces for Told Barad, and you barely recruited a few dozens. The blacksmiths are barely working, the workers from the ore mine are lax, and then you come in and then when these beasts attacked us. I'm not surprised. You were always posturing with no desire for action. A bean-counter living on the pride of dried-up family military history."
He wished he could slap her for this, or at least tell her to quiet about it, even if she wouldn't, but he found he couldn't. And there was a reason for that, a reason he wasn't entirely ready to admit: he deserved this all the way. Completely and utterly deserved these words. He was a lord, he wasn't a soldier. He knew nothing and cared nothing about military matters. Still, his pride forbade him to admit that, once again, she had been right.
"You certainly aren't of any help."
"Since when have you needed or wanted my help, milord."
The sarcastic tone she used to put in her last remark irked him, and he was about to tell her what he thought of her help or her wit when one of the household guards burst in unannounced, panting. His eyes were wide, and the near-panic in his eyes made the Voril swallow whatever stern words he had on his tongue, replacing them with the sweet, icy taste of fear.
"What is it?" he managed to blurt out, and felt stupidly vindicated when he saw his arrogant wife was as pale as a sheet.
The guard panted for a moment more, his hands on his legs, then rose swiftly, choking out the dreadful words. "They're comin' sir! They're attackin' the east wall!"
Voril wasn't entirely surprised by this, it was something he had been waiting to hear for at least a week. But to wait to hear it and truly do have the words thrown at one's face was quite a different thing. For a moment, he stood, helpless, filled with despair. The east wall had been hit so often since the beginning of the siege, it was paper-thin.
"Are they many?"
"Nearly a thousand last I heard."
A thousand... "Call for any man we have to man the east walls and the towers we have there. We can't let them get through!" he said at length. It was a lame plan, with no coordination and no flavor, but he didn't have anything better than to ask the militia just that: hold if you can.
The guard seemed to realize that, for there was some kind of fleeting angry despair which clouded his features. But he controlled himself, and the young man snapped a dry salute. "Yes sir." And departed. As he did, he heard the booms and the sounds of many voices in the distance, then a cry of war and hatred - the voice of a thousand Horde soldiers, calling for battle and bloodshed. And then more booms, from the sole cannon tower left standing, shooting shells defiantly at the enemy.
He looked back to his wife, and found her looking as desperate as he was feeling. A thousand...they'd never attacked with such numbers before, and they were so short in arms and defenses. They couldn't hold. Not this time. Fear twisted his gut, but yet he wouldn't let despair take him yet. He was still a Barad. And that meant that if the Tol named in honor of his proud family was to be overrun, there was only one place where he could be.
With a sigh, his hand went to his side - to the sword which had been in his family for generations, a sword he had never wielded. He would draw it today - the first and probably the last time he would fight.
Funny, he felt not one bit of satisfaction from that thought.
He turned to his wife, and their eyes met. For once no contempt was exchanged, only a bland acceptance of what was coming. There would be no words to bridge the chasm, they weren't children, but none would widen it.
"May you be victorious." she said.
"If the Light is with us, we shall." he said without conviction. And without further adding to the sense of fatalism, Voril Barad shifted his great girth, and with dignity, strode out from his halls for what seemed to be the last time.
Outside, the wall began to fall.
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 582, On the Great Sea, Stromgarde
Aerth Swiftblade was willing to die just then as the boat shifted again under his feet. He supposed the sight of a green-faced man shakily holding to the handrails on the deck of a ship wasn't exactly the most inspiring sight to those soldiers who could spot him, but he didn't care. He was seasick and that was that. Let them live with it. Right at that moment, his body was seriously urging him to empty his stomach into the tumultuous greenish-blue waves underneath him, an urge he was in turn beginning to wish to accommodate no matter how it might affect his image.
At that moment, however, an aide came to him hurriedly, which forced him to resist this urge for the sake of not looking like a fool. He even managed to straighten from his miserable slump on the rail. The aid, however, didn't seem to notice that the supreme commanding officer of the First Alliance Army was about to feed the fish with half-digested stew. Instead, he looked mighty excited and preoccupied about something.
"General, forgive me to interrupt your rest-" he exclaimed.
"I wouldn't call this anything like a rest." he muttered, then managed to dredge up some little curiosity from beneath the nausea. "What's the problem."
"We're in sight of Tol Barad, sir." he seemed to be struggling with words. "But they're under attack, it seems!" And before Swiftblade's sickness-slowed mind could register this announcement, he pointed an agitated finger over the sea.
Swiftblade looked, and saw a large island, enclosed by an high wall of stone. A closed harbor could be seen, and some roofs and towers, topped by a small castle overlooking everything. And from a certain area, he could see smoke.
LOTS of smoke.
The nausea, the musings on life and death and the dubious nature of the ocean fled the young general's mind as he saw it, and his mind related to him the importance of the vision. He didn't need to ask for a Long-Glass for it - he had seen sufficient attacks, had been through enough sieges, to understand what it meant.
"Their wall is tumbling down. Tol Barad is falling." he said, and then he was the soldier who had survived the First War, the general of Zul'Dare and Lord of Taren Mill. The sickness was gone from his mind as his face flushed with the strength of the many decisions tumbling through his mind. He gave the aid a clear, stern look. "Right!" Give me the flag messengers on the main deck on the double. I want them to relay my battle plan at once!"
He didn't even see the aide salute and leave, he was turning once again, looking at the battle closer to him each second. Already the pieces were forming in his head, pieces of information his logic immediately put to good use. He nodded once, firmly, to himself, then left the handrail to walk to overlook the deck of the ship, at the captain's battle position in front of the wheel. He was alert and ready, his step even, calm, composed. He passed many sailors and soldiers and they let him go his way, their eyes holding respect and faith in him. Once he would have felt he didn't deserve it. No he was only driven by the need to see that faith in him rewarded.
He couldn't deny it. Peace was something he loved, but war was the place where he truly thrived.
Once at his place, overlooking the messengers, he started bellowing his orders. First, to send a detachment of ships to clear and secure the harbor, followed by the middle and rear transports and the supply ships. Next, he ordered the remaining fleet to swiftly follow the western coasts of the island, close to the shores, and then follow through the north so that they could land transports as near to the battle as possible. All this came quickly to him, and he knew that although there might be flaws in this plan, it was imperative that they stop the invasion of the island. They couldn't afford to lose Tol Barad, it was the last link they had to the Horde-occupied Thandol Valley.
The ship rocked and swerved as sailors rushed about, fighting to bring all crafts to give all the speed they could give, separating from the rest of the First Army. The ship shifted like crazy under his feet, but he didn't notice. His eyes were on the island, on the smoke. He gripped the hilt of his sword and cursed the fact that he wouldn't be joining the men on this offensive. Although he had done it at Zul'Dare, he had been asked - or more to the point, ordered - not to risk himself if it was at all possible. He was the general. He was too important for the army for it to lose him.
He perfectly understood the logic, but he hated it. And so he looked anxiously as they neared the battle. And then he could see. Hundreds of Horde Soldiers were scaling crumbling, burning walls, barely held back by the tenacity of a few disorganized militia. An hour more, and Tol Barad would have fallen. Cursing the inability of whoever was commanding the island's defenders, he watched as the transports sped towards the shore, just as the cannons of his ship and half a dozen others opened fire on the Horde forces still below the wall. The enemy was fixed upon taking their objective, so fixed that they failed to react to the first volley, losing dozens of their numbers under the crimson, burning attack. They turned to react at the second volley, but by then the first transports had opened, disgorging hundreds of footmen, followed by elves with bows, into the fray. It wasn't long before the battle began between the two forces, the human cannons falling silent.
Swiftblade ran to the for of the ship, gripping the handrail with one hand and watching with a Long-Glass with the other. The two sides were evenly matched thus far, although new transports were almost to the shore. If the units remained united and held, the scales would soon be tipped on the Alliance's side.
"Come one, Kelnam, hold them together, hold them together." he muttered, watching Kelnam Pedran's standard at the head of the fighting. Pedran was one of the best ground commanders he knew, a man who didn't give ground easily. If someone could hold, it was he. Yet when the transport landed fresh units to the battlefield, he let go of the breath he had been holding without knowing in a great gush.
The battle shifted with the arrival of fresh troop, allowing the struggling defenders to beat off the few orcs and trolls still scaling the walls. He saw that the wall was nearly ready to tumble down completely, and felt like when they'd settled Taren Mill a few years back. It had been the remains of a town, with walls in ruins, that Azerothians had worked within and, with sweat and blood and optimism, they had rebuilt and revamped as a great, prosperous port.
"It seems to me that the defense here hasn't been taken care off for decades." he muttered in disgust, then relaxed as the fighting shifted away, the veteran soldiers of the First Army whittling away and pinning the horde forces. It was a short battle, and he knew that his ground commander would have no problem with the clean up. One raid had been handled, one problem resolved.
Now to take care of another one...
"Get a barge down for me." he ordered "I have to go into that fortress now!"
Of course it wasn't as simple as he wanted it to be. First he had to wait for the end of the battle, placated by aides and officers on all sides. Very frustrating to him, but inevitable. Fortunately Kelnam Pedran finished off the Horde raiders within an hour, and he could at last go and see things for himself. And it was about time too - the end of the battle had poured the adrenaline from him, bringing the nausea back with a vengeance.
He resisted it as he climbed aboard the barge, and controlled in as he was rowed to shore. However, the moment he was on the ground, he couldn't help but to breathe an heartfelt sigh of relief. Then, flanked by a dozen of the best warriors in his army, he proceeded directly for the wall, choosing to ascend one of the makeshift ladders still leaning against the wall. He heard shouts of celebration from the other side, and gritted his teeth.
When he came to the top of the wall, he was welcomed by acclamations and thanks, which he ignored until he saw a fat man in opulent clothes, with a sword drawn, step towards him with a grin.
"On behalf of Tol Barad, sir, I wish to-"
"I don't give a damn what you wish. The defense of this island was poor and sloppy, substandard to the strength I have heard of the Stromgardian cities and fortresses. I can assure you that, from today onward, this will change. I am taking command over this compound."
He didn't care that the older man looked flustered and angry at his callousness - he'd have to get used to it. Aerth Swiftblade had been given the task to protect Tol Barad from the Horde. He wasn't planning to fail.
No matter what some incompetent fop might think.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 592, Outskirts of Lunvenburg, Stromgarde
"Come one, lads! To the flank! Flank those bastards!"
The voice of the captain of the regiment rang uselessly in Bram's ears as he moved with others to secure their position. The Horde forces were picking up the fight with the Fourth Army once again, and thus far they were making the bastards regret ever being born. That was just fine to Poorglade, for he had absolutely no intention of letting any orc step one step further, take even one more acre of his beloved homeland. He knew that he wasn't the only one with such a thought. Everyone had been tired, filled with anger and despair at the collective inability of the Alliance forces to stop the Horde Onslaught.
Things had changed, however, when troops from the west had started pouring in, evening things out on the field of battle. The Horde had always won because of sheer superior numbers, but quickly the two forces were shown to be roughly equal.
Bram charged with the other footmen, bringing his sword down on the shoulder of an unsuspecting orc, cleanly sectioning the thing's arm. Blood spurted sluggishly and the grunt howled in pain, lashing out with its axe with his remaining arm. Bram, however, was ready for it's attack, deftly deflecting the blow with his shield, forcing the arm upward and shoving his blade with all the strength that he had, cleaving at the center of the orc's chest, destroying its heart. The orc choked out blood, gave Bram - who had violently torn his sword out - a disbelieving look, and fell to the ground, twitching, already dead.
At his first battle, he would have been aghast by the action he had just done. Now, the battles had hardened his spirit and his heart, and he moved back into the battle without any interest in the orc he had just killed, never sparing a glance.
Everywhere he could see, armored humans, aided at times by the odd elf shooting arrows into the fray, were tangling with tall, brutish orcs and deft trolls, both sides showing equal viciousness. Numbers were slightly in the Alliance's favor at present, which meant the human forces would win this day in the long wrong. Bram grinned a grim smile, hefted his sword and shield and went to the aid of his comrades. Violence became the center of his world, obliterating the rest.
The world became a haze as he clashed with a troll, decapitating it before barely deflecting a blow with his shield. He ran to a spot to reinforce a line, then ran to and fro to breach any gap. Twice an Horde soldier broke through the line of armors, and twice he and a few others had welcomed it with steel. From farther away, he saw Knights running along the line, dealing death to any orc coming their way.
It was an horrible sight of blood and gore, one that should and once had terrified and appalled him. But he was past that now. The dismemberments, the screams, the stench of blood and death, it wasn't more than accessories, necessary things in the grand scheme of war. He continued killing with the same vigor, forgetting the moment in the thrill of the fight and the rush of adrenaline.
It took the sound of horns to bring him out of the violent mire he had willingly plunged into. Brass horns, clear and defiant, acclaiming a victory instead of a retreat - something they had done only too infrequently in the past months. And he could see that it was true, that the Horde forces were falling back in disorder, leaving their wounded in place, littering the battlefield. Already Alliance soldiers were raising sword and shields in a ragged unified cry where satisfaction and bloodlust intermingled. Without thinking he raised his own shield - splattered with greenish blood and adorned with additional marks - and joined in the outburst.
The line had held. The capital was safe.
He had killed beings without anything but gratification and the feeling it was right.
By the Light, what had he become?
That question didn't bother him that much, and he shoved it to his conscience to choke on. He was defending his Kingdom against the greatest threat it had ever known, had watched countless defenders give their lives away in order to safeguard those who couldn't defend themselves, had seen gruesome deaths at the hands of orc, troll, goblin and even from the lumbering, stupid giant ogres. Was it a wonder he wanted to hurt them just as much as they were willing to hurt him?
Was it a wonder he was becoming exactly like the enemy he despised so much?
He snarled at his nagging conscience to shut up. He didn't want to be this way, but the Horde had to be stopped. And if becoming like an Horde soldier meant the Horde battle lines wouldn't break through and destroy the capital and his hometown, well he could live with that. All that remained was to convince himself he was quite sure he believed himself.
"Hey, Bram, wait up, you fiend!" a voice called and he turned to see two mean trudging towards him. All of them were First Swords like him, although Bram himself was the most veteran of the three. They were trudging away from the battlefield like he was, leaving the job of rescuing who could be rescued to the lower-ranked footmen and leaving the ghastly job of finishing off any wounded Horde forces around the perimeter to those who truly enjoyed killing for killing. He suddenly found the stench of raw meat and rancid blood and excrement overpowering to his senses, but chose to wait for the other two nonetheless.
"We sent them home packing, Bram!" one exclaimed with a radiant grin "We're sure going to celebrate this tonight!"
"IF our good lady-general lets us, you mean." the other one interjected.
"Even someone as stiff and prickly as ol' lady Ironhorse'll have to let us feast and drink after the beating we just gave these foul greenskins!"
"I think you fail to see how 'stiff and prickly' General Jenalla Ironhorse is, then..."
"In any event," Bram interjected carefully but with a no-nonsense voice that silenced the other two "I don't think we should celebrate." he said. The first man started to open his mouth, but he forestalled him. "I understand the need for it, but look at us! Our victories are few and far between - we've BARELY managed to ground down the greenskins on our fronts. And that only because we got the help from the armies from the west. Barely." he gave the two a hard look. "And I won't stand having anyone calling the general a stiff prick. She's held the army together. Without her, I think they'd already be at the capital's gates."
The first footmen widened his eyes and raised his armored arms placating, showing dents and small splashes of blood. "Whoa, whoa there Poorglade!" he said quickly. "You know I didn't mean it that way! I'm the first to say the lady-general's the best at what she does, an woe to anyone who says its not so to my face. Everyone here would"
Bram grunted, but he knew the man was right. Everyone in the Fourth Army was utterly loyal to Jennala Ironhorse, from the lowest recruit to the highest-placed knight. She had been unable to stop the Horde perhaps, but her daring, her stubborn tactics had slowed several enemy units and had allowed the Alliance to form a firm line of defense. Anyone would stand by her.
"They say there's one in the west who's got a knack for pulling miracles. They say he's coming around here, although no one knows where." the second footman mused.
"Good! We'll need every good commanding officers we can get our hands on. The High Command sure is more than half-useless, sending money and troops and then going to drink wine and fine desserts1" The first one grunted back with a nod.
Bram agreed. He had heard vague rumors from soldiers from the west, about a man who had beaten an army trice his own through swiftness and decisive actions. They needed that in the east. They needed someone to break the stalemate, and if this general could do it, the High Command had better send him so he and Ironhorse could put their heads together and bring the Horde down.
"Whoever that man is, he'll have his work cut out for him. We're at a bare draw, and I'm starting to wonder if that'll ever turn around, that the wind would shift on our side. We need victories fellows. Many victories. Or we'll buckle and break in the end."
He looked at the two men, daring them to disagree on his prognostic.
And much to his hidden chagrin, both soberly agreed with what he had just said.
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 582, Alterac City, Alterac
Shouts of encouragement resounded throughout cobbled streets, through terraces and walls and blown-glass windows as the citizens of Alterac sent their heartfelt hopes with one thousand troops parading down the streets. Through those streets paraded one hundred Alteril knights, followed by nine hundred footmen, all young men recruited from the provinces and villages around the capital and outfitted through the tireless efforts of the royal smith and other smaller blacksmiths who had given away their time to forge armors, shields and swords. Having received a minimal training, the troops were of in military cadence, walking down the main street to the south gate, hailed all the way.
Even though he was far away, looking in and listening to the celebrations from one of the highest balconies in the Royal Castle, King Perenolde could well imagine that the troops looked superb, dignified. The knights in gleaming plate armor on armored warhorses, followed by footmen, all straight-backed and proud, each wearing the orange and gold colors of the realm, and flying the Golden Eagle, the banner of the realm. It was an array of confidence and power, and there was no doubt the citizens of the capital felt immense pride - justly, probably.
From the southern gate the thousand troops would march to the southeast, reaching the port of Relagir and embarking for a voyage which would send them to Stromgarde, where they would joined the other allied forces in holding the line against the Horde.
He supposed that, were he not in the know, he would also feel the hope vibrating like a torrent from the streets outside the outer walls of the castle. But the problem was that he knew the truth for what it was: the Alliance was bound to fail, and the Horde would conquer the entire continent.
He had known it from the moment Anduin Lothar - that blind fool - told the gathered royals of the kingdoms that the Horde boasted one MILLION troops, and might be continuously reinforced through the Dark Portal. The last numbers of the Alliance military forces told that they were barely over a quarter of that number, even with the participations of the Elves and the Dwarves. He knew that such forces were wholly insufficient to combat such a fierce enemy for long, and so far he had been proven right. Although the Alliance HAD beaten back the attempts at the Horde building beachheads in New Azeroth, the Horde had attacked Stromgarde and taken more and more lands, burning and killing, an unstoppable force.
Even before he received the reports of Horde advance, however, he had already sought the only way he knew which might save his life and that of his realm: cooperation with the Horde.
It hadn't come easily, but he had felt it was a necessary evil, and had contacted the Horde Warchief, Orgrim Doomhammer, to propose cooperation. The Warchief had agreed to leave Alterac out of the invasion's path if Perenolde was willing to work for him, giving information and foiling Alliance plans. The king had initially balked at this, seized by the nagging, sudden fear that the Alliance might just win the war in the end, and the fate his realm would suffer in that case. He had quickly discarded it as impossible, however, and had gone to sell his soul to the enemy of all mankind.
"And now I am caught, like a fly in a web, hoping for the victory of a side I have no love for, wishing for the defeat of the nations I have pledged to follow into this defiant, doomed war." he chuckled as he heard himself. Sometimes the Light could play some of the cruelest jokes on a person!
He turned his head to shoot a look at the man standing behind him. "I will be damned for this betrayal. But I saw no other choice. Was there any other I could taken, Tucio?" he said,
The man called Tucio only looked down at the king from his old, elongated height and deep black eyes and shook his head. "What you did, you did for the people. There is no shame to have in that."
"Even if the very same people are celebrating the sending of our token force to the front lines?" he asked, waving his hand at the clamor resounding throughout the city still.
The elderly man frowned, but his voice remained steady. "Sometimes the people must be lied to in order for the sovereigns to achieve for them the peace of mind they seek. They will understand one day that you did this for them."
Perenolde smiled at the old man. Tucio had been born to butlers and groomed to be a butler in the Royal Family, and had lived his life serving first Perenolde's father and then himself. The man was consequently of complete loyalty towards him and would never allow himself to think that his master might be wrong. It was a comforting thing to have around for certain events, but inadequate when asking for personal opinions on civil matters.
Not that he truly had to ask. He knew that many of his people would resent the deal he had made...even if it was for their own sakes.
"I suppose that we shall have to see, eh Tucio?"
"Yes, Highness."
A quiet resigned sigh escaped him. "Then let us continue on the road we have chosen. Tell me about the plans the Alliance leaders have for Stratholme."
Tucio seemed to straighten even more as he took on a lecture voice that Perenolde had heard since he had been a child. "The Alliance High Command has decided to construct four more oil derrick at strategically placed oil fountains in order to increase efficiency. Moreover, additional constructions yards are nearing completion. This, added to the oil, will certainly accelerate the building of the overall Alliance Fleet."
Perenolde wasn't surprised at this. Almost ever since its founding long ago, Stratholme had been on of the lodestones of oil deposits and oil production in the entire world. Stromgarde had built a large part of its early fortune in selling the large quantities of oil to other countries - countries with large naval forces like Lordaeron, Gilneas and especially Kul Tiras. It wasn't in a any way disconcerting that the Alliance military leaders had transformed the city into one of their main naval strongholds.
"The Horde isn't too happy with the concept of the fleet building even faster, is it not?" he asked, a smile playing at his lips. Although he had no choice now but to stay in this path, he wasn't about to wish orcs and trolls an easy time against fellow humans. He still had SOME human pride left.
"No, Highness, they are not. And their orders for us are quite clear in that they want us to do something about these matters."
It was almost like receiving a blow, these orders. He felt like a lackey, something which wasn't new to him and to any of his deceased forebears. Alterac was a small nation, and had always been manipulated by the three powerful ones around it - Lordaeron, Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas. But to receive it from beings who should be his enemies, to be treated as a lackey by non-humans, that nearly finished him, nearly ignited his pride again.
For one moment, one single moment, he almost decided to stop working for the Horde.
But as quick as the thought came, it was squashed by realism. He had already done far too much to switch back to side with the Alliance. Plans had been foiled by him, he had worked to miscommunicate orders, had sabotaged projects. No, he was committed, with potential danger on both sides now.
So he gritted his teeth, remembered that he was doing this for his people, and asked what the Horde wanted Alterac to do in order to help destroy the Alliance it had betrayed.
And Tucio spoke, and King Perenolde felt sick at heart.
_____________________
BONUS PROFILE #3
Bram Poorglade
Birthplace: Gregburg, Stromgarde
Birth date: Late Winter 572
Height: 6'1"
Hair: Light Brown
Eyes: Green
Present status: First Sword in the Fourth Alliance Army
Allegiances: The Kingdom of Stromgarde, The Alliance, General Jennala Ironhorse
History: Bram was born in a farm on the outskirts of a town named Gregburg, the son of a retired Stromgardian footman. The elder Poorglade had been a soldier who had fought in the Last Troll War in which the combined forces of Quel'Thalas and Stromgarde had nearly decimated that race between 567-570. He never told Bram of his military past, and the boy grew to early manhood as a farmer.
Then the Horde came. The Alliance was formed and Stromgarde started to recruit men into its already-large army to combat the threat. Moved by the patriotism and wishing to make a difference, Bram went to enlist against hs parent's wishing, which forced his father to reveal his past and give Bram his old sword.
Bram was at first horrified and disgusted by warfare when he first saw it, and the first battle he was in was one he still remembers vividly. He got over his feelings - and the backwater speech which made him an element of ridicule - thanks to Kerl Bearsheen, an old veteran of many wars, and has since become of warrior of good skill and judgment, quickly rising to the rank of First Sword, in line for a promotion to Sergeant.
Today Bram Poorglade serves in the Fourth Alliance Army under the command of Jennala Ironhorse, a woman of great capabilities. He is loyal to the Alliance and still wished to leave his mark on the world and make a difference.
