Chapter Eight : Preparations and Movements
Early Autumn 592, Redgates, Stromgarde
Thoras Trollbane, king of Stromgarde, entered the conference room of his castle with his usual gruff dignity, followed by two of his personal guard. The conference room was a large one, designed to hold many persona in preparation of battles and large-scale conflicts. It had been used many times before, in the centuries since its edification, in countering and deflecting threats like Trolls and to control the rare rebellions the kingdom had seen since it had broken from the old Lordaeron. The large ironwood table, polished to a luster, reflecting the light coming in from the clear windows in its eastern wall, could hold more than forty people. This day, however, the room was empty, except for four people and a dozen royal guards. The four, however, were of importance, and Trollbane would never wish to forego anything these people would say.
"Thoras Trollbane, King of Stromgarde!" called the herald and the large, bear-like sovereign winced. It wasn't like those gathered there could miss him coming in the room. Sometime formality was such a bore.
The four, who had been discussing, broke up their conversation and rose, two bowing, two merely inclining their head in acknowledgment, as befitted their rank. Of those gathered there, a lean but energetic man wearing the colors of Grand Admiral stepped forward with a grin that was nearly as wide as his face and a glint in his eyes which belied great joy over recent events. Trollbane wasn't surprised.
"Hail, King Trollbane of Stromgarde!" the middle-aged, athletic mariner called with some amusement. The large monarch only snorted.
"Don't start giving me this, lord Proudmoore." he griped half-seriously "You know how I hate formality."
"Indeed, old friend. It's legendary by now."
"Levity from you is refreshing as always. Congratulation on the birth of your third child, by the way. Is it yet another boy, or finally a girl!" he chuckled "Don't leave me in suspense."
Dealin Proudmoore actually beamed at this, and Trollbane felt that his previous words held a lot of truth: it WAS refreshing to see the Island King so joyous. The light knew there had been little reason for joy ever since this terrible war had commenced, leaving behind death and suffering. over a third of his kingdom had been ravaged over the past year, with only the valiant efforts of the Eastern Alliance Forces keeping the Horde's rampage to a slow crawl. Mourning and rage had replaced joy on the endless battlefields, the many fields which had become graveyards. Yes, it was nice to see a smile for a change.
"As I was telling these two men," Proudmoore waved to the two wearing armor instead of mariner suit. "My wife has given me a beautiful daughter, whom I am certain will be collectively spoiled by myself, my sons and my dear wife!"
Trollbane rolled his eyes. "Of course! The light have mercy on you, then!" with sarcasm, upon which both men shared a laugh. After a moment, however, the oldest man in the room, and probably the most important one given the days they lived in presently, cleared his throat.
"Not that I wish to seem like a spoilsport," his voice echoed, mild yet impressive, through the room "And although I am overjoyed at the news of this new life born to this world, I suggest we put forth our attention to ensuring this babe and indeed all children be they elven, dwarven or human, have a future on our world."
If one could count on anything on Anduin Lothar, it was that he knew when to bring things back to full seriousness. The aging knight, Regent of the Kingdom of Azeroth, wasn't renowned for either his humor or his love of small talk. However, he was known as a brilliant tactician and a formidable leader of men, both traits he had shown over and over since the beginning of his tenure as High General of the entire Alliance Army. Controlling and coordinating the decisions and the myriad of battles fought over the continent was an hard one at the best of time, a nerve-wracking experience Lothar had risen above. Under him, the militias and formal armies of seven human nations, an elven and dwarven realm had been merged into a large, powerful army with a structured hierarchy. If Lothar could keep making miraculous changes such as these, Trollbane was more than willing to let the somber man have his way.
"Of course, lord Lothar. Forgive us. Let us be seated." he said taking a seat, watching the four other do the same. "Now, I do hope you've called me here to tell me there is good news. The Light knows we have had enough bad ones during the last year."
Lothar didn't grin, but the air he took on was encouraging. Gesturing with his hands in a subtle fashion, he nodded as he started to explain. "We're not sure if it is good news right now, only that it MIGHT become so if we spare no efforts and time things as well as we can. Let me explain. Right now forces from the west have arrived to strengthen the main battle lines here, bringing the total amount of Alliance troops at a little over two hundred thousand in the eastern forces. In front of us, the Horde has about three hundred thousand troops."
"So they still outnumber us greatly. I fail to see this as encouraging."
The man next to Lothar, a man of no more than thirty, with a strong blond-haired face and good stature, stirred at this. "That isn't what we mean, milord." he said in a rush, his deep voice resounding through the chamber. A second later he realized what he had done, and bowed his head. "Forgive me, sire, I spoke out of turn."
Lothar raised an appeasing hand and the younger man subsided at Trollbane's indulgent nod. "Although his comment was brash, Turalyon actually has a point. Numbers is by no means a deciding factor, for King Proudmoore's navy have managed to do something which could actually tip the scales in our favor."
The large king couldn't help but blink at this in incomprehension. He turned to a beaming Proudmoore. "So your happiness doesn't all come from your child's birth I see! What did you do?"
"We've cut off the bread flow, so to speak." he said, then turned to the business-like female officer next to him. "Salasai?"
The woman immediately began to explain. "Three weeks ago, a large naval strike force attacked the Land Bridges, and during the engagement, managed to destroy a great caravan which, upon inspection when the enemy was routed with average losses, were found to be made primarily of utilities and food. Now winter is approaching, and a full year of warfare has made food scarce in the lands the Horde control."
Turalyon took that up at once. "That is what we mean sire. If we play our cards right, we can reduce their provisions to nearly nothing. Not only will they have to shift a great number of troops to foraging, their morale will be considerably lowered by the idea of not having enough food to eat. Orcs eat twice what a human would, and the huge, beastly ogres even more. The winter will be harsh for them, while our armies have the food from the still-untouched northern provinces."
"We could push them out of Stromgarde." Trollbane said in wonder, considering the whole concept with newfound hope.
"IF we can manage to capitalize on the low moral and strike hard before winter sets in, we might just do exactly that." Lothar agreed. "But to do this, we will need excellent coordination amongst our generals. Each army will be part of an entire offensive, each with its own goal. This means fast messengers."
Proudmoore nodded. "How about sorcerers? That would be quick enough. I would ask you to use sea birds, but traveling terrain such as forests and hills would muddle the system which works so well at sea."
At that, at long last, Trollbane had an answer. He tapped the table thoughtfully with a slight grin. "Yes...yes sea birds wouldn't be of much help. But I think you are right, Dealin! Air is the key. And Stromgarde can, in this if in nothing else, give you a spectacular but useful option!"
This gathered the interest of the four important military people before him. They hadn't expected him to have any sort of answer to their problem, it seemed, but they were quite anxious to see what he had to offer, now that there was something presented to them. "Please, King Trollbane," Lothar said in earnest "If you have something which might do the job, please tell us more."
Trollbane looked at the people around him, and for the first time since this terrible war had begun, felt that something in the wind was shifting, that the Alliance, which had so far been giving ground little by little, might yet prevail in the end, that the ruin and loss of life to his beloved kingdom might be avenged one day. This day, he felt, he would remember, if only for feeling this. With a grin, he rose.
"Come with me then, friends. Let me show you the surprising devices built by the gnomes of Ironforge."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 592, Whitefort, Lordaeron
The sky was blue, Sylvanas Windrunner saw, a light, pure blue barely broken here and there by the smoky wisps of clouds, with the sun gloriously raining down to the land, filling her with its warmth and its beauty. She closed her eyes and embraced the light for a long moment, impregnating herself with it and letting her soul feel contentment before opening her eyes and look down the tree she was sitting in and down the hills through a cobbled road, farms, and then, Whitefort itself, the capital of Lordaeron and, at this moment, the center of everything of import.
Whitefort was a nice city, she had to give grudging credit to that. Even from the slight distance, she could see the many towers, the proud northern walls and the many ships flocking to its fortified docks, through house after shop after market, up to the large and sleek-looking castle. All of it reminded the world of a glory past, when the Empire of Arathor was at its height, with Whitefort as its capital, holding sway over so much of the continent. Through two thousand and nine hundred years of existence, the great city had maintained and upheld its beauty of old, which, like the Violet Citadel and former Stormwind, had been crafted by all three races.
It was surprising that the humans had maintained beauty for so long, given their short lifespan and their reckless pursuit of success, adventure or pleasure.
"Humans are a very surprising race, are they not, Sylvanas?" a voice came, amused, and a chuckle followed when she couldn't stifle a small start. She frowned at both herself and the one who came to sit on the branch beside her. Illadan had, once again, managed to surprise her, a ranger veteran of many troll campaigns and of keen senses. But then Illadan Eltrass was rumored - with increasing reason - to be second only to the leader of all the Rangers, Alleria Birdwings, whose instincts, skills and exploits were legendary.
"They seem like a fickle lot, always in a hurry, impatient. They have no appreciation of the balance of the world." she replied as the tall elf sat. She knew her voice sound slightly flippant, but she had never been very good at living down events where her skills proved insufficient. Illadan, of course, did not pick up on her tone.
"Yes, they are fickle and impatient, but if you had only sixty years, seventy, perhaps eighty years to live your time, you might be more impatient yourself, beloved." he said.
"Still, I'm surprised that you've been able to survive the reek of the city." she wrinkled her pointed nose slightly. "Ugh, I can smell human sweat from here!"
He chuckled lightly, in the strong yet melodious voice she had come to yearn for over the many decades, then turned his bright blue eyes to her. She saw that they twinkled with mirth, and she smirked prettily in reply. "The city smelled indeed, but not that badly. And I've been able to speak with the human king, Terenas, as well as our ambassador here."
"So what did they think of your little folly?" she asked in what she had wanted to be a grumpy voice, only it failed to sound harsh, only resigned.
"They're actually thinking that my idea had merits, and Terenas gave me a writ giving us safe passage through his lands up to the frigid foothills of the Northeron mountains.
"I don't like it. We're Rangers, my heart, Rangers. Our duty is to fight threats to our people, not stray away from battle. This city and its inhabitants are so far removed from the war that they don't seem to realize the importance and the gravity of ensuring that our best people are at the forefront." she said, frowning down at the huge, expansive hub of human civilization and commerce.
The elf sighed. "Perhaps you think I do not wish to stay with our brethren and the humans who bravely fight the enemy in the ravaged south lands of Stromgarde? My hands sometimes burn with the need to take my bow and go out to fight this terrible threat to all intelligent life."
"So-"
"But my beloved, I still believe that this plan is feasible, that we must gather ourselves new allies. That belief is what pushed me to convince our Queen and our Council to rally on the side of the human nations, as the Dwarves of Khaz Modan did. This war is threatening to engulf all, and we are barely holding, thanks only to the brilliance of a few commanders, many of whom are human."
This didn't surprise Sylvanas one iota. As long as she had known Illadan, he had always been an elf who pushed for exchanges and increased trade with the other nations of the continent. That the council often pushed his ideas aside did not make him bitter, as it might have a lesser male. Instead he became more intent, more driven to his goals, and this allowed Quel'Thalas' borders to accept more than it had for at least a millennia. Certainly, it wasn't his work alone, but all acknowledged he had done a great part.
Sylvanas wasn't one of the elves who preached to open the borders. As far as she was concerned, the least the humans were involved in the affairs of elves, the better. She had seen the necessity of uniting their forces with the humans and the dwarves because if the vile tides of the Horde were to reach her beloved homeland, the suffering and the destruction would be great, perhaps total. She wouldn't let it happen, no matter what. Her people, the High Elves, had toiled the forests and the hills of Quel'Thalas for almost six millennia, and in that time had transformed the rugged forested land into their home. If, to preserve this careful beauty, it meant to ally with the armies of Humankind, so be it. However...
"I admit that allying with the humans is good, sensible even." she said "I can even tolerate the fact that the dwarves of Khaz Modan might have their use to fight this terrible darkness which threatens all. But the Griphas Kalathir? The dwarves of Northeron have always used their those who ride griphons to keep their lands safe from Lordaeron's grasp. Why would they ally with the humans?"
"When they see an elf instead of a human, and when the alternative is explained to them." he replied with conviction.
She gave him a quiet smile. "Always the dreamer."
His answering look was soft. "You would be disappointed if I bent to your opinion. As I would be if you simply bent to mine. Our bond was not created in this fashion, beloved."
That was also the truth, and they both knew it. Both coming from mighty noble families, their fathers' lifelong friendship had pushed the two patriarchs to arrange their eldest child as mates, giving them little choice in the matter. Neither had been appreciative of it. In fact they had been downright unappreciative for a time, and had refused to do anything together. Yet, three centuries later, the bickering, this difference of opinion, only served to deepen their affection towards each other.
She nodded. "I suppose I will be." she said, before turning to look at the great city glimmering in the morning light, surrounded by light forests of many colors and green, tall hills topped by sturdy towers. "It isn't Silvermoon, but it would be horrifying to see this city reduced to rubble after standing through so much of the human's madness."
"The Horde MUST be stopped, or all will be destroyed. No one will be spared here. And all we and our ancestors ever fought for would be for naught." he agreed "I will not allow this to pass."
She sighed. "Very well then. I shall endure the cold of Northeron and speak with its rustic inhabitants. But before we go unto this foolish yet necessary quest..." she trailed off, and grinned at the elven male lightly. Not being a fool, her mate understood her meaning at once, and gave her a look of mock annoyance.
"Really, my heart." he huffed with dancing eyes locked on her "Is this the best place for what you have in mind?"
"If you have any intention of continuing this road with me at your side, you will indulge me this whim." she replied. Pure bluff, they both knew it, but Illadan looked at her in a very serious, considerate way, before breaking into a dazzling smile.
"Then it appears that I have no choice." he made it sound like the ordeal it wasn't, sighing dramatically. "The things I must do to content you, my beloved..."
"Hush, my heart, hush. I want this before this journey begins. Then you will hear no more of my complains."
"Never in the entire trip?"
"Well now..."
And amongst the trees, not far from the city if Whitefort, two elven voices laughed lightly from the tree, and then all became content silence, the morning breeze the only sound around save for the wildlife of the forest.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 592, Northern edge of the Thandol Valley, Stromgarde
...and although we are ready to commence a series of battles meant to destroy as much supplies as possible in the hopes that the Horde Armies will fall back through the winter, our generals have agreed with our plan. If you can be successful in your endeavor before the first snows hit the hill, I believe that it might be possible, I say here possible, to stage an attack upon the area you know of, where much of the food and supplies that the horde has amassed are located, or so the scouts say.
As of right now, the fourth Army is preparing to march to our designated placement in what the High Command must certainly hope to be a staggering counter-attack. I must admit that everything seems to look it: the Alliance forces are presently outnumbered by little, have good morale after stopping and holding the Horde at bay for many seasons now, and mostly will have the food and goods to stage attacks during winter, while the enemy will be unable to do so.
Still, I feel disquiet. Something isn't right. There is dread in me, the dread of feeling we may be taken for dupes in an Horde scheme. Many fellow generals tend to laugh at my concerns, thinking the orcs and their allies feeble-minded and foolish. I happen to think differently. The Horde, I admit, may lack in the strategic field compared to us, and yet I feel that what they are doing is a wanted thing, that they wish us to use the might of our armies so that the real foe remains unchallenged. Where this thought comes from, I know not, yet something tells me there is truth in it. And that frightens me.
But enough doom saying on my part. Contained therein is the information we requested, which I will send with the fastest means in our disposal. Good luck to you on the battlefield!
For Stromgarde and the Alliance!
Jennala Ironhorse
The general of the Fourth Army finished signing her name with a flourish, then folded it and used hot purple wax - a type meant to say only the general of the army which received it could read the letter - and used her personal seal on it. She hefted in it in her hand for a moment, feeling drained from the extensive résumé she had just given, and hoped that the information she was about to give would be useful.
"Nothing to do but hope, eh?" she told herself with a smirk. Chuckling at her own brief - but all too vivid - moment of doubt, she slipped the letter inside a leather bag she had prepared, containing other information she wanted to transmit. Taking it in her hand, not feeling the weight of it, she opened the tent flap and beckoned the guard nearest her person.
"See that the Gnomes transport this to the First Army in Tol Barad by their speediest craft, to be delivered to General Swiftblade, and ONLY to General Swiftblade. Make sure that this is understood."
"Yes, General, as you command."
Jennala watched the man go for a moment, thinking about the days ahead. There will be battles ahead, many battles, all in the hopes that they might retake the Thandol Valley from the Horde. She wasn't looking forward to leading those battles, but she wasn't apprehensive about it. In fact, there was some elation at the thought that, if all went well, they'd be able to push the beastly throng back. With a nod, she headed back inside her tent. And stopped as she saw it was occupied by a man, a lean man with a bearded, lean face and the sharp eyes of a hawk, dressed in the simple robes of a sorcerer, looking at her.
Instantly she drew her sword, wishing that she had her armor on, and opened her mouth to shout for the guard. The man quickly shook his head, holding up an hand, which held a beautifully crafted staff.
"Please, there is no need for violence. I come quite peacefully." the man said smoothly.
"Quite peacefully?" she repeated in a tone laced with anger and sarcasm. "Someone who comes 'quite peacefully' usually announces himself before entering a tent, much less the tent of the general of an army." She held the point of her sword towards the man. He seemed unimpressed, which wasn't encouraging if combat was to occur - she knew only too well what an high-level sorcerer could do.
The sorcerer, however, only shook his head again. "Touché. General Ironhorse, I know how this looks like, but as I said, no apprehension is necessary. I wish only the good of the Fourth army and especially YOUR good." The emphasis on 'your' was plain, and despite herself it perked her interest up.
"And how so?"
"Its quite simple: you are in danger, general, in grave danger. And not from an Horde attack."
She squinted at him, trying to read this man. "If I am to trust you to hear your story, sir, I must first know your name and why, if you had information for me, that you couldn't walked through the door like everyone should." A part of herself wondered why no guards had come, the conversation must have reached their ears easily."
The man smile thinly. "Certainly. My name is Khadgar. And no, your guards cannot hear us. I cast a spell of silence on the walls of your tent. No sound will get to any ears but our own here."
Khadgar. She knew the name, and it made her mouth go dry. Khadgar, reputed to be a sorcerer of immense power, one who equaled - and perhaps even surpassed - people like the famed Antonidas of the Kirin Tor. Khadgar, reputed to have been the apprentice to Medhiv. Her eyes widened slightly, and it was only with great effort that she both lowered her blade or commented on the fact that man had just read in her mind. If this man was whom he claimed to be, there was no point in trying anything of the violent sort.
Still, she kept it in hand, just in case.
"Very well then, sir Khadgar of Azeroth. Your reputation precedes you." was there a slight flinch when she said 'reputation'? If so, good. "If you will be seated, you can tell me what this danger to my self is all about."
Still smiling, he nodded and sat, not saying a word when she decided to remain standing. There was not a chance she was laying down her guard, and that barred sitting down absolutely. However, as soon as he sat, his expression changed from mildly amused to deadly serious. He leaned forward and his tone took on a somber shape.
"The Alliance between the seven human nations, elven Quel'Thalas and the dwarves of Ironforge, is possibly one of the greatest thing that has ever happened in this continent. For the first time, every country is united against a great evil. United under duress, true, but united nonetheless. However, every country does not mean everyone. There are some who are preparing, bidding their time, waiting for a firm Alliance success against the Horde to strike against those they see as a threat to their power. This includes you. You are one of the highest on the list."
She couldn't believe she was hearing this. Certainly, she wasn't naive enough to believe the Alliance was all noble - she had seen atrocities committed by her own men against orcs who had surrendered - or that everyone believed in the cause, but she had hoped that humanity would quell itself until the war was resolved, that it would see beyond bids for power and backstabbing in the face of annihilation. Obviously, she reflected bitterly, she had thought too highly of at least a part of her race. With a start she realized she hadn't doubted what Khadgar had just said, but she was feeling truth from him now, and she had always been a keen judge of character.
"Such heresy and mutiny at a time like this. Fools!" she scoffed "And you say that I am a threat to them?"
"You are. Not only are you a great warrior, but you are a very successful one. You are one of those whom we have to thank the most that the Horde hasn't advanced more before we could have the strength to begin to even the odds. Moreover, you come from a noble family which is reputed incorruptible." he looked at her with his hawk-like gaze "Yes, general, you are quite a threat to them. And know this, there are sorcerers amongst them, although I do not know whom."
She looked back levelly, mastering the fear rising inside her, not letting it affect her. "I'm inclined to believe you are saying the truth, Khadgar. What do you want me to do?"
He smiled. "Watch."
"What?"
"Watch." he repeated "Because they are around us, around you, but if you are careful you may notice things. And if you notice things, you may prevent not only your own death, but perhaps that of others."
"And if I fail?" she asked, knowing the answer already.
"Then, needless to say, you will die."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 592, Tol Barad, Stromgarde
The walls shook underneath Kelnam Pedran, shaken by one of the catapults pelting the walls and the old soldier kept his balance only through sheer ostentation. Other soldiers weren't so lucky, and some where either knocked off their feet or sprayed with broken bits of granite. Many fell, but many more kept on, and from those prone, many rose with yells and encouragement. He saw the colors and armor of the Tol Barad militia on these men, and he smiled grimly to himself.
When they'd arrived, they had found a city with woefully inadequate defenses, men with poor training, and little organization to speak of. After letting loose a barrage of invective at the noble fop who had the title of Lord in the place, Aerth had called him, Halfadas and Ranil and had locked them all in a room until they could bring the place up to snot quickly. This was the result of their hard labors, and he was proud of it. No matter anything else, he had made these men real fighters.
Still, the enemy had come in throngs this time, and nothing they did seemed to truly slow them down. Massed upon the walls were many human soldiers, some clenching swords and shields, others pouring boiling oil over the scaling ladders, yet others manning the many ballistae devices, letting loose great spikes of ironwood to smash catapult after catapult. Others, yet, most elven and some human, were busily shooting arrow after arrow downward, dealing death from afar. Still the swarm rolled on. They had taken grievous losses. Hundreds had been wounded or killed, and gaps were beginning to shown into the Horde lines, but they pressed on - ravenous, bloodthirsty, powerful - up the walls.
On the shores, Halfadas' fleet was busy, caught in an intense pummeling match with a few Horde ships. Although it was clear the young admiral would be victorious, damage was quickly piling up on a small fleet increasingly in need for repairs.
A guttural shout was heard behind him, and he turned to see orcs pouring over two of the ladders, right into the midst of distraught human defenders, who were being beaten back. He immediately ran to their aid, calling and summoning any others who could help.
"At them, boys, at them! Show them your steel! At them!" he bellowed, coming into the fray, crashing against an orc fighter, who stumbled before raising its axe and charging him. He stepped aside the attack, exchanging a few blows, using his sword's quickness against the axe's raw power. Oh yes, the orc was good - all the ones he had encountered yet were, trained as they were for warfare, they were ever a threat.
However, Kelnam had been a soldier and seen conflict long before this one had been born, and he used this knowledge to block and thrusts, feinting and striking, controlling the fight as best he could. Eventually the sword slipped through the defenses, cleaving the orc's heart. Barely giving the orc a second look, and went to charge a troll who had killed two footmen, severing its arm with one swift slash, then killing it as it howled in surprise and pain. And all the while he was shouting, giving encouragement, fanning the feelings of aggression in the men around him.
And they listened, slamming into the few horde troops, cutting them down or encircling them, while other used grappling poles and pushed the ladders back down. The fighting rose to a cacophony of steel, screams, howls, mingled with the stench of fresh blood and death. Still thee Horde pressed, and he pressed back with equal vigor. Shouts of "For Doomhammer! For the Horde!" were echoed back with "Lothar! In the name of the Light!" and "The Alliance!" The huge horde fighters engaged the smaller humans, but they were weakened now, few in number on the walls, and yet Pedran had time to kill two more of the enemy before the enemy was routed by a sudden charge led by Swiftblade himself, who came at the head of a few reinforcements.
In full armor, the young general fought with savage tenacity and obvious skill, swinging the great mace he sometimes used as a weapon with practiced ease. It blocked an axe before swinging around and crushing an orc's skull to bloody paste. Behind him came the knights assigned to the general's protection, frantically trying to surround their charge and swording anything green-skinned that they saw. Between all of them, the attack was repelled, and the second ladder brought down. It was only then that Pedran was able to look away from the immediate danger to look around.
Two other breaches had occurred, painstakingly being fought off by a mix of regular Alliance soldiers and Tol Barad militia. The catapults had done some damage to the walls, and had even caused one building in the town to collapse and many other to lie in disrepair, but no fires - thank the Light for that! - had caught. Chest heaving, he came to rest against a wall a few moments, and saw Swiftblade come to stand before him, helmet off, face sweaty.
"Good rally you gave the men there." he said, resting his war hammer and motioning for archers to lay fire downward to the forces they had just beaten back. "Sure inspired me."
"They almost broke through today, Aerth. I could see it. They almost broke through."
He nodded wearily, and then smiled in grim triumph as the deep Horde bone horns began their reluctant chant, urging the attackers to retreat. Once again. Until the next time they would come back.
Seven defensive battle in the last eleven days. Still Tol Barad held. But they couldn't take this. He watched the green throng falling back, followed here and there by a few of those hulking beasts they called ogres. They were falling back to their transports, and the humans manning the walls made no efforts to pursue. A few were finishing up the few horde survivors up around the walls, but most just sat where they had fought, letting go of weapons. A cheer did go up when it was clear the day had been won, but it was quiet and ragged.
"They'll be back. Very soon." he said with tired certainty. Swiftblade nodded, his face strained.
"Yes, they will. But not tomorrow. Or the day after that. I give us at least two days before they attack us again."
"It doesn't matter if its two days or a week, general. They've been pounding us again and again, day after day. Like..."
"Like they were desperate for it. Like something was pressing. I noticed that, too." he held his chin with a gloved hand. "I wonder if that means that they - hello, hello, a flying machine!"
The change of tone made Pedran shift his weight and look out the walls. Quickly, he saw the object, a strange object of wood and wheels and pedals, held together haphazardly with leather 'wings' which beat like a butterfly, coming into view, larger and larger, until they could distinguish the little bearded gnome sitting at the controls, from time to time giving a few strikes on the pedals. He seemed to be scanning the soldiers lining the walls, and then brightened when he saw Aerth looking back at him. In mere moments the strange craft was hovering near the army leader and his entourage, tipping its round hat a second.
"Are ya general Swiftblade?"
"I am."
"Alliance Air Reconnaissance have a package for ya, from general Ironhorse of the Fourth Army." With that, the gnome handed a leather bag, which the general took with eager hands.
He nodded to the small messenger. "My thanks. The gnomes are truly a marvel for the Alliance." He grinned at Pedran for the first time in many days. "This is it. Commander Pedran, seek the other commanders from both our army and the Tol Barad militia. We have to prepare."
"What for, if I may ask?"
"What else? To finally start to push back the horde!" And then he was scaling down the nearest inner ladders, holding the bag preciously, leaving Pedran with many questions which he wanted answered. And there was only one way to go about that.
Sighing, tired, weary in both mind and body, Kelnam Pedran nevertheless began issuing orders to fetch all of the other captains and commanders, hoping that Aerth Swiftblade would, once again, pull a rabbit out of his hat to arrange thing.
If not, this place would eventually fall.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 592, Bluesight Hills, Azeroth
Gelmar's nose itched, and he longed to scratch it. However, he knew he couldn't let himself be drawn back to full consciousness by the mere intention of removing a small pain, and so he did nothing. Instead he tried to empty his mind of negative emotions, to purge and put aside the hatred in his heart and search his soul for the link which would allow him to contact the spirits which lived in this world.
When the old man had explained the concept, it had seemed easy enough to do, for it resembled an exercise he did often when he had been a necrolyte and had been seeking the void to draw off the powers of necromancy. He had been average at that task. However, this one was much arduous, far more so than he had suspected. Because the power he had used for so long, had wanted and worked for ever since he had been young and physically weak and wished not to be a simple peon, that power was in the way, seemingly quite upset that he even tried to rise against it.
Every time his spirit seemed to vacate anger, it returned with greater force. Fighting irritation and rage was a constant battle as his failures rose in frequency and in hardness. Still he fought this, as he had fought all of his life, not able to make the ultimate sacrifice to the necromancy, something which had made others in the Horde title him as weak and inefficient, a failure and a fool.
The center, the one he had to reach to feel his spirit and by that make a pact which demanded nothing but honesty with them, was fleeting. He thought he felt it a moment, clawed desperately to reach it, only to have it slip out of his grasp. As his mind reeled in frustration, the itch on his nose increased, and he opened his eyes in dejected anger, scratching the spot with such vigor that it was a wonder he didn't take the whole part off.
Old Desil looked at him, his old, lined features as damnably content and serene as they ever were "Ah, so you have awakened. Another failure, no doubt. From watching you, I wasn't quite certain if you were in trance or had found something extremely hard to digest."
The young orc grunted. "You sarcasm is, as always, biting, old man. Yes, I have failed - once again." he couldn't help but unload some bitterness in the last words. How long, after all, had he tried the same thing and come back as empty-handed as ever before. This power the old man had shown him so many times before, had talked about in such detail, sometimes he felt he just wasn't the one to reach it.
Desil frowned slightly. "I see your spirit is troubled by your failure, but do not despair. You have much to set free before you may ask the spirits for help."
The orc frowned. He couldn't remember a day where the old human hadn't told of the need he had to 'set his spirit free'. He wasn't quite sure he understood, and yet, today, it seemed that it was clearer. To him. Something about his anger, the power getting in the way.
"My necromantic powers." he breathed. Of course! Curse him for a fool!
The old one raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
"My powers. Everything is based on that, isn't it?"
"No, not everything-"
"But a large part of what blocks me from attaining your so-called shamanism is because of my necromantic training, isn't it?" he pressed "The powers must be nearly polar opposites, and so I can't do shamanism before ridding myself of necromancy!"
The old man looked a little older at the words, slightly sadder, and Gelmar wondered if he hadn't just said something very wrong. But his teacher only sighed lightly. "You are partly right, that is partly the truth. But not the whole of it. You need not forget only the power, but break from it, break its influence upon your soul. I think you have the strength to do such a thing. I certainly hope so, for you have much potential in shamanism! Oh, yes, so much potential!" He seemed partly sad and partly elated at what he said, but it only served to confuse him even more.
"I...break from influence? I..." he scratched himself despite the foolishness of the gesture. "I don't understand..."
"No, but you are beginning to. Unconsciously at least. And that ability might redeem you, and perhaps many other orcs. But there is no need to discuss it here while our bellies are empty. Come!"
Gelmar rose after the old man and followed him down a trail no horde grunt had ever trod on, so well was it hidden, and soon they came to the cave Desil had lived in for many years. Not that he had always lived in these simple conditions all of his life. He had managed to discover the truth at length. Desil Brassgoat had once been Desilus Brasswands a very proficient member of the Karal Tor, the magical order who had been such a great enemy to the Horde during the first conflict with Azeroth. He had, however, soon proffered shamanism and the spirits to the magics of the Well, and had gone from his brethren years before the portal came to and the war began.
A familiar, pleasant smell filled his nose, and he smiled. "Ah, wild oats porridge." he said with clear delectation." Another change in him brought by the old man - he no longer yearned for meat, and could eat plants and fruit. This had all been contrary to his belief and his pride, but he had soon found himself enjoying the subtler textures and flavors. Wild oat porridge was one of his favorites. At his tone, his companion chuckled dryly.
"Of course it is! Every three mornings. Its my little tradition, and I'm not about to break it after so many years!"
"I wouldn't want you to." the orc answered truthfully. How strange to talk so pleasantly with someone. Why couldn't his people carry on a conversation in so friendly a fashion. There must be a reason, and he hoped that what his teacher would tell him might give him some clue as to that, amongst other things.
It was only after the dinner had passed - with him shamelessly gobbling three large bowls of the stew - that he approached the human with his question. "Sir, you told me that there is an influence over me. What could it be? What do you feel?"
The old man was pensive before giving his answer in a straight manner. "I am not entirely sure myself yet, but from what I feel, and my own experiences with magic - I suspect a demonic force is triggering reactions in you, corrupting you and your race."
If anyone else had told him this, Gelmar might have raged, laughed, or else debated hotly. But with Desil, he knew the words spoken were truth, and he felt a cold which did not come from the brisk autumn air. "Demonic possession? Is that this curse which you think binds my people."
"Not true possession, my young friend, but rather an influence on your soul, bringing out the bad more forcefully, drowning the good more. You are free in your thoughts, but part of your spirit is bound. I can see only one thing to cause this. Someone of power damned your race, made a pact that never should be made, all in the name of greed, power, lust or some similar, base emotion." The old man looked quite upset as he said this, but his voice remained soft. For some reason, its calm frightened the former necrolyte even more.
"Can it be broken? Can we be free of it?" he asked worriedly. He had a sinking feeling he knew who made such a pact with the demons, who had damned his people, and his anger rose accordingly. Gul'Dan. Of all the warlocks, the cruelest and the most powerful, the one who always surpassed everyone and always did things according to his whim. The one who killed hundreds of his brothers. It had to be him. He controlled his wrath with an effort, and listened to his friend - friend, had he ever truly used that word before and meant it?.
"Broken? Perhaps. But it will not be easy. If the ancients texts of Quel'Thalas speak the truth, the ancient elves once ruled this globe, but were tricked and drawn to evil by demons. Only a fragment succeeded. The rest nearly doomed the world and destroyed themselves in the end. Such might be the fate of your people, but I think it can still be prevented."
"How?" he asked, eager for some hopeful word.
"You. You can bring them out of the abyss, until someone who shares your vision brings them back into the light. That is the only way I see."
"Me?" he asked, aghast, but only for a moment, Then he thought about his life, about his people, about the terrible doom Gul'Dan and Doomhammer were bringing his people to. Death, that was the end of the road for the Horde even if the Alliance did not prevail. There was no hope...unless he could convince others. And he could convince them, something told him, if he knew the right, things, if he knew what to say and what to do. And the one who could help him, the only one, was looking at him expectantly.
"Tell me more, sir. Tell me everything. Then I can begin to truly learn. And then, with you, I will bring my people from the abyss of spiritual rot."
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Winter 592, Horde Main Army Camp, Stromgarde
Argal Grimfrost looked at the message which had just been carried over to him and couldn't believe his eyes, thus he reread it. No, there was no mistake. The orders were given by the hand of Doomhammer himself, and were unequivocal. It was short and to the point.
Argal,
We can't allow ourselves to wait any longer. The cursed Alliance had found itself a few remarkable commanders, and with the Shade Army having boggled most of the ones of the Horde, our forces are starting to fray and accumulate the failures. I so order you to march as soon as you receive this missive, towards Quel'Thalas. Destroy all you can of those pesky elves' homeland and wait for me there. I, along with Gul'Dan and his new creations, will arrive as soon as we can by the Alteract routes.
May victory be forever yours!
Doomhammer
Reading the message a second time did the trick. Relieved beyond joy and words, the powerfully built orc relaxed on his campaign chair and sighed long, letting go of a breath he had been holding for quite a while. The orders had finally come. Good, for if this situation had gone on much longer, there might not have been much of a 'Shade Army', as Doomhammer seemed fun to dub it.
Four hundred thousand troops were gathered there in the so-called Hellbowl Valley, and only fearful superstition had prevented the immense force's discovery by the Alliance. However, of late, the humans and their allies had been the least of his concerns. The army itself had become his main one. Cooping up four hundred thousand warriors together and ask them to wait was a doomed effort if it lasted too long. Minor mutinies had started, and after Garthol Towerfist had tried to kill him and failed, five others had tried to take Grimfrost's head for themselves, and had died as well. It was an inconvenience to be losing his troops' loyalty ever so slowly, but if it had been just that, he could have dealt with it.
However, it didn't stop there. The Shade Army had been form from forces drawn from all of the main clans, bringing in a division of the command structure. However as time went by, the warriors and leaders from all of these clans had begun to revive old rivalries, something he had had mighty difficulties in calm. Not a fatalist by nature, the increasingly-volatile nature of his subordinates and soldiers had made him anxious, and he had estimated, along with the few moderate commanders remaining, that if not orders came soon, the army would start fighting itself, if not to oblivion, to such weakness that it would be whole fully ineffectual.
But the orders arrived before things had reached a breaking point. And both for that and the fact that he was at last going to fight again, the old warrior felt elation such as he'd rarely felt in his life.
He rose and grunted sternly for the guards, who came at once. As mastered as were his emotions, they still managed to slip through a little on his expression, and both looked quite worried. Probably they were wondering if their Warlord had lost his mind under all the recent happenstances. He couldn't blame them.
"Warlord, what is your command?" they asked however, banging their chest.
He couldn't help but grin widely; he had been waiting so long for this. Still, his tone remained as hard as it ever was. "I want the horns broken out and sounded, and all heralds to call the man to gather in the clearing in the middle of the camp. I will address them there." the triumph in his voice must have been felt, for both looked at each other for a brief instant, and then looked back at him with eyes which literally glowed with hope.
"I beg forgiveness for this insolence, Warlord," one said huskily. "But are we...have the orders to move out..."
He stopped the younger grunt with a calming gesture. "There's no insolence in your questions, for many have asked it before, many in far less polite words!" he grinned once more. "Yes warriors, the message was received. Now carry out my orders!"
They banged their chest even louder than before. "I obey, Warlord!" both said with far more enthusiasm than at the beginning. Swiftly, they turned to their tasks, and as Grimfrost dressed in his full black armor and the trappings of his rank, shouts of joy were heard here and there, ever more numerous, then congealing into a single low roar of contentment.
When he came out, however, the roar had become solemn silence, one filled with almost palpable, nearly electric attention. As he made his way to the rock from which so many announcements had been made, he reflected despite himself that the camp had never been so quiet, never so controlled, even in the beginning when it had secretly dug in and began the year-long wait.
As he stood atop the rock, he saw the multitude he had at his command. Thousands upon thousand of orcs looked up at him, expectant, flanked by hundreds and hundreds of ogres. Still it wasn't all, as he saw many trolls gathered amongst the troops - the number had grown larger since many had come down from the Quel'Thalas forests to offer their services. He didn't trust them farther than he could throw them, but he knew that they knew the terrain far better than they, and that they would be good allies against the elves, so he had simply opted to ignore them.
All those assembled wore the colors of their clan. The red of the Blackrocks was the most common, but there were a large number of Twilight Hammers, Bleeding Hollows an Stormreavers making up most of the rest. He almost scowled at the Stormreavers. They were a bad lot, too fanatical to Gul'Dan for his own taste, and too influential with the Twilight Hammers and the smaller clans. However, despite their strange attitudes, they had regretfully given him no grounds to watch them more closely.
He pushed his doubts and his gloom aside. Now wasn't the time for reflection, but for action.
He raised his hand. "My warriors..." he began loudly, and immediately a roar began that made him have to wait for several moments. "My warriors, today is a great day! Today our orders have come from the Warchief! Our Army will move out north and begin the destruction of our enemies! Today we begin what we started so many years ago, to take this land and make it ours with the blood of our enemies!"
"We will raze their homes and burn their crops, kill all the people we come across, weak or strong, meek or powerful. None will stand against us!" The roar began again, but he continued on relentlessly. "The humans' defiance is soon to end. We will make them pay their foolishness by spilling rivers of their blood! We will kill all as a fitting end to their stupid ways! We will prevail, my warriors, prepare to march!
And then he raised both of his clenched fists over his head, and cried out loudly, launching a bellow which nearly brought the cheer into a maddening fit of intensity! "VICTORY TO THE HORDE!!!!"
The human's doom had come. The Shade Army would begin its great march today!
_________________________________________________________________
BONUS PROFILE #4
Illadan Eltrass
Birthplace: Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
Birth date: Summer 48
Height: 5'9"
Hair: Blue
Eyes: Dusky Blond
Present status: High-Ranking Ranger, member of the Council of Silvermoon
Allegiances: The Realm of Quel'Thalas, The Light, The Alliance
History: Illadan was born to one of the most powerful family of Silvermoon, the influential House Eltrass. A gifted, quick-witted and adventurous child, he was showered with gifts by his parents, and had many servants bowing to his every whims. His childhood was a bright one as his quick mind breezed past tutor after tutor.
However, although the young elf quickly found a knack for diplomacy and life at the court, he first resented his arranged mating with an elf maiden named Sylvanas Windrunner. Quickly, however, the two fell in love in truth, and wanting to leave the prying eyes of the Queen's Court behind, they managed to join the prestigious Rangers.
There began Illadan's fame. At first appalled by the rugged Rangers' way of life and also by the way he was mistreated by being a noble, he persevered and soon showed himself a great and cunning warrior. More than that, he was also a diplomatic one, and was amongst the Queen's entourage when the Pact of Stormwind was signed in 381, and used the centuries of peace to fall deeper in love with Sylvanas and hunting the few remaining Troll War parties raiding on the edges of his realm.
Illadan fought side-by-side with humans during the Troll Wars, and since has had an healthy respect for them. It is this respect - and the admiration he feels for the Human's unity in the face of adversity - which helped him convinced the elves to join the Alliance against the Horde.
Today Illadan is one of the most respected elven warriors in Quel'Thalas, second only to High Ranger Alleria herself. Convinced that more allies will be needed to vanquish the Horde, he has gone to Northeron with his beloved mate in the hopes of convincing the wild dwarves of these forbidding lands to join in the fight for freedom.
Early Autumn 592, Redgates, Stromgarde
Thoras Trollbane, king of Stromgarde, entered the conference room of his castle with his usual gruff dignity, followed by two of his personal guard. The conference room was a large one, designed to hold many persona in preparation of battles and large-scale conflicts. It had been used many times before, in the centuries since its edification, in countering and deflecting threats like Trolls and to control the rare rebellions the kingdom had seen since it had broken from the old Lordaeron. The large ironwood table, polished to a luster, reflecting the light coming in from the clear windows in its eastern wall, could hold more than forty people. This day, however, the room was empty, except for four people and a dozen royal guards. The four, however, were of importance, and Trollbane would never wish to forego anything these people would say.
"Thoras Trollbane, King of Stromgarde!" called the herald and the large, bear-like sovereign winced. It wasn't like those gathered there could miss him coming in the room. Sometime formality was such a bore.
The four, who had been discussing, broke up their conversation and rose, two bowing, two merely inclining their head in acknowledgment, as befitted their rank. Of those gathered there, a lean but energetic man wearing the colors of Grand Admiral stepped forward with a grin that was nearly as wide as his face and a glint in his eyes which belied great joy over recent events. Trollbane wasn't surprised.
"Hail, King Trollbane of Stromgarde!" the middle-aged, athletic mariner called with some amusement. The large monarch only snorted.
"Don't start giving me this, lord Proudmoore." he griped half-seriously "You know how I hate formality."
"Indeed, old friend. It's legendary by now."
"Levity from you is refreshing as always. Congratulation on the birth of your third child, by the way. Is it yet another boy, or finally a girl!" he chuckled "Don't leave me in suspense."
Dealin Proudmoore actually beamed at this, and Trollbane felt that his previous words held a lot of truth: it WAS refreshing to see the Island King so joyous. The light knew there had been little reason for joy ever since this terrible war had commenced, leaving behind death and suffering. over a third of his kingdom had been ravaged over the past year, with only the valiant efforts of the Eastern Alliance Forces keeping the Horde's rampage to a slow crawl. Mourning and rage had replaced joy on the endless battlefields, the many fields which had become graveyards. Yes, it was nice to see a smile for a change.
"As I was telling these two men," Proudmoore waved to the two wearing armor instead of mariner suit. "My wife has given me a beautiful daughter, whom I am certain will be collectively spoiled by myself, my sons and my dear wife!"
Trollbane rolled his eyes. "Of course! The light have mercy on you, then!" with sarcasm, upon which both men shared a laugh. After a moment, however, the oldest man in the room, and probably the most important one given the days they lived in presently, cleared his throat.
"Not that I wish to seem like a spoilsport," his voice echoed, mild yet impressive, through the room "And although I am overjoyed at the news of this new life born to this world, I suggest we put forth our attention to ensuring this babe and indeed all children be they elven, dwarven or human, have a future on our world."
If one could count on anything on Anduin Lothar, it was that he knew when to bring things back to full seriousness. The aging knight, Regent of the Kingdom of Azeroth, wasn't renowned for either his humor or his love of small talk. However, he was known as a brilliant tactician and a formidable leader of men, both traits he had shown over and over since the beginning of his tenure as High General of the entire Alliance Army. Controlling and coordinating the decisions and the myriad of battles fought over the continent was an hard one at the best of time, a nerve-wracking experience Lothar had risen above. Under him, the militias and formal armies of seven human nations, an elven and dwarven realm had been merged into a large, powerful army with a structured hierarchy. If Lothar could keep making miraculous changes such as these, Trollbane was more than willing to let the somber man have his way.
"Of course, lord Lothar. Forgive us. Let us be seated." he said taking a seat, watching the four other do the same. "Now, I do hope you've called me here to tell me there is good news. The Light knows we have had enough bad ones during the last year."
Lothar didn't grin, but the air he took on was encouraging. Gesturing with his hands in a subtle fashion, he nodded as he started to explain. "We're not sure if it is good news right now, only that it MIGHT become so if we spare no efforts and time things as well as we can. Let me explain. Right now forces from the west have arrived to strengthen the main battle lines here, bringing the total amount of Alliance troops at a little over two hundred thousand in the eastern forces. In front of us, the Horde has about three hundred thousand troops."
"So they still outnumber us greatly. I fail to see this as encouraging."
The man next to Lothar, a man of no more than thirty, with a strong blond-haired face and good stature, stirred at this. "That isn't what we mean, milord." he said in a rush, his deep voice resounding through the chamber. A second later he realized what he had done, and bowed his head. "Forgive me, sire, I spoke out of turn."
Lothar raised an appeasing hand and the younger man subsided at Trollbane's indulgent nod. "Although his comment was brash, Turalyon actually has a point. Numbers is by no means a deciding factor, for King Proudmoore's navy have managed to do something which could actually tip the scales in our favor."
The large king couldn't help but blink at this in incomprehension. He turned to a beaming Proudmoore. "So your happiness doesn't all come from your child's birth I see! What did you do?"
"We've cut off the bread flow, so to speak." he said, then turned to the business-like female officer next to him. "Salasai?"
The woman immediately began to explain. "Three weeks ago, a large naval strike force attacked the Land Bridges, and during the engagement, managed to destroy a great caravan which, upon inspection when the enemy was routed with average losses, were found to be made primarily of utilities and food. Now winter is approaching, and a full year of warfare has made food scarce in the lands the Horde control."
Turalyon took that up at once. "That is what we mean sire. If we play our cards right, we can reduce their provisions to nearly nothing. Not only will they have to shift a great number of troops to foraging, their morale will be considerably lowered by the idea of not having enough food to eat. Orcs eat twice what a human would, and the huge, beastly ogres even more. The winter will be harsh for them, while our armies have the food from the still-untouched northern provinces."
"We could push them out of Stromgarde." Trollbane said in wonder, considering the whole concept with newfound hope.
"IF we can manage to capitalize on the low moral and strike hard before winter sets in, we might just do exactly that." Lothar agreed. "But to do this, we will need excellent coordination amongst our generals. Each army will be part of an entire offensive, each with its own goal. This means fast messengers."
Proudmoore nodded. "How about sorcerers? That would be quick enough. I would ask you to use sea birds, but traveling terrain such as forests and hills would muddle the system which works so well at sea."
At that, at long last, Trollbane had an answer. He tapped the table thoughtfully with a slight grin. "Yes...yes sea birds wouldn't be of much help. But I think you are right, Dealin! Air is the key. And Stromgarde can, in this if in nothing else, give you a spectacular but useful option!"
This gathered the interest of the four important military people before him. They hadn't expected him to have any sort of answer to their problem, it seemed, but they were quite anxious to see what he had to offer, now that there was something presented to them. "Please, King Trollbane," Lothar said in earnest "If you have something which might do the job, please tell us more."
Trollbane looked at the people around him, and for the first time since this terrible war had begun, felt that something in the wind was shifting, that the Alliance, which had so far been giving ground little by little, might yet prevail in the end, that the ruin and loss of life to his beloved kingdom might be avenged one day. This day, he felt, he would remember, if only for feeling this. With a grin, he rose.
"Come with me then, friends. Let me show you the surprising devices built by the gnomes of Ironforge."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 592, Whitefort, Lordaeron
The sky was blue, Sylvanas Windrunner saw, a light, pure blue barely broken here and there by the smoky wisps of clouds, with the sun gloriously raining down to the land, filling her with its warmth and its beauty. She closed her eyes and embraced the light for a long moment, impregnating herself with it and letting her soul feel contentment before opening her eyes and look down the tree she was sitting in and down the hills through a cobbled road, farms, and then, Whitefort itself, the capital of Lordaeron and, at this moment, the center of everything of import.
Whitefort was a nice city, she had to give grudging credit to that. Even from the slight distance, she could see the many towers, the proud northern walls and the many ships flocking to its fortified docks, through house after shop after market, up to the large and sleek-looking castle. All of it reminded the world of a glory past, when the Empire of Arathor was at its height, with Whitefort as its capital, holding sway over so much of the continent. Through two thousand and nine hundred years of existence, the great city had maintained and upheld its beauty of old, which, like the Violet Citadel and former Stormwind, had been crafted by all three races.
It was surprising that the humans had maintained beauty for so long, given their short lifespan and their reckless pursuit of success, adventure or pleasure.
"Humans are a very surprising race, are they not, Sylvanas?" a voice came, amused, and a chuckle followed when she couldn't stifle a small start. She frowned at both herself and the one who came to sit on the branch beside her. Illadan had, once again, managed to surprise her, a ranger veteran of many troll campaigns and of keen senses. But then Illadan Eltrass was rumored - with increasing reason - to be second only to the leader of all the Rangers, Alleria Birdwings, whose instincts, skills and exploits were legendary.
"They seem like a fickle lot, always in a hurry, impatient. They have no appreciation of the balance of the world." she replied as the tall elf sat. She knew her voice sound slightly flippant, but she had never been very good at living down events where her skills proved insufficient. Illadan, of course, did not pick up on her tone.
"Yes, they are fickle and impatient, but if you had only sixty years, seventy, perhaps eighty years to live your time, you might be more impatient yourself, beloved." he said.
"Still, I'm surprised that you've been able to survive the reek of the city." she wrinkled her pointed nose slightly. "Ugh, I can smell human sweat from here!"
He chuckled lightly, in the strong yet melodious voice she had come to yearn for over the many decades, then turned his bright blue eyes to her. She saw that they twinkled with mirth, and she smirked prettily in reply. "The city smelled indeed, but not that badly. And I've been able to speak with the human king, Terenas, as well as our ambassador here."
"So what did they think of your little folly?" she asked in what she had wanted to be a grumpy voice, only it failed to sound harsh, only resigned.
"They're actually thinking that my idea had merits, and Terenas gave me a writ giving us safe passage through his lands up to the frigid foothills of the Northeron mountains.
"I don't like it. We're Rangers, my heart, Rangers. Our duty is to fight threats to our people, not stray away from battle. This city and its inhabitants are so far removed from the war that they don't seem to realize the importance and the gravity of ensuring that our best people are at the forefront." she said, frowning down at the huge, expansive hub of human civilization and commerce.
The elf sighed. "Perhaps you think I do not wish to stay with our brethren and the humans who bravely fight the enemy in the ravaged south lands of Stromgarde? My hands sometimes burn with the need to take my bow and go out to fight this terrible threat to all intelligent life."
"So-"
"But my beloved, I still believe that this plan is feasible, that we must gather ourselves new allies. That belief is what pushed me to convince our Queen and our Council to rally on the side of the human nations, as the Dwarves of Khaz Modan did. This war is threatening to engulf all, and we are barely holding, thanks only to the brilliance of a few commanders, many of whom are human."
This didn't surprise Sylvanas one iota. As long as she had known Illadan, he had always been an elf who pushed for exchanges and increased trade with the other nations of the continent. That the council often pushed his ideas aside did not make him bitter, as it might have a lesser male. Instead he became more intent, more driven to his goals, and this allowed Quel'Thalas' borders to accept more than it had for at least a millennia. Certainly, it wasn't his work alone, but all acknowledged he had done a great part.
Sylvanas wasn't one of the elves who preached to open the borders. As far as she was concerned, the least the humans were involved in the affairs of elves, the better. She had seen the necessity of uniting their forces with the humans and the dwarves because if the vile tides of the Horde were to reach her beloved homeland, the suffering and the destruction would be great, perhaps total. She wouldn't let it happen, no matter what. Her people, the High Elves, had toiled the forests and the hills of Quel'Thalas for almost six millennia, and in that time had transformed the rugged forested land into their home. If, to preserve this careful beauty, it meant to ally with the armies of Humankind, so be it. However...
"I admit that allying with the humans is good, sensible even." she said "I can even tolerate the fact that the dwarves of Khaz Modan might have their use to fight this terrible darkness which threatens all. But the Griphas Kalathir? The dwarves of Northeron have always used their those who ride griphons to keep their lands safe from Lordaeron's grasp. Why would they ally with the humans?"
"When they see an elf instead of a human, and when the alternative is explained to them." he replied with conviction.
She gave him a quiet smile. "Always the dreamer."
His answering look was soft. "You would be disappointed if I bent to your opinion. As I would be if you simply bent to mine. Our bond was not created in this fashion, beloved."
That was also the truth, and they both knew it. Both coming from mighty noble families, their fathers' lifelong friendship had pushed the two patriarchs to arrange their eldest child as mates, giving them little choice in the matter. Neither had been appreciative of it. In fact they had been downright unappreciative for a time, and had refused to do anything together. Yet, three centuries later, the bickering, this difference of opinion, only served to deepen their affection towards each other.
She nodded. "I suppose I will be." she said, before turning to look at the great city glimmering in the morning light, surrounded by light forests of many colors and green, tall hills topped by sturdy towers. "It isn't Silvermoon, but it would be horrifying to see this city reduced to rubble after standing through so much of the human's madness."
"The Horde MUST be stopped, or all will be destroyed. No one will be spared here. And all we and our ancestors ever fought for would be for naught." he agreed "I will not allow this to pass."
She sighed. "Very well then. I shall endure the cold of Northeron and speak with its rustic inhabitants. But before we go unto this foolish yet necessary quest..." she trailed off, and grinned at the elven male lightly. Not being a fool, her mate understood her meaning at once, and gave her a look of mock annoyance.
"Really, my heart." he huffed with dancing eyes locked on her "Is this the best place for what you have in mind?"
"If you have any intention of continuing this road with me at your side, you will indulge me this whim." she replied. Pure bluff, they both knew it, but Illadan looked at her in a very serious, considerate way, before breaking into a dazzling smile.
"Then it appears that I have no choice." he made it sound like the ordeal it wasn't, sighing dramatically. "The things I must do to content you, my beloved..."
"Hush, my heart, hush. I want this before this journey begins. Then you will hear no more of my complains."
"Never in the entire trip?"
"Well now..."
And amongst the trees, not far from the city if Whitefort, two elven voices laughed lightly from the tree, and then all became content silence, the morning breeze the only sound around save for the wildlife of the forest.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 592, Northern edge of the Thandol Valley, Stromgarde
...and although we are ready to commence a series of battles meant to destroy as much supplies as possible in the hopes that the Horde Armies will fall back through the winter, our generals have agreed with our plan. If you can be successful in your endeavor before the first snows hit the hill, I believe that it might be possible, I say here possible, to stage an attack upon the area you know of, where much of the food and supplies that the horde has amassed are located, or so the scouts say.
As of right now, the fourth Army is preparing to march to our designated placement in what the High Command must certainly hope to be a staggering counter-attack. I must admit that everything seems to look it: the Alliance forces are presently outnumbered by little, have good morale after stopping and holding the Horde at bay for many seasons now, and mostly will have the food and goods to stage attacks during winter, while the enemy will be unable to do so.
Still, I feel disquiet. Something isn't right. There is dread in me, the dread of feeling we may be taken for dupes in an Horde scheme. Many fellow generals tend to laugh at my concerns, thinking the orcs and their allies feeble-minded and foolish. I happen to think differently. The Horde, I admit, may lack in the strategic field compared to us, and yet I feel that what they are doing is a wanted thing, that they wish us to use the might of our armies so that the real foe remains unchallenged. Where this thought comes from, I know not, yet something tells me there is truth in it. And that frightens me.
But enough doom saying on my part. Contained therein is the information we requested, which I will send with the fastest means in our disposal. Good luck to you on the battlefield!
For Stromgarde and the Alliance!
Jennala Ironhorse
The general of the Fourth Army finished signing her name with a flourish, then folded it and used hot purple wax - a type meant to say only the general of the army which received it could read the letter - and used her personal seal on it. She hefted in it in her hand for a moment, feeling drained from the extensive résumé she had just given, and hoped that the information she was about to give would be useful.
"Nothing to do but hope, eh?" she told herself with a smirk. Chuckling at her own brief - but all too vivid - moment of doubt, she slipped the letter inside a leather bag she had prepared, containing other information she wanted to transmit. Taking it in her hand, not feeling the weight of it, she opened the tent flap and beckoned the guard nearest her person.
"See that the Gnomes transport this to the First Army in Tol Barad by their speediest craft, to be delivered to General Swiftblade, and ONLY to General Swiftblade. Make sure that this is understood."
"Yes, General, as you command."
Jennala watched the man go for a moment, thinking about the days ahead. There will be battles ahead, many battles, all in the hopes that they might retake the Thandol Valley from the Horde. She wasn't looking forward to leading those battles, but she wasn't apprehensive about it. In fact, there was some elation at the thought that, if all went well, they'd be able to push the beastly throng back. With a nod, she headed back inside her tent. And stopped as she saw it was occupied by a man, a lean man with a bearded, lean face and the sharp eyes of a hawk, dressed in the simple robes of a sorcerer, looking at her.
Instantly she drew her sword, wishing that she had her armor on, and opened her mouth to shout for the guard. The man quickly shook his head, holding up an hand, which held a beautifully crafted staff.
"Please, there is no need for violence. I come quite peacefully." the man said smoothly.
"Quite peacefully?" she repeated in a tone laced with anger and sarcasm. "Someone who comes 'quite peacefully' usually announces himself before entering a tent, much less the tent of the general of an army." She held the point of her sword towards the man. He seemed unimpressed, which wasn't encouraging if combat was to occur - she knew only too well what an high-level sorcerer could do.
The sorcerer, however, only shook his head again. "Touché. General Ironhorse, I know how this looks like, but as I said, no apprehension is necessary. I wish only the good of the Fourth army and especially YOUR good." The emphasis on 'your' was plain, and despite herself it perked her interest up.
"And how so?"
"Its quite simple: you are in danger, general, in grave danger. And not from an Horde attack."
She squinted at him, trying to read this man. "If I am to trust you to hear your story, sir, I must first know your name and why, if you had information for me, that you couldn't walked through the door like everyone should." A part of herself wondered why no guards had come, the conversation must have reached their ears easily."
The man smile thinly. "Certainly. My name is Khadgar. And no, your guards cannot hear us. I cast a spell of silence on the walls of your tent. No sound will get to any ears but our own here."
Khadgar. She knew the name, and it made her mouth go dry. Khadgar, reputed to be a sorcerer of immense power, one who equaled - and perhaps even surpassed - people like the famed Antonidas of the Kirin Tor. Khadgar, reputed to have been the apprentice to Medhiv. Her eyes widened slightly, and it was only with great effort that she both lowered her blade or commented on the fact that man had just read in her mind. If this man was whom he claimed to be, there was no point in trying anything of the violent sort.
Still, she kept it in hand, just in case.
"Very well then, sir Khadgar of Azeroth. Your reputation precedes you." was there a slight flinch when she said 'reputation'? If so, good. "If you will be seated, you can tell me what this danger to my self is all about."
Still smiling, he nodded and sat, not saying a word when she decided to remain standing. There was not a chance she was laying down her guard, and that barred sitting down absolutely. However, as soon as he sat, his expression changed from mildly amused to deadly serious. He leaned forward and his tone took on a somber shape.
"The Alliance between the seven human nations, elven Quel'Thalas and the dwarves of Ironforge, is possibly one of the greatest thing that has ever happened in this continent. For the first time, every country is united against a great evil. United under duress, true, but united nonetheless. However, every country does not mean everyone. There are some who are preparing, bidding their time, waiting for a firm Alliance success against the Horde to strike against those they see as a threat to their power. This includes you. You are one of the highest on the list."
She couldn't believe she was hearing this. Certainly, she wasn't naive enough to believe the Alliance was all noble - she had seen atrocities committed by her own men against orcs who had surrendered - or that everyone believed in the cause, but she had hoped that humanity would quell itself until the war was resolved, that it would see beyond bids for power and backstabbing in the face of annihilation. Obviously, she reflected bitterly, she had thought too highly of at least a part of her race. With a start she realized she hadn't doubted what Khadgar had just said, but she was feeling truth from him now, and she had always been a keen judge of character.
"Such heresy and mutiny at a time like this. Fools!" she scoffed "And you say that I am a threat to them?"
"You are. Not only are you a great warrior, but you are a very successful one. You are one of those whom we have to thank the most that the Horde hasn't advanced more before we could have the strength to begin to even the odds. Moreover, you come from a noble family which is reputed incorruptible." he looked at her with his hawk-like gaze "Yes, general, you are quite a threat to them. And know this, there are sorcerers amongst them, although I do not know whom."
She looked back levelly, mastering the fear rising inside her, not letting it affect her. "I'm inclined to believe you are saying the truth, Khadgar. What do you want me to do?"
He smiled. "Watch."
"What?"
"Watch." he repeated "Because they are around us, around you, but if you are careful you may notice things. And if you notice things, you may prevent not only your own death, but perhaps that of others."
"And if I fail?" she asked, knowing the answer already.
"Then, needless to say, you will die."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 592, Tol Barad, Stromgarde
The walls shook underneath Kelnam Pedran, shaken by one of the catapults pelting the walls and the old soldier kept his balance only through sheer ostentation. Other soldiers weren't so lucky, and some where either knocked off their feet or sprayed with broken bits of granite. Many fell, but many more kept on, and from those prone, many rose with yells and encouragement. He saw the colors and armor of the Tol Barad militia on these men, and he smiled grimly to himself.
When they'd arrived, they had found a city with woefully inadequate defenses, men with poor training, and little organization to speak of. After letting loose a barrage of invective at the noble fop who had the title of Lord in the place, Aerth had called him, Halfadas and Ranil and had locked them all in a room until they could bring the place up to snot quickly. This was the result of their hard labors, and he was proud of it. No matter anything else, he had made these men real fighters.
Still, the enemy had come in throngs this time, and nothing they did seemed to truly slow them down. Massed upon the walls were many human soldiers, some clenching swords and shields, others pouring boiling oil over the scaling ladders, yet others manning the many ballistae devices, letting loose great spikes of ironwood to smash catapult after catapult. Others, yet, most elven and some human, were busily shooting arrow after arrow downward, dealing death from afar. Still the swarm rolled on. They had taken grievous losses. Hundreds had been wounded or killed, and gaps were beginning to shown into the Horde lines, but they pressed on - ravenous, bloodthirsty, powerful - up the walls.
On the shores, Halfadas' fleet was busy, caught in an intense pummeling match with a few Horde ships. Although it was clear the young admiral would be victorious, damage was quickly piling up on a small fleet increasingly in need for repairs.
A guttural shout was heard behind him, and he turned to see orcs pouring over two of the ladders, right into the midst of distraught human defenders, who were being beaten back. He immediately ran to their aid, calling and summoning any others who could help.
"At them, boys, at them! Show them your steel! At them!" he bellowed, coming into the fray, crashing against an orc fighter, who stumbled before raising its axe and charging him. He stepped aside the attack, exchanging a few blows, using his sword's quickness against the axe's raw power. Oh yes, the orc was good - all the ones he had encountered yet were, trained as they were for warfare, they were ever a threat.
However, Kelnam had been a soldier and seen conflict long before this one had been born, and he used this knowledge to block and thrusts, feinting and striking, controlling the fight as best he could. Eventually the sword slipped through the defenses, cleaving the orc's heart. Barely giving the orc a second look, and went to charge a troll who had killed two footmen, severing its arm with one swift slash, then killing it as it howled in surprise and pain. And all the while he was shouting, giving encouragement, fanning the feelings of aggression in the men around him.
And they listened, slamming into the few horde troops, cutting them down or encircling them, while other used grappling poles and pushed the ladders back down. The fighting rose to a cacophony of steel, screams, howls, mingled with the stench of fresh blood and death. Still thee Horde pressed, and he pressed back with equal vigor. Shouts of "For Doomhammer! For the Horde!" were echoed back with "Lothar! In the name of the Light!" and "The Alliance!" The huge horde fighters engaged the smaller humans, but they were weakened now, few in number on the walls, and yet Pedran had time to kill two more of the enemy before the enemy was routed by a sudden charge led by Swiftblade himself, who came at the head of a few reinforcements.
In full armor, the young general fought with savage tenacity and obvious skill, swinging the great mace he sometimes used as a weapon with practiced ease. It blocked an axe before swinging around and crushing an orc's skull to bloody paste. Behind him came the knights assigned to the general's protection, frantically trying to surround their charge and swording anything green-skinned that they saw. Between all of them, the attack was repelled, and the second ladder brought down. It was only then that Pedran was able to look away from the immediate danger to look around.
Two other breaches had occurred, painstakingly being fought off by a mix of regular Alliance soldiers and Tol Barad militia. The catapults had done some damage to the walls, and had even caused one building in the town to collapse and many other to lie in disrepair, but no fires - thank the Light for that! - had caught. Chest heaving, he came to rest against a wall a few moments, and saw Swiftblade come to stand before him, helmet off, face sweaty.
"Good rally you gave the men there." he said, resting his war hammer and motioning for archers to lay fire downward to the forces they had just beaten back. "Sure inspired me."
"They almost broke through today, Aerth. I could see it. They almost broke through."
He nodded wearily, and then smiled in grim triumph as the deep Horde bone horns began their reluctant chant, urging the attackers to retreat. Once again. Until the next time they would come back.
Seven defensive battle in the last eleven days. Still Tol Barad held. But they couldn't take this. He watched the green throng falling back, followed here and there by a few of those hulking beasts they called ogres. They were falling back to their transports, and the humans manning the walls made no efforts to pursue. A few were finishing up the few horde survivors up around the walls, but most just sat where they had fought, letting go of weapons. A cheer did go up when it was clear the day had been won, but it was quiet and ragged.
"They'll be back. Very soon." he said with tired certainty. Swiftblade nodded, his face strained.
"Yes, they will. But not tomorrow. Or the day after that. I give us at least two days before they attack us again."
"It doesn't matter if its two days or a week, general. They've been pounding us again and again, day after day. Like..."
"Like they were desperate for it. Like something was pressing. I noticed that, too." he held his chin with a gloved hand. "I wonder if that means that they - hello, hello, a flying machine!"
The change of tone made Pedran shift his weight and look out the walls. Quickly, he saw the object, a strange object of wood and wheels and pedals, held together haphazardly with leather 'wings' which beat like a butterfly, coming into view, larger and larger, until they could distinguish the little bearded gnome sitting at the controls, from time to time giving a few strikes on the pedals. He seemed to be scanning the soldiers lining the walls, and then brightened when he saw Aerth looking back at him. In mere moments the strange craft was hovering near the army leader and his entourage, tipping its round hat a second.
"Are ya general Swiftblade?"
"I am."
"Alliance Air Reconnaissance have a package for ya, from general Ironhorse of the Fourth Army." With that, the gnome handed a leather bag, which the general took with eager hands.
He nodded to the small messenger. "My thanks. The gnomes are truly a marvel for the Alliance." He grinned at Pedran for the first time in many days. "This is it. Commander Pedran, seek the other commanders from both our army and the Tol Barad militia. We have to prepare."
"What for, if I may ask?"
"What else? To finally start to push back the horde!" And then he was scaling down the nearest inner ladders, holding the bag preciously, leaving Pedran with many questions which he wanted answered. And there was only one way to go about that.
Sighing, tired, weary in both mind and body, Kelnam Pedran nevertheless began issuing orders to fetch all of the other captains and commanders, hoping that Aerth Swiftblade would, once again, pull a rabbit out of his hat to arrange thing.
If not, this place would eventually fall.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 592, Bluesight Hills, Azeroth
Gelmar's nose itched, and he longed to scratch it. However, he knew he couldn't let himself be drawn back to full consciousness by the mere intention of removing a small pain, and so he did nothing. Instead he tried to empty his mind of negative emotions, to purge and put aside the hatred in his heart and search his soul for the link which would allow him to contact the spirits which lived in this world.
When the old man had explained the concept, it had seemed easy enough to do, for it resembled an exercise he did often when he had been a necrolyte and had been seeking the void to draw off the powers of necromancy. He had been average at that task. However, this one was much arduous, far more so than he had suspected. Because the power he had used for so long, had wanted and worked for ever since he had been young and physically weak and wished not to be a simple peon, that power was in the way, seemingly quite upset that he even tried to rise against it.
Every time his spirit seemed to vacate anger, it returned with greater force. Fighting irritation and rage was a constant battle as his failures rose in frequency and in hardness. Still he fought this, as he had fought all of his life, not able to make the ultimate sacrifice to the necromancy, something which had made others in the Horde title him as weak and inefficient, a failure and a fool.
The center, the one he had to reach to feel his spirit and by that make a pact which demanded nothing but honesty with them, was fleeting. He thought he felt it a moment, clawed desperately to reach it, only to have it slip out of his grasp. As his mind reeled in frustration, the itch on his nose increased, and he opened his eyes in dejected anger, scratching the spot with such vigor that it was a wonder he didn't take the whole part off.
Old Desil looked at him, his old, lined features as damnably content and serene as they ever were "Ah, so you have awakened. Another failure, no doubt. From watching you, I wasn't quite certain if you were in trance or had found something extremely hard to digest."
The young orc grunted. "You sarcasm is, as always, biting, old man. Yes, I have failed - once again." he couldn't help but unload some bitterness in the last words. How long, after all, had he tried the same thing and come back as empty-handed as ever before. This power the old man had shown him so many times before, had talked about in such detail, sometimes he felt he just wasn't the one to reach it.
Desil frowned slightly. "I see your spirit is troubled by your failure, but do not despair. You have much to set free before you may ask the spirits for help."
The orc frowned. He couldn't remember a day where the old human hadn't told of the need he had to 'set his spirit free'. He wasn't quite sure he understood, and yet, today, it seemed that it was clearer. To him. Something about his anger, the power getting in the way.
"My necromantic powers." he breathed. Of course! Curse him for a fool!
The old one raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
"My powers. Everything is based on that, isn't it?"
"No, not everything-"
"But a large part of what blocks me from attaining your so-called shamanism is because of my necromantic training, isn't it?" he pressed "The powers must be nearly polar opposites, and so I can't do shamanism before ridding myself of necromancy!"
The old man looked a little older at the words, slightly sadder, and Gelmar wondered if he hadn't just said something very wrong. But his teacher only sighed lightly. "You are partly right, that is partly the truth. But not the whole of it. You need not forget only the power, but break from it, break its influence upon your soul. I think you have the strength to do such a thing. I certainly hope so, for you have much potential in shamanism! Oh, yes, so much potential!" He seemed partly sad and partly elated at what he said, but it only served to confuse him even more.
"I...break from influence? I..." he scratched himself despite the foolishness of the gesture. "I don't understand..."
"No, but you are beginning to. Unconsciously at least. And that ability might redeem you, and perhaps many other orcs. But there is no need to discuss it here while our bellies are empty. Come!"
Gelmar rose after the old man and followed him down a trail no horde grunt had ever trod on, so well was it hidden, and soon they came to the cave Desil had lived in for many years. Not that he had always lived in these simple conditions all of his life. He had managed to discover the truth at length. Desil Brassgoat had once been Desilus Brasswands a very proficient member of the Karal Tor, the magical order who had been such a great enemy to the Horde during the first conflict with Azeroth. He had, however, soon proffered shamanism and the spirits to the magics of the Well, and had gone from his brethren years before the portal came to and the war began.
A familiar, pleasant smell filled his nose, and he smiled. "Ah, wild oats porridge." he said with clear delectation." Another change in him brought by the old man - he no longer yearned for meat, and could eat plants and fruit. This had all been contrary to his belief and his pride, but he had soon found himself enjoying the subtler textures and flavors. Wild oat porridge was one of his favorites. At his tone, his companion chuckled dryly.
"Of course it is! Every three mornings. Its my little tradition, and I'm not about to break it after so many years!"
"I wouldn't want you to." the orc answered truthfully. How strange to talk so pleasantly with someone. Why couldn't his people carry on a conversation in so friendly a fashion. There must be a reason, and he hoped that what his teacher would tell him might give him some clue as to that, amongst other things.
It was only after the dinner had passed - with him shamelessly gobbling three large bowls of the stew - that he approached the human with his question. "Sir, you told me that there is an influence over me. What could it be? What do you feel?"
The old man was pensive before giving his answer in a straight manner. "I am not entirely sure myself yet, but from what I feel, and my own experiences with magic - I suspect a demonic force is triggering reactions in you, corrupting you and your race."
If anyone else had told him this, Gelmar might have raged, laughed, or else debated hotly. But with Desil, he knew the words spoken were truth, and he felt a cold which did not come from the brisk autumn air. "Demonic possession? Is that this curse which you think binds my people."
"Not true possession, my young friend, but rather an influence on your soul, bringing out the bad more forcefully, drowning the good more. You are free in your thoughts, but part of your spirit is bound. I can see only one thing to cause this. Someone of power damned your race, made a pact that never should be made, all in the name of greed, power, lust or some similar, base emotion." The old man looked quite upset as he said this, but his voice remained soft. For some reason, its calm frightened the former necrolyte even more.
"Can it be broken? Can we be free of it?" he asked worriedly. He had a sinking feeling he knew who made such a pact with the demons, who had damned his people, and his anger rose accordingly. Gul'Dan. Of all the warlocks, the cruelest and the most powerful, the one who always surpassed everyone and always did things according to his whim. The one who killed hundreds of his brothers. It had to be him. He controlled his wrath with an effort, and listened to his friend - friend, had he ever truly used that word before and meant it?.
"Broken? Perhaps. But it will not be easy. If the ancients texts of Quel'Thalas speak the truth, the ancient elves once ruled this globe, but were tricked and drawn to evil by demons. Only a fragment succeeded. The rest nearly doomed the world and destroyed themselves in the end. Such might be the fate of your people, but I think it can still be prevented."
"How?" he asked, eager for some hopeful word.
"You. You can bring them out of the abyss, until someone who shares your vision brings them back into the light. That is the only way I see."
"Me?" he asked, aghast, but only for a moment, Then he thought about his life, about his people, about the terrible doom Gul'Dan and Doomhammer were bringing his people to. Death, that was the end of the road for the Horde even if the Alliance did not prevail. There was no hope...unless he could convince others. And he could convince them, something told him, if he knew the right, things, if he knew what to say and what to do. And the one who could help him, the only one, was looking at him expectantly.
"Tell me more, sir. Tell me everything. Then I can begin to truly learn. And then, with you, I will bring my people from the abyss of spiritual rot."
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Winter 592, Horde Main Army Camp, Stromgarde
Argal Grimfrost looked at the message which had just been carried over to him and couldn't believe his eyes, thus he reread it. No, there was no mistake. The orders were given by the hand of Doomhammer himself, and were unequivocal. It was short and to the point.
Argal,
We can't allow ourselves to wait any longer. The cursed Alliance had found itself a few remarkable commanders, and with the Shade Army having boggled most of the ones of the Horde, our forces are starting to fray and accumulate the failures. I so order you to march as soon as you receive this missive, towards Quel'Thalas. Destroy all you can of those pesky elves' homeland and wait for me there. I, along with Gul'Dan and his new creations, will arrive as soon as we can by the Alteract routes.
May victory be forever yours!
Doomhammer
Reading the message a second time did the trick. Relieved beyond joy and words, the powerfully built orc relaxed on his campaign chair and sighed long, letting go of a breath he had been holding for quite a while. The orders had finally come. Good, for if this situation had gone on much longer, there might not have been much of a 'Shade Army', as Doomhammer seemed fun to dub it.
Four hundred thousand troops were gathered there in the so-called Hellbowl Valley, and only fearful superstition had prevented the immense force's discovery by the Alliance. However, of late, the humans and their allies had been the least of his concerns. The army itself had become his main one. Cooping up four hundred thousand warriors together and ask them to wait was a doomed effort if it lasted too long. Minor mutinies had started, and after Garthol Towerfist had tried to kill him and failed, five others had tried to take Grimfrost's head for themselves, and had died as well. It was an inconvenience to be losing his troops' loyalty ever so slowly, but if it had been just that, he could have dealt with it.
However, it didn't stop there. The Shade Army had been form from forces drawn from all of the main clans, bringing in a division of the command structure. However as time went by, the warriors and leaders from all of these clans had begun to revive old rivalries, something he had had mighty difficulties in calm. Not a fatalist by nature, the increasingly-volatile nature of his subordinates and soldiers had made him anxious, and he had estimated, along with the few moderate commanders remaining, that if not orders came soon, the army would start fighting itself, if not to oblivion, to such weakness that it would be whole fully ineffectual.
But the orders arrived before things had reached a breaking point. And both for that and the fact that he was at last going to fight again, the old warrior felt elation such as he'd rarely felt in his life.
He rose and grunted sternly for the guards, who came at once. As mastered as were his emotions, they still managed to slip through a little on his expression, and both looked quite worried. Probably they were wondering if their Warlord had lost his mind under all the recent happenstances. He couldn't blame them.
"Warlord, what is your command?" they asked however, banging their chest.
He couldn't help but grin widely; he had been waiting so long for this. Still, his tone remained as hard as it ever was. "I want the horns broken out and sounded, and all heralds to call the man to gather in the clearing in the middle of the camp. I will address them there." the triumph in his voice must have been felt, for both looked at each other for a brief instant, and then looked back at him with eyes which literally glowed with hope.
"I beg forgiveness for this insolence, Warlord," one said huskily. "But are we...have the orders to move out..."
He stopped the younger grunt with a calming gesture. "There's no insolence in your questions, for many have asked it before, many in far less polite words!" he grinned once more. "Yes warriors, the message was received. Now carry out my orders!"
They banged their chest even louder than before. "I obey, Warlord!" both said with far more enthusiasm than at the beginning. Swiftly, they turned to their tasks, and as Grimfrost dressed in his full black armor and the trappings of his rank, shouts of joy were heard here and there, ever more numerous, then congealing into a single low roar of contentment.
When he came out, however, the roar had become solemn silence, one filled with almost palpable, nearly electric attention. As he made his way to the rock from which so many announcements had been made, he reflected despite himself that the camp had never been so quiet, never so controlled, even in the beginning when it had secretly dug in and began the year-long wait.
As he stood atop the rock, he saw the multitude he had at his command. Thousands upon thousand of orcs looked up at him, expectant, flanked by hundreds and hundreds of ogres. Still it wasn't all, as he saw many trolls gathered amongst the troops - the number had grown larger since many had come down from the Quel'Thalas forests to offer their services. He didn't trust them farther than he could throw them, but he knew that they knew the terrain far better than they, and that they would be good allies against the elves, so he had simply opted to ignore them.
All those assembled wore the colors of their clan. The red of the Blackrocks was the most common, but there were a large number of Twilight Hammers, Bleeding Hollows an Stormreavers making up most of the rest. He almost scowled at the Stormreavers. They were a bad lot, too fanatical to Gul'Dan for his own taste, and too influential with the Twilight Hammers and the smaller clans. However, despite their strange attitudes, they had regretfully given him no grounds to watch them more closely.
He pushed his doubts and his gloom aside. Now wasn't the time for reflection, but for action.
He raised his hand. "My warriors..." he began loudly, and immediately a roar began that made him have to wait for several moments. "My warriors, today is a great day! Today our orders have come from the Warchief! Our Army will move out north and begin the destruction of our enemies! Today we begin what we started so many years ago, to take this land and make it ours with the blood of our enemies!"
"We will raze their homes and burn their crops, kill all the people we come across, weak or strong, meek or powerful. None will stand against us!" The roar began again, but he continued on relentlessly. "The humans' defiance is soon to end. We will make them pay their foolishness by spilling rivers of their blood! We will kill all as a fitting end to their stupid ways! We will prevail, my warriors, prepare to march!
And then he raised both of his clenched fists over his head, and cried out loudly, launching a bellow which nearly brought the cheer into a maddening fit of intensity! "VICTORY TO THE HORDE!!!!"
The human's doom had come. The Shade Army would begin its great march today!
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BONUS PROFILE #4
Illadan Eltrass
Birthplace: Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
Birth date: Summer 48
Height: 5'9"
Hair: Blue
Eyes: Dusky Blond
Present status: High-Ranking Ranger, member of the Council of Silvermoon
Allegiances: The Realm of Quel'Thalas, The Light, The Alliance
History: Illadan was born to one of the most powerful family of Silvermoon, the influential House Eltrass. A gifted, quick-witted and adventurous child, he was showered with gifts by his parents, and had many servants bowing to his every whims. His childhood was a bright one as his quick mind breezed past tutor after tutor.
However, although the young elf quickly found a knack for diplomacy and life at the court, he first resented his arranged mating with an elf maiden named Sylvanas Windrunner. Quickly, however, the two fell in love in truth, and wanting to leave the prying eyes of the Queen's Court behind, they managed to join the prestigious Rangers.
There began Illadan's fame. At first appalled by the rugged Rangers' way of life and also by the way he was mistreated by being a noble, he persevered and soon showed himself a great and cunning warrior. More than that, he was also a diplomatic one, and was amongst the Queen's entourage when the Pact of Stormwind was signed in 381, and used the centuries of peace to fall deeper in love with Sylvanas and hunting the few remaining Troll War parties raiding on the edges of his realm.
Illadan fought side-by-side with humans during the Troll Wars, and since has had an healthy respect for them. It is this respect - and the admiration he feels for the Human's unity in the face of adversity - which helped him convinced the elves to join the Alliance against the Horde.
Today Illadan is one of the most respected elven warriors in Quel'Thalas, second only to High Ranger Alleria herself. Convinced that more allies will be needed to vanquish the Horde, he has gone to Northeron with his beloved mate in the hopes of convincing the wild dwarves of these forbidding lands to join in the fight for freedom.
