Chapter Ten : Stalemate and Shock
Summer 593, First Alliance Fleet, On the Great Sea
Neither side had been ready for the engagement. Neither had wanted to fight just yet. But fate had dealt them a hard hand, and it was now the job of Daelin Proudmoore, the Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet, to make sure that this mutual blundering didn't cost them too much.
In more than one way, it was a good thing that they had met the Horde fleet where they did. Fifty three orc and troll ships - including nineteen of the slow but fearsome armored Orouko juggernauts - on a direct course for one of Kul Tiras' main shipyards, was something to be stopped at once. The problem is that they had met right out of the morning fog, and that the surprise and last-minute preparations had prevented anyone - seemingly on both sides - from making up any sort of tactics. Thus a pounding row of epic proportions had begun.
The deck shook as the Dauntless took another hit, and the sounds of its many cannons roared in response, booming in succession and deafening the king. Proudmoore kept his footing and glared around him as he took in the battle in its entirety. The First Fleet was taking a pounding. With only forty ships, made up of fifteen battleships and twenty-five even and human destroyers, it lacked the Horde's sheer firepower. However, if there was one thing they could count on, it was the more precise guns they had the experience of the Fleet's captains. This allowed the long-running stalemate the two forces were locked in presently.
As he watched, the side of the Highwall, one of the proudest battleships, exploded, signalling the end for that craft as water poured inside. Cannon balls and shrapnel were flying everywhere he saw, masts lay broken as mariners and sailors ran , loading guns, aiding the wounded, or jury-rigging repairs to critical parts of the ship.
Suddenly he saw a small force of two Juggernaughts and four destroyers making their way through the starboard flanks. Three ships were desperately barring the way, firing wildly, yet unable to stop the inevitable. One of them, he saw with rising horror, was the Belafas. Where Yanov Proudmoore, his oldest son, was currently serving.
Daelin Proudmoore didn't agree with his son often, even less so where the war was concerned. Where his oldest child took on a line of complete destruction where the Horde was concerned, the king prefered to defeat it soundly and then force them towards peace - and then back home. Their arguments were sometimes heated, the price never yielding to his sire's anger, always reminding everyone, no doubt, of the verbal battles which had so often gone on with his first wife, whom he had not loved at all.
However, despite this and appearances, he did love his oldest son. Which made his heart go cold with fright. In the middle of ordering a break to the center, he changed his mind, turning around and bellowing. "Change of plans! We rush to starboard to reinforce the flank! Signal the Vaunted Bow and the Femario to follow us in!"
The sudden change of orders only created confusion, a confusion he knew he wouldn't be abating by yelling. Yet he yelled, threatened, pushed men mercilessly, his eyes hard, as they scampered to do his bidding. Too slow, they were too slow. Twice he was tempted to lash out and hit a sailor for not doing what he was supposed to do. Twice he barely restrained his ire. Instead he looked at the desperate defense the three ships were making, barely holding the line.
Finally, the three heavy battleships started to lumber to starboard, rows and sails straining, and yet to slow. As he watched helplessly, the Belafas was hit right on the deck, and he swore he saw bodies fly. His son was serving on the deck. The thought seemed to burn his soul. Yanov was serving on the deck! He saw red, his breath seemed hot, and he barely recognized the animalistic yell of hatred he gave the Horde ships.
"First mate Haler!" he almost snarled, "Signal the other ships. All cannons target the lead Juggernaught! Let loose all fire the moment we are in range!"
"Milord! Sir! It shall be done!" the man yelled, probably too preoccupied himself to noticed the danger in his liege's tone. Good for him.
The three ships were still fighting, but their fire was now erratic. Obviously they didn't have the strength to fight remaining, yet they fought on without fail. The three ships were, after all, manned by Kul Tirans. And there wasn't a more stubborn group of men, a more arrogant and selfish group than sailors of the Kul Tiras Fleet. Surrender and defeat were terms unknown to a navy which had never been defeated since it had been formed half a millennia passed. Not by men or elves. There was no way they would be beaten by a few greenskins.
Being of Kul Tiras, Proudmoore usually would have approved of the stubborn defense. But not this time. Not with his son on board. The captain of that ship would be hanged, he swore it, if his son died because of this. And to the Nether with laws and justice! If his son died, he'd have his revenge on that fool!
The ships finally arrived near enough, turning as quickly as they could to the side, all aiming for the lead Juggernaught almost as one. The enemy ship saw it, of course, and tried to turn, but it was hard to do so with the battle it was already engaged in.
"CANNONS! READY...." Halver bellowed from the main deck, and Proudmoore gritted his teeth. "FIRE!!!!"
At once, the fourteen heavy cannons on the Dauntless' side opened fire with all of their fury, followed a bare moment laten by the twenty-four from the other two. Before the enemy ship could do much, it was hit with multiple blows, its armor and hull ruptured, unable to stay afloat. At once the other Horde ships replied to the attack with their own cannons, and a second later Proudmoore felt like he had been thrust away like a puppet, landing hard on the deck, his arm burning. Yet he took not notice of it, no more than the noises and smells and screams. He briefly looked at his arm, and found it battered and bloody. Still he waved any help away. That could come later.
For now, all he could bear to do was look at the Belafas as it came nearer, and inspect its deck from high above as the battle raged on. He scanned anxiously from body to standing man, trying to spot one who was worth more than this whole fleet to him.
And then he saw him. Yanov, unmistakable with his characteristic swagger, was manning one of the cannons, yelling at the one who was loading it with frantic haste. Proudmoore drew in a shaky breath of relief. Never had he thought he'd ever feel this afraid. Even the day he had stepped on Kul Tiras' throne, now an eternity ago, had given him this kind of fright. This boy would be the death of him someday!
Beside him, the cannons fired again. Then again. Another explosion rocked the deck, and he stumbled to his knees, rising with an effort. He still had a job to do now. Now that he could concentrate on it.
"Admiral! Sire!" a voice called, and he turned to see Halver looking at him stoically. "Sire! The enemy ships are breaking formation, leaving the field! Should we give chase?"
A part of him wanted to scream 'Yes, destroy them all!' But the anger and fear was past him. Reason ruled again. "I forbid it! They have enough, and we don't have the strength to complain. As soon as it is clear that they are pulling away, we'll do the same, as soon as rudimentary repairs are done."
A flicker of something passed through the man's face. "Sire, if I may-"
"No. I gave you my orders. Follow them. We will send word to the Third and Sixth Fleet to hunt them down." he paused "Our fleet is in dire need of repairs. Its time for us to go home for a while."
The flicker flicked out. "Sire! As you command!" he said stiffly, and turned to bellow orders. Proudmoore watched him go for a moment, and then turned away.
To be immediately caught by the priests of the ship, including his personal surgeon, who began to fuss over his wounded harm - which was starting to do more than just LOOK battered, he had to admit - as he admonished him. He sighed and didn't respond, knowing it was one fight he couldn't win. Instead he looked down where the Belafas' deck still held close. And saw his son looking up. A moment passed in which they both regarded each other, eyes locked even though they couldn't see the facial details.
Then Yanov raised his hand in both victory and thanks.
Proudmoore smiled despite himself, and mostly despite the growing pain. His son understood what had happened, what he has done, and was thanking him for it. As much as they argued, they always seemed to connect on many points, the most important of which being that family was family, and that there was nothing before that except Kul Tiras as a whole. He raised his good arm in response. Glad his son was still alive.
Glad there would still be arguments in the royal castle halls.
A great victory. If not for the Alliance, then for himself.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 593, Bellwick, Stromgarde
"A victory it was, my friend. Yet work still remains...for all of us."
"I quite agree with you, sir. However, now is definitely the time to move. One hundred thousand men is what we have. With a little luck, we COULD feasibly do it."
"I doubt the Horde will let us drive them back to Dun Algaz so easily, General Ironhorse."
"I never said it would be easy. I stated that it had to be done. There is quite a difference to that."
They had been at this for three days now, and still there were disagreements. Aerth resisted yet another urge to throw his hands up and growl in disgust as yet another argument erupted between the other generals in the room. He didn't take part in it, not wanting to add fuel to the fire. Besides, he knew that if he started to make comments, he probably end up throttling someone, and he didn't quite wish to do such a thing.
The meeting that Jennala Ironhorse had called had been a good idea initially. After the First and Fourth Army had routed the Horde near Dun Modr, the Horde had been relatively quiet, probably stabilizing their lines. Certain that they couldn't afford to let it strengthen its hold on the Thandol Valley again - lest they never be dislodged - she had sent messages to the Generals of the Ninth, Eleventh and Sixth Armies in order to meet up with them and discuss strategies in order to push the Horde back through the Land Bridges, which she was confident they could hold. Her reasoning was simple and yet efficient.
If the five armies moved in a truly coordinated fashion two armies could, although outnumbered, fall upon the enemy and cut off information and supply lines, burn wagons, all the while leaving the south open. It had been her vocal opinion that if they succeeded in this way - a work of precision, but not an impossible one, the main force would have no choice but to fall back, temporarily, to Dun Algaz for resupply. Enter the other three armies, who could hold and fortify the northern part of the Land Bridges. With only these three great passageways leading to Stromgarde, the Horde's numerical superiority would matter little, especially since the Alliance Navy could patrol the shores to make sure they didn't cross by rafts.
It was a sound plan. It had merit in that it was decisive and simple enough that five armies should be able to work out an attack plan, no matter the differences in their command styles.
However, he had counted without the one thing which made them all - Aerth wasn't naive enough to think he wasn't like the others - good generals: their egos. Useful to inspire an army they owned, very negative when it came to discussions.
There was General Voss of the Sixth Army, who wanted to unite the armies under one command and strike the Horde hard, as one unit, before fortifying the retaken Land Bridges. His plan was unworkable in the circumstances, if only because of the time it would take to combine such large forces, yet he didn't want to acknowledge the easier path Jennala proposed. General Highkill was only concerned about his own army, and didn't to even WANT to see the need for a concerted effort. Swiftblade and Ironhorse wanted to be the mobile armies in the plan, which was ranted against by Voss and Highkill. The last General, Rellon Minvare of the Ninth Army, had simply brooded and said hardly a word since arriving.
Each of them was an excellent military commanders. All of them had gotten things done. And yet they couldn't agree on an attack plan. Somewhere, Aerth was sure, something or someone beyond their knowledge and comprehension was laughing itself silly over the ironic ridicule of this situation.
"I do not think that this plan will work! To act in seperate ways, the communications between our armies would be strained!" Voss protested loudly, banging his fist on the makeshift table in the small mansion they had taken over for their oh-so foresighted meeting.
Jennala glared at the older army leader, her patience wearing thing. "That is why we must create our attack plan here, with contingencies! This way we will have more flexibility."
"And there would be no need for communication." Highkill said absently, idly tracing a scar running the length of his arm. "I like that part. What I do not like, is that my army will have to hold one of the Land Bridges. You should know how hard fortifying will be."
"If we can destabilise them just a little more, it should give you enough time to dig in."
"Thats much hope and little certainty."
"Hope is all we can work with, general!"
"Even though this hope might just be serving to blind us." Minvare suddenly spoke up, making all heads turn from the heated argument to the grim-looking, greying military commander. He was looking at them all with a strange expression. "It is possible that we are simply playing into their hands. Might have all the time."
Aerth felt chills as the man said that. Minvare had been a division commander under Lothar himself during the First War, and was known to be an excellent soldier who never said anything unnecessary. His interest was piqued. "What do you mean, sir?" he asked intently "What makes you think this?"
"A few elements. The primary of them all being: its too easy." he looked at Aerth squarely "You fought the First War. Don't you find that the quality in their commanders and tactics have waned considerably? Don't you see the stark tactical lack in their actions?"
Aerth considered this for a long moment. He recalled how his plan had stranded thousands of enemies during the Battle of Zul'Dare, how they had easily managed to strike out the food reserves in Dun Modr. He also saw how easily he had been able to junction with the Fourth Army, and the strangeness and length of the present lull. It had always gnawed at his mind, all of these little incongruities. Now he saw them more closely. They had been excellent plans he had wrought. But would he have won so easily during the First War?
" You're right." he said through clenched teeth. "We've had it easy. We've had it far too easy." Minvare nodded. The other three generals only looked confused by the exchange - but then they weren't Azerothians. They hadn't fought the First War.
"Whatever do you mean, Minvare?" Voss huffed "We are soundly beating back the beasts. The combined might of the human, dwarven and elven people-"
"Shouldn't be having that much impact. We aren't grossly outnumbered. Why aren't we? We have yet to face a truly able commander. Where are they? This is too easy, too simple. I can't believe that someone like Doomhammer would continue in this form of incompetence for long normally."
"Unless he has a plan which makes this all a sort of charade, a lead to a merry tune." he looked at the older veteran. "But what could it be? Forces waiting in wait in Khaz Modan? Could they wish to lure us all into a false sense of security, and then strike at us with the better part of their forces?"
"I doubt it? Why leave us the time to push them back at all?" he raised a finger "Unless they want us pooling our resources here. Its no secret its taking much of our efforts to maintain our present strength here. Many other theatres are now terribly undermanned."
"Strike at us elsewhere?" Jennala whispered. "But where from?"
"I don't remember any Horde sightings in the environs except for some minor warbands." Highkill scoffed "I don't think such small forces may be considered a threat at all."
"True, but our forces WERE spread thinly in the beginning." Voss added in a more sober tone "Your possibility makes me shiver, Minvare. Moreso because it is quite a possible scenario."
Not JUST possible, Aerth thought grimly. He HAD been in the war, and yet blinded by his own successes. Minvare's musings had awoken the warnings which had always gone on at the back of his head since the victory at Zul'Dare. Something wasn't right here. Something was about to happen.
"What do you think will happen, sir?" he asked tonelessly. Minvare gave him a gaze which intensified his fear.
"I have no idea, Swiftblade. None. And that, beyond anything else, is what frightens me so much."
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 593, Araelasa Fortress, Border of Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas
"Six thousand years..." Argal Grimfrost mused "For six thousand years the Elves of Quel'Thalas have lived in their mighty ancient forests, surrounded by nature, magic and their own arrogance. They never achieved much of a reputation - from what I read from old books looted from Azerothian libraries. They were ever a detached people, seeing themselves above everybody else."
Argal Grimfrost, mounted upon the immense wolf which served as his mount - a reminder of the begone raiders, looked in the distance, and the great Araelasa, the fortress which the elves had constructed as a sign of power and strength to guard their southern borders. It was a behemoth founded upon an hill rising out of the woods, and crafted magically in stone and marble, in silver and gold and green tiled roofs. Slender towers jutted from the grown, serving as connection points for the high white wall protecting the defiant buildings of the Elven Southern Corps. A wealth of a sight to an eye, he had to admit. His people had never built such magnificent things. They were simpler, or angrier. He didn't care which.
The only thing he knew was that, regardless of his feelings on the matter, the fortress would be crushed to rubble. The Shade Army was already arrayed, having surrounded the hill at all sides, cutting trees as it went. Tens of thousands were ready to swarm the fort in a precise, soldiery fashion, revealing themselves to the Alliance at last, when most enemy forces were busy fighting southward.
As such, for the past eleven days he had ordered his armies to besiege and destroy any defensive work in the south of the elvish country. Many had already fallen, others were barely standing. All of the southern border was cleared, awaiting to proceed to the next phase of Doomhammer's plan.
But Araelasa still stood. Its walls now looked blackened, cracks and weakening was evident, yet it stood. They had killed nearly one third of the defenders, yet they had fought back with ferocity thus far, defending their post almost maniacally. Already he'd lost three thousand troops to the enemy. A disgrace, to someone like him.
Today, however, it would change. Even if they couldn't take the walls, even if this charge fell, they would have something to use which the elves would never forget.
"So pretty was this in peace." he mourned too softly for anybody to hear. His face then changed, loosing its wistful expression, becoming hard and impassive. The image of an orc in complete control, not letting the call his being gave to battle, keeping it bottled up, his mind clear. The same couldn't be said of all of the warleaders surrounding him, awaiting his command on their own wolves, which sniffed and snarled at each other. "Yet its appeal will not survive the Horde's wrath." he gave all of his immediate subordinates a glare. He then pointed to Araelasa with his massive axe.
"The enemy is making fools of us. I REFUSE to let a few hundred, weakhearted, elusive ELVES hold our forces back. I order you to storm it once more, and take it by any means necessary! In the name of The Horde, I want this place razed to the grounds! Glintsharp, take central position and attack the eastern wall, where they are weakest. The left group will be under you, Shortlash. Your work is to give as much commotion and confusion to the elves, while the right group headed by Axepiler support the scaling of the wall. Am I making myself quite clear."
Glintsharp stirred slightly. "What about prisoners?"
"Take some of the highest-ranking for later interrogation." Grimfrost mused. "The rest are yours to do what you would please!! Kill or not! Maim or not. As long as this fortress falls, I will be satisfied!"
The three warleaders gave smug, satisfied tusky grins, and slapped an hand on their chest in respect, before riding away to their troops. The battle would commence shortly. He turned to a younger face he had learned to trust.
"Tell me, young Frath: what do you think are our chances?" he asked the former sub-commander who had quickly become a personal aide. The young orc, instead of jumping to a patriotic yet senseless speech about the horde's victory being inevitable, reflected upon the matter seriously before replying hesitantly.
"I...I think that...that we will succeed but that...we will lose many troops. The remaining defenders are exhausted, the walls have been severely weakened by our catapults this very morning. However I wouldn't see the Elves giving this important place without a very bitter and costly fight."
The Horde Warlord nodded, he had been thinking over the same thing. Still, as he watched Araelasa, something struck him as very peculiar. Perhaps his eyes were simply playing tricks on him, perhaps it was fatigue, yet...yet he didn't see movement in the elven fortress.
A roar quickly went up, as the advance forces from the center rushed towards the fortress. Yells from trolls and orcs mingled with the bellows of ogres, the thunder of feet and the dust - a veritable storm was approaching the fortress. Grimfrost awaited the appearance of the elves on the battlements, letting loose volley upon deadly volley, breaking the charge, stalling it from reaching the walls.
But nothing stirred. Not an elf was seen. The force continued its dash, followed by others. Soon they would reach the walls. Incredible! Unthinkable! Had the elven defenders suddenly lost all will to live? Or was there something more to this strangeness?
"Lord, this..." Frath told him in a sudden, excited voice. The old warrior cut him off quickly, indicating that he understood the rest of the sentence: this is wrong. It was. Something was definitely wrong! Yet it was too late to do much about it. He had to see the attack through, as the main attacking force was now too enraged to be stopped before it had scaled the walls.
The troops reached the walls without a single casualty, and it caused them to falter for a moment. Was it disbelief or wariness they felt? Whichever it was, they all instinctively knew, especially after all the battles they had been through to take this fortress, that you can have an assault upon such a bastion without a lot of men dying. It just didn't happen, yet it WAS happening, for the first time in all of Argal Grimfrost's years of soldiering. He almost called the attack off - this simply HAD to be an enemy trick - but he refrained out of personal pride.
As he watched, the fortress walls, which had held back so many troops for so many days, were scaled with not an inkling of opposition. The troops stopped their advanced, confusion overriding their bloodlust, and waited for the few hundreds inside the fortress to open the main door - great crafted slabs of steel and ironwood - and the rest of the troops flooded in, taking in the once-powerful elven fortress.
"I have just watched an impossibility happen, Frath." He muttered at long last, his mind whirling. The younger orc merely nodded in response, and he saw that the warrior's thick brow was furrowed in deep thought. Grimfrost shook his head. "Impossible battle! Not EVEN a battle! I MUST have an answer to this mystery!"
He kicked his wolf into a run, and heard Frath follow immediately. Cries came up as he rode the way to the fortress, many of the troops gave a cheer and warcries of respect as he passed by them, but he paid them no heed. He was far too preoccupied by the possibilities to even think about some grunts or ogres cheering his passage.
After a short ride, he came to the gate, and found the atmosphere as...shushed. Troubled. The troops seemed both puzzled and frightened by what they'd seen inside. He stopped a grunt who was coming out, looking decidedly dazed, since he barely saluted or showed respect in any way.
"What is in there that has happened?" he asked quickly. "Tell me what you have seen at once, grunt!"
But the grunt seemed too dizzy to understand the implied threat in Argal's voice. He only shook his head. "Lord," he said at length. "You should simply see for yourself. I can't explain or understand it." With that, he walked away. And the Warlord did nothing about him, instead edging inside the fortress.
And when he saw what was to be seen inside of it, confusion and dismay filled him as much as it had probably filled the grunt. What he was seeing...
"By the Beyond, WHAT has happened here?" Frath burst forth.
Grimfrost, at that, only shook his head. There was no ready answer for the scene to be given.
What happened?
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Summer 593, Peaks of Northeron, Lordaeron
"Illadan, you are both my mate and my heart, and I'd never want to see you get hurt in any way..."
"Why, I am touched by your vow."
"...but, if you ever mention the word 'Northeron' within the range of my hearing again, I will fill your body with my arrows!" Sylvanas finished fiercely. Illadan merely looked back with a grin, which only served to aggravate her very beautiful scowl. He refrained from making much of a comment, yet couldn't resist one little jab.
"It is sad that you feel so little affection towards me, in the face of such adversity. I am saddened beyond belief. Indeed, I am crumbling!"
"Don't start this high-and-mighty speech, my dear Lord Illadan of Silvermoon. I'm too cold for any of your usual humor." she warned.
Nodding in understanding, the elven lord merely hunched his shoulders a little more and continued through the snow, painfully aware of two facts. One, that he was cold and two, that he wasn't certain of their direction anymore. The last fact shamed him to an unbelievable degree. He, one of the greatest Rangers of Quel'Thalas, second only to Alleria herself, was getting lost!
He supposed he shouldn't be so hard on himself. After all, he had been born and raised in the splendor and wealth of Silvermoon, where great magics worked long ago kept the city at an ever-present state of pleasant summer. Those years had seen him being groomed to fulfill his father's position as a high-ranking lord and member of the Queen's Council. His subsequent time in the Rangers had, however, trained him to survive. On the plain and even more so in the forest, the time came that all elves recognized Illadan's skills, even the mighty Alleria.
However, he had never travelled much in mountains. He had never had much interest in them except from admiring their primal beauty from afar. Preferably somewhere warm enough. Today that lack of knowledge was coming to haunt him, and he was bitter about his lack of foresight. Five centuries and more of life and he still rushed into plans without fully considering the implications. How his father must laugh at his predicament, wherever in the Light that he was! The older elf, now sadly passed on, had always qualified his position as a ranger of a 'poor matter' when he was in a good mood. The elf would feel vindicated to see his son in such a fix.
He looked about around him. Snow-covered rocks, snow covered peaks, snow-covered tracks, no way to tell a true landmark, just an endless sea of white. Where, in all of creation, could those Dwarves keep their aeries.
Then it began to snow slightly.
"Enough! Can't the world give us one chance?!?" Sylvanas growled in dismay, giving the snow such a glare it was a wonder nothing melted under its power. She didn't throw a fit like he had seen humans do in similar situation, but her patience was wearing thin. He could feel it. With the weather, with him, and most of all with his self-given mission.
It had seemed like such a good plan. The Alliance was outnumbered, and they had no information on contacting the dragons to ask them for help, so he had come up with a people who could give the fighting force a near-equal clout: the Griphon Riders of Northeron. He had heard and arrogantly - very arrogantly, he saw in hindsight - the stories about the secretive nature of the dwarves, and they being able to hide their Aeries from even the most knowledgeable mountainer. He had thought the stories overrated, even more so, he admitted, because they were human tales.
He wasn't human, he had told himself. He was better. Not simply a scout, but a Ranger for the Queendom of Quel'Thalas, from a race of people which never failed to find something or someone if they wanted too. Stealth, secrecy and tracking were the basis of a ranger's life, and he had excelled in it.
Now, however, he was being showned. The entire place looked the same everywhere he looked. Snow and peaks. Snow and peaks. Snow and craggy peaks. When he got back to Quel'Thalas, he would never climb anything bigger than a small hill as long as his very existence wasn't in danger, and even then he would hesitate. Damnation on those bothersome Dwarves. And damnation on his own naive planning as well! He should have known better.
"I'm beginning to think this might all have been a mistake." Sylvanas noted.
"You thought it was a mistake from the moment I announced it." he returned, a little peeved himself. If it had been another place, he would have laughed at such squabbling. However the present conditions were making him forget himself. He was unsettled, and he really didn't like feeling unsettled.
She hesitated, frowning, but plunged ahead with her tirade. "Perhaps, but I never would have thought you'd get us lost! Oh, don't give me THAT look, I'm nearly as good a ranger as you are. Don't you think I didn't notice the lack of fluidity, the body signs which go with a firm following of landmarks? I've seen it. And imagine this, my love, that we, two great Rangers, are lost in the middle of ice and snow!"
They glared at each other, before turning away simultaneously. "You are right, Sylvanas." he said readily "I might have been a fool in doing this. But I've never stopped in any mission before it was done. I will find the dwarves of Northeron and talk to them, and hope they remember our old friendship."
"Oh, aye! We certainly remember that, lad. And if what ye wanted was to find a good dwarf or two, ye've done it!" a jolly voice came from higher up. Surprised and ashamed that they were, the two rangers looked up swiftly.
Upward from them stood a sight few people saw outside of Northeron except when the Dwarves were in conflict. Standing proudly upon a high outcropping of rock, was a griphon. With a feline body of muscle and paws and golden furs, it exhibited the head of a proud eagle. It was a creature of great power, heightened in this by the presence of a dwarf in heavy chain mail, wielding a mighty hammer which, it seemed, flickered with a lightning enchantment. The vision this gave, this mix of beauty and harshness blinded him to the world, and Illadan for many moments, was blind to the rest of the world, looking at the massive wings and proud bearing of the great beast.
Nature sometimes truly creates things worth worshipping merely for the sight of it, he decided. As if in answer, the griphon blinked its eagle eyes and gave a strange screech.
"Lad, ye shouldn't give Olvart a look like that, and that goes for the lady." the dwarf remonstrated mildly. "Ye're gettin' him all excited here, and thats no good for his health!!"
"I apologize." Illadan said quickly, sensing his less-diplomatic soulmate stiffening and almost giving her an incredulous look. What did she intend to do? Kill the beat with an arrow? He was truly unsure of the chances in such a plan, with the speed and endurance of the beast first and then with the experience of the rider himself. Chances were that they both would die. He put out an hand to tell her to calm down. "I apologize for exciting things in a any way. However, excitation or not, I assure you that what I have to say is of importance to the people of Lordearon."
The dwarf ran a meaty hand through a bushy, snowflaked beard. "Is it a bout this war the humans had been fighting recently. I swear, we've never seen so many troops run about in centuries, ain't that true laddie?" he asked his griphon, and it gave a shrill cry in answer. It sounded like the great beast agreed.
Illadan jumped on the opening given him. "Yes, that is precisely that which I must talk of with the Aerie Leader or Leaders."
"Why should we care if the humans decided to break the Pact of Stormwind. It was bound to happen!"
"Perhaps," he responded, still feeling weakness in his limbs. Still he forgot the cold and the weariness, and stood tall "But in this case the humans had little or nothing to do with the present situation."
"And so you wish to meet the Elders."
"Yes, griphon rider, protector of Northeron. I wish to see all of your leaders. A great darkness is threatening us, and we will need your strength. Without it..." he hesitated, but plunged ahead. "Without it...we may yet fall!"
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Summer 593, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
Many in Silvermoon thought - or perhaps simply fancied - that their Queen and King were a loving couple who never knew the meaning of dispute. Why should they? One was the descendant of many Queens, the other a child of prestigious House Hillwinter. They were of a different mold, of truly elevated status, such that the people surely couldn't understand. Most of the people thought so, many in the nobility as well. And if there were any who still remembered the prankful young elven nobleman, the spoiled heiress, they kept their peace or had simply forgotten those who ruled them had evolved from such flawed children. They wanted perfection, and decided that they were. No matter the truth of it.
Vallin often would laugh, in private of course, about the ridicule in such a notion. Only today he was faced with the ridiculous concept and its ambiguities, and felt more angry than anything else.
"Why will you not listen?!?" he grated with a shake of his slender head. For the last of many times, he showed parchments they had received, this time with far more impatience. "I am telling you that we cannot afford to keep this to ourselves! The situation is far too dire for it!"
"And I am telling you that we are more than capable of taking care of this Horde Army. They wish to penetrate our woods? Let them. In there we are the strongest. The humans would only get in the way of our armies and foresters." Fenna Pureglade, the Sixth Queen of Quel'Thalas and Vallin's wife, retorted in her usual melodious voice, remaining seated near the great glass window which gave a breathtaking view of Silvermoon, with its slender buildings and towers, its moss-covered bridges, its infinity of flowers and boughs and trees. An elven city which had noting to be jealous of any other, not even of the city of the begone Kalimdorian Empire.
Vallin also loved the view, and despite the many differences the two had over their five centuries of marriage - there went the myth of the perfect couple! - he absolutely adored the woman who looked so thoughtfully at it. She was his soulmate, his heart. He would die for her if it was needed, without hesitation. However, no amount of love and affection could hold back the rising irritation he was having with his discussion. With inbred technique he calmed himself, cooling his impatience into a simmer, and resumed a reasonable stance.
"I have no doubt that, one-on-one, the Orcs are no match for one of our warriors in our woods. But our forces are limited. Our fleets are depleted, away on the Great Sea fighting alongside human ships. Even more, two-thirds of our archers and armsmen, and many of our elite Rangers, are down south, fighting in the Alliance Army, keeping the rest of the Horde at bay. We have perhaps ten thousand troops left, and what could we field if we strained? Maybe forty thousand all told before the Horde Army is at our doorstep."
She turned from the window and regarded him silently, her ageless face, with wide green eyes, honey-coloured hair and perfect proportions, beautiful even as she frowned at him, stiffening. "Are you saying, then, that the elves cannot win without the humans. Do you think so little of our warriors?"
He stiffened himself at the words, his eyes flashing before he contained the anger he felt. "That was an unjust statement, my Lady. I have always been proud of our people. However, today is not the time for pride but for realism! We do not have, nor can we hope to have - the manpower to bring the Horde outside of our territory. Our southern forts are destroyed, and Fortress Araelasa..." he shivered, resumed again. No need to delve into such strange and morbid news "We need more people to have hope. We need the humans' strength. I do not like it, I swear that I do not, but..."
"Pride is what made us survive the Exile our cursed kin in Kalimdor forced us into." She pointed out "It has never done anything but strengthen us."
He strode up and down the richly-carpetted floor. "I must disagree. I will remind you of the First Troll Crusade fought twenty-seven centuries ago, where the humans of Arathor saved us."
"And nearly destroyed us afterwards when we taught them magic. Your argument is unconvincing to me, milord."
"Milady, my pride tells me that we should ride our lands of the Horde's pestilence by ourselves," he stated heatedly "yet my reason tells me that such an attempt is doomed to failure. We need the humans' help as we did so long ago. Pride cannot blind us to reality!"
Fenna arched an eyebrow. "Is that what you think? That pride is blinding me?" She asked coolly. He opened his mouth, then closed it and sighed. It was what he thought. Although Fenna was without a doubt the better of them when it came to leading and inspiring, it usually also meant she closed herself up to other possibilities. Generations of breeding, millennia of prosperity, it was no wonder she was as she was.
He lowered himself on one knee, unsure of what he could say, gently taking hold of her hand as he had done so long ago, when she had been such a romantic heiress and he a young noble who couldn't believe he had captured such a young woman's heart.
"Savalai," he said softly, the greatest affective word in the elven language, "I am not saying these things to ire you, I would never do this. But I see what I see, and cannot do what else but give advice. Please, Fenna, trust me. Trust that what I say is the truth." he looked at her gently, pleadingly. Her cool face softened at that, and he saw the mask of rulership slip, and the woman he loved looking down at him.
"Savalai ei vahara," she answered fondly "I have never believed your words could ever be lies. It is not in your nature or your heart. I will never be you that I cannot trust. It is the humans I dare not call. Some might only come to help us in this time of need. But amongst the noble humans will come those who will loot and abuse. I cannot risk that. I will not. Even if it means incurring your displeasure with me, I wish for no humans here."
As an answer, he took the step which had once both scandalized the nobility and amused the ruling queen of the days long ago, by rising and putting his lips gently against hers in a light and tender kiss. She responded readily, as she had long ago, albeit with less surprise. When he released her, he smiled faintly. "You are my love, my soul. If you decide this way, I will not dissuade you further." he rose "If you will excuse me, then, milady, I will go to my study and ponder how best to defend ourselves."
She nodded, her eyes flashing him a look of relief, and he left with the grace only a king of many centuries could have. He opened the doors, nodded to the guards guarding the royal chambers, and didn't even notice when two immediately followed him at a proper distance. He walked about the halls of the royal castle, barely acknowledging the curtsies and bows he received, his expression undecided, thoughtful.
Then he stopped and raised a slender arm. "Guard." he said. Instantly one of the two trailing him was beside him. Incredible that the royal guards could be deaf to a shouting royal couple, yet would hear a whispered summons.
"My King?" the soft but firm voice queried.
He hesitated. He didn't like what he was about to do. He had acknowledged the Queen's decision about refusing human aid, but he hadn't promised that he wouldn't use his own authority to ask the same. He had known he had an opening, and she had known it. The fact that she hadn't ask him to stand by her meant that she was giving him the choice. In most instances he stood by her decision, for they were often sound and fair to all parties concerned.
But this time...this time he did not think she was right. He respected and loved her, but he was certain the elves would perish, if no exterior aid came. That left him but one course of action, for the people always came first in Quel'Thalas.
Decision made, he spoke. "I ask you to send for the scribe Halath, in the eastern wing, and to tell him the King wishes to dictate a message of importance. Once that is done, go prepare the swiftest messenger we have who knows the road to Whitefort. Speed will be of the essence now."
"Your will shall be done, Highness."
"Also, do not let the Queen learn of this. Once the messenger is sent out, I shall tell her myself, as I should." he finished, wincing at the reaction he would undoubtedly receive.
"As you wish. I shall go at once."
"Then go." he said, and wondered as he saw the guard move swiftly away if he was right. But it was too late. The people of Quel'Thalas needed help. It went beyond everyone.
Even beyond Quel'Thalas' ruling Queen Fenna Pureglade.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Autumn 593, Whitefort, Lordaeron
"There is nothing more to be said on that subject, then: the Alliance needs more troops."
Lothar nodded wearily, fighting back the urge to sigh and cry 'Bless the Light!' out. Barely. For the past season, all he had been pushing for, all he had wanted was to increase the Alliance Troop size, not maintain it as many of the rulers and nobles and lofty generals which made up the bulk of the Alliance High Command wanted. Two hundred thousand troops were not enough by far, but they wouldn't listen.
His reputation in and out of the battlefield and his charisma had gained him firm supporters in Kul Tiras and Lordaeron, and Stromgarde was all for increasing troop size if it rid its territory of the orcs, but many small details clogged the good intentions, delayed decisions, heated up the debates. Add to it the fact that Gilneas was always looking to gain a leverage, that Dalaran was always by itself and that Alterac barely sent any aid to speak of, and the meetings quickly went off on interminable tangents.
Being a ruler wasn't all that many thought it was. It was far too complex to him, who preferred the certainty of battle and the calculations of a general. Still, he was needed in his position, and there he would stay until the War was over and a new King could be chosen.
A burly man armored in overpolished plate mail rose and coughed for effect. Lothar negligently recognized him as Whitefort's military commander. A man who huffed and puffed a lot, who had lots of political connections but didn't know the difference between FLANKING and RETREATING. Nothing like those out there commanding on the fields, Lothar knew. Still, he listened, if only out of habit.
"I have received reports that the populace is starting to grow agitated." he gave an unhappy glance "Especially in the capital, sirs and lords. The taxes, the rationing, it is starting to take its toll. Now I of course perfectly understand the need to increase our forces..."
Oh, do you really? Lothar thought in vicious cynicism.
"...but my recommendation would be to wait one more year, so that the situation stabilized with the common folk and..."
"The situation will never stabilize as long as we need troops and thus draft and recruit people to our cause." Terenas noted from his seat at the other head of the High Command table. He looked old, tired already. He wasn't one for military movements and conflicts. It was draining him. Yet pride held him, and his mind was still sharp. "I fail to see what more drafts will change, my dear Lord Zeifhar."
"I am simply stating the views we are receiving from the general populace, milords." the man said, managing to look offended. Lothar had no time to waste on such a fool.
"Your concerns have been noted, Lord Zeifhar. Sit down and lets get on with this." he snapped. The burly man shot him an angry look, but quickly mellowed and sat when Lothar locked eyes with him and stared him down. Nobles. Except for a minority, they were all posturing, without any guts. Pushing the brooding irritation aside, he turned his attention to the tall, tanned Admiral Fairglade, the able second-in-command of the Alliance Fleet, named by Proudmoore himself. "What about the Navy, Admiral Fairglade? Will or fleets hold the line."
The man didn't rise, only swept the table with a look and then focused on Lothar personally. "I see no problem there, milord. Our forces are more numerous and our crews better-trained on the sea. As things are heading, whatever the Horde does on the Great Sea, our combined naval might will keep them at bay."
"What about shipyards and production?" Varien Wrynn asked from his seat, his head tilted and listening to every word. "I have heard that the Horde has managed to build more and accelerate construction."
The admiral pursed his lips in thought, but shook his head in the end. "The reports are trust, but not to the extent as the rumors go. Certainly, they have built more ships. However, our own total output far exceeds them. The worst-case estimates indicate the Alliance Fleet has three times the ships as the Horde Fleet. No, I assure you, they will not destroy us at sea."
"Which will aid us not if we are defeated on the ground." Lothar noted "Still, that is encouraging. The Fleet is an asset, and our naval superiority can be used in myriad ways. I trust to Proudmoore and to you to find those ways." He then went and looked to the newcomer at the High Command, a soldier of green which belonged on the battlefield far more than drinking wine and eating fruits discussing the fate of men far away. Her irritation was apparent, for all her training and schooled, beautiful elven features. "Lady Alleria. Your people's aid in this great crisis has been invaluable, yet I am afraid we will have to ask even more. Ships, food, weapons, and manpower. All you can spare."
The leader of the secretive and powerful Rangers nodded, even that small gesture revealing the grace and deadly power she possessed. Lothar took pity on any troll or orc who would ever have to face this tempered veteran.
"We quite understand, Lord Lothar, and we will provide as we can. Our Queen herself has made the pledge to help you until Azeroth is reconquered. We will not turn back from that oath."
"Our grateful thanks to you." he answered, before finally turning his head to face the head representative of the Kirin Tor. "Now, as for Dalaran, I would like to know when your sorcerors intend to enter the fray."
Before the Dalaran faction could respond in any way, the door to the council room opened, and in stepped an Azerothian Knight, looking both respectful and puzzled, holding a sealed parchment in his hand. Bowing and excusing himself for the inconvenience, he then quickly stepped towards Lothar.
"Regent, I am sorry to bother you, but we have just received a message from Quel'Thalas."
From the corner of his eye, the Alliance Commander in Chief saw Alleria stiffen. "Could this not wait?" he asked the knight, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
"I am afraid he was quite adamant about this message being delivered immediately, milord. Thus I took the liberty."
Lothar took the parchment, and immediately recognized the seal. The King's personal seal. A pang of worry seized him. The King's seal, not the Queen's. What could be happening. "You did well to hurry. You are dismissed." He then broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, reading the clearly written message and ignoring the tension pervading the room. As he read, his worry became bewilderment, then outright dread.
He sucked in a breath, then let it out, before walking to Terenas and handing him the parchment. "Sir, you should really read this. The situation has just become highly explosive."
"What?" Alleria snapped impatiently, her face lined with worry "What has happened in my homeland?"
Something catastrophic, Lothar thought numbly, growing angry at his own blindness. Something he should have foreseen, should have been prepared for! Doomhammer had played him for a fool and had made them all dance to his tune. He had underestimated the orc's leadership once again, and this time it may cost them the elven lands. However, all was not set in stone yet. If it could be stopped, he would! No matter the way needed.
"Gentlemen, the time for talking is past. From this moment on I am imposing military law throughout Lordearon. Let all available forces arm and prepare for battle! We march to Quel'Thalas within the week!" And I hope we will be able to make any sort of difference, he thought privately.
"I MUST insist, what has happened?!?" Alleria stated, her voice definitely worried now, elven dignity cast out. He looked at her gravelly.
"The worst that could happen. The horde..." he took a deep breath "The Horde has invaded Quel'Thalas using forces we knew nothing of. Already the southern borders have fallen." He looked at the shocked faces of the High Command. "But it is not over yet. The fight is not yet done!"
He straightened and walked briskly out of the room. "Let all make ready! We go east!!!"
___________________________________________
BONUS PROFILE #5
Eira Fregar Swiftblade
Birthplace: Sunshire, Azeroth
Birthdate: Autumn 572
Height: 5'6"
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Present status: Baroness of Taren Mill
Allegiances: Aerth Swiftblade, the Kingdom of Azeroth
History: Eira Fregar was born to Duke Fregar of Sunshire, a powerful lord in the Kingdom of Azeroth, and one with a rich and long family history. She was thus born with all the wealth and chances many could only dream of having, and as a child conjured the admiration and envy of many children. Although spoiled, however, her childhood was friendless, for her status forbid her from playing outside of the lofty Fregar Castle grounds.
Perhaps because of this, Eira cultivated a talent she had for manipulating the thoughts of those around her, something which allowed her to have her every fancy come to life. So grand was her life, so sheltered, that the First War seemed something inconsequential to her, and it was only when the Horde approached the Duchy of Sunshire that her life began to change. There, amongst the knights who were ordered to protect her, was a young, penniless man named Aerth Swiftblade.
Although she first dismissed him, she soon began to appreciate his unflowery gentleness and his sharp wit. He was someone who could become great. She could feel it. Was it what made her accept his outward overtures? Perhaps. Whatever it was, the wedding was celebrated in secret, and consumed shortly before Sunshire fell. The nightmare of the battle, of her family dying and of the retreat which followed would always be remembered in her mind. It was during this time that the relationship with her new husband deepened from mere whim to love. She decided to give her all to him in the hopes that he might suceed as she has predicted, and has to date used her influence to help him as much as she can.
Eira today lives in Taren Mill, and has seen her husband rise through military actions from a simple knight to a respected Baron, something she sees only as a first step. As much of her wealth was saved from the First War, her mansion is magnificient and her influence great. She has discovered recently that she was pregnant with Aerth's child, and has mixed feelings baout it. For one, she is happy to have a child, but at the same time, is it really the time to have one in the midst of the Second War?
Summer 593, First Alliance Fleet, On the Great Sea
Neither side had been ready for the engagement. Neither had wanted to fight just yet. But fate had dealt them a hard hand, and it was now the job of Daelin Proudmoore, the Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet, to make sure that this mutual blundering didn't cost them too much.
In more than one way, it was a good thing that they had met the Horde fleet where they did. Fifty three orc and troll ships - including nineteen of the slow but fearsome armored Orouko juggernauts - on a direct course for one of Kul Tiras' main shipyards, was something to be stopped at once. The problem is that they had met right out of the morning fog, and that the surprise and last-minute preparations had prevented anyone - seemingly on both sides - from making up any sort of tactics. Thus a pounding row of epic proportions had begun.
The deck shook as the Dauntless took another hit, and the sounds of its many cannons roared in response, booming in succession and deafening the king. Proudmoore kept his footing and glared around him as he took in the battle in its entirety. The First Fleet was taking a pounding. With only forty ships, made up of fifteen battleships and twenty-five even and human destroyers, it lacked the Horde's sheer firepower. However, if there was one thing they could count on, it was the more precise guns they had the experience of the Fleet's captains. This allowed the long-running stalemate the two forces were locked in presently.
As he watched, the side of the Highwall, one of the proudest battleships, exploded, signalling the end for that craft as water poured inside. Cannon balls and shrapnel were flying everywhere he saw, masts lay broken as mariners and sailors ran , loading guns, aiding the wounded, or jury-rigging repairs to critical parts of the ship.
Suddenly he saw a small force of two Juggernaughts and four destroyers making their way through the starboard flanks. Three ships were desperately barring the way, firing wildly, yet unable to stop the inevitable. One of them, he saw with rising horror, was the Belafas. Where Yanov Proudmoore, his oldest son, was currently serving.
Daelin Proudmoore didn't agree with his son often, even less so where the war was concerned. Where his oldest child took on a line of complete destruction where the Horde was concerned, the king prefered to defeat it soundly and then force them towards peace - and then back home. Their arguments were sometimes heated, the price never yielding to his sire's anger, always reminding everyone, no doubt, of the verbal battles which had so often gone on with his first wife, whom he had not loved at all.
However, despite this and appearances, he did love his oldest son. Which made his heart go cold with fright. In the middle of ordering a break to the center, he changed his mind, turning around and bellowing. "Change of plans! We rush to starboard to reinforce the flank! Signal the Vaunted Bow and the Femario to follow us in!"
The sudden change of orders only created confusion, a confusion he knew he wouldn't be abating by yelling. Yet he yelled, threatened, pushed men mercilessly, his eyes hard, as they scampered to do his bidding. Too slow, they were too slow. Twice he was tempted to lash out and hit a sailor for not doing what he was supposed to do. Twice he barely restrained his ire. Instead he looked at the desperate defense the three ships were making, barely holding the line.
Finally, the three heavy battleships started to lumber to starboard, rows and sails straining, and yet to slow. As he watched helplessly, the Belafas was hit right on the deck, and he swore he saw bodies fly. His son was serving on the deck. The thought seemed to burn his soul. Yanov was serving on the deck! He saw red, his breath seemed hot, and he barely recognized the animalistic yell of hatred he gave the Horde ships.
"First mate Haler!" he almost snarled, "Signal the other ships. All cannons target the lead Juggernaught! Let loose all fire the moment we are in range!"
"Milord! Sir! It shall be done!" the man yelled, probably too preoccupied himself to noticed the danger in his liege's tone. Good for him.
The three ships were still fighting, but their fire was now erratic. Obviously they didn't have the strength to fight remaining, yet they fought on without fail. The three ships were, after all, manned by Kul Tirans. And there wasn't a more stubborn group of men, a more arrogant and selfish group than sailors of the Kul Tiras Fleet. Surrender and defeat were terms unknown to a navy which had never been defeated since it had been formed half a millennia passed. Not by men or elves. There was no way they would be beaten by a few greenskins.
Being of Kul Tiras, Proudmoore usually would have approved of the stubborn defense. But not this time. Not with his son on board. The captain of that ship would be hanged, he swore it, if his son died because of this. And to the Nether with laws and justice! If his son died, he'd have his revenge on that fool!
The ships finally arrived near enough, turning as quickly as they could to the side, all aiming for the lead Juggernaught almost as one. The enemy ship saw it, of course, and tried to turn, but it was hard to do so with the battle it was already engaged in.
"CANNONS! READY...." Halver bellowed from the main deck, and Proudmoore gritted his teeth. "FIRE!!!!"
At once, the fourteen heavy cannons on the Dauntless' side opened fire with all of their fury, followed a bare moment laten by the twenty-four from the other two. Before the enemy ship could do much, it was hit with multiple blows, its armor and hull ruptured, unable to stay afloat. At once the other Horde ships replied to the attack with their own cannons, and a second later Proudmoore felt like he had been thrust away like a puppet, landing hard on the deck, his arm burning. Yet he took not notice of it, no more than the noises and smells and screams. He briefly looked at his arm, and found it battered and bloody. Still he waved any help away. That could come later.
For now, all he could bear to do was look at the Belafas as it came nearer, and inspect its deck from high above as the battle raged on. He scanned anxiously from body to standing man, trying to spot one who was worth more than this whole fleet to him.
And then he saw him. Yanov, unmistakable with his characteristic swagger, was manning one of the cannons, yelling at the one who was loading it with frantic haste. Proudmoore drew in a shaky breath of relief. Never had he thought he'd ever feel this afraid. Even the day he had stepped on Kul Tiras' throne, now an eternity ago, had given him this kind of fright. This boy would be the death of him someday!
Beside him, the cannons fired again. Then again. Another explosion rocked the deck, and he stumbled to his knees, rising with an effort. He still had a job to do now. Now that he could concentrate on it.
"Admiral! Sire!" a voice called, and he turned to see Halver looking at him stoically. "Sire! The enemy ships are breaking formation, leaving the field! Should we give chase?"
A part of him wanted to scream 'Yes, destroy them all!' But the anger and fear was past him. Reason ruled again. "I forbid it! They have enough, and we don't have the strength to complain. As soon as it is clear that they are pulling away, we'll do the same, as soon as rudimentary repairs are done."
A flicker of something passed through the man's face. "Sire, if I may-"
"No. I gave you my orders. Follow them. We will send word to the Third and Sixth Fleet to hunt them down." he paused "Our fleet is in dire need of repairs. Its time for us to go home for a while."
The flicker flicked out. "Sire! As you command!" he said stiffly, and turned to bellow orders. Proudmoore watched him go for a moment, and then turned away.
To be immediately caught by the priests of the ship, including his personal surgeon, who began to fuss over his wounded harm - which was starting to do more than just LOOK battered, he had to admit - as he admonished him. He sighed and didn't respond, knowing it was one fight he couldn't win. Instead he looked down where the Belafas' deck still held close. And saw his son looking up. A moment passed in which they both regarded each other, eyes locked even though they couldn't see the facial details.
Then Yanov raised his hand in both victory and thanks.
Proudmoore smiled despite himself, and mostly despite the growing pain. His son understood what had happened, what he has done, and was thanking him for it. As much as they argued, they always seemed to connect on many points, the most important of which being that family was family, and that there was nothing before that except Kul Tiras as a whole. He raised his good arm in response. Glad his son was still alive.
Glad there would still be arguments in the royal castle halls.
A great victory. If not for the Alliance, then for himself.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 593, Bellwick, Stromgarde
"A victory it was, my friend. Yet work still remains...for all of us."
"I quite agree with you, sir. However, now is definitely the time to move. One hundred thousand men is what we have. With a little luck, we COULD feasibly do it."
"I doubt the Horde will let us drive them back to Dun Algaz so easily, General Ironhorse."
"I never said it would be easy. I stated that it had to be done. There is quite a difference to that."
They had been at this for three days now, and still there were disagreements. Aerth resisted yet another urge to throw his hands up and growl in disgust as yet another argument erupted between the other generals in the room. He didn't take part in it, not wanting to add fuel to the fire. Besides, he knew that if he started to make comments, he probably end up throttling someone, and he didn't quite wish to do such a thing.
The meeting that Jennala Ironhorse had called had been a good idea initially. After the First and Fourth Army had routed the Horde near Dun Modr, the Horde had been relatively quiet, probably stabilizing their lines. Certain that they couldn't afford to let it strengthen its hold on the Thandol Valley again - lest they never be dislodged - she had sent messages to the Generals of the Ninth, Eleventh and Sixth Armies in order to meet up with them and discuss strategies in order to push the Horde back through the Land Bridges, which she was confident they could hold. Her reasoning was simple and yet efficient.
If the five armies moved in a truly coordinated fashion two armies could, although outnumbered, fall upon the enemy and cut off information and supply lines, burn wagons, all the while leaving the south open. It had been her vocal opinion that if they succeeded in this way - a work of precision, but not an impossible one, the main force would have no choice but to fall back, temporarily, to Dun Algaz for resupply. Enter the other three armies, who could hold and fortify the northern part of the Land Bridges. With only these three great passageways leading to Stromgarde, the Horde's numerical superiority would matter little, especially since the Alliance Navy could patrol the shores to make sure they didn't cross by rafts.
It was a sound plan. It had merit in that it was decisive and simple enough that five armies should be able to work out an attack plan, no matter the differences in their command styles.
However, he had counted without the one thing which made them all - Aerth wasn't naive enough to think he wasn't like the others - good generals: their egos. Useful to inspire an army they owned, very negative when it came to discussions.
There was General Voss of the Sixth Army, who wanted to unite the armies under one command and strike the Horde hard, as one unit, before fortifying the retaken Land Bridges. His plan was unworkable in the circumstances, if only because of the time it would take to combine such large forces, yet he didn't want to acknowledge the easier path Jennala proposed. General Highkill was only concerned about his own army, and didn't to even WANT to see the need for a concerted effort. Swiftblade and Ironhorse wanted to be the mobile armies in the plan, which was ranted against by Voss and Highkill. The last General, Rellon Minvare of the Ninth Army, had simply brooded and said hardly a word since arriving.
Each of them was an excellent military commanders. All of them had gotten things done. And yet they couldn't agree on an attack plan. Somewhere, Aerth was sure, something or someone beyond their knowledge and comprehension was laughing itself silly over the ironic ridicule of this situation.
"I do not think that this plan will work! To act in seperate ways, the communications between our armies would be strained!" Voss protested loudly, banging his fist on the makeshift table in the small mansion they had taken over for their oh-so foresighted meeting.
Jennala glared at the older army leader, her patience wearing thing. "That is why we must create our attack plan here, with contingencies! This way we will have more flexibility."
"And there would be no need for communication." Highkill said absently, idly tracing a scar running the length of his arm. "I like that part. What I do not like, is that my army will have to hold one of the Land Bridges. You should know how hard fortifying will be."
"If we can destabilise them just a little more, it should give you enough time to dig in."
"Thats much hope and little certainty."
"Hope is all we can work with, general!"
"Even though this hope might just be serving to blind us." Minvare suddenly spoke up, making all heads turn from the heated argument to the grim-looking, greying military commander. He was looking at them all with a strange expression. "It is possible that we are simply playing into their hands. Might have all the time."
Aerth felt chills as the man said that. Minvare had been a division commander under Lothar himself during the First War, and was known to be an excellent soldier who never said anything unnecessary. His interest was piqued. "What do you mean, sir?" he asked intently "What makes you think this?"
"A few elements. The primary of them all being: its too easy." he looked at Aerth squarely "You fought the First War. Don't you find that the quality in their commanders and tactics have waned considerably? Don't you see the stark tactical lack in their actions?"
Aerth considered this for a long moment. He recalled how his plan had stranded thousands of enemies during the Battle of Zul'Dare, how they had easily managed to strike out the food reserves in Dun Modr. He also saw how easily he had been able to junction with the Fourth Army, and the strangeness and length of the present lull. It had always gnawed at his mind, all of these little incongruities. Now he saw them more closely. They had been excellent plans he had wrought. But would he have won so easily during the First War?
" You're right." he said through clenched teeth. "We've had it easy. We've had it far too easy." Minvare nodded. The other three generals only looked confused by the exchange - but then they weren't Azerothians. They hadn't fought the First War.
"Whatever do you mean, Minvare?" Voss huffed "We are soundly beating back the beasts. The combined might of the human, dwarven and elven people-"
"Shouldn't be having that much impact. We aren't grossly outnumbered. Why aren't we? We have yet to face a truly able commander. Where are they? This is too easy, too simple. I can't believe that someone like Doomhammer would continue in this form of incompetence for long normally."
"Unless he has a plan which makes this all a sort of charade, a lead to a merry tune." he looked at the older veteran. "But what could it be? Forces waiting in wait in Khaz Modan? Could they wish to lure us all into a false sense of security, and then strike at us with the better part of their forces?"
"I doubt it? Why leave us the time to push them back at all?" he raised a finger "Unless they want us pooling our resources here. Its no secret its taking much of our efforts to maintain our present strength here. Many other theatres are now terribly undermanned."
"Strike at us elsewhere?" Jennala whispered. "But where from?"
"I don't remember any Horde sightings in the environs except for some minor warbands." Highkill scoffed "I don't think such small forces may be considered a threat at all."
"True, but our forces WERE spread thinly in the beginning." Voss added in a more sober tone "Your possibility makes me shiver, Minvare. Moreso because it is quite a possible scenario."
Not JUST possible, Aerth thought grimly. He HAD been in the war, and yet blinded by his own successes. Minvare's musings had awoken the warnings which had always gone on at the back of his head since the victory at Zul'Dare. Something wasn't right here. Something was about to happen.
"What do you think will happen, sir?" he asked tonelessly. Minvare gave him a gaze which intensified his fear.
"I have no idea, Swiftblade. None. And that, beyond anything else, is what frightens me so much."
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 593, Araelasa Fortress, Border of Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas
"Six thousand years..." Argal Grimfrost mused "For six thousand years the Elves of Quel'Thalas have lived in their mighty ancient forests, surrounded by nature, magic and their own arrogance. They never achieved much of a reputation - from what I read from old books looted from Azerothian libraries. They were ever a detached people, seeing themselves above everybody else."
Argal Grimfrost, mounted upon the immense wolf which served as his mount - a reminder of the begone raiders, looked in the distance, and the great Araelasa, the fortress which the elves had constructed as a sign of power and strength to guard their southern borders. It was a behemoth founded upon an hill rising out of the woods, and crafted magically in stone and marble, in silver and gold and green tiled roofs. Slender towers jutted from the grown, serving as connection points for the high white wall protecting the defiant buildings of the Elven Southern Corps. A wealth of a sight to an eye, he had to admit. His people had never built such magnificent things. They were simpler, or angrier. He didn't care which.
The only thing he knew was that, regardless of his feelings on the matter, the fortress would be crushed to rubble. The Shade Army was already arrayed, having surrounded the hill at all sides, cutting trees as it went. Tens of thousands were ready to swarm the fort in a precise, soldiery fashion, revealing themselves to the Alliance at last, when most enemy forces were busy fighting southward.
As such, for the past eleven days he had ordered his armies to besiege and destroy any defensive work in the south of the elvish country. Many had already fallen, others were barely standing. All of the southern border was cleared, awaiting to proceed to the next phase of Doomhammer's plan.
But Araelasa still stood. Its walls now looked blackened, cracks and weakening was evident, yet it stood. They had killed nearly one third of the defenders, yet they had fought back with ferocity thus far, defending their post almost maniacally. Already he'd lost three thousand troops to the enemy. A disgrace, to someone like him.
Today, however, it would change. Even if they couldn't take the walls, even if this charge fell, they would have something to use which the elves would never forget.
"So pretty was this in peace." he mourned too softly for anybody to hear. His face then changed, loosing its wistful expression, becoming hard and impassive. The image of an orc in complete control, not letting the call his being gave to battle, keeping it bottled up, his mind clear. The same couldn't be said of all of the warleaders surrounding him, awaiting his command on their own wolves, which sniffed and snarled at each other. "Yet its appeal will not survive the Horde's wrath." he gave all of his immediate subordinates a glare. He then pointed to Araelasa with his massive axe.
"The enemy is making fools of us. I REFUSE to let a few hundred, weakhearted, elusive ELVES hold our forces back. I order you to storm it once more, and take it by any means necessary! In the name of The Horde, I want this place razed to the grounds! Glintsharp, take central position and attack the eastern wall, where they are weakest. The left group will be under you, Shortlash. Your work is to give as much commotion and confusion to the elves, while the right group headed by Axepiler support the scaling of the wall. Am I making myself quite clear."
Glintsharp stirred slightly. "What about prisoners?"
"Take some of the highest-ranking for later interrogation." Grimfrost mused. "The rest are yours to do what you would please!! Kill or not! Maim or not. As long as this fortress falls, I will be satisfied!"
The three warleaders gave smug, satisfied tusky grins, and slapped an hand on their chest in respect, before riding away to their troops. The battle would commence shortly. He turned to a younger face he had learned to trust.
"Tell me, young Frath: what do you think are our chances?" he asked the former sub-commander who had quickly become a personal aide. The young orc, instead of jumping to a patriotic yet senseless speech about the horde's victory being inevitable, reflected upon the matter seriously before replying hesitantly.
"I...I think that...that we will succeed but that...we will lose many troops. The remaining defenders are exhausted, the walls have been severely weakened by our catapults this very morning. However I wouldn't see the Elves giving this important place without a very bitter and costly fight."
The Horde Warlord nodded, he had been thinking over the same thing. Still, as he watched Araelasa, something struck him as very peculiar. Perhaps his eyes were simply playing tricks on him, perhaps it was fatigue, yet...yet he didn't see movement in the elven fortress.
A roar quickly went up, as the advance forces from the center rushed towards the fortress. Yells from trolls and orcs mingled with the bellows of ogres, the thunder of feet and the dust - a veritable storm was approaching the fortress. Grimfrost awaited the appearance of the elves on the battlements, letting loose volley upon deadly volley, breaking the charge, stalling it from reaching the walls.
But nothing stirred. Not an elf was seen. The force continued its dash, followed by others. Soon they would reach the walls. Incredible! Unthinkable! Had the elven defenders suddenly lost all will to live? Or was there something more to this strangeness?
"Lord, this..." Frath told him in a sudden, excited voice. The old warrior cut him off quickly, indicating that he understood the rest of the sentence: this is wrong. It was. Something was definitely wrong! Yet it was too late to do much about it. He had to see the attack through, as the main attacking force was now too enraged to be stopped before it had scaled the walls.
The troops reached the walls without a single casualty, and it caused them to falter for a moment. Was it disbelief or wariness they felt? Whichever it was, they all instinctively knew, especially after all the battles they had been through to take this fortress, that you can have an assault upon such a bastion without a lot of men dying. It just didn't happen, yet it WAS happening, for the first time in all of Argal Grimfrost's years of soldiering. He almost called the attack off - this simply HAD to be an enemy trick - but he refrained out of personal pride.
As he watched, the fortress walls, which had held back so many troops for so many days, were scaled with not an inkling of opposition. The troops stopped their advanced, confusion overriding their bloodlust, and waited for the few hundreds inside the fortress to open the main door - great crafted slabs of steel and ironwood - and the rest of the troops flooded in, taking in the once-powerful elven fortress.
"I have just watched an impossibility happen, Frath." He muttered at long last, his mind whirling. The younger orc merely nodded in response, and he saw that the warrior's thick brow was furrowed in deep thought. Grimfrost shook his head. "Impossible battle! Not EVEN a battle! I MUST have an answer to this mystery!"
He kicked his wolf into a run, and heard Frath follow immediately. Cries came up as he rode the way to the fortress, many of the troops gave a cheer and warcries of respect as he passed by them, but he paid them no heed. He was far too preoccupied by the possibilities to even think about some grunts or ogres cheering his passage.
After a short ride, he came to the gate, and found the atmosphere as...shushed. Troubled. The troops seemed both puzzled and frightened by what they'd seen inside. He stopped a grunt who was coming out, looking decidedly dazed, since he barely saluted or showed respect in any way.
"What is in there that has happened?" he asked quickly. "Tell me what you have seen at once, grunt!"
But the grunt seemed too dizzy to understand the implied threat in Argal's voice. He only shook his head. "Lord," he said at length. "You should simply see for yourself. I can't explain or understand it." With that, he walked away. And the Warlord did nothing about him, instead edging inside the fortress.
And when he saw what was to be seen inside of it, confusion and dismay filled him as much as it had probably filled the grunt. What he was seeing...
"By the Beyond, WHAT has happened here?" Frath burst forth.
Grimfrost, at that, only shook his head. There was no ready answer for the scene to be given.
What happened?
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Summer 593, Peaks of Northeron, Lordaeron
"Illadan, you are both my mate and my heart, and I'd never want to see you get hurt in any way..."
"Why, I am touched by your vow."
"...but, if you ever mention the word 'Northeron' within the range of my hearing again, I will fill your body with my arrows!" Sylvanas finished fiercely. Illadan merely looked back with a grin, which only served to aggravate her very beautiful scowl. He refrained from making much of a comment, yet couldn't resist one little jab.
"It is sad that you feel so little affection towards me, in the face of such adversity. I am saddened beyond belief. Indeed, I am crumbling!"
"Don't start this high-and-mighty speech, my dear Lord Illadan of Silvermoon. I'm too cold for any of your usual humor." she warned.
Nodding in understanding, the elven lord merely hunched his shoulders a little more and continued through the snow, painfully aware of two facts. One, that he was cold and two, that he wasn't certain of their direction anymore. The last fact shamed him to an unbelievable degree. He, one of the greatest Rangers of Quel'Thalas, second only to Alleria herself, was getting lost!
He supposed he shouldn't be so hard on himself. After all, he had been born and raised in the splendor and wealth of Silvermoon, where great magics worked long ago kept the city at an ever-present state of pleasant summer. Those years had seen him being groomed to fulfill his father's position as a high-ranking lord and member of the Queen's Council. His subsequent time in the Rangers had, however, trained him to survive. On the plain and even more so in the forest, the time came that all elves recognized Illadan's skills, even the mighty Alleria.
However, he had never travelled much in mountains. He had never had much interest in them except from admiring their primal beauty from afar. Preferably somewhere warm enough. Today that lack of knowledge was coming to haunt him, and he was bitter about his lack of foresight. Five centuries and more of life and he still rushed into plans without fully considering the implications. How his father must laugh at his predicament, wherever in the Light that he was! The older elf, now sadly passed on, had always qualified his position as a ranger of a 'poor matter' when he was in a good mood. The elf would feel vindicated to see his son in such a fix.
He looked about around him. Snow-covered rocks, snow covered peaks, snow-covered tracks, no way to tell a true landmark, just an endless sea of white. Where, in all of creation, could those Dwarves keep their aeries.
Then it began to snow slightly.
"Enough! Can't the world give us one chance?!?" Sylvanas growled in dismay, giving the snow such a glare it was a wonder nothing melted under its power. She didn't throw a fit like he had seen humans do in similar situation, but her patience was wearing thin. He could feel it. With the weather, with him, and most of all with his self-given mission.
It had seemed like such a good plan. The Alliance was outnumbered, and they had no information on contacting the dragons to ask them for help, so he had come up with a people who could give the fighting force a near-equal clout: the Griphon Riders of Northeron. He had heard and arrogantly - very arrogantly, he saw in hindsight - the stories about the secretive nature of the dwarves, and they being able to hide their Aeries from even the most knowledgeable mountainer. He had thought the stories overrated, even more so, he admitted, because they were human tales.
He wasn't human, he had told himself. He was better. Not simply a scout, but a Ranger for the Queendom of Quel'Thalas, from a race of people which never failed to find something or someone if they wanted too. Stealth, secrecy and tracking were the basis of a ranger's life, and he had excelled in it.
Now, however, he was being showned. The entire place looked the same everywhere he looked. Snow and peaks. Snow and peaks. Snow and craggy peaks. When he got back to Quel'Thalas, he would never climb anything bigger than a small hill as long as his very existence wasn't in danger, and even then he would hesitate. Damnation on those bothersome Dwarves. And damnation on his own naive planning as well! He should have known better.
"I'm beginning to think this might all have been a mistake." Sylvanas noted.
"You thought it was a mistake from the moment I announced it." he returned, a little peeved himself. If it had been another place, he would have laughed at such squabbling. However the present conditions were making him forget himself. He was unsettled, and he really didn't like feeling unsettled.
She hesitated, frowning, but plunged ahead with her tirade. "Perhaps, but I never would have thought you'd get us lost! Oh, don't give me THAT look, I'm nearly as good a ranger as you are. Don't you think I didn't notice the lack of fluidity, the body signs which go with a firm following of landmarks? I've seen it. And imagine this, my love, that we, two great Rangers, are lost in the middle of ice and snow!"
They glared at each other, before turning away simultaneously. "You are right, Sylvanas." he said readily "I might have been a fool in doing this. But I've never stopped in any mission before it was done. I will find the dwarves of Northeron and talk to them, and hope they remember our old friendship."
"Oh, aye! We certainly remember that, lad. And if what ye wanted was to find a good dwarf or two, ye've done it!" a jolly voice came from higher up. Surprised and ashamed that they were, the two rangers looked up swiftly.
Upward from them stood a sight few people saw outside of Northeron except when the Dwarves were in conflict. Standing proudly upon a high outcropping of rock, was a griphon. With a feline body of muscle and paws and golden furs, it exhibited the head of a proud eagle. It was a creature of great power, heightened in this by the presence of a dwarf in heavy chain mail, wielding a mighty hammer which, it seemed, flickered with a lightning enchantment. The vision this gave, this mix of beauty and harshness blinded him to the world, and Illadan for many moments, was blind to the rest of the world, looking at the massive wings and proud bearing of the great beast.
Nature sometimes truly creates things worth worshipping merely for the sight of it, he decided. As if in answer, the griphon blinked its eagle eyes and gave a strange screech.
"Lad, ye shouldn't give Olvart a look like that, and that goes for the lady." the dwarf remonstrated mildly. "Ye're gettin' him all excited here, and thats no good for his health!!"
"I apologize." Illadan said quickly, sensing his less-diplomatic soulmate stiffening and almost giving her an incredulous look. What did she intend to do? Kill the beat with an arrow? He was truly unsure of the chances in such a plan, with the speed and endurance of the beast first and then with the experience of the rider himself. Chances were that they both would die. He put out an hand to tell her to calm down. "I apologize for exciting things in a any way. However, excitation or not, I assure you that what I have to say is of importance to the people of Lordearon."
The dwarf ran a meaty hand through a bushy, snowflaked beard. "Is it a bout this war the humans had been fighting recently. I swear, we've never seen so many troops run about in centuries, ain't that true laddie?" he asked his griphon, and it gave a shrill cry in answer. It sounded like the great beast agreed.
Illadan jumped on the opening given him. "Yes, that is precisely that which I must talk of with the Aerie Leader or Leaders."
"Why should we care if the humans decided to break the Pact of Stormwind. It was bound to happen!"
"Perhaps," he responded, still feeling weakness in his limbs. Still he forgot the cold and the weariness, and stood tall "But in this case the humans had little or nothing to do with the present situation."
"And so you wish to meet the Elders."
"Yes, griphon rider, protector of Northeron. I wish to see all of your leaders. A great darkness is threatening us, and we will need your strength. Without it..." he hesitated, but plunged ahead. "Without it...we may yet fall!"
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Summer 593, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
Many in Silvermoon thought - or perhaps simply fancied - that their Queen and King were a loving couple who never knew the meaning of dispute. Why should they? One was the descendant of many Queens, the other a child of prestigious House Hillwinter. They were of a different mold, of truly elevated status, such that the people surely couldn't understand. Most of the people thought so, many in the nobility as well. And if there were any who still remembered the prankful young elven nobleman, the spoiled heiress, they kept their peace or had simply forgotten those who ruled them had evolved from such flawed children. They wanted perfection, and decided that they were. No matter the truth of it.
Vallin often would laugh, in private of course, about the ridicule in such a notion. Only today he was faced with the ridiculous concept and its ambiguities, and felt more angry than anything else.
"Why will you not listen?!?" he grated with a shake of his slender head. For the last of many times, he showed parchments they had received, this time with far more impatience. "I am telling you that we cannot afford to keep this to ourselves! The situation is far too dire for it!"
"And I am telling you that we are more than capable of taking care of this Horde Army. They wish to penetrate our woods? Let them. In there we are the strongest. The humans would only get in the way of our armies and foresters." Fenna Pureglade, the Sixth Queen of Quel'Thalas and Vallin's wife, retorted in her usual melodious voice, remaining seated near the great glass window which gave a breathtaking view of Silvermoon, with its slender buildings and towers, its moss-covered bridges, its infinity of flowers and boughs and trees. An elven city which had noting to be jealous of any other, not even of the city of the begone Kalimdorian Empire.
Vallin also loved the view, and despite the many differences the two had over their five centuries of marriage - there went the myth of the perfect couple! - he absolutely adored the woman who looked so thoughtfully at it. She was his soulmate, his heart. He would die for her if it was needed, without hesitation. However, no amount of love and affection could hold back the rising irritation he was having with his discussion. With inbred technique he calmed himself, cooling his impatience into a simmer, and resumed a reasonable stance.
"I have no doubt that, one-on-one, the Orcs are no match for one of our warriors in our woods. But our forces are limited. Our fleets are depleted, away on the Great Sea fighting alongside human ships. Even more, two-thirds of our archers and armsmen, and many of our elite Rangers, are down south, fighting in the Alliance Army, keeping the rest of the Horde at bay. We have perhaps ten thousand troops left, and what could we field if we strained? Maybe forty thousand all told before the Horde Army is at our doorstep."
She turned from the window and regarded him silently, her ageless face, with wide green eyes, honey-coloured hair and perfect proportions, beautiful even as she frowned at him, stiffening. "Are you saying, then, that the elves cannot win without the humans. Do you think so little of our warriors?"
He stiffened himself at the words, his eyes flashing before he contained the anger he felt. "That was an unjust statement, my Lady. I have always been proud of our people. However, today is not the time for pride but for realism! We do not have, nor can we hope to have - the manpower to bring the Horde outside of our territory. Our southern forts are destroyed, and Fortress Araelasa..." he shivered, resumed again. No need to delve into such strange and morbid news "We need more people to have hope. We need the humans' strength. I do not like it, I swear that I do not, but..."
"Pride is what made us survive the Exile our cursed kin in Kalimdor forced us into." She pointed out "It has never done anything but strengthen us."
He strode up and down the richly-carpetted floor. "I must disagree. I will remind you of the First Troll Crusade fought twenty-seven centuries ago, where the humans of Arathor saved us."
"And nearly destroyed us afterwards when we taught them magic. Your argument is unconvincing to me, milord."
"Milady, my pride tells me that we should ride our lands of the Horde's pestilence by ourselves," he stated heatedly "yet my reason tells me that such an attempt is doomed to failure. We need the humans' help as we did so long ago. Pride cannot blind us to reality!"
Fenna arched an eyebrow. "Is that what you think? That pride is blinding me?" She asked coolly. He opened his mouth, then closed it and sighed. It was what he thought. Although Fenna was without a doubt the better of them when it came to leading and inspiring, it usually also meant she closed herself up to other possibilities. Generations of breeding, millennia of prosperity, it was no wonder she was as she was.
He lowered himself on one knee, unsure of what he could say, gently taking hold of her hand as he had done so long ago, when she had been such a romantic heiress and he a young noble who couldn't believe he had captured such a young woman's heart.
"Savalai," he said softly, the greatest affective word in the elven language, "I am not saying these things to ire you, I would never do this. But I see what I see, and cannot do what else but give advice. Please, Fenna, trust me. Trust that what I say is the truth." he looked at her gently, pleadingly. Her cool face softened at that, and he saw the mask of rulership slip, and the woman he loved looking down at him.
"Savalai ei vahara," she answered fondly "I have never believed your words could ever be lies. It is not in your nature or your heart. I will never be you that I cannot trust. It is the humans I dare not call. Some might only come to help us in this time of need. But amongst the noble humans will come those who will loot and abuse. I cannot risk that. I will not. Even if it means incurring your displeasure with me, I wish for no humans here."
As an answer, he took the step which had once both scandalized the nobility and amused the ruling queen of the days long ago, by rising and putting his lips gently against hers in a light and tender kiss. She responded readily, as she had long ago, albeit with less surprise. When he released her, he smiled faintly. "You are my love, my soul. If you decide this way, I will not dissuade you further." he rose "If you will excuse me, then, milady, I will go to my study and ponder how best to defend ourselves."
She nodded, her eyes flashing him a look of relief, and he left with the grace only a king of many centuries could have. He opened the doors, nodded to the guards guarding the royal chambers, and didn't even notice when two immediately followed him at a proper distance. He walked about the halls of the royal castle, barely acknowledging the curtsies and bows he received, his expression undecided, thoughtful.
Then he stopped and raised a slender arm. "Guard." he said. Instantly one of the two trailing him was beside him. Incredible that the royal guards could be deaf to a shouting royal couple, yet would hear a whispered summons.
"My King?" the soft but firm voice queried.
He hesitated. He didn't like what he was about to do. He had acknowledged the Queen's decision about refusing human aid, but he hadn't promised that he wouldn't use his own authority to ask the same. He had known he had an opening, and she had known it. The fact that she hadn't ask him to stand by her meant that she was giving him the choice. In most instances he stood by her decision, for they were often sound and fair to all parties concerned.
But this time...this time he did not think she was right. He respected and loved her, but he was certain the elves would perish, if no exterior aid came. That left him but one course of action, for the people always came first in Quel'Thalas.
Decision made, he spoke. "I ask you to send for the scribe Halath, in the eastern wing, and to tell him the King wishes to dictate a message of importance. Once that is done, go prepare the swiftest messenger we have who knows the road to Whitefort. Speed will be of the essence now."
"Your will shall be done, Highness."
"Also, do not let the Queen learn of this. Once the messenger is sent out, I shall tell her myself, as I should." he finished, wincing at the reaction he would undoubtedly receive.
"As you wish. I shall go at once."
"Then go." he said, and wondered as he saw the guard move swiftly away if he was right. But it was too late. The people of Quel'Thalas needed help. It went beyond everyone.
Even beyond Quel'Thalas' ruling Queen Fenna Pureglade.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Autumn 593, Whitefort, Lordaeron
"There is nothing more to be said on that subject, then: the Alliance needs more troops."
Lothar nodded wearily, fighting back the urge to sigh and cry 'Bless the Light!' out. Barely. For the past season, all he had been pushing for, all he had wanted was to increase the Alliance Troop size, not maintain it as many of the rulers and nobles and lofty generals which made up the bulk of the Alliance High Command wanted. Two hundred thousand troops were not enough by far, but they wouldn't listen.
His reputation in and out of the battlefield and his charisma had gained him firm supporters in Kul Tiras and Lordaeron, and Stromgarde was all for increasing troop size if it rid its territory of the orcs, but many small details clogged the good intentions, delayed decisions, heated up the debates. Add to it the fact that Gilneas was always looking to gain a leverage, that Dalaran was always by itself and that Alterac barely sent any aid to speak of, and the meetings quickly went off on interminable tangents.
Being a ruler wasn't all that many thought it was. It was far too complex to him, who preferred the certainty of battle and the calculations of a general. Still, he was needed in his position, and there he would stay until the War was over and a new King could be chosen.
A burly man armored in overpolished plate mail rose and coughed for effect. Lothar negligently recognized him as Whitefort's military commander. A man who huffed and puffed a lot, who had lots of political connections but didn't know the difference between FLANKING and RETREATING. Nothing like those out there commanding on the fields, Lothar knew. Still, he listened, if only out of habit.
"I have received reports that the populace is starting to grow agitated." he gave an unhappy glance "Especially in the capital, sirs and lords. The taxes, the rationing, it is starting to take its toll. Now I of course perfectly understand the need to increase our forces..."
Oh, do you really? Lothar thought in vicious cynicism.
"...but my recommendation would be to wait one more year, so that the situation stabilized with the common folk and..."
"The situation will never stabilize as long as we need troops and thus draft and recruit people to our cause." Terenas noted from his seat at the other head of the High Command table. He looked old, tired already. He wasn't one for military movements and conflicts. It was draining him. Yet pride held him, and his mind was still sharp. "I fail to see what more drafts will change, my dear Lord Zeifhar."
"I am simply stating the views we are receiving from the general populace, milords." the man said, managing to look offended. Lothar had no time to waste on such a fool.
"Your concerns have been noted, Lord Zeifhar. Sit down and lets get on with this." he snapped. The burly man shot him an angry look, but quickly mellowed and sat when Lothar locked eyes with him and stared him down. Nobles. Except for a minority, they were all posturing, without any guts. Pushing the brooding irritation aside, he turned his attention to the tall, tanned Admiral Fairglade, the able second-in-command of the Alliance Fleet, named by Proudmoore himself. "What about the Navy, Admiral Fairglade? Will or fleets hold the line."
The man didn't rise, only swept the table with a look and then focused on Lothar personally. "I see no problem there, milord. Our forces are more numerous and our crews better-trained on the sea. As things are heading, whatever the Horde does on the Great Sea, our combined naval might will keep them at bay."
"What about shipyards and production?" Varien Wrynn asked from his seat, his head tilted and listening to every word. "I have heard that the Horde has managed to build more and accelerate construction."
The admiral pursed his lips in thought, but shook his head in the end. "The reports are trust, but not to the extent as the rumors go. Certainly, they have built more ships. However, our own total output far exceeds them. The worst-case estimates indicate the Alliance Fleet has three times the ships as the Horde Fleet. No, I assure you, they will not destroy us at sea."
"Which will aid us not if we are defeated on the ground." Lothar noted "Still, that is encouraging. The Fleet is an asset, and our naval superiority can be used in myriad ways. I trust to Proudmoore and to you to find those ways." He then went and looked to the newcomer at the High Command, a soldier of green which belonged on the battlefield far more than drinking wine and eating fruits discussing the fate of men far away. Her irritation was apparent, for all her training and schooled, beautiful elven features. "Lady Alleria. Your people's aid in this great crisis has been invaluable, yet I am afraid we will have to ask even more. Ships, food, weapons, and manpower. All you can spare."
The leader of the secretive and powerful Rangers nodded, even that small gesture revealing the grace and deadly power she possessed. Lothar took pity on any troll or orc who would ever have to face this tempered veteran.
"We quite understand, Lord Lothar, and we will provide as we can. Our Queen herself has made the pledge to help you until Azeroth is reconquered. We will not turn back from that oath."
"Our grateful thanks to you." he answered, before finally turning his head to face the head representative of the Kirin Tor. "Now, as for Dalaran, I would like to know when your sorcerors intend to enter the fray."
Before the Dalaran faction could respond in any way, the door to the council room opened, and in stepped an Azerothian Knight, looking both respectful and puzzled, holding a sealed parchment in his hand. Bowing and excusing himself for the inconvenience, he then quickly stepped towards Lothar.
"Regent, I am sorry to bother you, but we have just received a message from Quel'Thalas."
From the corner of his eye, the Alliance Commander in Chief saw Alleria stiffen. "Could this not wait?" he asked the knight, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
"I am afraid he was quite adamant about this message being delivered immediately, milord. Thus I took the liberty."
Lothar took the parchment, and immediately recognized the seal. The King's personal seal. A pang of worry seized him. The King's seal, not the Queen's. What could be happening. "You did well to hurry. You are dismissed." He then broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, reading the clearly written message and ignoring the tension pervading the room. As he read, his worry became bewilderment, then outright dread.
He sucked in a breath, then let it out, before walking to Terenas and handing him the parchment. "Sir, you should really read this. The situation has just become highly explosive."
"What?" Alleria snapped impatiently, her face lined with worry "What has happened in my homeland?"
Something catastrophic, Lothar thought numbly, growing angry at his own blindness. Something he should have foreseen, should have been prepared for! Doomhammer had played him for a fool and had made them all dance to his tune. He had underestimated the orc's leadership once again, and this time it may cost them the elven lands. However, all was not set in stone yet. If it could be stopped, he would! No matter the way needed.
"Gentlemen, the time for talking is past. From this moment on I am imposing military law throughout Lordearon. Let all available forces arm and prepare for battle! We march to Quel'Thalas within the week!" And I hope we will be able to make any sort of difference, he thought privately.
"I MUST insist, what has happened?!?" Alleria stated, her voice definitely worried now, elven dignity cast out. He looked at her gravelly.
"The worst that could happen. The horde..." he took a deep breath "The Horde has invaded Quel'Thalas using forces we knew nothing of. Already the southern borders have fallen." He looked at the shocked faces of the High Command. "But it is not over yet. The fight is not yet done!"
He straightened and walked briskly out of the room. "Let all make ready! We go east!!!"
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BONUS PROFILE #5
Eira Fregar Swiftblade
Birthplace: Sunshire, Azeroth
Birthdate: Autumn 572
Height: 5'6"
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Present status: Baroness of Taren Mill
Allegiances: Aerth Swiftblade, the Kingdom of Azeroth
History: Eira Fregar was born to Duke Fregar of Sunshire, a powerful lord in the Kingdom of Azeroth, and one with a rich and long family history. She was thus born with all the wealth and chances many could only dream of having, and as a child conjured the admiration and envy of many children. Although spoiled, however, her childhood was friendless, for her status forbid her from playing outside of the lofty Fregar Castle grounds.
Perhaps because of this, Eira cultivated a talent she had for manipulating the thoughts of those around her, something which allowed her to have her every fancy come to life. So grand was her life, so sheltered, that the First War seemed something inconsequential to her, and it was only when the Horde approached the Duchy of Sunshire that her life began to change. There, amongst the knights who were ordered to protect her, was a young, penniless man named Aerth Swiftblade.
Although she first dismissed him, she soon began to appreciate his unflowery gentleness and his sharp wit. He was someone who could become great. She could feel it. Was it what made her accept his outward overtures? Perhaps. Whatever it was, the wedding was celebrated in secret, and consumed shortly before Sunshire fell. The nightmare of the battle, of her family dying and of the retreat which followed would always be remembered in her mind. It was during this time that the relationship with her new husband deepened from mere whim to love. She decided to give her all to him in the hopes that he might suceed as she has predicted, and has to date used her influence to help him as much as she can.
Eira today lives in Taren Mill, and has seen her husband rise through military actions from a simple knight to a respected Baron, something she sees only as a first step. As much of her wealth was saved from the First War, her mansion is magnificient and her influence great. She has discovered recently that she was pregnant with Aerth's child, and has mixed feelings baout it. For one, she is happy to have a child, but at the same time, is it really the time to have one in the midst of the Second War?
