Chapter Thirteen: Rescues and Reactions
Late Winter 593, First Alliance Army Camp, Stromgarde
'Second Jeven company, seventy-two dead, eleven wounded. Third Jeven Company, thirty-six dead, eight wounded. Seventh Hillsbrad Company, destroyed. Sixth Havenport company, fifty-six dead, fourteen...'
With a snarl of anger, Aerth flung the whole package of paper sheaves off to the ground. It had been a bad idea, to revise the losses himself. He already knew how many he'd lost in the last engagement - the count had been precise about it: four thousand, seven hundred and sixty-two knights, footmen, archers, human, elf, dwarf killed out of the nineteen thousand eight hundred fifty-nine which had entered the battle. A fourth of his strength. Some of his best men! They were lost, and it was the kind of loss the Alliance simply couldn't afford
They had been completely fooled. Minvare, Ironhorse and he, they had been caught flat-footed in what they had thought to be a cunning sneak attack. Sixty thousand troops moving in to attack the enemy behind the lines, creating enough turmoil to finally allow the other alliance armies to seize and fortify the Land Bridges, cutting the Horde's forces off from Stromgarde and allowing - at least temporarily - the south-eastern theatre some breathing room after years of gruelling, grinding skirmishes, battles and far too many lives lost. Even that didn't mean the situation in Quel'Thalas would get any better. Indeed, if rumours were true, it had gotten much worse early this winter. However, they could have made it so that some units might have bolstered the northern defences.
But it wouldn't be. The operation had been monitored, or prepared for. Whatever the case, a great horde force had been waiting for them, fifty thousand strong, leading to a pounding battle in which they had lost seventeen thousand men. The Horde had been battered themselves - they'd left about the same number of troops on the ground. In fact, since both armies had pulled out, it could be seen as a draw. Foolishness, however, was such a thought. It has been as much as a draw as he was King of Gilneas! The Horde forces had had the upper hand all the while, and moreover had foiled the entire operation.
The worst of it was, he should have known.
He should have known something like this would happen. Hadn't he fought the First War? He had been there at the Grand Hamlet, where the royal troops of Azeroth had been cut to pieces in such an intricate plan that it showed nothing less than genius. He had taken part in the dangerous battles were tactics were pitted against tactics, with the humans losing more often than was comfortable to be reminded of. Minvare had gone through this too, although he had been a Knight already when the war had started. How could it be that they, two men who had seen the orcs at their most dangerous and cunning, could have forgotten that the orcs were just as intelligent as humans?
It had been an awful defeat, and a sobering one. However, it had awakened the old times fully for him. His plans had begun to take the shape one would have about a poor-witted enemy. No more. He kicked the reports on the unit losses to a corner of the tent and took out the most recent troop emplacements around the Land Bridges. It would be months now, before they could secure them. The Alliance had been fighting for every inch, but pushing the enemy out always. He would re-draw his plans to make things as hard for them as possible. He looked at the map, and was soon engrossed in positions, attacks and counterattacks, army strength and supply lines.
So focused had he become, that the footman had to cough and repeat himself in order to tell him that Sergeant Bram Poorglade, of the Fourth Army was here to see him. He reluctantly left his plans and told the man to let the sergeant enter.
He did, a strong-muscled, raw-faced figure of a man with brown hair and eyes, which had the steady look of one, who lived his life dangerously. The footman garb on him only managed to make him look even fiercer, beyond the youth the man obviously possessed. Dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, it seemed to Aerth that he was small and frail, but he shoved the impression away.
The sergeant saluted precisely. "You asked to see me, General?"
A nod. "I certainly did. Sergeant, if you will forgive me, how old are you?"
The other man looked at him oddly, but answered in a steady voice. "Twenty-four winters, I think sir."
"I am myself twenty-seven years of age, going into my twenty-eight. Young, many say in the High Command, to lead an army. But you know what? It seems I'm good at doing it. At leading, at building strategies. And you, sergeant, you are young as well. And yet you seemed gifted at training men."
This perplexed the footman. Aerth sympathized. As much as he had been focused on becoming a knight, he had had no intention of climbing further than that in the military hierarchy. He had had what he wanted, and nothing else really mattered. Until Eira happened along, and turned his life around, showing him he could climb higher.
He was expecting it, therefore, when the bigger man mumbled. "Sir, with respect n' all, I don't think I've got much of a gift..."
"Nonsense! I've checked the unit you lead. I don't know how you did it, but you've lost fewer men then any other perimeter force in the Jennala's army - or in MINE for that matter. Its incredible, and I want to use it."
Poorglade straightened. "I'll give you whatever help I can give, sir, you can count of me, although I can't say how effective it'll be."
Light, this respect he received sometimes made him long for the times he had been a footman or a new knight - he had had less respect, but he hadn't felt that he was someone who could humble another. Yet, now, that was what he was. It didn't fit well in his own mind.
"Well, I'm glad to hear it, sergeant." he responded easily "But I'll be gone to inspect the New Azerothian cities soon" Taren Mill! Eira!! "And will be gone a little while. Probably several weeks actually. Besides, my spare time is filled with preparing the battles. I wouldn't have the time." he paused, and then pointed at Poorglade. "YOU do."
The man didn't say anything, but his look spoke for him.
"YOU can train my footmen, Poorglade, and that's exactly why I wrestled your transfer here. I'll put you in charge of training. Pick whomever you want to help you. I know Danath is starting something similar in your old Fourth Army. I'm sure he'd love to talk to a peer."
The other man shrugged uneasily. "Sir, I don't mean no...I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I'm in no position to do that here. I'm just a sergeant."
Aerth smiled. That was something he could easily arrange, for a change. "You're quite right. Bram Poorglade, as General of the First Army and in the name of the Alliance, promote you to the rank of captain with all the army privileges due to such position, with orders to reshapes my men into the most battle-ready, most tricky fighting force you can. Think you're up to the task, Poorglade."
"Sir..." emotion and bewilderment choked him, but he regained his footing soon enough. "Sir, its extremely generous of you, but I can't take such a post. Certainly, another..."
"There is none!" Aerth answered with some heat, looking at the bigger man with narrowed eyes. "I know most people would believe it here, Poorglade, but I rose from the footman ranks, just like you. So scrap all those misguided concepts about nobility being the ones who are supposed to lead. In my army, those who can lead do. You can fight and you can train, and you certainly deserve the title of captain!"
The tirade had an effect, it seemed. The man stiffened even more, until Aerth wondered if he wouldn't see the footman explode from the sudden tension. Then there came a sigh, which seemed to resonate from Northeron to what might remain of Stormwind Keep, and the taut lines release all at once. The sergeant- no, captain! - gave a slightly shaky salute.
"Sir...I don't know if what'll do'll help at all, but if you want me to try so bad, then it won't be said Bram Poorglade turned around without trying! I'll do the best I can, general!" he said, and t last he saw something truly heartfelt in this. At last, one of his problems was on the road to a solution.
"That's all I want, captain. From now on, where it comes to training, you will answer only to me. Not even the commanders will be able to tell you what to do." he extended his hand. "Welcome to the First Army, captain Poorglade."
And when the footman - who wouldn't be a footman much longer - tentatively shook hands with him, he was sure of it: after the devastating defeat, he had needed something like this happening.
Who knew? Things might begin to look up again soon!
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Winter 593, near a secretive Horde camp, Quel'Thalas
It had been hard to locate the camp where Head Ranger Alleria was being kept. The Horde forces - which, it had been learned by a few who had escaped the orcs' tender mercies, was named the Shadow Army - had been cunning in hiding her from sight, in a smaller camp hidden in a seldom-visited vale. However, they had counted without the experience of the Rangers, who knew the Quellarei as well as they knew their heartbeat. Still, it had taken long while even for them - a testament to the Horde's tactical wisdom.
Turalyon, however, knew that finding the place was the easy part. Getting the important High Command member out of it would be as hard as it was necessary.
The near presence of larger Horde forces, he and others had agreed, dismissed any idea of a frontal assault. It would be too messy, would cost too many lives, and might end in Alleria being killed - which, while it would negate the Horde finding out anything, it would be a blow to the Alliance. They had instead chosen to fake an attack.
In moments, twenty rangers would lead a few dozen archers in a fake assault on the western side of the camp. To meet this threat, the Horde would have no choice but to send some forces, thinning the eastern guards if only for a few minutes. Alleria, of course, would remain well guarded - they had no illusion on this. It would be their job to find a way to fight through to her, and then back.
This was an important mission - nay, a vital one - and so Turalyon had insisted to lead the rescue party himself. No one had been able to dissuade him, not even High General Lothar. As important as Turalyon was, Alleria's loss might cause the elves to leave the Alliance. He had to prevent this at any cost - even his own life.
And so he was there, surrounded by ten hand-picked paladins and twenty elven rangers, hiding in the trees and waiting for the sign of the attack taking place. He looked at the elf perched gracefully next to him.
"Any change?" he whispered.
"No," was the cold reply "If you didn't breathe so loud, I'd probably hear things in more detail though."
This was simply another jibe directed as the inherent clumsiness elves attributed to humans. In order to move quickly and nimbly enough, Turalyon and the other paladins had shed any armour, only keeping their large warhammer strapped on their back. Even without the jingling and creaking of an heavy plate mail, however, they couldn't hope to moves as fast or as precisely as the rangers - something the elite elves never wasted a moment in reminding their human partners.
However, he hadn't come here to start a fight with allies - no matter how aloof and impolite they were. "Just make sure you tell us when its time to move, for-"
"Its the signal." The elf said, "The howl has cried it. Let us go." and he was off the tree.
Oaths to the Alliance, Oaths to the Order of the Silverhand, to the King of Lordaeron and the Knighthood he had come from stopped Turalyon in his movement to tear the elf's head off. Damn the ranger and their snobbish ways! His ire increased even more when he saw the other rangers moving after the first, leaving behind ten befuddled paladins. Containing his irritation, he signalled them to follow, unstrapping his warhammer.
"Whatever folly brought us to try and save these cold bastards?" he muttered. Immediately he chastised himself for the very thought. Many elven civilians had been killed in the Horde onslaught, many villages evacuated, acres upon acres of ancient forests destroyed. He had no right in thinking the way he did. Despite this, however, he still grumbled.
Two orcs guarded the perimeter of the side of the camp they were intent upon entering. With hardly a whisper of movement, two rangers nocked arrows and let loose on them, killing them before they could even know an enemy was present. Beyond the area, sounds of battle were heard, and it seemed from the shuffling and cries that the Horde had indeed been convinced that an actual attack was under way, for all they saw were hurried orcs and a few trolls leaping to join in the battle.
They almost made it to the tent where Alleria was kept. Almost.
However, as they came upon it, a cry was heard from many throats and a band of orcs and trolls came upon their party like the fury of a storm.
There was no time for a battle plan. Both sides acted, as they knew best. The trolls threw their axes, cutting into their ranks, while the elves let loose a volley and Turalyon led his paladins head on with the orcs. Both sides clashed in the melee as the general who was the aide to High General Lothar himself faced a large greenskin. A powerful blow from the grunt's axe was turned aside, and as he repelled the attack and smoothly continued the motion, bringing the heavy metal part of his warhammer right into the neck of the enemy, killing him instantly with the sheer force of the blow.
The Horde band had been barely a dozen members, quickly overwhelmed, but the cost had been high nonetheless. One paladin lay unmoving, his body twitching as the head rested a few feet away, another was wounded, and he saw that some of the rangers swayed. Without hesitation, he went to the side of one of the elves, and placed his hands on the largest wound, calling upon the holy powers that Alonsus Faol and the Cleric of Northshire in the Haven of the Hand had taught him. He saw others of his brethren doing the same, and within moments, wounds were healing, and most of the group was moving again. The dead were left behind - the mission had to come first.
"We've got no choice, men!" he hissed. "I'm sure the guard heard us! We have to overwhelm them and take Alleria with us quickly, or we'll be done for when larger parts of the garrison come to investigate!"
Nobody argued about that. They all went in quickly, silence cast to the wind, hoping to catch the guards off-guard against all hopes.
Their hopes were dashed when the guards engaged them in front of the tent, bringing with them a dozen more reinforcements. Knowing that this was the only chance they would have of freeing - or, at the worst, killing - the High Command member, all of the rescue party threw themselves into the fight with abandon.
Warhammers and arrows clashed against axes, throwing axes and fists as both sides entered a bloody melee that a small part of Turalyon's brain knew should have brought a good deal of the garrison down on them. That none came would have caused concern in a normal situation, but that detail was mostly forgotten in the middle of the fierce fight. He squared off against two grunts, and using all of his priestly-powers and training as a knight managed to kill them both, while sustaining grave wounds he knew would have to be healed quickly. Still he plunged back into the fray, his mind so focused upon the fighting that he became one with the clashes, oaths and screams, as well as the coppery smell of blood.
Finally the path was clear in front of him, and without thinking he dashed into the tent where Alleria was supposed to be kept.
"That, in all of my centuries, was certainly the noisiest attempt at rescue I have ever heard about. I wonder if I should be glad or ashamed that it was made to rescue me." a cold voice told him with a tinge of amusement.
There, in a steel cage in the middle of the tent, was Alleria. She didn't wear a cloak, her garb had seen better days and her hair was dirty and wild, but beneath all the grime she looked back at him with unflinching eyes. He felt relieved. Those eyes were not ones from a broken spirit - and that meant she hadn't talked.
"Whatever the case, you are safe now." he answered, tired of elven snobbism. With a mighty swing he crushed the lock of the cell and opened it. "I suggest we go before this rescue attempt goes from noisy to desperate."
It wasn't until the survivors - less than half of those who had come - had scrambled back into the forest, running past bewildered returning Horde troops, that the reality of things made itself manifest in the paladin's mind: the attempt had been too hasty, uncoordinated, quite bungled. Yet it had succeeded rather easily.
It wasn't normal. It shouldn't have happened at all.
Were they all played for fools?
But then how? And more importantly, why?
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Spring 594, Northern Shores of Darrowmere Lake, Quel'Thalas
It was cold, despite the year slowly advancing. All around, snow still caked the land here and there, although the ice covering the water had mostly melted back into its liquid form. Inside the elven woods, one barely noticed the change of season, and he knew that the Thandol Valley and the land bridges was an area where cold did not seem to ever truly exist. Here, however, winter's grim hand could still be felt surging through his robes.
But Gul'Dan was an orc, and he had none of the petty sensibilities that the humans and the elves seemed to share. His skin was that of a being who had grown on Dreanor, where changes in temperature were swift and often extreme. There, one learned to endure the weather, to forget it even, lest he be rendered impotent or mad.
But even if had been as frail as a human, even if he had felt the cold as cruelly as an elf would, he would never have noticed. For one of his goals was now at the limit of his vision, a dark patch on the blue of the Darrowmere.
Caer Darrow, the druidic city, one of the holiest and the most protected place in the Kingdom of Quel'Thalas save for Silvermoon itself, it was said. The texts he had read showed that it had been founded long ago, by elves that adhered to a code of life, which, strangely, seemed old even as it was fading. As no records of the elves seemed to exist beyond the founding of Silvermoon, it had led Gul'Dan to believe that the so-called High Elves might have been either survivors or dissidents of an older civilization. He has found reading what was known of elven history to be quite enlightening.
Of more interest, however, were the tales translated from elven sages who had long ago helped to found the irritating Northshire Abbey and its annoying order of priests. It was said that the last great high elven druids, being forced out of existence by the new ways the people had taken, wanted to make sure that there was power those who followed what was dubbed the Kara-Dahini - the Old Way, if he'd understood it well - to tap into. With that in mind they had used their powers to erect a huge monolithic boulder, magically bonding raw druidic power to it. And so had the Runestone been created in the early days of the Kingdom, long before humans rose to dominate the continent.
He shivered, but not from the cold. Rather, he felt the energy, which came from the Runestone. Remarquable. He had only rarely felt that much power, and this power had nothing to do with the Twisting Nether. It was linked to nature, and seemed to have a relationship with it. The difference didn't truly interest him, however. All he knew was that this ancient monolith was of a power to be reckoned with, and that, with the right spells, it could be turned into the tool he would need to finally achieve the road to the gift Medhiv had promised him years before.
Booming steps resounded behind him, until they sounded like rock hitting the ground next to him. A massive, two-headed shadow loomed over him, and he raised his head and smiled almost indulgently.
"Cho'Gall. I was wondering when you would come." he told the ogre. Both heads looked pensive, until finally the left one spoke. It was the most nervous of the two, but also the one which he had the most deviousness.
"We've just heard from the camp: Alleria has been liberated from her cage by an Alliance party."
The last Warlock smiled widely at this. "Excellent! They did exactly as we wanted them to do. That's very good. We are only a few steps away from having what we want."
Cho'Gall's right head grunted. "I wouldn't mind it if it came right now. I'm getting tired of having to obey Doomhammer."
"The time will come, my friend. But we must ready our resources, before all else."
Despite the outward differences, despite the fact that Cho'Gall didn't share the bloodlust, which had raged - even if controlled - in Gul'Dan's blood ever since his pact with the demons of the Twisting Nether, the ogre chieftain of the mighty Twilight's Hammer Clan was the closest thing he had to a friend. The ogre was probably the most intelligent of his race, and this intellect - as well as a driving ambition to learn magic, making him yet the sole spellcaster in his entire race, had helped them establish a rapport. Cho'Gall had been a great supporter of Blackhand's, and an even greater supporter of the Shadow Council. When Doomhammer took control, he gave the new leader a fake oath of loyalty, and the two had since worked to overthrow the one who had usurped their rightful power.
Of course, the Warlock's plans ran deeper than control of the Horde. If the power he had been promised was real, he could do...but he was getting ahead of himself. Doomhammer was a powerful obstacle which had to be cleared, but they couldn't do it...yet.
Cho'Gall, however, didn't quite see it that way. "Why wait? Why not strike him down now, while he's focused upon defeating that mongrel Alliance. We have the support of both our clans, and Rend and Maim of the Black Tooth Grin want to come with us, as well as some units from the Blackrock-"
"And most of the Blackrock will stand by Doomhammer's side. He's their hero, the great general who brought them victory after victory in the first war we fought against the humans. And Kilrogg Deadeye will follow whoever is the Warchief, no matter who it is. Add to that the Dragonmaw, whose leader dislikes me, and numbers are still on their side! No! I say we must wait.
"For how long?" the left head asked in frustration.
At that, the bloodlust surged in his vein, and he fought it down with his calculating mind. He couldn't stop a carnal smile from crossing his greenish, tusked features. "Not much longer. After all, I have high hopes that we might be able to do...certain things...with what I have gotten the 'permission' to acquire 'for the good of the Horde.'" Sarcasm ran high in his voice as he looked again across the blue, frigid waters at the inviting and not-so distant Caer Darrow. If all went well, if he could achieve the spells and the tools he wanted from the Runestone...the Horde would soon be under his control. The Alliance would be crushed and enslaved, and then the continent brought to kneel before him.
And once this continent was conquered, he would conquer the rest of this world. And then reclaim Dreanor. And from this power base, with the powers he would control then, he could rule world after world, until he, Gul'Dan the Warlock, became the divinity of all in the universe.
His bloodlust sung and cried out at these images of slaughter and control, and he had a hard time distancing himself from that fantasy. But distancing he did, for it was fantasy still.
"My Death Knights have been probing the Island for some time." he said at last - only with Cho'Gall did he say the Death Knights were 'his'. "The elven defences there are heavy, with at least three dozen elven ships patrolling the environs. The garrison itself is also large and well armed. Although I don't doubt that our troops would prevail once they manage to set foot on solid ground, I know we will need substantial strength to defeat the naval forces."
"You're right, you're right." the Ogre's right head answered, nodding. Immediately a sly smile appeared on the left head's brutish face "There's not a bit of worry for you there, my friend. Our puppet kingdom, Alterac, has been very helpful in finding good places in which to group our warships. That is Alterac and the self-important humans who want to help us."
Gul'Dan chuckled, pleased. Humans. Even overwhelmed by superior forces, they simply couldn't unite. Even now, forces were massing for a civil war, under the very nose of those who were 'loyal' to the 'cause of the Alliance'. What nonsense. But if it helped his goals, he had no problem in letting fools entertain possibilities.
"Very good. Four weeks. At most. And then we strike. I don't want to wait any longer for this chance." he told Cho'Gall.
After all, much like the deluded 'Grand League', he had his own dreams of power. He too was ready to manipulate anyone and use any means to gain what was rightfully is. Unlike them, however, he WOULD succeed.
He was Gul'Dan, the last Warlock.
Nothing could ever remain in the way of his manifest destiny!
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 594, Taren Mill, New Azeroth
Eira was held in Aerth's embrace implacably, and had no intention of being anywhere else. The kisses and hugs they were sharing had come from long months of separation - which, even if necessary, had been hard for her in the end. And from the strength of his embrace, he hadn't been very positive about his own feelings on the matter either.
"Eira...its so good to see you again." he said in a voice he had used so often when they had met. It was a voice that still had innocence despite the grim events. It was a voice that had all but faded away these days, in the many letters he sent her. The feel was gone, replaced by a harder voice, which, although still loving and fond, was increasingly harder. It was good to hear that this remnants of that innocence remained.
"I am very glad to see you as well, Aerth." she answered. Proper, always proper. It was the way she had been raised, after all. He, however, had been the son of simple merchants to begin with, and showed more commonly manners when he lifted her chin and kissed her, this time far more deeply than was necessary, especially in the middle of a hall where any servant could see their lord kissing their lady as if in some...some common reel!
Still, she didn't disengage herself. Her inbred instincts suffocated with outrage, but her feelings were warm and welcoming. She tightened her grip around her husband's waist as he plunged a hand into her hair. Neither was thinking quite straight, and Eira didn't know how far they would have gotten be fore reaching the bedroom - she was later to wonder if they would have reached it at all! - if an older voice hadn't cracked the scene, dripping with amused sarcasm.
"I see that Aerth Swiftblade has his old pa's taste for showing women his affections directly!" it said.
Aerth disengaged as if lightning had struck him. His gaze was sheepish but unrepentant as he looked down the hall at an older woman with grey hair who looked at them both in her turn, eyes bright. He grinned a rakish grin. "Aunt Mallie. The Light blind me if it isn't!" he crowed
"The day the Light blinds a Swiftblade when he looks at someone is the day the whole world'll mourn, that's for certain. Now how about you let your claws off the poor woman - she's had some hard months because of you, you lout! - and let me get a good look at you!"
Aerth laughed, and it seemed to Eira that similar scenes had been played between the two over the years, for he bowed and sighed dramatically as he came to stand before her, even turned around with a wry grin, all the while with the older lady tapping her foot and looking on in mock criticism.
"So," he said "Do I look fine enough for you?"
"You certainly look better without all that armour on you." she grunted, and then really smiled "Other then that, you look lots like your father Cerlig - and that's a pretty coin for my tastes!"
He grinned at that, and the impression that he was a general in the Alliance army seemed to recede. For a few brief moments, Eira saw the young man who had caused mischief and pestered the knights in Moonbrooke for tales and treats. She had never seen that seeing too many people die had already scarred face - the one she had met.
And then, Mallie, probably not knowing how Aerth's mood would be affected by it, spoke the news which Eira had reserved for much later, when they were alone, the baby had been seen, and he was relaxed enough to know of it. "You're a fair sight better than that cold run-of-the-jock Lord Duraz who was here the other day."
The youngish face faded at once, clamping down like a clam from the Kul Tiran shores, the features hardening until they became the ones of the general. She understood that the comment had rung many alarm bells in his mind, for when he looked at her, his gaze was both fierce and worried.
"He was here? Silphord Duraz?" he asked, his eyes burning. She knew that honesty was the only way to answer that matter, and so she nodded. His mouth compressed into a thin line. "That...fiend...can't he leave us alone? Can't he accept things for what they are?!?" his voice grew both in anger and worry as he spoke. Mallie looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. She who had been his wife for many years knew that it was an as far from the case as it could be.
During the First War, her father had considered Silphord Duraz. Handsome, wealthy, of high blood, he seemed perfect in her parents' eyes. But she had disliked him immediately. He was arrogant, self-serving and had a way of looking at her, a light in his eyes when she came close to him that never made her feel safe. That was part of the reason she had latched to Aerth at first - to be away from this strange man. Her father had finally recognized this as Sunshire was falling, and gave them both his blessings, sealing the illicit marriage she and the young knight had done legal.
Ever since the day he had learned of the truth and came to confront them, there had been an emnity between the husband she had chosen and loved and the one whom she was supposed to have married. Aerth was certain - as she was - that his command was supposed to fail at at Zul'Dare. Aerth should have been defeated, from what she'd gleaned, but instead he returned with a stunning victory. It seems this had only increased the sarcasm and the vehemence between the two.
But today, of all days, she didn't want to think of Silphord Duraz or his strange eyes. She walked to Aerth, giving the older woman a look. "Do not worry about this, my love. Lord Duraz only came for bitter felicitations. I can endure his unpleasant presence. But you...you have something much more important than an hostile noble to see." she gave him a wide smile at that "Come and meet your firstborn."
That more than suited his taste, she saw with relief, and so she quickly coaxed him towards the room she intended while Mallie, not knowing the exact nature of her foul-up but knowing it better to further diffuse the situation, walked alongside them and chatted pleasantly, recalling old times as they wandered the halls of their home. Bare walls, mostly - aside from his fortune, her father had sent little else north. Although she had used it to furnish the mansion to give it a good look, she hadn't wanted to waste so much money when it was direly needed for the war effort. Besides, she had confidence that, one day soon, people like her husband would reclaim Azeroth.
They entered the spartan room, with clear grey walls and only one window of which thick woollen curtains hid the light and cold. A candle stand burned, left no doubt by a servant, and he took it in hand as they walked to their boy.
The little one, owing to the still-cold air, was dressed in heavy wool garments and covered in blankets, with only a small, pink face and a small pudgy hand showing. He whimpered softly and then sapped with his tongue, going still again in a dream state of pure innocence. She could watch him forever. But she gave a look at her husband nonetheless; to find his face alight with a pride and a joy he certainly hadn't felt much if at all, out there commanding thousands.
"What is his name, Eira?" he asked softly, removing a glove tentatively.
"Veran." she answered. "It was my grandfather's name. He was kind and generous, and I thought it would be fair to honour him this way."
He nodded, the light in his face only strengthening. "Veran it is then. Veran Swiftblade.... my son." he whispered, gently brushing trembling fingers on the little head. "I've seen so much death, sent so many people to their graves. I'm glad to see that, somewhere along the line, I've been able to accomplish...life."
She didn't know what to answer to that. Seeing his look, she decided not to bother. She doubted he would hear anything. Slowly she returned to the door of the room. She wanted to remain with her child, wanted to have the company of her husband, but she also wanted to leave the two men she loved these moments to be acquainted to one another for the first time. At the door, she found Mallie, who was looking who looked at the man and the baby and nodded.
"He can still look at innocence like that." she told her, old eyes clear and yet introspective "It gives one hope, it does."
"Of what?" she inquired, although she had an idea of what the woman meant.
"I think that if Aerth Swiftblade can still look at his child with love, then it means that the war hasn't destroyed him. It has wounded him, but not destroyed him. And that gives me much hope for our chances in this terrible, terrible war."
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 594, Whitefort Castle, Lordaeron
King Seramus Terenas had never been much of a warrior. He had been born to a realm at peace, under the benevolent and powerful Pact of Stormwind, which all nations had signed centuries ago, ushering in unprecedented peace and prosperity to a continent that had seen to much warfare. Bandits were a mere nuisance, and beasts had long been hunted out of the kingdom's central province by an army, which no longer had much to do. He had been bookish, preferring to study literature than swords, philosophy rather than hunting. His father had been puzzled by it, but had given him a lenient eye. After all, the peace had lasted for decades, with no sign of abating.
However, war had come back. And Terenas had had to learn an art he had never liked nor ever been interested in. It was thus with irritation that he spoke to those respected men around him.
"If I am clear about your words, lord Lothar." he mused grimly. "Then you are saying that we are facing a troop of enemy soldiers of equal if not superior potency to our own, who outnumber us by a factor from eight to ten. Said troops are ravaging much of Quel'Thalas and sitting next to my nations eastern borders, and we cannot expect much reinforcements from the southern forces. Did I summarize the situation adequately?"
Many men had flinched our paled before one of Terenas' narrowed, shrewd gazes. Lothar, however, returned it with one of his own. He was not someone who backed down from anyone. It was one of the many traits, which actually endeared the Regent of Azeroth to the middle-aged king.
"You have understood correctly." he waved around the room. "As, I'm certain, everyone else has. Indeed, King Terenas, the Alliance stands on very slippery footing, faced with a fearsome enemy. However, we are not fallen just yet. Quel'Thalas is suffering, and I am grieved by the knowledge that these ancient lands are in jeopardy. However, as ungentle as this may sound, we can take the time with which they attack the elves to strengthen ourselves."
"I don't like the sound of that much." The elderly Alonsus Faol, who had already become a religious icon not only to his paladins but also to the whole Alliance, sighed in sadness. "The Alliance is a union of three races - elves, humans and dwarves, something which has never quite happened. Do you mean to say we will turn our backs on one to preserve the other two."
Lothar nodded, not showing discomfort. "If it necessary, we will. I think, however, that they won't destroy the elven queendom. Small human bands have been harassing them, trying to slow them down. If we could just hold things for a little while..."
"...they could then be stirred in this direction." the Muradin Bronzebeard, a stocky, well-mannered Dwarf acting as ambassador to Khaz Modan noted. "Aye, I can see that. Pretty big gamble."
"Perhaps too big." Silphord Duraz told them. Everyone eyed him, and he smiled thinly. "I am not saying we should simply lay down out arms, but think on this: we cannot raise an army of four hundred thousand men in the few weeks, perhaps months that we have. Even if we managed this feat, that army would never have the necessary equipment and experience to defeat them head-on."
"At least we managed to recover Alleria." Varien Wrynn said.
"How is she?"
"Recuperating in Silvermoon. She was shaken far worse than she let on, it seems. But the important point is that she will recover in time."
Terenas nodded, grateful for the news. The elves had been noticeably reluctant, increasingly so as the war went on. They didn't want to commit such massive amount of resources to war, necessary though they might be. High Ranger Alleria's capture had made them skittish, and only Turalyon's success had made them reconsider rescinding their pledge to the Alliance. The very thought was enough to cause him to lose sleep at night. A year and a half ago his much younger wife had given birth to a son, a miracle in itself. But without the elves, would the Alliance be able to leave Arthas with his young life intact, let alone a kingdom to rule?
His throat was dry. Absent-mindedly he called for the wine steward and idly proffered his ornate, gold-incrusted drinking cup for filling. Wine, yes, good Stromgardian wine would put his mind back into focus. The war was taking too much out of him. He wasn't a warrior like Lothar or the generals. He didn't have the faith of the priests and paladins, or even the arcane insight of the sorcerers. He was, however, the King of Loerdaeron, and he would see this through for his son, his throne and his people. It sometimes felt, however, that he had nothing to offer the men and women who made up the thinking of the Alliance High Command.
"Light! He's magically possessed! Get Terenas away from there!"
Terenas didn't have time to realize the importance and signification of the comment, for as he swung his head towards the startled cry, someone reached for him and tore him out of his chair with an iron grip thrusting him away. Dazed, he looked to see that Lothar was holding him by the arm, and pushing him away as guards came to surround them. Pushing him away from...the wine steward?
"What...?" he began, but then he saw the steward and understood.
The man stood stiff, in the throes of what seemed to be titanic forces. His face was red; his eyes revulsed and bleeding, as was his nose and mouth. He shook as a piece of paper on breeze, the suffering evident. On one side, the king saw the archbishop looking grim, eyes closed, lips moving in a silent chant. At last, the eyes seemed to focus, and the tortured mouth took on a terrible smirk.
Of to the side, Kel'Thuzad, the ambassador to the Kirin Tor of Dalaran, was fixing an intrigued gaze upon this new development. Given his reputation in wishing to comprehend necromancy and its inner workings, the powerful mage's reaction wasn't surprising.
Terenas couldn't push his way past Lothar and the Knights whom had taken position all around him, but he managed to let himself be seen. "Who are you?" he asked to what was no longer one of his faithful servants.
"An inquisitive question, King of Lordaeron." the possessed man replied in strange, disembodied tones "I am an agent of the Horde, let us say. But if you wish my name well...call me Teron...Teron Gorefiend, first of Gul'Dan's death knights."
"Death Knights? So the rumours I heard were true..." Kel'Thuzad muttered.
Terenas ignored him. "What sick game has made you take control of one of my servants? If you think that this show will deter us, you are sadly mistaken, sir!" he replied, perhaps a bit too hotly. The smirk widened into a smile.
"It is inevitable. Your armies in the south are bogged down. The elves are failing fast. You have no forces able to stand against our northern forces. Your Alliance has failed!" the visage calmed into what Terenas saw as well-fabricated sympathy. "However, you have shown the Horde a good fight. Gul'Dan would spare you. Surrender to the Horde, and your people will be left living, although under our servitude!"
"NEVER!" Lothar growled "I have seen these false words in my homeland. False treaties, false hopes, always to gain one little bit more advantage on our king. It will not happen here. Our forces are still potent, the capital of Lordaeron still stands! United, our people will drive you back, on my oath!"
The being that possessed the poor man laughed. "United! Yes, that is what you see - a united people! However-" his words were cut off as he choked out an ethereal scream, being enveloped by magical energy emanating from the archbishop. The body twitched, eyes going blank, and it fell hard on the ground. The priest's shoulders slumped slightly as he walked towards the steward.
"Forgive me, but this man's body could no longer take the strain. I had to act."
Terenas gave a look to the prone form. "It seems our enemies are confident of our defeat." he sighed.
"They shouldn't be." Lothar muttered. "From what I've just heard, they shouldn't be." a strange fire now burned into the Alliance High General's eyes. When asked by the others what he meant, however, he simply told them "If my hopes are not cheated, we will see."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Spring 594, Great Eyries, Northeron
"Majesty, the lords and leaders and the Alliance cannot wait indefinitely." Illadan said in a voice that had lost much of its confidence in the tedious months. "The war goes on even as we speak. Who knows what damages the Horde is doing to our lands. We need your help in all haste!"
"Aye, so I've heard." the Eyrie-Lord of Lords, Arken Steelwing, responded almost negligently. "I'm not saying there be no truth to it. But my advisors keep getting divided. I'm waiting to see which way the wind blows."
Illadan was a noble lord of Silvermoon, used to the lengthy ways of the elves. Moreover, he was an experienced soldier, part of the Rangers, the elite forces serving the queen. He knew about wait, about being patient. He was a firm believer that one could convince anyone of anything if only he or she tried enough times. However, he was starting to give up hope about this one.
"Ironforge is under siege. Human realms are at war after centuries of peace and good intentions. Surely you would wish to preserve all this?" he asked, spent from yet another fruitless meeting. All around the Eyrie Lord of Lords, other dwarves were seated, all looking rather bored. They blinked at him for a moment, and then many turned to each other.
'Peace amongst the human nations? Since when?'
'Who cares what happens to Ironforge. We' got our own problems around here!'
'Aye! Wyrms attacked an Eyrie in the west. We'll have to hunt the bunch off.'
'My wife makes the best apple pie. Ye should try it. The key, she always says, is the amount of sugar you pour just before cooking.'
Illadan mildly wondered how many he could kill with his arrows before they even noticed he was still standing there. Knowing them as he did, he surmised quite a few. The need was becoming manifest, and the reason was easy enough to ascertain. However, he decided not to kill anyone. He saw himself as a person who could hold his own counsel, and his peace, when need be. He was a person who wanted peace and who loathed violence.
Besides, he didn't have his bow and quiver right now and thus would never be satisfied by the few dwarves he manage to throttle before being taken. Still, the fantasy helped him restrain himself as he spoke again, evenly.
"The peoples of Quel'Thalas and Northeron have been friends for many centuries. Our people are in need. Will you not assist us?"
The Lord of Lords shook his bearded head. "We've no problem with helpin' Quel'Thalas and yer queen. However, its not quite under attack itself. Ye chose to take part. Our pact may tell us to help you if your lands were invaded, but nothing around your borders."
"The human lands be the concern of humans. But none of ours." an elderly advisor told them all, and then fell silent. The muttering grey again. Continuous. Negligent. Futile. Illadan was finally starting to reach the end of his patience. His anger and disappointment rose, and yet he couldn't speak. He wanted to give all those dwarves, who seemed to care even less than his own council in Silvermoon, a few pieces of what reality was like, but he had a feeling his arguments might end with said dwarves being throttled.
The worst of it all was, the Alliance probably could have become an even more potent force, able to fully meet the Horde on equal terms, if this kind of attitude hadn't had to be stamped out ridiculously slowly, slowing down the war effort, and now costing them all far too many lives in what had seemed an endless stalemate when he left. He wasn't in any mood to start dealing with such blindness again.
Thus, keeping his face placid, he concluded his meeting with the Lord of Lords politely, bowed and used all the good forms of address, and gracefully swept out of the stone room. Of course, as soon as he was out, he couldn't help but stalk, barely kept him for growling things about dwarves that wouldn't be quite healthy in a large dwarven stronghold as this.
The Grand Eyrie, one had to admit, was just about impregnable, built high on the side of one of Northeron's highest peaks. That made the Gryphons-riding dwarves a rather secure race, especially since no dragons had lived there for a long time. However, that height and feeling of invulnerability had made them aloof towards the outside world. And this was quickly becoming a problem he didn't feel like solving.
He entered the private chambers the dwarves had set aside for him and Sylvanas - a rather airy place, thank the Light. As usual, the brown-haired ranger waited for him there. Although she had helped him in the initial stages of the discussions, Sylvanas had soon found herself running out of patience for the intricate politics and double-talk. She was much more the traveller than he was, and so she had taken to exploring the area, or staying in the room endlessly playing on her rare ivory flute.
She was only looking at it instead of playing it. He mourned that -the sweet sound of elven music would bring him a sense of the deep green woods of Quel'Thalas, something he sorely needed now.
"No luck, eh?" was all she said. He was so tired that he didn't quite catch her tone.
"Indeed, none." he grunted, "Those who say that we elves are stubborn and fickle have never met these people!"
"Then I suggest we go." she stated, her toneless voice vibrating over the stone walls. His ears didn't miss it this time, fatigue or not. There was no mistaking that voice. Something was terribly wrong.
"What is it?" he asked. She still wouldn't answer. "Saralai, what is wrong?" he asked again, more forcefully.
Finally she turned her classic visage to him, and he almost recoiled from the grief and the horror he saw imbedded in her features. It looked for all the world as if something had struck a blow into her very souls, and had left it drained. He wondered, for a few moments, about what could have happened, but his scattered musings were cut short when she soundlessly handed him the Cal'chan, the magical amulet that allowed them to receive magically-sent messages of great importance. He suddenly felt as cold as the exterior weather must have been, taking it in hand and closing his eyes, waiting, dreading what the message might be.
It was short and to the point, and told him all he needed to know: 'The Horde has attacked and overwhelmed our southern borders. Our armies have lost many day-spans of forest to them already. We call upon all warriors who receive this message to gather as many of their brethren as they can. Silvermoon is in danger. Quel'Thalas is in peril. Come swiftly.'
The message ended, he opened his eyes, and fixed upon his life-mate a look which most certainly mirrored her own. The Queendom actually attacked directly. It had never entered his mind that it would be, certainly not so soon. The front had been so far away. Had it shattered utterly? If it had, all may well be lost. If the combined forces of the human nations, the dwarves of Ironforge and Quel'Thalas hadn't managed to hold the Horde back, what could ever be done? For a long moment, he wallowed in endless despair.
And then he shook it off. Illadan had always had a reckless and stubborn streak in him, and now it was showing itself. He refused to believe that they would be defeated even then. And even if they were...even if the end came...
"You are right. We must go and fight with our people." he looked around the room "How sad...all these months for nothing. I...I'll go tell the king that we must leave. I'll leave him the Cal'chan. Maybe...maybe they'll reconsider, or at least shorten their talks upon knowing of this." He had little hopes presently, however.
Sylvanas simply rose and put a hand on his shoulder gently. "We will return. One day. And we will convince them together. I know that I might not have shown it enough, but I believe in what you tried to do here."
Small comfort indeed. But it would have to do for now, it seemed. He gave her a forced smile. She returned it.
And then, silently, the two began to pack things for a swift return home, hoping to be there to help save it in time.
______________________________
BONUS PROFILE #7
Sylphord Duraz
Birthplace: Miredale, Azeroth
Birthdate: Summer 561
Height: 5'9"
Hair: Deep Brown
Eyes: Chestnut
Present status:(overtly) Duke of the Hillsbrad Lowhills, General of the Third Alliance Army, Member of the Alliance High Command (covertly) Leader of the Compact
Allegiances: (overtly) The Light, Azeroth, the Alliance (covertly) The Compact, Himself
History: Sylphord Duraz was born into a life of luxury, descended from a long line of wealthy noblemen in the northeast of the Kingdom of Azeroth. His father, the late Duke of the Miredale Plains, died when he was but seventeen, leaving the young man with wealth and prestige from 578 onward. Sylphord wanted more, however, much more. He enlisted into the knighthood for added prestige, and there soon made a name for himself.
During the First War, Sylphord was found to be a magnificent strategist, and thus increased his renown. However, this didn't stop him from being dealt a blow to his plan - Eira Fregar, sole heir of the highly influential family, was to be his bride according to a well-meshed scheme he had of gathering support to eventually mount a coup against King Llane. However, to his outrage, she married a young, penniless knight named Aerth Swiftblade, who has since then risen far. To add insult to injury, Swiftblade has since revealed himself to being an even better general and strategist than Duraz himself.
Duraz has not forgotten those two and plans to get his due one way or another from the both of them. However, this is not his main plot. His main plan is much more far-reaching: He plans to take the crown of Azeroth by eliminating Lothar, the sole surviving royal Varien Wrynn, and then, with others, form a great Hegemony to bring back glory such as the long-gone Arathorian Empire which ruled all of humanity long ago.
Outwardly a loyal Alliance soldier, Duraz is bidding his time, waiting for a chance and surrounded by shady allies from many nations. One can only imagine the grief this man will bring if he ever put his ideas into action.
Late Winter 593, First Alliance Army Camp, Stromgarde
'Second Jeven company, seventy-two dead, eleven wounded. Third Jeven Company, thirty-six dead, eight wounded. Seventh Hillsbrad Company, destroyed. Sixth Havenport company, fifty-six dead, fourteen...'
With a snarl of anger, Aerth flung the whole package of paper sheaves off to the ground. It had been a bad idea, to revise the losses himself. He already knew how many he'd lost in the last engagement - the count had been precise about it: four thousand, seven hundred and sixty-two knights, footmen, archers, human, elf, dwarf killed out of the nineteen thousand eight hundred fifty-nine which had entered the battle. A fourth of his strength. Some of his best men! They were lost, and it was the kind of loss the Alliance simply couldn't afford
They had been completely fooled. Minvare, Ironhorse and he, they had been caught flat-footed in what they had thought to be a cunning sneak attack. Sixty thousand troops moving in to attack the enemy behind the lines, creating enough turmoil to finally allow the other alliance armies to seize and fortify the Land Bridges, cutting the Horde's forces off from Stromgarde and allowing - at least temporarily - the south-eastern theatre some breathing room after years of gruelling, grinding skirmishes, battles and far too many lives lost. Even that didn't mean the situation in Quel'Thalas would get any better. Indeed, if rumours were true, it had gotten much worse early this winter. However, they could have made it so that some units might have bolstered the northern defences.
But it wouldn't be. The operation had been monitored, or prepared for. Whatever the case, a great horde force had been waiting for them, fifty thousand strong, leading to a pounding battle in which they had lost seventeen thousand men. The Horde had been battered themselves - they'd left about the same number of troops on the ground. In fact, since both armies had pulled out, it could be seen as a draw. Foolishness, however, was such a thought. It has been as much as a draw as he was King of Gilneas! The Horde forces had had the upper hand all the while, and moreover had foiled the entire operation.
The worst of it was, he should have known.
He should have known something like this would happen. Hadn't he fought the First War? He had been there at the Grand Hamlet, where the royal troops of Azeroth had been cut to pieces in such an intricate plan that it showed nothing less than genius. He had taken part in the dangerous battles were tactics were pitted against tactics, with the humans losing more often than was comfortable to be reminded of. Minvare had gone through this too, although he had been a Knight already when the war had started. How could it be that they, two men who had seen the orcs at their most dangerous and cunning, could have forgotten that the orcs were just as intelligent as humans?
It had been an awful defeat, and a sobering one. However, it had awakened the old times fully for him. His plans had begun to take the shape one would have about a poor-witted enemy. No more. He kicked the reports on the unit losses to a corner of the tent and took out the most recent troop emplacements around the Land Bridges. It would be months now, before they could secure them. The Alliance had been fighting for every inch, but pushing the enemy out always. He would re-draw his plans to make things as hard for them as possible. He looked at the map, and was soon engrossed in positions, attacks and counterattacks, army strength and supply lines.
So focused had he become, that the footman had to cough and repeat himself in order to tell him that Sergeant Bram Poorglade, of the Fourth Army was here to see him. He reluctantly left his plans and told the man to let the sergeant enter.
He did, a strong-muscled, raw-faced figure of a man with brown hair and eyes, which had the steady look of one, who lived his life dangerously. The footman garb on him only managed to make him look even fiercer, beyond the youth the man obviously possessed. Dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, it seemed to Aerth that he was small and frail, but he shoved the impression away.
The sergeant saluted precisely. "You asked to see me, General?"
A nod. "I certainly did. Sergeant, if you will forgive me, how old are you?"
The other man looked at him oddly, but answered in a steady voice. "Twenty-four winters, I think sir."
"I am myself twenty-seven years of age, going into my twenty-eight. Young, many say in the High Command, to lead an army. But you know what? It seems I'm good at doing it. At leading, at building strategies. And you, sergeant, you are young as well. And yet you seemed gifted at training men."
This perplexed the footman. Aerth sympathized. As much as he had been focused on becoming a knight, he had had no intention of climbing further than that in the military hierarchy. He had had what he wanted, and nothing else really mattered. Until Eira happened along, and turned his life around, showing him he could climb higher.
He was expecting it, therefore, when the bigger man mumbled. "Sir, with respect n' all, I don't think I've got much of a gift..."
"Nonsense! I've checked the unit you lead. I don't know how you did it, but you've lost fewer men then any other perimeter force in the Jennala's army - or in MINE for that matter. Its incredible, and I want to use it."
Poorglade straightened. "I'll give you whatever help I can give, sir, you can count of me, although I can't say how effective it'll be."
Light, this respect he received sometimes made him long for the times he had been a footman or a new knight - he had had less respect, but he hadn't felt that he was someone who could humble another. Yet, now, that was what he was. It didn't fit well in his own mind.
"Well, I'm glad to hear it, sergeant." he responded easily "But I'll be gone to inspect the New Azerothian cities soon" Taren Mill! Eira!! "And will be gone a little while. Probably several weeks actually. Besides, my spare time is filled with preparing the battles. I wouldn't have the time." he paused, and then pointed at Poorglade. "YOU do."
The man didn't say anything, but his look spoke for him.
"YOU can train my footmen, Poorglade, and that's exactly why I wrestled your transfer here. I'll put you in charge of training. Pick whomever you want to help you. I know Danath is starting something similar in your old Fourth Army. I'm sure he'd love to talk to a peer."
The other man shrugged uneasily. "Sir, I don't mean no...I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I'm in no position to do that here. I'm just a sergeant."
Aerth smiled. That was something he could easily arrange, for a change. "You're quite right. Bram Poorglade, as General of the First Army and in the name of the Alliance, promote you to the rank of captain with all the army privileges due to such position, with orders to reshapes my men into the most battle-ready, most tricky fighting force you can. Think you're up to the task, Poorglade."
"Sir..." emotion and bewilderment choked him, but he regained his footing soon enough. "Sir, its extremely generous of you, but I can't take such a post. Certainly, another..."
"There is none!" Aerth answered with some heat, looking at the bigger man with narrowed eyes. "I know most people would believe it here, Poorglade, but I rose from the footman ranks, just like you. So scrap all those misguided concepts about nobility being the ones who are supposed to lead. In my army, those who can lead do. You can fight and you can train, and you certainly deserve the title of captain!"
The tirade had an effect, it seemed. The man stiffened even more, until Aerth wondered if he wouldn't see the footman explode from the sudden tension. Then there came a sigh, which seemed to resonate from Northeron to what might remain of Stormwind Keep, and the taut lines release all at once. The sergeant- no, captain! - gave a slightly shaky salute.
"Sir...I don't know if what'll do'll help at all, but if you want me to try so bad, then it won't be said Bram Poorglade turned around without trying! I'll do the best I can, general!" he said, and t last he saw something truly heartfelt in this. At last, one of his problems was on the road to a solution.
"That's all I want, captain. From now on, where it comes to training, you will answer only to me. Not even the commanders will be able to tell you what to do." he extended his hand. "Welcome to the First Army, captain Poorglade."
And when the footman - who wouldn't be a footman much longer - tentatively shook hands with him, he was sure of it: after the devastating defeat, he had needed something like this happening.
Who knew? Things might begin to look up again soon!
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Winter 593, near a secretive Horde camp, Quel'Thalas
It had been hard to locate the camp where Head Ranger Alleria was being kept. The Horde forces - which, it had been learned by a few who had escaped the orcs' tender mercies, was named the Shadow Army - had been cunning in hiding her from sight, in a smaller camp hidden in a seldom-visited vale. However, they had counted without the experience of the Rangers, who knew the Quellarei as well as they knew their heartbeat. Still, it had taken long while even for them - a testament to the Horde's tactical wisdom.
Turalyon, however, knew that finding the place was the easy part. Getting the important High Command member out of it would be as hard as it was necessary.
The near presence of larger Horde forces, he and others had agreed, dismissed any idea of a frontal assault. It would be too messy, would cost too many lives, and might end in Alleria being killed - which, while it would negate the Horde finding out anything, it would be a blow to the Alliance. They had instead chosen to fake an attack.
In moments, twenty rangers would lead a few dozen archers in a fake assault on the western side of the camp. To meet this threat, the Horde would have no choice but to send some forces, thinning the eastern guards if only for a few minutes. Alleria, of course, would remain well guarded - they had no illusion on this. It would be their job to find a way to fight through to her, and then back.
This was an important mission - nay, a vital one - and so Turalyon had insisted to lead the rescue party himself. No one had been able to dissuade him, not even High General Lothar. As important as Turalyon was, Alleria's loss might cause the elves to leave the Alliance. He had to prevent this at any cost - even his own life.
And so he was there, surrounded by ten hand-picked paladins and twenty elven rangers, hiding in the trees and waiting for the sign of the attack taking place. He looked at the elf perched gracefully next to him.
"Any change?" he whispered.
"No," was the cold reply "If you didn't breathe so loud, I'd probably hear things in more detail though."
This was simply another jibe directed as the inherent clumsiness elves attributed to humans. In order to move quickly and nimbly enough, Turalyon and the other paladins had shed any armour, only keeping their large warhammer strapped on their back. Even without the jingling and creaking of an heavy plate mail, however, they couldn't hope to moves as fast or as precisely as the rangers - something the elite elves never wasted a moment in reminding their human partners.
However, he hadn't come here to start a fight with allies - no matter how aloof and impolite they were. "Just make sure you tell us when its time to move, for-"
"Its the signal." The elf said, "The howl has cried it. Let us go." and he was off the tree.
Oaths to the Alliance, Oaths to the Order of the Silverhand, to the King of Lordaeron and the Knighthood he had come from stopped Turalyon in his movement to tear the elf's head off. Damn the ranger and their snobbish ways! His ire increased even more when he saw the other rangers moving after the first, leaving behind ten befuddled paladins. Containing his irritation, he signalled them to follow, unstrapping his warhammer.
"Whatever folly brought us to try and save these cold bastards?" he muttered. Immediately he chastised himself for the very thought. Many elven civilians had been killed in the Horde onslaught, many villages evacuated, acres upon acres of ancient forests destroyed. He had no right in thinking the way he did. Despite this, however, he still grumbled.
Two orcs guarded the perimeter of the side of the camp they were intent upon entering. With hardly a whisper of movement, two rangers nocked arrows and let loose on them, killing them before they could even know an enemy was present. Beyond the area, sounds of battle were heard, and it seemed from the shuffling and cries that the Horde had indeed been convinced that an actual attack was under way, for all they saw were hurried orcs and a few trolls leaping to join in the battle.
They almost made it to the tent where Alleria was kept. Almost.
However, as they came upon it, a cry was heard from many throats and a band of orcs and trolls came upon their party like the fury of a storm.
There was no time for a battle plan. Both sides acted, as they knew best. The trolls threw their axes, cutting into their ranks, while the elves let loose a volley and Turalyon led his paladins head on with the orcs. Both sides clashed in the melee as the general who was the aide to High General Lothar himself faced a large greenskin. A powerful blow from the grunt's axe was turned aside, and as he repelled the attack and smoothly continued the motion, bringing the heavy metal part of his warhammer right into the neck of the enemy, killing him instantly with the sheer force of the blow.
The Horde band had been barely a dozen members, quickly overwhelmed, but the cost had been high nonetheless. One paladin lay unmoving, his body twitching as the head rested a few feet away, another was wounded, and he saw that some of the rangers swayed. Without hesitation, he went to the side of one of the elves, and placed his hands on the largest wound, calling upon the holy powers that Alonsus Faol and the Cleric of Northshire in the Haven of the Hand had taught him. He saw others of his brethren doing the same, and within moments, wounds were healing, and most of the group was moving again. The dead were left behind - the mission had to come first.
"We've got no choice, men!" he hissed. "I'm sure the guard heard us! We have to overwhelm them and take Alleria with us quickly, or we'll be done for when larger parts of the garrison come to investigate!"
Nobody argued about that. They all went in quickly, silence cast to the wind, hoping to catch the guards off-guard against all hopes.
Their hopes were dashed when the guards engaged them in front of the tent, bringing with them a dozen more reinforcements. Knowing that this was the only chance they would have of freeing - or, at the worst, killing - the High Command member, all of the rescue party threw themselves into the fight with abandon.
Warhammers and arrows clashed against axes, throwing axes and fists as both sides entered a bloody melee that a small part of Turalyon's brain knew should have brought a good deal of the garrison down on them. That none came would have caused concern in a normal situation, but that detail was mostly forgotten in the middle of the fierce fight. He squared off against two grunts, and using all of his priestly-powers and training as a knight managed to kill them both, while sustaining grave wounds he knew would have to be healed quickly. Still he plunged back into the fray, his mind so focused upon the fighting that he became one with the clashes, oaths and screams, as well as the coppery smell of blood.
Finally the path was clear in front of him, and without thinking he dashed into the tent where Alleria was supposed to be kept.
"That, in all of my centuries, was certainly the noisiest attempt at rescue I have ever heard about. I wonder if I should be glad or ashamed that it was made to rescue me." a cold voice told him with a tinge of amusement.
There, in a steel cage in the middle of the tent, was Alleria. She didn't wear a cloak, her garb had seen better days and her hair was dirty and wild, but beneath all the grime she looked back at him with unflinching eyes. He felt relieved. Those eyes were not ones from a broken spirit - and that meant she hadn't talked.
"Whatever the case, you are safe now." he answered, tired of elven snobbism. With a mighty swing he crushed the lock of the cell and opened it. "I suggest we go before this rescue attempt goes from noisy to desperate."
It wasn't until the survivors - less than half of those who had come - had scrambled back into the forest, running past bewildered returning Horde troops, that the reality of things made itself manifest in the paladin's mind: the attempt had been too hasty, uncoordinated, quite bungled. Yet it had succeeded rather easily.
It wasn't normal. It shouldn't have happened at all.
Were they all played for fools?
But then how? And more importantly, why?
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Spring 594, Northern Shores of Darrowmere Lake, Quel'Thalas
It was cold, despite the year slowly advancing. All around, snow still caked the land here and there, although the ice covering the water had mostly melted back into its liquid form. Inside the elven woods, one barely noticed the change of season, and he knew that the Thandol Valley and the land bridges was an area where cold did not seem to ever truly exist. Here, however, winter's grim hand could still be felt surging through his robes.
But Gul'Dan was an orc, and he had none of the petty sensibilities that the humans and the elves seemed to share. His skin was that of a being who had grown on Dreanor, where changes in temperature were swift and often extreme. There, one learned to endure the weather, to forget it even, lest he be rendered impotent or mad.
But even if had been as frail as a human, even if he had felt the cold as cruelly as an elf would, he would never have noticed. For one of his goals was now at the limit of his vision, a dark patch on the blue of the Darrowmere.
Caer Darrow, the druidic city, one of the holiest and the most protected place in the Kingdom of Quel'Thalas save for Silvermoon itself, it was said. The texts he had read showed that it had been founded long ago, by elves that adhered to a code of life, which, strangely, seemed old even as it was fading. As no records of the elves seemed to exist beyond the founding of Silvermoon, it had led Gul'Dan to believe that the so-called High Elves might have been either survivors or dissidents of an older civilization. He has found reading what was known of elven history to be quite enlightening.
Of more interest, however, were the tales translated from elven sages who had long ago helped to found the irritating Northshire Abbey and its annoying order of priests. It was said that the last great high elven druids, being forced out of existence by the new ways the people had taken, wanted to make sure that there was power those who followed what was dubbed the Kara-Dahini - the Old Way, if he'd understood it well - to tap into. With that in mind they had used their powers to erect a huge monolithic boulder, magically bonding raw druidic power to it. And so had the Runestone been created in the early days of the Kingdom, long before humans rose to dominate the continent.
He shivered, but not from the cold. Rather, he felt the energy, which came from the Runestone. Remarquable. He had only rarely felt that much power, and this power had nothing to do with the Twisting Nether. It was linked to nature, and seemed to have a relationship with it. The difference didn't truly interest him, however. All he knew was that this ancient monolith was of a power to be reckoned with, and that, with the right spells, it could be turned into the tool he would need to finally achieve the road to the gift Medhiv had promised him years before.
Booming steps resounded behind him, until they sounded like rock hitting the ground next to him. A massive, two-headed shadow loomed over him, and he raised his head and smiled almost indulgently.
"Cho'Gall. I was wondering when you would come." he told the ogre. Both heads looked pensive, until finally the left one spoke. It was the most nervous of the two, but also the one which he had the most deviousness.
"We've just heard from the camp: Alleria has been liberated from her cage by an Alliance party."
The last Warlock smiled widely at this. "Excellent! They did exactly as we wanted them to do. That's very good. We are only a few steps away from having what we want."
Cho'Gall's right head grunted. "I wouldn't mind it if it came right now. I'm getting tired of having to obey Doomhammer."
"The time will come, my friend. But we must ready our resources, before all else."
Despite the outward differences, despite the fact that Cho'Gall didn't share the bloodlust, which had raged - even if controlled - in Gul'Dan's blood ever since his pact with the demons of the Twisting Nether, the ogre chieftain of the mighty Twilight's Hammer Clan was the closest thing he had to a friend. The ogre was probably the most intelligent of his race, and this intellect - as well as a driving ambition to learn magic, making him yet the sole spellcaster in his entire race, had helped them establish a rapport. Cho'Gall had been a great supporter of Blackhand's, and an even greater supporter of the Shadow Council. When Doomhammer took control, he gave the new leader a fake oath of loyalty, and the two had since worked to overthrow the one who had usurped their rightful power.
Of course, the Warlock's plans ran deeper than control of the Horde. If the power he had been promised was real, he could do...but he was getting ahead of himself. Doomhammer was a powerful obstacle which had to be cleared, but they couldn't do it...yet.
Cho'Gall, however, didn't quite see it that way. "Why wait? Why not strike him down now, while he's focused upon defeating that mongrel Alliance. We have the support of both our clans, and Rend and Maim of the Black Tooth Grin want to come with us, as well as some units from the Blackrock-"
"And most of the Blackrock will stand by Doomhammer's side. He's their hero, the great general who brought them victory after victory in the first war we fought against the humans. And Kilrogg Deadeye will follow whoever is the Warchief, no matter who it is. Add to that the Dragonmaw, whose leader dislikes me, and numbers are still on their side! No! I say we must wait.
"For how long?" the left head asked in frustration.
At that, the bloodlust surged in his vein, and he fought it down with his calculating mind. He couldn't stop a carnal smile from crossing his greenish, tusked features. "Not much longer. After all, I have high hopes that we might be able to do...certain things...with what I have gotten the 'permission' to acquire 'for the good of the Horde.'" Sarcasm ran high in his voice as he looked again across the blue, frigid waters at the inviting and not-so distant Caer Darrow. If all went well, if he could achieve the spells and the tools he wanted from the Runestone...the Horde would soon be under his control. The Alliance would be crushed and enslaved, and then the continent brought to kneel before him.
And once this continent was conquered, he would conquer the rest of this world. And then reclaim Dreanor. And from this power base, with the powers he would control then, he could rule world after world, until he, Gul'Dan the Warlock, became the divinity of all in the universe.
His bloodlust sung and cried out at these images of slaughter and control, and he had a hard time distancing himself from that fantasy. But distancing he did, for it was fantasy still.
"My Death Knights have been probing the Island for some time." he said at last - only with Cho'Gall did he say the Death Knights were 'his'. "The elven defences there are heavy, with at least three dozen elven ships patrolling the environs. The garrison itself is also large and well armed. Although I don't doubt that our troops would prevail once they manage to set foot on solid ground, I know we will need substantial strength to defeat the naval forces."
"You're right, you're right." the Ogre's right head answered, nodding. Immediately a sly smile appeared on the left head's brutish face "There's not a bit of worry for you there, my friend. Our puppet kingdom, Alterac, has been very helpful in finding good places in which to group our warships. That is Alterac and the self-important humans who want to help us."
Gul'Dan chuckled, pleased. Humans. Even overwhelmed by superior forces, they simply couldn't unite. Even now, forces were massing for a civil war, under the very nose of those who were 'loyal' to the 'cause of the Alliance'. What nonsense. But if it helped his goals, he had no problem in letting fools entertain possibilities.
"Very good. Four weeks. At most. And then we strike. I don't want to wait any longer for this chance." he told Cho'Gall.
After all, much like the deluded 'Grand League', he had his own dreams of power. He too was ready to manipulate anyone and use any means to gain what was rightfully is. Unlike them, however, he WOULD succeed.
He was Gul'Dan, the last Warlock.
Nothing could ever remain in the way of his manifest destiny!
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 594, Taren Mill, New Azeroth
Eira was held in Aerth's embrace implacably, and had no intention of being anywhere else. The kisses and hugs they were sharing had come from long months of separation - which, even if necessary, had been hard for her in the end. And from the strength of his embrace, he hadn't been very positive about his own feelings on the matter either.
"Eira...its so good to see you again." he said in a voice he had used so often when they had met. It was a voice that still had innocence despite the grim events. It was a voice that had all but faded away these days, in the many letters he sent her. The feel was gone, replaced by a harder voice, which, although still loving and fond, was increasingly harder. It was good to hear that this remnants of that innocence remained.
"I am very glad to see you as well, Aerth." she answered. Proper, always proper. It was the way she had been raised, after all. He, however, had been the son of simple merchants to begin with, and showed more commonly manners when he lifted her chin and kissed her, this time far more deeply than was necessary, especially in the middle of a hall where any servant could see their lord kissing their lady as if in some...some common reel!
Still, she didn't disengage herself. Her inbred instincts suffocated with outrage, but her feelings were warm and welcoming. She tightened her grip around her husband's waist as he plunged a hand into her hair. Neither was thinking quite straight, and Eira didn't know how far they would have gotten be fore reaching the bedroom - she was later to wonder if they would have reached it at all! - if an older voice hadn't cracked the scene, dripping with amused sarcasm.
"I see that Aerth Swiftblade has his old pa's taste for showing women his affections directly!" it said.
Aerth disengaged as if lightning had struck him. His gaze was sheepish but unrepentant as he looked down the hall at an older woman with grey hair who looked at them both in her turn, eyes bright. He grinned a rakish grin. "Aunt Mallie. The Light blind me if it isn't!" he crowed
"The day the Light blinds a Swiftblade when he looks at someone is the day the whole world'll mourn, that's for certain. Now how about you let your claws off the poor woman - she's had some hard months because of you, you lout! - and let me get a good look at you!"
Aerth laughed, and it seemed to Eira that similar scenes had been played between the two over the years, for he bowed and sighed dramatically as he came to stand before her, even turned around with a wry grin, all the while with the older lady tapping her foot and looking on in mock criticism.
"So," he said "Do I look fine enough for you?"
"You certainly look better without all that armour on you." she grunted, and then really smiled "Other then that, you look lots like your father Cerlig - and that's a pretty coin for my tastes!"
He grinned at that, and the impression that he was a general in the Alliance army seemed to recede. For a few brief moments, Eira saw the young man who had caused mischief and pestered the knights in Moonbrooke for tales and treats. She had never seen that seeing too many people die had already scarred face - the one she had met.
And then, Mallie, probably not knowing how Aerth's mood would be affected by it, spoke the news which Eira had reserved for much later, when they were alone, the baby had been seen, and he was relaxed enough to know of it. "You're a fair sight better than that cold run-of-the-jock Lord Duraz who was here the other day."
The youngish face faded at once, clamping down like a clam from the Kul Tiran shores, the features hardening until they became the ones of the general. She understood that the comment had rung many alarm bells in his mind, for when he looked at her, his gaze was both fierce and worried.
"He was here? Silphord Duraz?" he asked, his eyes burning. She knew that honesty was the only way to answer that matter, and so she nodded. His mouth compressed into a thin line. "That...fiend...can't he leave us alone? Can't he accept things for what they are?!?" his voice grew both in anger and worry as he spoke. Mallie looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. She who had been his wife for many years knew that it was an as far from the case as it could be.
During the First War, her father had considered Silphord Duraz. Handsome, wealthy, of high blood, he seemed perfect in her parents' eyes. But she had disliked him immediately. He was arrogant, self-serving and had a way of looking at her, a light in his eyes when she came close to him that never made her feel safe. That was part of the reason she had latched to Aerth at first - to be away from this strange man. Her father had finally recognized this as Sunshire was falling, and gave them both his blessings, sealing the illicit marriage she and the young knight had done legal.
Ever since the day he had learned of the truth and came to confront them, there had been an emnity between the husband she had chosen and loved and the one whom she was supposed to have married. Aerth was certain - as she was - that his command was supposed to fail at at Zul'Dare. Aerth should have been defeated, from what she'd gleaned, but instead he returned with a stunning victory. It seems this had only increased the sarcasm and the vehemence between the two.
But today, of all days, she didn't want to think of Silphord Duraz or his strange eyes. She walked to Aerth, giving the older woman a look. "Do not worry about this, my love. Lord Duraz only came for bitter felicitations. I can endure his unpleasant presence. But you...you have something much more important than an hostile noble to see." she gave him a wide smile at that "Come and meet your firstborn."
That more than suited his taste, she saw with relief, and so she quickly coaxed him towards the room she intended while Mallie, not knowing the exact nature of her foul-up but knowing it better to further diffuse the situation, walked alongside them and chatted pleasantly, recalling old times as they wandered the halls of their home. Bare walls, mostly - aside from his fortune, her father had sent little else north. Although she had used it to furnish the mansion to give it a good look, she hadn't wanted to waste so much money when it was direly needed for the war effort. Besides, she had confidence that, one day soon, people like her husband would reclaim Azeroth.
They entered the spartan room, with clear grey walls and only one window of which thick woollen curtains hid the light and cold. A candle stand burned, left no doubt by a servant, and he took it in hand as they walked to their boy.
The little one, owing to the still-cold air, was dressed in heavy wool garments and covered in blankets, with only a small, pink face and a small pudgy hand showing. He whimpered softly and then sapped with his tongue, going still again in a dream state of pure innocence. She could watch him forever. But she gave a look at her husband nonetheless; to find his face alight with a pride and a joy he certainly hadn't felt much if at all, out there commanding thousands.
"What is his name, Eira?" he asked softly, removing a glove tentatively.
"Veran." she answered. "It was my grandfather's name. He was kind and generous, and I thought it would be fair to honour him this way."
He nodded, the light in his face only strengthening. "Veran it is then. Veran Swiftblade.... my son." he whispered, gently brushing trembling fingers on the little head. "I've seen so much death, sent so many people to their graves. I'm glad to see that, somewhere along the line, I've been able to accomplish...life."
She didn't know what to answer to that. Seeing his look, she decided not to bother. She doubted he would hear anything. Slowly she returned to the door of the room. She wanted to remain with her child, wanted to have the company of her husband, but she also wanted to leave the two men she loved these moments to be acquainted to one another for the first time. At the door, she found Mallie, who was looking who looked at the man and the baby and nodded.
"He can still look at innocence like that." she told her, old eyes clear and yet introspective "It gives one hope, it does."
"Of what?" she inquired, although she had an idea of what the woman meant.
"I think that if Aerth Swiftblade can still look at his child with love, then it means that the war hasn't destroyed him. It has wounded him, but not destroyed him. And that gives me much hope for our chances in this terrible, terrible war."
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 594, Whitefort Castle, Lordaeron
King Seramus Terenas had never been much of a warrior. He had been born to a realm at peace, under the benevolent and powerful Pact of Stormwind, which all nations had signed centuries ago, ushering in unprecedented peace and prosperity to a continent that had seen to much warfare. Bandits were a mere nuisance, and beasts had long been hunted out of the kingdom's central province by an army, which no longer had much to do. He had been bookish, preferring to study literature than swords, philosophy rather than hunting. His father had been puzzled by it, but had given him a lenient eye. After all, the peace had lasted for decades, with no sign of abating.
However, war had come back. And Terenas had had to learn an art he had never liked nor ever been interested in. It was thus with irritation that he spoke to those respected men around him.
"If I am clear about your words, lord Lothar." he mused grimly. "Then you are saying that we are facing a troop of enemy soldiers of equal if not superior potency to our own, who outnumber us by a factor from eight to ten. Said troops are ravaging much of Quel'Thalas and sitting next to my nations eastern borders, and we cannot expect much reinforcements from the southern forces. Did I summarize the situation adequately?"
Many men had flinched our paled before one of Terenas' narrowed, shrewd gazes. Lothar, however, returned it with one of his own. He was not someone who backed down from anyone. It was one of the many traits, which actually endeared the Regent of Azeroth to the middle-aged king.
"You have understood correctly." he waved around the room. "As, I'm certain, everyone else has. Indeed, King Terenas, the Alliance stands on very slippery footing, faced with a fearsome enemy. However, we are not fallen just yet. Quel'Thalas is suffering, and I am grieved by the knowledge that these ancient lands are in jeopardy. However, as ungentle as this may sound, we can take the time with which they attack the elves to strengthen ourselves."
"I don't like the sound of that much." The elderly Alonsus Faol, who had already become a religious icon not only to his paladins but also to the whole Alliance, sighed in sadness. "The Alliance is a union of three races - elves, humans and dwarves, something which has never quite happened. Do you mean to say we will turn our backs on one to preserve the other two."
Lothar nodded, not showing discomfort. "If it necessary, we will. I think, however, that they won't destroy the elven queendom. Small human bands have been harassing them, trying to slow them down. If we could just hold things for a little while..."
"...they could then be stirred in this direction." the Muradin Bronzebeard, a stocky, well-mannered Dwarf acting as ambassador to Khaz Modan noted. "Aye, I can see that. Pretty big gamble."
"Perhaps too big." Silphord Duraz told them. Everyone eyed him, and he smiled thinly. "I am not saying we should simply lay down out arms, but think on this: we cannot raise an army of four hundred thousand men in the few weeks, perhaps months that we have. Even if we managed this feat, that army would never have the necessary equipment and experience to defeat them head-on."
"At least we managed to recover Alleria." Varien Wrynn said.
"How is she?"
"Recuperating in Silvermoon. She was shaken far worse than she let on, it seems. But the important point is that she will recover in time."
Terenas nodded, grateful for the news. The elves had been noticeably reluctant, increasingly so as the war went on. They didn't want to commit such massive amount of resources to war, necessary though they might be. High Ranger Alleria's capture had made them skittish, and only Turalyon's success had made them reconsider rescinding their pledge to the Alliance. The very thought was enough to cause him to lose sleep at night. A year and a half ago his much younger wife had given birth to a son, a miracle in itself. But without the elves, would the Alliance be able to leave Arthas with his young life intact, let alone a kingdom to rule?
His throat was dry. Absent-mindedly he called for the wine steward and idly proffered his ornate, gold-incrusted drinking cup for filling. Wine, yes, good Stromgardian wine would put his mind back into focus. The war was taking too much out of him. He wasn't a warrior like Lothar or the generals. He didn't have the faith of the priests and paladins, or even the arcane insight of the sorcerers. He was, however, the King of Loerdaeron, and he would see this through for his son, his throne and his people. It sometimes felt, however, that he had nothing to offer the men and women who made up the thinking of the Alliance High Command.
"Light! He's magically possessed! Get Terenas away from there!"
Terenas didn't have time to realize the importance and signification of the comment, for as he swung his head towards the startled cry, someone reached for him and tore him out of his chair with an iron grip thrusting him away. Dazed, he looked to see that Lothar was holding him by the arm, and pushing him away as guards came to surround them. Pushing him away from...the wine steward?
"What...?" he began, but then he saw the steward and understood.
The man stood stiff, in the throes of what seemed to be titanic forces. His face was red; his eyes revulsed and bleeding, as was his nose and mouth. He shook as a piece of paper on breeze, the suffering evident. On one side, the king saw the archbishop looking grim, eyes closed, lips moving in a silent chant. At last, the eyes seemed to focus, and the tortured mouth took on a terrible smirk.
Of to the side, Kel'Thuzad, the ambassador to the Kirin Tor of Dalaran, was fixing an intrigued gaze upon this new development. Given his reputation in wishing to comprehend necromancy and its inner workings, the powerful mage's reaction wasn't surprising.
Terenas couldn't push his way past Lothar and the Knights whom had taken position all around him, but he managed to let himself be seen. "Who are you?" he asked to what was no longer one of his faithful servants.
"An inquisitive question, King of Lordaeron." the possessed man replied in strange, disembodied tones "I am an agent of the Horde, let us say. But if you wish my name well...call me Teron...Teron Gorefiend, first of Gul'Dan's death knights."
"Death Knights? So the rumours I heard were true..." Kel'Thuzad muttered.
Terenas ignored him. "What sick game has made you take control of one of my servants? If you think that this show will deter us, you are sadly mistaken, sir!" he replied, perhaps a bit too hotly. The smirk widened into a smile.
"It is inevitable. Your armies in the south are bogged down. The elves are failing fast. You have no forces able to stand against our northern forces. Your Alliance has failed!" the visage calmed into what Terenas saw as well-fabricated sympathy. "However, you have shown the Horde a good fight. Gul'Dan would spare you. Surrender to the Horde, and your people will be left living, although under our servitude!"
"NEVER!" Lothar growled "I have seen these false words in my homeland. False treaties, false hopes, always to gain one little bit more advantage on our king. It will not happen here. Our forces are still potent, the capital of Lordaeron still stands! United, our people will drive you back, on my oath!"
The being that possessed the poor man laughed. "United! Yes, that is what you see - a united people! However-" his words were cut off as he choked out an ethereal scream, being enveloped by magical energy emanating from the archbishop. The body twitched, eyes going blank, and it fell hard on the ground. The priest's shoulders slumped slightly as he walked towards the steward.
"Forgive me, but this man's body could no longer take the strain. I had to act."
Terenas gave a look to the prone form. "It seems our enemies are confident of our defeat." he sighed.
"They shouldn't be." Lothar muttered. "From what I've just heard, they shouldn't be." a strange fire now burned into the Alliance High General's eyes. When asked by the others what he meant, however, he simply told them "If my hopes are not cheated, we will see."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Spring 594, Great Eyries, Northeron
"Majesty, the lords and leaders and the Alliance cannot wait indefinitely." Illadan said in a voice that had lost much of its confidence in the tedious months. "The war goes on even as we speak. Who knows what damages the Horde is doing to our lands. We need your help in all haste!"
"Aye, so I've heard." the Eyrie-Lord of Lords, Arken Steelwing, responded almost negligently. "I'm not saying there be no truth to it. But my advisors keep getting divided. I'm waiting to see which way the wind blows."
Illadan was a noble lord of Silvermoon, used to the lengthy ways of the elves. Moreover, he was an experienced soldier, part of the Rangers, the elite forces serving the queen. He knew about wait, about being patient. He was a firm believer that one could convince anyone of anything if only he or she tried enough times. However, he was starting to give up hope about this one.
"Ironforge is under siege. Human realms are at war after centuries of peace and good intentions. Surely you would wish to preserve all this?" he asked, spent from yet another fruitless meeting. All around the Eyrie Lord of Lords, other dwarves were seated, all looking rather bored. They blinked at him for a moment, and then many turned to each other.
'Peace amongst the human nations? Since when?'
'Who cares what happens to Ironforge. We' got our own problems around here!'
'Aye! Wyrms attacked an Eyrie in the west. We'll have to hunt the bunch off.'
'My wife makes the best apple pie. Ye should try it. The key, she always says, is the amount of sugar you pour just before cooking.'
Illadan mildly wondered how many he could kill with his arrows before they even noticed he was still standing there. Knowing them as he did, he surmised quite a few. The need was becoming manifest, and the reason was easy enough to ascertain. However, he decided not to kill anyone. He saw himself as a person who could hold his own counsel, and his peace, when need be. He was a person who wanted peace and who loathed violence.
Besides, he didn't have his bow and quiver right now and thus would never be satisfied by the few dwarves he manage to throttle before being taken. Still, the fantasy helped him restrain himself as he spoke again, evenly.
"The peoples of Quel'Thalas and Northeron have been friends for many centuries. Our people are in need. Will you not assist us?"
The Lord of Lords shook his bearded head. "We've no problem with helpin' Quel'Thalas and yer queen. However, its not quite under attack itself. Ye chose to take part. Our pact may tell us to help you if your lands were invaded, but nothing around your borders."
"The human lands be the concern of humans. But none of ours." an elderly advisor told them all, and then fell silent. The muttering grey again. Continuous. Negligent. Futile. Illadan was finally starting to reach the end of his patience. His anger and disappointment rose, and yet he couldn't speak. He wanted to give all those dwarves, who seemed to care even less than his own council in Silvermoon, a few pieces of what reality was like, but he had a feeling his arguments might end with said dwarves being throttled.
The worst of it all was, the Alliance probably could have become an even more potent force, able to fully meet the Horde on equal terms, if this kind of attitude hadn't had to be stamped out ridiculously slowly, slowing down the war effort, and now costing them all far too many lives in what had seemed an endless stalemate when he left. He wasn't in any mood to start dealing with such blindness again.
Thus, keeping his face placid, he concluded his meeting with the Lord of Lords politely, bowed and used all the good forms of address, and gracefully swept out of the stone room. Of course, as soon as he was out, he couldn't help but stalk, barely kept him for growling things about dwarves that wouldn't be quite healthy in a large dwarven stronghold as this.
The Grand Eyrie, one had to admit, was just about impregnable, built high on the side of one of Northeron's highest peaks. That made the Gryphons-riding dwarves a rather secure race, especially since no dragons had lived there for a long time. However, that height and feeling of invulnerability had made them aloof towards the outside world. And this was quickly becoming a problem he didn't feel like solving.
He entered the private chambers the dwarves had set aside for him and Sylvanas - a rather airy place, thank the Light. As usual, the brown-haired ranger waited for him there. Although she had helped him in the initial stages of the discussions, Sylvanas had soon found herself running out of patience for the intricate politics and double-talk. She was much more the traveller than he was, and so she had taken to exploring the area, or staying in the room endlessly playing on her rare ivory flute.
She was only looking at it instead of playing it. He mourned that -the sweet sound of elven music would bring him a sense of the deep green woods of Quel'Thalas, something he sorely needed now.
"No luck, eh?" was all she said. He was so tired that he didn't quite catch her tone.
"Indeed, none." he grunted, "Those who say that we elves are stubborn and fickle have never met these people!"
"Then I suggest we go." she stated, her toneless voice vibrating over the stone walls. His ears didn't miss it this time, fatigue or not. There was no mistaking that voice. Something was terribly wrong.
"What is it?" he asked. She still wouldn't answer. "Saralai, what is wrong?" he asked again, more forcefully.
Finally she turned her classic visage to him, and he almost recoiled from the grief and the horror he saw imbedded in her features. It looked for all the world as if something had struck a blow into her very souls, and had left it drained. He wondered, for a few moments, about what could have happened, but his scattered musings were cut short when she soundlessly handed him the Cal'chan, the magical amulet that allowed them to receive magically-sent messages of great importance. He suddenly felt as cold as the exterior weather must have been, taking it in hand and closing his eyes, waiting, dreading what the message might be.
It was short and to the point, and told him all he needed to know: 'The Horde has attacked and overwhelmed our southern borders. Our armies have lost many day-spans of forest to them already. We call upon all warriors who receive this message to gather as many of their brethren as they can. Silvermoon is in danger. Quel'Thalas is in peril. Come swiftly.'
The message ended, he opened his eyes, and fixed upon his life-mate a look which most certainly mirrored her own. The Queendom actually attacked directly. It had never entered his mind that it would be, certainly not so soon. The front had been so far away. Had it shattered utterly? If it had, all may well be lost. If the combined forces of the human nations, the dwarves of Ironforge and Quel'Thalas hadn't managed to hold the Horde back, what could ever be done? For a long moment, he wallowed in endless despair.
And then he shook it off. Illadan had always had a reckless and stubborn streak in him, and now it was showing itself. He refused to believe that they would be defeated even then. And even if they were...even if the end came...
"You are right. We must go and fight with our people." he looked around the room "How sad...all these months for nothing. I...I'll go tell the king that we must leave. I'll leave him the Cal'chan. Maybe...maybe they'll reconsider, or at least shorten their talks upon knowing of this." He had little hopes presently, however.
Sylvanas simply rose and put a hand on his shoulder gently. "We will return. One day. And we will convince them together. I know that I might not have shown it enough, but I believe in what you tried to do here."
Small comfort indeed. But it would have to do for now, it seemed. He gave her a forced smile. She returned it.
And then, silently, the two began to pack things for a swift return home, hoping to be there to help save it in time.
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BONUS PROFILE #7
Sylphord Duraz
Birthplace: Miredale, Azeroth
Birthdate: Summer 561
Height: 5'9"
Hair: Deep Brown
Eyes: Chestnut
Present status:(overtly) Duke of the Hillsbrad Lowhills, General of the Third Alliance Army, Member of the Alliance High Command (covertly) Leader of the Compact
Allegiances: (overtly) The Light, Azeroth, the Alliance (covertly) The Compact, Himself
History: Sylphord Duraz was born into a life of luxury, descended from a long line of wealthy noblemen in the northeast of the Kingdom of Azeroth. His father, the late Duke of the Miredale Plains, died when he was but seventeen, leaving the young man with wealth and prestige from 578 onward. Sylphord wanted more, however, much more. He enlisted into the knighthood for added prestige, and there soon made a name for himself.
During the First War, Sylphord was found to be a magnificent strategist, and thus increased his renown. However, this didn't stop him from being dealt a blow to his plan - Eira Fregar, sole heir of the highly influential family, was to be his bride according to a well-meshed scheme he had of gathering support to eventually mount a coup against King Llane. However, to his outrage, she married a young, penniless knight named Aerth Swiftblade, who has since then risen far. To add insult to injury, Swiftblade has since revealed himself to being an even better general and strategist than Duraz himself.
Duraz has not forgotten those two and plans to get his due one way or another from the both of them. However, this is not his main plot. His main plan is much more far-reaching: He plans to take the crown of Azeroth by eliminating Lothar, the sole surviving royal Varien Wrynn, and then, with others, form a great Hegemony to bring back glory such as the long-gone Arathorian Empire which ruled all of humanity long ago.
Outwardly a loyal Alliance soldier, Duraz is bidding his time, waiting for a chance and surrounded by shady allies from many nations. One can only imagine the grief this man will bring if he ever put his ideas into action.
