Chapter Fourteen: Falling and Reacting
Early Summer 594, Darrowmere Lake, Quel'Thalas
Weathering the offensive cannon fire from Caer Darrow's fortified port, the fifty armoured juggernaughts fired back, each of them having enough firepower to best even that which was installed in the Alliance's heaviest battleships. The immense iron boulders, aflame, devastated the walls, sending elves, humans and equipment to their deaths or destruction.
The attack had been orchestrated with the sharpness and the minutia of a mastersmith. For many weeks, the Horde had slowly trickled ships past the Alliance naval battle lines, using decoys to send one or two ships into Alterac. Once there, they were safe. None of these fool humans, after all, even suspected that one of their leaders was willingly helping those they despised. So, although some ships were intercepted and lost, most managed to gather - fifty-three juggernaughts, over seventy troll-designed destroyers, and dozens of transport craft had been ready for the next phase of the operation: the taking of Caer Darrow.
Lelgraf Vileguard, the Warlord of the Shade Fleet, second only to Argal Grimfrost in the Shade Army's chain of command, considered how remarquably easily they had penetrated the elves' defences.
They certainly hadn't expected it. After all, Alterac's insignificant army had been assigned to guard the river leading from the Great Sea to the Darrowmere. With some Alterac ships helping, it had been ridiculously easy to cross the Alliance's watchpoints. They had then used of these ships to lay in a trap, goading Caer Darrow's guardian fleet into a bottleneck where the swiftness of their elven-built hulls would mean nothing.
Confident that its security had not been compromised, the elves had obliged them. They had tried to make a stand, of course, but didn't manage to do much damage before they were either sunk or boarded. This had set the next phase of the plan off, using the Death Knights.
They had resurrected a few corpses, and used them to steer the surviving elven ships into the port, filled with ship ammunition and flammables, ready to explode all thanks to an intricate goblin device. It appears the Alliance garrison realized something was wrong, for their towers began to shot the destroyers down, and managed to take down three-fourth of them.
But the surviving fourth had been more than enough to take the shipyards and many naval facilities offline. Then the Shadow Fleet had rushed into the panic, opening fire from every single one they had, laying waste upon the frantic allied defences.
"It was so easy." he mused to himself as his ships fired yet another volley into the enemy stronghold. "They could do nothing against us."
He could admit the Alliance did try, but there had been little they had been able to do except to turn any cannon they could - which weren't many by the time the defenders pulled themselves together - on them and fire for all they were worth. A pitiful defence for something that was, if Gul'Dan was to be believed - infinitely precious.
A grunt, arrayed in the colours of the ground forces, came up to the bridge and then to him, bowing. "Lord, I come with a message from General Grimfrost?"
"Do you now?" he returned gruffly. Then he saw the other orc wasn't about to move and waved impatiently. "Well, read it to me now! I have a battle to oversee and can't be distracted."
The grunt wasn't about to take offence in the midst of Vileguard's closest and most loyal soldiers, and so only bowed again - albeit more stiffly - too the note and read it. "'I have assembled the army. I expect your signal to attack soon. Warlord Argal Grimfrost.'"
The bloodlust that had been his curse for so many years surged at these words, and he almost let them do their work. Grimfrost...how...dare...he? Treating him like a simplistic underling, while he was himself a warlord. That orc's egocentric attitude was too much at times. He knew that sort of haughty words were to be expected, however.
Whereas the Horde's ground troops had made some very positive steps against their walking enemy, the fleet had not been so lucky. On Dreanor, wars had rarely been fought over the seas, which were too tumultuous. The nations, which made the Alliance, had, for a long time. Moreover, the humans of Kul Tiras, as an island-nation, had had a large naval force to begin with, and were bolstered by ships from the other nations. The fleet had thus lost most of its battles, and it made those on the ground contemptuous of them.
But it would change today. Today, the fleet would bring the horde a great victory!
He thus swallowed his rage and nodded. "Tell warlord Grimfrost to be ready to reinforce us." he turned to one of his underlings. "Send all transports towards the breeches now."
"At once, lord."
The grunt had barely left -it was a good riddance too- that the crafts, small ships of would resembling the carcasses of those giant turtles the goblins were experimenting with in the small orc-held waters. Dozens of them, each filled with one hundred battle-hungry orc, trolls, and ogres. Frantic fire came from the few cannons that remained, and a few were hit before the armada reached the gaping holes in the walls.
And then nearly four thousand horde troops were disembarking, howling through the breeches. Vileguard took the longsighted goblin contraption all battle leaders had been issued and saw that, in many cases, the elven defenders were swept away by numbers, and even the places which bore the brunt of the first assault appeared to be weakening rapidly giving ground despite feeble efforts.
If all went well, Caer Darrow would be completely their before sunfall. Another massive assault tore into the city's last towers, toppling a few, leaving perhaps half-a-dozen remaining, shooting ineffectually, the defences had been reduced to nearly nothing.
"Should we send word to Warlord Grimfrost?" one of his aides asked him.
He considered that. "Not yet." he decided, tusky grin blooming on his face. "Let our men enjoy the slaughter. Let the groundwalkers see what the orcs in the Shadow Fleet can do. Do not give the signal yet!"
"I understand, Lord." was the immediate -and definitely elated - answer.
Vileguard briefly considered what could be so important in the small island for Doomhammer to allow such forces to be pulled from the main battle groups. He knew the warchief had never been one to take risk without it being of obvious benefit to himself and to the Horde - in that order of course.
And what did Gul'Dan and his horror inspiring - though decidedly both powerful and useful - Death Knights have to do with all of this? It was a mystery to him, no matter how he looked at it.
He let go of his questions. It was probably better not to dwell on anything Gul'Dan had his dirty paw in. If everything continued like it had since the beginning of the battle, he might see it firsthand, after all. His curiosity, however, was second to the priority of the battle. He returned his attention to it, looking down his contraption.
His forces had all entered the breeches, it seemed. Excellent. "Now." he instructed "Send word to Grimfrost. Tell him he can help with clearing the rest of the rabble." he couldn't hold back a swift grin from crossing his face for a moment before his face became intense but neutral again.
Swirling clouds of dust and smoke were already wafting from the port, and the shift of freshwater wind of the Darrowmere finally brought the scents of burnt wood, charred meat and blood, as well as the noises of steel clashing and many faint shouts and screams. He let the mixture fill his senses a moment, his blood boiling at it.
The first skiffs and rafts the grounds troops had fashioned slowly appeared, moving towards the port. Hundreds of them. Thousands of battle-ready warriors eagerly preparing for the city's downfall, prepared to bring it under the Horde's martial law to be used as a fortress, an occult ground and a slave camp all rolled into one.
He motioned to his people. "Order to double the charges in the cannons! Bring every single one of the towers down! Bring out their walls!" His messengers hurried to pass the message to the rest of the fleet, and Vileguard finally let himself chuckle with joyous mirth. Finally, the fleet had gained the respect it deserved! It would be impossible for the Horde to neglect their contribution now.
After all, it was the fleet, which had offered Caer Darrow as the Shadow Army's Fortress.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Summer 594, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth
If nothing else, Blackrock Spire would have been the closest thing to an impregnable forteress outside of the famed mountain-city of Ironforge. Built on top of a craggy hill, it had a gigantic gate of steel blocking the only entrance when such was necessary. Battlements upon battlements also ringed it, its tall wall encircling the entire perimeter, inside of which a warrior city existed. There, many barracks dotted the ground, with mills and smithies tasked with forging weapons, and many clay and iron silos lining one of the walls, storing food which could last the full garrison more than two years.
It had been erected by his predecessor, Blackhand the Destroyer, and was an achievement, a testament to the Horde's brutality and of its possibilities if only it could look beyond conflict and conquest. It was a dream he had, a dream that had been shared by his old friend, Durotan of the lost Frostwolves Clan. But to achieve it, he knew he couldn't run off and attempt to hide like his friend had done. He had to conquer this world so that he would be able to stop war.
It wasn't truly what he wanted. He had fought the war against the humans with certain reluctance, not because he felt that there was any doubt that his people would emerge victorious, but because he had known they would. He had seen that the humans had put behind major wars. Although Blackhand and the damnable Shadow Council had seen that as weakness, Doomhammer and Durotan had had great doubts. Still, he had kept on his duties, bidding his time, serving the warchief and making great gains, all the while securing the troops' loyalty.
He had struck as the human's stubborn capital, Stormwind, was finally falling after a long and annoying siege. Using skilfully placed and forged evidence, he had attacked Blackhand and killed him, and then rooted out the Shadow Council. He had also cut this with the Shadowmoon Clan, which controlled those few warriors that still remained on Dreanor. This land would be the place were he would rebuild a good society, a society of equals and of shared wealth.
But in order to do this, he needed immense resources, resources he could only utilize with no enemy in sight. The Alliance, for the Horde to change, had to be destroyed so that no trace remained of them, no reminder of the bloodshed.
Killing all civilisations in the known continent in order to be more prepared to care for his own's changing needs. Could there be a mission more selfish than such a thing? After all here he was, the one who wanted to follow in Durotan's footsteps and found himself in those of Blackhand. Forced to denigrate the one he respected and emulate the one he hated.
"It's striking, isn't it my good Kargalth? That I would be standing here? Me. The Warchief of the Horde! Reminiscing on better times while my men are getting killed."
"Lord?"
He sighed. Humour and jest were nothing to the efficient orc. "Nevermind what I just said. How goes the plan?" he asked, unable to keep a little cold from entering his voice.
"If all goes well, the elven city of Caer Darrow will be in our grasp and ready to be used as a place from which to attack our next targets, lord."
He shook his head. "That won't be easy. Our forces are superior and vast, but not infinite. For his sake, I hope Gul'Dan isn't wasting my resources in some useless chase for ancient power." He wouldn't be surprised if the orc actually did such a thing - Gul'Dan's interest, in the final analysis, solely rested with Gul'Dan. The Horde and its future meant little to the last Warlock.
Every time he reflected on it, he was reminded that it was he who had, after destroying the Shadow Council and slaying all other warlock, accepted the treacherous cur's offer to magically aid him. He had made this out of logic - almost all of the necrolytes had been killed in the war against the humans, and none remained who had the magical expertise in their ranks.
Knowing that the next war would be very difficult without powerful magic to counter the humans', he had ordered the Warlock to create magic-wielder. The first had been the Death Knights, a fine bargain for the remaining necrolytes as far as he was concerned, but not enough. Now, Gul'Dan would use the Runestone to gather a new cadre of magic wielders.
Or so he hoped.
"What about Stratholme? Have there been any changes?"
"None, Lord. The city is as calm as it ever seemed, only far more fires now adorn the streets, and frequent in its battlements. The city's defences have not been reinforced."
"Haven't they." he stated flatly.
"Its what our spies say."
"Then these spies are fools and should be taken care of. I am quite certain Stratholme will prove much more of a challenge than what our own people tell us."
This unsurprisingly threw Kargath off a bit. The other orc looked about the stone walls and finally back at his warchief. "Forgive my insolent words, lord, but how can you know of their strength in Stratholme."
"Because Lothar oversaw them."
Lothar. His old nemesis and the only human who had earned his grudging respect. The war in which Azeroth had fought with all of its might had often put him at odds with Lothar directly. The two had danced around the battlefields, sacrificing many lives, devising plans and traps the enemy were to step in. Although he had managed to defeat Lothar, its hadn't be easy, and he wasn't blind to think it would be easy to conquer the forces the human nations had given to his old nemesis.
However, he knew that in the end, he would be the one to be victorious. They outnumbered the Alliance, and had forced most of their best forces to stay south, fighting with the Horde's lesser warriors. The enemy had little forces left in the north, opening the way to Silvermoon and then, the centre of everything, Whitefort itself.
To finally control the continent. To reshape it so that Horde could slowly return to what they were. Surely Durotan would have understood all of the killings in that case, no? He felt like shivering when eyes suddenly seemed to scowl at him from on high. A message from the heart, telling him that Durotan would be less than enthused by the plan of wiping out an entire race to save his own.
He shook his head once more. He was the warchief now. He no longer had a place for hesitations. He could only give orders and wait for those under him to do them. Conscience was a definite liability for a leader of men.
"There is a last thing, Lord." Kargath put in a hesitant voice. He raised a thick brow. "Ner'Zhul seems to want to speak to you."
He whirled around, his eyes burrowing into his subordinate's. "Ner'Zhul? What could the Warlord of the Shadowmoon Clan possibly want here?"
"He says that he is concerned about you refusing to admit further forces from Dreanor to reinforce our own..."
Doomhammer actually threw up his head and laughed a deep guffaw at these words. "Reinforce our own! How droll!" he howled, "This is so incredibly like the old shaman! He has to control everything. Tell him he may not come here, and that I will not return to Dreanor to do any discussion. The forces remaining in our homes are small, and have little proper training. No, I will not play into that orc's conceit!"
"The sir, I suppose we will ignore further word from Dreanor?"
Doomhammer nodded, a smile and faraway look on his face. Yes, Dreanor would have to be ignored. He had the manpower here now. When he would have conquered the continent here, he would return to take his people away from that barren, dying world. He had time for nothing else in that corner.
"Enough." he said, looking upon the battlements again. "Come. We will review the troops. All of this talk has made me yearn for a bit of physical interaction." He noted as he stopped dreaming, and returned to his duties as Warchief of the Horde. He wasn't surprised when the very idea didn't suit him much.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
The vastness of Silvermoon's ancient council chamber rang with the clamour of many voices, most of them worried, some of them in a state of panic, all of them angry. To and fro the words went - speculations, cries of disbelief, even accusations - echoing from the marble walls, which had been crafted so long ago by the High Elf exiles. It was supposed to be a place of reflection and of wisdom, but the news of the fall of Caer Darrow had put a stop to that as easily as an arrow could kill an enemy.
Fenna Pureglade, the direct descendant of the elven woman who had built the beautiful capital and from desperate refugees forged a nation let the cries and the dismay wash over her like water, to disappear as if a wind. She surveyed with calm but critical eyes as Lord Amelin Hoarsewood, one of the most volatile tongues in the entire realm, did his best to whip up what everyone felt.
"There is no doubt, esteemed friends, that our lands are in grave danger." he was saying heatedly. "Our borders have fallen, and the Horde forces rampage throughout out beautiful forests nearly unimpeded! The strength of our rangers and of our armies, although tall in bravery, has been unable to stem the tide. And now this! An ancient city, the city containing our precious Runestone, taken! Times are dire for Quel'Thalas, I assure you!"
The queen had been living in the court all of her life. Her mother and grandmother had prepared her well before trolls had taken their lives prematurely, and the ensuing centuries of rule had brought her many ways to see implications and insinuations. Hoarsewood had always been an agitator who lived in his own little world. He probably didn't truly comprehend just how 'dire' the times were for Quel'Thalas. All he wanted was to play an act that would increase his popularity, and take a sniping at the power of the royal line of Pureglade.
She felt a shifting, and saw Vellin, her husband and consort, rise gracefully from the seat behind her. His eyes were bright and alert, and the spark of grim amusement was present. He turned to her and bowed. "I would speak to the Assembly, my Queen."
She nodded. "You may."
"You are quite right, lord Hoarsewood. Our realm is being invaded, and part of our forest, crops and many elven lives are being lost even as we speak. All armies present on our soil have also, as you said, been unable to do anything about the scourge in our lands."
Hoarsewood looked pleased with himself. "Indeed. As the assembly may now see, the threat is truly real, and-"
"But you will pardon me sir. You know what the threat is. I thus assume you have a solution to propose to this assembly?" Vellin interjected in a mild voice. This actually calmed some ardour, and the powerful lord actually hesitated. "I do hope you are not telling us all this merely to gain popularity."
"Of course not!" the elf huffed haughtily, his face a disdainful mask. "I am telling the esteemed people here of matters of importance-"
"Importance!" the king of Quel'Thalas snapped, subduing much of the noise with one verbal blow "It is no longer important to know of the situation - every in this room have it in hand. What we need, what is important, are solutions to our problem! Do you have a solution?" when the silence lengthened, he made a quick swipe with his hand. "Then you are out of order. Take your seat and let wiser ones take the voice."
"Highness!" the elf pleaded, "I must protest of this!"
The queen raised one hand, and as one all elf, male or female, old or young, stopped speaking and turned their gaze to her. The power of being Queen. Her grandmother had called it 'an horror and a pleasure, and certainly something one never truly becomes accustomed to.' Wise words. Fenna still hadn't. But she had learned to use it well. She waited much before speaking, drawing the silence out again, giving it time to cool tempers.
"Lord Hoarsewood, return to your seat. You have told us nothing new. I would agree with the king. We need answers, solutions, not fear and questions."
Hoarsewood may be a blind agitator, but he knew that when the queen asked one to return to his seat, the person in question should do the best he can to obey. Swallowing what he had been about to say, with a sour expression of wounded pride, the esteemed elf seated himself. Bowing again, Vellin did the same at her side, giving her a quick wink only she could have caught. She couldn't smile at it, however, as the pressure of the moment increased. She motioned to one of the oldest elves in the room, who rose, dressed in the cyan and deep green uniform, gold-trimmed and holding six silver leaves in a circle of white on his right breast.
"Admiral Freesilver. Is there anything that our fleet might be able to do to aid Caer Darrow in its need?"
The fleet admiral of all elven naval forces considered the questioned then shook his head slowly. "By my personal estimates, we do not have the strength to attack it in force. Most of our ships are fighting on the Great Sea alongside human ships."
Humans again. "Can we not recall them?"
"I wouldn't recommend it, my Queen. They are for the most part in the middle of delicate operations. Doing such a thing such as calling them back would be, in my opinion, only opening the door for potential disasters for the Alliance."
Fenna felt a brief surge of irritation. The Alliance again. Every time the elven people wished to do something for themselves, it appeared that they had to have the approval of those who made up the pompous Alliance High Command. It wasn't supposed to be, and had thus far given only grief to her people. Still, she had agreed to see the horde threat nullified, and would stand by her oath no matter what she thought. Quel'Thalas would remain obedient to Lordaeron and Azeroth...for now.
She looked over the assembly with cold, calm eyes. All of them looked back with absolute confidence that she would find a way to save them all. The blind respect was daunting, and more than terrifying at times. She felt the weight increase upon her shoulders. What to do? Nothing else but what she had always done - act as if she was in perfect control.
"It would appear that we are in need of solutions. Obviously we do not have the strength to attack the occupying forces. In that case, we must look to other solutions to put an end to this state."
"Wiser words have never been spoken, Your Majesty. I would speak to the assembly." A strong female voice sounded. All eyes turned to the archway, where, flanked by two rangers, Alleria stood, her eyes sweeping, missing nothing. If the ordeal with the Horde had diminished her in any way, Fenna couldn't see how, and she was glad for that. At last, someone who knew what to do here, someone she could get advice from. She sent a silent word of thanks to the Light as she graciously nodded.
"Welcome home, Head Ranger Alleria. We are overjoyed to see you are well." she said.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
"You may speak to the assembly." yes, you certainly can! Fenna thought for herself.
The elf woman, who had successfully led the elite Rangers through many campaigns against the feared trolls, advanced to the middle of the room. Dressed as she did in the garments, with her cloak of office and her mighty ironwood bow slung artfully across her shoulders, she cut a mighty sight that impressed the gallery and commanded respect.
"I have solution for you, for Caer Darrow at least - stealth." she said "We cannot defeat the Horde directly yet, so I intend to use rangers agent to make life as difficult as possible for them. We will destroy their installations, sabotage their works, and give any useful information so that a successful attack might be mounted."
Fenna thought about the proposition. It was certainly the best comment she had heard in many days, and the first, which had realistic potential. "You have certainly managed to hold my interest, Alleria. And who would be in charge of this operation?"
The leader of all rangers almost smiled. Not quite. Alleria never seemed to smile. "I have the perfect person for this duty."
And she began to explain her plan.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 594, Caer Darrow, Quel'Thalas
Gul'Dan knew he was making a strange expression, standing there next to the immense Runestone, his hand upon the hard surface, eyes closed. It looked for all the world as if he was communing with the monolith, and there was no way it didn't make people give him dubious looks.
Not that he cared about them, however. He never would have noticed even if he had minded. All he cared about now was the fact that the texts had been right: there were flows of magic locked in the rock, made sluggish by time but still very much potent. Even better, he could see that the magical energies could actually be taken hold of, and transferred. This was also as he'd hoped.
"It appears that fate has decided to smile upon me yet again." he said, chuckling softly. He stopped as he heard powerful and determined steps coming in his direction. The rhythm was unmistakable, and he barely hid a mien of disgust. He turned his head and opened his eyes to look at Argal Grimfrost, dressed in armour, looking at the Runestone as if it would come down and crush him.
"Well, Warlock." he growled "Is this thing what you hoped it'd be."
He nodded. "Possibly more."
A grunt from the general resounded. "I hoped that it would be. And I hope it will bring about something worthwhile. We lost good orcs to the taking of this city."
Gul'Dan turned away from the larger orc. He wasn't interested if the Horde lost one hundred troops or one hundred thousand. All he cared about were results, and these had ended up being very good. "General, please do not bore me with details. The dead served their purposes and died fighting - what more could they - or you - ask for?"
A more sarcastic grunt, followed by a huff, resounded. "I'm not surprised to hear it. Just do something useful with that thing, or you'll have served YOUR purpose."
It was ridiculous thing to say, and Gul'Dan almost laughed at the orc's temerity. His Death Knights alone assured him that he was nearly untouchable. But he let it slide this time. He liked those orcs who had both wits and backbone enough to say what they wish. He hated them but found them interesting enough to let them fool around a bit more. Besides, he wasn't ready to make a move against people like Grimfrost yet.
But soon, he would be. Very soon.
He kept his eyes upon the stone until the general went away, and then put both hands on the surface, feeling the pleasing flow of magical energies. Yes, this would definitely do. It was now time to plan the next phase of his private operation.
Cautiously, he concentrated his energies forward, piecing the flow of energy, trying to access the ancient forces locked inside. He hit a wall at first, probed it with his mind, and poked for a possible way to penetrate. He wasn't certain that it existed - the elven druids hadn't erected such a monument by being sloppy in anything they did. He murmured elven spells he had found while rummaging through what the Karal Tor had left. Finally, stumbling around, he found what seemed to be a mystical entry. A moment of glee made him act rashly, one single moment of uncontrolled greed. He pushed forward with all of his might.
The backlash nearly destroyed him, as all the flows locked in the Runestone struck back, pushing his magical essence so hard back into his body that he lost his balance and nearly his sense of self. Hands grasped him, voices sounded all around him, but everything was a faint, painful blur. For a long moment, he was utterly lost.
Fortunately, the moment passed, the pain receded, and his thoughts became ordered again. Snarling at those who would help him to his feet, he surged upward unaided, and glared at the Runestone. Locked. By elven spells. That was enough to irritate anyone. But what made him furious, what made him almost stop seeing in the sudden surge of the bloodlust, was the fact his mind had registered: the flows had been arranged thus recently.
"The high priest." he rasped "Get me the high priest. Now!"
Gul'Dan was the chieftain of the Stormreaver Clan, and had the power of the Death Knights, not present right then and yet still looming, to back up his words. There were no questions, no hesitation. With haste, his words were followed, and the High Priest of Caer Darrow was brought.
He was chained, and his clothes had seen better days. Kept in isolation because of his powers, the elf still managed to look down upon everyone present, despite the fact that he was a prisoner and that every orc around him was much taller than he. At other times, the warlock would have appreciated the willpower - so many of those elves had broken so quickly when the city was taken - but not today. Today he wanted answers, and solutions.
He didn't waste time in telling what he wanted. "You locked off the powers in the Runestone, did you not?"
"I did."
"Then, I must kindly ask you to unlock them."
"I certainly will not."
This exchange, although unsurprising, wasn't doing anything to help his temper. He gave the bedraggled elf a tight smile. "I am in no moods for heroics, elf. My patience is thin enough as it is. I would advise you not to force me to take sterner measures."
The elf actually set himself into colder lines. "Sterner measures? My people would not even notice! You are treating them as worse than prisoners, with food that would be better served to mongrel dogs, and harsh treatments no matter the elf's condition. No, I will not give the way to unlock the flows to you. Never!"
Gul'Dan shrugged. "As you wish. I have no intention of hurting your people." The elf's mind showed an instant of confusion and doubt, and the warlock seized into the moment of weakness, reaching out quickly and grasping the elf with his mind. The elf fought back with considerable might, but to no avail. Gul'Dan had been in contact with minds of beings such as Kil'Jeaden and Medhiv, beings with power dwarfing even his own. He soon held the elf within his grasp, and began to delve into his most private thoughts.
What a dry life this elf had had. Only knowing of prayer, sometimes doing a charity for poorer people. No ambition, no drive, nothing but a sort of need to be closer to the Light. Pathetic. But in the end, that also meant old and overused defences, and he finally saw the way the priest had locked the Runestone. A futile effort, made out of ridiculous heroism. He was disgusted, and was considering giving the elf something to remember him by, when a shock broke all contact, and he found himself opening his eyes, lying on the hard ground, with Argal Grimfrost looking down angrily.
"That will be enough, warlock." he growled. "Interrogation is one thing, but I won't allow needless torture here." he pointed to the elf, which was trembling, eyes vacant, mouth open. Rummaging through one's mind often left a deep mark.
Gul'Dan began to rise, an affable smile on his lips. "I had to find the information I needed. You certainly worry too much." He would have said more, except the he was suddenly hauled upward by the robed, so that he came to eye level with the much larger warlord.
"I will not allow needless torture in the Shadow Army without express orders from Doomhammer. Until he says otherwise, my authority prevails here. And that means you will NOT commit yourself to such actions again. Am I making myself clear on this?"
"Of course. I apologize. It will not happen again." nor was there need for it to be. He knew how the elf had locked the Runestone's power. It would now only be a question of patience before he found the way to reverse the effect.
He looked at the immense Runestone, standing as a testament of ancient times, older than all elven-wrought things besides Silvermoon itself. How ironic that the monolith erected to keep a memory alive, would be used to unleash the powers of the one whom it had fought against long ago.
"Find Cho'Gall. Tell him to bring many of his ogres." he told one of his personal guard. "We have much work to do."
And this was only the beginning of it.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 594, Taren Mill, New Azeroth
"I don't like this."
That was all Aerth said as he read the missive he'd received, orders coming directly from the High Command, in Whitefort. He was certain that no one around him quite understood why he'd said such a thing, except for one man. It was to that man alone that he looked. Not to his wife, who was regarding him with inquisitive eyes, and not to the two generals who had come as well. The only one who held any interest to him was lord Varien Wrynn, last of the Royal House of Wrynn and possible heir to King Llane's throne.
He showed the words to the slightly older man.
To General Aerth Swiftblade of the First Alliance Army,
Greetings, General Swiftblade. First a foremost, let the Alliance High Command congratulate you in an excellent military leadership that has given our forces significant victories in this Second War. However, the Horde's threat has changed momentum, and experienced forces will be needed. Therefore, and as of this moment, you are ordered in King Terenas' name to proceed to Whitefort, where you will help in devising defences for the central Provinces in Lordaeron. We hope that your brilliant leadership will be as much use to us as it has been to the lands of New Azeroth and Stromgarde. You army commanders will be notified shortly.
These orders take effect as your read these lines.
Good day,
Selmereth Caldavin, King's Chancellor, Whitefort
Eleventh of the fifth of GlareMonth, 594
He couldn't help but scow at the remembered words. "This is a farce! They can't recall my entire army!"
Wrynn only drank a deep swallow from the red wine the servants had brought from the mansion's cellars. He held it to a refill. "I must admit, lord Swiftblade, that you have some very excellent liquors here. Much commendable."
He wasn't in the mood for that sort of evasion. "Very gracious, Lord Wrynn. But as gracious as your words are, and with all due respect, this is not the sort of answer I either wanted or expected." If his voice was a little hot, he couldn't help it. His army recalled to Lordaeron's capital to baby-sit the King!
The powerful lord, who had not fought much in the First War and certainly hadn't been with an army in the Second, sobered at the tone of voice he heard. His face didn't show indignation, however, but rather a sort of resignation. Sipping the wine instead of drinking it, he looked around at the people who looked right back at him, uncomfortable with the tension in the air. Finally he grinned sadly.
"I admit that it must seem like a shock..."
A shock. It was as bad as being hit by a sorcerer's lightning bolt!
"...but the fact remains that the High Command has made its decision. Truth be told, my friend, I pushed for your reassignment."
Swiftblade gave his probable future ruler a blank, wide-eyed stare. "What?" he asked lamely.
Wrynn looked at the general to the right, and the one to the left, and finally looked at Eira with a kindly, tactful look. "Excuse me, my lady, but could you leave us."
He could feel his wife's ire rise at this. Beautiful, elegant, graceful, definitely intelligent, if there was one thing Eira Fregar Swiftblade couldn't take, he knew, was to be pushed aside in her own house. He didn't blame her. She had taken their ramshackle mansion and made it into something to be truly proud of, the jewel of Taren Mill he had learned. She had lived in it and fought through her months of pregnancy while he himself had been off far away fighting his battles. Wrynn, although quite nice and compromising, had put himself in a rash position. He stepped forward before he discovered just how much.
"There are no secrets between Eira and me. In fact, its is probably better that she stays - she will probably be able to explain things I wouldn't understand." It sounded a little terse, but he meant every word. Not knowing how close he had come to worse, Wrynn frowned and then shrugged, banishing whatever he had been about to say. He took another sip, then set the glass upon the table.
"As you wish. There is no easy method of telling such news. Aerth, things are going badly for the Alliance. And when I say badly, I mean dire, deadly, and bleak as a rainy day."
To Aerth, there was only one reason this could be so. "The Horde army in the northlands? But reports in the south say-"
"Say whatever they can to reassure the troops there!" Wrynn cut him off, voice rising "They tell you that the enemy army has been bogged down. That is false. They say that we have found the means to fight them. That is definitely false. The Horde id moving through the Northlands. They have taken Caer Darrow, and we are certain they will attack Silvermoon to make sure the elves do not interfere. Once Quel'Thalas is paralysed, they are going to go for Whitefort. At our present state, we have no hope of containing them. We've left the bulk of our forces there, but they amount a bare thirty thousand, and nary a soul there has seen battle. If they crush Whitefort..."
The older man let the rest go unsaid. He didn't need to say it. Whitefort falls, Lordaeron will go into disarray. The other nations will be left without the crucial union. The end would come. He saw all this as clear as ice water. It frightened him. Why did the summer air suddenly feel so cold?
One of the generals stirred. "We're in charge of the forces in Whitefort. But we need help. Experienced help to bring all the men we have and whatever militia we might drum up, to fighting shape. That's where you and your army comes in."
"We know that there are other generals who can drive back the Horde to the other side of the Land Bridges." Wrynn started again "Goldenhorn and Minvare can be trusted to accomplish that, they are both excellent leaders of men. But with all the respect I have for them, the stark truth remains that they have never managed to be victorious as often as you have."
"No one in the Alliance has been able to, sir. For every defeat you have, you bring nine victories. Your exploits are already legendary in Whitefort. The people have actually named you Swiftblade the Victorious."
He didn't know if these men thought this would please him. Actually, it did, deep down, please hi to be acknowledged in such a fashion by the people, and to have become a sort of celebrity. But what he was, before anything else, was annoyed. "I may be good with planning, but it would mean nothing without good men and good officers. Fortunately, I have both."
"That is exactly the point, my friend. You are already renowned, so the green troops will have a great increase of morale seeing you leading them. And what is more, you will have your experienced troops to plan with and to train the new soldiers as needed. The capital will need a strong defence before too long, and we want you to take charge of it.
He turned to look at his wife, not bothering to hide his frustration from her. She only returned a calm face, looking at him questioningly. Obviously this was one decision he would field completely by himself. What luck. They had thought of everything, and had pushed exactly the right spots with him. He truly hated to be manipulated like this, and that was what it was- manipulation, no matter how rosy or congratulatory the words were.
Still, they had asked him to go and help the people of Lordaeron. He knew that beyond the manipulation, they were speaking the truth. And that mean that, whatever happened, he was oath-bound to obey.
He turned back to the three and fixed them with a silent stare, which they returned. He had no choice.
"Very well," he said, "I will go, but I have one condition."
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 594, Near the Fortress-City of Ironforge, Khaz Modan
"Fall back, me lads! Fall back to the gate!"
The order was given reluctantly, and there was a certainty in the voice that this desire to remain was strong in almost all the dwarven hearts which fought against the orcs and goblins. However, it was an order. And to a strict militia like the Unified Southern Army of Ironforge was, an order was to be followed. No hesitation. And certainly with no question asked. The word passed through the ranks like a flash, and just as quickly only skirmishers remained, standing at chokepoints, letting their brethren pass, many receiving solemn claps on the shoulder for the sacrifices they would do.
Hergal Flamehammer, general of the Southern Army and close advisor to King Bronzebeard himself, wished he could be one of those brave warriors. But he couldn't he had to survive, if only to see this war through for better or for ill.
He waited for almost all of his men to pass, shrugging off any attempts by other dwarves to move. An impressive dwarf, he was only average in height by the ways of his people but made that up with a body that was all trained muscled. The hammer and the axe he held in his hands were old and notched, a sign that the old dwarf had seen many battles and returned from them to tell of it.
None of the men under his command doubted his fierceness, his valour. They all looked up to him. He found it mildly embarrassing, but he let nothing of this show. Instead he raised both of his weapons, and roared. "Brothers! For Khaz Modan and King Bronzebeard of Ironforge!"
The skirmishers and most passing soldiers roared at them. He could see the rest coming up the slope, and only when he saw that he could not do more did the old war leader leave his place, nudged by the elite guard which had swarmed around him. He was relatively suffocated by the way they seem to herd him, as if he was an old man. The fact that the Horde force they had fought with was near, and that the skirmishers would never hold much more than a minute or two, didn't completely make their action acceptable to him. Still, he bore it with whatever pride he had.
Behind him, he heard the words he had heard far too often in his life.
"Firestone! Firestone and Eternal Khajin!"
"Khajin! Eternal Khajin!"
"Firestone!!"
And the voices took up the roar, calling upon the memory of the Dwarven Kingdom of Khajin, of which Khaz Modan was only a shadow, and calling upon the firestone, the rocks used to heat metal, that which permitted all dwarven achievements. And then, moments later, the voices growled, screamed, and cursed as steel rang. And orc voices were now mingled amongst them, and the dying began. They would hold as long as they could, he knew. But they wouldn't be able to hold for long no matter the strength in their hearts.
It had to be done. Still, a retreat! Flamehammer had seen retreat only centuries before this war, in the last conflict the Dwarves had seen outside their realm, against Azeroth. It hadn't felt fair then and it didn't now.
"Still, after all these years, the bitterness of defeat hangs in my heart. I will never learn." he mused to himself wryly.
"Sir?" That coming from one of his personal guard as they rushed. Perhaps the boy had thought he was being asked something. His fault for speaking out loud.
"Its nothing, lad. Nothing at all. I-" he stopped as he heard something. A peculiar sound he had heard only twice. The sound of something heavy falling, a controlled descent of great mass. He had heard something only once, nearly a century before, when he had a small band had had to fight off a...
He looked up as a shadow swooped over him. "Firestone!! All of you flat on the ground!!!!" he howled, and without another thought slammed into the two guards in front of him, and down they went all in a heap. Not a moment too soon, at that. They had barely fallen that a gust of flames washed over them, and the screams of the wounded and the dying rose like a clamour. His beard singed by the sheer heat, Flamehammer waited until the shadow passed over completely before he looked up again.
There was no doubt. It was indeed a dragon. There was no mistaking the brutal grace of that race. What bothered him enormously was the fact that its scales gleamed a bright red, not the black he had expected. His mind whirled. Deathwing would be completely at home with the Horde, but these...these were Alexstraza's children! Why would the first of all dragons, who had always taken pains to ensure peace with the dwarves, suddenly side with those who only wished for their destruction? It made no sense!
But, as insane as the idea itself was, there was no hiding the fact that the dragon was swerving back for another pass. He rose to his feet and did the only thing he could. Cursing, shouting, he exerted his people into running as fast as they could to the waiting gate. Barely a mile run left. An eternity.
"Hurry, you slow cows! Hurry lads! We can't take that dragon on here!" A noise made him turn, and he felt himself paling as he saw other winged shapes joining the first; ready to attack the running dwarves.
That was when he started to run too. He had no qualms about facing death in battle. But his battle skills would be useless against these beasts, and he refused to die a meaningless death after doing all he could not to! He hated the way it sounded, hated it with a passion. But he couldn't stop himself.
Of they ran, all of them reaching a safety that was nearer and nearer and seemed so far away. The gate had been close so that it was barely high enough for a dwarf, the adamantine metal gleaming on the sunlight. Twice the dragons attacked again. Twice, somehow, he was amongst those who survived. The orderly retreat had become a rout, as wounded and healthy dwarves alike stumbled over broken and seared bodies.
His people had gone mad in their terror, as it often was when a wing of dragons appeared in the sky. Still he ran on.
Finally he reached the gate, with the last survivors trailing behind. The immense gate began to close. When only a foot or so remained, a gust of fire washed over the opening, and Flamehammer knew that the dragons had attacked the gate - ineffectually - with their breath. He only started to breathe when the loud clanking noise showed that the gate had been closed tight. Even the dragons, as powerful as they were, could never tear down the gate. Nothing had scratched it in the thousand years any of them had been fitted.
He took a few moments to compose himself - fear, anger and shame battled between themselves inside his soul. He had failed his men. He had lost control of himself, and had deprived them of strong leadership. What kind of dwarf was he that he would do that?
But he knew, deep down, that it would never have changed anything. It didn't make things easier for him, however. And it only increased the anger he felt at the dragons for attacking them after centuries of peace, and the fear he felt over an alliance between the Horde and the Dragons was founded upon realistic speculations.
"But why?" he asked himself as he looked upon the many wounded, the many burned in the fiery attack. "By the Firestone, why would Alextrasza do this?" He couldn't believe it. The red dragons had always been neutral in conflicts, only fighting against the black dragons.
A group came towards him. Distractedly, he noted that it was the royal chamberlain and a group of royal guards, all of them inspecting the burned and shattered dwarven forces with an appalled mien.
The chamberlain came forward, his hand sweeping the ravages. "By Khajin, general! What has happened?"
He resisted the urge to laugh at the other dwarf. It would not be proper, and he feared that his laugh might take an edge of hysteria, and that simply couldn't happen. He had let his men down once in his fear. He would not do it again. So, simply, he said "Dragons. The dragons have sided with the Horde, me lads. Aye, sided with the Horde.
And letting this sink into the others, Hergal Flamehammer limped away, wanting nothing more but to see the king, and tell his friend that Ironforge was now even more besieged than ever before.
_____________________
BONUS PROFILE #7
Fenna Pureglade
Birthplace: Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
Birthdate: Winter 2138 IC (154 years prior to the Age of Light)
Height: 5'8"
Hair: Blonde
Eyes: Brown
Present status: Queen of Quel'Thalas
Allegiances: Quel'Thalas, the Light
History: From the moment she was born, Fenna Pureglade had a destiny. A great one - that to lead Quel'Thalas, the Kingdom of the Exiles. Everything was given to her during her childhood, her every whim attended to. Although she never knew her father - he was killed leading an elven force even before she was born, she knew the wisdom of her mother and that of her remarquable grandmother, Queen Lenaias, known as the greatest High Elf Queen after the First Queen Narra Pureglade.
Fenna grew up a spoiled yet remarquably open maiden, and as such accepted the tricky but genuine affection that a young firebrand of an elven lord, Vallin Hillwinter, gave her, and soon returned it in earnest. Time passed, and the two finally became mates. None have since then known her heart as well as Vallin.
Tragically, Fenna was trust into her role as queen sooner than anyone expected, as her mother and grandmother, traveling to Stromgarde to ratify a treaty, came under attack by Trolls and killed. In the year 211 of the Age of Light, Fenna Pureglade became the Sixth Queen of Azeroth.
For five centuries, this queen has ruled, and many in the Queendom know only of her. As the war with the Horde rages on, she is now fighting to unite her people, and free her lands. Even with Vellin, Alleria and Illadan helping her, it might be too much.
But she is Pureglade. And no Pureglade had ever abandoned her people. Or lost hope.
Early Summer 594, Darrowmere Lake, Quel'Thalas
Weathering the offensive cannon fire from Caer Darrow's fortified port, the fifty armoured juggernaughts fired back, each of them having enough firepower to best even that which was installed in the Alliance's heaviest battleships. The immense iron boulders, aflame, devastated the walls, sending elves, humans and equipment to their deaths or destruction.
The attack had been orchestrated with the sharpness and the minutia of a mastersmith. For many weeks, the Horde had slowly trickled ships past the Alliance naval battle lines, using decoys to send one or two ships into Alterac. Once there, they were safe. None of these fool humans, after all, even suspected that one of their leaders was willingly helping those they despised. So, although some ships were intercepted and lost, most managed to gather - fifty-three juggernaughts, over seventy troll-designed destroyers, and dozens of transport craft had been ready for the next phase of the operation: the taking of Caer Darrow.
Lelgraf Vileguard, the Warlord of the Shade Fleet, second only to Argal Grimfrost in the Shade Army's chain of command, considered how remarquably easily they had penetrated the elves' defences.
They certainly hadn't expected it. After all, Alterac's insignificant army had been assigned to guard the river leading from the Great Sea to the Darrowmere. With some Alterac ships helping, it had been ridiculously easy to cross the Alliance's watchpoints. They had then used of these ships to lay in a trap, goading Caer Darrow's guardian fleet into a bottleneck where the swiftness of their elven-built hulls would mean nothing.
Confident that its security had not been compromised, the elves had obliged them. They had tried to make a stand, of course, but didn't manage to do much damage before they were either sunk or boarded. This had set the next phase of the plan off, using the Death Knights.
They had resurrected a few corpses, and used them to steer the surviving elven ships into the port, filled with ship ammunition and flammables, ready to explode all thanks to an intricate goblin device. It appears the Alliance garrison realized something was wrong, for their towers began to shot the destroyers down, and managed to take down three-fourth of them.
But the surviving fourth had been more than enough to take the shipyards and many naval facilities offline. Then the Shadow Fleet had rushed into the panic, opening fire from every single one they had, laying waste upon the frantic allied defences.
"It was so easy." he mused to himself as his ships fired yet another volley into the enemy stronghold. "They could do nothing against us."
He could admit the Alliance did try, but there had been little they had been able to do except to turn any cannon they could - which weren't many by the time the defenders pulled themselves together - on them and fire for all they were worth. A pitiful defence for something that was, if Gul'Dan was to be believed - infinitely precious.
A grunt, arrayed in the colours of the ground forces, came up to the bridge and then to him, bowing. "Lord, I come with a message from General Grimfrost?"
"Do you now?" he returned gruffly. Then he saw the other orc wasn't about to move and waved impatiently. "Well, read it to me now! I have a battle to oversee and can't be distracted."
The grunt wasn't about to take offence in the midst of Vileguard's closest and most loyal soldiers, and so only bowed again - albeit more stiffly - too the note and read it. "'I have assembled the army. I expect your signal to attack soon. Warlord Argal Grimfrost.'"
The bloodlust that had been his curse for so many years surged at these words, and he almost let them do their work. Grimfrost...how...dare...he? Treating him like a simplistic underling, while he was himself a warlord. That orc's egocentric attitude was too much at times. He knew that sort of haughty words were to be expected, however.
Whereas the Horde's ground troops had made some very positive steps against their walking enemy, the fleet had not been so lucky. On Dreanor, wars had rarely been fought over the seas, which were too tumultuous. The nations, which made the Alliance, had, for a long time. Moreover, the humans of Kul Tiras, as an island-nation, had had a large naval force to begin with, and were bolstered by ships from the other nations. The fleet had thus lost most of its battles, and it made those on the ground contemptuous of them.
But it would change today. Today, the fleet would bring the horde a great victory!
He thus swallowed his rage and nodded. "Tell warlord Grimfrost to be ready to reinforce us." he turned to one of his underlings. "Send all transports towards the breeches now."
"At once, lord."
The grunt had barely left -it was a good riddance too- that the crafts, small ships of would resembling the carcasses of those giant turtles the goblins were experimenting with in the small orc-held waters. Dozens of them, each filled with one hundred battle-hungry orc, trolls, and ogres. Frantic fire came from the few cannons that remained, and a few were hit before the armada reached the gaping holes in the walls.
And then nearly four thousand horde troops were disembarking, howling through the breeches. Vileguard took the longsighted goblin contraption all battle leaders had been issued and saw that, in many cases, the elven defenders were swept away by numbers, and even the places which bore the brunt of the first assault appeared to be weakening rapidly giving ground despite feeble efforts.
If all went well, Caer Darrow would be completely their before sunfall. Another massive assault tore into the city's last towers, toppling a few, leaving perhaps half-a-dozen remaining, shooting ineffectually, the defences had been reduced to nearly nothing.
"Should we send word to Warlord Grimfrost?" one of his aides asked him.
He considered that. "Not yet." he decided, tusky grin blooming on his face. "Let our men enjoy the slaughter. Let the groundwalkers see what the orcs in the Shadow Fleet can do. Do not give the signal yet!"
"I understand, Lord." was the immediate -and definitely elated - answer.
Vileguard briefly considered what could be so important in the small island for Doomhammer to allow such forces to be pulled from the main battle groups. He knew the warchief had never been one to take risk without it being of obvious benefit to himself and to the Horde - in that order of course.
And what did Gul'Dan and his horror inspiring - though decidedly both powerful and useful - Death Knights have to do with all of this? It was a mystery to him, no matter how he looked at it.
He let go of his questions. It was probably better not to dwell on anything Gul'Dan had his dirty paw in. If everything continued like it had since the beginning of the battle, he might see it firsthand, after all. His curiosity, however, was second to the priority of the battle. He returned his attention to it, looking down his contraption.
His forces had all entered the breeches, it seemed. Excellent. "Now." he instructed "Send word to Grimfrost. Tell him he can help with clearing the rest of the rabble." he couldn't hold back a swift grin from crossing his face for a moment before his face became intense but neutral again.
Swirling clouds of dust and smoke were already wafting from the port, and the shift of freshwater wind of the Darrowmere finally brought the scents of burnt wood, charred meat and blood, as well as the noises of steel clashing and many faint shouts and screams. He let the mixture fill his senses a moment, his blood boiling at it.
The first skiffs and rafts the grounds troops had fashioned slowly appeared, moving towards the port. Hundreds of them. Thousands of battle-ready warriors eagerly preparing for the city's downfall, prepared to bring it under the Horde's martial law to be used as a fortress, an occult ground and a slave camp all rolled into one.
He motioned to his people. "Order to double the charges in the cannons! Bring every single one of the towers down! Bring out their walls!" His messengers hurried to pass the message to the rest of the fleet, and Vileguard finally let himself chuckle with joyous mirth. Finally, the fleet had gained the respect it deserved! It would be impossible for the Horde to neglect their contribution now.
After all, it was the fleet, which had offered Caer Darrow as the Shadow Army's Fortress.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Summer 594, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth
If nothing else, Blackrock Spire would have been the closest thing to an impregnable forteress outside of the famed mountain-city of Ironforge. Built on top of a craggy hill, it had a gigantic gate of steel blocking the only entrance when such was necessary. Battlements upon battlements also ringed it, its tall wall encircling the entire perimeter, inside of which a warrior city existed. There, many barracks dotted the ground, with mills and smithies tasked with forging weapons, and many clay and iron silos lining one of the walls, storing food which could last the full garrison more than two years.
It had been erected by his predecessor, Blackhand the Destroyer, and was an achievement, a testament to the Horde's brutality and of its possibilities if only it could look beyond conflict and conquest. It was a dream he had, a dream that had been shared by his old friend, Durotan of the lost Frostwolves Clan. But to achieve it, he knew he couldn't run off and attempt to hide like his friend had done. He had to conquer this world so that he would be able to stop war.
It wasn't truly what he wanted. He had fought the war against the humans with certain reluctance, not because he felt that there was any doubt that his people would emerge victorious, but because he had known they would. He had seen that the humans had put behind major wars. Although Blackhand and the damnable Shadow Council had seen that as weakness, Doomhammer and Durotan had had great doubts. Still, he had kept on his duties, bidding his time, serving the warchief and making great gains, all the while securing the troops' loyalty.
He had struck as the human's stubborn capital, Stormwind, was finally falling after a long and annoying siege. Using skilfully placed and forged evidence, he had attacked Blackhand and killed him, and then rooted out the Shadow Council. He had also cut this with the Shadowmoon Clan, which controlled those few warriors that still remained on Dreanor. This land would be the place were he would rebuild a good society, a society of equals and of shared wealth.
But in order to do this, he needed immense resources, resources he could only utilize with no enemy in sight. The Alliance, for the Horde to change, had to be destroyed so that no trace remained of them, no reminder of the bloodshed.
Killing all civilisations in the known continent in order to be more prepared to care for his own's changing needs. Could there be a mission more selfish than such a thing? After all here he was, the one who wanted to follow in Durotan's footsteps and found himself in those of Blackhand. Forced to denigrate the one he respected and emulate the one he hated.
"It's striking, isn't it my good Kargalth? That I would be standing here? Me. The Warchief of the Horde! Reminiscing on better times while my men are getting killed."
"Lord?"
He sighed. Humour and jest were nothing to the efficient orc. "Nevermind what I just said. How goes the plan?" he asked, unable to keep a little cold from entering his voice.
"If all goes well, the elven city of Caer Darrow will be in our grasp and ready to be used as a place from which to attack our next targets, lord."
He shook his head. "That won't be easy. Our forces are superior and vast, but not infinite. For his sake, I hope Gul'Dan isn't wasting my resources in some useless chase for ancient power." He wouldn't be surprised if the orc actually did such a thing - Gul'Dan's interest, in the final analysis, solely rested with Gul'Dan. The Horde and its future meant little to the last Warlock.
Every time he reflected on it, he was reminded that it was he who had, after destroying the Shadow Council and slaying all other warlock, accepted the treacherous cur's offer to magically aid him. He had made this out of logic - almost all of the necrolytes had been killed in the war against the humans, and none remained who had the magical expertise in their ranks.
Knowing that the next war would be very difficult without powerful magic to counter the humans', he had ordered the Warlock to create magic-wielder. The first had been the Death Knights, a fine bargain for the remaining necrolytes as far as he was concerned, but not enough. Now, Gul'Dan would use the Runestone to gather a new cadre of magic wielders.
Or so he hoped.
"What about Stratholme? Have there been any changes?"
"None, Lord. The city is as calm as it ever seemed, only far more fires now adorn the streets, and frequent in its battlements. The city's defences have not been reinforced."
"Haven't they." he stated flatly.
"Its what our spies say."
"Then these spies are fools and should be taken care of. I am quite certain Stratholme will prove much more of a challenge than what our own people tell us."
This unsurprisingly threw Kargath off a bit. The other orc looked about the stone walls and finally back at his warchief. "Forgive my insolent words, lord, but how can you know of their strength in Stratholme."
"Because Lothar oversaw them."
Lothar. His old nemesis and the only human who had earned his grudging respect. The war in which Azeroth had fought with all of its might had often put him at odds with Lothar directly. The two had danced around the battlefields, sacrificing many lives, devising plans and traps the enemy were to step in. Although he had managed to defeat Lothar, its hadn't be easy, and he wasn't blind to think it would be easy to conquer the forces the human nations had given to his old nemesis.
However, he knew that in the end, he would be the one to be victorious. They outnumbered the Alliance, and had forced most of their best forces to stay south, fighting with the Horde's lesser warriors. The enemy had little forces left in the north, opening the way to Silvermoon and then, the centre of everything, Whitefort itself.
To finally control the continent. To reshape it so that Horde could slowly return to what they were. Surely Durotan would have understood all of the killings in that case, no? He felt like shivering when eyes suddenly seemed to scowl at him from on high. A message from the heart, telling him that Durotan would be less than enthused by the plan of wiping out an entire race to save his own.
He shook his head once more. He was the warchief now. He no longer had a place for hesitations. He could only give orders and wait for those under him to do them. Conscience was a definite liability for a leader of men.
"There is a last thing, Lord." Kargath put in a hesitant voice. He raised a thick brow. "Ner'Zhul seems to want to speak to you."
He whirled around, his eyes burrowing into his subordinate's. "Ner'Zhul? What could the Warlord of the Shadowmoon Clan possibly want here?"
"He says that he is concerned about you refusing to admit further forces from Dreanor to reinforce our own..."
Doomhammer actually threw up his head and laughed a deep guffaw at these words. "Reinforce our own! How droll!" he howled, "This is so incredibly like the old shaman! He has to control everything. Tell him he may not come here, and that I will not return to Dreanor to do any discussion. The forces remaining in our homes are small, and have little proper training. No, I will not play into that orc's conceit!"
"The sir, I suppose we will ignore further word from Dreanor?"
Doomhammer nodded, a smile and faraway look on his face. Yes, Dreanor would have to be ignored. He had the manpower here now. When he would have conquered the continent here, he would return to take his people away from that barren, dying world. He had time for nothing else in that corner.
"Enough." he said, looking upon the battlements again. "Come. We will review the troops. All of this talk has made me yearn for a bit of physical interaction." He noted as he stopped dreaming, and returned to his duties as Warchief of the Horde. He wasn't surprised when the very idea didn't suit him much.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
The vastness of Silvermoon's ancient council chamber rang with the clamour of many voices, most of them worried, some of them in a state of panic, all of them angry. To and fro the words went - speculations, cries of disbelief, even accusations - echoing from the marble walls, which had been crafted so long ago by the High Elf exiles. It was supposed to be a place of reflection and of wisdom, but the news of the fall of Caer Darrow had put a stop to that as easily as an arrow could kill an enemy.
Fenna Pureglade, the direct descendant of the elven woman who had built the beautiful capital and from desperate refugees forged a nation let the cries and the dismay wash over her like water, to disappear as if a wind. She surveyed with calm but critical eyes as Lord Amelin Hoarsewood, one of the most volatile tongues in the entire realm, did his best to whip up what everyone felt.
"There is no doubt, esteemed friends, that our lands are in grave danger." he was saying heatedly. "Our borders have fallen, and the Horde forces rampage throughout out beautiful forests nearly unimpeded! The strength of our rangers and of our armies, although tall in bravery, has been unable to stem the tide. And now this! An ancient city, the city containing our precious Runestone, taken! Times are dire for Quel'Thalas, I assure you!"
The queen had been living in the court all of her life. Her mother and grandmother had prepared her well before trolls had taken their lives prematurely, and the ensuing centuries of rule had brought her many ways to see implications and insinuations. Hoarsewood had always been an agitator who lived in his own little world. He probably didn't truly comprehend just how 'dire' the times were for Quel'Thalas. All he wanted was to play an act that would increase his popularity, and take a sniping at the power of the royal line of Pureglade.
She felt a shifting, and saw Vellin, her husband and consort, rise gracefully from the seat behind her. His eyes were bright and alert, and the spark of grim amusement was present. He turned to her and bowed. "I would speak to the Assembly, my Queen."
She nodded. "You may."
"You are quite right, lord Hoarsewood. Our realm is being invaded, and part of our forest, crops and many elven lives are being lost even as we speak. All armies present on our soil have also, as you said, been unable to do anything about the scourge in our lands."
Hoarsewood looked pleased with himself. "Indeed. As the assembly may now see, the threat is truly real, and-"
"But you will pardon me sir. You know what the threat is. I thus assume you have a solution to propose to this assembly?" Vellin interjected in a mild voice. This actually calmed some ardour, and the powerful lord actually hesitated. "I do hope you are not telling us all this merely to gain popularity."
"Of course not!" the elf huffed haughtily, his face a disdainful mask. "I am telling the esteemed people here of matters of importance-"
"Importance!" the king of Quel'Thalas snapped, subduing much of the noise with one verbal blow "It is no longer important to know of the situation - every in this room have it in hand. What we need, what is important, are solutions to our problem! Do you have a solution?" when the silence lengthened, he made a quick swipe with his hand. "Then you are out of order. Take your seat and let wiser ones take the voice."
"Highness!" the elf pleaded, "I must protest of this!"
The queen raised one hand, and as one all elf, male or female, old or young, stopped speaking and turned their gaze to her. The power of being Queen. Her grandmother had called it 'an horror and a pleasure, and certainly something one never truly becomes accustomed to.' Wise words. Fenna still hadn't. But she had learned to use it well. She waited much before speaking, drawing the silence out again, giving it time to cool tempers.
"Lord Hoarsewood, return to your seat. You have told us nothing new. I would agree with the king. We need answers, solutions, not fear and questions."
Hoarsewood may be a blind agitator, but he knew that when the queen asked one to return to his seat, the person in question should do the best he can to obey. Swallowing what he had been about to say, with a sour expression of wounded pride, the esteemed elf seated himself. Bowing again, Vellin did the same at her side, giving her a quick wink only she could have caught. She couldn't smile at it, however, as the pressure of the moment increased. She motioned to one of the oldest elves in the room, who rose, dressed in the cyan and deep green uniform, gold-trimmed and holding six silver leaves in a circle of white on his right breast.
"Admiral Freesilver. Is there anything that our fleet might be able to do to aid Caer Darrow in its need?"
The fleet admiral of all elven naval forces considered the questioned then shook his head slowly. "By my personal estimates, we do not have the strength to attack it in force. Most of our ships are fighting on the Great Sea alongside human ships."
Humans again. "Can we not recall them?"
"I wouldn't recommend it, my Queen. They are for the most part in the middle of delicate operations. Doing such a thing such as calling them back would be, in my opinion, only opening the door for potential disasters for the Alliance."
Fenna felt a brief surge of irritation. The Alliance again. Every time the elven people wished to do something for themselves, it appeared that they had to have the approval of those who made up the pompous Alliance High Command. It wasn't supposed to be, and had thus far given only grief to her people. Still, she had agreed to see the horde threat nullified, and would stand by her oath no matter what she thought. Quel'Thalas would remain obedient to Lordaeron and Azeroth...for now.
She looked over the assembly with cold, calm eyes. All of them looked back with absolute confidence that she would find a way to save them all. The blind respect was daunting, and more than terrifying at times. She felt the weight increase upon her shoulders. What to do? Nothing else but what she had always done - act as if she was in perfect control.
"It would appear that we are in need of solutions. Obviously we do not have the strength to attack the occupying forces. In that case, we must look to other solutions to put an end to this state."
"Wiser words have never been spoken, Your Majesty. I would speak to the assembly." A strong female voice sounded. All eyes turned to the archway, where, flanked by two rangers, Alleria stood, her eyes sweeping, missing nothing. If the ordeal with the Horde had diminished her in any way, Fenna couldn't see how, and she was glad for that. At last, someone who knew what to do here, someone she could get advice from. She sent a silent word of thanks to the Light as she graciously nodded.
"Welcome home, Head Ranger Alleria. We are overjoyed to see you are well." she said.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
"You may speak to the assembly." yes, you certainly can! Fenna thought for herself.
The elf woman, who had successfully led the elite Rangers through many campaigns against the feared trolls, advanced to the middle of the room. Dressed as she did in the garments, with her cloak of office and her mighty ironwood bow slung artfully across her shoulders, she cut a mighty sight that impressed the gallery and commanded respect.
"I have solution for you, for Caer Darrow at least - stealth." she said "We cannot defeat the Horde directly yet, so I intend to use rangers agent to make life as difficult as possible for them. We will destroy their installations, sabotage their works, and give any useful information so that a successful attack might be mounted."
Fenna thought about the proposition. It was certainly the best comment she had heard in many days, and the first, which had realistic potential. "You have certainly managed to hold my interest, Alleria. And who would be in charge of this operation?"
The leader of all rangers almost smiled. Not quite. Alleria never seemed to smile. "I have the perfect person for this duty."
And she began to explain her plan.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 594, Caer Darrow, Quel'Thalas
Gul'Dan knew he was making a strange expression, standing there next to the immense Runestone, his hand upon the hard surface, eyes closed. It looked for all the world as if he was communing with the monolith, and there was no way it didn't make people give him dubious looks.
Not that he cared about them, however. He never would have noticed even if he had minded. All he cared about now was the fact that the texts had been right: there were flows of magic locked in the rock, made sluggish by time but still very much potent. Even better, he could see that the magical energies could actually be taken hold of, and transferred. This was also as he'd hoped.
"It appears that fate has decided to smile upon me yet again." he said, chuckling softly. He stopped as he heard powerful and determined steps coming in his direction. The rhythm was unmistakable, and he barely hid a mien of disgust. He turned his head and opened his eyes to look at Argal Grimfrost, dressed in armour, looking at the Runestone as if it would come down and crush him.
"Well, Warlock." he growled "Is this thing what you hoped it'd be."
He nodded. "Possibly more."
A grunt from the general resounded. "I hoped that it would be. And I hope it will bring about something worthwhile. We lost good orcs to the taking of this city."
Gul'Dan turned away from the larger orc. He wasn't interested if the Horde lost one hundred troops or one hundred thousand. All he cared about were results, and these had ended up being very good. "General, please do not bore me with details. The dead served their purposes and died fighting - what more could they - or you - ask for?"
A more sarcastic grunt, followed by a huff, resounded. "I'm not surprised to hear it. Just do something useful with that thing, or you'll have served YOUR purpose."
It was ridiculous thing to say, and Gul'Dan almost laughed at the orc's temerity. His Death Knights alone assured him that he was nearly untouchable. But he let it slide this time. He liked those orcs who had both wits and backbone enough to say what they wish. He hated them but found them interesting enough to let them fool around a bit more. Besides, he wasn't ready to make a move against people like Grimfrost yet.
But soon, he would be. Very soon.
He kept his eyes upon the stone until the general went away, and then put both hands on the surface, feeling the pleasing flow of magical energies. Yes, this would definitely do. It was now time to plan the next phase of his private operation.
Cautiously, he concentrated his energies forward, piecing the flow of energy, trying to access the ancient forces locked inside. He hit a wall at first, probed it with his mind, and poked for a possible way to penetrate. He wasn't certain that it existed - the elven druids hadn't erected such a monument by being sloppy in anything they did. He murmured elven spells he had found while rummaging through what the Karal Tor had left. Finally, stumbling around, he found what seemed to be a mystical entry. A moment of glee made him act rashly, one single moment of uncontrolled greed. He pushed forward with all of his might.
The backlash nearly destroyed him, as all the flows locked in the Runestone struck back, pushing his magical essence so hard back into his body that he lost his balance and nearly his sense of self. Hands grasped him, voices sounded all around him, but everything was a faint, painful blur. For a long moment, he was utterly lost.
Fortunately, the moment passed, the pain receded, and his thoughts became ordered again. Snarling at those who would help him to his feet, he surged upward unaided, and glared at the Runestone. Locked. By elven spells. That was enough to irritate anyone. But what made him furious, what made him almost stop seeing in the sudden surge of the bloodlust, was the fact his mind had registered: the flows had been arranged thus recently.
"The high priest." he rasped "Get me the high priest. Now!"
Gul'Dan was the chieftain of the Stormreaver Clan, and had the power of the Death Knights, not present right then and yet still looming, to back up his words. There were no questions, no hesitation. With haste, his words were followed, and the High Priest of Caer Darrow was brought.
He was chained, and his clothes had seen better days. Kept in isolation because of his powers, the elf still managed to look down upon everyone present, despite the fact that he was a prisoner and that every orc around him was much taller than he. At other times, the warlock would have appreciated the willpower - so many of those elves had broken so quickly when the city was taken - but not today. Today he wanted answers, and solutions.
He didn't waste time in telling what he wanted. "You locked off the powers in the Runestone, did you not?"
"I did."
"Then, I must kindly ask you to unlock them."
"I certainly will not."
This exchange, although unsurprising, wasn't doing anything to help his temper. He gave the bedraggled elf a tight smile. "I am in no moods for heroics, elf. My patience is thin enough as it is. I would advise you not to force me to take sterner measures."
The elf actually set himself into colder lines. "Sterner measures? My people would not even notice! You are treating them as worse than prisoners, with food that would be better served to mongrel dogs, and harsh treatments no matter the elf's condition. No, I will not give the way to unlock the flows to you. Never!"
Gul'Dan shrugged. "As you wish. I have no intention of hurting your people." The elf's mind showed an instant of confusion and doubt, and the warlock seized into the moment of weakness, reaching out quickly and grasping the elf with his mind. The elf fought back with considerable might, but to no avail. Gul'Dan had been in contact with minds of beings such as Kil'Jeaden and Medhiv, beings with power dwarfing even his own. He soon held the elf within his grasp, and began to delve into his most private thoughts.
What a dry life this elf had had. Only knowing of prayer, sometimes doing a charity for poorer people. No ambition, no drive, nothing but a sort of need to be closer to the Light. Pathetic. But in the end, that also meant old and overused defences, and he finally saw the way the priest had locked the Runestone. A futile effort, made out of ridiculous heroism. He was disgusted, and was considering giving the elf something to remember him by, when a shock broke all contact, and he found himself opening his eyes, lying on the hard ground, with Argal Grimfrost looking down angrily.
"That will be enough, warlock." he growled. "Interrogation is one thing, but I won't allow needless torture here." he pointed to the elf, which was trembling, eyes vacant, mouth open. Rummaging through one's mind often left a deep mark.
Gul'Dan began to rise, an affable smile on his lips. "I had to find the information I needed. You certainly worry too much." He would have said more, except the he was suddenly hauled upward by the robed, so that he came to eye level with the much larger warlord.
"I will not allow needless torture in the Shadow Army without express orders from Doomhammer. Until he says otherwise, my authority prevails here. And that means you will NOT commit yourself to such actions again. Am I making myself clear on this?"
"Of course. I apologize. It will not happen again." nor was there need for it to be. He knew how the elf had locked the Runestone's power. It would now only be a question of patience before he found the way to reverse the effect.
He looked at the immense Runestone, standing as a testament of ancient times, older than all elven-wrought things besides Silvermoon itself. How ironic that the monolith erected to keep a memory alive, would be used to unleash the powers of the one whom it had fought against long ago.
"Find Cho'Gall. Tell him to bring many of his ogres." he told one of his personal guard. "We have much work to do."
And this was only the beginning of it.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 594, Taren Mill, New Azeroth
"I don't like this."
That was all Aerth said as he read the missive he'd received, orders coming directly from the High Command, in Whitefort. He was certain that no one around him quite understood why he'd said such a thing, except for one man. It was to that man alone that he looked. Not to his wife, who was regarding him with inquisitive eyes, and not to the two generals who had come as well. The only one who held any interest to him was lord Varien Wrynn, last of the Royal House of Wrynn and possible heir to King Llane's throne.
He showed the words to the slightly older man.
To General Aerth Swiftblade of the First Alliance Army,
Greetings, General Swiftblade. First a foremost, let the Alliance High Command congratulate you in an excellent military leadership that has given our forces significant victories in this Second War. However, the Horde's threat has changed momentum, and experienced forces will be needed. Therefore, and as of this moment, you are ordered in King Terenas' name to proceed to Whitefort, where you will help in devising defences for the central Provinces in Lordaeron. We hope that your brilliant leadership will be as much use to us as it has been to the lands of New Azeroth and Stromgarde. You army commanders will be notified shortly.
These orders take effect as your read these lines.
Good day,
Selmereth Caldavin, King's Chancellor, Whitefort
Eleventh of the fifth of GlareMonth, 594
He couldn't help but scow at the remembered words. "This is a farce! They can't recall my entire army!"
Wrynn only drank a deep swallow from the red wine the servants had brought from the mansion's cellars. He held it to a refill. "I must admit, lord Swiftblade, that you have some very excellent liquors here. Much commendable."
He wasn't in the mood for that sort of evasion. "Very gracious, Lord Wrynn. But as gracious as your words are, and with all due respect, this is not the sort of answer I either wanted or expected." If his voice was a little hot, he couldn't help it. His army recalled to Lordaeron's capital to baby-sit the King!
The powerful lord, who had not fought much in the First War and certainly hadn't been with an army in the Second, sobered at the tone of voice he heard. His face didn't show indignation, however, but rather a sort of resignation. Sipping the wine instead of drinking it, he looked around at the people who looked right back at him, uncomfortable with the tension in the air. Finally he grinned sadly.
"I admit that it must seem like a shock..."
A shock. It was as bad as being hit by a sorcerer's lightning bolt!
"...but the fact remains that the High Command has made its decision. Truth be told, my friend, I pushed for your reassignment."
Swiftblade gave his probable future ruler a blank, wide-eyed stare. "What?" he asked lamely.
Wrynn looked at the general to the right, and the one to the left, and finally looked at Eira with a kindly, tactful look. "Excuse me, my lady, but could you leave us."
He could feel his wife's ire rise at this. Beautiful, elegant, graceful, definitely intelligent, if there was one thing Eira Fregar Swiftblade couldn't take, he knew, was to be pushed aside in her own house. He didn't blame her. She had taken their ramshackle mansion and made it into something to be truly proud of, the jewel of Taren Mill he had learned. She had lived in it and fought through her months of pregnancy while he himself had been off far away fighting his battles. Wrynn, although quite nice and compromising, had put himself in a rash position. He stepped forward before he discovered just how much.
"There are no secrets between Eira and me. In fact, its is probably better that she stays - she will probably be able to explain things I wouldn't understand." It sounded a little terse, but he meant every word. Not knowing how close he had come to worse, Wrynn frowned and then shrugged, banishing whatever he had been about to say. He took another sip, then set the glass upon the table.
"As you wish. There is no easy method of telling such news. Aerth, things are going badly for the Alliance. And when I say badly, I mean dire, deadly, and bleak as a rainy day."
To Aerth, there was only one reason this could be so. "The Horde army in the northlands? But reports in the south say-"
"Say whatever they can to reassure the troops there!" Wrynn cut him off, voice rising "They tell you that the enemy army has been bogged down. That is false. They say that we have found the means to fight them. That is definitely false. The Horde id moving through the Northlands. They have taken Caer Darrow, and we are certain they will attack Silvermoon to make sure the elves do not interfere. Once Quel'Thalas is paralysed, they are going to go for Whitefort. At our present state, we have no hope of containing them. We've left the bulk of our forces there, but they amount a bare thirty thousand, and nary a soul there has seen battle. If they crush Whitefort..."
The older man let the rest go unsaid. He didn't need to say it. Whitefort falls, Lordaeron will go into disarray. The other nations will be left without the crucial union. The end would come. He saw all this as clear as ice water. It frightened him. Why did the summer air suddenly feel so cold?
One of the generals stirred. "We're in charge of the forces in Whitefort. But we need help. Experienced help to bring all the men we have and whatever militia we might drum up, to fighting shape. That's where you and your army comes in."
"We know that there are other generals who can drive back the Horde to the other side of the Land Bridges." Wrynn started again "Goldenhorn and Minvare can be trusted to accomplish that, they are both excellent leaders of men. But with all the respect I have for them, the stark truth remains that they have never managed to be victorious as often as you have."
"No one in the Alliance has been able to, sir. For every defeat you have, you bring nine victories. Your exploits are already legendary in Whitefort. The people have actually named you Swiftblade the Victorious."
He didn't know if these men thought this would please him. Actually, it did, deep down, please hi to be acknowledged in such a fashion by the people, and to have become a sort of celebrity. But what he was, before anything else, was annoyed. "I may be good with planning, but it would mean nothing without good men and good officers. Fortunately, I have both."
"That is exactly the point, my friend. You are already renowned, so the green troops will have a great increase of morale seeing you leading them. And what is more, you will have your experienced troops to plan with and to train the new soldiers as needed. The capital will need a strong defence before too long, and we want you to take charge of it.
He turned to look at his wife, not bothering to hide his frustration from her. She only returned a calm face, looking at him questioningly. Obviously this was one decision he would field completely by himself. What luck. They had thought of everything, and had pushed exactly the right spots with him. He truly hated to be manipulated like this, and that was what it was- manipulation, no matter how rosy or congratulatory the words were.
Still, they had asked him to go and help the people of Lordaeron. He knew that beyond the manipulation, they were speaking the truth. And that mean that, whatever happened, he was oath-bound to obey.
He turned back to the three and fixed them with a silent stare, which they returned. He had no choice.
"Very well," he said, "I will go, but I have one condition."
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 594, Near the Fortress-City of Ironforge, Khaz Modan
"Fall back, me lads! Fall back to the gate!"
The order was given reluctantly, and there was a certainty in the voice that this desire to remain was strong in almost all the dwarven hearts which fought against the orcs and goblins. However, it was an order. And to a strict militia like the Unified Southern Army of Ironforge was, an order was to be followed. No hesitation. And certainly with no question asked. The word passed through the ranks like a flash, and just as quickly only skirmishers remained, standing at chokepoints, letting their brethren pass, many receiving solemn claps on the shoulder for the sacrifices they would do.
Hergal Flamehammer, general of the Southern Army and close advisor to King Bronzebeard himself, wished he could be one of those brave warriors. But he couldn't he had to survive, if only to see this war through for better or for ill.
He waited for almost all of his men to pass, shrugging off any attempts by other dwarves to move. An impressive dwarf, he was only average in height by the ways of his people but made that up with a body that was all trained muscled. The hammer and the axe he held in his hands were old and notched, a sign that the old dwarf had seen many battles and returned from them to tell of it.
None of the men under his command doubted his fierceness, his valour. They all looked up to him. He found it mildly embarrassing, but he let nothing of this show. Instead he raised both of his weapons, and roared. "Brothers! For Khaz Modan and King Bronzebeard of Ironforge!"
The skirmishers and most passing soldiers roared at them. He could see the rest coming up the slope, and only when he saw that he could not do more did the old war leader leave his place, nudged by the elite guard which had swarmed around him. He was relatively suffocated by the way they seem to herd him, as if he was an old man. The fact that the Horde force they had fought with was near, and that the skirmishers would never hold much more than a minute or two, didn't completely make their action acceptable to him. Still, he bore it with whatever pride he had.
Behind him, he heard the words he had heard far too often in his life.
"Firestone! Firestone and Eternal Khajin!"
"Khajin! Eternal Khajin!"
"Firestone!!"
And the voices took up the roar, calling upon the memory of the Dwarven Kingdom of Khajin, of which Khaz Modan was only a shadow, and calling upon the firestone, the rocks used to heat metal, that which permitted all dwarven achievements. And then, moments later, the voices growled, screamed, and cursed as steel rang. And orc voices were now mingled amongst them, and the dying began. They would hold as long as they could, he knew. But they wouldn't be able to hold for long no matter the strength in their hearts.
It had to be done. Still, a retreat! Flamehammer had seen retreat only centuries before this war, in the last conflict the Dwarves had seen outside their realm, against Azeroth. It hadn't felt fair then and it didn't now.
"Still, after all these years, the bitterness of defeat hangs in my heart. I will never learn." he mused to himself wryly.
"Sir?" That coming from one of his personal guard as they rushed. Perhaps the boy had thought he was being asked something. His fault for speaking out loud.
"Its nothing, lad. Nothing at all. I-" he stopped as he heard something. A peculiar sound he had heard only twice. The sound of something heavy falling, a controlled descent of great mass. He had heard something only once, nearly a century before, when he had a small band had had to fight off a...
He looked up as a shadow swooped over him. "Firestone!! All of you flat on the ground!!!!" he howled, and without another thought slammed into the two guards in front of him, and down they went all in a heap. Not a moment too soon, at that. They had barely fallen that a gust of flames washed over them, and the screams of the wounded and the dying rose like a clamour. His beard singed by the sheer heat, Flamehammer waited until the shadow passed over completely before he looked up again.
There was no doubt. It was indeed a dragon. There was no mistaking the brutal grace of that race. What bothered him enormously was the fact that its scales gleamed a bright red, not the black he had expected. His mind whirled. Deathwing would be completely at home with the Horde, but these...these were Alexstraza's children! Why would the first of all dragons, who had always taken pains to ensure peace with the dwarves, suddenly side with those who only wished for their destruction? It made no sense!
But, as insane as the idea itself was, there was no hiding the fact that the dragon was swerving back for another pass. He rose to his feet and did the only thing he could. Cursing, shouting, he exerted his people into running as fast as they could to the waiting gate. Barely a mile run left. An eternity.
"Hurry, you slow cows! Hurry lads! We can't take that dragon on here!" A noise made him turn, and he felt himself paling as he saw other winged shapes joining the first; ready to attack the running dwarves.
That was when he started to run too. He had no qualms about facing death in battle. But his battle skills would be useless against these beasts, and he refused to die a meaningless death after doing all he could not to! He hated the way it sounded, hated it with a passion. But he couldn't stop himself.
Of they ran, all of them reaching a safety that was nearer and nearer and seemed so far away. The gate had been close so that it was barely high enough for a dwarf, the adamantine metal gleaming on the sunlight. Twice the dragons attacked again. Twice, somehow, he was amongst those who survived. The orderly retreat had become a rout, as wounded and healthy dwarves alike stumbled over broken and seared bodies.
His people had gone mad in their terror, as it often was when a wing of dragons appeared in the sky. Still he ran on.
Finally he reached the gate, with the last survivors trailing behind. The immense gate began to close. When only a foot or so remained, a gust of fire washed over the opening, and Flamehammer knew that the dragons had attacked the gate - ineffectually - with their breath. He only started to breathe when the loud clanking noise showed that the gate had been closed tight. Even the dragons, as powerful as they were, could never tear down the gate. Nothing had scratched it in the thousand years any of them had been fitted.
He took a few moments to compose himself - fear, anger and shame battled between themselves inside his soul. He had failed his men. He had lost control of himself, and had deprived them of strong leadership. What kind of dwarf was he that he would do that?
But he knew, deep down, that it would never have changed anything. It didn't make things easier for him, however. And it only increased the anger he felt at the dragons for attacking them after centuries of peace, and the fear he felt over an alliance between the Horde and the Dragons was founded upon realistic speculations.
"But why?" he asked himself as he looked upon the many wounded, the many burned in the fiery attack. "By the Firestone, why would Alextrasza do this?" He couldn't believe it. The red dragons had always been neutral in conflicts, only fighting against the black dragons.
A group came towards him. Distractedly, he noted that it was the royal chamberlain and a group of royal guards, all of them inspecting the burned and shattered dwarven forces with an appalled mien.
The chamberlain came forward, his hand sweeping the ravages. "By Khajin, general! What has happened?"
He resisted the urge to laugh at the other dwarf. It would not be proper, and he feared that his laugh might take an edge of hysteria, and that simply couldn't happen. He had let his men down once in his fear. He would not do it again. So, simply, he said "Dragons. The dragons have sided with the Horde, me lads. Aye, sided with the Horde.
And letting this sink into the others, Hergal Flamehammer limped away, wanting nothing more but to see the king, and tell his friend that Ironforge was now even more besieged than ever before.
_____________________
BONUS PROFILE #7
Fenna Pureglade
Birthplace: Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
Birthdate: Winter 2138 IC (154 years prior to the Age of Light)
Height: 5'8"
Hair: Blonde
Eyes: Brown
Present status: Queen of Quel'Thalas
Allegiances: Quel'Thalas, the Light
History: From the moment she was born, Fenna Pureglade had a destiny. A great one - that to lead Quel'Thalas, the Kingdom of the Exiles. Everything was given to her during her childhood, her every whim attended to. Although she never knew her father - he was killed leading an elven force even before she was born, she knew the wisdom of her mother and that of her remarquable grandmother, Queen Lenaias, known as the greatest High Elf Queen after the First Queen Narra Pureglade.
Fenna grew up a spoiled yet remarquably open maiden, and as such accepted the tricky but genuine affection that a young firebrand of an elven lord, Vallin Hillwinter, gave her, and soon returned it in earnest. Time passed, and the two finally became mates. None have since then known her heart as well as Vallin.
Tragically, Fenna was trust into her role as queen sooner than anyone expected, as her mother and grandmother, traveling to Stromgarde to ratify a treaty, came under attack by Trolls and killed. In the year 211 of the Age of Light, Fenna Pureglade became the Sixth Queen of Azeroth.
For five centuries, this queen has ruled, and many in the Queendom know only of her. As the war with the Horde rages on, she is now fighting to unite her people, and free her lands. Even with Vellin, Alleria and Illadan helping her, it might be too much.
But she is Pureglade. And no Pureglade had ever abandoned her people. Or lost hope.
