Chapter Fifteen: Preparation and Anticipation

Late Summer 594, Duraz Mansion, New Azeroth

"Incredible, its it not? That the people here still continue, still move about as if nothing had changed, as if they'd always lived in these new, hastily-constructed cities instead of the proud places that dotted Azeroth. When I think on this, I sometimes regret to do what must be done. Indeed, I do."

Silphord Duraz turned from admiring the working people of Hillsbrad and turned to the other people seated at his dining table. Men and women lined it, many wearing the frilled and laced garments almost inherent to the nobility; some wearing a more militaristic mode of uniform, although still gaudy. Some even wearing priest robes and sorcerous attire. A rather large group of influential people. People he had brought together, pooling their ambitions and their resources to form what they had come to call The Compact.

"But I must do what I must, as must we all. A new day must come." He walked to the head of the table, and sat, his face both handsome and unreadable. One of the gaudy military men spoke up.

"Excuse me, sir, but should we truly be doing such meetings while the Alliance hangs by a thread? I mean, the south is holding at great cost, and the north is in serious jeopardy."

Duraz saw that these words had an immediate effect on many of the members. Before such doubts could grow, however, he moved to head it all off. Fluidly. Charismatically. He smiled at the assembled people. "I admit that the times are dire, but if we do not plan, we will be unable to move when the time is right."

"But how can the time be right? If Whitefort falls..." another man, this one a middle-aged, low-caste noble muttered worriedly. Silphord cut him off again, his voice taking on a harder edge.

"It will not fall. Whitefort will stand in the days and the years to come. It cannot be allowed to fall, and so we will work to make it so." he looked at the surprised shifts amongst some of the members. "Did you think I would let the people of the Alliance fall? Folly! I only want the leaders to be gone, as do we all. We want to rule the people and lead them to better times, not give them to the Horde."

The Horde. If there were things he had true mixed feelings about it was it. He hated the green-skinned, cruel brutes for destroying his home and killing people he had cared about - and also destroying some of his ambitions. But he also liked them because of the same ambitions, which had been rekindled by the Second War, which was fast becoming more violent than the First.

Life could be so strange at times.

He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't making plans, come to think of it. Ever since he had been but a child, he had been bred for it, and had been found to have quite an ability when it came to subtly getting where he wanted to, or getting someone to do what he wanted without the person in question ever knowing of it. His progenitor had been puffed up with pride over it, proud that he had sired something worthwhile. It still hadn't really meant that he had time to give attention to said child. But that hardly mattered. He had had his own plans under way soon, until he had replaced the old fool at the head of the great House Duraz. His first plans achieved, he had looked to the future, and had connived anew.

But it had backfired. Backfired because the fool woman had taken leave of her senses and married far below her rank, to a lowly, penniless knight without an ounce of good blood in him.

As if on cue to his dark thoughts, one of the sorcerers succinctly told, "I have heard that general Swiftblade has been affected to Whitefort, to oversee the defences of Lordearon's capital city."

Swiftblade. The very name irked him impossibly. Not only had the man married someone who was far too good for him, but also he had managed to rise to a rank that no merchant-born soldier should ever reach! Was it what really angered him? No, not really. It was the fact that, beyond the common blood and the cheating way he had immersed himself into the nobility could be a very clever ploy indeed. If all of his moves were part of a plot to gain more power to himself, he had achieved admirably.

His battles were already gaining him fame amongst the soldiers, his supposed caring for his men the approval of the people and the fact that he won - blast him! Won far too often! - Endeared him to the leaders of the Alliance. There was even talk of him being given a seat in the High Command, of all things!

He was so immersed in his inner dialogue that it took a haughty declaration from one of the nobles to pull him back to the present. "...I say that we should kill him and save ourselves the trouble he might one day cause!"

"What?!?" he growled, startling them - he hardly ever raised his voice to anyone. "Don't be foolish! Swiftblade is well protected, and will be even more so when he reaches the capital! Besides all this, I doubt you quite understand what would happen if we were implicated even slightly. The soldiers see him as a sort of man who always wins his battles with far less losses than he should." Light knew this was a large part of why he hated the man, too! "The soldiers like this! And in this state of war, it gives him immense power. No. No. He must not be killed."

This made them go silent. "He is too large a potential threat to simply let be." A woman who seemed to wear far too little stated softly. "Can he not be bought?"

Duraz only smiled. "I highly doubt that." Merely the knowledge that Duraz was would be enough to have Swiftblade refuse. The dislike, it seems, was mutual. "He would only become a direct threat if we tried."

The woman blinked, then settled back on her chair languidly. "If he cannot be killed, cannot be bought, he has to be broken...subtly, of course."

Now this was better. This was the sort of suggestion one could work with, especially in a group, which had to keep a definite low profile in order to escape detection by the present Alliance leaders. After all, it wouldn't do to have them know that some people were preparing to replace them, no?

"Yes." he said "We must act with caution around Swiftblade, and even more so around Lothar, Terenas and Proudmoore. Of all the leaders, these three are the most cunning and the most influential. We have to work around them." He smiled ever so slightly, steeping his fingers in front of him "That, beyond anything, is why we should weaken Swiftblade." he looked to his right, to another woman, one who had looked upon the others with such lifeless eyes that, he knew, many of the other members of the Compact had been terrified. "Are the plans ready?"

"Of course." the voice spoke with assurance bordering on arrogance. "Ready at your convenience."

"Excellent. Excellent."

One of the nobles, a burly man who looked to be in his sixties, almost stood up, his eyes flaring. "What is the meaning of this, Duraz? Have you prepared plans that you neglected to tell us of?"

All the noble received in return was an indulgent grin mingled with a look that stopped him dead in his tracks. Instead Duraz kept focused on the dead-eyed woman. "Then prepare what I asked for. Do not initiate anything before I give an order to do so."

"As you wish, milord."

It was only then that he deigned look upon the others. It was a clear message to all of those who would have such an outburst towards him again: I am in charge, and events will unfold as I say. It had an impression upon them, for none dared to say anything again. All only looked at him with barely-contained impatience.

"Forgive me for not telling you all this sooner, but let us say that I wished to arrange things for Aerth Swiftblade myself. Personal matters. No concerns of yours at any rate. Suffice it to say that three things make Swiftblade strong: Goldenhorn and Minvare, two great generals in the southern forces whom he considers his equals, his wife Eira," he managed to keep a neutral voice "and the officers in his army. If we break his foundation at these three points, he will fall."

"And when he does?" the barely-clothed woman asked him.

His eyes became cold over his smile. "Then we will use him as we see fit, waiting for the right moment. And then, when they no longer think danger is present, when the north relaxes its guard, then it shall be time for us to begin our revolution."

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Summer 594, Stratholme, Stromgarde

The walls were buckling, and there was little that Lord Vilikin could do about it, save to pray for nothing less than a miracle. As he looked over the crumbling battlements, zoning out the noises of catapults firing and ballistae retaliating, he saw what had been there for the last two days: a see of green orcs and trolls, surrounding every point, with clumps of large ogres here and there.

There were thousands of them. How many? Twenty thousand? Thirty? More? It mattered not. There were too many. Every able-bodied men and boys, and even some of the doughtiest women had been mustered, making an impressive number but a rag-tag one. The regular soldiers were few, most of them having been pulled to the southern front. Vilikin had been Duke of Stratholme for over twelve years. He knew his people would give their best. But their best wouldn't be enough. They lacked the weapons and the training the horde forces had, and even those who did might not have been able to fight off such a large force.

How did it come to this? Vilikin supposed that it had begun when the beast had attacked and seized the large refineries and foundries, which served as one of the largest producer for the northern parts of the Alliance. Even now, smoke rose from some of these destroyed buildings. But crippling production hadn't been enough, it seemed. They had come to the gates, slaughtering those who hadn't been able to reach the city's relative safety. And the desperate battle had been joined.

With an effort, the duke pulled himself from the despair he was feeling, and instead found himself awash with terror as a catapult boulder impacted the wall just near his position. Stone chips flew everywhere, one hitting him square in the eye. He cried out, and lost his balance. It was as he did that the voices returned. The voices of his people fearfully huddling or trying to make a stand.

"They won't stop. They won't stop. They won't stop..."

"Come and get some, greenskins! I'm waitin' for ya!"

"Denelli! Denelli where are you?!?"

"Keep those ballistae shooting, dammit! Stand fast and shoot back for all you can!!!"

Much more shouting ensued. Here a child who should be old enough to even hold a sword was curled into a ball in a corner, disconnected from reality. There, three men where arguing while the battle raged on. All of it showed and more showed madness and a despair no words could describe. These people needed a very strong leader to pull them together.

He wasn't that. He had no courage. He had paid away his military service when the last Troll War had been fought, and had never regretted it until that moment. His armour and sword, although beautifully crafted, were little more than ornaments. He knew he wouldn't be able to lead them, even though he should be. So Vilikin leaned against a still-intact part of the battlement, shivering, and did nothing else but watch the battle unfold.

They had asked if the Alliance would send any soldiers. He had told them of course they would. He hadn't had the courage to tell them that the Alliance's forces were stretched so thin; they'd probably send nothing. In fact, he had been certain they wouldn't. Unlike anyone else, he had read messages that detailed the situation. The south was holding at great cost, and an army was being hastily gathered around Whitefort, letting the centre weak and vulnerable.

They had trusted him.

He had lied to give them some hope.

It wasn't bad. He knew that it had been the right thing to do. But it only seemed to prove that he had never shown any backbone in his life. After all, others were prepared to fight to the very end, firing the ballistae, manning the battlements and working to strengthen the gates. All he could do was remain here and weep. A wave of shame washed over him, yet it didn't make him move from the place he had chosen.

Booms and tremors sounded nearby, and Vilikin dared a look. Orcs were hitting one of the gates with immense battering rams. He sighed and forced himself to relax. The gates were of steel and wood. They would last much longer than a day.

But not eternally.

It was the first time in the duke's life where he truly considered the facts that he might die before his time. It both frightened and angered him that his life, which had been perfectly set up and followed, would come to an end, because of dimwitted green monsters. It was hard not to rile openly, but Vilikin didn't want to do so in the fear that he would be seen. He wouldn't be able to take it if he ever had to face his people again, and see the betrayal and hopelessness in their eyes. The Alliance would leave them for dead.

Below him, men were running towards the gates. All of them wore the armour of the Alliance, and the colours of Alterac. They were powerful looking, and well armed. Vilikin felt slightly better. The militia would feel strengthened to see trained warriors in their rank. From his vantage point, he saw them arrive towards the endangered gate, coming up fast. He craned his neck so that he wouldn't miss a second of the event.

And then he felt as if his world crumbled.

The soldiers, upon coming near the untrained militia, had prepared and attacked their fellow men without mercy. An act that had been frown upon ever since the Pact of Stormwind. An act that, in these dangerous times, meant only one thing: Treason.

Treason! It was nothing but that! The Alterac soldiers had betrayed the Alliance for some unknown reason, and were slaughtering the guards at the gate. Vilikin yearned to do something, anything to stop them, but it's was as if he was made of clay. His tongue clung to his palate, his face ashen, as his feet refused to move.

'My cowardice has undone me, and this city my family has ruled for four generations!' he thought in anguish, and watched as the last loyal guards, caught by surprise, were killed. Other around the city had seen by now, but it was too late. The mechanism which controlled the large gate activated - a dwarven system - unlocked it, and the treacherous humans pulled it open slowly.

It was then that they came, even as breaches in the walls widened and horde warparties were engaging human troops over the battlements. At first glance they seemed like knights, knights in armour, which had seen better days, wearing a cloak, hiding their faces, but there the similarity ended. They wielded not swords or shields but entered waving a large staff he had only seen sorcerers use. To his horror, at their command the dead around them began to rise, and lumber towards the nearest defender.

And behind these scourges that killed the living and raised the dead cane a sea of green-skinned warriors. The defences were breached. They had few soldiers, and all the powerful spellcaster were further south, too far to help their home.

He laughed at himself inwardly, scornfully, as his mind took in the surrounding despair and destruction and found itself unable to deal with it.

Stratholme, his home, had always been a prosperous port, and one of the largest cities in Stromgarde. His family had ties to the ruling House of Trollbane, and could scurry favours easily. That was what he had liked, and had used. The power. And mostly the power to have others fights his battles for him. He had thought those who fought weak-minded, and had refused to even learn how to fight with a sword properly.

"I'd probably just cut my own feet with that blasted blade!" he finally howled to the wind, and laughed all the more. His maddened, despairing laugh was lost amidst those of death and violence filled all senses. Screams, shouts, curses, orders, steel clashing and feet running. He could hear it all.

He rose, still laughing amongst the ruins of his home as it fell. Betrayed by Alterac. The kingdom would never be safe again. He'd fooled himself by thinking the war didn't reach him.

"But it won't! It won't! He crowed, and moved over the battlement even as he saw ladders come up and men rushing towards them. He rushed between two of them, his laughter unending as he screamed one last time. "Stratholme is gone, but they won't defeat me! The war won't touch me!"

He jumped over the battlement, towards the mass of green-skinned soldiers.

His last thought before he died was 'It didn't.'

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Autumn 594, Whitefort, Lordaeron

Aerth Swiftblade knew the reason of this procession as he waved to the gathered populace, flowers and petals swirling around him and at his horse's feet. He knew that his army had won recognition, and that his presence was something that overjoyed many of those rightfully frightened by the whispers of the enemy closer to the ancient city than any had thought they would by this time.

He knew it was for the best. But he hated every second of it.

"My dear dear love. Please have some care. Your grin is beginning to look like a death's head." his wife's coolly amused voice sounded, and he turned to the figure riding beside him. Beside and down, as a matter of fact, for Eira had refused to either ride with him or ride one of the large warhorses. Consequently, a smaller but powerful mare had been prepped for the voyage. Still, he realized, he never felt it made him seem greater. Never, and especially not in this setting.

He had been born and raised in Moonbrooke, a large city itself - although it had seemed small next to Stormwind and now Whitefort - but Eira had been bred for appearing publicly, for finding the right expression and the right gesture to bring the people to love her. She had dressed in a most beautiful blue gown for the occasion, and now was bewitching the populace. It was just as well, he supposed. It made certain that their attention didn't focus on him all the time. That way hopefully the citizens he'd come here to protect wouldn't notice that 'Aerth the Victorious' would be better called 'Aerth the Uneasy'.

"That's not quite bad." he answered, "I certainly feel like one. All this...ceremony..." he gave another wave "...is tedious."

"More tedious than commanding your men on the battlefield?"

He thought about that. It was true that leading an army was no easy task. After all, he had to read the casualty reports and mentally work things out so that the numbers became nothing more than that. Sometimes he wasn't entirely successful. Then there were the strategy sessions, and the endless hours, the sleepless nights, planning and poring over maps, thinking about the best way to win with as little loss to his own forces as he could make it.

No, she was right. In a way, it was extremely tedious. However...

"My men don't throw flowers at me everytime I make an entrance. This is a waste of time. These people should be busy preparing shelters, packaging whatever food we can keep a long time. This city has mighty defences, but so did Stormwind. It still fell, and the people of Stormwind weren't wasting their time!" He nearly snapped the last one, then sighed, looking away, chagrined. Why was he getting so angry? Then he felt a tap on his glove, and he looked down to see Eira looking at him, her eyes gentle.

He realized his face had grown grim, and he forced a smile back to his face. "I'm sorry, my love. I'm just tired."

Surprisingly, this made her giggle. Giggle! Eira was an enigma at times. Always she'd been able to catch him off-balance, with her ability to change her mood. One moment she could be so noble and haughty she seemed downright queenly. At others she laughed and acted like some carefree maiden. He had never been able to totally understand her on these changes. But it only made him love her more, he realized.

But it was with a voice laced with insinuations that Eira winked at him and told him "And I know I haven't helped to alleviate the problem."

"You only added to it, my dear." he returned, after a moment of shock. She sniffed as if in self-recrimination.

"How rude of me."

He was glad the knights and officers trailing them hadn't heard that particular exchange. Aerth had asked that he be allowed to bring his family to Whitefort as a condition to Lord Wrynn's demand, a condition readily accepted. Thus, although they had brought their firstborn as well, they had left him largely to the servants who had come with them, and had spent much of their nights making up for lost time. He had seen many of the knights' grin at one another while looking at him knowingly. If any had heard this conversation, he knew the gossip would take tremendous proportions. Still, he knew he felt better ever since he had laid eyes on her, and he knew she would be crucial in him keeping his feet in the royal court.

He looked away from the people and his beloved for a moment, and studied the city he had come to protect. It was extremely large, meaning that his own army couldn't arrive too soon for his taste. It had wide, clean streets, which could work both ways if it was invaded. Fortunately, it also had walls of a thickness at least equal to Stormwind's, and that gave him hoped. Perhaps he could do something here. He only hoped that his forces arrived soon. Looking at the soldiers lining up, keeping the crowds back, he saw training but for most no experience.

And fighting an enormous Horde army always demanded much experience.

"Here we are, Aerth." Eira said, and he forced himself to look from the defences to the place they were coming upon: Castle Whitefort. A fairytale castle of towers and old structures, expanded over the centuries. The immense structure, he knew, had been there in the early days of Arathor, had seen its stellar rise, its gradual decline and then its sudden fall. What was it? Two millennia? At least that. It certainly looked ancient enough to fit the part. But that wasn't what retained his attention. It was the people waiting on the stairs leading to the entrance to the powerful fortress.

"By the Light!" Aerth exclaimed "The Regent and the King themselves?"

It appeared to be the case. Surrounded by other men of war - immense knights - the two men were looking on calmly, right at him it seemed. Lothar wore full ceremonial armor, with the cyan cloak of the Alliance High General thrown over his shoulders. King Terenas looked equally impressive in white robes sewn with gold, the crown worn by the emperors of old on his brow. Seeing their majesty, the general felt somewhat intimidated, and truly awed.

He rode his horse needs them, and horns and trumpets sounded. He fought back a wince, kept his face controlled as he dismounted before the huge castle gates. He bowed to the two men, and then moved to help his wife dismount. Usually a fair person when it came to the feat, she had difficulty with the dress she had chosen. He bit back a smirk as she looked at him warningly, defying him of saying anything about her being clumsy, and finally she was on the ground. He took her hand as she had force-taught him all those years ago, and stepped forward, the escorting knights falling in behind them.

He didn't have to make the entire way towards them, to his surprise. Lothar and Terenas also stepped forth, so that soon enough they were face to face.

"Sires," he said, bowing "I am honoured at your presence, it is too much for a general like me."

Lothar clapped him hard on the shoulder, which caused him to blink in surprise. The old man laughed. "Too much? Enough with the modesty, Lord Swiftblade. You're the best general we have on the battlefields, so why wouldn't we be interested in seeing you."

"What is more," Terenas added with a benevolent smile, "You come to defend this city. Compared to the task ahead of you, our taking a few moments of our time is very little indeed. But, Light, are my eyes finally failing me, or would that be your wife?"

How did one chat with the two most important men on the entire continent as people cheered, at the very doorstep of a royal castle? He knew he couldn't, and was glad when Eira took the conversation under her own wing, quickly endearing herself to the king. Finally the group made its way inside the castle after last waves to the gathered crowds, and Swiftblade saw Lothar break from the group and join him. His face was grim now. The noble was gone - the Alliance High General had taken the fore once more.

"So, Lord Swiftblade?" he asked quietly "You are said to have a remarquable talent for tactical judgment. A third of the horde forces will hit this region. Will Whitefort hold?"

The young general bit his lips for a moment, thinking back to the large walls, the many people who could be recruited, the wealth of the region. He saw through all the possibilities without truly seeing them, and finally sighed.

"The possibility is slim, sir. But not impossible. And as long as its not impossible, I'll do my best to make it happen."

Lothar clapped him again. "Words worthy of an Azerothian Knight! Come! You are tired. Today you will rest. Tomorrow, our collective challenge begins."

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Autumn 594, Outskirts of Redgates, Stromgarde

Bram Poorglade thought that his throat would explode, but he continued to shout as he gave orders to the new recruits. Three days ago the army had received full wagons of new equipment - better swords and armours, many of them crafted by the smiths of Ironforge. Although it had pleased the commanders to know that their forces would be outfitted with the best, it had given Bram mixed feelings. Of course, he was rather glad of the fact that they'd be having the best armament, but it also meant breaking in the new recruits a second time, and arranging training sessions for the veteran footmen as well.

Another collective thrust and parry found itself to be awkward, and he growled. More work for him. "Come, boys! This isn't training camp here! This is the First Army, and we don't allow mistakes here! You think the general's going to win his battles with a band of sluggard and fops like you?!?" he bellowed "You're footmen, ya hear?"

"Yes Sir!"

"Footmen!"

"Yes Sir!!!"

"FOOTMEN!"

"YES SIR!!!!!"

He almost grinned as all of them looked so pumped up as to be ready to dive at the next orc, which would have the bad luck to come along, but he refrained from doing so. He was here to train, not fraternize, as much as he liked the latter. Instead he just crossed his muscular arms and looked at the ranks of unarmored greens with a hard look. Light, so young! All of them, so very young!!

He had to admit that as far as age went, some were his own age, perhaps even older. He wasn't even at his twenty-second winter yet. But he'd been through more battles with Goldenhorn's Fourth Army and now with Swiftblade's First Army that he felt so ancient, so very old. It was incredible.

But he had also learned something else during that time. He'd learned that this war was for keeps. This wasn't a neighbouring county harassing, or even a war between human nations, but a war that might end up with all humans slain if the Alliance failed. To prevail, the soldiers had to be cunning, ruthless, and as well trained as possible. And that was the work he had accepted to do for General Swiftblade.

So it was with no hint of pity in his heart that he howled. "Then SHOW IT TO ME!! Show me you're footmen, and not just some country pumpkins playing at war! Start the exercise again!" he turned to one of the lower trainers, a sergeant many years his elder. "Have them do this until they dream of sword practice in their sleep. This new bunch be pretty stale, as far as I'm concerned."

The other footman only nodded. "Aye, cap'n sir! All right, you orclings! Greenskin wannabes! Do it faster! Faster ya hear!!!"

Bram nodded to himself, satisfied with the measures he'd taken. Deciding that he could take a few moments to deal himself a small meal, he headed back towards the camp. He looked towards the fields dotted with innumerable tents, with people milling about, either relaxing or with a purpose. Beyond the tent, higher than even the large army conference tent, loomed the thick, ancient walls of the Royal Capital of Stromgarde. At its port, he knew, ships were being prepared to send them to Southshore, and from there to Whitefort. Heh, what a traveller he'd become.

"Ah, captain Poorglade! Mind if I join you?"

He didn't even start - he'd seen the movement from the corner of his eye, and knew who it was in a second. He turned his head to smile at a slim woman in the garbs of an archer. Like him, she was young but old, veteran of many battles including Zul'Dare and Dun Modr.

"Of course not, captain Mendranon! Always an honour to have you by my side!" he said with fake courtesy.

"Flatterer."

"Always, my dear Polla."

"You'd better be, sir, or you'll find an arrow in your back faster than you can draw your steel!"

He laughed out loud, and she joined in. Of all the times in the army, being in the First Army was turning out to be the best. Swiftblade had kept the lowest casualties in the entire Alliance, and many of the soldiers in this army were hard veterans, and he had fit right in. With Polla, it had worked from the first day, and now it seemed like they'd known each other forever.

When she stopped laughing, Polla sniffed scornfully. "It seems that our Lord and Master. Has finally decided to embark. Must have been awfully hasty for that elf."

He grimaced at the disdain he heard in his friend's voice. "Come now, Polla. Commander Ranil's made some good decisions in the general's stead. I'm sure Swiftblade would have waited a bit too."

"Huh. No way old friend. Swiftblade's a human - we don't wait out when we get orders." she answered with a shake of her head.

Bram decided to let it drop. For all the respect he had for her as an archer - she was skilled enough that she could actually beat a few of the elves at it - and her ability to stay cool when the battle raged on, eh couldn't agree with the ignorant bigotry she showed the elves. For some reason, it was a trait that many people of Alterac shared, and he couldn't for the life of him understand it. Certainly, he wasn't inclined to making friends with the haughty and indulgent archers and even less with the aloof rangers, but he knew they had proven their worth enough to deserve respect.

But saying so would only put Polla at odds with him, and he had too few real friends in the First Army to do something that damaging. Instead he asked, "So, do you think that the rumours are true?"

"Which rumour? There's so many floating around this place..."

"The one about the Horde having smashed their way north and gone to threaten Whitefort itself."

She stayed silent, her slender eyebrows knotting in concentration. She hummed a tune, which showed him she was in deep thought. They were almost to one of the large army cook pots when she spoke. "I'm about certain that its true in part. Except for that. I wouldn't say thirty thousand...I'd say three hundred thousand orcs is more like the real army."

He had been reaching for some stew, bowl in hand, but stopped and turned in astonishment. "That many? Moving three hundred thousand around. I mean, we would have known. We would have seen."

"I have doubts about that. But even then, how else would you explain the fact that they called the general to the south? I don't think thirty thousand would have deterred someone like Lothar or Terenas." She shrugged "I could be wrong, but it looks to me like the High Command's been caught with its pants down. In that case, they really would need the general, because he's won battles where he was badly outnumbered often."

He reflected on that. Although he couldn't quite grasp the whole of the situation, he knew enough about the rumours and the facts of the war by now to know that she was probably right. It chilled him. "So what do you think will happen?"

She seemed once again to draw upon herself, and finally shook her head. "I don't know. I can't tell. But I can't tell you that: they wouldn't call their best general to guard their city without due cause."

Poorglade suddenly didn't feel that hungry. He actually let the bowl drop unto the stringy grass. "And that means we'll have quite a fight there."

"Our biggest yet, my friend. And the most important. If Whitefort falls, I wonder if there will be an Alliance long after wards."

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Summer 594, Tyr's Hand Ruins, Stromgarde

"No. I will not attack. Not yet."

"I think that you should consider what you are saying carefully, warlord." the warlock said neutrally "You are willing to let the elves strengthen their defences while we will wait here, unable to further our plans-"

"Spare me your theories, warlock! The elves are in no position to strike at us. Whatever forces they had within this forest have been significantly diminished. We have crushed them at every turn, sometimes so easily I found it almost relaxing." he grinned at that, and many of his subordinates gave chuckles and disparaging comments towards the elves. He cut these short with a gesture and looked at one of the orcs he hated the most with a hard gaze "But Silvermoon is different. I've heard enough about it - from old accounts, and from the prisoners we have, to convince me of that."

"Surely you are not thinking that the Horde can be defeated by one elf city?" Gul'Dan purred, his voice dripping ice and venom at the same time.

"Don't put words in my mouth." Grimfrost growled "I have led this army to victory time and time again, and when time comes to destroy Silvermoon, I will do so again. But now isn't the time to finish the elves. They are weakened, and with Caer Darrow taken and Stratholme destroyed, they are cut off. They are no threat. No danger. Whitefort, however, is far more of a danger. Eliminating that city would not only secure us, but also potentially split the Alliance apart."

"You are fantasizing. The humans' forces are all at the so-called Land Bridges, fighting to 'keep us contained'. They are no threat. Silvermoon, however, has artifacts that could help me finalize a project I have begun."

Grimfrost gave a glare all around, and many of the warriors and leaders gathered flinched at the intensity of his eyes. Damn the spellcaster! Curse him to the Beyond and to the Ashes of Gulud! It had been hard enough to control a force as immense as the Shade Army, but with the warlock that task had been made into impossibility. Nothing seemed to interest Gul'Dan but his own projects, which often slowed down the army's capabilities.

"If you think that I will put your interest before that of the Horde and the Warchief, warlock, you can save your breath. We are powerful, but I can't afford an attack on two such powerful cities. Silvermoon will bleed us too much! It might put everything we've built and conquered here into question."

"You seem to be forgetting one simple thing, my good Warlord of the Shade Army." the older orc interjected.

Grimfrost set his face into taut, impatient lines. The old one had always liked to be dramatic, and he knew exactly what was about to be said. It wouldn't be the first time he'd heard it, and each time it gave him an even worst expression.

"You forget that Warchief Doomhammer has given me full authority when it came to my experiment. Well, good warlord, attacking Silvermoon is part of the experiment." Gul'dan said.

It was the stark truth, as much as Grimfrost would want to deny it. But he wasn't about to lie down and take such orders. He had agreed with taking Caer Darrow, for it had been logical. Taking out Stratholme had been a harder decision to take, but he had at least been able to find some reasonable premises to feed his conscience. Now, however, there was nothing of the sort that he could see, and he wasn't about to stand for that.

"I will not follow Doomhammer's orders without a better reason for following yours." he said.

He actually had the interesting pleasure of surprising the warlock, while all of his captains, to an orc, looked at him with wide-eyed disbelief. He understood what they felt. It was the first time that Argal Grimfrost, one of the most respected warlords in the Horde, had ever intended to disobey an order from his warchief. That Doomhammer and Grimfrost were comrades and friends who trusted each other implicitly was well-known, and he knew that he had turned a few minds around for spinning with his sentence.

However, he spoke again, encompassing the room with his gaze. He had to speak before the warlock regained his footing. "I will not obey these orders, because Doomhammer doesn't have all the facts. I will not move any force towards Silvermoon unless I have a good reason to do so. Now give it to me: a reason to fight the elves when we could go and deal a blow to the Alliance that might destroy it altogether."

Gul'Dan looked at him silently, seething.

"Must I then go send a message to the warchief and gain his opinion? If he tells me to attack after the facts are explained, then I certainly will attack." he made a move to leave the tent, calling the spellcaster's bluff.

"Very well, then! There's no time to waste on further discussions!" The warlock snarled, probably angry that it had been caught with someone who was both untouchable and unafraid. "I will tell you some information, but you must attack Silvermoon as soon as possible."

Grimfrost put his large hands on his armoured hips, fixing the hated orc with a glare. "I'll see about that after you speak, not before. My first question is this: why do you want me to attack the elven capital before the human one?"

"That is easy to explain, and easy to tell: because the Runestone is elven, and I might need elven lores to fully understand its powers and possibilities."

He could believe that, at least. The Runestone, which had been cut into thick slates, was cumbersome to transport, and Grimforst felt that, unless they found a use for it, he wouldn't risk the resources or the manpower for it. It was normal that Gul'Dan would want to know how the elves used it before, for those in Caer Darrow hadn't had all of the knowledge.

"And what makes you think Silvermoon would have the information you seek?" he asked.

The look he received was indulgent, as if for an adorable but retarded orcling. Grimfrost held back his ire at the expression, held back the strange boiling of his blood. Calm. Focus. He wouldn't let down to this cursed temper his race had been affected of years before. What was more, he knew anger was exactly what Gul'Dan wanted to create with this. More than anything, he wouldn't give him that satisfaction. He managed to retain a neutral outlook.

At length, the orc had no choice but to answer the question. "Silvermoon was founded, according to the ancient tales and histories, nearly six thousand years before this day, and has been the central gathering of High Elf Lores, folk tales and general knowledge. Its libraries, it is said, are larger and contain more secrets than even those contained in the Violet Citadel." his eyes gleamed at the thought of knowledge and power. It made more than one of the leaders there shift uneasily.

But Grimfrost didn't allow himself to feel unease. He had buried this firmly now, and only felt the need to have his questions answered. He didn't like the fact that Gul'Dan may get his hand on elven magic - he wasn't naive enough to ever believe that it'd be always used solely for the benefit or the orcish people. This sent a sliver of the old rage mounting, but he beat it down savagely, forcing calm upon himself.

"So," he said at the last "You are suggesting a strike and not invasion."

"What I want is the knowledge the High Elves have on the Runestone. What happens beyond that is none of my concern." was the deadpan answer he received.

As expected. He weighed his options. He could refuse and ask for orders. But it might mean delaying his carefully-laid timetable. He knew the Alliance was floundering, and that not striking out at Whitefort immediately might give him problems later on. He'd learned of an interesting human, a young firebrand who always seemed to win, a human named Swiftblade. He didn't dare to admit it, but the human intrigued him, and he wanted to see how much of a challenge he really was. Besides, striking the elves down in Silvermoon would shatter them, insuring his back would be covered.

He straightened, looked at his subordinates. "Prepare to move upon Silvermoon." he gave the triumphant spellcaster a look. "Don't disappoint me, warlock."

"Oh, Grimfrost. I assure you will not be." he answered with a grin.

This time, although inwardly, Grimfrost shivered.

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Summer 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas

Vallin Hillwinter usually didn't leave the palace without a flock of guards and nobles following him every step of the way. It wasn't something he relished, being studied, guarded and, most displeasing of all, fawned over by many who only looked out for the interests of their own ancient or recent houses. But he knew that such a thing was the price to be paid for being the King of Quel'Thalas and the appointed Chief Defender of Silvermoon. All knew he didn't truly have the power to make state decisions by himself, but all also knew that he had the trusting hear of the one who did.

Yes, it was rare and precious for him to walk about without any bodyguards, but he felt it needed, and had slipped away unseen, using techniques he had learned as trainee in the elven army. Taking a deep breath, he walked towards the green hill that gave view of most the city. Trees dotted it, he knew, and the moment he arrived he deftly climbed unto the branch that gave the best view, and looked out.

Silvermoon spilled out amongst the slightly hilly grounds, graceful homes and carefully husbanded trees and growth surrounded by magically reinforced walls and mighty towers. Six millennia had passed since his beloved's remarquable ancestor, Narra Pureglade, had founded it. Looking out at the bastion of proud elven cultures, at the clean, tiled streets, shops and fine works of art, it was hard to remember and believe what it had been like, in those early days.

There had been a time, some texts reminded, when they lived in fabled Kalimdor with other elves, and worshipped nature over magic. A large part of the elves, led by an overzealous firebrand named Dath Remar, had disagreed with the mainstream society and embraced magic again. A conflict ensued, after which the dissidents were exiled from Kalimdor.

The journey to where Quel'Thalas would rise saw many of the exiles die, including Dath Remar himself. Thousands of High Elves, upon arriving on their new land, had found themselves leaderless and floundering. Famine struck, and the exile would perhaps have proven fatal if Narra Pureglade hadn't stepped in. Taking the reins swiftly, she had forced the people out of despair, had given them a sense of identity and purpose, settling farms, forming militia and building the early city of Silvermoon, which had expanded ever so slowly.

"To think that here used to stand nothing more than frightened refugees, aimless, living in tents and watching their families die." he muttered. It was only then that he felt another presence on the tree with him. "But six millennia is a long time, even for our people, isn't it Illadan."

"I try never to disagree with my sovereign, Your Highness. But in this case I can genuinely tell you that you are quite right. Those lean, early days are over."

Vallin raised an eyebrow and turned his eye toward a branch near him, upon which sat Illadan Eltrass, scion of a powerful house and also one of the most respected Elven Rangers of the realm, second only to Alleria herself. "Genuinely tell me, Illadan? Do you ever mean that you don't always tell me genuine words?" he grinned ever so slightly, and was rewarded with an elegant, smooth shrug.

"I know better than to say what I think most of the time, with the vultures hanging about you all day. In private, however, I can be direct."

"And you were. Sending me a private message, telling me that you have urgent matters to discuss. I had to sneak away from my queen's own palace like some thief."

"Oh, yes, that might make some question your loyalty to your mate!"

Both elves laughed at that. They had, after all, been friends for a long time, logical when one considered Vallin was barely seventy-six year older than the other elf. Illadan knew quite well that nothing could make the King of Quel'Thalas betray his queen in any way, least of all by having an affair!

Suddenly, looking out again at his bustling, prosperous ancient city, the older elf sighed in resignation. "But enough of all that. You didn't summon me here to reminisce about our past, or of present, personal concerns of mine. They are coming, are they not?"

A short, heavy pause. A pause full of meaning. "Yes."

"Soon?"

"We have fifteen days, perhaps twenty."

"How many troops, my friend?"

"...over one hundred thousand..."

"I know you can be more specific, old friend. I know the rangers had made a better count than that. Please give it to me."

Another pause. "One hundred ninety thousand are coming for our city. I am certain there will be others. Not all of them - they don't need all of it to destroy us - but certainly more."

The King looked at his city again. Thousands of years...it had endured troll invasions, a war with the Burning legions, strife with the human realms, and so many other potential disasters. It had survived them all - the High Elves had survived them all, and thrive. Exiled long ago, they had managed to create a civilization equalling the one that had supposedly been on Kalimdor, and echoing the best traits of the original, ill-fated elven civilization.

Could it be the end? After all this time? No, he refused to believe it. Somehow his people would survive and, if necessary, rebuild. They wouldn't fall. He wouldn't allow it. Filled with resolve, he looked at his old friend.

"Fifteen days...that leaves us time to evacuate most of the civilians to the Ziggurat. At the same time, we will gather all the Rangers and soldiers in this entire region, all the militia, everyone. If Silvermoon is to fall, I have no intention of making it easy on this cursed Horde. Can we expect help from the humans?"

With another elf, a look of disgust might have ensued at the very thought of human help. Illadan only shook his head. "We can expect little, or nothing at all. They are caught in the same problem as we are, readying defences for the capital of Lordaeron. At least they have an excuse for it, unlike the dwarves in Northeron." he finished with a bitter note in his voice.

"Don't blame yourself, my good friend. I know that Sylvanas and you did the very best you could with them. The Light knows, perhaps something will change their minds. Something might, at any rate." he clenched his teeth, cursing himself for the slip. Illadan, seeing it at once, immediately pounced upon it.

"Something might? What could that be?"

"Reports have come in from Khaz Modan. From the dwarven king to all Alliance leaders, specifically. Let us just say that I wish that you had been able to secure the Griphon Riders."

Illadan frowned. "Now that sentence has me worried. Whatever could you mean? The dwarves were intended to be an added strength, a way to-"

"To gain mastery of the skies?" Vallin could only smile thinly "Events have changed that. Now, we would need the riders to alleviate the advantage the Horde will have over us."

"Advantage? Over griphons? But nothing could be stronger than griphons in the sky, unless." He saw his friend's eyes widen for a brief moment. Yes, the ranger had understood. "I can't believe this possibility but...dragons?"

Vallin nodded wearily. "Well, they are supposed to be few trained, so I doubt they'll use them against us here. We need to concern ourselves with the attack on the capital." he hopped down gracefully and looked up at his shocked peer. "Are you coming? We will need to rattle all of Silvermoon's nobility if we are to do anything for our people in time."

Illadan hopped down from his perch, his face ashen. "This...this doesn't bode well for us."

"Perhaps. But the High Elves will survive. We always did."

And in his heart, the King of Quel'Thalas believed it. Somehow.

* * * * * * * * * *