Chapter Sixteen: Elves and Orcs
Autumn 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
The Horde had come.
Three weeks had passed, and they had come, stumbling out of the forests were rangers and skilled elven hunters had made them pay every single inch. Behind them, trails of smoke could still be seen - remnants of many fires, blazes which had incinerated vast tracks of ancient woodlands. They had not come easily, for the paths leading to Silvermoon were easily recognizable only by High Elves. All of their efforts had bought them only a week, but it had allowed much of the people and a good part of the city's wealth to be evacuated to the Ziggurat of Exile, a powerful fortress erected where the Exiles had first landed.
The Horde forces were now aligned around the city, surrounding by pillaged farmlands, orchards and gutted forested hills. They swarmed in an orderly, brutal fashion, ranks upon ranks of the foul orcs, with many hated trolls, and groups of gigantic, two-headed warriors known as ogres. An army such had never been seen since as far back as the First Troll Crusade, when the elves and humans of Arathor had raised one, which was nearly as large, and more magnificent.
Vallin Hillwinter looked down upon the cruel mass of warriors with cold disdain, even as they growled their jeers and their hate up the high, white walls protecting the city. He was unimpressed with what he was seeing - brute force, and numbers. No matter how fine the strategy, the orcs had always relied heavily upon that. Perhaps it would prevail here as well. But they would see that the walls of Silvermoon could not be taken solely through these crude means.
"They have come to challenge us, it seems. But we shall show them that Silvermoon is no mere farming village." he said grimly. He looked to his side, to the person who held the strength and the courage of the elven people in her "Our blood is not spent yet, my dear queen."
The queen only nodded, also looking down dispassionately. "Nor shall we ever." she replied, "No thing living upon this land will ever make Quel'Thalas truly fall. We will make certain of this."
She was dressed in a mesh of fine elven mail, the armour woven so finely and so precisely that it seemed to flow on her. At her side, a slender blade hung in a golden sheath - the Hul Katafai, the 'Hope of the People' crafted in the days of Narra Pureglade and used by the Queens of Quel'Thalas ever since. At her forearm was an enchanted shield made of gold and crystal. She had refused to hear about going to the Ziggurat, refused to hear his arguments. She had decided to stay and face the Horde, and he found that although it made him concerned, it also made him feel good.
It wasn't only he who felt that way, at that. All around him were soldiers and militia and armed citizens gathered from Silvermoon and surrounding villages, as well as white-robed priests and elven sorcerers, all lining the walls, looking outward and down. Many a young elf had looked with frightened eyes to where his queen stood, and seeing her lack of fear, each had banished his or her fears and looked back down grimly.
"I know one thing, Vellin." she said at last.
"And that would be?"
"That I am glad I have no children yet to call my own. I would not put them in this sort of jeopardy."
He nearly flinched. Nearly. It was a sore subject between them - one of the few that had sometimes generated cold moments between them. He had always wanted children, feeling a sense of completion from having heirs to raise. She, however, had resisted the notion, telling him that the time was not ripe, taking potions to insure that she would not fall pregnant. He had come to understand and respect this strange and enigmatic side to his dear queen, but he had never managed to like it.
She seemed to ponder something, then finally looked at him, and there was much affection in the gaze she gave him. "We will have children, Vellin. I have heard the rumours around the court, that many think that I did not consider you noble enough to sire the future ruler of Quel'Thalas." Her face became cold, and her eyes darkened slightly, the only signs of great ire. "I would cut these vipers' tongue for such lies!"
He decided to stop this conversation, not certain where it was going, not certain he would like it. "I never paid heed to such foolish notions some wisdom-lacking nobles have. You have your reasons, and I respect them whatever they might be. I only wish to have children one day."
"We will. If we both survive this day, we will." she answered simply, and then turned away. "Now, all we need is to wait for Alleria and Illadan, and we shall ready ourselves."
"Wait no longer, Highness. We are here." came Alleria's strong voice.
They were at the bottom of the stairs leading to the highest battlements. Alleria, Illadan, and Sylvanas - the three most powerful rangers the Queendom had, feared by all trolls. They were garbed in the leather armour and forest green cloak of their office, with one band of deep blue at the hem of their sleeves for Illadan and Sylvanas, two for Alleria, denoting her position as Head Ranger and theirs as Ranger Leader. All three lounged around like great cats on the prowl, each movement a warning, each moment catalogued by their bright eyes. They were rangers prepared to fight - and little could be as dangerous.
The queen didn't even hesitate. She stared at Alleria and asked "Are the preparations complete? Are all the wards ready?"
"Yes, My Queen." the dangerous elf replied, her eyes hard but respectful. "We are ready for their attack. The entire city is ready."
"Then is time for Silvermoon to hear its ruler one last time."
With that, she walked towards the inner edge of the walls, where one could see much of the city, its fine architecture, its many trees - and the many people who were ready to defend themselves against something the entire Alliance was floundering against. She stood proudly, and calmly, and as if a call had been sounded, all looked towards her. Vellin felt the incredible willpower, which came from the Pureglade bloodline in her then.
"My people," she intoned, "Quel'Thalas stands at a crossroads. Outside these walls is an enemy, which has killed many of our kin, as well as destroyed so many of our beautiful woods. They are merciless, and daunting. Even as we speak, the Alliance is failing, barely standing against this force." her eyes flashed as her slender chin lifted "But we shall not fail! We came to these lands, exiled by our own kin, and founded our homes here! We will not abandon it, nor will we be defeated!"
She raised her hand in salute, and a great cry began. "Let the Light and the Sunwell protect the High Elves forever! Kara Tal U'Ne Quel'Thalasa Kinue!!"
'May Quel'Thalas Stand Forever.' The ancient sentence of the Queens, the oath of the people. The people cheered her then, chanting the last thing she had said, deriving strength from it, from her. And it was at that moment, perhaps fated, that that the deep horns of the Horde were heard, giving the order to advance. In response, a thousand elven horns streamed their own call defiantly, cutting through the autumn sky.
Illadan came next to him, his eyes grim but resolute. "The time has come to fight, Sire."
"And so we shall, sir Ranger. So we shall." he almost felt eager for it as well "Did you believe it, my friend? Did you believe we would not fail, that we will not fall?"
The ranger only returned his look. "One must believe in something, even if he might be deluding himself. Sire, I believe that the Queen believes it. And as long as she does, we will gladly fight to make it come true."
"As will I."
They separated, and Vellin went to Fenna's side, looking down upon the moving masses. Catapults were being readied. All around him, the elves were nocking arrows and arranging weapons, preparing to defend their capital in a siege, something, which hadn't happened in thousands of years.
"Let it be as the sun and the winds want," he sighed "but whatever our fate, it will not be one victory the Horde will gain easily." And with that, he readied his weapon even as the first catapult fired at the tall elven walls.
The battle for Silvermoon had begun.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 594, Whitefort, Lordaeron
Aerth moved his rook and took Eira's queen. "Checkmate, my dear."
She looked upon her game with a slight frown. Not pouting, as she would have years ago when she had been a spoiled maiden, but a hard, speculative look. "That is...intriguing. You saw right through my strategy, and I have played it against some very good chess players and won."
He smiled at her with a twinkle in his eye. "It was a good strategy, but I did see something that gave it all away." He remained silent, knowing that it would gnaw at her, enjoying her furrowed brow and her beautiful, narrowed eyes. He knew that she wanted him to tell her the reason he had won this match so easily, but her pride was in the way. He looked with amusement as the pressure mounted, and was released in a great huff.
"Very well! I admit I want to know! HOW did you know?"
"You were protecting your knights too much. That told me that you were intent in using them later in the game. From that, I saw how you took that first pawn and moved your rooks to block my towers. From then on, it wasn't very hard to see the overall strategy." He explained simply. It wasn't quite as simple as that, he knew, but he wasn't about to give away all of his secrets. She was a formidable chess opponent as it was.
She glared at her knights, which lay in a neat rank of taken pieces near his hand. "I don't see how you could see it. I moved them like the others."
"Not aggressively enough. Your moves were purposefully unimportant, to drive your opponent to distraction. You wanted your opponent to believe that your knights were at the centre of your attack, while in fact your towers were."
She sighed and looked glum a moment. Then she chuckled as she shook her head. "You are an unnerving man, you know that? Everytime one thinks he has fooled you, you suddenly strike out and surprise your opponent, often winning."
"Some might say this makes traits of a excellent general, or at least a competent one. Chess is, in many ways, a lot like a battle plan. You have pieces and your opponent has some. The only difference is that you don't really see them. Many of the moves are on the battlefield itself.
"Is that how you see battles? As a sort of great chess game?" she asked, her beautiful face serious.
His look was just as serious. "When I plan my battles and conduct them, that's much how I see it. If I didn't, I wouldn't be able to be a general at all." he answered truthfully.
Was it truly what it was? Had he truly become able to stop feeling when he laid out his plans, when he sent his men into bloody engagements while he remained behind, rarely if ever in harm's way? Not truly. He still had problems sleeping the nights when the fighting was at its strongest. But, he realized with an ugly start, even these effects were beginning to fail. Was it a good thing? He wasn't certain.
Eira seemed to guess his troubled mind, of course. She changed the subject. "It was kind of the King to give us such nice apartments for our stay, do you not think so?"
He looked around, at the sumptuous chamber richly decorated, with paintings and wide widows now covered. The furnishing also depicted wealth, from the carved chair to the large, silk-covered oak bed. Near them, the fireplace crackled, and he rose to put another log in.
"Yes." he admitted. "These chambers are nearly as nice as those given to the Regent, and even more spacious. However, kindness isn't the only reason he is having us here." He watched as the fire hungrily started to eat on the new log, renewing the blaze. How easy it was to look into that blaze and see burning houses and bodies. He looked away and back to Eira, who was looking at him with gentle remonstration.
"Hush, my love." she said in fond disapproval "Why is success so hard for you to accept? You are perhaps the greatest general in the Alliance, your name is known, your strategies used increasingly against the Horde. You are a hero, although perhaps not the kind you once wanted to be..."
He paced a little, then stopped. A hero. Did he truly want to become that? Perhaps. Once. Yes, once, when he had enlisted in the Azerothian regular forces, he had dreamed great dreams of prowess and renowned. But the First War had forced reality down his throat, had made him watch too many comrades in arms fall through wounds and diseases. Nights spent shivering in the cold, or hungry because of inadequate rations...he had stopped wanting to be a hero. Even becoming a knight hadn't changed that. He had become a survivor.
Still, he had accepted, even looked for, these accomplishments, after marrying Eira. He had refused in his heart that she be married to any less than someone of her own rank. He had accepted his rank as Regional Commander and Lord because of it, and had grasped the chance to officially become a baron and, thus, a nobleman. His son, if the Alliance prevailed - and he would devote every fibre of his being to aid in that - would grow up in mansions and castles, surrounded by privilege.
How he wished his effaced but kindly father and his angry-looking but mellow hearted mother could have seen this. But it was not to be. Moonbrooke was gone, as were they.
"I don't know...if I want to be a hero." he admitted "But I know that I want you and our son to live the best possible life in this dangerous world. If it means becoming a hero, then so be it."
Eira only smiled at that. There was no need for her to say anything. She rose and glided to him, and put a slender hand on his chest. "The night is young, Aerth. Let us forget about the war, about everything, until the morning, shall we not?"
Aerth grinned despite himself, took her hand and kissed it tenderly. "Yes, I can do that." he whispered, and brought her closer, brushing her luxuriant hair, kissing her fully and frankly.
It was at that time that someone knocked. Someone who didn't want to live long. Fighting the urges he felt deep in his gut, letting go of Eira - who looked definitely miffed herself - he stalked to the door and opened it with a strong heave, staring out into the hall. His displeasure must have been apparent, for the lad who stood in the hall - a page of less than fifteen winters certainly - took a step back and looked definitely nervous.
"What is it?" he asked. He saw to his chagrin that his tone was as gruff and unfriendly as he felt. Who knew what effect it was having. He forced himself to calm down - a few moments of wait wouldn't hurt him. "Do you have something for me."
"Y-y-yes milord. T-this is a message for you." he presented a paper, worn from travel, sealed in purplish wax and bearing a rune Aerth knew very well. He barely knew he had snatched it from the boy's uncertain hands and sent him back with a silver piece for his trouble. He only saw Eira's concerned face and then was reading the short message. He stared at it, any romantic feelings gone, and sat heavily upon the nearest surface. That it happened to be a table did not occur to him, but it did to his lady. He knew it from the gentle touch she gave him, and the piercing look she wore.
"What is it, my love?" she asked.
He looked at the message again, then closed his eyes. He had known it would happen. But it still felt so wrong. "This...this is a message from Illadan, the elven lord and ranger leader. It reads 'The trees have blackened, the leaves have lost their shine.'" Upon seeing the confusion in his wife's face, he clarified. "It means that, by now, the elven city of Silvermoon is under siege by the Horde. Quel'Thalas is falling."
He heard her intake of breath, but did not take heed to it. His training and his many experiences came back to the fore, and he rose, taking the message with him. He opened the door to the hallways, and seized a passing maid by the arm. He did not take heed to her yelp of surprise and fear either - there was no more time for that. The Horde was moving.
"Send a message to the King, the Regent, and any officers in this castles. I am calling an emergency session. I must talk to them immediately!" he let go of her, and she sped away like a frightened hare. He fought the brief surge of guilt off - he had not time for that. He looked at his wife and found her looking at him seriously from the door.
"Go. They will need you." And then she closed the door. And he was off, thinking about wasted time and how much he loved her for understanding things he could never.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
Grimfrost should have been feeling angry, appalled. He knew that it should have been this way. After all, the elven capital was holding far longer than he'd thought it would.
The city was larger than any of those, which had fallen during the current conflict. It had far larger walls, and was at least three times Tyr's Hand's size. Certainly, he had expected it to last longer than the two days that it took to take that particular place. But the elven capital had been under siege by more than half the Shade Army for eight days now, and was still holding strong. He knew from interrogations and reports that elves could survive on little food longer than humans. Meaning that they could hold out for months at least, protected by their walls.
Furthermore, the walls were certainly magically enchanted. Where breaches should have been opened from the endless pounding the catapults had given them, he could barely see cracks and damage. Of course, the attacks had cost the elves dearly, but the fact that the walls still stood allowed them to repel his forces again and again. The fact that the elves were masters of the bow and often hit their mark had already cost him over six thousand soldiers for perhaps a thousand of theirs - a waste of orcs.
Yes, he should have been angry. But he wasn't. Instead he felt elated by the fight, the very challenge of it. After months of doing pretty much what he wanted - even Caer Darrow had fallen too swiftly for his taste - it was good to see a place which offered true resistance, a place which reminded him of the glorious battles at Sunshire, Moonbrooke, Northshire and, the most memorable of them all, the glorious razing of Stormwind.
"To reach an opponent of strength," he muttered to himself "to test one's mettle against a powerful resistance, to break it and be victorious, that is what I was born to do! Not mindless conquest! But a true fight, a test of two mights!"
"How...quaint."
Grimfrost whirled away from the battlefield, from his army and his thoughts to glare at the last of the warlocks, who looked upon everything with an air of inherent superiority. An infuriating orc if there ever was one. His temper flared with the mere sight of him.
"What do you want, chieftain?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
His look, already disdainful, became even more contempt-filled. "I want what you want, Warlord. How sad that I would be here to see you squander our resources so incompetently."
The bloodlust roared its hatred, and fought it down as he always had for so many years. Still, the need to kill was strong. He mastered it, however, and forced it down. Instead he turned to one of his captains and issued new orders. He had to yell over the din of the fighting, and the many explosions, but his commands were followed at once. He tried to ignore the warlock's presence as long as he could, but soon found it beyond his strength. Baring his tusks, scowling menacingly, he turned back to the other orc.
"If you wish to aid in this battle, warlock, do it. Or then leave me to lead my man without your constant whining!"
Gul'Dan's eyes flashed at that. "Remember to whom you are talking, Warlord Grimfrost. You are important to this army, but not irreplaceable."
"So you say. Perhaps. But if I am so easy to replace, so are you. So far, you have done too little to help the Horde to complain." he shot right back. Weeks upon weeks of the spellcaster's constant arguments and stinging comments had eroded any respect he had ever held for the Stormreaver Clan's devious chieftain. He no longer felt afraid of the older orcs' magical power. Gul'Dan seemed to recognize this at least in part, for he relaxed his disdainful expression.
"Now, now, Warlord." he said more gently "There is no need for this. We both want the same thing to happen, if for different reasons. I would help you, if you would let me."
A well-aimed ballista spike embedded itself only twenty feet from the two leaders, and deafened their ears even as dirt sprayed them. Grimfrost, having managed to hold his composure, felt a certain pleasure when he saw the warlock flinch in fear. He was certain other had seen this, too. He didn't let it show, however. Gul'Dan was a power-hungry warlock, but anything but a fool. Grimfrost was aware of the power he had over Cho'Gall, who was fighting near another gate, and that he had managed to gain indirect control not only over the Twilight Hammer but also the Black Tooth Grin clan. Only a fool would laugh at the face of someone who held so much power.
"What is your plan, Chieftain?" he asked at length, after his ears had stopped ringing.
"My death knights. They could weaken the walls, open a breach, and kill some of the elves within."
"I know your death knight engineered that ghastly massacre at the elven fortress. But this is more than a fortress. It is far larger, and far more powerful than-"
"I know all this! This city is literally alight with ancient magic." his eyes burned covetously at the words "I can feel it easily. But I am not talking about a small spell, but about something of such necromantic powers that even these mighty walls will shudder!"
Grimfrost fingered his huge axe idly. He was annoyed at the other's theatrics, but he had to admit the death knights had power, frightening power. They could well be of use, if only to shorten this siege. After all, he wasn't' supposed to destroy Silvermoon; he was only to wound the elves to render them impotent while he struck at Whitefort, the heart of the Alliance.
But he knew what the Death Knights might do, had seen the way they killed. The power of the necrolytes was used with the savage efficiency of warlocks. It offered nothing but a death without mercy, without honour. He had barely been able to see a fortress transformed into a den of undead. Did he want an entire city to become such? How much had he changed, that he now asked himself such questions.
The Horde was all he should concern himself with. It was all that mattered. Victory at all costs. When had it started to lose its meaning? He couldn't tell at all. But beyond it, he knew one thing - he had taken an oath, and it meant defeating any obstacle that lay in Doomhammer's path.
"Very well, warlock." he said. Was that reluctance in his voice? He had to control himself. "You may breach the walls. But only breach them! If they are to die, they will die fighting, not by the hand of necromantic pestilence."
The warlock's face wrinkled into an unusual grin - it made shivers run up the warlord's spine. Not fear, but unease when faced with a mind which no longer - or perhaps had never been - whole. "You do not wish for the elves to become zombies to do our bidding? Interesting. But I can indulge you on that if you wish. After all, we have another weapon we can use, another puppet if you so desire."
For a moment, Grimfrost wondered what the spellcaster could be talking about. Then he remembered. He growled in discomfort. "That's not quite what I had in mind, either."
"Then you will have to choose. This means, or necromantic means."
"And if I choose neither?"
"You know quite well the answer to that."
The worst about it was that he did. And that he knew he had no choice at all about it. His oaths were clear. He looked back towards the walls of Silvermoon, holding in a sort of arrogant majesty. It was his duty to make the walls tumble down one way or another.
"Do it." he said at length. "Use her." With that, he turned away, shutting the warlock out of his mind. Let him feel outraged by a warlord treating him in contempt - that was exactly what it was, and he would say it if challenged.
"Durotan..." he whispered, the name few in the Horde remembered. What would the pacifist have said? What would he have thought of his friends? Would he have been angry with them, or just pitied them. He would never know. The blood of Durotan was gone. As was the former nature of the clans he had represented.
It hit him then, stronger than any blow, shaking him to his core: he was tired of warfare, of battles. Argal Grimfrost no longer fought because he wanted it, he fought because it was his duty.
Why did it not feel wrong in his mind?
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 594, Korukke Hills, Stromgarde
Animated by the spirits, letting his soul bind itself to their collective power, Gelmar Thornfeet moved the pieces of wood in the stone circle, and ignited it with a burst of power. It came naturally now, this exercise. The power granted him by the will of the spirits was strong and rich, but never came when one wrestled it - it came only when an orc could distance himself from greed and hunger for power and ask.
By the Spirits, he was still learning so much! This thought repeated itself as he looked at the four who had decided to follow his ways. How could he teach them, when he was in so many ways still a student? And yet how could he not?
"The power of a spirit, of a single soul, is immense. But the inherent magics of the spirit of many are unfathomable. Do not think you will ever understand it, for we are not supposed to. Seek not answers, but only yourself. Beyond conquest. Beyond anger. And mostly, beyond the boiling of your blood."
"But that is not possible." one of the four, the only orc younger than he was said "The strength of the bloodlust is with us always, has always been..."
"No!" the oldest, one scarred, tired-looking orc muttered. "Not always. It just seems like it. But it doesn't change much about stopping it. We made a pack and now the clans are bound by it."
Gelmar shook his head energically. "I can't accept that as the truth, and I will not. We are influenced, granted. But this influence can be put aside if we only take the time to commune with the Spirits as often as we can."
He stopped himself. What was he doing? He was no teacher! But could he be anything else.
He had known that this was the right path from the very first day. He had known that, somehow, this shamanism had been used by the orcs extensively, and that it could yet save the people, if it was reintroduced firmly. And he was the only orc shaman who was both able and willing to do so.
He had thus found four who thought much like he did - orcs who had never been found of the fighting. He knew that he would have to create something with them, or the orc shamans would never be reborn.
He had briefly considered going back to his own teacher, but had refrained from it for two reasons. The most important was that he didn't want to disturb the old human in his tranquil exile. Another was the fact that the orc shamans had to take their lead in magic from an orc, not a human, gentle-hearted though he might be. It meant teaching what he could, and hone his powers as rapidly as possible. What had surprised him was that they had grown, already far past the meagre powers he had had as a necrolyte.
'The Spirits wanted you to learn. You were chosen.' That was what Old Desil had said. He had shrugged it aside at first, but he found himself reflecting on it increasingly these days.
A shift in the powers, an ethereal touch at the corner of his mind, and he was aware that he and his pupils were no longer alone. The pupils themselves weren't aware of anything, even the one who had trained as a warrior the longest. They had come very silently around them. Nine of them.
"We are surrounded, it appears." he said mildly, causing confusion and frantic movements from his followers. He raised a hand when the oldest moved to grab his axe. "There will be no need. Sirs! It must be cold for you! Why not come and share our fire?"
There was silence for long moments, and then a gruff voice, definitely orcish, growled out. "Give us any food and money you have, and we'll live. Or else we'll kill you all."
It would have once made him yearn to use his necromantic powers to quench the life from them. Today, he didn't even think on it. Bloodlust was useful to induce, but he would never live by it. He kept his gaze fixed on the fire. "There is no need for threats. We are perfectly willing to share food with you. However, we cannot give you everything, for we need it as well."
"You're getting on my nerves, weakling. I think you'd better do what I say." said the voice, closer, and out of the surrounding gloomy woodland came nine orcs, all tall and armed. He felt the curse of bloodlust on all of them, the leader especially. That one was too far gone, but he felt that the others could yet be reached. If so, he needed to try.
"I have no intention of giving food to those who will not ask." he said lightly but firmly "Those who lay down their weapons can come and join us. We will share with them. Those who wish to harm us, I ask you to leave now."
The leader laughed at that, followed by most of the others. Only three looked at Gelmar more strangely, as if astounded...and intrigued. He ignored the others and fixed upon each of them. "You are welcome if you wish for food. You are more than welcome if you wish to understand yourselves."
"You are such a fool! The only understanding I need is this one!" he patted his axe "That is our way! Now give me what I ask for."
"This was not always our way." he answered quietly "I cannot give you our food."
"Then I will take it!" raising his axe, the leader charged at Gelmar directly. The shaman searched deep within himself for the power he had received from the Spirits. In a heartbeat it was there. In the second it had manifested itself in the form he wished for. The powerful swing, which should have cut his head off, struck the spiritual barrier he had erected. The larger orc recoiled from the unexpected wall he had struck, his axe flying off his shaking hands.
"I must ask you once more to leave." Gelmar asked "Please leave me and my pupils in peace." He would have said more, but the leader had already taken his axe back in hand, and bellowed a war cry. Knowing his shield would fail quickly when faced with a barrage of blows, the shaman decided to take the offensive. Gathering his energies, communing with the spirits he swept his arm forward and struck the larger orc in the chest.
His normal blow would never have slowed such a mass of muscle and steel. But the Spirits momentarily added unearthly strength to it, and his enemy flew backward, to land heavily upon the moist soil. He lay there, huffing, for long moments, before climbing to his feet, rage in his look. Rage and frustration.
"What are you? A warlock?" he growled.
"I'm a shaman, no more than that."
"Shamans? Shamanism is dead outside the Dragonmaw Clan!"
"True. But I intend to bring true shamanism back into our lives, into our clans." he turned his gaze back from the orcs around him to the fire and his wary, awed pupils. "Now, I repeat this for the last time: those who wish to stay in peace may join us. Those who wish for violence must leave."
Silence. Nothing but the comforting sounds of nature. And then a growl. "You're a fool. There is nothing but the Horde and the blood it spills." and then an angry shuffle, followed by others. Heavy boots stomping on the soil, fading away. And two axes slumping on the ground. He turned a calm, friendly gaze upon the two orcs who had remained - two of the three he had felt were different. They stared at him for many moments. Then, the older of the two took a hesitant step forward.
"Can...Can we have food?" the words were gruff, stumbling, and hesitant. But the question was genuine. Gelmar gestured to the cookpot and the victuals gathered nearby.
"Of course. Come, brothers. Soon we will have a good stew, and you can have your share of it. Come."
And they came. Sitting awkwardly with his stupefied pupils. All of them wore a look of confused wonder. Something important had just occurred, something, which alighted Gelmar's heart with hope: orcs letting go of weapons, and sitting in peace. He knew then that these two would become pupils as well, and would be the first of the new shamans.
Now he knew that he would see to it that shamans replace warlocks forever. The Horde had to change or be destroyed. The Spirits kept saying it. And after today, he would always believe the Spirits.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
They couldn't hold forever, every single one of them knew it, Illadan more than most. They had held of the horde for many days, thanks to the innate elven skill with the bow, their powerful spellcasters, and the great ramparts that made this city nearly impregnable. He had heard some of the younger defenders boast that they would force the Horde to give up, to make way when faced with the glorious and ancients powers, which were theirs. He had nearly laughed out loud at the young ones's tone of superiority. How blind they had been.
He, on the other hand, had been the Horde's captive, had seen them fight. He knew that they were not only cunning, but also relentless, as if pushed forward by some demonic will beyond their own. Yes, something demonic. That was what he'd seen sometimes, when orcs fought at the height of their bloodlust. A sense of corruption, and something as ancient as it was vile behind it.
The fighting was dying down for the day. Another day where the High Elves had managed to fight off the inevitable. He let loose one last arrow at the retreating mass of orcs, and turned to look at the city of his birth. Scars could be seen throughout the city. Crumbling and damaged buildings were everywhere, and many houses had burned down when flaming rock had been shot over the walls. The people themselves had been evacuated, so thankfully there had been very few deaths. But it was horrifying to see the pristine, aesthetic streets so damaged and strewed with rubble. Even the great Queen's Castle, so beautiful and delicate, showed burnt marks and crumbled turrets.
"Oh, just who I've been looking for."
Slightly startled, Illadan turned to look towards the sound of the voice, and recognized his liege, King Vallin, surrounded by half a score of elven swordsmen, all attired in the livery of the Queen Guardsmen. He walked towards him and executed a slight bow, before strapping his bow to his back.
"It appears Silvermoon stand yet, for another night." the king commented, looking around.
"Not for long. We have many dead, and far too many wounded for even our priests to handle. They, on the other hand, have barely started." he said "This city is a very powerful fortress, but even it wasn't designed to hold back so many."
"It held many times during its early years..."
"But the largest army it ever faced numbered barely twenty thousand, and this was just before the First Troll Crusade. We never faced such an army for twenty-seven centuries. How could we even hope to expect to win against such an immense force that the Horde has?" he hated the way he was talking - it reeked of defeatism, something he was proud to think he had in short supply. No, no it wasn't defeatism. It was experience. In Alterac, New Azeroth and Stromgarde. Experience made him tell the stark truth as far as he saw it.
The king, of course, recognized that as well. He made the guards step backward with a glance, and then lowered his voice. "I believe you, although you should speak more softly of such things. I also think that we should evacuate through our secret passages. The magical ones are the safest and fastest. In three days, at most, preparations will be complete. We will then move out of the city with whatever lore is present."
He admitted to being surprised. The king, thinking of leaving? How he had convinced the Queen, who could be stubborn at times, he couldn't quite fathom. But he was glad to hear it. As much as he loved this ancient cradle of high elf civilization, he knew that it wasn't worth losing so many people. Houses could be rebuilt. Lives never could.
He was about to say as much when he felt something zoom past him nearly silently. A moment of shock as he realized what it was, and he was seeing his king and friend staring numbly at an arrow shaft protruding from the region his heart was. The king looked at him, eyes wide, them tottered backwards. His guards immediately ran up as Illadan caught him. Vallin's distraught expression clouded, and he closed his eyes, his breathing shallow.
The elven lord wasted no time. Pushing all emotions firmly away, he controlled himself and snapped the guards together. "Take the king to the healers at once, and guard him with your lives! I will take care of the one who shot this projectile. He didn't wait for any acknowledgement, only turning away and speeding eastward, where the arrow had come from. He fought down his guilt and his rage - this was no time for that. Whoever had shot the king had done so most perfectly - the signs of no less than ranger skill. He didn't want excess emotions in the way when he faced the would-be killer.
He skipped over the wall, his trained senses detecting movement on the roofs. He jumped towards the nearest one, then to another, hoping and running as lightly as if he would be running though very rocky terrain.
He knew that whoever it was far ahead of him, and that told him that his opponent was fast. Extremely so. Any doubt that he faced a non-elf vanished. He gritted his teeth, his anger threatening to take over the best of him.
With barely a thought his bow was in his hand, and he had an arrow ready in the next second. Decades of training in the woods, in the thick of battle against rogues and trolls, allowed him to detect where his enemy was. He let loose the arrow. It struck something, which cried out. A female voice. Pain, but a faint one. He had only struck a glancing blow. His anger had gotten the best of him after all.
He stopped where he was, focusing himself. "Come on out, traitor." he said coldly "You cannot escape elven justice! Face me!"
He hadn't expected the answer to be so swift. And so potentially lethal. One moment he was alone on the roof of a tall, nondescript elven house near the common marketplace, the next a form moved, jumping at him. He caught a silvery flash for a moment, and gave over to his hone extent. His sword was drawn quicker than humans and most elves could, and he parried the fierce blow. He didn't have time to discern who looked out from beneath the hood in front of him, for his opponent did not let him. Strike upon strike, one piling on the other, forced him in a tight defence.
He gave way, but mentally reasserted control. The attacks were swift and professional, but lacked some of the finesse he would normally feel from anyone with that level of skill in swordsmanship. His slim blade, worn by his family for over four millennia, struck back effectively, forcing the enemy backward. He struck up, not drawing blood but effectively tearing the hood, revealing the face. He saw who it was at once. He had no problem at that, for he had known that face ever since he had become a ranger centuries past.
"Alleria?!?" he rasped despite himself. He couldn't believe what his senses were telling him. His anger was replaced by disbelief and confusion.
The head of the ranger raised her blade, a smirk crossing her face. So cruel and unfeeling was it that something cried out to him from the deep recesses of his soul, shouting of the wrongness of her very aura. He pushed her back, attempting to give his reeling emotions a chance to shore up.
"Alleria...what...what have you done? You attacked the King! The...vows...what about your vows as a Ranger? Your vows of protection?" his anger was threatening to break through the confusion, spurred forward by this unnatural smirk.
The revered elven warrior replied in a strange, mechanic tone. "The elf has done what she was compelled to do. She has either wounded or killed your king, and weakened the magical protection in your eastern gate. Your defence will fail shortly, my good Lord Illadan Eltrass!" Suddenly her face contorted in surprised pain, and she looked at a shaft blossoming from her right shoulder. Her face clouded, than cleared. "Wh-wh-wh...at...what? What is this?" she said, and slumped forward, unconscious.
Illadan lowered his blade and nodded his thanks to Sylvanas, who had shot the arrow from a nearby building. Five other rangers surrounded her, all looking at Alleria with stunned expressions.
He, however, had had more time to deal with his feelings. He called to the rangers surrounding his love. "Take the Head Ranger to the healing house. Keep her restrained and watch her. And call for a sorcerer to examine her! Something foul is at work here."
"What about us?" Sylvanas asked numbly, shaking herself visibly.
He sighed, and then stared at the fallen elven leader. "We go tell the queen that her husband has been grievously wounded. And that we must now flee Silvermoon.
The Battle of Silvermoon was, he knew, effectively over.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late autumn 594, Whitefort, Lordaeron
Duraz fought the displeasure he was feeling. He would have been most happy being back at his estate in Hillsbrad rather than listening to one of the men he hated the most make his case in front of some of the most respected members of the Alliance High Command. What displeased him wasn't the fact that he was talking to them, or making a case - although there was some negative feeling there - but rather that he was winning his point.
The most influential members of the Alliance High Command. The Regent-Lord, the Kings of Lordaeron and Kul Tiras, and over a dozen of the most important Alliance generals and counsellors. Each and every one of them, he knew, was of families, which had noble blood dating back at least ten generations. It was degrading to hear them drink the words of this newcomer. A child born to poor merchants, nothing better than a commoner!
And yet they were listening to him.
"I'm in no way saying that this is the best we could have done. I am saying it is the only thing we could do given the circumstances." the common-blooded general said to those he should have bowed to. It didn't seem to irritate most of the others. It didn't with Proudmoore, at any rate, who scratched his nose pensively.
"Still, to send four thousand men into the forests of Quel'Thalas, when we know all too well that Silvermoon has been savaged and that the Horde nearly owns the place. It was a hard risk there, Lord Swiftblade." Lord! As if that title belonged to him in any way!
The fool man didn't back down. "It was a risk. But it paid off nicely. We may have lost two thousand men, but they did manage to create quite a bit of havoc in the Horde's supply line. I am quite certain the high elves will make sure it takes a time before they come here. My army will arrive here within two days. With them and the gathered militia and other military units, we will then have fifty thousand troops and the time to train them."
"Fifty thousand against over seven time that number I've heard." King Terenas interjected. It didn't deter Swiftblade.
"This city was built with mighty protections. It is easily as mighty as Stormwind, perhaps even more. We can hold them, Sire. They will be weakened by the winter, which is much harder here than in Azeroth. There will be little to scavenge, little to hunt. They will have to rely on their supply lines, which we will periodically raid and attempt to cut off."
To think that they could hold...feh...the Alliance leaders had obviously become delusional. Duraz had been there, in Stormwind. He had seen the finest and proudest knights the best-trained soldiers in the entire continent mass to defend the capital. It had still fallen. There was no hope that Whitefort could be held against the Horde! Fools, blind fools. Things needed to change, quickly at that.
He eyed his enemy. He had once been angry only at the fact that he had taken the woman he had planned to marry. But since then, the danger coming from the man had grown from a mere annoyance to a real threat to himself and his plans. As much as he considered most of these successes mere luck, the fact remained that Aerth Swiftblade had never been dealt a decisive defeat, only minor setbacks. In the crucial battles, he still remained ever victorious. This was what was blinding the rulers of the Alliance kingdoms, was what made them forget of the man's unworthy lineage and common blood.
He looked over at the other leaders. Three of the generals assembled in the place returned his look ever so slightly. They two were part of the compact. His forces had grown now, with nearly three armies under his group's control, and many assassins and spies besides. But removing the weak leaders wasn't a good plan yet. The Horde was too close, and they had to be defeated. Whatever might happen would work to his advantage. He knew they could weaken them before they razed Lordaeron. With the High Command in disarray and the 'great' human leaders gone, taking control would be easy.
And if they did manage, by some impossible way, to defeat the Horde here, well, he had a plan ready for that too!
For now, however, it was best to keep playing along, to help them prepare as best they could. "I propose that we empty the villages and burn whatever remaining crops in the Horde army's direct path. It would cut access to much secondary food sources."
The news seemed to dismay Terenas. "Destroy the crops? We are rationing some parts of the realms because of the sheer logistics of keeping our massive forces fed adequately. Surely there has to be a better way!"
"There is." Lothar said, his steely glance encompassing the room. "We can send soldiers to help the farmers harvest, and bring as much as we can to our stores here. We will need every scrap of wheat and fruit to withstand a siege of this magnitude."
"We must burn nothing as well." Varien Wrynn interjected "We have to leave the villages intact. The Horde is compulsive in destroying places. If they see villages they will ravage them. It would slow them down, perhaps give us a few more days to prepare ourselves."
"And it might just make them vulnerable to raids. We will have to have hidden raiding groups ready to act on any weakness." Duraz said simply. He exchanged a look of enmity with Wrynn.
Ah, Wrynn. Although he had less personal reason to hate the man than he hated Swiftblade, he truly disliked the man. The last relative of the Royal Azerothian Family, albeit a minor one, he had worked on that tenuous link and had garnered much support. Lothar was openly supportive, as was the Archbishop and many of the fallen kingdom's nobles and knights. If left unchecked, he might well restore Llane's line to the throne of Azeroth.
That could not be allowed to happen. Wrynn, like Swiftblade and some other Alliance leaders and generals, would have to be removed one way or another.
He could feel something in the air, however, despite the plans and the confidence: dismay and concern. Quel'Thalas had been an aloof nation at best towards the Alliance, but its power had guarded eastern peaks of Lordaeron. Now that it had been broken, nothing except some forts remained to guard the passes. It wouldn't be long before the Horde would rage across the eastern plains, and everyone there knew it.
Everyone seemed to be thinking of that, actually, except for the self-righteous leader of the Knights of the Silver Hand, Uther Lightbringer. His face anxious and grim, he rose to address the other leaders even as Swiftblade sat.
"My lords." he intoned, "Silvermoon has fallen, and that is grievous blow. However, there is something else that I would need to report. I have, as most of you know, returned from a secret mission to Caer Darrow in order to gain information and give hope to the populace. That mission was successful. But what I saw was far more startling than what I heard."
"You certainly pique my attention, Sir Lightbringer." Terenas replied, "What is it that you have seen?"
"Human ships helping the Horde." he continued right through the commotion his words caused. "Not rogue ships, those. They were good in repair, with experienced crews. All of them bore markings and distinctive Alteracil traits."
"Preposterous!" a general cried, "Are you accusing Alterac to have betrayed humanity to the Horde?!?"
"I accuse no one. It is simply a fact which I observed."
Duraz rose this time to also address the High Command. "I must concur with what Sir Lightbringer is telling us. There have been rumours of men helping the Horde at Stratholme, or humans aiding the destruction of Tyr's Hand. Some of the survivors managed to describe speech patterns and weapons of Alteracil make." he shrugged "Circumstancial evidence I agree. But Alterac has been so far the most reluctant nation. It committed few troops, few foodstuffs, and few resources. Perhaps it would be time for us to start asking questions?"
He sat again, and the debate began on Alterac. He smiled to himself. The seeds of doubts could not have been planted more deeply. If it had only been his word, they might have hesitated. But all at that table trusted Uther Lightbringer. An investigation would inevitably begin on Alterac.
And while the Alliance would be glaring into Alterac's borders and fearfully looking towards the east, the Compact would be able to move with complete impunity!
________________________________________________________________
BONUS PROFILE #7
Rellon Minvare
Birthplace: Stormwind, Azeroth
Birthdate: Summer 657
Height: 5'9"
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Green
Present status: General of the Ninth Alliance Army, Baron of the Eastern Wellsin Hills
Allegiances: Azeroth, the Alliance, the Light
History: Rellon Minvare was always calm, even as a child. Brought up as the son of a Knight-turned-nobleman, he lived in the shadow of his father, who founded House Minvare. Raised strictly, he came to believe that control of one's impulse ahcieved far more than any heroics. With this in mind, he sought to make his own fame, entering the Azerothian Army at the age of 16, and managing to shoulder his way up until he became squire by the age of 19, and Knight by 22.
His desire to become his own man, away from his father, came when the First War tore his majestic homeland apart. Rellon, then a captain, gained recongintion for his successful, cerebral procedures. He rose to Commander in the Fifth Azerothian Army in 585, and ironically commanded the then-Knight Aerth Swiftblade. It was he who led a successful retreat when the General was killed when Sunshire fell. During that time, he named Aerth a Captain, and recognized the younger man's talents and tactical insight.
Rellon was formally made a General in 588 and commanded the Fifth Azerothian Army before other corps were added and he became leader of the Ninth Alliance Army. He subsequently met Swiftblade again, as well as a strong-willed female, Generals like him, and accepted them both as equals.
Today Minvare commands the troops holding the Horde at the Land Bridges. Of all the generals gathered there, he is the most quiet. Yet all knew that, save for such men as Duraz, Swiftblade, Lothar and perhaps Turalyon, there is no one better to keep the Horde in check.
Autumn 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
The Horde had come.
Three weeks had passed, and they had come, stumbling out of the forests were rangers and skilled elven hunters had made them pay every single inch. Behind them, trails of smoke could still be seen - remnants of many fires, blazes which had incinerated vast tracks of ancient woodlands. They had not come easily, for the paths leading to Silvermoon were easily recognizable only by High Elves. All of their efforts had bought them only a week, but it had allowed much of the people and a good part of the city's wealth to be evacuated to the Ziggurat of Exile, a powerful fortress erected where the Exiles had first landed.
The Horde forces were now aligned around the city, surrounding by pillaged farmlands, orchards and gutted forested hills. They swarmed in an orderly, brutal fashion, ranks upon ranks of the foul orcs, with many hated trolls, and groups of gigantic, two-headed warriors known as ogres. An army such had never been seen since as far back as the First Troll Crusade, when the elves and humans of Arathor had raised one, which was nearly as large, and more magnificent.
Vallin Hillwinter looked down upon the cruel mass of warriors with cold disdain, even as they growled their jeers and their hate up the high, white walls protecting the city. He was unimpressed with what he was seeing - brute force, and numbers. No matter how fine the strategy, the orcs had always relied heavily upon that. Perhaps it would prevail here as well. But they would see that the walls of Silvermoon could not be taken solely through these crude means.
"They have come to challenge us, it seems. But we shall show them that Silvermoon is no mere farming village." he said grimly. He looked to his side, to the person who held the strength and the courage of the elven people in her "Our blood is not spent yet, my dear queen."
The queen only nodded, also looking down dispassionately. "Nor shall we ever." she replied, "No thing living upon this land will ever make Quel'Thalas truly fall. We will make certain of this."
She was dressed in a mesh of fine elven mail, the armour woven so finely and so precisely that it seemed to flow on her. At her side, a slender blade hung in a golden sheath - the Hul Katafai, the 'Hope of the People' crafted in the days of Narra Pureglade and used by the Queens of Quel'Thalas ever since. At her forearm was an enchanted shield made of gold and crystal. She had refused to hear about going to the Ziggurat, refused to hear his arguments. She had decided to stay and face the Horde, and he found that although it made him concerned, it also made him feel good.
It wasn't only he who felt that way, at that. All around him were soldiers and militia and armed citizens gathered from Silvermoon and surrounding villages, as well as white-robed priests and elven sorcerers, all lining the walls, looking outward and down. Many a young elf had looked with frightened eyes to where his queen stood, and seeing her lack of fear, each had banished his or her fears and looked back down grimly.
"I know one thing, Vellin." she said at last.
"And that would be?"
"That I am glad I have no children yet to call my own. I would not put them in this sort of jeopardy."
He nearly flinched. Nearly. It was a sore subject between them - one of the few that had sometimes generated cold moments between them. He had always wanted children, feeling a sense of completion from having heirs to raise. She, however, had resisted the notion, telling him that the time was not ripe, taking potions to insure that she would not fall pregnant. He had come to understand and respect this strange and enigmatic side to his dear queen, but he had never managed to like it.
She seemed to ponder something, then finally looked at him, and there was much affection in the gaze she gave him. "We will have children, Vellin. I have heard the rumours around the court, that many think that I did not consider you noble enough to sire the future ruler of Quel'Thalas." Her face became cold, and her eyes darkened slightly, the only signs of great ire. "I would cut these vipers' tongue for such lies!"
He decided to stop this conversation, not certain where it was going, not certain he would like it. "I never paid heed to such foolish notions some wisdom-lacking nobles have. You have your reasons, and I respect them whatever they might be. I only wish to have children one day."
"We will. If we both survive this day, we will." she answered simply, and then turned away. "Now, all we need is to wait for Alleria and Illadan, and we shall ready ourselves."
"Wait no longer, Highness. We are here." came Alleria's strong voice.
They were at the bottom of the stairs leading to the highest battlements. Alleria, Illadan, and Sylvanas - the three most powerful rangers the Queendom had, feared by all trolls. They were garbed in the leather armour and forest green cloak of their office, with one band of deep blue at the hem of their sleeves for Illadan and Sylvanas, two for Alleria, denoting her position as Head Ranger and theirs as Ranger Leader. All three lounged around like great cats on the prowl, each movement a warning, each moment catalogued by their bright eyes. They were rangers prepared to fight - and little could be as dangerous.
The queen didn't even hesitate. She stared at Alleria and asked "Are the preparations complete? Are all the wards ready?"
"Yes, My Queen." the dangerous elf replied, her eyes hard but respectful. "We are ready for their attack. The entire city is ready."
"Then is time for Silvermoon to hear its ruler one last time."
With that, she walked towards the inner edge of the walls, where one could see much of the city, its fine architecture, its many trees - and the many people who were ready to defend themselves against something the entire Alliance was floundering against. She stood proudly, and calmly, and as if a call had been sounded, all looked towards her. Vellin felt the incredible willpower, which came from the Pureglade bloodline in her then.
"My people," she intoned, "Quel'Thalas stands at a crossroads. Outside these walls is an enemy, which has killed many of our kin, as well as destroyed so many of our beautiful woods. They are merciless, and daunting. Even as we speak, the Alliance is failing, barely standing against this force." her eyes flashed as her slender chin lifted "But we shall not fail! We came to these lands, exiled by our own kin, and founded our homes here! We will not abandon it, nor will we be defeated!"
She raised her hand in salute, and a great cry began. "Let the Light and the Sunwell protect the High Elves forever! Kara Tal U'Ne Quel'Thalasa Kinue!!"
'May Quel'Thalas Stand Forever.' The ancient sentence of the Queens, the oath of the people. The people cheered her then, chanting the last thing she had said, deriving strength from it, from her. And it was at that moment, perhaps fated, that that the deep horns of the Horde were heard, giving the order to advance. In response, a thousand elven horns streamed their own call defiantly, cutting through the autumn sky.
Illadan came next to him, his eyes grim but resolute. "The time has come to fight, Sire."
"And so we shall, sir Ranger. So we shall." he almost felt eager for it as well "Did you believe it, my friend? Did you believe we would not fail, that we will not fall?"
The ranger only returned his look. "One must believe in something, even if he might be deluding himself. Sire, I believe that the Queen believes it. And as long as she does, we will gladly fight to make it come true."
"As will I."
They separated, and Vellin went to Fenna's side, looking down upon the moving masses. Catapults were being readied. All around him, the elves were nocking arrows and arranging weapons, preparing to defend their capital in a siege, something, which hadn't happened in thousands of years.
"Let it be as the sun and the winds want," he sighed "but whatever our fate, it will not be one victory the Horde will gain easily." And with that, he readied his weapon even as the first catapult fired at the tall elven walls.
The battle for Silvermoon had begun.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 594, Whitefort, Lordaeron
Aerth moved his rook and took Eira's queen. "Checkmate, my dear."
She looked upon her game with a slight frown. Not pouting, as she would have years ago when she had been a spoiled maiden, but a hard, speculative look. "That is...intriguing. You saw right through my strategy, and I have played it against some very good chess players and won."
He smiled at her with a twinkle in his eye. "It was a good strategy, but I did see something that gave it all away." He remained silent, knowing that it would gnaw at her, enjoying her furrowed brow and her beautiful, narrowed eyes. He knew that she wanted him to tell her the reason he had won this match so easily, but her pride was in the way. He looked with amusement as the pressure mounted, and was released in a great huff.
"Very well! I admit I want to know! HOW did you know?"
"You were protecting your knights too much. That told me that you were intent in using them later in the game. From that, I saw how you took that first pawn and moved your rooks to block my towers. From then on, it wasn't very hard to see the overall strategy." He explained simply. It wasn't quite as simple as that, he knew, but he wasn't about to give away all of his secrets. She was a formidable chess opponent as it was.
She glared at her knights, which lay in a neat rank of taken pieces near his hand. "I don't see how you could see it. I moved them like the others."
"Not aggressively enough. Your moves were purposefully unimportant, to drive your opponent to distraction. You wanted your opponent to believe that your knights were at the centre of your attack, while in fact your towers were."
She sighed and looked glum a moment. Then she chuckled as she shook her head. "You are an unnerving man, you know that? Everytime one thinks he has fooled you, you suddenly strike out and surprise your opponent, often winning."
"Some might say this makes traits of a excellent general, or at least a competent one. Chess is, in many ways, a lot like a battle plan. You have pieces and your opponent has some. The only difference is that you don't really see them. Many of the moves are on the battlefield itself.
"Is that how you see battles? As a sort of great chess game?" she asked, her beautiful face serious.
His look was just as serious. "When I plan my battles and conduct them, that's much how I see it. If I didn't, I wouldn't be able to be a general at all." he answered truthfully.
Was it truly what it was? Had he truly become able to stop feeling when he laid out his plans, when he sent his men into bloody engagements while he remained behind, rarely if ever in harm's way? Not truly. He still had problems sleeping the nights when the fighting was at its strongest. But, he realized with an ugly start, even these effects were beginning to fail. Was it a good thing? He wasn't certain.
Eira seemed to guess his troubled mind, of course. She changed the subject. "It was kind of the King to give us such nice apartments for our stay, do you not think so?"
He looked around, at the sumptuous chamber richly decorated, with paintings and wide widows now covered. The furnishing also depicted wealth, from the carved chair to the large, silk-covered oak bed. Near them, the fireplace crackled, and he rose to put another log in.
"Yes." he admitted. "These chambers are nearly as nice as those given to the Regent, and even more spacious. However, kindness isn't the only reason he is having us here." He watched as the fire hungrily started to eat on the new log, renewing the blaze. How easy it was to look into that blaze and see burning houses and bodies. He looked away and back to Eira, who was looking at him with gentle remonstration.
"Hush, my love." she said in fond disapproval "Why is success so hard for you to accept? You are perhaps the greatest general in the Alliance, your name is known, your strategies used increasingly against the Horde. You are a hero, although perhaps not the kind you once wanted to be..."
He paced a little, then stopped. A hero. Did he truly want to become that? Perhaps. Once. Yes, once, when he had enlisted in the Azerothian regular forces, he had dreamed great dreams of prowess and renowned. But the First War had forced reality down his throat, had made him watch too many comrades in arms fall through wounds and diseases. Nights spent shivering in the cold, or hungry because of inadequate rations...he had stopped wanting to be a hero. Even becoming a knight hadn't changed that. He had become a survivor.
Still, he had accepted, even looked for, these accomplishments, after marrying Eira. He had refused in his heart that she be married to any less than someone of her own rank. He had accepted his rank as Regional Commander and Lord because of it, and had grasped the chance to officially become a baron and, thus, a nobleman. His son, if the Alliance prevailed - and he would devote every fibre of his being to aid in that - would grow up in mansions and castles, surrounded by privilege.
How he wished his effaced but kindly father and his angry-looking but mellow hearted mother could have seen this. But it was not to be. Moonbrooke was gone, as were they.
"I don't know...if I want to be a hero." he admitted "But I know that I want you and our son to live the best possible life in this dangerous world. If it means becoming a hero, then so be it."
Eira only smiled at that. There was no need for her to say anything. She rose and glided to him, and put a slender hand on his chest. "The night is young, Aerth. Let us forget about the war, about everything, until the morning, shall we not?"
Aerth grinned despite himself, took her hand and kissed it tenderly. "Yes, I can do that." he whispered, and brought her closer, brushing her luxuriant hair, kissing her fully and frankly.
It was at that time that someone knocked. Someone who didn't want to live long. Fighting the urges he felt deep in his gut, letting go of Eira - who looked definitely miffed herself - he stalked to the door and opened it with a strong heave, staring out into the hall. His displeasure must have been apparent, for the lad who stood in the hall - a page of less than fifteen winters certainly - took a step back and looked definitely nervous.
"What is it?" he asked. He saw to his chagrin that his tone was as gruff and unfriendly as he felt. Who knew what effect it was having. He forced himself to calm down - a few moments of wait wouldn't hurt him. "Do you have something for me."
"Y-y-yes milord. T-this is a message for you." he presented a paper, worn from travel, sealed in purplish wax and bearing a rune Aerth knew very well. He barely knew he had snatched it from the boy's uncertain hands and sent him back with a silver piece for his trouble. He only saw Eira's concerned face and then was reading the short message. He stared at it, any romantic feelings gone, and sat heavily upon the nearest surface. That it happened to be a table did not occur to him, but it did to his lady. He knew it from the gentle touch she gave him, and the piercing look she wore.
"What is it, my love?" she asked.
He looked at the message again, then closed his eyes. He had known it would happen. But it still felt so wrong. "This...this is a message from Illadan, the elven lord and ranger leader. It reads 'The trees have blackened, the leaves have lost their shine.'" Upon seeing the confusion in his wife's face, he clarified. "It means that, by now, the elven city of Silvermoon is under siege by the Horde. Quel'Thalas is falling."
He heard her intake of breath, but did not take heed to it. His training and his many experiences came back to the fore, and he rose, taking the message with him. He opened the door to the hallways, and seized a passing maid by the arm. He did not take heed to her yelp of surprise and fear either - there was no more time for that. The Horde was moving.
"Send a message to the King, the Regent, and any officers in this castles. I am calling an emergency session. I must talk to them immediately!" he let go of her, and she sped away like a frightened hare. He fought the brief surge of guilt off - he had not time for that. He looked at his wife and found her looking at him seriously from the door.
"Go. They will need you." And then she closed the door. And he was off, thinking about wasted time and how much he loved her for understanding things he could never.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
Grimfrost should have been feeling angry, appalled. He knew that it should have been this way. After all, the elven capital was holding far longer than he'd thought it would.
The city was larger than any of those, which had fallen during the current conflict. It had far larger walls, and was at least three times Tyr's Hand's size. Certainly, he had expected it to last longer than the two days that it took to take that particular place. But the elven capital had been under siege by more than half the Shade Army for eight days now, and was still holding strong. He knew from interrogations and reports that elves could survive on little food longer than humans. Meaning that they could hold out for months at least, protected by their walls.
Furthermore, the walls were certainly magically enchanted. Where breaches should have been opened from the endless pounding the catapults had given them, he could barely see cracks and damage. Of course, the attacks had cost the elves dearly, but the fact that the walls still stood allowed them to repel his forces again and again. The fact that the elves were masters of the bow and often hit their mark had already cost him over six thousand soldiers for perhaps a thousand of theirs - a waste of orcs.
Yes, he should have been angry. But he wasn't. Instead he felt elated by the fight, the very challenge of it. After months of doing pretty much what he wanted - even Caer Darrow had fallen too swiftly for his taste - it was good to see a place which offered true resistance, a place which reminded him of the glorious battles at Sunshire, Moonbrooke, Northshire and, the most memorable of them all, the glorious razing of Stormwind.
"To reach an opponent of strength," he muttered to himself "to test one's mettle against a powerful resistance, to break it and be victorious, that is what I was born to do! Not mindless conquest! But a true fight, a test of two mights!"
"How...quaint."
Grimfrost whirled away from the battlefield, from his army and his thoughts to glare at the last of the warlocks, who looked upon everything with an air of inherent superiority. An infuriating orc if there ever was one. His temper flared with the mere sight of him.
"What do you want, chieftain?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
His look, already disdainful, became even more contempt-filled. "I want what you want, Warlord. How sad that I would be here to see you squander our resources so incompetently."
The bloodlust roared its hatred, and fought it down as he always had for so many years. Still, the need to kill was strong. He mastered it, however, and forced it down. Instead he turned to one of his captains and issued new orders. He had to yell over the din of the fighting, and the many explosions, but his commands were followed at once. He tried to ignore the warlock's presence as long as he could, but soon found it beyond his strength. Baring his tusks, scowling menacingly, he turned back to the other orc.
"If you wish to aid in this battle, warlock, do it. Or then leave me to lead my man without your constant whining!"
Gul'Dan's eyes flashed at that. "Remember to whom you are talking, Warlord Grimfrost. You are important to this army, but not irreplaceable."
"So you say. Perhaps. But if I am so easy to replace, so are you. So far, you have done too little to help the Horde to complain." he shot right back. Weeks upon weeks of the spellcaster's constant arguments and stinging comments had eroded any respect he had ever held for the Stormreaver Clan's devious chieftain. He no longer felt afraid of the older orcs' magical power. Gul'Dan seemed to recognize this at least in part, for he relaxed his disdainful expression.
"Now, now, Warlord." he said more gently "There is no need for this. We both want the same thing to happen, if for different reasons. I would help you, if you would let me."
A well-aimed ballista spike embedded itself only twenty feet from the two leaders, and deafened their ears even as dirt sprayed them. Grimfrost, having managed to hold his composure, felt a certain pleasure when he saw the warlock flinch in fear. He was certain other had seen this, too. He didn't let it show, however. Gul'Dan was a power-hungry warlock, but anything but a fool. Grimfrost was aware of the power he had over Cho'Gall, who was fighting near another gate, and that he had managed to gain indirect control not only over the Twilight Hammer but also the Black Tooth Grin clan. Only a fool would laugh at the face of someone who held so much power.
"What is your plan, Chieftain?" he asked at length, after his ears had stopped ringing.
"My death knights. They could weaken the walls, open a breach, and kill some of the elves within."
"I know your death knight engineered that ghastly massacre at the elven fortress. But this is more than a fortress. It is far larger, and far more powerful than-"
"I know all this! This city is literally alight with ancient magic." his eyes burned covetously at the words "I can feel it easily. But I am not talking about a small spell, but about something of such necromantic powers that even these mighty walls will shudder!"
Grimfrost fingered his huge axe idly. He was annoyed at the other's theatrics, but he had to admit the death knights had power, frightening power. They could well be of use, if only to shorten this siege. After all, he wasn't' supposed to destroy Silvermoon; he was only to wound the elves to render them impotent while he struck at Whitefort, the heart of the Alliance.
But he knew what the Death Knights might do, had seen the way they killed. The power of the necrolytes was used with the savage efficiency of warlocks. It offered nothing but a death without mercy, without honour. He had barely been able to see a fortress transformed into a den of undead. Did he want an entire city to become such? How much had he changed, that he now asked himself such questions.
The Horde was all he should concern himself with. It was all that mattered. Victory at all costs. When had it started to lose its meaning? He couldn't tell at all. But beyond it, he knew one thing - he had taken an oath, and it meant defeating any obstacle that lay in Doomhammer's path.
"Very well, warlock." he said. Was that reluctance in his voice? He had to control himself. "You may breach the walls. But only breach them! If they are to die, they will die fighting, not by the hand of necromantic pestilence."
The warlock's face wrinkled into an unusual grin - it made shivers run up the warlord's spine. Not fear, but unease when faced with a mind which no longer - or perhaps had never been - whole. "You do not wish for the elves to become zombies to do our bidding? Interesting. But I can indulge you on that if you wish. After all, we have another weapon we can use, another puppet if you so desire."
For a moment, Grimfrost wondered what the spellcaster could be talking about. Then he remembered. He growled in discomfort. "That's not quite what I had in mind, either."
"Then you will have to choose. This means, or necromantic means."
"And if I choose neither?"
"You know quite well the answer to that."
The worst about it was that he did. And that he knew he had no choice at all about it. His oaths were clear. He looked back towards the walls of Silvermoon, holding in a sort of arrogant majesty. It was his duty to make the walls tumble down one way or another.
"Do it." he said at length. "Use her." With that, he turned away, shutting the warlock out of his mind. Let him feel outraged by a warlord treating him in contempt - that was exactly what it was, and he would say it if challenged.
"Durotan..." he whispered, the name few in the Horde remembered. What would the pacifist have said? What would he have thought of his friends? Would he have been angry with them, or just pitied them. He would never know. The blood of Durotan was gone. As was the former nature of the clans he had represented.
It hit him then, stronger than any blow, shaking him to his core: he was tired of warfare, of battles. Argal Grimfrost no longer fought because he wanted it, he fought because it was his duty.
Why did it not feel wrong in his mind?
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 594, Korukke Hills, Stromgarde
Animated by the spirits, letting his soul bind itself to their collective power, Gelmar Thornfeet moved the pieces of wood in the stone circle, and ignited it with a burst of power. It came naturally now, this exercise. The power granted him by the will of the spirits was strong and rich, but never came when one wrestled it - it came only when an orc could distance himself from greed and hunger for power and ask.
By the Spirits, he was still learning so much! This thought repeated itself as he looked at the four who had decided to follow his ways. How could he teach them, when he was in so many ways still a student? And yet how could he not?
"The power of a spirit, of a single soul, is immense. But the inherent magics of the spirit of many are unfathomable. Do not think you will ever understand it, for we are not supposed to. Seek not answers, but only yourself. Beyond conquest. Beyond anger. And mostly, beyond the boiling of your blood."
"But that is not possible." one of the four, the only orc younger than he was said "The strength of the bloodlust is with us always, has always been..."
"No!" the oldest, one scarred, tired-looking orc muttered. "Not always. It just seems like it. But it doesn't change much about stopping it. We made a pack and now the clans are bound by it."
Gelmar shook his head energically. "I can't accept that as the truth, and I will not. We are influenced, granted. But this influence can be put aside if we only take the time to commune with the Spirits as often as we can."
He stopped himself. What was he doing? He was no teacher! But could he be anything else.
He had known that this was the right path from the very first day. He had known that, somehow, this shamanism had been used by the orcs extensively, and that it could yet save the people, if it was reintroduced firmly. And he was the only orc shaman who was both able and willing to do so.
He had thus found four who thought much like he did - orcs who had never been found of the fighting. He knew that he would have to create something with them, or the orc shamans would never be reborn.
He had briefly considered going back to his own teacher, but had refrained from it for two reasons. The most important was that he didn't want to disturb the old human in his tranquil exile. Another was the fact that the orc shamans had to take their lead in magic from an orc, not a human, gentle-hearted though he might be. It meant teaching what he could, and hone his powers as rapidly as possible. What had surprised him was that they had grown, already far past the meagre powers he had had as a necrolyte.
'The Spirits wanted you to learn. You were chosen.' That was what Old Desil had said. He had shrugged it aside at first, but he found himself reflecting on it increasingly these days.
A shift in the powers, an ethereal touch at the corner of his mind, and he was aware that he and his pupils were no longer alone. The pupils themselves weren't aware of anything, even the one who had trained as a warrior the longest. They had come very silently around them. Nine of them.
"We are surrounded, it appears." he said mildly, causing confusion and frantic movements from his followers. He raised a hand when the oldest moved to grab his axe. "There will be no need. Sirs! It must be cold for you! Why not come and share our fire?"
There was silence for long moments, and then a gruff voice, definitely orcish, growled out. "Give us any food and money you have, and we'll live. Or else we'll kill you all."
It would have once made him yearn to use his necromantic powers to quench the life from them. Today, he didn't even think on it. Bloodlust was useful to induce, but he would never live by it. He kept his gaze fixed on the fire. "There is no need for threats. We are perfectly willing to share food with you. However, we cannot give you everything, for we need it as well."
"You're getting on my nerves, weakling. I think you'd better do what I say." said the voice, closer, and out of the surrounding gloomy woodland came nine orcs, all tall and armed. He felt the curse of bloodlust on all of them, the leader especially. That one was too far gone, but he felt that the others could yet be reached. If so, he needed to try.
"I have no intention of giving food to those who will not ask." he said lightly but firmly "Those who lay down their weapons can come and join us. We will share with them. Those who wish to harm us, I ask you to leave now."
The leader laughed at that, followed by most of the others. Only three looked at Gelmar more strangely, as if astounded...and intrigued. He ignored the others and fixed upon each of them. "You are welcome if you wish for food. You are more than welcome if you wish to understand yourselves."
"You are such a fool! The only understanding I need is this one!" he patted his axe "That is our way! Now give me what I ask for."
"This was not always our way." he answered quietly "I cannot give you our food."
"Then I will take it!" raising his axe, the leader charged at Gelmar directly. The shaman searched deep within himself for the power he had received from the Spirits. In a heartbeat it was there. In the second it had manifested itself in the form he wished for. The powerful swing, which should have cut his head off, struck the spiritual barrier he had erected. The larger orc recoiled from the unexpected wall he had struck, his axe flying off his shaking hands.
"I must ask you once more to leave." Gelmar asked "Please leave me and my pupils in peace." He would have said more, but the leader had already taken his axe back in hand, and bellowed a war cry. Knowing his shield would fail quickly when faced with a barrage of blows, the shaman decided to take the offensive. Gathering his energies, communing with the spirits he swept his arm forward and struck the larger orc in the chest.
His normal blow would never have slowed such a mass of muscle and steel. But the Spirits momentarily added unearthly strength to it, and his enemy flew backward, to land heavily upon the moist soil. He lay there, huffing, for long moments, before climbing to his feet, rage in his look. Rage and frustration.
"What are you? A warlock?" he growled.
"I'm a shaman, no more than that."
"Shamans? Shamanism is dead outside the Dragonmaw Clan!"
"True. But I intend to bring true shamanism back into our lives, into our clans." he turned his gaze back from the orcs around him to the fire and his wary, awed pupils. "Now, I repeat this for the last time: those who wish to stay in peace may join us. Those who wish for violence must leave."
Silence. Nothing but the comforting sounds of nature. And then a growl. "You're a fool. There is nothing but the Horde and the blood it spills." and then an angry shuffle, followed by others. Heavy boots stomping on the soil, fading away. And two axes slumping on the ground. He turned a calm, friendly gaze upon the two orcs who had remained - two of the three he had felt were different. They stared at him for many moments. Then, the older of the two took a hesitant step forward.
"Can...Can we have food?" the words were gruff, stumbling, and hesitant. But the question was genuine. Gelmar gestured to the cookpot and the victuals gathered nearby.
"Of course. Come, brothers. Soon we will have a good stew, and you can have your share of it. Come."
And they came. Sitting awkwardly with his stupefied pupils. All of them wore a look of confused wonder. Something important had just occurred, something, which alighted Gelmar's heart with hope: orcs letting go of weapons, and sitting in peace. He knew then that these two would become pupils as well, and would be the first of the new shamans.
Now he knew that he would see to it that shamans replace warlocks forever. The Horde had to change or be destroyed. The Spirits kept saying it. And after today, he would always believe the Spirits.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 594, Silvermoon, Quel'Thalas
They couldn't hold forever, every single one of them knew it, Illadan more than most. They had held of the horde for many days, thanks to the innate elven skill with the bow, their powerful spellcasters, and the great ramparts that made this city nearly impregnable. He had heard some of the younger defenders boast that they would force the Horde to give up, to make way when faced with the glorious and ancients powers, which were theirs. He had nearly laughed out loud at the young ones's tone of superiority. How blind they had been.
He, on the other hand, had been the Horde's captive, had seen them fight. He knew that they were not only cunning, but also relentless, as if pushed forward by some demonic will beyond their own. Yes, something demonic. That was what he'd seen sometimes, when orcs fought at the height of their bloodlust. A sense of corruption, and something as ancient as it was vile behind it.
The fighting was dying down for the day. Another day where the High Elves had managed to fight off the inevitable. He let loose one last arrow at the retreating mass of orcs, and turned to look at the city of his birth. Scars could be seen throughout the city. Crumbling and damaged buildings were everywhere, and many houses had burned down when flaming rock had been shot over the walls. The people themselves had been evacuated, so thankfully there had been very few deaths. But it was horrifying to see the pristine, aesthetic streets so damaged and strewed with rubble. Even the great Queen's Castle, so beautiful and delicate, showed burnt marks and crumbled turrets.
"Oh, just who I've been looking for."
Slightly startled, Illadan turned to look towards the sound of the voice, and recognized his liege, King Vallin, surrounded by half a score of elven swordsmen, all attired in the livery of the Queen Guardsmen. He walked towards him and executed a slight bow, before strapping his bow to his back.
"It appears Silvermoon stand yet, for another night." the king commented, looking around.
"Not for long. We have many dead, and far too many wounded for even our priests to handle. They, on the other hand, have barely started." he said "This city is a very powerful fortress, but even it wasn't designed to hold back so many."
"It held many times during its early years..."
"But the largest army it ever faced numbered barely twenty thousand, and this was just before the First Troll Crusade. We never faced such an army for twenty-seven centuries. How could we even hope to expect to win against such an immense force that the Horde has?" he hated the way he was talking - it reeked of defeatism, something he was proud to think he had in short supply. No, no it wasn't defeatism. It was experience. In Alterac, New Azeroth and Stromgarde. Experience made him tell the stark truth as far as he saw it.
The king, of course, recognized that as well. He made the guards step backward with a glance, and then lowered his voice. "I believe you, although you should speak more softly of such things. I also think that we should evacuate through our secret passages. The magical ones are the safest and fastest. In three days, at most, preparations will be complete. We will then move out of the city with whatever lore is present."
He admitted to being surprised. The king, thinking of leaving? How he had convinced the Queen, who could be stubborn at times, he couldn't quite fathom. But he was glad to hear it. As much as he loved this ancient cradle of high elf civilization, he knew that it wasn't worth losing so many people. Houses could be rebuilt. Lives never could.
He was about to say as much when he felt something zoom past him nearly silently. A moment of shock as he realized what it was, and he was seeing his king and friend staring numbly at an arrow shaft protruding from the region his heart was. The king looked at him, eyes wide, them tottered backwards. His guards immediately ran up as Illadan caught him. Vallin's distraught expression clouded, and he closed his eyes, his breathing shallow.
The elven lord wasted no time. Pushing all emotions firmly away, he controlled himself and snapped the guards together. "Take the king to the healers at once, and guard him with your lives! I will take care of the one who shot this projectile. He didn't wait for any acknowledgement, only turning away and speeding eastward, where the arrow had come from. He fought down his guilt and his rage - this was no time for that. Whoever had shot the king had done so most perfectly - the signs of no less than ranger skill. He didn't want excess emotions in the way when he faced the would-be killer.
He skipped over the wall, his trained senses detecting movement on the roofs. He jumped towards the nearest one, then to another, hoping and running as lightly as if he would be running though very rocky terrain.
He knew that whoever it was far ahead of him, and that told him that his opponent was fast. Extremely so. Any doubt that he faced a non-elf vanished. He gritted his teeth, his anger threatening to take over the best of him.
With barely a thought his bow was in his hand, and he had an arrow ready in the next second. Decades of training in the woods, in the thick of battle against rogues and trolls, allowed him to detect where his enemy was. He let loose the arrow. It struck something, which cried out. A female voice. Pain, but a faint one. He had only struck a glancing blow. His anger had gotten the best of him after all.
He stopped where he was, focusing himself. "Come on out, traitor." he said coldly "You cannot escape elven justice! Face me!"
He hadn't expected the answer to be so swift. And so potentially lethal. One moment he was alone on the roof of a tall, nondescript elven house near the common marketplace, the next a form moved, jumping at him. He caught a silvery flash for a moment, and gave over to his hone extent. His sword was drawn quicker than humans and most elves could, and he parried the fierce blow. He didn't have time to discern who looked out from beneath the hood in front of him, for his opponent did not let him. Strike upon strike, one piling on the other, forced him in a tight defence.
He gave way, but mentally reasserted control. The attacks were swift and professional, but lacked some of the finesse he would normally feel from anyone with that level of skill in swordsmanship. His slim blade, worn by his family for over four millennia, struck back effectively, forcing the enemy backward. He struck up, not drawing blood but effectively tearing the hood, revealing the face. He saw who it was at once. He had no problem at that, for he had known that face ever since he had become a ranger centuries past.
"Alleria?!?" he rasped despite himself. He couldn't believe what his senses were telling him. His anger was replaced by disbelief and confusion.
The head of the ranger raised her blade, a smirk crossing her face. So cruel and unfeeling was it that something cried out to him from the deep recesses of his soul, shouting of the wrongness of her very aura. He pushed her back, attempting to give his reeling emotions a chance to shore up.
"Alleria...what...what have you done? You attacked the King! The...vows...what about your vows as a Ranger? Your vows of protection?" his anger was threatening to break through the confusion, spurred forward by this unnatural smirk.
The revered elven warrior replied in a strange, mechanic tone. "The elf has done what she was compelled to do. She has either wounded or killed your king, and weakened the magical protection in your eastern gate. Your defence will fail shortly, my good Lord Illadan Eltrass!" Suddenly her face contorted in surprised pain, and she looked at a shaft blossoming from her right shoulder. Her face clouded, than cleared. "Wh-wh-wh...at...what? What is this?" she said, and slumped forward, unconscious.
Illadan lowered his blade and nodded his thanks to Sylvanas, who had shot the arrow from a nearby building. Five other rangers surrounded her, all looking at Alleria with stunned expressions.
He, however, had had more time to deal with his feelings. He called to the rangers surrounding his love. "Take the Head Ranger to the healing house. Keep her restrained and watch her. And call for a sorcerer to examine her! Something foul is at work here."
"What about us?" Sylvanas asked numbly, shaking herself visibly.
He sighed, and then stared at the fallen elven leader. "We go tell the queen that her husband has been grievously wounded. And that we must now flee Silvermoon.
The Battle of Silvermoon was, he knew, effectively over.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late autumn 594, Whitefort, Lordaeron
Duraz fought the displeasure he was feeling. He would have been most happy being back at his estate in Hillsbrad rather than listening to one of the men he hated the most make his case in front of some of the most respected members of the Alliance High Command. What displeased him wasn't the fact that he was talking to them, or making a case - although there was some negative feeling there - but rather that he was winning his point.
The most influential members of the Alliance High Command. The Regent-Lord, the Kings of Lordaeron and Kul Tiras, and over a dozen of the most important Alliance generals and counsellors. Each and every one of them, he knew, was of families, which had noble blood dating back at least ten generations. It was degrading to hear them drink the words of this newcomer. A child born to poor merchants, nothing better than a commoner!
And yet they were listening to him.
"I'm in no way saying that this is the best we could have done. I am saying it is the only thing we could do given the circumstances." the common-blooded general said to those he should have bowed to. It didn't seem to irritate most of the others. It didn't with Proudmoore, at any rate, who scratched his nose pensively.
"Still, to send four thousand men into the forests of Quel'Thalas, when we know all too well that Silvermoon has been savaged and that the Horde nearly owns the place. It was a hard risk there, Lord Swiftblade." Lord! As if that title belonged to him in any way!
The fool man didn't back down. "It was a risk. But it paid off nicely. We may have lost two thousand men, but they did manage to create quite a bit of havoc in the Horde's supply line. I am quite certain the high elves will make sure it takes a time before they come here. My army will arrive here within two days. With them and the gathered militia and other military units, we will then have fifty thousand troops and the time to train them."
"Fifty thousand against over seven time that number I've heard." King Terenas interjected. It didn't deter Swiftblade.
"This city was built with mighty protections. It is easily as mighty as Stormwind, perhaps even more. We can hold them, Sire. They will be weakened by the winter, which is much harder here than in Azeroth. There will be little to scavenge, little to hunt. They will have to rely on their supply lines, which we will periodically raid and attempt to cut off."
To think that they could hold...feh...the Alliance leaders had obviously become delusional. Duraz had been there, in Stormwind. He had seen the finest and proudest knights the best-trained soldiers in the entire continent mass to defend the capital. It had still fallen. There was no hope that Whitefort could be held against the Horde! Fools, blind fools. Things needed to change, quickly at that.
He eyed his enemy. He had once been angry only at the fact that he had taken the woman he had planned to marry. But since then, the danger coming from the man had grown from a mere annoyance to a real threat to himself and his plans. As much as he considered most of these successes mere luck, the fact remained that Aerth Swiftblade had never been dealt a decisive defeat, only minor setbacks. In the crucial battles, he still remained ever victorious. This was what was blinding the rulers of the Alliance kingdoms, was what made them forget of the man's unworthy lineage and common blood.
He looked over at the other leaders. Three of the generals assembled in the place returned his look ever so slightly. They two were part of the compact. His forces had grown now, with nearly three armies under his group's control, and many assassins and spies besides. But removing the weak leaders wasn't a good plan yet. The Horde was too close, and they had to be defeated. Whatever might happen would work to his advantage. He knew they could weaken them before they razed Lordaeron. With the High Command in disarray and the 'great' human leaders gone, taking control would be easy.
And if they did manage, by some impossible way, to defeat the Horde here, well, he had a plan ready for that too!
For now, however, it was best to keep playing along, to help them prepare as best they could. "I propose that we empty the villages and burn whatever remaining crops in the Horde army's direct path. It would cut access to much secondary food sources."
The news seemed to dismay Terenas. "Destroy the crops? We are rationing some parts of the realms because of the sheer logistics of keeping our massive forces fed adequately. Surely there has to be a better way!"
"There is." Lothar said, his steely glance encompassing the room. "We can send soldiers to help the farmers harvest, and bring as much as we can to our stores here. We will need every scrap of wheat and fruit to withstand a siege of this magnitude."
"We must burn nothing as well." Varien Wrynn interjected "We have to leave the villages intact. The Horde is compulsive in destroying places. If they see villages they will ravage them. It would slow them down, perhaps give us a few more days to prepare ourselves."
"And it might just make them vulnerable to raids. We will have to have hidden raiding groups ready to act on any weakness." Duraz said simply. He exchanged a look of enmity with Wrynn.
Ah, Wrynn. Although he had less personal reason to hate the man than he hated Swiftblade, he truly disliked the man. The last relative of the Royal Azerothian Family, albeit a minor one, he had worked on that tenuous link and had garnered much support. Lothar was openly supportive, as was the Archbishop and many of the fallen kingdom's nobles and knights. If left unchecked, he might well restore Llane's line to the throne of Azeroth.
That could not be allowed to happen. Wrynn, like Swiftblade and some other Alliance leaders and generals, would have to be removed one way or another.
He could feel something in the air, however, despite the plans and the confidence: dismay and concern. Quel'Thalas had been an aloof nation at best towards the Alliance, but its power had guarded eastern peaks of Lordaeron. Now that it had been broken, nothing except some forts remained to guard the passes. It wouldn't be long before the Horde would rage across the eastern plains, and everyone there knew it.
Everyone seemed to be thinking of that, actually, except for the self-righteous leader of the Knights of the Silver Hand, Uther Lightbringer. His face anxious and grim, he rose to address the other leaders even as Swiftblade sat.
"My lords." he intoned, "Silvermoon has fallen, and that is grievous blow. However, there is something else that I would need to report. I have, as most of you know, returned from a secret mission to Caer Darrow in order to gain information and give hope to the populace. That mission was successful. But what I saw was far more startling than what I heard."
"You certainly pique my attention, Sir Lightbringer." Terenas replied, "What is it that you have seen?"
"Human ships helping the Horde." he continued right through the commotion his words caused. "Not rogue ships, those. They were good in repair, with experienced crews. All of them bore markings and distinctive Alteracil traits."
"Preposterous!" a general cried, "Are you accusing Alterac to have betrayed humanity to the Horde?!?"
"I accuse no one. It is simply a fact which I observed."
Duraz rose this time to also address the High Command. "I must concur with what Sir Lightbringer is telling us. There have been rumours of men helping the Horde at Stratholme, or humans aiding the destruction of Tyr's Hand. Some of the survivors managed to describe speech patterns and weapons of Alteracil make." he shrugged "Circumstancial evidence I agree. But Alterac has been so far the most reluctant nation. It committed few troops, few foodstuffs, and few resources. Perhaps it would be time for us to start asking questions?"
He sat again, and the debate began on Alterac. He smiled to himself. The seeds of doubts could not have been planted more deeply. If it had only been his word, they might have hesitated. But all at that table trusted Uther Lightbringer. An investigation would inevitably begin on Alterac.
And while the Alliance would be glaring into Alterac's borders and fearfully looking towards the east, the Compact would be able to move with complete impunity!
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BONUS PROFILE #7
Rellon Minvare
Birthplace: Stormwind, Azeroth
Birthdate: Summer 657
Height: 5'9"
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Green
Present status: General of the Ninth Alliance Army, Baron of the Eastern Wellsin Hills
Allegiances: Azeroth, the Alliance, the Light
History: Rellon Minvare was always calm, even as a child. Brought up as the son of a Knight-turned-nobleman, he lived in the shadow of his father, who founded House Minvare. Raised strictly, he came to believe that control of one's impulse ahcieved far more than any heroics. With this in mind, he sought to make his own fame, entering the Azerothian Army at the age of 16, and managing to shoulder his way up until he became squire by the age of 19, and Knight by 22.
His desire to become his own man, away from his father, came when the First War tore his majestic homeland apart. Rellon, then a captain, gained recongintion for his successful, cerebral procedures. He rose to Commander in the Fifth Azerothian Army in 585, and ironically commanded the then-Knight Aerth Swiftblade. It was he who led a successful retreat when the General was killed when Sunshire fell. During that time, he named Aerth a Captain, and recognized the younger man's talents and tactical insight.
Rellon was formally made a General in 588 and commanded the Fifth Azerothian Army before other corps were added and he became leader of the Ninth Alliance Army. He subsequently met Swiftblade again, as well as a strong-willed female, Generals like him, and accepted them both as equals.
Today Minvare commands the troops holding the Horde at the Land Bridges. Of all the generals gathered there, he is the most quiet. Yet all knew that, save for such men as Duraz, Swiftblade, Lothar and perhaps Turalyon, there is no one better to keep the Horde in check.
