Chapter Seventeen: Defeats and Deceits
Early Winter 595, Avel Hills, Lordaeron
"General, our eastern force has been outflanked!"
"What?!?" Aerth looked towards the east, and indeed saw that a quarter of their forces were on the verge of being overrun. The eastern flank had been the weakest because they had had their backs to rocky outcroppings, which seemed impractical to scale. But it seemed that it had been precisely what the Horde commander had been hoping for - that he'd see this side as the lesser threat, and thus leave himself imposed to a full-scale flanking manoeuvre.
A clever, well-managed ploy. And he'd walked right into it.
He brushed sweat off his brow. The early winds of winter could be felt, and the first snow had fallen but two days earlier, but to the general of the First Alliance Army felt as if he was standing under the hot sun of summer in the middle of the Khaz Modan Lowlands. He'd once gone there with his father when he'd been but a child, and he had then wondered why his father had packed so much water.
"You'll see why soon enough, boy." what the wry answer he'd received, and indeed he had seen it quite well quite soon.
Now, it felt just like those days. Except his father was long dead, and he would be if he didn't do something about the situation.
The first thing he had to do was the hardest: he had to admit to himself that he'd been defeated. The Horde had poured out on him at the worst moment and in the worst possible ways, using good, coordinated tactics to unsettle his unprepared lines. He was only facing thirty thousand against his twenty thousand, but his strategic mind told him there was no hope. The eastern flank was being attacked by a mix of trolls and ogres, the trolls launching their throwing axes while the ogres smashed the lines with fists and feet. There were no knights on hand and only a few mages.
The western flank didn't fare much better. It had stronger units, but had been hit the hardest at the beginning of the battle, and as he watched he saw that many points on the defence line were ready to collapse. Mages attacked the horde with powerful spells, but there were few of them.
The centre was still holding firm, however. Many of the sorcerers and most of the Knights were there, and backed by doughty footmen they were keeping the Horde from undermining their position further. He knew he could order a retreat. He knew he should have ordered a retreat an hour ago. But he'd been so certain that his sense for developing good, sensible plans and counteract anything would work again. He saw, at last, that it had been nothing short of pure vanity. He was dooming his men out of misplaced pride.
This shook him out of his despair. He had lost, and lost soundly, but he could still make it out of this dastardly situation with the major part of his army. "Signal this to all commanders: send forward units into heavy defensive counter attacks, and withdraw what remains. We will pull out towards the southwest."
The aides next to him looked at each other, consternation and disbelief plain on their faces. He couldn't blame them, but the delay irritated him. "Well?" he snapped "Haven't you heard my orders?"
"But...my lord...if we pull out the rear units."
"We will save the rear units that way."
"But the forward units..."
"Will die?" he cast an irritated look "Is that what you want me to say? No, this isn't an oversight. It's deliberate. These men are going to die so that the army might live. Now I have given you orders and I intend for you to obey them this INSTANT! MOVE!!!"
The lead aide, a knight older then him by three years hesitated for moment, then nodded sombrely. "As you wish, milord." was the clipped, cold answer he received. At once the aides moved towards nearby commanders and messengers to relay the message to those farther away on the battlefield.
The orders were received. From the look he saw Kelnam Pedran make a gesture of rage, and saw that the Alterac soldier and he would probably be exchanging harsh words, deepening the rift between them. He cared not. If the fool couldn't see the logic of the situation, then he shouldn't be commander at all. He would have to reconsider the command structure once they returned to Lordaeron.
It took many minutes for the information to be relayed, and he sensed a moment of hesitating, a palpable moment of doubt in the air. And then the forward units crashed into the horde units, footmen and a few knights yelling and fighting, waiting for the rear units to reinforce them in short order. They wouldn't be able, by themselves, to hold position for more than half a day, and then they would all be slaughtered or worse. He knew that.
Still, he turned away from them mentally and physically and ordered the army to depart. Units soon began to move away, buffered from immediate Horde attacks by the sacrificed men who still fought, fiercely...and then desperately as some saw their comrades leaving them behind. He could only imagine the horror these soldiers must be feeling. No...he wouldn't even try. He couldn't. The army depended on him. He had to get as much as possible from this debacle.
"Send sorcerers with strong spells as well as out best archers to the back of our lines. They'll protect our rear as we leave. I want them to make certain the immediate threat is truly cleared." the lead aide nodded grimly and Swiftblade turned to another. "Have the man ready for a double-quick - as long as they can. We'll have to put as much distance between the enemy and our forces before the forward units collapse."
"Ah, too bad we don't have many elves here no more." one aide sighed. "It'd be a good sight easier."
Swiftblade had thought about that too. Most of the elves had gone to defend their homes when the Horde had invaded it, but with Silvermoon fallen and the Queen having fled to a secret high elf stronghold, some had returned with a vengeance. But not as much as before, at least not yet, something which forced the human forces to rely on human archers who, while dedicated, simply couldn't quite give an elven level of archery even at its very best.
The battle didn't end quickly. Separating the fourteen thousand, which could still be saved from the battle, took hours, with much fighting and minor clashes. He saw some forward men trying to follow the throng, but horde soldiers cut those down. There was no escape from them - mired in, hopelessly outnumbered and leaderless, they would fall quickly enough. But it did allow the bulk of the battered First Army to escape as fast as it could. Skirmishers warded off stray horde groups.
As the army moved away, Pedran came up to him on an armoured horse. "I hope you're proud of yourself." he hissed "Letting those boys there to get slaughtered like so much lambs."
"If I hadn't done this, we would have lost much more. We've been defeated, Kelnam! Why in the Blessed Light can't you acknowledge that?" he set his mouth in a thin line. "I had to save what could be saved."
"Aye, and frankly I think you did right." Said another voice. Bram Poorglade, another commander, had come up and was glaring at the grey-bearded Pedran. "I don't know what got your goat this time, Pedran, but you saw the situation too. I'm not saying I'm happy with what the general just did, but I can see his point."
Kelname only grumbled something noncommittal and fell back, leaving Swiftblade, his lead aide and Poorglade alone. The young commander didn't waste time on recriminations - a good thing; he wasn't in the mood for them. Instead he asked. "Are they goin' to follow us long?"
Swiftblade shook his head. We did manage to cripple some wagons. They'll have to wait for their supplies. We'll have a tight time tomorrow and maybe the day after that, but not much more."
"And then we go back to guard Whitefort."
Yes. Guard Whitefort. Returning in defeat. But had he really considered victory against such a massive force? He didn't know if he could say yes, and it frightened him.
However, all he said was. "We shall see what happens when we return." and hoped his voice held conviction.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Winter 595, Cestrova Plains, Alterac
The little group were trudging along in the early morning light, cloak firmly clasped around them to keep the chill wind out. There were seven of them - four men and three women, all wearing ordinary clothes and armed only with a sword and a bow, both of which of good quality, although not quite up to par with what the Alliance Army had. It was supposed to be that way. After all, they had a mission to fulfill.
Polla Mendrannon once again wondered why she'd gotten this dreary detail. It seemed that only yesterday she'd been teaching archery to some new recruits, to be called in front of not only General Swiftblade, but also four others including the High General himself. If the idea of standing at attention when faced with all these high-ups hadn't been enough, the explanations they had given had certainly blown her away.
Seemingly, the Alliance had received information that led many to suspect that the Kingdom of Alterac might have made a deal with the Horde, despite the treaty and the pact of trust all leaders had spoken. They had told her that they couldn't move against Alterac - not with Whitefort in serious jeopardy and the main Horde forces so close at hand. Nor, Lothar had explained, could the Alliance simply attack Alterac based on unverifiable assumptions and verbal proof.
"We do not wish to attack another human country, especially now when we need everyone." Lothar had said with a voice that managed strength and compassion at the same time it did ruthlessness. "But the Treaty of Alliance is the bond which allows us to stand yet. For a human nation to rescind it and turn traitor would be the greatest betrayal between nations since the early years of Arathor itself. It cannot and will not go unanswered."
"That is why," a younger, marble-faced man named Turalyon had said, "that we must know if there is truly treachery at work. That is where you come in."
"Captain," Swiftblade had said, looking grim and so much older than he'd looked only weeks before "We cannot make this an order. This has to be a voluntary mission, for you will be going into the unknown here, and also because we would not ask you to betray your homeland. If you do not wish to undertake this mission, please tell us at once, and it you will be excused."
He might have said more, but she didn't let him. Her path had been decided the moment suspicion had fallen on her homeland. She had accepted to lead a secret scouting mission into Alterac.
And so, with six of her most trusted Alterac-born archers, she was on her way to either redeem her country or condemn it as Humanity's Traitor.
"You know, we have to ask ourselves this here question." one of them, a lean man by the name of Hezav stated " And that's: do you think King Perenolde would ally itself with the Horde?"
There was a moment of thoughtful, uncomfortable silence, and then one of the women spoke up. "Well, you have to admit the King didn't send a lot of people and things to the front: a few thousand men, some weapons, some food. Its not enough."
"Oh, oh there!" one of the men replied at once "Lets not get too harsh about that. Remember that Alterac's the smallest of the nations - we don't have the resources the other have, and we don't have the manpower to sustain fielding and recruiting too much."
As good as the argument was, the woman easily ploughed over it. "Still, I know we could do more. Maybe you haven't learned some of the numbers but I have. I'll tell you, even a place like Gilneas has fielded forces larger than they reasonably should. We've done little of that. In fact, we've only conscripted lightly. It seems like we're hoarding our strength."
"Sound to me like you already believe that we're responsible for betraying the Alliance." the man challenged, a little too hotly, but understandably. At that, the woman simply bit her lips. Polla decided this discussion was going nowhere.
"There's one thing we can all be sure of," she interrupted before anything could escalate. "And that's that the Alliance High Command is itching to smash whichever country betrays it. Our job is to either make sure we prove their innocence and get them to call off the attack...or ensure they attack for a good reason."
"But..." the man attempted to persist, but at that moment Polla raised her hand, stiffening. The other stopped and listened intently. Polla hadn't earned her position as captain because of her skill with the bow - although she was definitely one of the best humans out there. Or because she was tactful - she hated elves and said it often. But she knew when orcs were near.
And right now, they were very near.
Training, instinct and a large amount of experience took over. She looked towards a hill just a small way off, then to a small ridge on the plains only thirty step from them. She pointed towards that. "On the other side of the ridge. NOW."
The others knew an order when they heard one. They also recognized urgency. Almost as one, they turned and sped towards the ridge, each nimbly stepping so that there would be no traces to follow if an enemy decided to look. Polla was behind them, looking over her shoulder. Not here yet. Any moment now. She sped to the others and threw herself flat on the cold soil, the other following her example a split second later.
She was the only one with a line of sight to the hill, and so she was the one who saw them. She wished she hadn't. Fifty orcs, all in full armaments, and moving leisurely at that. She felt a cold ball of dread in the bottom of her gut. Fifty orcs, moving along only a few dozen miles from a major human city, and not seemingly worried about it. They should have been cautious, even scared, always looking about.
As it was, they were so unconcerned that they all passed, speaking idly and singing strange songs, twenty feet at most from the seven humans, without one even looking in their direction. It was only when their heavy steps had faded that she dared to breathe again, sitting up. The others looked at her in concern. They might not have seen, but they had heard the sound and knew what they meant.
"Were those...?" Hezav asked.
"Yes." she said, hissing "Curse me for a green recruit! What were we doing on an open plain in the middle of enemy territory?"
"Well, this isn't supposed to BE enemy territory..." the man who had argued for Alterac said.
"Yes, it is!" she replied vehemently "Open your eyes and trust your ears! That was a full group of Horde soldiers, passing through without a care in the world! And even if we hadn't seen them, the fact that five generals took the time to tell me of this mission should have made me - all of us - more cautious!"
She fell silent. What she wouldn't openly admit is that she had been certain the generals had been wrong, that there had been a reason for Alterac's lack of interest in Alliance affairs, She had though the rumours and sights they had been told of to be flat-out lies, and had set out to prove it. With that she'd just seen, however, she couldn't be certain of that.
What if Alterac had truly betrayed they Alliance? Would she stand with the soldiers she had sworn to fight with or with the country of her birth? The answer wasn't forthcoming, and she was grateful for that. She didn't want to consider it yet.
"We'll go by the trails until we reach the Norruvor Road. Its rather heavily forested, so we can hide if anyone we'd better not be meeting approaches us. We should be able to make it to the capital easily enough after that." And getting there would be the easy part of the work ahead, she reminded herself with a mental sigh.
"I can't believe it." the man said stubbornly. "It has to be a mistake. There has to be an explanation! The king wouldn't turn his back on humans, would he?"
She only shook her head as the others looked on awkwardly. "I hope there's an explanation. If there isn't..."
"Yes?"
It was harder for her to say it than she thought, but she said it anyway. "If that's the case, then the Alliance might well vote to destroy the Kingdom of Alterac for High Treason and the breaking of the Treaty of Alliance."
Shocked silence and the cold winter wind were the only replies she received.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 595, Ninth Army Camp, Stromgarde
Khadgar was too proud to admit it, but he wanted nothing more but to stop writing and get a few hours' sleep. He felt too tired to think, much less write a letter. But information had to be given to Lord Daretyl in Hillsbrad. The old archmage was occupied in training new apprentices to fight in the war, while at the same time trying to mesh things with the other's nations' magicians, especially the Elves and the Dalarans.
So, with an effort brought on by years of discipline, he forgot his tired eyes and body and continued to write.
'...and as of now, the nine armies remaining are securing the Land Bridges, aided by squadrons of ships from the fleet. I must say the battles have taken their toll, however. Many soldiers died on the battlefield, nearly a third of the entire force, and defeat seemed possible at many moments. Even now, the wounded outnumber the living here. The Horde took its share of blood before letting go of the land they held. Now that they're pushed back to the other side, however, holding them back is now possible.
Concerning the last, more sensitive matter of renegade mages, I must report I've found nothing of the sort amongst the southern forces thus far. That I have found nothing, however, evidently does not mean that there is nothing to be found. I will continue to be vigilant. I am appalled that some of our own might be disloyal to the Alliance, but having seen worse, I am also beyond being surprised by such events.'
He stopped writing there, memories resurfacing at the words he'd written, a scowl taking hold of his face, of his whole body language. Worse...yes, he'd seen worse in a wizard before. Medhiv, his master. So powerful that he made powerful people like Daretyl or Antonidas of Dalaran seem like amateurs. He had gone to him a nervous if talented young man, and the older mage had taken him in at once. He remembered those days - learning, practicing, and researching. He owed Medhiv much.
But it hadn't been like that in the end. Betrayal, madness and then more betrayal, all of this had taken place, until outrage took him over and he joined an Azerothian raiding part led by Lord Lothar himself in the hopes of killing his master and former friend. He had actually liked it then, so deep had his hatred been.
Yes, he'd seen more than just some renegade sorcerers. It didn't mean, however, that he would be taking them for granted. Especially not here, with the Horde so uncomfortably close and knowing what pandemonium those crazed individuals could create.
Sighing, he ended his letter.
'New information will be forthcoming as I end my tour of the Southern Army. I will say to conclude that I find the new mage elements to be slightly reckless but capable.
Sincerely,
Khadgar
The archmage signed it with his usual flowing sigil, and sealed it with enchanted wax. As he did, thinking of bed more than anything else, he saw a paper he recognized, and groaned. Now why had he looked there?!? He blinked in the vain hopes it was a mirage, but there it was: a letter from the Karal Tor to General Minvare, who had taken charge of the southern forces following lack of managerial skills on the part of his predecessor. He sighed - duty was duty, and he had to give it to the man right now. Painfully, he got up, stretched, took his cloak and the message and walked out of his tent.
The cold of the night seized him at once. The warming spell he cast upon his tent kept things tolerable where he lived, but here the bare elements reigned. He accelerated his pace towards the general's tent, which fortunately wasn't far at all. He was unconcerned about waking the man - Minvare was always up very late, so late that it was a wonder he always seemed alert underneath the calm aloofness he always gave as a cunning facade.
He came upon the tent, larger and more intricate than most others as was the privilege of the man's high rank - and stopped cold. Always two guards kept watch of the general's tent - two large, heavily armoured footmen chosen for their skill and loyalty. When he saw them not guarding, but rather slumped on the ground, his every senses came alert. Quickly he sent out a magical feeler to probed the area, and it quickly gave him his answer: sleep spells had been cast on the guards, and a spell of silence was in effect around the general's tent.
The cold was immediately cast to the back of Khadgar's mind as he rushed towards the opening, catapulting inside, ripping the entrance cloth in the savage movement. He saw the situation in a split second - the general was on the ground, clutching his arm, with a figure perched over him, draped in a cloak, dagger in hand.
Years of training and warfare had made the archmage a very quick caster. Even as the assassin looked at him, words of magic tumbled out of his mouth, and a bolt of energy slammed into the killer. It hit a shield, which wasn't surprising given what he'd seen here and outside. A mage, it seemed. A renegade, most certainly.
"An assassination? It will not happen." he said.
"So you say. But it has already succeeded." a female voice hissed. "Now it is your turn, sorcerer!"
At once a magical force struck him, smothering and strangling him, he choked. Panic wanted to mount, but he refused to let it. Summoning his strength, he cast a counter-spell, and the weight eased. He didn't take an instant to sigh in relief. The sorceress had surprised him once; he didn't intend to let her do so again.
He struck again, striking out with a gust of wind, weakening his enemy's shield, and protected himself with his own when a bolt of lightning struck out. Minvare was still clutching his arm, and he was too pale to be healthy. He had to end this now. Summoning his strength, Khadgar drew upon the spells only he and his former master Medhiv knew, spells of magic crafted by the Order of Tirisfal, spells he shouldn't know. He shouted five words of command.
"Naratha! Li-Sepaku! Vindellen-Vaguar! Ircisis! Dorasthoga!" he bellowed, and his hands erupted in white light, tendrils of power he directed at his adversary. Her shield was rended as if paper, and she writhed as power drawn of life itself struck her flesh. She screamed in agony-
-and then wasn't there anymore. Teleportation. Powerful woman, to have found the strength. He pushed her out of his mind even as he bent to examine Minvare. The man was wearing only his breeches, obviously he had intended to go to sleep soon, and he was clutching a wound. Gently, Khadgar pried the fingers away and looked, and bit his lips slightly. The wound was black, with veins, deep blue tendrils striking away from the flesh. A cursed blade.
Minvare, still obviously clear-minded, grunted "I...this is...dark sorcery."
"It is." Khadgar assented "But I think we can yet save you."
"This woman...she said she was killing me in the name of...of the Compact. Something rotten is going on...if humans would want to kill...those who are fighting to keep them safe."
The general had said one of the truest statements ever, and although he knew the magically-induced fever was partially to blame for it, he nodded gravely. "Yes, something is afoot. But now is not the time to plumb these events."
A few moments, and his counter spells had broken the spell of silence. He bellowed around him, calling on the highest and most able clerics to the general's tent, and within seconds had the whole camp astir. He repeated his instructions to the first footmen to come investigate and sent them running to fetch the priests, and returned to give what help he could to the general.
As he entered, he spied a device he had never seen before in the general's tent - a medallion, seemingly knocked off the hooded sorceress. It was in gold, and depicted a circle with five suns inside of it. He wondered. Clues had come to him that there were some dissidents, and he had warned the Alliance's best generals once before. But this. This might mean that it was more than a few dissidents. There could be an entire organization watching from the shadows, waiting to strike.
An organization that either wanted to control the Alliance or to destroy it. He would have to intensify his inquiries.
Looking at the strange medallion, Khadgar returned to the wounded general, upset over events, event he'd seen once, where elements of the human race had conspired to doom it.
He would not allow it to happen again. Ever. As long as he lived.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 595, Avel Hills, Lordaeron
The Altar had been built to his precise specifications. A large slab of rock, hewn through difficult and magical means, had been taken from the Elven Runestone and magically crafted with the most powerful runes of power Gul'Dan had ever learned from Ner'Zhul, Kil'Jaeden and whatever Medhiv had let slip from time to time. He had transformed the powerful piece of magical rock into a great altar, with five runic columns crafted by the five death knights who stood with him. It was a hub of dark magic, and he revelled in it.
"Yes," he murmured feverishly "Yes! The feel is exactly as it should be, the flow is perfect! The ceremony will be able to start shortly."
As he spoke, he turned not to his death knights but to the larger presence next to him. Cho'Gall fixed upon the altar three eyes, which gleamed with both fear and excitement. It was quite normal, given the circumstances. For if events worked as they should, the Ogre he had handpicked would be transformed. The Alliance would find itself faced with a greater enemy than ever before.
And, most importantly, he would be close to finally strike back at that damn Doomhammer!
"Are you certain this is gonna work?" Cho'Gall's left head complained. "We're using lots of Elf magicks here. If they can't mingle..."
"They will." he quickly reassured the Ogre "In the end, magic is energy. All I need is a very large amount of energy. The Runestone slab can easily provide. The summoning itself will be done exclusively by myself and my death knights."
"And if this works, then my people will truly become more powerful." the right head exclaimed in a longing tone." Gul'Dan couldn't help but grin at seeing the fearsome Ogre-Mage, the first and until today the only one of his kind, excited like a little orcling.
"Indeed, my friend. That is our goal. Or rather, this is this step's goal." How many other steps? Too many for his taste. But he had waited long - he could wait until all was ready. One of the death knights lumbered to him noisily, carrying with it the stench of death and decay. Although they had been revived inside a slain Knight of Azeroth, the body the restless spirit had none of the vigour or speed it had in life. Only raw power made the Death Knight - raw magical powers of necromancy. Cunning and cruel, they were the best tools he'd had, even better than the orcs they had been when they had been members of his Shadow Council.
He'd heard that the Alliance had created a sort of parade to his Death Knights, however. It appeared from his spies and sources that this Order of the Knights of the Silver Hand had been formed by the young apprentice to the elderly bishop who'd led the measly human priests in the first war of conquest here. Here, however, Knights had been taken, knights who had magical potential, and each had been taught all the priestly spells they could learn. This order both amused and intrigued him - he would be certain to send some of his death knights to test these so-called Paladins.
"Master," a deep, spectral voice intoned as the dead thing stopped mere feet from him "The energy flows are prepared, as are we. We but await your order."
Cho'Gall wrinkled his nose at the foulness they both smelled, but Gul'Dan refused to show even discomfort. Undead they might be, the death knights were former Shadow Council members, and that made them dangerous to him if they ever saw a chink in his armour.
It was this with an unflappable calm that he announced. "Very well. Bring the Ogres. We will begin the magical awakening immediately."
He waited as thirty Ogres, chosen for their unusual intellect amongst their kind - drawn mostly from the Twilight's Hammer and Stormreaver Clans as well - came, looking frightened but trying not to show it. He gestured for them to go on the altar, and they all looked towards Cho'Gall. Unsurprising. Amongst the Horde, he was feared. Amongst the Ogres, he was an icon of perfection, a paragon. He had but to say no, and the entire ceremony would never take place, and Gul'Dan knew there would be nothing he'd be able to do to stop that.
Cho'Gall waved to them. "Go, brothers. Go on the Altar. It will change you, make you lots stronger."
At the word 'stronger' the entire group seemed to perk up, and they climbed the stone steps to the altar without much qualms. He ordered them to gather near the columns - six for each - and they did so. He smiled. Everything was meshed; everything in his grand design was coming together exactly as he wanted.
Cho'Gall coughed. "I hope it will work. So much is at stake here."
Indeed. "It will work. At any rate, it is too late to turn back." he answered, and took his position around the Runestone slab with the death knights, and concentrated. He lifted his hands and put them toward the ogres. In his mind came the will, in his soul the power, in his arms the strength. With a sure voice, he began to chant a string of words, which had been used only once, centuries before, by human sorcerers.
"Haalgrya Beryaa Ome Kodahee Jillake. Haalgrya Ceryaa Okren Kodahallee Jillake. Haalgrya Viryaa Homren Kosakee Jillake." As he began the three sentences of power again, one of the death knights also chanted with him. And then another, and another. All poured their will and their power, willing the power of the Runestone into the assembled Ogres.
It was working. He could feel the power shifting. He concentrated all of his being. He couldn't fail. This had to work!
His energies mingled with those of the Runestone, and he was buffeted with a pure force stored inside for millennia, slowly growing as it absorbed the ambient magic permeating the world. He had felt something so powerful only once, long ago, when Medhiv had made himself known to him. Was this the power of the ancient? A legacy from those who still knew the secrets of the Titans?
Whatever it was, he refused to let it consume him. He directed his strength, linked it with the others as they continued the chant, and forced the eleven powers into the ogres.
The effect was almost immediate.
All thirty of the huge beasts groaned, some clutching their heads, some trembling from heads to foot. The groans intensified into growls and then screams, but he didn't let it faze him. He continued to maintain the power, as long as he could. He had to make it permanent, to attune them to magic in one swift blow! Near him, one of the death knights stopped casting, spent. The energy weakened. Still he held on.
Energy was energy that was true. But in creating the Death Knights, he had used the powers he was accustomed with. The elves, however, drew energy from somewhere much different, or at least they had for the making of the Runestone. He almost cringed as two more death knights stopped. He had to keep on a little longer....just a little longer...
It was when the last death knights stopped that he knew he should. The energy no longer wished to respond, and as he tried to hold on to it, it lashed at him. With a gasping scream, he let go of it all, cutting off all of his ties to the magic essences, and slumped, spent. He didn't allow himself the luxury of falling on his knees, but wobbled there until his senses returned. He looked at the Ogres.
Their strength wasn't as great as he would have wished, but he could feel magical power in them. They looked at each other with marvelling faces, and he knew that he had succeeded in implanting the basic knowledge he wanted them to have. They were untrained Ogre-Magi, but Ogre-Magi they were.
Cho'Gall was beside him an instant later, steadying him, his faces beaming. "You did it!" said the left head nearly in disbelief. "I can sense them! They know magic!" the right crowed.
He grinned, feeling more tired than he had ever felt for a long time. Inwardly, however, he was triumphant. Doomhammer thought he toiled to create all these magical warriors for the good of the Horde. He was partly right. Only it would be used in Gul'Dan's Horde!
"Yes, my friend," he said gravely "You are no longer alone. And we are near our goal at last."
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 595, The Ziggurat, Quel'Thalas
Fenna Pureglade was by no means one to let her emotions take control of her senses. Decades of royal training and tutors, tempered and enlarged by centuries of rule, had made certain she could control herself in all instances. But at this time she felt anything but in control, looking down upon her beloved husband's comatose form.
"Vallin..." she whispered to herself, gently touching the elf lord cheek. The tip of the arrow that Alleria had shot had been poisoned; the high priest had said, by Caradal Lichen Juice, one of the rarest poisons, which could only be found by people who intimately knew the forests. Like a ranger knew the forest. She didn't know if it proved the Head Ranger as the main culprit in this tragic and traitorous affair, but one thing remained certain in the queen's eyes: Alleria had shot the arrow which had nearly killed her mate, and that alone would bring dire punishment.
She sat up as her husband stirred ever so slightly. He had done this increasingly for the past two weeks, signs that the repeated cleansing and curative spells were truly beginning to vanquish the debilitating poison. She wished for him to awaken. Five weeks that he was in this state, and yet it seemed like five centuries. She refused to entertain the idea he might waste away in the end, beyond the reach of any spell. She refused to accept the tiny possibility that Vallin would die. Although they had both lived over seven centuries, there should be centuries more them to live together. They would see them. She had so much left to tell him.
A knock on the private resting chamber sounded, firm but polite. Composing herself in an instant, she calmly asked "Enter."
The door opened to admit Illadan Eltrass, and some of the pain the Queen felt lessened a little. The stalwart lord and ranger had been Vallin's long-time friend, and she had soon come to respect and yearn for the quiet wisdom the elf could sometimes muster. Here was one, she thought, who would never betray Quel'Thalas - unlike some others.
She gave the approaching ranger a slight nod and a genuine - if saddened - smile. "Lord Illadan. It is good to see you well. Are the leaves green?"
"They shall certainly be greener when the king finally awakens." the lord sighed, and Fenna noted he didn't answer the question. "How is he?"
"Resting. The servants are force-feeding him, and keeping him clean. As long as we keep the Horde at bay, he will be able to have the rest he deserves."
"He should have it, then. The Ziggurat will not be found. Our ancestors saw to that." he answered readily.
She knew he spoke the truth. Whereas Silvermoon had been designed and built to withstand strong sieges, it had mainly been constructed to serve as a bastion of learning and culture. The Ziggurat, constructed a millennia later, had been designed to be a true fortress, the largest in the entire realm. Hidden so well even the Trolls were not certain of its locations, it boasted defences which equally if not surpassed those of the capital. Here, ay least, the people of Silvermoon had found safety.
But she knew the great elven lord wouldn't have disturbed her only to inquire about the king's health or to talk about the Ziggurat's strength. "Come now, Lord Illadan. I am pleased to see you, but I would think you have something on your mind. I can guess what it could be." she was in fact certain of what it could be, but she would let him speak his part first.
He didn't take long to make his opinion known. "I think that the way Head Ranger Alleria is being treated."
"You are the Head Ranger, Illadan Eltrass. Alleria has been relieved of duty by my orders, as is my right."
"Truth, Highness, and I beg your pardon for my impertinence. But I still believe that putting her in a Treason Cell was...how can I put it..."
"Overkill?" she tried, using a word humans seemed to favour.
"Yes. I do not think - and this is not only my humble opinion - she has deserved this treatment. I do not believe her guilty of this crime." he told her firmly.
He was and had always been a convincing orator. Feeling the usual rush of anger and bitterness she felt each time Alleria was being discussed, she had to admit a Treason Cell was a tall sentence for someone who had not been judged by the scriptums of ancient elven laws of justice. Although Alleria herself had not protested, the idea of Quel'Thalas' first ranger nearly entombed with no way to speak of indeed move, would be enough to fray some nerves. She understood all that.
But mostly, she knew it had been Alleria's arrow, which had nearly taken Vallin from her. "I realize it might not suit you, and I sympathize with your beliefs." she said more coldly than she intended to be He stiffened, but she continued unheeding him. "But Alleria shot the King of Quel'Thalas - an unthinkable act that no elf can ever condone. She will be given her trial, I assure you. But until then, she will remain where she is and I will never hear of this again. Am I understood, my good Lord Illadan?"
His face was a study of neutrality - which in itself told her he didn't like her orders one bit. But she knew that he was too loyal to ever consider disobey her orders or her wishes. It was thus with an ill-concealed sigh of frustration that he firmly announced "It will be as Your Majesty wishes."
"Excellent." she didn't wave a dismissive hand - he was, after all, a friend. She softened her voice. "Please, now, leave me. I wish to stay with the King a while longer before resuming my duties."
The way Illadan gave sharp salute and strode off, while polite and respectful, told her she would hear more complaints in the near future. The difference of opinion was doing more harm to the easy friendship she had with the elf lord than any other event, which had ever happened in all the centuries before. It made her worry. "I certainly hope you will be able to see that I have to observe the forms, and that I'm not doing this solely out of anger." she said.
Anger, of course, had a part to play with it. But true or not, her semi-apology was wasted - he was long gone.
"Breaking friendships...how saddening." she told herself.
"Nnot...brokenn...y-yet." A voice answered weakly, thickly. It was a voice she knew as well as her own. She turned, silk rustling around her, and gazed at the bed. There, Vallin lay, still prone as if in sleep. But his eyes were open. In an instant she was at his side, and it was only the knowledge that he was still very weak that kept her from hugging him bodily. Her heart pounded in newfound hope and joy.
"Vallin...its good to see you..." she said, aware that she was by this making the understatement of the year. "I...I...you were out for many weeks, saralai."
The eyes, still pale and sickly, seemed to grow incresingly in focus. "H-how...l-l-long?" he asked.
"Almost five weeks to this day."
He jerked as if to sit up. "Five weeks!" he said in a relatively clear voice, only to fall back down with a gasp. His weakened body would take time to recover. She was just filled with happiness that it would. "T-that's long...much time lost...what happened...t-t-the ccity?"
Her eyes were shadowed at the mention of Silvermoon. "We could not hold anymore. We had to abandon it. We lost some people...but...less than we would have had the Ziggurat and the secret ways to it had not existed. As it is, we are crippled, but not dead."
He seemed to sag in relief. "And did they find...the one w-who shot me?" he asked at length.
There were many ways to answer that question, some better than others. Her rational mind told her to minimize Alleria's role in the ghastly affair until she was properly judged. But after all that had happened - Villages destroyed, Vallin wounded, Silvermoon abandoned - she didn't have the strength to say anything, which wouldn't be angry or unfair.
"Yes, we have." she said "And she will be judged like the traitor to our people she has revealed herself to being."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Winter 595, Near Whitefort, Lordaeron
Rarely had Argal Grimfrost, Warlord of the Horde's most powerful army, had felt so elated. Not far off, in the distance, was the city of Whitefort, the Capital of Lordaeron. He could see through his Longview that it was ancient. Not nearly as ancient as Silvermoon had felt, but he had learned that Humans had emerged as a civilization long after the elven city was built after all. Still, it was very old, dwarfing every city in Azeroth, even Stormwind itself.
Stormwind...yes, that had been the second time, the time he had felt the most excited until now. To see the human capital's mighty walls, to see them weather an unending onslaught until they fell. To scale the ruined walls and fight the humans, and ultimately stand upon the ruins, victorious. That was what warriors like Grimfrost lived for. To seek an opponent of strength, a challenge to be brought down, and revel in the glorious victory it gave! Only now, he would be one of those leading the offensive. Somehow, it made him feel even better.
Elements from the Horde forces had taken positions all around the large city, dashing any hope of escape the cowardly humans might have had. His orders were firm: no one was to pass, whether man, woman or child. If possible, the children were to be spared, but could not be allowed to leave the area. It was the most he could do - he didn't put it past the humans to try and pass information to their other forces through children. It was something he would have done.
He hadn't forgotten the gnomish contraptions that could fly in the air, either. Catapults and lancers had firm orders to shoot down any which came in or out. This would keep the other human forces guessing as to the situation in the capital, and by the time they did something, it would be too late.
He knew the capital had great stores and a large army defending it. Larger than Stormwind had shown. It would be hard fighting, and he was looking forward to it. All around him, he saw groups of orcs rubbing shoulders with Ogres and Trolls, all races and all clans ready for the battle to begin.
All was ready.
All he had to do was wait. Wait for the Warchief.
He had received word from Orgrim Doomhammer himself. It had warmly congratulated Argal for excellent work, and had told him he would be present soon - to see the Alliance's head being cut off. He didn't know what it meant. Even with a riding wolf or a horse, it would take weeks to travel all the way from Blackrock Spire to Lordaeron, not the mere days the message had seemed to say.
"Lord," a raid leader told him. "Our forces are gathered and ready to strike at your convenience." He spied the same eagerness in the other orcs indeed in the entire mass gathered around him. Still, he knew he was not to give the order to advance.
"We shall wait for the Warchief."
"Lord, the Warchief won't be here for weeks! We can't ask the troops to wait-"
"They will wait!" he growled, the hungry rage he always kept in check surfacing for one moment. "They will wait as long as I tell them to! I am the Warlord! Are you challenging my command?!?"
The raid leader knew when he had stepped into dangerous waters. He stiffened, but clapped his chest in a respectful fashion. "No, Lord, never! I was just telling you that the Warchief isn't here, and that our troops will begin to grow impatient. They might attack before the order is given. And if that happens..." he trailed off at a growl from Argal, but his firm expression didn't relent.
He had a point; the Warlord knew it quite well. The orcs had never been a patient people, and the rage they had acquired, the bloodlust that came with the pact Ner'Zhul made decades before, made them even worse. They were holding back only through the fearful respect they had for him and the other leaders. But faced with such a challenge, such a prospect for bloodshed, their glee might soon overwrite their judgement. And the last thing he needed was an uncoordinated attack upon Whitefort. Cho'Gall and Kilrogg Deadeye had, after all, done so with Stormwind once, to disastrous results.
"Indeed, it could become quite uncomfortable." he admitted, "But Doomhammer himself had told me he would be here today."
"Hail to the Warchief! But it doesn't stop the fact that our orcs are getting restless. Something should be done, Lord."
"Indeed, you are right." As if that proved to be a solution. What was he supposed to do, by all the spirits and the ancestors? His half-buried knowledge of his bloodline came out for a moment, and he found himself calling to their wisdom. But there wasn't one person who could help him here. Or rather, there was one, but Argal Grimfrost would rather go live in the Great Dark Beyond then ask him for counsel.
It took an unnatural shriek to stir him from his frustrated and quizzical thoughts. He heard many mutter amongst themselves, and saw that the troops were pointing to the sky, many exclaiming in fear or wonder. He looked himself - and it took all of his years of battle not to take a step backward.
A dragon. A dragon was coming into view, growing larger and larger, until he could see the reptilian mastodons easily. It was covered with red scales, with long, leathery wings flapping the wind with the force of a hurricane. It was large, larger than two catapults at least. And on its back rode Orgrim Doomhammer, decked in his black armour and holding the enormous after which he had come to be named.
Dragons. He had heard rumours that the reclusive creatures - some of them at least - had joined the Horde, or had been forced to join. He had dismissed these rumours as nothing but that. But now it seemed there was truth to them. He didn't know if he liked it. He should, but he wondered about the rumour in which the dragons were forced to pledge loyalty because of their queen's capture by the Dragonmaw Clan. If that was the case, he hoped the queen never escaped, or the Horde would have worse than the flailing Alliance to take care of.
Still, he was glad his leader had arrived. The battle could be launched before the troops lost their control. More than anything else, it explained the hearty way in which he welcomed Doomhammer. "Warchief! I am glad to see you arrived safely, even though your transportation was...surprising."
Doomhammer laughed. "He is but the first of many who will pledge themselves to the Horde, My friend." the dragon spread its wings, and took off again. "He is going back to spread the word of the pact I have made. Soon many others will join our cause. But enough of that! You have done very well, Argal my friend! I had no doubt that you would, however! I trained you and you learned faster than any other I ever trained in the ways of warcraft!"
"Warchief, you are kind. I am only doing what you ordered me to do."
"Always modest? It doesn't befit a warrior of your calibre." Doomhammer looked around at the troops gathered - all looked at him with awe and respect. "And you orcs should be proud! Today we'll begin such a battle that it will break the bones of the Alliance!"
A cheer went up. Those had been the right words to say. "I have come to lead you, my brethren. To lead you to a new age, where the humans are exterminated and the continent united under the proud and glorious banner of the Orcish Horde!! Today, we begin the cleansing!" As the clamour grew to a maddened din, Doomhammer turned to Grimfrost with a light in his eyes. "Excellent! Now we are ready to fight, aren't we?"
They were. The battle to take Whitefort and deal the Alliance a deadly blow could begin.
And yet, in the midst of the cheer and the elation, a small side of him spoke up and asked: Look at this madness. What would your brother Durotan think of you now, Argal?
And although he didn't allow himself to show it, that question bothered him for a long time.
______________________________________________________________________
Early Winter 595, Avel Hills, Lordaeron
"General, our eastern force has been outflanked!"
"What?!?" Aerth looked towards the east, and indeed saw that a quarter of their forces were on the verge of being overrun. The eastern flank had been the weakest because they had had their backs to rocky outcroppings, which seemed impractical to scale. But it seemed that it had been precisely what the Horde commander had been hoping for - that he'd see this side as the lesser threat, and thus leave himself imposed to a full-scale flanking manoeuvre.
A clever, well-managed ploy. And he'd walked right into it.
He brushed sweat off his brow. The early winds of winter could be felt, and the first snow had fallen but two days earlier, but to the general of the First Alliance Army felt as if he was standing under the hot sun of summer in the middle of the Khaz Modan Lowlands. He'd once gone there with his father when he'd been but a child, and he had then wondered why his father had packed so much water.
"You'll see why soon enough, boy." what the wry answer he'd received, and indeed he had seen it quite well quite soon.
Now, it felt just like those days. Except his father was long dead, and he would be if he didn't do something about the situation.
The first thing he had to do was the hardest: he had to admit to himself that he'd been defeated. The Horde had poured out on him at the worst moment and in the worst possible ways, using good, coordinated tactics to unsettle his unprepared lines. He was only facing thirty thousand against his twenty thousand, but his strategic mind told him there was no hope. The eastern flank was being attacked by a mix of trolls and ogres, the trolls launching their throwing axes while the ogres smashed the lines with fists and feet. There were no knights on hand and only a few mages.
The western flank didn't fare much better. It had stronger units, but had been hit the hardest at the beginning of the battle, and as he watched he saw that many points on the defence line were ready to collapse. Mages attacked the horde with powerful spells, but there were few of them.
The centre was still holding firm, however. Many of the sorcerers and most of the Knights were there, and backed by doughty footmen they were keeping the Horde from undermining their position further. He knew he could order a retreat. He knew he should have ordered a retreat an hour ago. But he'd been so certain that his sense for developing good, sensible plans and counteract anything would work again. He saw, at last, that it had been nothing short of pure vanity. He was dooming his men out of misplaced pride.
This shook him out of his despair. He had lost, and lost soundly, but he could still make it out of this dastardly situation with the major part of his army. "Signal this to all commanders: send forward units into heavy defensive counter attacks, and withdraw what remains. We will pull out towards the southwest."
The aides next to him looked at each other, consternation and disbelief plain on their faces. He couldn't blame them, but the delay irritated him. "Well?" he snapped "Haven't you heard my orders?"
"But...my lord...if we pull out the rear units."
"We will save the rear units that way."
"But the forward units..."
"Will die?" he cast an irritated look "Is that what you want me to say? No, this isn't an oversight. It's deliberate. These men are going to die so that the army might live. Now I have given you orders and I intend for you to obey them this INSTANT! MOVE!!!"
The lead aide, a knight older then him by three years hesitated for moment, then nodded sombrely. "As you wish, milord." was the clipped, cold answer he received. At once the aides moved towards nearby commanders and messengers to relay the message to those farther away on the battlefield.
The orders were received. From the look he saw Kelnam Pedran make a gesture of rage, and saw that the Alterac soldier and he would probably be exchanging harsh words, deepening the rift between them. He cared not. If the fool couldn't see the logic of the situation, then he shouldn't be commander at all. He would have to reconsider the command structure once they returned to Lordaeron.
It took many minutes for the information to be relayed, and he sensed a moment of hesitating, a palpable moment of doubt in the air. And then the forward units crashed into the horde units, footmen and a few knights yelling and fighting, waiting for the rear units to reinforce them in short order. They wouldn't be able, by themselves, to hold position for more than half a day, and then they would all be slaughtered or worse. He knew that.
Still, he turned away from them mentally and physically and ordered the army to depart. Units soon began to move away, buffered from immediate Horde attacks by the sacrificed men who still fought, fiercely...and then desperately as some saw their comrades leaving them behind. He could only imagine the horror these soldiers must be feeling. No...he wouldn't even try. He couldn't. The army depended on him. He had to get as much as possible from this debacle.
"Send sorcerers with strong spells as well as out best archers to the back of our lines. They'll protect our rear as we leave. I want them to make certain the immediate threat is truly cleared." the lead aide nodded grimly and Swiftblade turned to another. "Have the man ready for a double-quick - as long as they can. We'll have to put as much distance between the enemy and our forces before the forward units collapse."
"Ah, too bad we don't have many elves here no more." one aide sighed. "It'd be a good sight easier."
Swiftblade had thought about that too. Most of the elves had gone to defend their homes when the Horde had invaded it, but with Silvermoon fallen and the Queen having fled to a secret high elf stronghold, some had returned with a vengeance. But not as much as before, at least not yet, something which forced the human forces to rely on human archers who, while dedicated, simply couldn't quite give an elven level of archery even at its very best.
The battle didn't end quickly. Separating the fourteen thousand, which could still be saved from the battle, took hours, with much fighting and minor clashes. He saw some forward men trying to follow the throng, but horde soldiers cut those down. There was no escape from them - mired in, hopelessly outnumbered and leaderless, they would fall quickly enough. But it did allow the bulk of the battered First Army to escape as fast as it could. Skirmishers warded off stray horde groups.
As the army moved away, Pedran came up to him on an armoured horse. "I hope you're proud of yourself." he hissed "Letting those boys there to get slaughtered like so much lambs."
"If I hadn't done this, we would have lost much more. We've been defeated, Kelnam! Why in the Blessed Light can't you acknowledge that?" he set his mouth in a thin line. "I had to save what could be saved."
"Aye, and frankly I think you did right." Said another voice. Bram Poorglade, another commander, had come up and was glaring at the grey-bearded Pedran. "I don't know what got your goat this time, Pedran, but you saw the situation too. I'm not saying I'm happy with what the general just did, but I can see his point."
Kelname only grumbled something noncommittal and fell back, leaving Swiftblade, his lead aide and Poorglade alone. The young commander didn't waste time on recriminations - a good thing; he wasn't in the mood for them. Instead he asked. "Are they goin' to follow us long?"
Swiftblade shook his head. We did manage to cripple some wagons. They'll have to wait for their supplies. We'll have a tight time tomorrow and maybe the day after that, but not much more."
"And then we go back to guard Whitefort."
Yes. Guard Whitefort. Returning in defeat. But had he really considered victory against such a massive force? He didn't know if he could say yes, and it frightened him.
However, all he said was. "We shall see what happens when we return." and hoped his voice held conviction.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Winter 595, Cestrova Plains, Alterac
The little group were trudging along in the early morning light, cloak firmly clasped around them to keep the chill wind out. There were seven of them - four men and three women, all wearing ordinary clothes and armed only with a sword and a bow, both of which of good quality, although not quite up to par with what the Alliance Army had. It was supposed to be that way. After all, they had a mission to fulfill.
Polla Mendrannon once again wondered why she'd gotten this dreary detail. It seemed that only yesterday she'd been teaching archery to some new recruits, to be called in front of not only General Swiftblade, but also four others including the High General himself. If the idea of standing at attention when faced with all these high-ups hadn't been enough, the explanations they had given had certainly blown her away.
Seemingly, the Alliance had received information that led many to suspect that the Kingdom of Alterac might have made a deal with the Horde, despite the treaty and the pact of trust all leaders had spoken. They had told her that they couldn't move against Alterac - not with Whitefort in serious jeopardy and the main Horde forces so close at hand. Nor, Lothar had explained, could the Alliance simply attack Alterac based on unverifiable assumptions and verbal proof.
"We do not wish to attack another human country, especially now when we need everyone." Lothar had said with a voice that managed strength and compassion at the same time it did ruthlessness. "But the Treaty of Alliance is the bond which allows us to stand yet. For a human nation to rescind it and turn traitor would be the greatest betrayal between nations since the early years of Arathor itself. It cannot and will not go unanswered."
"That is why," a younger, marble-faced man named Turalyon had said, "that we must know if there is truly treachery at work. That is where you come in."
"Captain," Swiftblade had said, looking grim and so much older than he'd looked only weeks before "We cannot make this an order. This has to be a voluntary mission, for you will be going into the unknown here, and also because we would not ask you to betray your homeland. If you do not wish to undertake this mission, please tell us at once, and it you will be excused."
He might have said more, but she didn't let him. Her path had been decided the moment suspicion had fallen on her homeland. She had accepted to lead a secret scouting mission into Alterac.
And so, with six of her most trusted Alterac-born archers, she was on her way to either redeem her country or condemn it as Humanity's Traitor.
"You know, we have to ask ourselves this here question." one of them, a lean man by the name of Hezav stated " And that's: do you think King Perenolde would ally itself with the Horde?"
There was a moment of thoughtful, uncomfortable silence, and then one of the women spoke up. "Well, you have to admit the King didn't send a lot of people and things to the front: a few thousand men, some weapons, some food. Its not enough."
"Oh, oh there!" one of the men replied at once "Lets not get too harsh about that. Remember that Alterac's the smallest of the nations - we don't have the resources the other have, and we don't have the manpower to sustain fielding and recruiting too much."
As good as the argument was, the woman easily ploughed over it. "Still, I know we could do more. Maybe you haven't learned some of the numbers but I have. I'll tell you, even a place like Gilneas has fielded forces larger than they reasonably should. We've done little of that. In fact, we've only conscripted lightly. It seems like we're hoarding our strength."
"Sound to me like you already believe that we're responsible for betraying the Alliance." the man challenged, a little too hotly, but understandably. At that, the woman simply bit her lips. Polla decided this discussion was going nowhere.
"There's one thing we can all be sure of," she interrupted before anything could escalate. "And that's that the Alliance High Command is itching to smash whichever country betrays it. Our job is to either make sure we prove their innocence and get them to call off the attack...or ensure they attack for a good reason."
"But..." the man attempted to persist, but at that moment Polla raised her hand, stiffening. The other stopped and listened intently. Polla hadn't earned her position as captain because of her skill with the bow - although she was definitely one of the best humans out there. Or because she was tactful - she hated elves and said it often. But she knew when orcs were near.
And right now, they were very near.
Training, instinct and a large amount of experience took over. She looked towards a hill just a small way off, then to a small ridge on the plains only thirty step from them. She pointed towards that. "On the other side of the ridge. NOW."
The others knew an order when they heard one. They also recognized urgency. Almost as one, they turned and sped towards the ridge, each nimbly stepping so that there would be no traces to follow if an enemy decided to look. Polla was behind them, looking over her shoulder. Not here yet. Any moment now. She sped to the others and threw herself flat on the cold soil, the other following her example a split second later.
She was the only one with a line of sight to the hill, and so she was the one who saw them. She wished she hadn't. Fifty orcs, all in full armaments, and moving leisurely at that. She felt a cold ball of dread in the bottom of her gut. Fifty orcs, moving along only a few dozen miles from a major human city, and not seemingly worried about it. They should have been cautious, even scared, always looking about.
As it was, they were so unconcerned that they all passed, speaking idly and singing strange songs, twenty feet at most from the seven humans, without one even looking in their direction. It was only when their heavy steps had faded that she dared to breathe again, sitting up. The others looked at her in concern. They might not have seen, but they had heard the sound and knew what they meant.
"Were those...?" Hezav asked.
"Yes." she said, hissing "Curse me for a green recruit! What were we doing on an open plain in the middle of enemy territory?"
"Well, this isn't supposed to BE enemy territory..." the man who had argued for Alterac said.
"Yes, it is!" she replied vehemently "Open your eyes and trust your ears! That was a full group of Horde soldiers, passing through without a care in the world! And even if we hadn't seen them, the fact that five generals took the time to tell me of this mission should have made me - all of us - more cautious!"
She fell silent. What she wouldn't openly admit is that she had been certain the generals had been wrong, that there had been a reason for Alterac's lack of interest in Alliance affairs, She had though the rumours and sights they had been told of to be flat-out lies, and had set out to prove it. With that she'd just seen, however, she couldn't be certain of that.
What if Alterac had truly betrayed they Alliance? Would she stand with the soldiers she had sworn to fight with or with the country of her birth? The answer wasn't forthcoming, and she was grateful for that. She didn't want to consider it yet.
"We'll go by the trails until we reach the Norruvor Road. Its rather heavily forested, so we can hide if anyone we'd better not be meeting approaches us. We should be able to make it to the capital easily enough after that." And getting there would be the easy part of the work ahead, she reminded herself with a mental sigh.
"I can't believe it." the man said stubbornly. "It has to be a mistake. There has to be an explanation! The king wouldn't turn his back on humans, would he?"
She only shook her head as the others looked on awkwardly. "I hope there's an explanation. If there isn't..."
"Yes?"
It was harder for her to say it than she thought, but she said it anyway. "If that's the case, then the Alliance might well vote to destroy the Kingdom of Alterac for High Treason and the breaking of the Treaty of Alliance."
Shocked silence and the cold winter wind were the only replies she received.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 595, Ninth Army Camp, Stromgarde
Khadgar was too proud to admit it, but he wanted nothing more but to stop writing and get a few hours' sleep. He felt too tired to think, much less write a letter. But information had to be given to Lord Daretyl in Hillsbrad. The old archmage was occupied in training new apprentices to fight in the war, while at the same time trying to mesh things with the other's nations' magicians, especially the Elves and the Dalarans.
So, with an effort brought on by years of discipline, he forgot his tired eyes and body and continued to write.
'...and as of now, the nine armies remaining are securing the Land Bridges, aided by squadrons of ships from the fleet. I must say the battles have taken their toll, however. Many soldiers died on the battlefield, nearly a third of the entire force, and defeat seemed possible at many moments. Even now, the wounded outnumber the living here. The Horde took its share of blood before letting go of the land they held. Now that they're pushed back to the other side, however, holding them back is now possible.
Concerning the last, more sensitive matter of renegade mages, I must report I've found nothing of the sort amongst the southern forces thus far. That I have found nothing, however, evidently does not mean that there is nothing to be found. I will continue to be vigilant. I am appalled that some of our own might be disloyal to the Alliance, but having seen worse, I am also beyond being surprised by such events.'
He stopped writing there, memories resurfacing at the words he'd written, a scowl taking hold of his face, of his whole body language. Worse...yes, he'd seen worse in a wizard before. Medhiv, his master. So powerful that he made powerful people like Daretyl or Antonidas of Dalaran seem like amateurs. He had gone to him a nervous if talented young man, and the older mage had taken him in at once. He remembered those days - learning, practicing, and researching. He owed Medhiv much.
But it hadn't been like that in the end. Betrayal, madness and then more betrayal, all of this had taken place, until outrage took him over and he joined an Azerothian raiding part led by Lord Lothar himself in the hopes of killing his master and former friend. He had actually liked it then, so deep had his hatred been.
Yes, he'd seen more than just some renegade sorcerers. It didn't mean, however, that he would be taking them for granted. Especially not here, with the Horde so uncomfortably close and knowing what pandemonium those crazed individuals could create.
Sighing, he ended his letter.
'New information will be forthcoming as I end my tour of the Southern Army. I will say to conclude that I find the new mage elements to be slightly reckless but capable.
Sincerely,
Khadgar
The archmage signed it with his usual flowing sigil, and sealed it with enchanted wax. As he did, thinking of bed more than anything else, he saw a paper he recognized, and groaned. Now why had he looked there?!? He blinked in the vain hopes it was a mirage, but there it was: a letter from the Karal Tor to General Minvare, who had taken charge of the southern forces following lack of managerial skills on the part of his predecessor. He sighed - duty was duty, and he had to give it to the man right now. Painfully, he got up, stretched, took his cloak and the message and walked out of his tent.
The cold of the night seized him at once. The warming spell he cast upon his tent kept things tolerable where he lived, but here the bare elements reigned. He accelerated his pace towards the general's tent, which fortunately wasn't far at all. He was unconcerned about waking the man - Minvare was always up very late, so late that it was a wonder he always seemed alert underneath the calm aloofness he always gave as a cunning facade.
He came upon the tent, larger and more intricate than most others as was the privilege of the man's high rank - and stopped cold. Always two guards kept watch of the general's tent - two large, heavily armoured footmen chosen for their skill and loyalty. When he saw them not guarding, but rather slumped on the ground, his every senses came alert. Quickly he sent out a magical feeler to probed the area, and it quickly gave him his answer: sleep spells had been cast on the guards, and a spell of silence was in effect around the general's tent.
The cold was immediately cast to the back of Khadgar's mind as he rushed towards the opening, catapulting inside, ripping the entrance cloth in the savage movement. He saw the situation in a split second - the general was on the ground, clutching his arm, with a figure perched over him, draped in a cloak, dagger in hand.
Years of training and warfare had made the archmage a very quick caster. Even as the assassin looked at him, words of magic tumbled out of his mouth, and a bolt of energy slammed into the killer. It hit a shield, which wasn't surprising given what he'd seen here and outside. A mage, it seemed. A renegade, most certainly.
"An assassination? It will not happen." he said.
"So you say. But it has already succeeded." a female voice hissed. "Now it is your turn, sorcerer!"
At once a magical force struck him, smothering and strangling him, he choked. Panic wanted to mount, but he refused to let it. Summoning his strength, he cast a counter-spell, and the weight eased. He didn't take an instant to sigh in relief. The sorceress had surprised him once; he didn't intend to let her do so again.
He struck again, striking out with a gust of wind, weakening his enemy's shield, and protected himself with his own when a bolt of lightning struck out. Minvare was still clutching his arm, and he was too pale to be healthy. He had to end this now. Summoning his strength, Khadgar drew upon the spells only he and his former master Medhiv knew, spells of magic crafted by the Order of Tirisfal, spells he shouldn't know. He shouted five words of command.
"Naratha! Li-Sepaku! Vindellen-Vaguar! Ircisis! Dorasthoga!" he bellowed, and his hands erupted in white light, tendrils of power he directed at his adversary. Her shield was rended as if paper, and she writhed as power drawn of life itself struck her flesh. She screamed in agony-
-and then wasn't there anymore. Teleportation. Powerful woman, to have found the strength. He pushed her out of his mind even as he bent to examine Minvare. The man was wearing only his breeches, obviously he had intended to go to sleep soon, and he was clutching a wound. Gently, Khadgar pried the fingers away and looked, and bit his lips slightly. The wound was black, with veins, deep blue tendrils striking away from the flesh. A cursed blade.
Minvare, still obviously clear-minded, grunted "I...this is...dark sorcery."
"It is." Khadgar assented "But I think we can yet save you."
"This woman...she said she was killing me in the name of...of the Compact. Something rotten is going on...if humans would want to kill...those who are fighting to keep them safe."
The general had said one of the truest statements ever, and although he knew the magically-induced fever was partially to blame for it, he nodded gravely. "Yes, something is afoot. But now is not the time to plumb these events."
A few moments, and his counter spells had broken the spell of silence. He bellowed around him, calling on the highest and most able clerics to the general's tent, and within seconds had the whole camp astir. He repeated his instructions to the first footmen to come investigate and sent them running to fetch the priests, and returned to give what help he could to the general.
As he entered, he spied a device he had never seen before in the general's tent - a medallion, seemingly knocked off the hooded sorceress. It was in gold, and depicted a circle with five suns inside of it. He wondered. Clues had come to him that there were some dissidents, and he had warned the Alliance's best generals once before. But this. This might mean that it was more than a few dissidents. There could be an entire organization watching from the shadows, waiting to strike.
An organization that either wanted to control the Alliance or to destroy it. He would have to intensify his inquiries.
Looking at the strange medallion, Khadgar returned to the wounded general, upset over events, event he'd seen once, where elements of the human race had conspired to doom it.
He would not allow it to happen again. Ever. As long as he lived.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 595, Avel Hills, Lordaeron
The Altar had been built to his precise specifications. A large slab of rock, hewn through difficult and magical means, had been taken from the Elven Runestone and magically crafted with the most powerful runes of power Gul'Dan had ever learned from Ner'Zhul, Kil'Jaeden and whatever Medhiv had let slip from time to time. He had transformed the powerful piece of magical rock into a great altar, with five runic columns crafted by the five death knights who stood with him. It was a hub of dark magic, and he revelled in it.
"Yes," he murmured feverishly "Yes! The feel is exactly as it should be, the flow is perfect! The ceremony will be able to start shortly."
As he spoke, he turned not to his death knights but to the larger presence next to him. Cho'Gall fixed upon the altar three eyes, which gleamed with both fear and excitement. It was quite normal, given the circumstances. For if events worked as they should, the Ogre he had handpicked would be transformed. The Alliance would find itself faced with a greater enemy than ever before.
And, most importantly, he would be close to finally strike back at that damn Doomhammer!
"Are you certain this is gonna work?" Cho'Gall's left head complained. "We're using lots of Elf magicks here. If they can't mingle..."
"They will." he quickly reassured the Ogre "In the end, magic is energy. All I need is a very large amount of energy. The Runestone slab can easily provide. The summoning itself will be done exclusively by myself and my death knights."
"And if this works, then my people will truly become more powerful." the right head exclaimed in a longing tone." Gul'Dan couldn't help but grin at seeing the fearsome Ogre-Mage, the first and until today the only one of his kind, excited like a little orcling.
"Indeed, my friend. That is our goal. Or rather, this is this step's goal." How many other steps? Too many for his taste. But he had waited long - he could wait until all was ready. One of the death knights lumbered to him noisily, carrying with it the stench of death and decay. Although they had been revived inside a slain Knight of Azeroth, the body the restless spirit had none of the vigour or speed it had in life. Only raw power made the Death Knight - raw magical powers of necromancy. Cunning and cruel, they were the best tools he'd had, even better than the orcs they had been when they had been members of his Shadow Council.
He'd heard that the Alliance had created a sort of parade to his Death Knights, however. It appeared from his spies and sources that this Order of the Knights of the Silver Hand had been formed by the young apprentice to the elderly bishop who'd led the measly human priests in the first war of conquest here. Here, however, Knights had been taken, knights who had magical potential, and each had been taught all the priestly spells they could learn. This order both amused and intrigued him - he would be certain to send some of his death knights to test these so-called Paladins.
"Master," a deep, spectral voice intoned as the dead thing stopped mere feet from him "The energy flows are prepared, as are we. We but await your order."
Cho'Gall wrinkled his nose at the foulness they both smelled, but Gul'Dan refused to show even discomfort. Undead they might be, the death knights were former Shadow Council members, and that made them dangerous to him if they ever saw a chink in his armour.
It was this with an unflappable calm that he announced. "Very well. Bring the Ogres. We will begin the magical awakening immediately."
He waited as thirty Ogres, chosen for their unusual intellect amongst their kind - drawn mostly from the Twilight's Hammer and Stormreaver Clans as well - came, looking frightened but trying not to show it. He gestured for them to go on the altar, and they all looked towards Cho'Gall. Unsurprising. Amongst the Horde, he was feared. Amongst the Ogres, he was an icon of perfection, a paragon. He had but to say no, and the entire ceremony would never take place, and Gul'Dan knew there would be nothing he'd be able to do to stop that.
Cho'Gall waved to them. "Go, brothers. Go on the Altar. It will change you, make you lots stronger."
At the word 'stronger' the entire group seemed to perk up, and they climbed the stone steps to the altar without much qualms. He ordered them to gather near the columns - six for each - and they did so. He smiled. Everything was meshed; everything in his grand design was coming together exactly as he wanted.
Cho'Gall coughed. "I hope it will work. So much is at stake here."
Indeed. "It will work. At any rate, it is too late to turn back." he answered, and took his position around the Runestone slab with the death knights, and concentrated. He lifted his hands and put them toward the ogres. In his mind came the will, in his soul the power, in his arms the strength. With a sure voice, he began to chant a string of words, which had been used only once, centuries before, by human sorcerers.
"Haalgrya Beryaa Ome Kodahee Jillake. Haalgrya Ceryaa Okren Kodahallee Jillake. Haalgrya Viryaa Homren Kosakee Jillake." As he began the three sentences of power again, one of the death knights also chanted with him. And then another, and another. All poured their will and their power, willing the power of the Runestone into the assembled Ogres.
It was working. He could feel the power shifting. He concentrated all of his being. He couldn't fail. This had to work!
His energies mingled with those of the Runestone, and he was buffeted with a pure force stored inside for millennia, slowly growing as it absorbed the ambient magic permeating the world. He had felt something so powerful only once, long ago, when Medhiv had made himself known to him. Was this the power of the ancient? A legacy from those who still knew the secrets of the Titans?
Whatever it was, he refused to let it consume him. He directed his strength, linked it with the others as they continued the chant, and forced the eleven powers into the ogres.
The effect was almost immediate.
All thirty of the huge beasts groaned, some clutching their heads, some trembling from heads to foot. The groans intensified into growls and then screams, but he didn't let it faze him. He continued to maintain the power, as long as he could. He had to make it permanent, to attune them to magic in one swift blow! Near him, one of the death knights stopped casting, spent. The energy weakened. Still he held on.
Energy was energy that was true. But in creating the Death Knights, he had used the powers he was accustomed with. The elves, however, drew energy from somewhere much different, or at least they had for the making of the Runestone. He almost cringed as two more death knights stopped. He had to keep on a little longer....just a little longer...
It was when the last death knights stopped that he knew he should. The energy no longer wished to respond, and as he tried to hold on to it, it lashed at him. With a gasping scream, he let go of it all, cutting off all of his ties to the magic essences, and slumped, spent. He didn't allow himself the luxury of falling on his knees, but wobbled there until his senses returned. He looked at the Ogres.
Their strength wasn't as great as he would have wished, but he could feel magical power in them. They looked at each other with marvelling faces, and he knew that he had succeeded in implanting the basic knowledge he wanted them to have. They were untrained Ogre-Magi, but Ogre-Magi they were.
Cho'Gall was beside him an instant later, steadying him, his faces beaming. "You did it!" said the left head nearly in disbelief. "I can sense them! They know magic!" the right crowed.
He grinned, feeling more tired than he had ever felt for a long time. Inwardly, however, he was triumphant. Doomhammer thought he toiled to create all these magical warriors for the good of the Horde. He was partly right. Only it would be used in Gul'Dan's Horde!
"Yes, my friend," he said gravely "You are no longer alone. And we are near our goal at last."
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 595, The Ziggurat, Quel'Thalas
Fenna Pureglade was by no means one to let her emotions take control of her senses. Decades of royal training and tutors, tempered and enlarged by centuries of rule, had made certain she could control herself in all instances. But at this time she felt anything but in control, looking down upon her beloved husband's comatose form.
"Vallin..." she whispered to herself, gently touching the elf lord cheek. The tip of the arrow that Alleria had shot had been poisoned; the high priest had said, by Caradal Lichen Juice, one of the rarest poisons, which could only be found by people who intimately knew the forests. Like a ranger knew the forest. She didn't know if it proved the Head Ranger as the main culprit in this tragic and traitorous affair, but one thing remained certain in the queen's eyes: Alleria had shot the arrow which had nearly killed her mate, and that alone would bring dire punishment.
She sat up as her husband stirred ever so slightly. He had done this increasingly for the past two weeks, signs that the repeated cleansing and curative spells were truly beginning to vanquish the debilitating poison. She wished for him to awaken. Five weeks that he was in this state, and yet it seemed like five centuries. She refused to entertain the idea he might waste away in the end, beyond the reach of any spell. She refused to accept the tiny possibility that Vallin would die. Although they had both lived over seven centuries, there should be centuries more them to live together. They would see them. She had so much left to tell him.
A knock on the private resting chamber sounded, firm but polite. Composing herself in an instant, she calmly asked "Enter."
The door opened to admit Illadan Eltrass, and some of the pain the Queen felt lessened a little. The stalwart lord and ranger had been Vallin's long-time friend, and she had soon come to respect and yearn for the quiet wisdom the elf could sometimes muster. Here was one, she thought, who would never betray Quel'Thalas - unlike some others.
She gave the approaching ranger a slight nod and a genuine - if saddened - smile. "Lord Illadan. It is good to see you well. Are the leaves green?"
"They shall certainly be greener when the king finally awakens." the lord sighed, and Fenna noted he didn't answer the question. "How is he?"
"Resting. The servants are force-feeding him, and keeping him clean. As long as we keep the Horde at bay, he will be able to have the rest he deserves."
"He should have it, then. The Ziggurat will not be found. Our ancestors saw to that." he answered readily.
She knew he spoke the truth. Whereas Silvermoon had been designed and built to withstand strong sieges, it had mainly been constructed to serve as a bastion of learning and culture. The Ziggurat, constructed a millennia later, had been designed to be a true fortress, the largest in the entire realm. Hidden so well even the Trolls were not certain of its locations, it boasted defences which equally if not surpassed those of the capital. Here, ay least, the people of Silvermoon had found safety.
But she knew the great elven lord wouldn't have disturbed her only to inquire about the king's health or to talk about the Ziggurat's strength. "Come now, Lord Illadan. I am pleased to see you, but I would think you have something on your mind. I can guess what it could be." she was in fact certain of what it could be, but she would let him speak his part first.
He didn't take long to make his opinion known. "I think that the way Head Ranger Alleria is being treated."
"You are the Head Ranger, Illadan Eltrass. Alleria has been relieved of duty by my orders, as is my right."
"Truth, Highness, and I beg your pardon for my impertinence. But I still believe that putting her in a Treason Cell was...how can I put it..."
"Overkill?" she tried, using a word humans seemed to favour.
"Yes. I do not think - and this is not only my humble opinion - she has deserved this treatment. I do not believe her guilty of this crime." he told her firmly.
He was and had always been a convincing orator. Feeling the usual rush of anger and bitterness she felt each time Alleria was being discussed, she had to admit a Treason Cell was a tall sentence for someone who had not been judged by the scriptums of ancient elven laws of justice. Although Alleria herself had not protested, the idea of Quel'Thalas' first ranger nearly entombed with no way to speak of indeed move, would be enough to fray some nerves. She understood all that.
But mostly, she knew it had been Alleria's arrow, which had nearly taken Vallin from her. "I realize it might not suit you, and I sympathize with your beliefs." she said more coldly than she intended to be He stiffened, but she continued unheeding him. "But Alleria shot the King of Quel'Thalas - an unthinkable act that no elf can ever condone. She will be given her trial, I assure you. But until then, she will remain where she is and I will never hear of this again. Am I understood, my good Lord Illadan?"
His face was a study of neutrality - which in itself told her he didn't like her orders one bit. But she knew that he was too loyal to ever consider disobey her orders or her wishes. It was thus with an ill-concealed sigh of frustration that he firmly announced "It will be as Your Majesty wishes."
"Excellent." she didn't wave a dismissive hand - he was, after all, a friend. She softened her voice. "Please, now, leave me. I wish to stay with the King a while longer before resuming my duties."
The way Illadan gave sharp salute and strode off, while polite and respectful, told her she would hear more complaints in the near future. The difference of opinion was doing more harm to the easy friendship she had with the elf lord than any other event, which had ever happened in all the centuries before. It made her worry. "I certainly hope you will be able to see that I have to observe the forms, and that I'm not doing this solely out of anger." she said.
Anger, of course, had a part to play with it. But true or not, her semi-apology was wasted - he was long gone.
"Breaking friendships...how saddening." she told herself.
"Nnot...brokenn...y-yet." A voice answered weakly, thickly. It was a voice she knew as well as her own. She turned, silk rustling around her, and gazed at the bed. There, Vallin lay, still prone as if in sleep. But his eyes were open. In an instant she was at his side, and it was only the knowledge that he was still very weak that kept her from hugging him bodily. Her heart pounded in newfound hope and joy.
"Vallin...its good to see you..." she said, aware that she was by this making the understatement of the year. "I...I...you were out for many weeks, saralai."
The eyes, still pale and sickly, seemed to grow incresingly in focus. "H-how...l-l-long?" he asked.
"Almost five weeks to this day."
He jerked as if to sit up. "Five weeks!" he said in a relatively clear voice, only to fall back down with a gasp. His weakened body would take time to recover. She was just filled with happiness that it would. "T-that's long...much time lost...what happened...t-t-the ccity?"
Her eyes were shadowed at the mention of Silvermoon. "We could not hold anymore. We had to abandon it. We lost some people...but...less than we would have had the Ziggurat and the secret ways to it had not existed. As it is, we are crippled, but not dead."
He seemed to sag in relief. "And did they find...the one w-who shot me?" he asked at length.
There were many ways to answer that question, some better than others. Her rational mind told her to minimize Alleria's role in the ghastly affair until she was properly judged. But after all that had happened - Villages destroyed, Vallin wounded, Silvermoon abandoned - she didn't have the strength to say anything, which wouldn't be angry or unfair.
"Yes, we have." she said "And she will be judged like the traitor to our people she has revealed herself to being."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Winter 595, Near Whitefort, Lordaeron
Rarely had Argal Grimfrost, Warlord of the Horde's most powerful army, had felt so elated. Not far off, in the distance, was the city of Whitefort, the Capital of Lordaeron. He could see through his Longview that it was ancient. Not nearly as ancient as Silvermoon had felt, but he had learned that Humans had emerged as a civilization long after the elven city was built after all. Still, it was very old, dwarfing every city in Azeroth, even Stormwind itself.
Stormwind...yes, that had been the second time, the time he had felt the most excited until now. To see the human capital's mighty walls, to see them weather an unending onslaught until they fell. To scale the ruined walls and fight the humans, and ultimately stand upon the ruins, victorious. That was what warriors like Grimfrost lived for. To seek an opponent of strength, a challenge to be brought down, and revel in the glorious victory it gave! Only now, he would be one of those leading the offensive. Somehow, it made him feel even better.
Elements from the Horde forces had taken positions all around the large city, dashing any hope of escape the cowardly humans might have had. His orders were firm: no one was to pass, whether man, woman or child. If possible, the children were to be spared, but could not be allowed to leave the area. It was the most he could do - he didn't put it past the humans to try and pass information to their other forces through children. It was something he would have done.
He hadn't forgotten the gnomish contraptions that could fly in the air, either. Catapults and lancers had firm orders to shoot down any which came in or out. This would keep the other human forces guessing as to the situation in the capital, and by the time they did something, it would be too late.
He knew the capital had great stores and a large army defending it. Larger than Stormwind had shown. It would be hard fighting, and he was looking forward to it. All around him, he saw groups of orcs rubbing shoulders with Ogres and Trolls, all races and all clans ready for the battle to begin.
All was ready.
All he had to do was wait. Wait for the Warchief.
He had received word from Orgrim Doomhammer himself. It had warmly congratulated Argal for excellent work, and had told him he would be present soon - to see the Alliance's head being cut off. He didn't know what it meant. Even with a riding wolf or a horse, it would take weeks to travel all the way from Blackrock Spire to Lordaeron, not the mere days the message had seemed to say.
"Lord," a raid leader told him. "Our forces are gathered and ready to strike at your convenience." He spied the same eagerness in the other orcs indeed in the entire mass gathered around him. Still, he knew he was not to give the order to advance.
"We shall wait for the Warchief."
"Lord, the Warchief won't be here for weeks! We can't ask the troops to wait-"
"They will wait!" he growled, the hungry rage he always kept in check surfacing for one moment. "They will wait as long as I tell them to! I am the Warlord! Are you challenging my command?!?"
The raid leader knew when he had stepped into dangerous waters. He stiffened, but clapped his chest in a respectful fashion. "No, Lord, never! I was just telling you that the Warchief isn't here, and that our troops will begin to grow impatient. They might attack before the order is given. And if that happens..." he trailed off at a growl from Argal, but his firm expression didn't relent.
He had a point; the Warlord knew it quite well. The orcs had never been a patient people, and the rage they had acquired, the bloodlust that came with the pact Ner'Zhul made decades before, made them even worse. They were holding back only through the fearful respect they had for him and the other leaders. But faced with such a challenge, such a prospect for bloodshed, their glee might soon overwrite their judgement. And the last thing he needed was an uncoordinated attack upon Whitefort. Cho'Gall and Kilrogg Deadeye had, after all, done so with Stormwind once, to disastrous results.
"Indeed, it could become quite uncomfortable." he admitted, "But Doomhammer himself had told me he would be here today."
"Hail to the Warchief! But it doesn't stop the fact that our orcs are getting restless. Something should be done, Lord."
"Indeed, you are right." As if that proved to be a solution. What was he supposed to do, by all the spirits and the ancestors? His half-buried knowledge of his bloodline came out for a moment, and he found himself calling to their wisdom. But there wasn't one person who could help him here. Or rather, there was one, but Argal Grimfrost would rather go live in the Great Dark Beyond then ask him for counsel.
It took an unnatural shriek to stir him from his frustrated and quizzical thoughts. He heard many mutter amongst themselves, and saw that the troops were pointing to the sky, many exclaiming in fear or wonder. He looked himself - and it took all of his years of battle not to take a step backward.
A dragon. A dragon was coming into view, growing larger and larger, until he could see the reptilian mastodons easily. It was covered with red scales, with long, leathery wings flapping the wind with the force of a hurricane. It was large, larger than two catapults at least. And on its back rode Orgrim Doomhammer, decked in his black armour and holding the enormous after which he had come to be named.
Dragons. He had heard rumours that the reclusive creatures - some of them at least - had joined the Horde, or had been forced to join. He had dismissed these rumours as nothing but that. But now it seemed there was truth to them. He didn't know if he liked it. He should, but he wondered about the rumour in which the dragons were forced to pledge loyalty because of their queen's capture by the Dragonmaw Clan. If that was the case, he hoped the queen never escaped, or the Horde would have worse than the flailing Alliance to take care of.
Still, he was glad his leader had arrived. The battle could be launched before the troops lost their control. More than anything else, it explained the hearty way in which he welcomed Doomhammer. "Warchief! I am glad to see you arrived safely, even though your transportation was...surprising."
Doomhammer laughed. "He is but the first of many who will pledge themselves to the Horde, My friend." the dragon spread its wings, and took off again. "He is going back to spread the word of the pact I have made. Soon many others will join our cause. But enough of that! You have done very well, Argal my friend! I had no doubt that you would, however! I trained you and you learned faster than any other I ever trained in the ways of warcraft!"
"Warchief, you are kind. I am only doing what you ordered me to do."
"Always modest? It doesn't befit a warrior of your calibre." Doomhammer looked around at the troops gathered - all looked at him with awe and respect. "And you orcs should be proud! Today we'll begin such a battle that it will break the bones of the Alliance!"
A cheer went up. Those had been the right words to say. "I have come to lead you, my brethren. To lead you to a new age, where the humans are exterminated and the continent united under the proud and glorious banner of the Orcish Horde!! Today, we begin the cleansing!" As the clamour grew to a maddened din, Doomhammer turned to Grimfrost with a light in his eyes. "Excellent! Now we are ready to fight, aren't we?"
They were. The battle to take Whitefort and deal the Alliance a deadly blow could begin.
And yet, in the midst of the cheer and the elation, a small side of him spoke up and asked: Look at this madness. What would your brother Durotan think of you now, Argal?
And although he didn't allow himself to show it, that question bothered him for a long time.
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