Chapter Eighteen: Dream and Conceit
Late Winter 595, The Scarven Mountains, Stromgarde
There were times when even Gelmar Thornfeet wanted to curse at the spirits. No matter the wonders the old human had shown him, no matter the fact that the bloodlust had seemingly leeched away from his soul. He knew that following the spirits were his mission in life now, that he would - if he were spared - recreate something his people had lost. He knew all that and didn't doubt it.
But he swore that if he had to follow the spirits into a mountain range again, he'd let it all go to the Beyond. Enough was enough, after all!
"And all of this for a vision." he muttered "By all the Spirits, if someone had told me I'd be doing this a few years ago..."
"Master?" a voice asked in a tired but respectful voice. An older voice than he. "Is something the matter?"
He turned from the wind slapping at his face, and looked at six orcs of varying ages, all wearing many layers of clothes and much equipment. Yes, something was wrong, he decided as he looked at the older orc who had asked him the question. Something was the matter when someone who had lived nearly twice his time called him 'master'. Something was wrong when former orc warriors decided to follow the teachings of a former necrolyte. And something was definitely wrong in the world when someone decided to go look through rocky terrain for something, which may or may not have been a figment of his imagination!
But he didn't say that, of course. He merely sighed and shook his head. "No, my friend. I was merely trying to commune with the Spirits." It was a flat-out lie, and he felt guilty about it. It was made even worse when they each nodded as if he'd said something immensely wise and cunning.
"I understand, Master." the older orc said loyally. "The spirits are strong in you. The powers they grant you are much greater than our own."
That, if nothing else, was true. Although Gelmar knew that his power didn't come nowhere near those of his own human mentor, he knew he had a fair grasp of them, while the six apprentices - would he ever get used to that word? - had barely started to fumble through basic communion. It would take a long time, but he knew each had the spark. The Spirits had, after all, guided him to them. As they guided him now, towards a possible haven.
"Let us continue." he said after stifling a tired sigh. He worked to appear confident. "Our goal should now be close by." He hoped that was true. He continued to patter up the path. His dream had been more pleasant - at least there wasn't this nasty wind. Up this rocky slope, two days into the mountains, down a path never travelled.
And then...
He stopped as he saw the path before him.
In front and all around him was a rocky dead-end. Sheer cliffs rose, smooth and menacing, on every side. Rocks from an ancient rockslide covered the walls and parts of the cliffs. The rubble, he had seen. The cliffs, he had seen. All in his dream. He couldn't help but smile at what he saw. A dead-end...to those who didn't listen to what the Spirits told them.
"We have arrived." he said confidently. The others looked surprised and slightly sceptical. He couldn't blame them, and knew what they would say before they talked. After all, he would have said the same.
"But, master, this is a dead-end!"
"Surely this isn't what the Spirits want of us!!"
He held his hands up and they fell silent. He revised his opinion of leadership: it certainly had its advantages. "My friends. Calm yourselves. The Spirits know nature better than we. They know that what we see...isn't always what is..." he closed his eyes, and began to draw on the power he felt around him.
Ethereal whispers surged in his head, power flowed through his arms, power which was his own and yet not. He felt his right hand lift, and the power increased. Calling upon his years training under the old human, he thought of the rocks being feathers, and his power a sweeping hand. He slowly waved his arm from right to left, barely heard the rumbles and the surprised mutterings from his pupils. Panting, he opened his eyes.
The rubble had been cleared away, showing an opening large enough for two orcs. Its darkness seemed foreboding...and yet so inviting.
"By the be..." the young orc checked himself before saying 'Beyond', and instead plunged ahead "A cave?"
"Perhaps, but I doubt it." Gelmar said. "Come now! I am impatient to see what lies beyond. Aren't you?"
They seemingly were, since they followed his quick pace stride for stride. They passed the entrance and lit torches - and immediately spotted a corpse, sprawled, dressed in tatters. It was crushed in many places, and looked as though it had been there long. None of the orcs recoiled, especially not Gelmar who had once used skeletons to do his bidding.
The oldest of the orcs kneeled by the skeleton and muttered to himself. "Those are too slight to be human bones. Too slender. And the head doesn't seem quite right. Whoever that is died quite a while ago, however."
Gelmar felt a spectral power grip him swiftly, and information flowed into his mind. He suddenly looked at the tattered corpse in increased sadness. "A long time ago indeed. Thirty-five centuries ago, before the humans arose to prominence, when this land belonged to the Elves. He never had the chance to talk of his discovery, to tell his brethren what he'd found. I see now that it might be his spirit who gave me the guiding dream."
He had their undivided attention now. "What did this elf find?" one asked.
"We will soon see for ourselves. Leave the bones there for now. We shall bury them for the boon their owner's spirit gave us - once we have seen it for ourselves."
He gave the corpse one last look, then turned. The cave, it seemed, continued. It was a tunnel, as he'd surmised. They shuffled along it for a good hour at least, and Gelmar was wondering if they would have to stop to rest, when he saw a faint light on the other side. They pressed on, faster, until finally they emerged on the other side and gazed out at what a dead elven spirit had wanted them to see.
"W-w-won't you look at all that? That's a whole valley!"
Indeed it was. Before their amazed gaze the rocky terrain sloped into forests, crisscrossed by rivers beginning in great falls of water coming down the peaks. Gelmar could see the other side of it, yet judged the width of the valley at least three leagues. It was immense. Hidden from all eyes for millennia. He saw a deer peer at them in surprise, then run back towards the leafless woods of maples and oaks and pines.
"Meat, herbs, wood, water, rocks..." Gelmar breathed, and then a new vision seized him. He saw the forest, but it seemed to fade away to other images. Wood and stone structures lay amongst the valley. He saw orcs entering the buildings with scrolls, other sitting by a fire talking, other, eyes closed, in communion. An air of peace, or learning and purpose, saturated the vision. He fairly stumbled back, and would have fallen if the others hadn't rushed to catch him.
"Master! Are you alright?"
Suddenly he laughed. A pure, joyous laugh, which left them all staring at him as if he had gone mad. Perhaps he had, but he felt the visions he'd seen worth some imbalance. "I am fine!" he laughed again "Better than fine! May the Spirits be praised! This will be the place! Here it will begin anew." his voice took strength, and they all looked at him in wonder "We will build structures here, structures dedicated to learning and to wisdom. A place where we will be free from the blood and suffering of war."
He looked down at the valley. Frozen in winter, it seemed to sparkle with life to his eyes. "This, my friends, is where we shall work to revive the order of ancient shamanism and give hope to our people whatever comes their way."
And with that, Gelmar Thornfeet, first true Orc Shaman in decades, closed his eyes and sent a prayer of thanks to the wind of souls.
He would never doubt the Spirits again.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron
The skies were shuddering with the screams of the dying, the raging howls of the living, and the multiple booms of catapults and ballista hitting their targets. The ground shook under thousands of feet; it flooded red under gallons of blood, until it seemed tainted by it. Every corner was afire with conflict, with an enmity, which went beyond hatred, with a goal, which went beyond survival.
The Horde was pressing its attack upon the ancient, the first human city of Whitefort. Hundreds of catapults screamed and twanged, thousands of spears were hauled upward, thrown by orcs and trolls, while ogres threw whole boulders at their foes. Death knights, hundreds of them, were casting spell after spell of pestilence and death, tornadoes of shrieking malevolence threatened, while bolts of evil energy and steam of decay rolled off.
Amongst all that firepower, orcs dug and sapped at the walls, while each minutes hundreds of ladders attempted to go up, many succeeding. The Horde had come. But not in bloodlust. It had come organized and filled with a desire to see Whitefort fall. They wished to deal a deadly blow to the Alliance of Lordaeron.
Whitefort and its defenders, however, had so far managed to hold off the onslaught. While hundreds of catapults pounded the walls, human ballista responded. A steady stream of arrows answered the spears and axes, shot by both human and elven hands. Human sorcerers from many countries, including great Conjurers and Mages of both Azeroth and Dalaran, repelled and replied to most of the death knights tricks, sending down lightning bolts and fire bolts and negating many deadly spells. Paladins and clerics moved amongst the soldiers, bringing in what little comfort they could, a providing what healing they had left in them.
Human footmen and even more militia stood with bow, sword and shield, peppered here and there by groups of doughty knights. Many pushed back the scaling ladders, while orders fought the orcs who managed to climb up. Many hotspots, all contained thus far, had appeared, while some people tumbled down or were blasted off the walls, to be replaced by others almost at once.
Whitefort was holding, come what may. It was holding.
For now.
Anduin Lothar, High General and military commander over all Alliance forces, knew that it could not hold forever. He knew it as each day he saw a little less men standing, a little more wounded, a little deader. He saw it in the increasing damage to the walls, guard towers, and to the city's outer buildings. He had seen the signs, too many times to come. This was the way his homeland was destroyed. The exact same way.
It would not be the same here. Somehow. Somehow! He refused to believe the Alliance would be broken here! There had to be some way to save what could be saved. Only he didn't see it yet. Not with Gul'Dan down there. Not with Grimfrost down there.
Not, he now knew, with Doomhammer himself down there.
He was walking towards some stone stairs, to go up into the battlements once more, when a footman carrying one bleeding in the face. He found himself pushed aside rather roughly, and had to brace himself. "Move, old man! This man needs a healer now!"
The disrespectful footman found himself facing two large, heavily armoured knights almost at once. "How dare you show disrespect to the High General!!"
The man seemed to snap out of his haze, while the other man, bleeding profusely, only moaned. "Wha...the High..." he then turned a mortified look towards Lothar. "Milord...I didn't..."
Lothar stopped the man before he could go any further. "There's no need to apologize. You wanted help as fast as you could for your comrade. Go get it. And that's an order." As the footman carried his wounded companion away, he gave the knights a stern look. "I will decide what is permitted. If I take offence about someone or something, you will know it. If not, you will not act. This is a battlefield, not a court. Am I being understood?"
They didn't even flinch, merely bowing loyally and saying "Of course, Sire! Forgive us, Sire!" in perfect unison. Lothar almost flinched himself. Since when had he become such that men followed his every whim so steadfastly?
Before he could even ponder this further, a blast of stone shattering stone, the sound of men being silenced, and the increasing stench of death overtook him, and he saw that a boulder had rolled through a part of the wall, crushing and sweeping away men. He ground his mouth into a thin line. "Now this is the kind of disrespect I cannot take." he gestured to the two knights. "You, gather any soldiers around to reinforce the survivors. You, come with me. We have to help. The Horde won't be wasting time trying to take advantage of this."
Despite his heavy armour, despite the age of six decades hanging on his bones, Lothar was up the steps swiftly, with the younger bodyguard just behind him, sputtering something about the High General being too important, urging the High General to leave this place and leave this to the grunts, thank you kindly. He ignored it, for he saw he'd been right. A scaling ladder had risen from the other side of the wall, and already an orcish soldier was jumping to the battlement.
Years of carrying the King's banner when he was young sung within Lothar as he drew and lifted his blade. "For Azeroth and King Llane!" he bellowed, charging the enemy. Behind him, the knight followed, while on the other side the fighting survivors were regrouping.
Age hadn't managed to dull Lothar's reflexes. Without a shield, the huge axe could have killed him, but he ducked under the blow, and struck in the same breath, shattering the orc's throat, collarbone and chin. As the dead mass fell, he focused himself on fighting another opponent, while the younger knight tried to keep the other enemies from advancing further.
The orc's swift attack was already slowing. It had been well timed, but not executed swiftly enough. Only half a dozen other orcs and trolls managed to leap in before the humans closed in on them. They fought fiercely, very fiercely, and Lothar expected no less of the orcs. One could tell anything about the greenskins, but not that they didn't know how to fight or how to die.
Trapped, the horde soldiers fought like madmen, killing two other footmen and the young knight before him. Two trolls surrounded Lothar, but he managed to keep them at bay with heavy swings of his blade. He didn't feel afraid; he was too focused for that now. Instead he felt a savage joy, which filled his elder frame and gave him nearly the strength of his youth as he struck back.
He sidestepped one troll, allowing him to block him in a corner. This blocked the other from attacking. He blocked blow after blow with his blade, as swiftly as he could, and grunted as one went home. The blows became harder, and harder, until the troll threw his whole weight into one single attack.
This had been what Lothar had been waiting for. As the Troll lunged, he threw his body forward, under the troll, letting go of his sword to grasp both its legs. Then, with a tremendous growl, he shoved himself upward and outward, ignoring the old protesting bones. The Troll's scream followed it all the way down the wall.
Quickly he went for his weapon, but then noticed the other troll would never bother him - or anyone - ever again. It lay bleeding, torn apart by the weapons of his returning guard and other footmen the young one had gathered as fast as he could.
"Sire," the knight said "Are you alright."
"Yes, quite actually." A spear passing mere inches from his head almost made that a lie. He ducked and pushed himself flat against the battlement, as did the others. With that particular sortie a failure, the spears and axes and boulders had returned. The Horde weren't known to be lax when it came to a siege.
Lothar, however, grinned ferally, despite the grimness of the situation. "Well, lad, what do you think?"
"Nasty business here, Sire." The knight answered, deadpan. Lothar almost laughed at the understatement.
"Certainly. But we're holding. By the Light, we'll hold this city yet!"
He only prayed the Light would find a way to prove him right.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Spring 595, The Ziggurat, Quel'Thalas
Illadan Eltrass knew that the Ziggurat had been built painstakingly, over a period of three centuries, while the elves were embroiled in fighting against the then-numerous troll tribes in the northlands. While Silvermoon served well as a bastion from which the elves could plan and carry out actions to ensure their survival and gradual expansion, the Queen and her advisors saw the wisdom in creating a fortress which would be large but well-hidden, but able to repel multiple assaults if ever found.
Thus had Derrigal Morningbrand, a great architect who designed many great cities and fortresses before and during the Ancient War - not to mention designing Silvermoon itself - set to work. The result of his plans - which he did not live to see - was what looked like a hill, covered with ferns and trees, hiding everything from view.
Underneath, however, was a vast structure, complete with granaries, armouries, blacksmiths, barracks and many other rooms of all kinds. It was designed as a purely military stronghold, with the few separate chambers being reserved for the heads of the great families. Illadan had always felt the difference between the calm aura of Silvermoon and the rigid, sober air in the Ziggurat. This was where the High Elves came when their land was in dire strait, and everything there was testament to that.
Including the room the elven military used to dispense justice.
One balcony held only a dozen chairs, where those who would decide the faith of the accused sat. On either side were smaller balconies, each carrying twenty chairs, as some would be invited as spectators. Often these were empty. Today they were full. It was no wonder. For today was the day Alleria, former leader of the High Elven Rangers of Quel'Thlas, would receive her sentence.
Illadan had the dubious privilege of being on the highest balcony, as was his right both as leader of the Eltrass household, and as the newly named replacement for Alleria. Several high nobles and the Queendom's military commanders surrounded him. But all of them were little next to the rulers of Quel'Thalas, who sat in the tallest chairs. The queen looked severe, her usual serenity gone sour, while the king looked pale, not yet recovered from his near brush with death.
Both these rulers were elves he considered friends. What tore him was that they were about to condemn another friend.
Fenna rose from her seat and nodded towards the guards at the door. "Bring the Sinner in."
Illidan winced. The word 'sinner' was only used for elves that had served in the military and committed heinous acts. Although he understood the reason behind the word, there was injustice in there that burned part of his heart. He saw that the other rangers - including his love Sylvanas - stiffened at the word themselves.
The guards didn't linger. Within moments the doors opened, and in came Alleria, flanked by two guards. Her hands were unbound because her act had been involuntary, but she had been denied the right to wear any of her previous uniforms. Instead, she wore nothing more than simple civilian clothes. Only her firm gaze and her proud pose gave indications of her former position. She strode to the centre of the room, keeping her gaze on those on the principal balcony. Illadan wished he were entirely elsewhere.
The queen looked down upon Alleria more coldly than she should have. "Alleria, former leader of the High Elven Rangers, Keeper of the Bow of Kurianatz, you come to answer for the crimes you have committed against the High Elves. Will you listen to them, or would you prefer silence."
"My Queen, I will listen, so that they be forever etched in my soul." was the steady reply.
"As you so wish. Alleria, your crimes stand as aiding the enemy of Quel'Thalas, the Horde, gain entrance into our capital of Silvermoon, of the murder of several soldiers of Quel'Thalas, and of the attempted murder of the King of Quel'Thalas. Have you heard?"
"I have?"
"Have you understood?"
"Now and forever."
The queen nodded. "This does you justice. The court has decided the punishment for these crimes. Are there any who would add to it?"
The King slowly and painfully came to his feet, but his face and voice were steady and calm. "I would, My Queen. I would add that I plead forgiveness from the court. Alleria might well have committed these crimes, but she did so unwillingly, indeed almost unwittingly, having been programmed by force and much torture at the hands of the Horde. Thus, I would use my voice as king, to dissolve the crime held against me and the soldiers."
Some elves muttered softly at this. It was unorthodox for even the King to ask such a boon from the Queen. But Illadan knew that it was the only way Vallin had of placating the Queen's anger, the only way to force her to give ground. Fenna frowned briefly - she'd recognized the reason, too.
"Very well." she said at length. "General Melliki?"
The elder elf that rose had gaunt, wrinkled features that showed only in an elf that had lived well over a millennia. Askruros Melliki had been a leader amongst elves for many centuries, serving Fenna's grandmother before the current queen, and was known for his sense of justice. He looked at Alleria, and then swept an old but powerful gaze upon the assembled elves.
"My queen." he said, and his voice cracked with age "The military accepts the King's plea. Let these offences be forgiven, but never forgotten."
"So be it. Alleria, Sinner of Silvermoon, are you prepared to hear the Court's final judgement."
"Yes, My Queen."
"Then hear and remember: Death must come to those elves who kill other elves, and banishment to those who betray a cause. Death is denied you, as the King desired and the court agreed to. However, unwittingly though it was, you aided in the downfall of our ancient and revered City of Silvermoon, and that is to be considered treason. Therefore, Alleria, you are banished from the Ziggurat and Silvermoon. Never will you set foot within either's walls for a century, after which you might make a plea for the court to rescind the judgement. Do you hear and understand?"
Illadan was a good judge of character. Years in the court and years in the wild had sharpened his powers of observation. He was especially good at it, being surpassed but by a handful of others. This was why he saw Alleria's subtle tremble, saw the shock and despair spread in her eyes, while it went ignore by almost everyone else. To all others - or just about - she held herself proudly and confidently as she heard her disgrace being detailed.
"My Queen, I hear and understand." she stated at last "I acknowledge and will follow my punishment to the letter. For one century, Alleria will not walk the streets of Silvermoon."
The queen looked relatively satisfied with that. Spiteful woman, a part of him growled. Angry woman, another part intoned. Guilt-ridden woman, most of him realized. The Queen had not truly wanted this, after all, even in her grief. But whether she wanted it or not, Alleria's banishment left them all the poorer for it.
The queen raised a hand. "Then go, Alleria. May time mend your name until the taint be removed. Go, by the order of the Court and your Queen."
As the former leader of the Rangers turned and walked solemnly away, Illadan saw many elves look away in dismay and sadness. All present knew she hadn't been at fault, not really. But elven justice was strict when it came to treason, and tradition had demanded this.
"Tradition. Justice. I don't think much of these words today. This is a mistake." he said, louder than he intended. To his surprise, the Queen turned to him, her face severe yet saddened.
"Yes, my friend. It might be. But we must do what we must."
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron
Gul'Dan had always hated what he couldn't control, even as far back as when he was a child. He had listened to his parents only until he had been able to go learn the ancient shamanism from Ner'Zhul, and had let the old orc control him until he found out that his teacher was too weak and too frightened to delve into true power. Thus he had begun his dealings with the demons of the Great Dark, and had learned the necromantic arts. He had become a power himself, and set himself above the rest of Orcish society.
He had been in control.
The Shadow Council.
Blackhand the Destroyer.
The invasion of Azeroth.
But that had changed. Because of the despised orc who presided over the warleaders and chieftains. He had been forced to relinquish control to Orgrim Doomhammer, a fact he hated every second of his existence. But he had no choice but to listen and obey. For Doomhammer held all the pieces. For now.
The Warchief was enthusiastic about the course of the battle against Whitefort, even thought the city was holding fast still. "We are close, my brethren." he said "I feel it. Whitefort is slowly being crushed by our combined might."
An orc leader waved a piece of parchment for a moment. "The few zeppelins we've managed to get close to the blasted place got some info for us. If we can believe that, well, we hit them hard. They've lost over a third of their forces since the beginning of the battle."
"Excellent. Yes, even though their walls still stand, they are battered. Within a few weeks, we'll have them down and then, the city and all its inhabitants will be ours." he grinned, a familiar fire burning in his eyes, while other leaders cheered and growled hearty agreement. Gul'Dan, of course, would have none of that, and decided to dull the mood a little.
"Perhaps. But I might remind you that we have paid dearly for this battle. What are our losses? Over fifty thousand? Quite alarming, I must say." since the fact was that he'd made certain nearly all these units had been ones loyal to Doomhammer, he didn't care at all about the losses, even rejoiced of them. But appearances still had to be maintained. It had the desired effect, however, as Doomhammer's gaze fixed on him balefully. The orc was shrewd - Gul'Dan had to give him credit there - but also impossible full of conceit and arrogance. The mere fact that he darkened his promising battle made him frustrated.
"Your input is appreciated, warlock." he growled, refusing to call Gul'Dan chieftain. "And, as usual, it is useless to us. Our losses are high, but we'll crush them in the end. And without Whitefort, the Alliance will weaken. A few more blows, a few more defeats, and it'll crumble! That is our future."
"Foolishness." Gul'Dan muttered. "You seem to - " he hesitated as one of his magical rings began to warm on a finger. With a start, he realized which it was. He thus lost the thread of the conversation and scrambled to regain it as Doomhammer spoke furiously. He suddenly didn't feel like arguing with the warchief. In fact, he only wanted to leave this tent and return to his own at once.
"You are quite right, Warchief." he said, absolutely unknowing of whatever the other orc had said. "I spoke quickly, and out of concern. I suppose being at this meeting was not a good idea. I will retire to continue some personal research." He knew that this wouldn't convince Doomhammer, or Grimfrost, and indeed both looked at him with suspicion. But they weren't either in the mood or in the position to call his little bluff. Gruffly, almost negligently - negligently! - the leader of the Horde gave him his approval to leave. He did so; faking meek servitude...until the moment he had entered his tent.
At once, he took hold of the ring - a useful magical item he had discovered amongst the gutted ruins of Stormwind Keep. He spoke the unfamiliar human arcane words that activated the magic, and waited until the ruby on the gold ring began to glow brightly. "I am here." he said, keeping his composure as best he could despite his yearning to know everything at once. A gruff but dutiful voice answered him.
"This is Wavelord Nikfarg of the Dark Tempest. I salute you, my chieftain."
"And I salute you, Wavelord. What of the mission I gave you? Any news?"
"Yes, Lord. I'm here to tell you - the orb you gave me resonated the way you said it should."
That sentence made Gul'Dan feel faint. He had to sit on his camp chair before he fell down. Could it be? Was it possible that the time had come, that he had found what he'd been seeking all these years. It was a struggle to keep control of himself after that. Only years of careful control permitted him to fight the hope swelling impossibly fast, to battle the lust for power, which manifested itself, manifold. Somehow, however, he did. But eagerness still remained in his voice as he asked. "You have found it?"
"Yes, so it seems, Lord."
"Beneath you? The flow of magic is beneath you?" he felt the need to make certain. Maybe it was an elder dragon flying nearby, or fluke in the orc he had crafted from what little he'd been able to grasp from Medhiv's mind...
The next words immediately reassured him. "Yes, lord, it is. Right there underneath, stronger than even what you've told me it'd be."
"Excellent, Wavelord! A most excellent work, for which you will be greatly rewarded! Hold your position, even if you must send other ships to refurbish your food and water. I will come as quick as I am able!"
"Lord, I obey!" The glow of the ruby faded, and silence reigned inside the tent. A silence, which was soon broken by a chuckle, a snort and then all-out laughter. Gul'Dan felt happy, happier than he'd felt in years. Found. Found!! It had finally been found! And his dreams could finally become reality.
"Doomhammer!" he laughed "You foolish orc! You should have killed me, instead you have allowed me to reach this - the tomb of the most powerful of all demons, Sargeras!"
All the pieces were falling together. The Death Knights, who were loyal to him. The Ogre-Magi, who were grateful. The many deals and alliances with other clans and bands. And now this. Everything was ready. He knew he would have to act fast. He muttered a word of necromantic power, and then raised his hand. "Theron! Come to me! We have much to do!"
Almost as soon as the words had escaped his lips did he smell the stench of death, and knew that Gorefiend, who had been loyal but powerful orc in life and had now proven even greater as a Death Knight, stood behind him. The last warlock did not turn. He didn't care much for looking at a living corpse, and making conversation to one always felt surreal even to him.
"Master?" a hollow voice sounded, "What is your command?"
"That the time has come. The time for the Stormreavers, the Twillight Hammers and all of its allies to leave Doomhammer's side and strike out, to find a better, greater destiny." And power. Always power.
The Death Knight didn't hesitate when faced with the enormity of what he had to do. "You mean to leave the Horde, then, Master?"
"It was never the Horde. Doomhammer's Horde is a farce. What I will build will encompass this whole continent, no this whole world!" he calmed himself. One step at a time. "You know what you must do. Alert them. Alert them all."
"When do we move, then?"
He knew that after that day, things would no longer be the same. The masks would have fallen, and Doomhammer would certainly strike out mightily. But Gul'Dan would be in control once more. In the end, that matters almost as much as the power did. He grinned a tusky grin as he looked back at his servant's desiccated form.
"Tonight, Theron. We move tonight."
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron
Bram Poorglade had changed much in the past five years. When he'd started out and enlisted in the Alliance Army, he'd done it with little thought in it beyond doing something he had decided for himself, no matter what his parents told him to make him stay at the farm. He'd left saddened but hopeful, ready to make his mark, unheeding of the danger that he'd be put into as a soldier.
He'd been an ignorant boy of sixteen. Today, he was still young, but looked older than his twenty-one years. He had seen battle and had learned to fear and to master the fear as best he could, using his girth and the muscles his family line had in abundance to keep ahead in the fighting. He'd killed orcs and trolls, and even a wounded ogre or two, and had risen through the ranks, from a lowly Third Sword to the officer rank of Captain. Many had been surprised to see such a young officer strolling around, but none had been more surprised than he'd been.
He looked out from the faint light the torches gave towards the many fires and outlined tents of the enemy farther off. Of all the fights he'd been in, this one was by far the largest and the bloodiest. Even the big battles in southern Stromgarde hadn't been this hard - showing that the orcs they were facing at Whitefort really were the best around.
Whitefort. He couldn't look at the city without a sense of wonder, despite the burned out buildings, the wounded being treated and the dead being transported away. Even in the gloom, he saw many of the ancient and tall buildings, grander and more elegant than anything he'd ever dreamed. He'd seen Redgates, the capital of the kingdom of his birth, but as impressive as it had been, it was nothing compared to Whitefort.
It was the first human city ever built, its towers first rising at the founding of Arathor - or so the old folk tales went. Humanity couldn't afford to lose such a symbol, and it had fought well to keep it. But even two armies and as many fighting men and women as the city had been able to draw only amounted so much next to the immense forces the Horde had. He had a feeling that numbers would prevail this time. These orcs weren't ones you could outwit like the ones in the south. These were cunning, had excellent leaders and superb morale. What were they to do faced with that?
"Well met, captain." a voice spoke from the gloom of the night. He turned, expecting one of the numerous guards roaming the walls, and was surprised to see his commanding officer. Swiftblade looked tired, a fact accentuated by the marks and dried blood on his full plate armour. But then, was there anyone amongst the defenders, after so many assaults, who wasn't tired.
He pulled himself away from the parapets and bowed slightly. "Well met, milord." he said, and then found himself at a loss. Swiftblade, he knew, wasn't one for formality - giving credence to those who said he'd been born from the common folk. But he was still one of the Alliance's most respected generals, age notwithstanding. He was older by a number of years, but his voice and manner always seemed apart from many an overbearing general. Yet he didn't know what to say to the man.
The general, perhaps knowing what he felt, saved him by focusing on the horde encampment. "No battles tonight, it seems."
He looked back towards the enemy in barely-contained relief. "No sir. A darn good thing, if ye ask me." Ye. Darn. His nervousness still had control. The general, however, seemed partly caught in his own mind.
"We can't hold out forever. Its not even a question of military might anymore. The Horde just needs to hold us in for one more month, and food'll begin to run short, while they can manage to scavenge from the countryside. In this equation, we're deeply on the losing side."
It didn't take a genius strategist to see that. Bram knew he didn't have the mind his superior had, but he could see the battle was bad and getting worse. Each day the defenders lost more men. Soon they'd have to force some of the wounded to fight. Then there'd only be wounded. And then...but he couldn't allow himself to think like that. If he did, it meant he'd already lost it all. His resolve must have shown on his face, for Swiftblade grinned wanly.
"Oh, I'm not dropping my weapons in the dirt, Bram. My wife and son are in the city, and I'll never let them fall into Horde hands." the flat way he said that showed he knew what he'd have to do to them both if the Horde overran the city. "As long as these walls stand, we stand. It's as simple as that. That gives us a month to figure out something. Who knows? Anything can happen."
It sounded like the general was clinging to that hope like a half-drowned man to a floating log. But that was the way everyone felt. All of those he'd seen, even people like Lightbringer. Or even Lothar. He shrugged, tried to find something to say, but then saw the general was staring at the enemy camp almost too intently. He looked back, his brow furrowed in confusion. Had something changed?
At first he didn't notice anything. Then he saw it. One fire went out. Then another. And another. They winked out quickly, hurriedly. First a few, then dozens, then hundred had winked out. "What in the Light are the beasties up to?" he growled. From the muttering he heard up and down the walls, the other guards were equally bothered by the strange development. "Are they goin' to try a night battle again?"
"No. I don't believe it. Its just a part."
"Just a part?"
"The fires aren't going out everywhere. Only some parts. Look."
He looked. And saw that Swiftblade was right. Many of the fires stayed alight, as they had for many nights. This was strange. It wasn't like the Horde to keep so many forces back. Before he could puzzle about this, he a tremor was heard from below the walls. First faint, it grew in strength, until Bram realized he was hearing voices shouting, and then the ring of steel against steel.
"I-it sounds like they're fighting." he knew his voice showed disbelief. It'd be the first time this army ever did something like that.
"Yes." Swiftblade answered, sounding just as astounded. "It just does, doesn't it?"
Bram tried to make sense of it, but failed. As far as he was concerned, the orcs were brutal and savage, but they rarely fought amongst themselves during a battle. They rather preferred to shift their hatred towards their enemy. He knew there were frictions between the different Horde Clans - it was hard to fight so many years against them without learning that - but he never thought he'd see - or, more reasonably, hear - something like this.
"Whatever's happening out there, sir, its mighty bein' big. Methinks some greenskins be movin' off quick!" he groaned inwardly as his old ways of speech took over in his excitement, and forced himself to speak more clearly. "But I think it might spread to us."
The general nodded gravely. "Yes, they often did during the First War." he gestured to the men around him. "I want messengers sent. My orders: that every soldier, knight, sorcerer and any man able to swing a weapon come to the walls within the hour! Spread the word to the other commanders! Move!" Footmen began running about, while others stared at the sudden movements below them, gripping weapons tightly.
Bram didn't. He was thinking as hard as he could. "Milord?"
"Yes?"
"If they're fighting that badly...what could happen?"
He felt the man looking at him steadily. "Well, it can go many ways. But by the roar they're making" he almost had to shout to be heard now, as the sounds spread wide below "is that there's a split, a dissention. If this continues, they may end up fighting each other off."
"Completely?"
Aerth came beside him and rested his hands on ancient stonework. "I doubt it. But we can always hope." he said flatly, coldly. Bram saw he would clap if all orcs killed each other. Good. He would, too.
"Want my opinion, milord?" he asked, and continued when he received a nod. "I think the big thing which we wanted to have happened has."
"Ah, yes. The question is: now what?" Aerth answered as pandemonium reigned beyond the ancient walls of Whitefort.
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron
There were times when calm won over certain matters where diplomacy could erase difficulties, stem problems, and generally be helpful. And there were times when diplomacy had to be cast to the wind, and emotions be given free reign to make one's feelings known so that actions could be taken to rectify said mistakes. The former had served the orc very well in the part, as had the latter - all because he had learned to combine these methods as was appropriate to the situation.
But right now, as he saw for himself the disaster, which was befalling his marvellous gathering of warriors, Orgrim Doomhammer only, wished he could bash someone to death with the mighty weapon of war, which bore his name. He barely managed to make himself speak, so beside himself did he feel.
"GRIMFROST! Where is he?!?" he asked as orcs milled about him, frantic, confused, unready. A disgraceful state.
"I'm here, Lord." a somewhat breathless voice sounded behind him, and the Warchief of the Horde whirled about, grabbing the orc by the throat and yanking him close. The bloodlust screamed at him to kill this orc, but he regained control over that possibly-costly momentum. He needed Grimfrost. Now more than ever. That fact, however, didn't do much in the way of calming his ire.
"What is this insanity?" he growled so fiercely that the nearby orcs - veterans and commanders and warleaders - all took a step back. "What is happening with this army!?!? I DEMAND AN ANSWER, GRIMFROST!!!"
"Lord-"
"Do you see this, Grimfrost? Do you understand what we are seeing? Orcs leaving, leaving this battlefield, the one, which might have been a decisive blow against these bothersome humans! I want an explanation and I want it NOW, if you value your existence!"
In retrospect, he understood why Grimfrost struck. He was being choked, and all the while being held responsible for this disaster. One moment he was holding the Warlord firmly, the next the side of his head was ringing, and Grimfrost was standing a bit farther, coughing, warily eying his master. With a furious growl, the Doomhammer in his hand, Orgrim moved to strike back.
"INSOLENCE! I'LL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS!" he bellowed. But before he could strike, the warlord stopped him cold with a firm sentence which cut through the confusion and the rage.
"We have been betrayed, Warchief."
He stopped his momentum with an effort, taking in this information. Control. Breathe. That was the key. Durotan had been a very good teacher there. He managed to grasp his composure once more.
"Who is the traitor?" he asked, although everything inside him seemed to scream one name. He banged the ground with his enormous hammer. "No, don't tell me. I already know who." his eyes flared red for a moment. "Gul'Dan. He has done this. Hasn't he?"
"It seems likely, Lord." one of the Lords said heavily, his expression also one of angry disbelief. "The Stormreaver Clan is driving the exodus from the battlefield."
Doomhammer cursed the day he'd stopped and considered sparing the warlock. He'd arrogantly thought the orc had been beaten, and he'd let his gaze swivel away from him and his works just as arrogantly. He saw himself now and wondered why he hadn't killed the last of the Warlocks. But it was too late for that. Recriminations would have to wait. He forced himself to deal with the issues at hand, issues that were looming large and ugly.
"Alright. Do you think we can stop them?" His own experience told him no, not right now, but he wanted to see if Grimfrost might have a more optimistic idea. The Warlord, however, only shook his head gravely. "I thought not myself. How long would it take to mass a strong enough party to stop the traitors."
"Hours at least. Lord, I think you do not know the extent of the treachery." Grimfrost stated. Only the Warlord stood his ground as the Warchief turned a tense gaze towards him and his other military leaders. "It is much larger than you seem to think. I have a report from my-"
"How large." Flat. Immediate answer or death. He knew Grimfrost would recognize the imperative for what it was. And he must have, for he drew himself up and answered in a deep, steady, and final voice.
"More than a third of the Shadow Army. Perhaps nearly half of it."
Doomhammer nearly dropped his hammer, but instead tightened his grip upon it. A third, possibly half? That was tens of thousands of orcs, following that traitor! How could it be? "Who is following him? The Stormreavers, certainly, but who else?"
The leader who answered, an orc so old and used he had probably been old when Doomhammer had been learning to swing his first axe, looked fearfully resolved. "From what we've seen, from what we can see of the gaps in our ranks, all of the Stormreavers and Twilight's Hammers have moved away towards the east, back to the mountain passes. And that's not all. A sizable number of Black Tooth Grins and even a few of the Bleeding Hollows have followed. In fact, the only ones we haven't lost at all are the Blackrocks and the Dragonmaws. Its...they have a very large part of the army. It weakens us terribly.
"Leaving us with a grim choice." Grimfrost pursued. "Either to pursue Cho'Gall and Gul'Dan right now, or continue the siege with the forces we have. We can't do both."
Doomhammer had very rarely felt lost in his life. From his days on Dreanor in the Thunderlord Clan, through the Invasion of Azeroth and his taking control of the Horde from Blackhand, he'd been a man of sure action. But right now he felt lost. One one hand, he had a chance to perhaps fatally cripple the Alliance. But who knew what other mischief Gul'Dan might do if he let him. He might defeat the Alliance to return to find the Horde in Gul'Dan's control.
But if he went after the traitors now, Whitefort wouldn't fall. The Alliance would be battered but still standing. And who knew what sorcerous ingenuity Lothar might develop, if he was left to his own devices for but a little while. He knew that human commander - he was one of the very few amongst the enemy who'd held long and hard against him, and the only one who had managed to survive the ordeal. No, Lothar was a danger by himself as well.
Lothar or Gul'Dan. He could get one now, perhaps giving time for the other to sneak behind him. Sometimes he wished he'd let that monster Blackhand blunder along.
"Are you certain we can take Whitefort now?" he asked at last "Be truthful, Grimfrost!"
The warlord looked at the passing orcs for a long time before answering. They were all on edge yet, all confused and uncomprehending. He finally bowed his head. "No, Lord. Our numbers are still great, but this betrayal will only give the humans hope at the same time our own people will be confused. The price for taking this city would probably render us too weak to deal with Gul'Dan."
"That's not what I want to hear, Grimfrost." he growled.
"Yes, Lord. But it is the truth and you know it."
Of course Doomhammer did. All too well. Years of commanding from afar hadn't dulled his strategic senses. He knew Gul'Dan - curse the warlock's name forever! - had put him in a truly untenable position. He also left him, with the hardest, the only decision, he had ever made in his lifetime.
"We have no choice then. Prepare the troops! We must end this treachery now! Prepare the Shadow Army to move east!" He found himself really strangling himself to get the other words out. "We're lifting the siege...on Whitefort."
He looked at the walls of the ancient human city. Weeks of pummelling from catapults had weakened them greatly, but they still stood. The humans were decimated within, but still held on. The city was greatly ruined, but hadn't fallen. And that meant only one thing as far as Doomhammer was concerned.
The Horde might have passed over its greatest triumph. Because of Gul'Dan.
And for that, the last Warlock's blood and that of his allies would flow freely!
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Winter 595, The Scarven Mountains, Stromgarde
There were times when even Gelmar Thornfeet wanted to curse at the spirits. No matter the wonders the old human had shown him, no matter the fact that the bloodlust had seemingly leeched away from his soul. He knew that following the spirits were his mission in life now, that he would - if he were spared - recreate something his people had lost. He knew all that and didn't doubt it.
But he swore that if he had to follow the spirits into a mountain range again, he'd let it all go to the Beyond. Enough was enough, after all!
"And all of this for a vision." he muttered "By all the Spirits, if someone had told me I'd be doing this a few years ago..."
"Master?" a voice asked in a tired but respectful voice. An older voice than he. "Is something the matter?"
He turned from the wind slapping at his face, and looked at six orcs of varying ages, all wearing many layers of clothes and much equipment. Yes, something was wrong, he decided as he looked at the older orc who had asked him the question. Something was the matter when someone who had lived nearly twice his time called him 'master'. Something was wrong when former orc warriors decided to follow the teachings of a former necrolyte. And something was definitely wrong in the world when someone decided to go look through rocky terrain for something, which may or may not have been a figment of his imagination!
But he didn't say that, of course. He merely sighed and shook his head. "No, my friend. I was merely trying to commune with the Spirits." It was a flat-out lie, and he felt guilty about it. It was made even worse when they each nodded as if he'd said something immensely wise and cunning.
"I understand, Master." the older orc said loyally. "The spirits are strong in you. The powers they grant you are much greater than our own."
That, if nothing else, was true. Although Gelmar knew that his power didn't come nowhere near those of his own human mentor, he knew he had a fair grasp of them, while the six apprentices - would he ever get used to that word? - had barely started to fumble through basic communion. It would take a long time, but he knew each had the spark. The Spirits had, after all, guided him to them. As they guided him now, towards a possible haven.
"Let us continue." he said after stifling a tired sigh. He worked to appear confident. "Our goal should now be close by." He hoped that was true. He continued to patter up the path. His dream had been more pleasant - at least there wasn't this nasty wind. Up this rocky slope, two days into the mountains, down a path never travelled.
And then...
He stopped as he saw the path before him.
In front and all around him was a rocky dead-end. Sheer cliffs rose, smooth and menacing, on every side. Rocks from an ancient rockslide covered the walls and parts of the cliffs. The rubble, he had seen. The cliffs, he had seen. All in his dream. He couldn't help but smile at what he saw. A dead-end...to those who didn't listen to what the Spirits told them.
"We have arrived." he said confidently. The others looked surprised and slightly sceptical. He couldn't blame them, and knew what they would say before they talked. After all, he would have said the same.
"But, master, this is a dead-end!"
"Surely this isn't what the Spirits want of us!!"
He held his hands up and they fell silent. He revised his opinion of leadership: it certainly had its advantages. "My friends. Calm yourselves. The Spirits know nature better than we. They know that what we see...isn't always what is..." he closed his eyes, and began to draw on the power he felt around him.
Ethereal whispers surged in his head, power flowed through his arms, power which was his own and yet not. He felt his right hand lift, and the power increased. Calling upon his years training under the old human, he thought of the rocks being feathers, and his power a sweeping hand. He slowly waved his arm from right to left, barely heard the rumbles and the surprised mutterings from his pupils. Panting, he opened his eyes.
The rubble had been cleared away, showing an opening large enough for two orcs. Its darkness seemed foreboding...and yet so inviting.
"By the be..." the young orc checked himself before saying 'Beyond', and instead plunged ahead "A cave?"
"Perhaps, but I doubt it." Gelmar said. "Come now! I am impatient to see what lies beyond. Aren't you?"
They seemingly were, since they followed his quick pace stride for stride. They passed the entrance and lit torches - and immediately spotted a corpse, sprawled, dressed in tatters. It was crushed in many places, and looked as though it had been there long. None of the orcs recoiled, especially not Gelmar who had once used skeletons to do his bidding.
The oldest of the orcs kneeled by the skeleton and muttered to himself. "Those are too slight to be human bones. Too slender. And the head doesn't seem quite right. Whoever that is died quite a while ago, however."
Gelmar felt a spectral power grip him swiftly, and information flowed into his mind. He suddenly looked at the tattered corpse in increased sadness. "A long time ago indeed. Thirty-five centuries ago, before the humans arose to prominence, when this land belonged to the Elves. He never had the chance to talk of his discovery, to tell his brethren what he'd found. I see now that it might be his spirit who gave me the guiding dream."
He had their undivided attention now. "What did this elf find?" one asked.
"We will soon see for ourselves. Leave the bones there for now. We shall bury them for the boon their owner's spirit gave us - once we have seen it for ourselves."
He gave the corpse one last look, then turned. The cave, it seemed, continued. It was a tunnel, as he'd surmised. They shuffled along it for a good hour at least, and Gelmar was wondering if they would have to stop to rest, when he saw a faint light on the other side. They pressed on, faster, until finally they emerged on the other side and gazed out at what a dead elven spirit had wanted them to see.
"W-w-won't you look at all that? That's a whole valley!"
Indeed it was. Before their amazed gaze the rocky terrain sloped into forests, crisscrossed by rivers beginning in great falls of water coming down the peaks. Gelmar could see the other side of it, yet judged the width of the valley at least three leagues. It was immense. Hidden from all eyes for millennia. He saw a deer peer at them in surprise, then run back towards the leafless woods of maples and oaks and pines.
"Meat, herbs, wood, water, rocks..." Gelmar breathed, and then a new vision seized him. He saw the forest, but it seemed to fade away to other images. Wood and stone structures lay amongst the valley. He saw orcs entering the buildings with scrolls, other sitting by a fire talking, other, eyes closed, in communion. An air of peace, or learning and purpose, saturated the vision. He fairly stumbled back, and would have fallen if the others hadn't rushed to catch him.
"Master! Are you alright?"
Suddenly he laughed. A pure, joyous laugh, which left them all staring at him as if he had gone mad. Perhaps he had, but he felt the visions he'd seen worth some imbalance. "I am fine!" he laughed again "Better than fine! May the Spirits be praised! This will be the place! Here it will begin anew." his voice took strength, and they all looked at him in wonder "We will build structures here, structures dedicated to learning and to wisdom. A place where we will be free from the blood and suffering of war."
He looked down at the valley. Frozen in winter, it seemed to sparkle with life to his eyes. "This, my friends, is where we shall work to revive the order of ancient shamanism and give hope to our people whatever comes their way."
And with that, Gelmar Thornfeet, first true Orc Shaman in decades, closed his eyes and sent a prayer of thanks to the wind of souls.
He would never doubt the Spirits again.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron
The skies were shuddering with the screams of the dying, the raging howls of the living, and the multiple booms of catapults and ballista hitting their targets. The ground shook under thousands of feet; it flooded red under gallons of blood, until it seemed tainted by it. Every corner was afire with conflict, with an enmity, which went beyond hatred, with a goal, which went beyond survival.
The Horde was pressing its attack upon the ancient, the first human city of Whitefort. Hundreds of catapults screamed and twanged, thousands of spears were hauled upward, thrown by orcs and trolls, while ogres threw whole boulders at their foes. Death knights, hundreds of them, were casting spell after spell of pestilence and death, tornadoes of shrieking malevolence threatened, while bolts of evil energy and steam of decay rolled off.
Amongst all that firepower, orcs dug and sapped at the walls, while each minutes hundreds of ladders attempted to go up, many succeeding. The Horde had come. But not in bloodlust. It had come organized and filled with a desire to see Whitefort fall. They wished to deal a deadly blow to the Alliance of Lordaeron.
Whitefort and its defenders, however, had so far managed to hold off the onslaught. While hundreds of catapults pounded the walls, human ballista responded. A steady stream of arrows answered the spears and axes, shot by both human and elven hands. Human sorcerers from many countries, including great Conjurers and Mages of both Azeroth and Dalaran, repelled and replied to most of the death knights tricks, sending down lightning bolts and fire bolts and negating many deadly spells. Paladins and clerics moved amongst the soldiers, bringing in what little comfort they could, a providing what healing they had left in them.
Human footmen and even more militia stood with bow, sword and shield, peppered here and there by groups of doughty knights. Many pushed back the scaling ladders, while orders fought the orcs who managed to climb up. Many hotspots, all contained thus far, had appeared, while some people tumbled down or were blasted off the walls, to be replaced by others almost at once.
Whitefort was holding, come what may. It was holding.
For now.
Anduin Lothar, High General and military commander over all Alliance forces, knew that it could not hold forever. He knew it as each day he saw a little less men standing, a little more wounded, a little deader. He saw it in the increasing damage to the walls, guard towers, and to the city's outer buildings. He had seen the signs, too many times to come. This was the way his homeland was destroyed. The exact same way.
It would not be the same here. Somehow. Somehow! He refused to believe the Alliance would be broken here! There had to be some way to save what could be saved. Only he didn't see it yet. Not with Gul'Dan down there. Not with Grimfrost down there.
Not, he now knew, with Doomhammer himself down there.
He was walking towards some stone stairs, to go up into the battlements once more, when a footman carrying one bleeding in the face. He found himself pushed aside rather roughly, and had to brace himself. "Move, old man! This man needs a healer now!"
The disrespectful footman found himself facing two large, heavily armoured knights almost at once. "How dare you show disrespect to the High General!!"
The man seemed to snap out of his haze, while the other man, bleeding profusely, only moaned. "Wha...the High..." he then turned a mortified look towards Lothar. "Milord...I didn't..."
Lothar stopped the man before he could go any further. "There's no need to apologize. You wanted help as fast as you could for your comrade. Go get it. And that's an order." As the footman carried his wounded companion away, he gave the knights a stern look. "I will decide what is permitted. If I take offence about someone or something, you will know it. If not, you will not act. This is a battlefield, not a court. Am I being understood?"
They didn't even flinch, merely bowing loyally and saying "Of course, Sire! Forgive us, Sire!" in perfect unison. Lothar almost flinched himself. Since when had he become such that men followed his every whim so steadfastly?
Before he could even ponder this further, a blast of stone shattering stone, the sound of men being silenced, and the increasing stench of death overtook him, and he saw that a boulder had rolled through a part of the wall, crushing and sweeping away men. He ground his mouth into a thin line. "Now this is the kind of disrespect I cannot take." he gestured to the two knights. "You, gather any soldiers around to reinforce the survivors. You, come with me. We have to help. The Horde won't be wasting time trying to take advantage of this."
Despite his heavy armour, despite the age of six decades hanging on his bones, Lothar was up the steps swiftly, with the younger bodyguard just behind him, sputtering something about the High General being too important, urging the High General to leave this place and leave this to the grunts, thank you kindly. He ignored it, for he saw he'd been right. A scaling ladder had risen from the other side of the wall, and already an orcish soldier was jumping to the battlement.
Years of carrying the King's banner when he was young sung within Lothar as he drew and lifted his blade. "For Azeroth and King Llane!" he bellowed, charging the enemy. Behind him, the knight followed, while on the other side the fighting survivors were regrouping.
Age hadn't managed to dull Lothar's reflexes. Without a shield, the huge axe could have killed him, but he ducked under the blow, and struck in the same breath, shattering the orc's throat, collarbone and chin. As the dead mass fell, he focused himself on fighting another opponent, while the younger knight tried to keep the other enemies from advancing further.
The orc's swift attack was already slowing. It had been well timed, but not executed swiftly enough. Only half a dozen other orcs and trolls managed to leap in before the humans closed in on them. They fought fiercely, very fiercely, and Lothar expected no less of the orcs. One could tell anything about the greenskins, but not that they didn't know how to fight or how to die.
Trapped, the horde soldiers fought like madmen, killing two other footmen and the young knight before him. Two trolls surrounded Lothar, but he managed to keep them at bay with heavy swings of his blade. He didn't feel afraid; he was too focused for that now. Instead he felt a savage joy, which filled his elder frame and gave him nearly the strength of his youth as he struck back.
He sidestepped one troll, allowing him to block him in a corner. This blocked the other from attacking. He blocked blow after blow with his blade, as swiftly as he could, and grunted as one went home. The blows became harder, and harder, until the troll threw his whole weight into one single attack.
This had been what Lothar had been waiting for. As the Troll lunged, he threw his body forward, under the troll, letting go of his sword to grasp both its legs. Then, with a tremendous growl, he shoved himself upward and outward, ignoring the old protesting bones. The Troll's scream followed it all the way down the wall.
Quickly he went for his weapon, but then noticed the other troll would never bother him - or anyone - ever again. It lay bleeding, torn apart by the weapons of his returning guard and other footmen the young one had gathered as fast as he could.
"Sire," the knight said "Are you alright."
"Yes, quite actually." A spear passing mere inches from his head almost made that a lie. He ducked and pushed himself flat against the battlement, as did the others. With that particular sortie a failure, the spears and axes and boulders had returned. The Horde weren't known to be lax when it came to a siege.
Lothar, however, grinned ferally, despite the grimness of the situation. "Well, lad, what do you think?"
"Nasty business here, Sire." The knight answered, deadpan. Lothar almost laughed at the understatement.
"Certainly. But we're holding. By the Light, we'll hold this city yet!"
He only prayed the Light would find a way to prove him right.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Spring 595, The Ziggurat, Quel'Thalas
Illadan Eltrass knew that the Ziggurat had been built painstakingly, over a period of three centuries, while the elves were embroiled in fighting against the then-numerous troll tribes in the northlands. While Silvermoon served well as a bastion from which the elves could plan and carry out actions to ensure their survival and gradual expansion, the Queen and her advisors saw the wisdom in creating a fortress which would be large but well-hidden, but able to repel multiple assaults if ever found.
Thus had Derrigal Morningbrand, a great architect who designed many great cities and fortresses before and during the Ancient War - not to mention designing Silvermoon itself - set to work. The result of his plans - which he did not live to see - was what looked like a hill, covered with ferns and trees, hiding everything from view.
Underneath, however, was a vast structure, complete with granaries, armouries, blacksmiths, barracks and many other rooms of all kinds. It was designed as a purely military stronghold, with the few separate chambers being reserved for the heads of the great families. Illadan had always felt the difference between the calm aura of Silvermoon and the rigid, sober air in the Ziggurat. This was where the High Elves came when their land was in dire strait, and everything there was testament to that.
Including the room the elven military used to dispense justice.
One balcony held only a dozen chairs, where those who would decide the faith of the accused sat. On either side were smaller balconies, each carrying twenty chairs, as some would be invited as spectators. Often these were empty. Today they were full. It was no wonder. For today was the day Alleria, former leader of the High Elven Rangers of Quel'Thlas, would receive her sentence.
Illadan had the dubious privilege of being on the highest balcony, as was his right both as leader of the Eltrass household, and as the newly named replacement for Alleria. Several high nobles and the Queendom's military commanders surrounded him. But all of them were little next to the rulers of Quel'Thalas, who sat in the tallest chairs. The queen looked severe, her usual serenity gone sour, while the king looked pale, not yet recovered from his near brush with death.
Both these rulers were elves he considered friends. What tore him was that they were about to condemn another friend.
Fenna rose from her seat and nodded towards the guards at the door. "Bring the Sinner in."
Illidan winced. The word 'sinner' was only used for elves that had served in the military and committed heinous acts. Although he understood the reason behind the word, there was injustice in there that burned part of his heart. He saw that the other rangers - including his love Sylvanas - stiffened at the word themselves.
The guards didn't linger. Within moments the doors opened, and in came Alleria, flanked by two guards. Her hands were unbound because her act had been involuntary, but she had been denied the right to wear any of her previous uniforms. Instead, she wore nothing more than simple civilian clothes. Only her firm gaze and her proud pose gave indications of her former position. She strode to the centre of the room, keeping her gaze on those on the principal balcony. Illadan wished he were entirely elsewhere.
The queen looked down upon Alleria more coldly than she should have. "Alleria, former leader of the High Elven Rangers, Keeper of the Bow of Kurianatz, you come to answer for the crimes you have committed against the High Elves. Will you listen to them, or would you prefer silence."
"My Queen, I will listen, so that they be forever etched in my soul." was the steady reply.
"As you so wish. Alleria, your crimes stand as aiding the enemy of Quel'Thalas, the Horde, gain entrance into our capital of Silvermoon, of the murder of several soldiers of Quel'Thalas, and of the attempted murder of the King of Quel'Thalas. Have you heard?"
"I have?"
"Have you understood?"
"Now and forever."
The queen nodded. "This does you justice. The court has decided the punishment for these crimes. Are there any who would add to it?"
The King slowly and painfully came to his feet, but his face and voice were steady and calm. "I would, My Queen. I would add that I plead forgiveness from the court. Alleria might well have committed these crimes, but she did so unwillingly, indeed almost unwittingly, having been programmed by force and much torture at the hands of the Horde. Thus, I would use my voice as king, to dissolve the crime held against me and the soldiers."
Some elves muttered softly at this. It was unorthodox for even the King to ask such a boon from the Queen. But Illadan knew that it was the only way Vallin had of placating the Queen's anger, the only way to force her to give ground. Fenna frowned briefly - she'd recognized the reason, too.
"Very well." she said at length. "General Melliki?"
The elder elf that rose had gaunt, wrinkled features that showed only in an elf that had lived well over a millennia. Askruros Melliki had been a leader amongst elves for many centuries, serving Fenna's grandmother before the current queen, and was known for his sense of justice. He looked at Alleria, and then swept an old but powerful gaze upon the assembled elves.
"My queen." he said, and his voice cracked with age "The military accepts the King's plea. Let these offences be forgiven, but never forgotten."
"So be it. Alleria, Sinner of Silvermoon, are you prepared to hear the Court's final judgement."
"Yes, My Queen."
"Then hear and remember: Death must come to those elves who kill other elves, and banishment to those who betray a cause. Death is denied you, as the King desired and the court agreed to. However, unwittingly though it was, you aided in the downfall of our ancient and revered City of Silvermoon, and that is to be considered treason. Therefore, Alleria, you are banished from the Ziggurat and Silvermoon. Never will you set foot within either's walls for a century, after which you might make a plea for the court to rescind the judgement. Do you hear and understand?"
Illadan was a good judge of character. Years in the court and years in the wild had sharpened his powers of observation. He was especially good at it, being surpassed but by a handful of others. This was why he saw Alleria's subtle tremble, saw the shock and despair spread in her eyes, while it went ignore by almost everyone else. To all others - or just about - she held herself proudly and confidently as she heard her disgrace being detailed.
"My Queen, I hear and understand." she stated at last "I acknowledge and will follow my punishment to the letter. For one century, Alleria will not walk the streets of Silvermoon."
The queen looked relatively satisfied with that. Spiteful woman, a part of him growled. Angry woman, another part intoned. Guilt-ridden woman, most of him realized. The Queen had not truly wanted this, after all, even in her grief. But whether she wanted it or not, Alleria's banishment left them all the poorer for it.
The queen raised a hand. "Then go, Alleria. May time mend your name until the taint be removed. Go, by the order of the Court and your Queen."
As the former leader of the Rangers turned and walked solemnly away, Illadan saw many elves look away in dismay and sadness. All present knew she hadn't been at fault, not really. But elven justice was strict when it came to treason, and tradition had demanded this.
"Tradition. Justice. I don't think much of these words today. This is a mistake." he said, louder than he intended. To his surprise, the Queen turned to him, her face severe yet saddened.
"Yes, my friend. It might be. But we must do what we must."
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron
Gul'Dan had always hated what he couldn't control, even as far back as when he was a child. He had listened to his parents only until he had been able to go learn the ancient shamanism from Ner'Zhul, and had let the old orc control him until he found out that his teacher was too weak and too frightened to delve into true power. Thus he had begun his dealings with the demons of the Great Dark, and had learned the necromantic arts. He had become a power himself, and set himself above the rest of Orcish society.
He had been in control.
The Shadow Council.
Blackhand the Destroyer.
The invasion of Azeroth.
But that had changed. Because of the despised orc who presided over the warleaders and chieftains. He had been forced to relinquish control to Orgrim Doomhammer, a fact he hated every second of his existence. But he had no choice but to listen and obey. For Doomhammer held all the pieces. For now.
The Warchief was enthusiastic about the course of the battle against Whitefort, even thought the city was holding fast still. "We are close, my brethren." he said "I feel it. Whitefort is slowly being crushed by our combined might."
An orc leader waved a piece of parchment for a moment. "The few zeppelins we've managed to get close to the blasted place got some info for us. If we can believe that, well, we hit them hard. They've lost over a third of their forces since the beginning of the battle."
"Excellent. Yes, even though their walls still stand, they are battered. Within a few weeks, we'll have them down and then, the city and all its inhabitants will be ours." he grinned, a familiar fire burning in his eyes, while other leaders cheered and growled hearty agreement. Gul'Dan, of course, would have none of that, and decided to dull the mood a little.
"Perhaps. But I might remind you that we have paid dearly for this battle. What are our losses? Over fifty thousand? Quite alarming, I must say." since the fact was that he'd made certain nearly all these units had been ones loyal to Doomhammer, he didn't care at all about the losses, even rejoiced of them. But appearances still had to be maintained. It had the desired effect, however, as Doomhammer's gaze fixed on him balefully. The orc was shrewd - Gul'Dan had to give him credit there - but also impossible full of conceit and arrogance. The mere fact that he darkened his promising battle made him frustrated.
"Your input is appreciated, warlock." he growled, refusing to call Gul'Dan chieftain. "And, as usual, it is useless to us. Our losses are high, but we'll crush them in the end. And without Whitefort, the Alliance will weaken. A few more blows, a few more defeats, and it'll crumble! That is our future."
"Foolishness." Gul'Dan muttered. "You seem to - " he hesitated as one of his magical rings began to warm on a finger. With a start, he realized which it was. He thus lost the thread of the conversation and scrambled to regain it as Doomhammer spoke furiously. He suddenly didn't feel like arguing with the warchief. In fact, he only wanted to leave this tent and return to his own at once.
"You are quite right, Warchief." he said, absolutely unknowing of whatever the other orc had said. "I spoke quickly, and out of concern. I suppose being at this meeting was not a good idea. I will retire to continue some personal research." He knew that this wouldn't convince Doomhammer, or Grimfrost, and indeed both looked at him with suspicion. But they weren't either in the mood or in the position to call his little bluff. Gruffly, almost negligently - negligently! - the leader of the Horde gave him his approval to leave. He did so; faking meek servitude...until the moment he had entered his tent.
At once, he took hold of the ring - a useful magical item he had discovered amongst the gutted ruins of Stormwind Keep. He spoke the unfamiliar human arcane words that activated the magic, and waited until the ruby on the gold ring began to glow brightly. "I am here." he said, keeping his composure as best he could despite his yearning to know everything at once. A gruff but dutiful voice answered him.
"This is Wavelord Nikfarg of the Dark Tempest. I salute you, my chieftain."
"And I salute you, Wavelord. What of the mission I gave you? Any news?"
"Yes, Lord. I'm here to tell you - the orb you gave me resonated the way you said it should."
That sentence made Gul'Dan feel faint. He had to sit on his camp chair before he fell down. Could it be? Was it possible that the time had come, that he had found what he'd been seeking all these years. It was a struggle to keep control of himself after that. Only years of careful control permitted him to fight the hope swelling impossibly fast, to battle the lust for power, which manifested itself, manifold. Somehow, however, he did. But eagerness still remained in his voice as he asked. "You have found it?"
"Yes, so it seems, Lord."
"Beneath you? The flow of magic is beneath you?" he felt the need to make certain. Maybe it was an elder dragon flying nearby, or fluke in the orc he had crafted from what little he'd been able to grasp from Medhiv's mind...
The next words immediately reassured him. "Yes, lord, it is. Right there underneath, stronger than even what you've told me it'd be."
"Excellent, Wavelord! A most excellent work, for which you will be greatly rewarded! Hold your position, even if you must send other ships to refurbish your food and water. I will come as quick as I am able!"
"Lord, I obey!" The glow of the ruby faded, and silence reigned inside the tent. A silence, which was soon broken by a chuckle, a snort and then all-out laughter. Gul'Dan felt happy, happier than he'd felt in years. Found. Found!! It had finally been found! And his dreams could finally become reality.
"Doomhammer!" he laughed "You foolish orc! You should have killed me, instead you have allowed me to reach this - the tomb of the most powerful of all demons, Sargeras!"
All the pieces were falling together. The Death Knights, who were loyal to him. The Ogre-Magi, who were grateful. The many deals and alliances with other clans and bands. And now this. Everything was ready. He knew he would have to act fast. He muttered a word of necromantic power, and then raised his hand. "Theron! Come to me! We have much to do!"
Almost as soon as the words had escaped his lips did he smell the stench of death, and knew that Gorefiend, who had been loyal but powerful orc in life and had now proven even greater as a Death Knight, stood behind him. The last warlock did not turn. He didn't care much for looking at a living corpse, and making conversation to one always felt surreal even to him.
"Master?" a hollow voice sounded, "What is your command?"
"That the time has come. The time for the Stormreavers, the Twillight Hammers and all of its allies to leave Doomhammer's side and strike out, to find a better, greater destiny." And power. Always power.
The Death Knight didn't hesitate when faced with the enormity of what he had to do. "You mean to leave the Horde, then, Master?"
"It was never the Horde. Doomhammer's Horde is a farce. What I will build will encompass this whole continent, no this whole world!" he calmed himself. One step at a time. "You know what you must do. Alert them. Alert them all."
"When do we move, then?"
He knew that after that day, things would no longer be the same. The masks would have fallen, and Doomhammer would certainly strike out mightily. But Gul'Dan would be in control once more. In the end, that matters almost as much as the power did. He grinned a tusky grin as he looked back at his servant's desiccated form.
"Tonight, Theron. We move tonight."
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron
Bram Poorglade had changed much in the past five years. When he'd started out and enlisted in the Alliance Army, he'd done it with little thought in it beyond doing something he had decided for himself, no matter what his parents told him to make him stay at the farm. He'd left saddened but hopeful, ready to make his mark, unheeding of the danger that he'd be put into as a soldier.
He'd been an ignorant boy of sixteen. Today, he was still young, but looked older than his twenty-one years. He had seen battle and had learned to fear and to master the fear as best he could, using his girth and the muscles his family line had in abundance to keep ahead in the fighting. He'd killed orcs and trolls, and even a wounded ogre or two, and had risen through the ranks, from a lowly Third Sword to the officer rank of Captain. Many had been surprised to see such a young officer strolling around, but none had been more surprised than he'd been.
He looked out from the faint light the torches gave towards the many fires and outlined tents of the enemy farther off. Of all the fights he'd been in, this one was by far the largest and the bloodiest. Even the big battles in southern Stromgarde hadn't been this hard - showing that the orcs they were facing at Whitefort really were the best around.
Whitefort. He couldn't look at the city without a sense of wonder, despite the burned out buildings, the wounded being treated and the dead being transported away. Even in the gloom, he saw many of the ancient and tall buildings, grander and more elegant than anything he'd ever dreamed. He'd seen Redgates, the capital of the kingdom of his birth, but as impressive as it had been, it was nothing compared to Whitefort.
It was the first human city ever built, its towers first rising at the founding of Arathor - or so the old folk tales went. Humanity couldn't afford to lose such a symbol, and it had fought well to keep it. But even two armies and as many fighting men and women as the city had been able to draw only amounted so much next to the immense forces the Horde had. He had a feeling that numbers would prevail this time. These orcs weren't ones you could outwit like the ones in the south. These were cunning, had excellent leaders and superb morale. What were they to do faced with that?
"Well met, captain." a voice spoke from the gloom of the night. He turned, expecting one of the numerous guards roaming the walls, and was surprised to see his commanding officer. Swiftblade looked tired, a fact accentuated by the marks and dried blood on his full plate armour. But then, was there anyone amongst the defenders, after so many assaults, who wasn't tired.
He pulled himself away from the parapets and bowed slightly. "Well met, milord." he said, and then found himself at a loss. Swiftblade, he knew, wasn't one for formality - giving credence to those who said he'd been born from the common folk. But he was still one of the Alliance's most respected generals, age notwithstanding. He was older by a number of years, but his voice and manner always seemed apart from many an overbearing general. Yet he didn't know what to say to the man.
The general, perhaps knowing what he felt, saved him by focusing on the horde encampment. "No battles tonight, it seems."
He looked back towards the enemy in barely-contained relief. "No sir. A darn good thing, if ye ask me." Ye. Darn. His nervousness still had control. The general, however, seemed partly caught in his own mind.
"We can't hold out forever. Its not even a question of military might anymore. The Horde just needs to hold us in for one more month, and food'll begin to run short, while they can manage to scavenge from the countryside. In this equation, we're deeply on the losing side."
It didn't take a genius strategist to see that. Bram knew he didn't have the mind his superior had, but he could see the battle was bad and getting worse. Each day the defenders lost more men. Soon they'd have to force some of the wounded to fight. Then there'd only be wounded. And then...but he couldn't allow himself to think like that. If he did, it meant he'd already lost it all. His resolve must have shown on his face, for Swiftblade grinned wanly.
"Oh, I'm not dropping my weapons in the dirt, Bram. My wife and son are in the city, and I'll never let them fall into Horde hands." the flat way he said that showed he knew what he'd have to do to them both if the Horde overran the city. "As long as these walls stand, we stand. It's as simple as that. That gives us a month to figure out something. Who knows? Anything can happen."
It sounded like the general was clinging to that hope like a half-drowned man to a floating log. But that was the way everyone felt. All of those he'd seen, even people like Lightbringer. Or even Lothar. He shrugged, tried to find something to say, but then saw the general was staring at the enemy camp almost too intently. He looked back, his brow furrowed in confusion. Had something changed?
At first he didn't notice anything. Then he saw it. One fire went out. Then another. And another. They winked out quickly, hurriedly. First a few, then dozens, then hundred had winked out. "What in the Light are the beasties up to?" he growled. From the muttering he heard up and down the walls, the other guards were equally bothered by the strange development. "Are they goin' to try a night battle again?"
"No. I don't believe it. Its just a part."
"Just a part?"
"The fires aren't going out everywhere. Only some parts. Look."
He looked. And saw that Swiftblade was right. Many of the fires stayed alight, as they had for many nights. This was strange. It wasn't like the Horde to keep so many forces back. Before he could puzzle about this, he a tremor was heard from below the walls. First faint, it grew in strength, until Bram realized he was hearing voices shouting, and then the ring of steel against steel.
"I-it sounds like they're fighting." he knew his voice showed disbelief. It'd be the first time this army ever did something like that.
"Yes." Swiftblade answered, sounding just as astounded. "It just does, doesn't it?"
Bram tried to make sense of it, but failed. As far as he was concerned, the orcs were brutal and savage, but they rarely fought amongst themselves during a battle. They rather preferred to shift their hatred towards their enemy. He knew there were frictions between the different Horde Clans - it was hard to fight so many years against them without learning that - but he never thought he'd see - or, more reasonably, hear - something like this.
"Whatever's happening out there, sir, its mighty bein' big. Methinks some greenskins be movin' off quick!" he groaned inwardly as his old ways of speech took over in his excitement, and forced himself to speak more clearly. "But I think it might spread to us."
The general nodded gravely. "Yes, they often did during the First War." he gestured to the men around him. "I want messengers sent. My orders: that every soldier, knight, sorcerer and any man able to swing a weapon come to the walls within the hour! Spread the word to the other commanders! Move!" Footmen began running about, while others stared at the sudden movements below them, gripping weapons tightly.
Bram didn't. He was thinking as hard as he could. "Milord?"
"Yes?"
"If they're fighting that badly...what could happen?"
He felt the man looking at him steadily. "Well, it can go many ways. But by the roar they're making" he almost had to shout to be heard now, as the sounds spread wide below "is that there's a split, a dissention. If this continues, they may end up fighting each other off."
"Completely?"
Aerth came beside him and rested his hands on ancient stonework. "I doubt it. But we can always hope." he said flatly, coldly. Bram saw he would clap if all orcs killed each other. Good. He would, too.
"Want my opinion, milord?" he asked, and continued when he received a nod. "I think the big thing which we wanted to have happened has."
"Ah, yes. The question is: now what?" Aerth answered as pandemonium reigned beyond the ancient walls of Whitefort.
* * * * * * * * * *
Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron
There were times when calm won over certain matters where diplomacy could erase difficulties, stem problems, and generally be helpful. And there were times when diplomacy had to be cast to the wind, and emotions be given free reign to make one's feelings known so that actions could be taken to rectify said mistakes. The former had served the orc very well in the part, as had the latter - all because he had learned to combine these methods as was appropriate to the situation.
But right now, as he saw for himself the disaster, which was befalling his marvellous gathering of warriors, Orgrim Doomhammer only, wished he could bash someone to death with the mighty weapon of war, which bore his name. He barely managed to make himself speak, so beside himself did he feel.
"GRIMFROST! Where is he?!?" he asked as orcs milled about him, frantic, confused, unready. A disgraceful state.
"I'm here, Lord." a somewhat breathless voice sounded behind him, and the Warchief of the Horde whirled about, grabbing the orc by the throat and yanking him close. The bloodlust screamed at him to kill this orc, but he regained control over that possibly-costly momentum. He needed Grimfrost. Now more than ever. That fact, however, didn't do much in the way of calming his ire.
"What is this insanity?" he growled so fiercely that the nearby orcs - veterans and commanders and warleaders - all took a step back. "What is happening with this army!?!? I DEMAND AN ANSWER, GRIMFROST!!!"
"Lord-"
"Do you see this, Grimfrost? Do you understand what we are seeing? Orcs leaving, leaving this battlefield, the one, which might have been a decisive blow against these bothersome humans! I want an explanation and I want it NOW, if you value your existence!"
In retrospect, he understood why Grimfrost struck. He was being choked, and all the while being held responsible for this disaster. One moment he was holding the Warlord firmly, the next the side of his head was ringing, and Grimfrost was standing a bit farther, coughing, warily eying his master. With a furious growl, the Doomhammer in his hand, Orgrim moved to strike back.
"INSOLENCE! I'LL HAVE YOUR HEAD FOR THIS!" he bellowed. But before he could strike, the warlord stopped him cold with a firm sentence which cut through the confusion and the rage.
"We have been betrayed, Warchief."
He stopped his momentum with an effort, taking in this information. Control. Breathe. That was the key. Durotan had been a very good teacher there. He managed to grasp his composure once more.
"Who is the traitor?" he asked, although everything inside him seemed to scream one name. He banged the ground with his enormous hammer. "No, don't tell me. I already know who." his eyes flared red for a moment. "Gul'Dan. He has done this. Hasn't he?"
"It seems likely, Lord." one of the Lords said heavily, his expression also one of angry disbelief. "The Stormreaver Clan is driving the exodus from the battlefield."
Doomhammer cursed the day he'd stopped and considered sparing the warlock. He'd arrogantly thought the orc had been beaten, and he'd let his gaze swivel away from him and his works just as arrogantly. He saw himself now and wondered why he hadn't killed the last of the Warlocks. But it was too late for that. Recriminations would have to wait. He forced himself to deal with the issues at hand, issues that were looming large and ugly.
"Alright. Do you think we can stop them?" His own experience told him no, not right now, but he wanted to see if Grimfrost might have a more optimistic idea. The Warlord, however, only shook his head gravely. "I thought not myself. How long would it take to mass a strong enough party to stop the traitors."
"Hours at least. Lord, I think you do not know the extent of the treachery." Grimfrost stated. Only the Warlord stood his ground as the Warchief turned a tense gaze towards him and his other military leaders. "It is much larger than you seem to think. I have a report from my-"
"How large." Flat. Immediate answer or death. He knew Grimfrost would recognize the imperative for what it was. And he must have, for he drew himself up and answered in a deep, steady, and final voice.
"More than a third of the Shadow Army. Perhaps nearly half of it."
Doomhammer nearly dropped his hammer, but instead tightened his grip upon it. A third, possibly half? That was tens of thousands of orcs, following that traitor! How could it be? "Who is following him? The Stormreavers, certainly, but who else?"
The leader who answered, an orc so old and used he had probably been old when Doomhammer had been learning to swing his first axe, looked fearfully resolved. "From what we've seen, from what we can see of the gaps in our ranks, all of the Stormreavers and Twilight's Hammers have moved away towards the east, back to the mountain passes. And that's not all. A sizable number of Black Tooth Grins and even a few of the Bleeding Hollows have followed. In fact, the only ones we haven't lost at all are the Blackrocks and the Dragonmaws. Its...they have a very large part of the army. It weakens us terribly.
"Leaving us with a grim choice." Grimfrost pursued. "Either to pursue Cho'Gall and Gul'Dan right now, or continue the siege with the forces we have. We can't do both."
Doomhammer had very rarely felt lost in his life. From his days on Dreanor in the Thunderlord Clan, through the Invasion of Azeroth and his taking control of the Horde from Blackhand, he'd been a man of sure action. But right now he felt lost. One one hand, he had a chance to perhaps fatally cripple the Alliance. But who knew what other mischief Gul'Dan might do if he let him. He might defeat the Alliance to return to find the Horde in Gul'Dan's control.
But if he went after the traitors now, Whitefort wouldn't fall. The Alliance would be battered but still standing. And who knew what sorcerous ingenuity Lothar might develop, if he was left to his own devices for but a little while. He knew that human commander - he was one of the very few amongst the enemy who'd held long and hard against him, and the only one who had managed to survive the ordeal. No, Lothar was a danger by himself as well.
Lothar or Gul'Dan. He could get one now, perhaps giving time for the other to sneak behind him. Sometimes he wished he'd let that monster Blackhand blunder along.
"Are you certain we can take Whitefort now?" he asked at last "Be truthful, Grimfrost!"
The warlord looked at the passing orcs for a long time before answering. They were all on edge yet, all confused and uncomprehending. He finally bowed his head. "No, Lord. Our numbers are still great, but this betrayal will only give the humans hope at the same time our own people will be confused. The price for taking this city would probably render us too weak to deal with Gul'Dan."
"That's not what I want to hear, Grimfrost." he growled.
"Yes, Lord. But it is the truth and you know it."
Of course Doomhammer did. All too well. Years of commanding from afar hadn't dulled his strategic senses. He knew Gul'Dan - curse the warlock's name forever! - had put him in a truly untenable position. He also left him, with the hardest, the only decision, he had ever made in his lifetime.
"We have no choice then. Prepare the troops! We must end this treachery now! Prepare the Shadow Army to move east!" He found himself really strangling himself to get the other words out. "We're lifting the siege...on Whitefort."
He looked at the walls of the ancient human city. Weeks of pummelling from catapults had weakened them greatly, but they still stood. The humans were decimated within, but still held on. The city was greatly ruined, but hadn't fallen. And that meant only one thing as far as Doomhammer was concerned.
The Horde might have passed over its greatest triumph. Because of Gul'Dan.
And for that, the last Warlock's blood and that of his allies would flow freely!
* * * * * * * * * *
