Chapter Nineteen: Lull and Betrayal

Late Spring 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron

Eira Fregar Swiftblade sighed in utter contentment as she let herself sink into the perfumed bath. She had been feeling a bit under the weather these days, and this was exactly what she needed to recover her senses a little. She closed her eyes and tried not to dwell on the queasy feelings her womb gave. It was the second time she was with child, and she knew that taking baths had had effects.

She smiled even as she thought of it. Unlike with Veran, she had been able to tell her husband he would be a father again, just before he left for drills with the remnants of his and Turalyon's army. His reaction had been immediate delight, and - after kissing her more deeply than was proper in front of witnesses - had left with a livelier gait than he'd had ever since the Siege of Whitefort - as she heard the royal historians coin it - had begun.

She knew her feelings on the matter would change when she gave birth. She'd probably curse him and think all sorts of curses and epitaphs to throw at him, but this was but one painful moment next to the joy of being a parent.

She loved her energetic young son, but she secretly hoped she'd have a daughter this time... she was certain Aerth would like it, too...

A knock distracted her from her gentle reverie. "Yes?" she inquired gently, opening her eyes a crack.

"Milady?" she identified the soft, respectful voice as one of the castle's maids "Do you need my help to wash?"

It brought back memories of initiating her husband to baths. Having been born a commoner, he thought one bath a month more than sufficient to his needs, and had never completely gotten over the fact that, being a nobleman, he would have to wash himself many times a week. And the first maid who'd gone to wash him had come out running, followed by embarrassed curses.

She giggled, and then cleared her throat. "Yes, please. And then help me dress. I will go for a walk."

"Of course, milady."

After she'd been washed, she had her hair combed in tied in intricate black knots, and dressed in a light-green gown. As she had thought, the queasiness had faded to almost nothing, and she could enjoy the walk through corridors and the palace's inside gardens and fountains, where courtiers gossiped and servants went about, carrying drinks and sweet meats for the nobility, while soldiers in burnished armour stood guard at regular intervals.

All of it spoke of peace and quiet. She looked out a window she passed. Outside, work still went on. The bodies of the dead - many thousands, her husband had confided a few days after the Horde had miraculously lifted the siege - had been carried out and buried, the fires had all been put out, and the wounded soldiers had left two days ago to be treated in Saldevar, a large city only fifty miles southwest of the capital.

But as she looked, she still saw the burnt-out buildings, the crumbling walls, and the many scars visited upon the city. So many losses, so much beauty marred. It was no wonder the celebrations had been so subdued.

She was about to enter yet one more garden when a kindly voice carrying authority stopped her. "Ah, Lady Swiftblade. Well met."

She looked to see two men walking towards her. One was a man who looked barely older than her husband, dressed in very fine clothes, his arm bandaged and in a sling. The other was older, with grey hair and a lined face. Her wore even more impressive clothes, and the golden Crown of Lordearon gleamed with jewels on his brow.

She immediately dropped into a deep curtsy, bending her knees and her neck, holding the hem of her gown. "Your Majesty. I am honoured by your presence." King Terenas's kindly grin turned into a gentle smile as he gestured her to rise.

"Please, please. Rise I beg you. I am only out for a walk myself! Besides," his eyes glittered with amusement at that "It wouldn't do for me to treat the wife of one of our most renowned heroes as a simple courtesan."

She couldn't help but feel a very real flash of pride, and fought to contain it. She had instinctively known that the rough, young knight she'd married nearly on a whim had potential to become great, and truly he had surpassed her expectations. The Siege, far from dampening his reputation, had crystallized it. Stories of his leading knights to stop scaling parties from breaking through, of talking with his men and keeping their spirits up abounded.

Now, it seemed few if any of the Alliance leaders cared whether he was nobility or of merchant stock. He had been given a position on the Alliance High Command, had earned the respect of worthy lords and warriors such as Lothar, Uther Lightbringer and Turalyon. The soldiers plainly called him the Invincible, and he was the talk of many a court gathering.

And now, King Terenas himself was giving him his approval. She bowed her head. "Thank you kindly, Your Highness. That is most kind."

"It is not hard to be kind when one is speaking the truth."

The man beside the king lifted an eyebrow. "I heard that you were feeling out of sorts, milady. May I ask if you are better?" It was then that she recognized him. Varien Wrynn, nobleman, with a pretension to the Lion Crown of Azeroth - when the day came for the throne to be recovered. He was also one of the few noblemen her husband considered a friend.

"Lord Wrynn. I apologize for my rudeness, I..." she stopped, started again "I was feeling out of sort indeed, milords. But a bath and this walk have helped greatly.

"And what ails you?" Terenas asked mildly

"It is no ailment, Your Highness." she hesitated, then decided that the full truth would do more good than harm. "I have recently found that I am with child again, Sire."

Both men looked at each other, and Varien bowed slightly, a wide grin on his face. "That is joyful news! I need to hear this more often! Heartfelt congratulations!"

"Indeed!" the king nodded empathically. "After so many deaths, it is good to see the prospect of life on the horizon. Which reminds me that your son, it seems, has been following my own son, Arthas, for the last two weeks."

She looked mortified. "I knew he would go and play with a friend, Your Highness. But if he is importuning the Prince..."

"Nonsense!" the king cut off sharply, but with mirth in his voice. "There are few children in this castle, and Arthas's mother - the Queen - is slowly weakening and is bedridden. They are easing each other's loneliness, and I would be a fool to try and break that. But on to other matters. Please walk with us, lady Swiftblade."

The trio journeyed through the halls of the immense castle, passing balconies, ramparts, gardens, and many statues and works of art. Soldiers and nobles alike bowed to the king as he walked. "When will the new garrison arrive?" the king inquired.

"Tomorrow. Five thousand men, added to the thousand Lord Swiftblade left behind."

"Good! Under whose command?"

This time Wrynn hesitated, looking at Eira quickly before replying. "They are troops under Lord Duraz's direct command." he said, his voice made of subtle apprehension.

Eira felt as if she'd been hit. It was bad enough to endure Duraz and his frightening demeanour, but to be under HIS protection, well knowing of the enmity between her husband and himself. She didn't think he would do anything to her, but she didn't trust the man at all. He always seemed to be hiding so many things...

Well, she wouldn't have to cope with it long. Two weeks and Aerth would be back with his forces. Duraz could do nothing in the meantime. It was simply too short.

And yet...

And yet she felt a queasy feeling returning to the bottom of her stomach. And this time, she didn't think it had anything to do with her pregnancy.

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Summer 595, Land Bridges, Stromgarde

The enormous natural passes, large arches of earth and stone, had been the link between the north and the south for millennia. They had been dubbed the Land Bridges - although in elven speech - by the elven delegations thousands of years before, when Quel'Thalas and the Dwarven Realm of Khajin has forged treaties of friendship and trade which had lasted centuries. It had seen the shrinking of Khajin, the viciousness of many plagues, and the time when man came and took hold of them in the Pact of Stormwind, establishing them as the southern borders of the Kingdom of Stromgarde.

What the Land Bridges would see today - if they could - would be horror, pain and blood, as most of their impressive surfaces - each Bridge being at least six miles long and at least three hundred meters wide - were covered by the taint of orcish and human blood, as the Elloran River far below carried away many bodies from both sides, never to be recovered. Clashes of steel, the whine of horses and large behemoths, as well as the crackling of magic, made the background for the growls and snarls of the living as each side fought against the other with dogged persistence.

Unto this field, always leading the charges, was Captain Danath Farstrike of the Sixth Fourth Army Platoon, 'The Heavy Hands' attack unit. Larger and more impressive than most humans on the battlefield, he waded into the field with a strength and ruthless skill none could match, followed by footmen he had personally chosen and trained. The Heavy Hands were one of the most dangerous units on the front lines, and Danath was by far the most powerful in that fearsome group.

Presently he blocked a blow from an orc and quickly retaliated, beheading the beast in one, bloody strike. Another came at him, axe held high. This one he easily sidestepped, tripping the huge, green-skinned being and killing it with a strike through the back. The orcs were strong critters, but they were slow. No, it was more than that. They had a sluggish way of thinking, for every single time they attacked, they did so with too much abandon. That didn't mean they weren't dangerous however, as each orc was stronger than a human, while only the most heavily armoured of the knights could hope to take an Ogre head-on. Thus, humans relied on cunning and tactics, as well as better armour, to contained their formidable foes.

So far, it had succeeded. The Alliance held the Bridges, however tenuously, and for the past month the Land Bridges had grown bloody as human and dwarven engineers worked to fortify them to ensure the Horde could never come from that direction.

Two Orcs came from him, and a troll took aim at him even as he saw the threat. Immediately he charged the two, hoping the troll wouldn't take the chance of injuring his fellows. With a wild roar, he spun on himself, evaded one blow, swerved to another side and struck, dodging the second strike by a hair. The Orc howled, and Danath took hold of him, using his fear, his energy and his momentum to swing around for a few moments, forcing the agonized body to crash into the other orc. His shoulders screamed from the effort, yet he succeeded.

The other orc barely had time to protect himself as the weight hit him head on. The two enemies went down in a heap, and quickly found their deaths as two other Heavy Hands came and started stabbing down. Danath felt his arms shakes, and forced them to obey him with an angry cry. Already his sword was notched, nearly useless, and his armour not much better. He wished the armours and weapons the blacksmiths had recently invented had arrived already...

These thoughts, however, didn't occupy his mind as he put his shield in front, his arm shaking even more violently as one, then two throwing axes impacted. He gritted his teeth, and uttered a warcry as he rushed forward, surprising the enemy and slamming into it. Both went down and grappled in a precarious moment.

Went the deadly struggle ended, however, it was Danath who rose, huffing and drenched in troll blood. He retrieved his sword, which he'd dropped during the fight, and sheathed the dagger he'd used to win the fatal hand-to-hand.

"You're impressive, human." a guttural, orcish voice told him, and Danath had in an instant whirled and brought his sword just in time to block the blow of the largest axe he'd seen in his life. The orc who'd attack spoke again, in an approving tone. "Magnificent reflexes. Yes, you'll do nicely." it said, and with a heave, the human veteran was pushed back.

He regained his feet in an instant, to see three of his Heavy Hands attack the largest orc he'd ever seen. A head taller than the average, all made of green-skinned muscle, he looked back at the human with frightening cunning, hefting an axe most humans couldn't even lift, much less wield. All around that sole orc, a wake of Alliance bodies were strewn about, all cloven by a single strike.

"You're some piece of work." Danath growled, hefting his blade. It could take a few hits from a normal axe, but from something that big...

"As are you, human. You're the first. The first who didn't show fear when he saw me." a tusked grin, "I love it. Now, defend yourself!"

No sooner had he said this that the orcs had lunged forward, heaving for a heavy blow. Danath blocked with his sword, only to nearly have it wrenched from his grip. Fear took him, and he used it to bring his shield up, nearly losing it to the next blow. It deformed under it, and it was a blessing of the Light his arm didn't break. Yet he held on for the next, and the next after that.

He couldn't hold forever. He knew it. His arms, already weakened, were at the end of their strength. Yet he held the blows back, until his shoulder winced sharply, until his shield nearly clove itself in two under the blow. It was then that three of his men charged the orc from behind. It responded to the threat with unbelievable swiftness, killing one of the humans in a single strike, then engaging the others.

Danath could do nothing. His shield was useless now, and his sword was almost broken. Still, he couldn't flee. He couldn't live with himself if he did, no matter how reasonable running would be. Instead he threw his shield aside, and took an orc axe from one of the corpses he'd killed himself, just as the orc killed the last of his men. With a yell, he threw himself into the fight with two weapons.

He momentarily took his adversary off-guard. The axe struck the handle, but he struck with his blade right after, forcing the orc on the defensive, punctuating each strike with a deadly yell. The orc blocked everything with great skill, but was unable to fight back, unable to use his girth and fearsome weapon again.

And then, with a sharp clang, his sword broke.

He was caught off balance, and fell back, even as the enemy renewed his offensive. He blocked one blow, then another, until finally the wooden handle broke apart as well. He gripped the metal half of the axe, and prepared himself, defeated but defiant. Blood was pounding in his ears, so that it took a moment to hear the sound of the horns of recall, calling both sides back, forcing an end to this battle. Still, he waited for the orc to finish him up.

His surprise was great when the orc simply laid his enormous axe on his enormous shoulder. "You had me on the defensive. You are the first to do that, too. Ever. By any race. You're a rare breed."

"Flattered. Lets finish this, now."

"No. This battle is now over. And when I face one of your skill, it must be in battle." a wide grin, showing huge tusks and teeth. "I'll call it a draw today. Draw. A word I'm not used to." he seemed absurdly pleased to use it. He looked around as the fighting quickly stopped, both sides being drained, blood and corpses and wounded everywhere, the air reeking of death. "What is your name?"

"...Danath Farstrike."

"I'll remember that name. My name is Kerak Fadeburn. Don't forget it. I hope to face you again."

And the huge orc left Danath standing there, amidst the wounded and the dead, and never looked back as he crossed back to his own lines. He let go of the useless axe, feeling dazed. Never had he been in such a fight. Never had he been in such a shape. He started to trudge back, even as paladins and clerics started to sift through the battlefield quickly, retrieving those they could heal.

"Well met, Kerak Fadeburn. I'll remember you. And I hope I NEVER face you again!" he stated earnestly.

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Spring 595, Avel Hills Lordaeron

The Shade Army, greatly diminished, was speeding for the great pass, which constituted the main link through the Border Peaks, linking Lordearon with the elven realm of Quel'Thalas. It had once been much greater.

Four hundred thousand orcs, ogres, trolls, and goblins had made up this army, the better part of the Horde. Fighting through the human cities of Tyr'Hand and then Strathholme had cost them a few, tearing through the elven forests and the elven forts more, and besieging Silvermoon the most. Nearly fifty thousand had died or been gravely wounded crippling northern Stromgarde and utterly smashing Quel'Thalas' forces.

Over fifteen thousand more had suffered these two fates clearing away obstacles to Whitefort, so that by the time it had arrived to its ultimate destination, there had been three hundred thirty five thousand able bodies to take up the task. It would have been enough. Even though the human city was being even more troubling to take than Stormwind had once been, it would have been enough. Even though they lost so many - what, fifty-five thousand, most of those actually killed - the Alliance had been failing.

And then Gul'Dan had struck his treason, taking the Stormreavers, the Twilight Hammers - both of which had taken care to fight on the lesser fronts - as well as elements from other clans. One hundred seventeen thousand. That's the number he'd taken, leaving, what, one hundred-sixty-three to follow Doomhammer's banner?

Yes, that sounded right. It was all disgustingly right.

Argal Grimfrost suddenly wished he'd never been so good at doing tactical calculations in his head, a feat he was able to do even now, in the midst of the Shade Army's loyalist, riding a warg besides the Warchief. It had been one of the skills which had been so useful to him in the past, when he needed to compare army strengths and establish a strategy. It had certainly helped make him the Warlord he was today.

But it also made him see other, frightening prospects. The traitors were only one day in front of them now. They might very well catch them. But then what? Fight them? He had no doubt that they'd manage a win eventually, but with most of the magic-users on Gul'Dan's side, added to the close numbers, would diminish the Shade Army severely. Too severely.

And then there were other concerns. "Warchief. There is the southern front and the Fleets." he rumbled "Who knows how many of either Gul'Dan made turn traitor."

The warchief nodded gravely. "These thoughts have disturbed me as well. Especially the Fleets, I'd suppose. The Stormreavers make up a significant part of our naval forces."

Grimfrost considered for a moment. "A fight on the sea would be even worse than on the ground. The Alliance has managed to keep the upper hand there, largely because of Kul Tiras's shipyards. We still can't produce ships at the rate the humans are, and if we lose some of them fighting amongst ourselves..."

"I am well aware of what might happen, Argal!" the Warchief said impatiently. "Gul'dan...we might end it quickly if we can get Gul'Dan, who is at the head of this treason."

Grimfrost hoped so. But something in his mind made him doubt.

The advance units were marching up the first hilly ridges, the one the road crossed on the way to what the humans called the Emperor's Pass. On each either side, the charred remnants of the outposts and forts, which had guarded it for many years, lay, with burnt remains of human soldiers piled as an offering to the great spirits who guided the Horde to victory. The fortresses and outposts had been desperately fortified, he had been able to see that much, to stall their arrival, but had been unable to stop them long.

He wondered if knowing that truly made him happy, and found the answer to be lacking inside his heart.

It was at that very moment that things - already bad enough - suddenly took a turn for the worse.

The front lines advanced - and then the ground exploded beneath them. Explosions followed explosions as the orcs in the first ranks briefly screamed in pain - and then went silent. It was as if a hundred goblin sappers had suddenly decided that, having failed to breach Whitefort's walls, they would commit a collective suicide by blowing up all their charges simultaneously.

The deflagration blew the wind directly in Grimfrost's face, and he growled at the smell of burnt leather and flesh, which hit him. Strangely, however, he felt no subtle hint of any gunpowder. That ruled Goblins out. But if these crazy destroyers hadn't done it, then who could have?

"What in all the...?!?" Doomhammer growled in complete surprise, leaving his sentence unfinished. For one of the few times since he'd served with the orc in battle, Grimfrost saw the warchief falter in wonderment. Eyes wide and staring, he only stared at the carnage his front ranks had been subjected to.

It didn't last long, however. Within moments, he was back in control, and bellowing orders. "I want the wounded pulled out of there now!! Grimfrost, I need people to investigate what happened!"

The warlord nodded, and chose three goblins he knew could decipher what had happened with ease. "Find Gorl, Balfi and Steamer! Tell them to go find out what happened!" He told one of his underlings.

The Underling actually cringed in front of him, and there was no way to blame the orc for this. Although probably the best sappers in the Goblin race, the three - and especially Steamer - were known to be frightfully erratic, and had put troops in danger more than once. Many of his people had asked for them to be told to leave, and he'd had to give orders not to kill them, as many orc, ogres and trolls - even a few goblins! - would have killed them.

But if they knew something, it was explosives, so Grimfrost leaned forward quickly and interestedly when they came bouncing up, obviously feeling very happy about what they'd seen. Steamer was the one who spoke, as usual. "Big Boss! It was a waaay big explosions. Lots of damage, lots lots." he seemed to savour that for a moment, and then continued, even happier than before. "But we're sure it's not a goblin mine!"

"Not a mine?" Doomhammer frowned "Then what would it be?"

"A magical mine of some sort!" they both stared at Balfi in surprise "Its too big to be something else, cuz the soldiers woulda seen a mine big 'nough to cause that!"

Both veterans looked at each other. "It fits. That's probably what Gul'Dan's new Ogre-Magi can do. Its the only possibility." Grimfrost noted.

"Quite right. That would fit his level of cunning." Doomhammer growled. "And only a few of his Death Knights and Ogre-Magi stayed with us. So how do we cross?"

The Warlord took his time before replying; knowing the Warchief wouldn't like what he was about to say. "I think...I don't think we can cross here. Its probably not the only point of the pass Gul'Dan's set with traps of the same kind. If we go through here, our army might be severely weakened once we cross."

"And Gul'Dan could be waiting for us to do this, and finish us off." The Warchief sighed. "Very well, what then. We have catapults, wagon, materiel and many troops. If we can't go there, we will need another place."

Grimfrost pondered the problem for a few moments, and then decided on the only course open to them. "We can't waste too much time, or we will be certain to lose them. There IS another pass besides this one. From the maps I found, its not well-travelled, its smaller and far more treacherous."

"But at this stage, it is far less dangerous than this. Alright! As soon as the wounded and the dead are sorted out, we will leave for this other pass you mentioned." his expression suddenly turned quite fierce. "I suppose we will lose some time on those traitors, but moving is better than standing still and waiting for the magics to dissipate! Carry out my orders!"

"As you wish, Warchief!" Grimfrost replied, saluting in the fashion of one orc warrior saluting another.

And with that, he went to prepare the Shade Army to move once more.

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Summer 595, Hidden Valley, Stromgarde

Gelmar looked at his four most promising students as they sat, concentrating, using their own souls and their links with the spirits to perform the task he had set for them. In front of them, a rock as big as their head had been placed. Their task, he had said, was to make their stone rise at least three feet off the ground.

"This," he had said "is what we will use to gauge your control over your own self." at that, he had made one of the stone rise. At his current level of learning - which he considered far from complete - it was already childish to do so. But amongst his students, his level was still far from their capabilities.

The four concentrated hard - which by itself was something he would have to rectify later - and moments passed as Gelmar - and several onlookers - kept their gaze fixed upon the stones. And then, one by one, they started to rise. None were nearly as swift or straight as his own, but they did. One rose only a few inches, and hovered there, buckling, while two of the others went up a feet, then wavered, then dropped, then came back to one foot.

Only one went higher. Two feet at least, that one was the most stable, and Gelmar wasn't surprised to see that it was Xirral Scarwhite - called this because of the look, pals scar which ran from his shoulder from his hand. Of all of his pupils - he still had some difficulty acknowledging them as such - Xirral was the most proficient. He had shown to be less violent then some, and the bloodlust which cursed them all seemed to be ebbing away faster than any who communed with the Spirits.

He let the exercise go for a moment more, and then told them to stop. "Good! Good, the exercise was a success! All of you managed to raise the stone."

"Mine barely lifted from the ground." one of them pointed out tiredly.

"But yet it lifted. THAT is what imports in this. The amount of power can be useful, but the ability to call it is even more so. If you can lift that rock, even a little, we feel the Spirits of this world. And that is what we have to learn. Now...let us make a circle, and talk about the Spirits, starting with feelings and visions."

They immediately listened. As they always did these days. There were discussions, but never any rebellions. It frightened him at time, even though it made things easier. He had never wished - even when he had been a lowly, bloodlust-blinded Necrolyte - to control other people. He hadn't wanted to be someone who imposed his will upon others. So he had taken steps to insure it would never happen, having selected some of the wisest orcs in the slowly growing settlement to oversee matters.

Yet even those had often come to seek his approval. Is it alright to put the new pens east instead of west? Should there be a set of huts created only for the apprentices? Or how about sentries at the Valley's sole? Or the idea of limited farming to ensure a sufficient food supply? Or this, or that. At times it got on his nerves. At times it just tired him.

He had given only a few effective orders to the community. First, that a large building be constructed in the midst of the settlement. He had asked the orc builders who had seen human lands to build it after human libraries, for that were one of his intents - to build a place where orcs could learn about not only their race, but the world itself. To that effect, he'd sent small parties to search for any books or scrolls, which remained amongst the ruins of Tyr'Hand, Stratholme, Caer Darrow, and any other settlement of interest. One day, he would send some to his people's lands, to retrieve whatever might be useful.

But all in due time. His community had grown to nearly one hundred, and the Spirits had told him in dreams that it would grow much more before his last day. But for now, he enjoyed the feel of this small, peaceful community.

They had talked for only a few minutes - and Xirral was, as always, taking the floor in giving his views on how the Spirits communicated - that that very peace shattered with a single call.

"Patriarch!"

That name again. How he utterly disliked it! He smothered a need to snap after the orc who'd called him that. The name had been tentatively uttered at first, and he hadn't paid attention. By the time he had, everyone - except for Gelmar himself - thought the name was appropriate. So he had become Patriarch Gelmar.

He thus turned from his discussion to see one of the sentries guarding the sole entrance running to him, face aghast. He rose. "What's happening? Is there trouble at the passageway?" He cringed at the idea of a large Alliance or Horde Patrol finding them. The chances were extremely slim, but still...

The guard immediately dismissed the idea, saying "No, Patriarch. There are orcs here. About two dozen. Four of them wish to become your students!"

Gelmar frowned. "I fail to see why you would come to me so precipitously. Our community has more than enough resources to accommodate far more than two dozen. As for students, it is always a pleasure to teach to those willing to learn." He didn't really think that yet, but he wasn't about to tell them. Since when had he started to play this image of the perfect teacher? And since when had he started to feel that it fit somehow?

The orc, however, wasn't finished. "Patriarch, if it was only that, I never would have interrupted your teachings. Only..." the guard hesitated. Gelmar's eyes narrowed in puzzlement.

"And? Speak, friend, there are guests at our door. They come peacefully. Where is that a problem?"

"Patriarch, it's...they're females!" he said. This caused a stir amongst the students and the other people gathered around, and momentarily stunned Gelmar as well.

Female orcs. They were a relatively rare sight outside of Dreanor or Azeroth. Some of them were in the army, and did well. What was more problematic was that there had long been a taboo upon shamanism. It was that females could never be allowed to become shamans. As far as he'd managed to learn, it never had a true basis. Just a decision that became law, then myth.

He sighed. "I see. Well, I shall meet them. Take me to them."

He walked through the small settlement people had begun to call Havenleaf. Here and there, huts had already been constructed, including his, which the people had made large enough to house at least six people in comfort - another point he'd been unable to order off. Other places - some of them only half-built - were services. There was a stable with horses, and farms where they had stored grain, as well as pigs, chickens and cows (all stolen from human farms, he was sad to say, although he made certain the raids were light and made on rich farms) and walked through Havenleaf's sole dirt road, through what may one day become the market, to what could optimistically be called.

He saw the group of orc females immediately, talking amongst themselves and to three of the orcs in charge of security in the small hamlet. They all stopped talking when they saw him, which made him wonder if something had changed about him. When he had been but a weak Necrolyte, he'd been almost neglected. But now.

He stepped towards the female. "Ogtar-Ogar, sisters." he said cordially "I welcome you to Havenleaf, and to the Hidden Valley. You are welcome, as long as you do not come here to harm. And you may learn, if you are prepared to endure teaching." he ignored the stares some males gave him. "Four of you wish to learn Shamanism. Please step forward, so that I may look at you."

They did, all four of them. By human standards, Gelmar was certain that these women would be considered ugly, but by orc standard, they had an undeniable charm. And each of the four, it seemed, had the Spirit's Touch, which was the power he had traced in each of his students.

It didn't take long for him to make his decision. The old rules sometimes applied, but he had learned enough from the Spirits from the old human and by himself to tell that they saw no difference between male and female - the soul was what was important.

"I see that the Spirits approve of you." he said with a grin "I welcome you all to Havenleaf. And you four, as my students." He felt protests bursting from some of the male orcs around, but he chose to ignore them. This was one decision he would stick to. He turned back towards his present students, followed by his new ones.

"We have become a true village..." he muttered wonderingly "It appears I am doing something worthwhile, after all."

And somewhere at the core of his soul, he sensed the Spirits' approval.

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Summer 595, Golden Plains, Lordaeron



The blade swept forward swiftly, and then described an arc, followed by a parry, a feint, and a thrust. A hand that had learned these tricks the hard way - through the fear of the battlefield did all of this expertly. Every movement was flowing into the next, fluid and deadly, reassuring the one who wielded the new blade that it seemed - at least from his point of view, that he hadn't started to rust his skills from commanding.

Aerth Swiftblade looked towards the men who had been looking at him trying his new wepon, and gave a grin. "Well, sirs, it appears I can still move correctly."

Turalyon, who stood the closest, nodded gravely. "Yes. You are adequately skilled indeed. Your proficiency with a sword is certainly above the norm." It was said in such a critical, bland fashion that there were ways to take it as Turalyon either snubbing or insulting him.

He knew, however, that none of this was true. Although he hadn't liked the paladin - who seemed so unlike his gentler leader Uther - the Siege had made things clear before anything foul might happen. The two had planned together, between hasty bites of ration and water, and had fought together, swords pushing back the enemy as they tried to come over the ramparts of Whitefort.

They had found that, although their ways were very different, they were both very much dedicated to the Alliance and to the defeat of the Horde. That, and the skills each saw in the other, had made respect, if not friendship, solidly takes root between the two of them. Strangely, it seemed that what had made Turalyon start to look upon him in respect hadn't quite been his abilities or his convictions, but the fact that he had refused to lay with her as long as the siege endured.

It seemed the paladin had interpreted that as a sign of willpower at work. He had been careful not to point out that he had been daydreaming about Eira every second he could spare, and that the only reason he hadn't gone to her was that an attack could have come any moment.

Paladins were queer. He left it at that.

So instead of being insulted as he might have been otherwise - he simply grinned wider and swept a bow. "A most gracious compliment, Lord Illine."

"I am merely stating a fact, Lord Swiftblade."

"Most gracious still!"

It was then that the other watcher - Lord Lothar himself, seated at a table poring over a map, chuckled. "If you two are QUITE done jesting with each other, perhaps you'd indulge an old man and come talk closer, now that you're done waving blades around?"

Both generals looked at each other. Turalyon shrugged as Swiftblade smiled, and both approached Lothar and sat. Swiftblade did so a bit stiffly. "Not quite yet used to this new armour."

"A problem?" Turalyon inquired quickly.

"No, no! Nothing of that kind." he assured them quickly. And it was true. The new weapons and armour - still in very limited quantities - were nothing short of remarquable. The work of the best Azerothian, Lordaeril and Dwarven smiths, they managed to be sturdier and more powerful, while actually not quite having the same weight the other armours had. It was intended to become the next type of armour the troops would wear, although there were rumours of stronger objects being made. "No, I always need time to settle into new armour. Overall, this large step above what we had. The troops will be able to do some damage with this."

Lothar frowned as he regarded the map. "They'll have to wait a while. It'll take some time before we can start refitting some armies."

"How long, sir?"

"About two months, I think."

"In that case, sir, I propose that the Fourth and Ninth armies be the first to receive these new armours and weapons."

Now Lothar actually looked up, while Turalyon simply give Swiftblade an inquisitive look. "The Fourth and the Ninth...why?

"Because the Southern Forces are fighting the hardest, and that among them, I say that Minvare and Goldenhorn's armies are the best there, no contest."

Lothar scratched his beard, slowly nodding. "I DO keep hearing good things about this Minvare...and Goldenhorn attracts loyalty like a magnet. Very well, I'll take it into consideration when the need arises."

"Thank you sir."

Lothar now pointed to the map, to the Emperor's Pass and beyond. "It appears the Horde is definitely leaving Lordaeron entirely - in two groups." that made both younger men sigh in relief - their forces were much diminished, and they would have no time to recruit more if an attack came too soon. Lothar kept his face neutral, however. "From what the Flying Machines and scouts have been able to see, the preceding army is laying traps, while the second, larger army is trying to catch the first."

"What?" Turalyon exclaimed. "Could it be a rebellion."

"Too large to be just a rebellion. This is a schism, plain and simple." Lothar's neutrality began to ebb a bit as he looked at them both. "You both know what this can mean, do you?"

How could they not? Swiftblade saw it in majestic colours! A schism - amongst the Horde that would mean a full war, once side pitted against the other until there was nothing left of the loser. Bloody, cruel, genocidal. The casualties would simply be immense. "If its verified sir, this could mean that the Horde would lose much of their numerical advantage over our forces."

"Yes. You're quite right! That means that the horde could not only be contained...but also actually pushed back. Perhaps all the way the way to Azeroth!" he said that last with a slightly dreamy expression.

Swiftblade felt the same, as would any Azerothian. To reconquer their homes...after so long...a dream many had all but given up at times, perhaps truly within their grasp...

Turalyon, however sympathetic he was, was Lordaeril and thus more practical. "Even if they weaken themselves, odds are we shall still remain outnumbered, unless we enlarge the army by a good factor."

Lothar only looked at them both with a strange face. "That might change. That might change. Buts that's for later. Now. We should make certain the troops are awake. I still want to do one last drill before we go back."

They were standing up when a horseman arrived, pursued quite hurriedly by sentries. The knights nearby rushed to block his path, but Swiftblade noted the blood staining the man's chain mail. "Let him through! Turalyon, I think he's wounded." The paladin nodded and moved forward at once. But the horseman, unheeding of his injuries, jumped down from his horse and ran towards them.

"Lord Lothar...Lord Lothar!" he coughed "There was a coup at Whitefort!"

All three men gaped, and then Lothar thundered "What? How died this happen? From whom?

"From Lord Duraz! He incited the soldiers into revolt, and has captured the nobles inside the Royal Castle."

Swiftblade nearly fell down. Light! Duraz! Oh, Light, Eira please be safe! He prayed. How could this be? "I left one thousand of my men, led by commander Kelnam Pedran! What of them?

"Mostly joined or jailed. The commander has sided with Lord Duraz!" the messenger answered.

So that was it. Pedran had never liked his methods, and this was his petty way of getting revenge. But Swiftblade swore an oath that he would see the traitor hanged one day for his deceit.

Lothar, however, didn't waste time. "Wake the men! We march to Whitefort within the hour!"

* * * * * * * * * *

Summer 595, Whitefort, Lordaeron

"You should be thankful, King Terenas, that our new order is conscious of the importance you bear in these lands. Otherwise, things might have been difficult." Silphord Duraz said, as he sat in full armour at the foot of Terenas's throne, looking at the old king.

The Compact had taken Whitefort neatly enough, with barely a hundred casualties, if one counted both the dead and the wounded. Kelnam Pedran had chosen the men who'd stay with him well, so that few had given much resistance, preferring to do whatever their commander told them to. A few had tried to resist, essentially the Royal Guards, but the surprise had been so complete that they'd nearly all been captured, except for a little group which'd managed to escape, wounded, through a passageway.

And he'd received more good news as well. The forces they had sent to protect the different cities - Hillsbrad, Southshore, and Harpgate mainly - had born fruit, and both these cities had fallen under their control, effectively putting the compact in charge of New Azeroth and Gilneas. And just now Whitefort had fallen to them, while forces intended for Redgates and Havenport would soon be on route. Only the Violet Citadel would still be a problem, and they would have their own troubles soon enough.

"With the capitals and social centres - not to mention their leaders - in our hands," he continued, "The people will have no choice but to follow our orders."

The king, although a prisoner himself, gave Duraz a look of disdain. "You think they'll follow such a tyranny, Duraz?"

"Oh they will, Terenas." he answered with a triumphant grin. "We are, after all, in a war, and the people want only one thing - to have people who will win it. This is what I intend to do - without the squirming the Alliance leaders have shown thus far. And when that happens, they won't care how I came to power. They'll only want me to stay there, and I certainly shall indulge them!"

"This is foolish. Lothar, Turalyon, Swiftblade, Minvare, Proudmoore - these are the names that the people believe in. They fought and won on the ground and on the sea. That is the kind of champions people look up to. You will only be looked at as an usurper." Terenas told him. "They were winning the battles while your Compact watched from the sidelines."

It might have angered Duraz, that comment. It just might have, if there hadn't been the fact that he felt so joyous at all the positive news. Even with that, he admitted something rankled deep within him, hearing these names, knowing them as people with no true vision of ruling or unity or - even worse - who had no place leading at all. But he kept his expression clear of those impressions.

"We took to the sidelines to better prepare ourselves, to keep our forces as intact as possible before we struck, recruiting the right people, those with the mindset to help us. We have six thousand here at Withfort, over five at Hillsbrad, Southshore, Harpgate. Other forces are serving to keep the resources and lands surrounding those places as ours. We have been preparing for a long time, Terenas."

"Preparing to divide human kind? To cause a civil war? You should know that it's not the time for that! Mankind must stay united!"

"And that is exactly why the soldiers will come to me, and won't fight against me: because there's no time to fight, that they need a firm leadership! And what better leadership than mine?" He asked.

"Lothar's." came a bold, defiant voice. And even before he turned, he saw the other two people he wanted to see.

Varien Wrynn, arm still in a sling, stood between two guards, his face proud and set, his enmity clear. The two had never liked each other, and the fact that Wrynn held a tenuous link to Azeroth's decimated Royal House of Wrynn - had never helped matters. The second was a woman he would once have liked to have beside himself, for she had much noble blood and quite a spirit. Eira Fregar Swiftblade also looked back in defiance; her black hair and noble posture making her look as beautiful as he remembered her.

"Ah, the bastard heir to Azeroth's throne...and the last of the House of Fregar. Perfect. Exactly whom I wanted to see. Things are changing, as you can see. The winds have shifted to something new."

"There's nothing I see here." Wrynn said "Nothing but traitors trying to bring down the Alliance."

Duraz no longer paid any attention to him. Instead he looked at the woman he should by all rights be married to today. She looked back at him evenly, not betraying any sign of fear or anger - indeed not betraying much of anything. Well-trained lady. Much noble control. "Well, my Lady Fregar. We meet again. I am quite glad of it, despite the past wrongs you made to me, or the mistakes you made."

"Wrongs? If you call loving a man who is more honest and whole then you can ever hope to be, then indeed I have wronged you. Otherwise I cannot see what you might be talking about." she answered with just a hint of sarcasm.

It was at that moment that Terenas spoke once more. "Lord Duraz, your forces, although they hold some territories, are small. There are many other armies, which, I don't doubt, are still loyal to the Alliance. You and your accomplices will be defeated and hunted eventually, as traitors to the Alliance as signed by all of the human nations."

The man who had founded and led the Compact laughed out loud at this. "So naive, Terenas. I have the loyalty of many commanders! The Seventh, Eight, Tenth, Eleventh and Thirteenth Armies answer to the Compact, and most of the other armies are now weakened by combat! Fall easily? I think not! No, believe this, Terenas: the days of the Alliance are ending. We will recreate true unity, and regroup the human nations into the great Empire it once was!"

Terenas looked at him in horror. "This is madness! Our realms have had centuries of differing history. Our peoples, our beliefs are united in the fact that we wish to survive. But this camaraderie, brought by the threat of invasion and death, can never be forced the way your propose. The time of Arathor is passed!"

Duraz expected as much. They thought the idea of reuniting Arathor insane, but Duraz knew it was possible. If the seven nations could unite in arms, why not more? This was the true goal of the Compact, after all. "Imagine, a peace more powerful, a unity more lasting than the Pact of Storm ever gave us!"

"Silphord...this is folly. You are not going to create unity. You are plunging the Alliance into a civil war..." Wrynn said, almost sadly.

Duraz was about to retort, when Kelnam Pedran entered. He looked older than the moment when he had joined the Compact's side, but resolute all the same. His expression was urgent as he came forth. "I beg your pardon, Sire, but I should tell you that the First and Second Armies have been sighted. It seems some of the escapees managed to warn them."

He turned towards the older officer. "How many are they?"

"There were many wounded. The two forces together can't make for more than ten thousand."

He grinned. "Perfect. We have six thousand here. Their numbers aren't enough for them to defeat us in a siege. They don't have the forces, and we have Almarra's eighteen thousand ready to deploy." This was too perfect! "Let's go hear them growl, dear Pedran!" he said. Behind him, Eira stirred.

"Pedran...my husband respected you, despite your differences. You betrayed his trust. If I were you, I'd worry." she said softly.

The old soldier said nothing, and Duraz gave her a sly look. "Now we shall see if your common-born husband can play general against a real opponent." he said, and left the room.

It was time to begin making the Compact into a truly viable power!

____________________________________________

Polla Mendranon

Birthplace: Alterac City, Alterac

Birthdate: Winter 574

Height: 5'5"

Hair: Brown

Eyes: Grey

Present status: Lieutenant of the First Alliance Army, detached on a special mission to Alterac.

Allegiances: The Alliance, The Kingdom of Alterac

History: Polla Mendranon comes from a family of archers. Her father and mother both served well in the Alterac Army for many years, and passed their great marksmanship on to their sons and daughters. Polla was the third child, and was found to be the most gifted, She grew up strong and well trained, and became intensely loyal to the Kingdom in which she grew up.

Polla, however, grew up resenting two things: the might of the other human nations, and the presence of the High Elves of Quel'Thalas. She resented the other nations, such as Lordaeron and Stromgarde, which looked down at Alterac, and grew to hate the elves for their plain attitudes of racial superiority. So when Alterac joined the Alliance, she gladly went, if only to prove that her people were equal to any people, and to put the High Elves back in their place.

However, she soon found that the humans from other nations weren't as bad as she'd thought, and reluctantly came to admit that even the Elves, despite their sometimes-aloof manner towards humans, could be good, solid people. Her values were put to the test, and she doubted herself and her beliefs.

This feeling is now coming to a head, as Polla was asked to investigate her own country, which some in the Alliance are suspecting of hiding secrets. Not wishing to believe it, Polla is determined to discover the truth, and clear her dear Kingdom's name. The discovery of orc patrol in Alterac, however, has made her doubt everything again. About her. And about the realm she loves.