Chapter Nineteen: Sieges and News
Summer 595, Citadel of the Hand, Lordaeron
The citadel of the hand had once been half a ruin, standing crumbling and forgotten, and the relics of Lordaeron's glorious past as the central provinces of the Empire of Arathor. No one had inhabited the large fortifications in at least two centuries, and as such only the sturdy design of the place had allowed what remained of it to survive.
Its desolation had ended quite sharply, when archbishop Alonsus Faol, revered priest and man of the Light, had been given it by King Terenas so that he, and his former pupil Uther, would be able to found the order of stalwart protectors of the Light. Surrounded by a dried moat, it was deemed perfect by both men, and work had started immediately.
Five years later, the work of the many engineers, Knights, peasants, and spellcasters had made the Citadel a proud bastion once more. Proud flags fluttered atop mighty parapets and towers, depicting all the countries in the Alliance. Knights prowled those walls, whether they might be Paladins or merely training to become a part of them. The entire place spoke of the strength of the new order, and their steadfast commitment to the Alliance.
Uther Lightbringer, First of the Paladins, wondered if that commitment would weather the present storm. After all, it had never been imagined that a true civil war might erupt amongst the human nations at these critical times, with the Horde barely held back through sacrifice and what anyone could only call miracles. He knew his people wished to protect mankind as whole. But what if they found the Compact's way better?
He asked it to the only man he would trust even if all should become a lie. Frail, wrinkled, steps slightly faltering as he walked, Alonsus Faol's eyes were however keen and wise, and his presence was undiminished as he pondered recent events as well as his former pupil's question.
"I would think," he finally said "That this Compact will fail. They have strength, but not enough. They have but one chance - to convince the people themselves that they are right. And I don't see it happening. The people know how dangerous the Horde is. Frightened though they may be, they're not about to jump into an untried government."
"But this Compact is led by Silphord Duraz, and he happens to be one of the Alliance's strongest minds." Uther countered. "They have the support of some armies, and of amore than a few mercenary groups. It is, if nothing else, a very real threat."
"I never said that it wasn't, Uther."
"Then...?"
"I simply do not believe it will prevail over the Alliance, although it might weaken it. As for your true concern - whether the Knights here will betray us to the Compact, it is even more doubtful." The old priest said.
"But will they be able to fight against their own brethren?"
"I do not understand..."
"I've received a report." Uther explained grimly, running a hand to the stubble, which had started to grow in recent years. "That is why I did not go tour Caer Darrow yet. One thousand footmen, headed by fifty knights - all of the Compact - are coming here. I daresay they'll want those who wish to join them, and will order the rest to surrender."
Uther watched his old mentor digest this new information. It wasn't hard to see that the priest was as troubled as the Paladin felt. At length, however, the man's lined face relaxed, and he stopped walking the walls to look out the Citadel.
Outside the restored walls, the moat's water flowed, filled to capacity when human workers had redirected a small river. But the interior was much more striking. A large keep stood in the middle, serving as a place where paladins could read, eat, sleep, and keep receive orders. On the east wall were the barracks for the servants and those knights who still weren't paladins. On another, small but proud - a chapel served as a centre of meditation to those who wished to learn the Divine Will of the Light. And there were courtyards, silos of food, training yards, an armoury, and many hundreds of people.
Alonsus Faol sighed. "Have faith, my son. All we have done here, these men have participated in. I do not think they will abandon it - or their oaths. Have faith in them, and you will see."
It was with these words in mind that he assembled all those who called themselves Knights of the Silver Hand in one of the courtyards. Standing on a rock to be heard, he cleared his throat as two hundred pair of eyes looked back.
"My brothers, I have grave news to impart to you." he took a breath. He didn't want to do this, dreaded to do this. But he had to have faith. He had to. "The Alliance is facing a grave danger. Not from the Horde, but from our own ranks." He watched as many of the assembled men exchanged looks of concern and shock. "This group, the Compact, has taken hold of many of our most important cities - including Hillsbrad, Harpgate, and Whitefort."
"The Kings and the Regent are prisoners?" one of the youngest asked.
"Yes. Although Regent Lothar was not present when the coup happened, we know that Kings Terenas and Greymane are both their...guests, shall we say. But that is not why I called you here..."
He trailed off. Now what? Should he separate the suspect from those he trusted? Should he use the power of the Light to look for traitors? None of the possibilities were appealing. Each may well break the order irreparably. Was he willing to risk this to make certain he knew where his people's loyalties lay?
No. He couldn't. He had made an oath as a priest, one as a warrior, one as a paladin. He would not question his brethren's oaths. To do so would mean that he had never believed in what he and the archbishop had worked so hard for.
He thus settled on his own, personal truth, and let the Light guide their hearts. "A thousand troops are coming to the Citadel, led by fifty Knights. Some of you may know them. It appears they are coming to ensure our compliance to the Compact. I will tell you, however, that I will not accept this. I will not give control to the Compact. The Citadel is part of the Alliance. That is what I say. What say you?"
The next minute was probably one of the most anxious of his life. The members of the order looked at each other, whispering, arguing gently, until finally, the young one who had talked before raised his voice.
"Enough! I don't need to discuss it! Whatever I might think of this...Compact, I have made an oath to the Alliance. To the Alliance and its leaders! Not to the compact! I will not go back on my oaths; it would be the lowest of all disgrace! We are paladins! We serve the Light and the truth!"
"Aye!" another, a burly knight from Stromgarde, said in a gruff voice " The lad's right! We made an oath. I personally think those knights leading the Compact don't deserve their armour. They don't know what duty means! I say we refuse! And if they insist, we send them back humiliated!"
"That's right! We follow the leaders of the Alliance, not just some usurpers!" one more added, and many growled their assent. Uther felt relief flow through him at their apparent steadfast support, but remained serious outwardly. He waved for silence, and spoke again only when he had it.
"If you all agree on this course, then it means that we will have to resist the Compact when they arrive. I intend to try and manage this with as little casualties as may be, but I have no intention of surrendering. If you will follow me in this, then we will prepare ourselves." he sighed, this time openly, as silence fell about the Paladins. Alonsus Faol had taken only the most honourable knights to become part of the Order. To attack humans when humanity itself was endangered wasn't something, which would please any of them. "It is a hard task, I know it. But what other choice do we have?"
"None." The burly knight growled "These people broke their oaths of allegiance, they have attacked and killed other humans. I can't forgive this! Not now, not with so much at stake. If the fight comes to us, then we will fight. For ourselves, for our honour!! We are paladins, but more than anything else, we are knights!
All agreed on this. All swore to defend the Citadel, although with reluctance. In the end, however, one thing mattered to Uther: they hadn't left. The Order hadn't been broken. It had weathered its first divisive blow.
And that, if nothing else, was worth quite a lot to Uther Lightbringer.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 595, Havenport, Kul Tiras
Grand Admiral Dealin Proudmoore simply couldn't believe that this was happening. Part of him had, in fact, refused to believe what he had heard, when a small Kul Tiras ship had joined his fleet, battered, its crew talking about a coup d'état in the capital. He hadn't believed it then, even though concern had spurred him into quickly redirecting the First Fleet. Now, however, his own eyes told him that what he'd refused to accept.
Havenport, the bustling, wealthy centre of his beloved kingdom, was caught in the throes of treachery and infighting.
He could see the damage with painful clarity. Proud buildings were crumbling, their fronts smashed. The merchant district was on fire. Booms of cannons were heard as the city's port defences - what remained of them - fired on the fleet, over the carcass of once-proud ships. It was like walking in the middle of a battlefield.
It was hard to take. So very hard. Ever since the Island War, when Kul Tiras had won its independence from a then-bellicose Lordaeron, the capital had never been endangered. Well protected internally by a strong, loyal garrison, its powerful navy had ensured that it would remain free of piracy and the meddling of other powers. It had never been taken ever since Kul Tiras had been founded.
Until today, that is.
Yet...no, it hadn't been taken, not quite, not yet! He saw that heavy fighting was still occurring around the Royal Castle's fortifications. The sailors had told him that Larienne had somehow felt something was wrong just before the coup, and had made certain to man the castle walls with the most loyal, best-trained troops in the city. It had born fruit, it seemed. The Royal Castle hadn't fallen, and as long as it wasn't invested, this so-called Compact was nothing but a rebel faction.
Proudmoore had no intention of letting the situation continue, of course. One of his aides signalled to him. "Sir! We have detached sloops to occupy the few defences remaining, and a wing of destroyers is now dispatched to stall the Compact fleet. Awaiting your orders, sir!"
He nodded. "Battleships in front then, maintain heavy fire on the port to make certain our troops can disembark unimpeded. Destroyers and sloops should flank and support us! Give the signal for the landing operation to commence!" He barely acknowledged the salute he received, instead going to his private cabin to put of heavier armour and strap his sword on. This was going to be hand-to-hand, no doubt.
So be it. He wanted nothing more than to strike at those who tried to weaken his realm!
Booms and the sounds of breaking stones and wood told him that the operation was in full swing, and by the time he returned - to the deck, in front of the assembled troops assigned to the ships. In front of him, the ravaged stone decks of the port, marked by cannon explosions. No enemy was present, chased off or - he saw several mangled bodies - killed. Her didn't let this occupy his mind. He blocked the sounds of battle from his mind, blocked the sites, and only uttered a cry for the troops to advance as soon as the ship touched the old rock and masonry of the port.
The troops disembarked behind him - one hundred all in all. From thirty other ships, the same amount streamed out, until a small army of three thousand was racing through the street to make battle with the Compact.
It wasn't long before the fight was renewed on the streets, as soldiers wearing a sunburst design on the left chest went to do combat against the loyalists led by the king. Proudmoore deftly stepped deflected and struck back, using his knowledge of the sea to fight with impressive grace. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw civilians, huddling at the doors; children crying at steel rang on streets never used to such sounds. This sight only fuelled his resolve even more.
"Onward! Onward! To the castle!!" he said, waving his blade. Others took up his cry, and all advanced.
The fighting became harder once they reached the noble district, and it showed that a small war had raged there for many days. Many mansions were rubble, and as he looked dozens of arrows rained down on the troops at the castle's feet. Ladders were pushed back, oil dumped. It was clear the castle dweller's will was still great, although it would eventually have failed. Seeing its enemy, the loyalist force needed no urging. With a cry, the battle was engaged.
It didn't last as long as he'd thought it would. The Compact's forces numbered about two thousand at most, less than his own forces, and the castle's resistance had tired them. They tried to put in their strength, but too many fruitless charges and wall climbing had sapped the strength of many.
Proudmoore's forces, on the other hand, were dazed by the situation but fresh, full of energy, and attacked with reluctant vigour that soon began to overpower the enemy lines. As he charged with his men, he saw some compact soldiers dropping their weapons and surrendering. The attempt to take Havenport was failing before his very eyes.
Finally, even as the enemy's front crumbled, the fortified castle door swung open, and the loyalists who had been trapped there attacked from their own side, utterly breaking apart any stable formation, which remained. More and more soldiers surrendered, and those who wouldn't surrender were driven into pockets, and either captured or, when all else failed, slaughtered. By the evening of that day, all Compact forces in the city were destroyed or under close guard.
The coup had failed. That, as far as Proudmoore was concerned, was the easy part. Knowing what to do with the soldiers, however...THAT would be the harder part of it.
"I suppose I'll have to make a decision soon." he sighed, and was about to call upon his aides when he heard the voice that meant the most to him.
"My Lord! How glad I am to see you here, fit and well!" said Larienne. Her eyes were red from sleepless nights, but she looked as radiant and as strong as ever as she came up to him, surrounded by loyal knights who bowed to their lord. He couldn't refrain the fondness in his tone when he took her proffered hand and kissed it.
"I am also quite glad to see you came to no harm." he said politely, understating matters severely. "It appears that those who would have undone the House of Proudmoore are routed. Gentlemen, I leave the rest of the battle up to you." he'd told his aides "I want them rounded up and questioned if they surrender, killed if they don't. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Then go."
As his aides went away, bellowing orders, as clashes with the rebels of the Compact drifted farther and farther away, Dealin Proudmoore forgot about the damage to the city, about the threat this rebellion would have on the Alliance and what it might mean in keeping the enormous, resources-hungry war effort that it had to maintain against the Horde. He was with Larienne, and she was safe. Her face was serene, which reassured him that Jaina was also safe and protected inside the castle. He would go see her, of course. Soon. Just not now.
For now, he just wanted to savour the knowledge that his beloved queen was beside him, that she had survived the siege and managed to retain all of her strength and will.
"My liege! My liege!" he blinked, turned his gaze towards a seaman who was running to him quickly. His expression was taut, tenser than what should be normal, and Proudmoore frowned. What could it be? "My King, we have received a message..." the man then trailed off, uncomfortable. The ruler of Kul Tiras glared at him in impatience.
"Well, boy?" he asked at last, making the younger man jump "Speak! What is your news?"
Still the boy - no more than eighteen summers he saw - hesitated upon his message, and it took another, grimmer order to make him talk.
Not having a choice, he did.
And King Dealin Proudmoore, ruler of the wealthiest nation in the Alliance, felt his world shatter as what was being said registered.
"My King...we have just received words. The Third Fleet, where your sons were stationed...was destroyed. There were no survivors."
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 595, Land Bridges, Stromgarde
"Are you certain about this sir?" Jennala Ironhore asked, even though she had before. It wasn't in her habit to do so, but the news were so important, so incredible that she had to make completely, absolutely certain.
"As I've told Lord Minvare, lass. And as I told you at least three times." said a gruff, amused Dwarven voice.
"Then half of the Horde stationed right across from the Land Bridges is-"
"Gone, aye. Saw some pieces of that with my own two eyes here, and I'll cut off my beard if it isn't so."
Muradin Bronzebeard wasn't just any dwarf. He wasn't even any important dwarf. A close family relation and friend to the dwarven king, he had also been the chief dwarven ambassador to the Kingdom of Azertoth for the better part of a century. Also, he was a strong warrior, who had proven his strength and honour on the battlefield more than once. He was, in short, one of the trustworthiest people to talk to. If Muradin Bronzebeard said something was so, it was because it was.
Jennala looked vat the other generals gathered about her with excitation in her voice. "We could do it." she stated, "We could strike at Dun Algaz!"
Zathu Voss, who led the Sixth Army, actually choked on the whisky he had been drinking. "Are you daft or something girl?" he growled, "Even if the information correct, we still have one hundred thousand of the enemy to contend with!"
"Less than our own forces, however." Quarval Highkill of the Eleventh Army noted hopefully. "If we attacked them in force, we could achieve great results."
"The Horde had fortified their own positions!" Voss returned sharply. "Even if we could take Dun Algaz, how could we hold it? No, we need to wait for a weakness or a break-up in their forces. Once that happens..."
"It might NEVER happen!" Jennala growled, exasperated by the older General's cautious talk. "The orcs are going right in the middle of a civil war, or so it appears! We might never see that that weak, not ever again. I say attack, grasp the chance we have before us and drive them out as much as we can."
Voss actually scoffed at her tone. "Spoken like a true Stromgardian: hit first, no matter what happens to your troops."
Jennala, who knew herself to be a good tactician, bristled at the insult, as did her fellow Stromgardian, Quarval Highkill. But before she told the Kul Tiras general what she thought of his comment, a calm, firm voice interrupted the conflict before it escalated further.
"I've heard enough from either of you. Lets not forget we're on the same side for now, shall we?" Rellon Minvare said as he entered the tent where all the leaders of the southern forces had convened. She saw many a general - including Voss - stiffen as he did, and she knew why it was so.
It came from the fact that Minvare had, slowly but swiftly, instituted himself the de facto leader of the southern forces - a fact that had irked more than one commanding officer. After all, Minvare might be a proven strategist and warrior, but he didn't have the experience some other had!
The problem was that he was the one who had won the most battle in the south. Even she, even Swiftblade, hadn't made such an impact at the Land Bridges such as he did. No general had. These results demanded respect, and she gave the calm man what he was due. She had no doubt that the High Command would one day grant him the position formally, but for now, many did not wish to see him as their superior in any way.
"You're late, Rellon." Xalbreth Fillave, the ever-good-natured leader of the Seventh Army, told the calm general almost playfully. The man shrugged, but she spotted a hesitation in him as he did. As if something had bothered him for the fraction of a moment. Strange, coming from a man who always seemed to control his emotions and how he expressed them.
"I was delayed. My apologies. But your discussion was hard to miss, and I did get the gist of it. Jennala, I heard you want to attack the Horde position to gain Dun Algaz. Although I understand why you'd say so, I must disagree. I will not back any plan to attack the Horde this way. We'll lose too many troops."
"As I tried to tell her, Rellon." Voss said, actually looking friendly with the Azerothian. He looked at her with petty smugness. "I daresay that she hasn't studied the situation as well as she should have."
She gave Voss a glare, and then turned - not rounded, not quite rounded - on Minvare himself. "You can't be serious!" she cried " We can't just sit on our hands while the orcs are in the worse disarray we've ever seen them in!?!" She wanted to say more, but he looked at her and raised his hand. Angrily, she fell silent.
"I never said I didn't think we should attack them at all. Just not headlong. No, I have though of certain past events, browsed my knowledge of history, and I have found a way to attack the Horde without suffering nearly as much casualties as we might otherwise."
Voss swallowed his smug air, but all the others leaned forwards in interest. Minvare didn't have the raw talent that Swiftblade had possessed - he couldn't make a winning strategy right on the spot. He was a methodical man who put together strategies after long hours and much research. His strategies, however, were near and sometimes equalled Swiftblade's. That was another reason he remained the de facto leader of the group of leaders.
"And how could we do that?" Fillave asked jovially.
"From what Muradin told me, the orcs have been severely weakened on the eastern Land Bridge. I propose that we keep one army to keep our defences at all bridges, then use one other to attack the eastern Horde Forces. Their leaders have proven to be unimaginative, and will certainly shift troops to make certain we don't pass there."
"What good will this do us?" General Ubruger of the Fifteenth Army asked.
"It will shift their attention to the east, letting us free to attack them by surprise at Dun Algaz."
"How?"
"By striking at them by surprise, with a force of sixty-five thousand soldiers we'll have sneaked across." Minvare said, ignoring the disbelief his statement engendered.
Voss, of course, wasted no time in scorning the idea, and Jennala was loath to admit he had a point. "Sneak across sixty-five thousand soldiers across the Land Bridges without one of the hundred thousand orcs noticing? Impossible!" he scoffed.
It was then that Minvare smiled. It wasn't often that he did, and when he did, it was always because he was highly satisfied with something. Obviously what Voss had said fit what he had thought he'd hear from his peers.
"That's exactly what the Horde will think, too. But there are ways left in this world to sneak us around without them knowing." he looked at Muradin Bronzebeard, who had simply watched the proceedings, and his smile broadened as the dwarven eyes widen in sudden realization."
"Clever lad." The dwarf muttered. "Aye, very clever lad you are. It can be done, I think. But it will take some preparations."
"What preparations?" Voss asked suspiciously, his brow contracting.
"That will be told another time, I'm afraid. I still haven't finished choosing which army will do what. I thus propose we reconvene tomorrow morning, to decide of the plan details together." Minvare said calmly. No one could say anything against that calm tone and all, after a while, agreed, and began to leave.
Minavare, however, stopped the motion with another raised hand. "However, Id like Muradin, as well as generals Ironhorse and Voss to stay here a moment. I have something I wish to tell them."
For some reason, something in Rellon Minvare's calm tone upset Jennala highly. Something was wrong. She knew it. But what?
Seated, anxious, she waited for the de facto leader of the southern forces to speak, not certain she wanted to hear what she was about to learn.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 595, Outside Whitefort, Lodaeron
Aerth Swiftblade nearly ran from the meeting tent, where all of the other generals and commanders loyal to the Alliance had discussed means to retake the city without a large amount of bloodshed. Certain leaders argued for a full assault, on the basis that Duraz only had six thousand troops, limited magical support, and that his army was mostly untried, while their forces were already five times that number, and that a large amount were veterans of the Siege of Whitefort, and thus knew their defences inside and out.
But Lothar have voiced against such an attack. Not only was the so-called leader of the 'New Order' no fool, he held hostages who were critical to the morale of the Alliance. Also, he suspected that many soldiers actually only followed orders, without really partaking in their leaders' political decisions and opinions.
"Many of them know nothing of politics, and only wish to follow orders in order to stay in good health." Lothar had said, "This isn't as simple as striking against the Horde."
"With all due respect, sir, it is." Turalyon had interjected. "Humans have fought humans many times before the Horde arrived."
"Yes, two CENTURIES before the Horde arrived. The Pact of Stormwind prevented large-scale battles and, as such, we have become less accustomed to killing our own kin."
"Yet, sir, if we do nothing, the Compact, curse them, might well strengthen their hold on the capital. And if they should do this too long..."
The debate raged on and on, arguments and counter-arguments being thrown, until the point of the entire meeting became mired in the collective indecision of the room. Swiftblade was nearly suffocated with disgust when he half-fled in as it broke up. His heart wracked with fear, he walked around the camps, barely acknowledging the gestures and words of respect he received from his own men.
All he could think about was his own failings.
Ever since the war had begun, he'd been almost always a winner in his battles. Always, when faced with a military quandary, he'd been able to design a plan to save his own lives, to win while inflicting as much damage to the enemy. He'd been honoured for this ability. He'd made the First Army the first in more than title; he'd been made a nobleman, and had won respect from his men and his people.
He'd been modest about it, but now he knew it. He'd been bloated with pride, so much that he had let things slip out of his grasp. He had never paid attention to the traitor, Kelnam Pedran, seeing the older commander's disdain for the battle decisions as something, which was beneath him. He should have know, he should have looked for signs, for indeed there had been many, and some had tried to warning. He had let Pedran become a traitor, and take his men to turn them against the Alliance.
But that wasn't the worst. No, that wasn't what troubled his sleep, what wounded his very health just thinking about it. It was that, right now, he was failing when Eira needed him to succeed.
He'd been unable to find a plan that could work without bloodshed, with a large risk of failure. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't do it. His mind turned to crystal, his soul fired up, but there was nothing he could do. Eira was there, in the Royal Castle. With a man who hated her for falling for a common-born knight, for marrying him, for bearing him a son. His son. Duraz would probably hate the boy on sight, just for sharing both bloodlines. His, wife, his son, they were in grave danger.
And he couldn't do a thing for them. He couldn't help them, couldn't save them.
What good was having a mind which could devise all those strategies, which could see all the patterns of a battle before they happened, if it couldn't be used when his family needed it to give its very best?!?
Nothing. That was what it was worth. If they died, because of Duraz, the man would die by his own blade, no matter the Alliance justice system, no matter if the man surrendered! He would butcher him. And the same - no, far worse - would go for that traitor. That old, blind fool that he saw Pedran as now would pay!
"You look distraught, my friend."
He actually jumped as the two men who stood in from of Aerth's own tent talked. He had been so deep in his morose mind that he hadn't seen them at all!
He recognized the goateed man as Khadgar, whom he's met more than once both in the north and the south. But he failed to put a name on the other one. Like Khadgar, he also wore sorceror's robes, and a carved staff with a ruby on tope. He had a severe face, a long, grey beard, and wise, intelligent eyes.
"Well met, Khadgar." he said at last after a long moment of contemplation "If I may ask...?" he said as he turned to look at the newcomer.
"How rude of me. Aerth Swiftblade, this man is Antonidas, one of the Kirin Tor of Dalaran. Antonidas, this is Aerth Swiftblade, certainly one of the Alliance's best generals."
"A pleasure, sir." Antonidas said smoothly, handing out a hand. After a hesitation, Swiftblade shook it firmly.
"I...am honoured. I wish I could say its a pleasure, but with the situation at present..."
"I completely understand. I know that your wife is being held captive within these walls, sir, and I sympathize with your plight." his old eyes gained a new light as he spoke - that of determination. "However, I can tell you that she is in no immediate danger, and is being well-treated, as is your son."
The information surprised him, and he looked at Khadgar, who nodded. "We have been scrying the castle for the last week. Not easily, since it is heavily-protected by enchantments. But we have been able to ascertain that none of the more important hostages have been hurt yet."
Relief flooded through him. He trusted Khadgar's word, and the knowledge that neither his son nor his wife had been hurt gave him energy again. His felt some of his hopes return, and held on to them. But he maintained enough composure to ask them what was their purpose here. Both men took a serious expression at that.
"The first reason is the easiest. The messages given to us have reached Minvare, and he is putting up measures as we speak." Antonidas said. "The second reason is of large importance, at least to Dalaran: we have agreed to use our mages, sorcerers and conjurers against the Horde."
It was reason enough to celebrate, and if his family hadn't been occupying his mind at that moment, he would have whooped for joy. Although Dalaran had agreed to raise troops to contribute to the Alliance, and although they participated in Proudmoore's shipbuilding program, they had never accepted to fully use their magical might, except to relay messages and - sometimes - to act as support. Lack of magical might had certainly given the Horde an edge, with the arrival of the dreaded Death Knights and now, those magic-wielding ogres the scouts had spotted...
It would certainly be a boon, equalizing the field and probably much, much more, especially since there had been quite a purge on the Horde side before the beginning of the Second War.
"And the third reason...is that we may have found a chink in this revolt's armour." the older mage said with a confident grin.
And that was something, which perked Swiftblade's interest greatly. "And what might that be, sir?" he asked.
"Follow us to Lord Lothar's tent. I think this is something you should both hear." Khadgar said. Nodding, both started to trek towards where Lothar had been living for the past month.
Feeling hopeful for the first time in far too long, the youngest general of the Alliance followed them eagerly.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late summer 595, Alterac City, Alterac
"I don't know what to think. That's what it comes down to. I don't know what to think about Alterac's loyalty anymore!" Polla Mendranon said earnestly, her voice a harsh whisper. Even here, deep in a disaffected warehouse, she couldn't find it to say such things in her normal voice. Neither, after a thought, could the others.
Hesav, a lean man of barely thirty, scratched his greasy hair despondently. "What I've heard also tells me things I really don't like to hear."
"Still, these are hearsay, rumours. We've seen nothing that really tells us that Alterac's turned traitor!"
"Oh, open your eyes, Cay!" Hesav said hotly "We've heard plenty, and seen plenty to know that something is going on!"
Polla wondered, however, if she would ever find proof of these things she had seen and heard. Tangible proof, to give to the Alliance High Command. It would be very hard there: she doubted that the King or his ministers would leaved incriminating papers on their desk, just lying about for anyone to read them! And yet, she had accepted a mission. And that mission, as much as she loathed it, was to find out if the Nation of Alterac still remained loyal and committed to the Alliance.
It had been relatively easy to slip into the city. Born and raised in the region, each had been able to convince the people there that they were treasure hunters, come to spend their treasure in the city. They had gone to many places, spending the gold - lots of it, supplied by the Alliance leadership - to make good on that tale, and so far hadn't crossed paths with anyone they knew. Their spending, and generosity, however, had an ulterior motive - namely to loosen some tongues. So far, their success had been average, but the little bits they heard, added to what they saw, gave them a chilled feeling.
"They're not building up troops." one of the others said. "I've seen no place to go to the army, no place to stock goods for the army. No wonder what they sent is so small. Its like...like..."
"Lip service?" Polla interjected tiredly.
"Yes, that's right. They make a big show about their commitment, but they've committed only a fifth or less of what they could!"
"Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way." Cay said stubbornly. Maybe they sent more troops at the beginning, or maybe they take more people from the villages and towns about instead of the capital..."
"Cay..." Hesav said.
"Or perhaps its because there's been a bad year, and they prefer to loosen their contribution for a while, until they're on their feet again. There are plenty of possibilities! We have to look at them before accusing our own people!"
"Cay...!"
"Rumours are all we have! That's no proof! Each nation does its own thing its own way! There's certainly a reason, or perhaps everyone here simply wants to believe that-"
"CAY!! THAT'S ENOUGH! SHUT UP NOW BEFORE I DO IT FOR YOU!" Hesav finally exploded, startling the bigger, stubborn man into silence. "I perfectly understand you want to stay loyal to Alterac. We ALL do! But we have a job here. A job given by people who deserve respect. If Alterac has commited treason, then it's our duty as loyal Alliance soldiers to expose it. I won't serve a government which sides against the entire human race! That clear enough for everyone here?"
Apparently it was. Hesav nodded, his lean face still tense. "Good. Then shut up about defending the realm, Cay. You're only making yourself look like a fool." the bigger man glared, but kept his mouth shut.
Polla decided to relax the atmosphere before something started again. "Anyway. At least we don't have to look for orcs. No greenskin in this place. It seems that, whatever the King might be doing, he's not about to let them into the city."
"That'd be the end of it all!" one of the others, a strongly-built woman said "Orcs going about in a human city? The Horde may as well say that Alterac is conquered then! There's little else besides this city!"
She spoke the truth and everyone knew it well. Alterac City was the only settlement that had a large population, and even then it was smaller than places like Whitefort, the Violet Citadel or Havenport. The rest of the country was largely agrarian, with towns largely numbering more than three thousand. It was a surprise that Stromgarde hadn't taken it over when Lordaeron had let it go, but then the realm had been poor for decades afterwards, and by the time it had become stable if not wealthy, the Pact of Stormwind had been signed, saving the realm from a very short life.
Still, the Kingdom had never been able to truly find its place, caught as it was between the far larger realms of Stromgarde and Lordaeron. For two centuries up to the present day, it had always remained the smallest realm, the weakest one, overlook, trodden upon, treated with condescension while realms like Azeroth, while far, were treated with admiration and fawning respect.
It was unfair, it was highly insulting. It no doubt drove many to dislike the Alliance, where Alterac was largely overlooked too. She could see how all that could happen.
But that situation to side with...with these things who'd already killed so many of her own friends before her eyes! There was no excuse for that. She'd seen too much.
"Heard about what happened with the Alliance, by the way? Looks like something big is going on there!" Hesav said after relaxing his body and expression. All the rest of the group looked at him in surprise, and he blinked. "You HAVEN'T?!? LIGHT! Where have you people been?!"
"Stop gloating." Cay said, "Just spit out what you mean."
The lean man smirked. "I think I'll do just that." his expression than became serious and tense again "Looks like a part of the Alliance splintered of, called itself the Compass or whatever - the name's debatable here - and took several cities, including Whitefort!"
"What?!?" she asked. She couldn't believe it. Whitefort, taken? When she was young, she'd thought that Alterac City was so very mighty, but it was nothing compared to Whitefort's high ramparts and beautiful, strong buildings. "They actually took the city? The city that rose above Strom?"
"Lets not get excited. They took it from the inside. They were assigned to guard it, and took it bloodlessly because they were about the only troops inside at the time. They say that some Alliance armies surround it, so I don't know if that revolt's gonna amount to much in the end." he paused "Still, that means that the Alliance is weakened right now!"
"As is the Horde. THAT is common knowledge." For the first time, Cay said reluctantly. "Perhaps a bit TOO common. But I could be wrong."
Polla pushed her concerns aside. If the Alliance was dealing with rebels, there were people more suited to the task who would take charge and see it through. Her work, in the end, was here, carrying out her mission until the men who had given it to her told her otherwise.
"This changes nothing to what we have to do." she decided. "We'll have to move more quickly, however. The sooner we are back and give our report, the sooner we can find out what happened in the world while we were here spying our own people." she was surprised at her own bitterness. She thought she had outgrown it. It seemed that she had thought wrong, after all.
Hesav sighed as the others nodded - Cay more reluctantly than the others. "Once more onto the breach, eh Polla?"
"Yep. Until we find some real answers." And with that sentence, the meeting was officially ended.
Until the next time they met.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Summer 595, Harazan Valley, Khaz Modan
Kerak Fadeburn swung his great, muscular arm right to the ogre's right head, his giant axe gleaming red with blood, even as he dodge one muscular fist. He struck, putting all of his three hundred pounds of hardened body mass behind that blow. It hit truly, the great axe blade cleaving the head off with hardly an effort. It fell, its eyes looking at nothing, still caught in a fearful expression.
It didn't kill the ogre, however. With half of itself gone, however, the left head howled in terror and loss, and lashed out with far less skill than in had before, losing coherence. The left side was all but useless, and he sidestepped the blows easily, with a grace that belied the orc's immense, powerful girth. The second strike took a hand off, and continued to embed itself into the ogre's other head.
Kerak howled in sheer triumph, forgetting the bruising pain at his side as he forced the bloody axe out and raised it over his head. What a battle! That had been one of the most invigorating in days!! With a growl of pleasure, the orc went back and searched for more blood for his axe.
Those weren't hard to find, as he went back into one of the largest melees that had occurred between Horde people in twelve years. Legions of orcs, ogres and trolls battled one another in an orgy such that it reminded Kerak of the days before Doomhammer and Blackhand. It was a time of traitors and insult, a time where the only goal was to kill as many opponents as possible.
That suited Kerak just fine. It was what he'd always yearned for, and he minded nothing that his enemy was an orc, an ogre, a dwarf or a human. As long as he could fight, he was perfectly happy.
He rushed into the thick of a fray, reaped heads and limbs, and rushed out, trailing bodies. Orcs had begun to recognize him, seeing the burnt forearm he had gained when he'd struck against Alexstraza herself when the Dragonmaw Clan had captured her. Many avoided him carefully, while others fled him completely. He cursed their cowardice, their feint hearts, as he jeered and defied the world to send him to his doom. The sun gleamed on his many scars, and his bellow of triumph was enough to make even the ogres pause.
"Cowards!" he howled, laughing. "Can't you come and face me like true warriors?!? Come and face me, if you have courage. Seize your honour!"
He wasn't truly surprised of the others' reluctance, however. Ever since he had been a child, he's been strong. Too strong, so much that even his father - a strong orc himself - had been slightly nervous as his son grew to adulthood. All the while, he had trained, and found joy in his training. He soon became feared in both armed and hand-to-hand fighting, even before he had become a grunt. He had taken part in the last battles, which broke the backs of the Dranei forever. Those had been amusing, but not satisfying, battles. The other race had been weak and easily cowed, and hadn't shown much resistance at the battles he had participated in.
Then, he had come to the human realm of Azeroth. He had taken part in the disastrous assault on Stormwind.
There, he had found creatures, which actually fought. They lacked the orcs' strength, but were doughty nonetheless, and he had revelled in many fights where humans would rush at him from all sides. He had made his name there. The terror his name inspired in the Horde increased manifold, but still he didn't feel it was enough. He was one with this need for blood, and went looking for more.
Battle upon battles, battlefield upon battlefield, he had been the victor, had reaped life upon life, giving honour to those who fought and scorn to those who begged or fled. All of those years, he had continued, and had become undefeated, so much that no orc wanted to practice with him anymore.
And then, recently, that human...that Danath Farstrike...
He had seen the human fight with amazing skill, and had recognized one who had devoted himself to fighting for the pleasure to fight. The human had also been undefeated when he saw him, mowing down his enemies with his blade. It had been a joy to challenge the human, to fight him head-on. Even if he knew he would win, he was certain that Danath would give him a fight.
And what a fight it had been. He had been winning slowly, but not decisively, and for the first time he had faced someone who could perhaps equal him. It thrilled him beyond blood thirst, right into his soul.
He hoped to see the human again. He was a sight better than the cowards he was jeering at right now.
One orc - a young one - eventually came forth and challenged him. He, like his brethren, was loyal to Gul'Dan and the old ways rather than Doomhammer. Kerak, for his part, was loyal to Doomhammer because the orc knew how to fight. But it meant nothing on these duels. He gave a glad nod of respect to the onrushing foe and met him head on.
It was immediately apparent that the younger, smaller orc was no match for him. His blows didn't land hard enough, and his speed was less and prevented him from stopping some of the blows completely. Still, it did not deter the enemy at all. Certain that he was doomed, he still struck at Kerak again and again, trying to find a weakness, trying his best to kill him and survive.
The large orc warrior could respect that, but he also had to win the fight. With one hand, he struck the smaller orc's blade aside, and plunged his axe one-handed into the collarbone. Blood flew, and his foe jerked, dying at once. The other orcs' eyes, however, never lost their defiance, even as he died. As his corpse slid down, Kerak raised his axe, bloodier than ever - into the air.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Come at me! See if you can be even better than this warrior who just fought me! Come one, traitors of the Horde! At least try to show your honour! Try to-"
In the middle of his sentence, he stepped aside, and a throwing axe swung by him. He turned his head to see a troll, looking at him with dawning apprehension. He spat, showing his teeth. "Coward. I won't be so easy with you!" he growled, and rushed again, blood thumping, eliminating all sounds.
The troll, having no choice, tried to meet him. The tusk showed that it was a stronger specimen, one they called a berserker, and he saw indeed that the axes he launched were larger than the average.
No matter. He came in quickly, his axe swinging as he intercepted one throwing axe, stopping it cold, and dodged the other. It grazed his side, but he never noticed. He never let the berserker time to strike again, digging his immense axe right into the trolls shoulder, severing his left arm. With a howl, the troll stumbled back, and he tripped the creature to the bloody, trampled ground.
He humphed as he looked at the troll moaning on the ground. Despicable, sneaky creatures. He had never liked them at all, and in fact had never agreed with having them as part of the Horde. He had never accepted it. They were deceitful, unreliable, and often preferred cowardly tactics to that of a true, honourable fight. It was because of all this - and the lack of honour the troll had shown him - that he looked down upon it with no compassion.
"Don't! Don't kill me, mon! Don't kill me, wouldn't be fair, mon!" the troll said, voice guttural yet shrill with fear.
This enraged him more than he thought it would. What was this ...this TROLL...talking about there, with his talk of fairness, with his shameless begging! There, he felt, was the difference between warriors and cowards. Warriors never begged! They accepted their fate and fought on, to the bitter end it they had to! "You have no right to ask me ANYTHING! I'll slaughter you like the stinking SHEEP that you are!
"No! DON'T!!!" the troll wailed, but it was too late for anything. The blow came down, swiftly taking his life, drenching the blade in yet more fresh blood. Grimly, Kerak took it out of the corpse, but this time with no respect in his gestures.
"Traitors and cowards...no wonder they follow Gul'Dan. They go well in hand together!" he said in disgust, sniffing as if to a bad smell.
And hefting his axe, he went back into the battle, sneering, battling, and jeering. Defying death, defying everything. Even himself.
________________________________________________
Kerak Fadeburn
Birthplace: Auchindoun, Dreanor
Birthdate: Late 570
Height: 7'
Hair: Black
Eyes: Black
Present status: Champion of the Bleeding Hollow Clan
Allegiances: Bleeding Hollow Clan, Doomhammer
History: Kerak Fadeburn was always much too strong, even as an orcling. Born of warrior parents in the days when the Horde had just been formed, he was trained in the art of war at an early age, and excelled like none have yet. He quickly grew in strength and feats, mastering the axe and hand-to-hand fighting, using it against the Drenai.
As his strength grew, so did his lust for fights. Although young, he quickly challenged one of the Bleeding Hollow Clan's champions, and defeated him easily. This, however, did not satisfy him.
Now on Azeroth, having killed many humans, elves, and dwarves, all, even his own kin, fears Kerak. He is perhaps the greatest fighter in the Horde, and never considered the humans to be worthy opponents.
Until he met and fought a man named Danath Farstrike, and found himself faced with an adversary he was unable to fully defeat - an adversary he let live, whishing to meet again. To fight. To strengthen himself. And, more importantly, to live.
Summer 595, Citadel of the Hand, Lordaeron
The citadel of the hand had once been half a ruin, standing crumbling and forgotten, and the relics of Lordaeron's glorious past as the central provinces of the Empire of Arathor. No one had inhabited the large fortifications in at least two centuries, and as such only the sturdy design of the place had allowed what remained of it to survive.
Its desolation had ended quite sharply, when archbishop Alonsus Faol, revered priest and man of the Light, had been given it by King Terenas so that he, and his former pupil Uther, would be able to found the order of stalwart protectors of the Light. Surrounded by a dried moat, it was deemed perfect by both men, and work had started immediately.
Five years later, the work of the many engineers, Knights, peasants, and spellcasters had made the Citadel a proud bastion once more. Proud flags fluttered atop mighty parapets and towers, depicting all the countries in the Alliance. Knights prowled those walls, whether they might be Paladins or merely training to become a part of them. The entire place spoke of the strength of the new order, and their steadfast commitment to the Alliance.
Uther Lightbringer, First of the Paladins, wondered if that commitment would weather the present storm. After all, it had never been imagined that a true civil war might erupt amongst the human nations at these critical times, with the Horde barely held back through sacrifice and what anyone could only call miracles. He knew his people wished to protect mankind as whole. But what if they found the Compact's way better?
He asked it to the only man he would trust even if all should become a lie. Frail, wrinkled, steps slightly faltering as he walked, Alonsus Faol's eyes were however keen and wise, and his presence was undiminished as he pondered recent events as well as his former pupil's question.
"I would think," he finally said "That this Compact will fail. They have strength, but not enough. They have but one chance - to convince the people themselves that they are right. And I don't see it happening. The people know how dangerous the Horde is. Frightened though they may be, they're not about to jump into an untried government."
"But this Compact is led by Silphord Duraz, and he happens to be one of the Alliance's strongest minds." Uther countered. "They have the support of some armies, and of amore than a few mercenary groups. It is, if nothing else, a very real threat."
"I never said that it wasn't, Uther."
"Then...?"
"I simply do not believe it will prevail over the Alliance, although it might weaken it. As for your true concern - whether the Knights here will betray us to the Compact, it is even more doubtful." The old priest said.
"But will they be able to fight against their own brethren?"
"I do not understand..."
"I've received a report." Uther explained grimly, running a hand to the stubble, which had started to grow in recent years. "That is why I did not go tour Caer Darrow yet. One thousand footmen, headed by fifty knights - all of the Compact - are coming here. I daresay they'll want those who wish to join them, and will order the rest to surrender."
Uther watched his old mentor digest this new information. It wasn't hard to see that the priest was as troubled as the Paladin felt. At length, however, the man's lined face relaxed, and he stopped walking the walls to look out the Citadel.
Outside the restored walls, the moat's water flowed, filled to capacity when human workers had redirected a small river. But the interior was much more striking. A large keep stood in the middle, serving as a place where paladins could read, eat, sleep, and keep receive orders. On the east wall were the barracks for the servants and those knights who still weren't paladins. On another, small but proud - a chapel served as a centre of meditation to those who wished to learn the Divine Will of the Light. And there were courtyards, silos of food, training yards, an armoury, and many hundreds of people.
Alonsus Faol sighed. "Have faith, my son. All we have done here, these men have participated in. I do not think they will abandon it - or their oaths. Have faith in them, and you will see."
It was with these words in mind that he assembled all those who called themselves Knights of the Silver Hand in one of the courtyards. Standing on a rock to be heard, he cleared his throat as two hundred pair of eyes looked back.
"My brothers, I have grave news to impart to you." he took a breath. He didn't want to do this, dreaded to do this. But he had to have faith. He had to. "The Alliance is facing a grave danger. Not from the Horde, but from our own ranks." He watched as many of the assembled men exchanged looks of concern and shock. "This group, the Compact, has taken hold of many of our most important cities - including Hillsbrad, Harpgate, and Whitefort."
"The Kings and the Regent are prisoners?" one of the youngest asked.
"Yes. Although Regent Lothar was not present when the coup happened, we know that Kings Terenas and Greymane are both their...guests, shall we say. But that is not why I called you here..."
He trailed off. Now what? Should he separate the suspect from those he trusted? Should he use the power of the Light to look for traitors? None of the possibilities were appealing. Each may well break the order irreparably. Was he willing to risk this to make certain he knew where his people's loyalties lay?
No. He couldn't. He had made an oath as a priest, one as a warrior, one as a paladin. He would not question his brethren's oaths. To do so would mean that he had never believed in what he and the archbishop had worked so hard for.
He thus settled on his own, personal truth, and let the Light guide their hearts. "A thousand troops are coming to the Citadel, led by fifty Knights. Some of you may know them. It appears they are coming to ensure our compliance to the Compact. I will tell you, however, that I will not accept this. I will not give control to the Compact. The Citadel is part of the Alliance. That is what I say. What say you?"
The next minute was probably one of the most anxious of his life. The members of the order looked at each other, whispering, arguing gently, until finally, the young one who had talked before raised his voice.
"Enough! I don't need to discuss it! Whatever I might think of this...Compact, I have made an oath to the Alliance. To the Alliance and its leaders! Not to the compact! I will not go back on my oaths; it would be the lowest of all disgrace! We are paladins! We serve the Light and the truth!"
"Aye!" another, a burly knight from Stromgarde, said in a gruff voice " The lad's right! We made an oath. I personally think those knights leading the Compact don't deserve their armour. They don't know what duty means! I say we refuse! And if they insist, we send them back humiliated!"
"That's right! We follow the leaders of the Alliance, not just some usurpers!" one more added, and many growled their assent. Uther felt relief flow through him at their apparent steadfast support, but remained serious outwardly. He waved for silence, and spoke again only when he had it.
"If you all agree on this course, then it means that we will have to resist the Compact when they arrive. I intend to try and manage this with as little casualties as may be, but I have no intention of surrendering. If you will follow me in this, then we will prepare ourselves." he sighed, this time openly, as silence fell about the Paladins. Alonsus Faol had taken only the most honourable knights to become part of the Order. To attack humans when humanity itself was endangered wasn't something, which would please any of them. "It is a hard task, I know it. But what other choice do we have?"
"None." The burly knight growled "These people broke their oaths of allegiance, they have attacked and killed other humans. I can't forgive this! Not now, not with so much at stake. If the fight comes to us, then we will fight. For ourselves, for our honour!! We are paladins, but more than anything else, we are knights!
All agreed on this. All swore to defend the Citadel, although with reluctance. In the end, however, one thing mattered to Uther: they hadn't left. The Order hadn't been broken. It had weathered its first divisive blow.
And that, if nothing else, was worth quite a lot to Uther Lightbringer.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 595, Havenport, Kul Tiras
Grand Admiral Dealin Proudmoore simply couldn't believe that this was happening. Part of him had, in fact, refused to believe what he had heard, when a small Kul Tiras ship had joined his fleet, battered, its crew talking about a coup d'état in the capital. He hadn't believed it then, even though concern had spurred him into quickly redirecting the First Fleet. Now, however, his own eyes told him that what he'd refused to accept.
Havenport, the bustling, wealthy centre of his beloved kingdom, was caught in the throes of treachery and infighting.
He could see the damage with painful clarity. Proud buildings were crumbling, their fronts smashed. The merchant district was on fire. Booms of cannons were heard as the city's port defences - what remained of them - fired on the fleet, over the carcass of once-proud ships. It was like walking in the middle of a battlefield.
It was hard to take. So very hard. Ever since the Island War, when Kul Tiras had won its independence from a then-bellicose Lordaeron, the capital had never been endangered. Well protected internally by a strong, loyal garrison, its powerful navy had ensured that it would remain free of piracy and the meddling of other powers. It had never been taken ever since Kul Tiras had been founded.
Until today, that is.
Yet...no, it hadn't been taken, not quite, not yet! He saw that heavy fighting was still occurring around the Royal Castle's fortifications. The sailors had told him that Larienne had somehow felt something was wrong just before the coup, and had made certain to man the castle walls with the most loyal, best-trained troops in the city. It had born fruit, it seemed. The Royal Castle hadn't fallen, and as long as it wasn't invested, this so-called Compact was nothing but a rebel faction.
Proudmoore had no intention of letting the situation continue, of course. One of his aides signalled to him. "Sir! We have detached sloops to occupy the few defences remaining, and a wing of destroyers is now dispatched to stall the Compact fleet. Awaiting your orders, sir!"
He nodded. "Battleships in front then, maintain heavy fire on the port to make certain our troops can disembark unimpeded. Destroyers and sloops should flank and support us! Give the signal for the landing operation to commence!" He barely acknowledged the salute he received, instead going to his private cabin to put of heavier armour and strap his sword on. This was going to be hand-to-hand, no doubt.
So be it. He wanted nothing more than to strike at those who tried to weaken his realm!
Booms and the sounds of breaking stones and wood told him that the operation was in full swing, and by the time he returned - to the deck, in front of the assembled troops assigned to the ships. In front of him, the ravaged stone decks of the port, marked by cannon explosions. No enemy was present, chased off or - he saw several mangled bodies - killed. Her didn't let this occupy his mind. He blocked the sounds of battle from his mind, blocked the sites, and only uttered a cry for the troops to advance as soon as the ship touched the old rock and masonry of the port.
The troops disembarked behind him - one hundred all in all. From thirty other ships, the same amount streamed out, until a small army of three thousand was racing through the street to make battle with the Compact.
It wasn't long before the fight was renewed on the streets, as soldiers wearing a sunburst design on the left chest went to do combat against the loyalists led by the king. Proudmoore deftly stepped deflected and struck back, using his knowledge of the sea to fight with impressive grace. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw civilians, huddling at the doors; children crying at steel rang on streets never used to such sounds. This sight only fuelled his resolve even more.
"Onward! Onward! To the castle!!" he said, waving his blade. Others took up his cry, and all advanced.
The fighting became harder once they reached the noble district, and it showed that a small war had raged there for many days. Many mansions were rubble, and as he looked dozens of arrows rained down on the troops at the castle's feet. Ladders were pushed back, oil dumped. It was clear the castle dweller's will was still great, although it would eventually have failed. Seeing its enemy, the loyalist force needed no urging. With a cry, the battle was engaged.
It didn't last as long as he'd thought it would. The Compact's forces numbered about two thousand at most, less than his own forces, and the castle's resistance had tired them. They tried to put in their strength, but too many fruitless charges and wall climbing had sapped the strength of many.
Proudmoore's forces, on the other hand, were dazed by the situation but fresh, full of energy, and attacked with reluctant vigour that soon began to overpower the enemy lines. As he charged with his men, he saw some compact soldiers dropping their weapons and surrendering. The attempt to take Havenport was failing before his very eyes.
Finally, even as the enemy's front crumbled, the fortified castle door swung open, and the loyalists who had been trapped there attacked from their own side, utterly breaking apart any stable formation, which remained. More and more soldiers surrendered, and those who wouldn't surrender were driven into pockets, and either captured or, when all else failed, slaughtered. By the evening of that day, all Compact forces in the city were destroyed or under close guard.
The coup had failed. That, as far as Proudmoore was concerned, was the easy part. Knowing what to do with the soldiers, however...THAT would be the harder part of it.
"I suppose I'll have to make a decision soon." he sighed, and was about to call upon his aides when he heard the voice that meant the most to him.
"My Lord! How glad I am to see you here, fit and well!" said Larienne. Her eyes were red from sleepless nights, but she looked as radiant and as strong as ever as she came up to him, surrounded by loyal knights who bowed to their lord. He couldn't refrain the fondness in his tone when he took her proffered hand and kissed it.
"I am also quite glad to see you came to no harm." he said politely, understating matters severely. "It appears that those who would have undone the House of Proudmoore are routed. Gentlemen, I leave the rest of the battle up to you." he'd told his aides "I want them rounded up and questioned if they surrender, killed if they don't. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Then go."
As his aides went away, bellowing orders, as clashes with the rebels of the Compact drifted farther and farther away, Dealin Proudmoore forgot about the damage to the city, about the threat this rebellion would have on the Alliance and what it might mean in keeping the enormous, resources-hungry war effort that it had to maintain against the Horde. He was with Larienne, and she was safe. Her face was serene, which reassured him that Jaina was also safe and protected inside the castle. He would go see her, of course. Soon. Just not now.
For now, he just wanted to savour the knowledge that his beloved queen was beside him, that she had survived the siege and managed to retain all of her strength and will.
"My liege! My liege!" he blinked, turned his gaze towards a seaman who was running to him quickly. His expression was taut, tenser than what should be normal, and Proudmoore frowned. What could it be? "My King, we have received a message..." the man then trailed off, uncomfortable. The ruler of Kul Tiras glared at him in impatience.
"Well, boy?" he asked at last, making the younger man jump "Speak! What is your news?"
Still the boy - no more than eighteen summers he saw - hesitated upon his message, and it took another, grimmer order to make him talk.
Not having a choice, he did.
And King Dealin Proudmoore, ruler of the wealthiest nation in the Alliance, felt his world shatter as what was being said registered.
"My King...we have just received words. The Third Fleet, where your sons were stationed...was destroyed. There were no survivors."
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 595, Land Bridges, Stromgarde
"Are you certain about this sir?" Jennala Ironhore asked, even though she had before. It wasn't in her habit to do so, but the news were so important, so incredible that she had to make completely, absolutely certain.
"As I've told Lord Minvare, lass. And as I told you at least three times." said a gruff, amused Dwarven voice.
"Then half of the Horde stationed right across from the Land Bridges is-"
"Gone, aye. Saw some pieces of that with my own two eyes here, and I'll cut off my beard if it isn't so."
Muradin Bronzebeard wasn't just any dwarf. He wasn't even any important dwarf. A close family relation and friend to the dwarven king, he had also been the chief dwarven ambassador to the Kingdom of Azertoth for the better part of a century. Also, he was a strong warrior, who had proven his strength and honour on the battlefield more than once. He was, in short, one of the trustworthiest people to talk to. If Muradin Bronzebeard said something was so, it was because it was.
Jennala looked vat the other generals gathered about her with excitation in her voice. "We could do it." she stated, "We could strike at Dun Algaz!"
Zathu Voss, who led the Sixth Army, actually choked on the whisky he had been drinking. "Are you daft or something girl?" he growled, "Even if the information correct, we still have one hundred thousand of the enemy to contend with!"
"Less than our own forces, however." Quarval Highkill of the Eleventh Army noted hopefully. "If we attacked them in force, we could achieve great results."
"The Horde had fortified their own positions!" Voss returned sharply. "Even if we could take Dun Algaz, how could we hold it? No, we need to wait for a weakness or a break-up in their forces. Once that happens..."
"It might NEVER happen!" Jennala growled, exasperated by the older General's cautious talk. "The orcs are going right in the middle of a civil war, or so it appears! We might never see that that weak, not ever again. I say attack, grasp the chance we have before us and drive them out as much as we can."
Voss actually scoffed at her tone. "Spoken like a true Stromgardian: hit first, no matter what happens to your troops."
Jennala, who knew herself to be a good tactician, bristled at the insult, as did her fellow Stromgardian, Quarval Highkill. But before she told the Kul Tiras general what she thought of his comment, a calm, firm voice interrupted the conflict before it escalated further.
"I've heard enough from either of you. Lets not forget we're on the same side for now, shall we?" Rellon Minvare said as he entered the tent where all the leaders of the southern forces had convened. She saw many a general - including Voss - stiffen as he did, and she knew why it was so.
It came from the fact that Minvare had, slowly but swiftly, instituted himself the de facto leader of the southern forces - a fact that had irked more than one commanding officer. After all, Minvare might be a proven strategist and warrior, but he didn't have the experience some other had!
The problem was that he was the one who had won the most battle in the south. Even she, even Swiftblade, hadn't made such an impact at the Land Bridges such as he did. No general had. These results demanded respect, and she gave the calm man what he was due. She had no doubt that the High Command would one day grant him the position formally, but for now, many did not wish to see him as their superior in any way.
"You're late, Rellon." Xalbreth Fillave, the ever-good-natured leader of the Seventh Army, told the calm general almost playfully. The man shrugged, but she spotted a hesitation in him as he did. As if something had bothered him for the fraction of a moment. Strange, coming from a man who always seemed to control his emotions and how he expressed them.
"I was delayed. My apologies. But your discussion was hard to miss, and I did get the gist of it. Jennala, I heard you want to attack the Horde position to gain Dun Algaz. Although I understand why you'd say so, I must disagree. I will not back any plan to attack the Horde this way. We'll lose too many troops."
"As I tried to tell her, Rellon." Voss said, actually looking friendly with the Azerothian. He looked at her with petty smugness. "I daresay that she hasn't studied the situation as well as she should have."
She gave Voss a glare, and then turned - not rounded, not quite rounded - on Minvare himself. "You can't be serious!" she cried " We can't just sit on our hands while the orcs are in the worse disarray we've ever seen them in!?!" She wanted to say more, but he looked at her and raised his hand. Angrily, she fell silent.
"I never said I didn't think we should attack them at all. Just not headlong. No, I have though of certain past events, browsed my knowledge of history, and I have found a way to attack the Horde without suffering nearly as much casualties as we might otherwise."
Voss swallowed his smug air, but all the others leaned forwards in interest. Minvare didn't have the raw talent that Swiftblade had possessed - he couldn't make a winning strategy right on the spot. He was a methodical man who put together strategies after long hours and much research. His strategies, however, were near and sometimes equalled Swiftblade's. That was another reason he remained the de facto leader of the group of leaders.
"And how could we do that?" Fillave asked jovially.
"From what Muradin told me, the orcs have been severely weakened on the eastern Land Bridge. I propose that we keep one army to keep our defences at all bridges, then use one other to attack the eastern Horde Forces. Their leaders have proven to be unimaginative, and will certainly shift troops to make certain we don't pass there."
"What good will this do us?" General Ubruger of the Fifteenth Army asked.
"It will shift their attention to the east, letting us free to attack them by surprise at Dun Algaz."
"How?"
"By striking at them by surprise, with a force of sixty-five thousand soldiers we'll have sneaked across." Minvare said, ignoring the disbelief his statement engendered.
Voss, of course, wasted no time in scorning the idea, and Jennala was loath to admit he had a point. "Sneak across sixty-five thousand soldiers across the Land Bridges without one of the hundred thousand orcs noticing? Impossible!" he scoffed.
It was then that Minvare smiled. It wasn't often that he did, and when he did, it was always because he was highly satisfied with something. Obviously what Voss had said fit what he had thought he'd hear from his peers.
"That's exactly what the Horde will think, too. But there are ways left in this world to sneak us around without them knowing." he looked at Muradin Bronzebeard, who had simply watched the proceedings, and his smile broadened as the dwarven eyes widen in sudden realization."
"Clever lad." The dwarf muttered. "Aye, very clever lad you are. It can be done, I think. But it will take some preparations."
"What preparations?" Voss asked suspiciously, his brow contracting.
"That will be told another time, I'm afraid. I still haven't finished choosing which army will do what. I thus propose we reconvene tomorrow morning, to decide of the plan details together." Minvare said calmly. No one could say anything against that calm tone and all, after a while, agreed, and began to leave.
Minavare, however, stopped the motion with another raised hand. "However, Id like Muradin, as well as generals Ironhorse and Voss to stay here a moment. I have something I wish to tell them."
For some reason, something in Rellon Minvare's calm tone upset Jennala highly. Something was wrong. She knew it. But what?
Seated, anxious, she waited for the de facto leader of the southern forces to speak, not certain she wanted to hear what she was about to learn.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer 595, Outside Whitefort, Lodaeron
Aerth Swiftblade nearly ran from the meeting tent, where all of the other generals and commanders loyal to the Alliance had discussed means to retake the city without a large amount of bloodshed. Certain leaders argued for a full assault, on the basis that Duraz only had six thousand troops, limited magical support, and that his army was mostly untried, while their forces were already five times that number, and that a large amount were veterans of the Siege of Whitefort, and thus knew their defences inside and out.
But Lothar have voiced against such an attack. Not only was the so-called leader of the 'New Order' no fool, he held hostages who were critical to the morale of the Alliance. Also, he suspected that many soldiers actually only followed orders, without really partaking in their leaders' political decisions and opinions.
"Many of them know nothing of politics, and only wish to follow orders in order to stay in good health." Lothar had said, "This isn't as simple as striking against the Horde."
"With all due respect, sir, it is." Turalyon had interjected. "Humans have fought humans many times before the Horde arrived."
"Yes, two CENTURIES before the Horde arrived. The Pact of Stormwind prevented large-scale battles and, as such, we have become less accustomed to killing our own kin."
"Yet, sir, if we do nothing, the Compact, curse them, might well strengthen their hold on the capital. And if they should do this too long..."
The debate raged on and on, arguments and counter-arguments being thrown, until the point of the entire meeting became mired in the collective indecision of the room. Swiftblade was nearly suffocated with disgust when he half-fled in as it broke up. His heart wracked with fear, he walked around the camps, barely acknowledging the gestures and words of respect he received from his own men.
All he could think about was his own failings.
Ever since the war had begun, he'd been almost always a winner in his battles. Always, when faced with a military quandary, he'd been able to design a plan to save his own lives, to win while inflicting as much damage to the enemy. He'd been honoured for this ability. He'd made the First Army the first in more than title; he'd been made a nobleman, and had won respect from his men and his people.
He'd been modest about it, but now he knew it. He'd been bloated with pride, so much that he had let things slip out of his grasp. He had never paid attention to the traitor, Kelnam Pedran, seeing the older commander's disdain for the battle decisions as something, which was beneath him. He should have know, he should have looked for signs, for indeed there had been many, and some had tried to warning. He had let Pedran become a traitor, and take his men to turn them against the Alliance.
But that wasn't the worst. No, that wasn't what troubled his sleep, what wounded his very health just thinking about it. It was that, right now, he was failing when Eira needed him to succeed.
He'd been unable to find a plan that could work without bloodshed, with a large risk of failure. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't do it. His mind turned to crystal, his soul fired up, but there was nothing he could do. Eira was there, in the Royal Castle. With a man who hated her for falling for a common-born knight, for marrying him, for bearing him a son. His son. Duraz would probably hate the boy on sight, just for sharing both bloodlines. His, wife, his son, they were in grave danger.
And he couldn't do a thing for them. He couldn't help them, couldn't save them.
What good was having a mind which could devise all those strategies, which could see all the patterns of a battle before they happened, if it couldn't be used when his family needed it to give its very best?!?
Nothing. That was what it was worth. If they died, because of Duraz, the man would die by his own blade, no matter the Alliance justice system, no matter if the man surrendered! He would butcher him. And the same - no, far worse - would go for that traitor. That old, blind fool that he saw Pedran as now would pay!
"You look distraught, my friend."
He actually jumped as the two men who stood in from of Aerth's own tent talked. He had been so deep in his morose mind that he hadn't seen them at all!
He recognized the goateed man as Khadgar, whom he's met more than once both in the north and the south. But he failed to put a name on the other one. Like Khadgar, he also wore sorceror's robes, and a carved staff with a ruby on tope. He had a severe face, a long, grey beard, and wise, intelligent eyes.
"Well met, Khadgar." he said at last after a long moment of contemplation "If I may ask...?" he said as he turned to look at the newcomer.
"How rude of me. Aerth Swiftblade, this man is Antonidas, one of the Kirin Tor of Dalaran. Antonidas, this is Aerth Swiftblade, certainly one of the Alliance's best generals."
"A pleasure, sir." Antonidas said smoothly, handing out a hand. After a hesitation, Swiftblade shook it firmly.
"I...am honoured. I wish I could say its a pleasure, but with the situation at present..."
"I completely understand. I know that your wife is being held captive within these walls, sir, and I sympathize with your plight." his old eyes gained a new light as he spoke - that of determination. "However, I can tell you that she is in no immediate danger, and is being well-treated, as is your son."
The information surprised him, and he looked at Khadgar, who nodded. "We have been scrying the castle for the last week. Not easily, since it is heavily-protected by enchantments. But we have been able to ascertain that none of the more important hostages have been hurt yet."
Relief flooded through him. He trusted Khadgar's word, and the knowledge that neither his son nor his wife had been hurt gave him energy again. His felt some of his hopes return, and held on to them. But he maintained enough composure to ask them what was their purpose here. Both men took a serious expression at that.
"The first reason is the easiest. The messages given to us have reached Minvare, and he is putting up measures as we speak." Antonidas said. "The second reason is of large importance, at least to Dalaran: we have agreed to use our mages, sorcerers and conjurers against the Horde."
It was reason enough to celebrate, and if his family hadn't been occupying his mind at that moment, he would have whooped for joy. Although Dalaran had agreed to raise troops to contribute to the Alliance, and although they participated in Proudmoore's shipbuilding program, they had never accepted to fully use their magical might, except to relay messages and - sometimes - to act as support. Lack of magical might had certainly given the Horde an edge, with the arrival of the dreaded Death Knights and now, those magic-wielding ogres the scouts had spotted...
It would certainly be a boon, equalizing the field and probably much, much more, especially since there had been quite a purge on the Horde side before the beginning of the Second War.
"And the third reason...is that we may have found a chink in this revolt's armour." the older mage said with a confident grin.
And that was something, which perked Swiftblade's interest greatly. "And what might that be, sir?" he asked.
"Follow us to Lord Lothar's tent. I think this is something you should both hear." Khadgar said. Nodding, both started to trek towards where Lothar had been living for the past month.
Feeling hopeful for the first time in far too long, the youngest general of the Alliance followed them eagerly.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late summer 595, Alterac City, Alterac
"I don't know what to think. That's what it comes down to. I don't know what to think about Alterac's loyalty anymore!" Polla Mendranon said earnestly, her voice a harsh whisper. Even here, deep in a disaffected warehouse, she couldn't find it to say such things in her normal voice. Neither, after a thought, could the others.
Hesav, a lean man of barely thirty, scratched his greasy hair despondently. "What I've heard also tells me things I really don't like to hear."
"Still, these are hearsay, rumours. We've seen nothing that really tells us that Alterac's turned traitor!"
"Oh, open your eyes, Cay!" Hesav said hotly "We've heard plenty, and seen plenty to know that something is going on!"
Polla wondered, however, if she would ever find proof of these things she had seen and heard. Tangible proof, to give to the Alliance High Command. It would be very hard there: she doubted that the King or his ministers would leaved incriminating papers on their desk, just lying about for anyone to read them! And yet, she had accepted a mission. And that mission, as much as she loathed it, was to find out if the Nation of Alterac still remained loyal and committed to the Alliance.
It had been relatively easy to slip into the city. Born and raised in the region, each had been able to convince the people there that they were treasure hunters, come to spend their treasure in the city. They had gone to many places, spending the gold - lots of it, supplied by the Alliance leadership - to make good on that tale, and so far hadn't crossed paths with anyone they knew. Their spending, and generosity, however, had an ulterior motive - namely to loosen some tongues. So far, their success had been average, but the little bits they heard, added to what they saw, gave them a chilled feeling.
"They're not building up troops." one of the others said. "I've seen no place to go to the army, no place to stock goods for the army. No wonder what they sent is so small. Its like...like..."
"Lip service?" Polla interjected tiredly.
"Yes, that's right. They make a big show about their commitment, but they've committed only a fifth or less of what they could!"
"Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way." Cay said stubbornly. Maybe they sent more troops at the beginning, or maybe they take more people from the villages and towns about instead of the capital..."
"Cay..." Hesav said.
"Or perhaps its because there's been a bad year, and they prefer to loosen their contribution for a while, until they're on their feet again. There are plenty of possibilities! We have to look at them before accusing our own people!"
"Cay...!"
"Rumours are all we have! That's no proof! Each nation does its own thing its own way! There's certainly a reason, or perhaps everyone here simply wants to believe that-"
"CAY!! THAT'S ENOUGH! SHUT UP NOW BEFORE I DO IT FOR YOU!" Hesav finally exploded, startling the bigger, stubborn man into silence. "I perfectly understand you want to stay loyal to Alterac. We ALL do! But we have a job here. A job given by people who deserve respect. If Alterac has commited treason, then it's our duty as loyal Alliance soldiers to expose it. I won't serve a government which sides against the entire human race! That clear enough for everyone here?"
Apparently it was. Hesav nodded, his lean face still tense. "Good. Then shut up about defending the realm, Cay. You're only making yourself look like a fool." the bigger man glared, but kept his mouth shut.
Polla decided to relax the atmosphere before something started again. "Anyway. At least we don't have to look for orcs. No greenskin in this place. It seems that, whatever the King might be doing, he's not about to let them into the city."
"That'd be the end of it all!" one of the others, a strongly-built woman said "Orcs going about in a human city? The Horde may as well say that Alterac is conquered then! There's little else besides this city!"
She spoke the truth and everyone knew it well. Alterac City was the only settlement that had a large population, and even then it was smaller than places like Whitefort, the Violet Citadel or Havenport. The rest of the country was largely agrarian, with towns largely numbering more than three thousand. It was a surprise that Stromgarde hadn't taken it over when Lordaeron had let it go, but then the realm had been poor for decades afterwards, and by the time it had become stable if not wealthy, the Pact of Stormwind had been signed, saving the realm from a very short life.
Still, the Kingdom had never been able to truly find its place, caught as it was between the far larger realms of Stromgarde and Lordaeron. For two centuries up to the present day, it had always remained the smallest realm, the weakest one, overlook, trodden upon, treated with condescension while realms like Azeroth, while far, were treated with admiration and fawning respect.
It was unfair, it was highly insulting. It no doubt drove many to dislike the Alliance, where Alterac was largely overlooked too. She could see how all that could happen.
But that situation to side with...with these things who'd already killed so many of her own friends before her eyes! There was no excuse for that. She'd seen too much.
"Heard about what happened with the Alliance, by the way? Looks like something big is going on there!" Hesav said after relaxing his body and expression. All the rest of the group looked at him in surprise, and he blinked. "You HAVEN'T?!? LIGHT! Where have you people been?!"
"Stop gloating." Cay said, "Just spit out what you mean."
The lean man smirked. "I think I'll do just that." his expression than became serious and tense again "Looks like a part of the Alliance splintered of, called itself the Compass or whatever - the name's debatable here - and took several cities, including Whitefort!"
"What?!?" she asked. She couldn't believe it. Whitefort, taken? When she was young, she'd thought that Alterac City was so very mighty, but it was nothing compared to Whitefort's high ramparts and beautiful, strong buildings. "They actually took the city? The city that rose above Strom?"
"Lets not get excited. They took it from the inside. They were assigned to guard it, and took it bloodlessly because they were about the only troops inside at the time. They say that some Alliance armies surround it, so I don't know if that revolt's gonna amount to much in the end." he paused "Still, that means that the Alliance is weakened right now!"
"As is the Horde. THAT is common knowledge." For the first time, Cay said reluctantly. "Perhaps a bit TOO common. But I could be wrong."
Polla pushed her concerns aside. If the Alliance was dealing with rebels, there were people more suited to the task who would take charge and see it through. Her work, in the end, was here, carrying out her mission until the men who had given it to her told her otherwise.
"This changes nothing to what we have to do." she decided. "We'll have to move more quickly, however. The sooner we are back and give our report, the sooner we can find out what happened in the world while we were here spying our own people." she was surprised at her own bitterness. She thought she had outgrown it. It seemed that she had thought wrong, after all.
Hesav sighed as the others nodded - Cay more reluctantly than the others. "Once more onto the breach, eh Polla?"
"Yep. Until we find some real answers." And with that sentence, the meeting was officially ended.
Until the next time they met.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Summer 595, Harazan Valley, Khaz Modan
Kerak Fadeburn swung his great, muscular arm right to the ogre's right head, his giant axe gleaming red with blood, even as he dodge one muscular fist. He struck, putting all of his three hundred pounds of hardened body mass behind that blow. It hit truly, the great axe blade cleaving the head off with hardly an effort. It fell, its eyes looking at nothing, still caught in a fearful expression.
It didn't kill the ogre, however. With half of itself gone, however, the left head howled in terror and loss, and lashed out with far less skill than in had before, losing coherence. The left side was all but useless, and he sidestepped the blows easily, with a grace that belied the orc's immense, powerful girth. The second strike took a hand off, and continued to embed itself into the ogre's other head.
Kerak howled in sheer triumph, forgetting the bruising pain at his side as he forced the bloody axe out and raised it over his head. What a battle! That had been one of the most invigorating in days!! With a growl of pleasure, the orc went back and searched for more blood for his axe.
Those weren't hard to find, as he went back into one of the largest melees that had occurred between Horde people in twelve years. Legions of orcs, ogres and trolls battled one another in an orgy such that it reminded Kerak of the days before Doomhammer and Blackhand. It was a time of traitors and insult, a time where the only goal was to kill as many opponents as possible.
That suited Kerak just fine. It was what he'd always yearned for, and he minded nothing that his enemy was an orc, an ogre, a dwarf or a human. As long as he could fight, he was perfectly happy.
He rushed into the thick of a fray, reaped heads and limbs, and rushed out, trailing bodies. Orcs had begun to recognize him, seeing the burnt forearm he had gained when he'd struck against Alexstraza herself when the Dragonmaw Clan had captured her. Many avoided him carefully, while others fled him completely. He cursed their cowardice, their feint hearts, as he jeered and defied the world to send him to his doom. The sun gleamed on his many scars, and his bellow of triumph was enough to make even the ogres pause.
"Cowards!" he howled, laughing. "Can't you come and face me like true warriors?!? Come and face me, if you have courage. Seize your honour!"
He wasn't truly surprised of the others' reluctance, however. Ever since he had been a child, he's been strong. Too strong, so much that even his father - a strong orc himself - had been slightly nervous as his son grew to adulthood. All the while, he had trained, and found joy in his training. He soon became feared in both armed and hand-to-hand fighting, even before he had become a grunt. He had taken part in the last battles, which broke the backs of the Dranei forever. Those had been amusing, but not satisfying, battles. The other race had been weak and easily cowed, and hadn't shown much resistance at the battles he had participated in.
Then, he had come to the human realm of Azeroth. He had taken part in the disastrous assault on Stormwind.
There, he had found creatures, which actually fought. They lacked the orcs' strength, but were doughty nonetheless, and he had revelled in many fights where humans would rush at him from all sides. He had made his name there. The terror his name inspired in the Horde increased manifold, but still he didn't feel it was enough. He was one with this need for blood, and went looking for more.
Battle upon battles, battlefield upon battlefield, he had been the victor, had reaped life upon life, giving honour to those who fought and scorn to those who begged or fled. All of those years, he had continued, and had become undefeated, so much that no orc wanted to practice with him anymore.
And then, recently, that human...that Danath Farstrike...
He had seen the human fight with amazing skill, and had recognized one who had devoted himself to fighting for the pleasure to fight. The human had also been undefeated when he saw him, mowing down his enemies with his blade. It had been a joy to challenge the human, to fight him head-on. Even if he knew he would win, he was certain that Danath would give him a fight.
And what a fight it had been. He had been winning slowly, but not decisively, and for the first time he had faced someone who could perhaps equal him. It thrilled him beyond blood thirst, right into his soul.
He hoped to see the human again. He was a sight better than the cowards he was jeering at right now.
One orc - a young one - eventually came forth and challenged him. He, like his brethren, was loyal to Gul'Dan and the old ways rather than Doomhammer. Kerak, for his part, was loyal to Doomhammer because the orc knew how to fight. But it meant nothing on these duels. He gave a glad nod of respect to the onrushing foe and met him head on.
It was immediately apparent that the younger, smaller orc was no match for him. His blows didn't land hard enough, and his speed was less and prevented him from stopping some of the blows completely. Still, it did not deter the enemy at all. Certain that he was doomed, he still struck at Kerak again and again, trying to find a weakness, trying his best to kill him and survive.
The large orc warrior could respect that, but he also had to win the fight. With one hand, he struck the smaller orc's blade aside, and plunged his axe one-handed into the collarbone. Blood flew, and his foe jerked, dying at once. The other orcs' eyes, however, never lost their defiance, even as he died. As his corpse slid down, Kerak raised his axe, bloodier than ever - into the air.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Come at me! See if you can be even better than this warrior who just fought me! Come one, traitors of the Horde! At least try to show your honour! Try to-"
In the middle of his sentence, he stepped aside, and a throwing axe swung by him. He turned his head to see a troll, looking at him with dawning apprehension. He spat, showing his teeth. "Coward. I won't be so easy with you!" he growled, and rushed again, blood thumping, eliminating all sounds.
The troll, having no choice, tried to meet him. The tusk showed that it was a stronger specimen, one they called a berserker, and he saw indeed that the axes he launched were larger than the average.
No matter. He came in quickly, his axe swinging as he intercepted one throwing axe, stopping it cold, and dodged the other. It grazed his side, but he never noticed. He never let the berserker time to strike again, digging his immense axe right into the trolls shoulder, severing his left arm. With a howl, the troll stumbled back, and he tripped the creature to the bloody, trampled ground.
He humphed as he looked at the troll moaning on the ground. Despicable, sneaky creatures. He had never liked them at all, and in fact had never agreed with having them as part of the Horde. He had never accepted it. They were deceitful, unreliable, and often preferred cowardly tactics to that of a true, honourable fight. It was because of all this - and the lack of honour the troll had shown him - that he looked down upon it with no compassion.
"Don't! Don't kill me, mon! Don't kill me, wouldn't be fair, mon!" the troll said, voice guttural yet shrill with fear.
This enraged him more than he thought it would. What was this ...this TROLL...talking about there, with his talk of fairness, with his shameless begging! There, he felt, was the difference between warriors and cowards. Warriors never begged! They accepted their fate and fought on, to the bitter end it they had to! "You have no right to ask me ANYTHING! I'll slaughter you like the stinking SHEEP that you are!
"No! DON'T!!!" the troll wailed, but it was too late for anything. The blow came down, swiftly taking his life, drenching the blade in yet more fresh blood. Grimly, Kerak took it out of the corpse, but this time with no respect in his gestures.
"Traitors and cowards...no wonder they follow Gul'Dan. They go well in hand together!" he said in disgust, sniffing as if to a bad smell.
And hefting his axe, he went back into the battle, sneering, battling, and jeering. Defying death, defying everything. Even himself.
________________________________________________
Kerak Fadeburn
Birthplace: Auchindoun, Dreanor
Birthdate: Late 570
Height: 7'
Hair: Black
Eyes: Black
Present status: Champion of the Bleeding Hollow Clan
Allegiances: Bleeding Hollow Clan, Doomhammer
History: Kerak Fadeburn was always much too strong, even as an orcling. Born of warrior parents in the days when the Horde had just been formed, he was trained in the art of war at an early age, and excelled like none have yet. He quickly grew in strength and feats, mastering the axe and hand-to-hand fighting, using it against the Drenai.
As his strength grew, so did his lust for fights. Although young, he quickly challenged one of the Bleeding Hollow Clan's champions, and defeated him easily. This, however, did not satisfy him.
Now on Azeroth, having killed many humans, elves, and dwarves, all, even his own kin, fears Kerak. He is perhaps the greatest fighter in the Horde, and never considered the humans to be worthy opponents.
Until he met and fought a man named Danath Farstrike, and found himself faced with an adversary he was unable to fully defeat - an adversary he let live, whishing to meet again. To fight. To strengthen himself. And, more importantly, to live.
