Chapter Twenty-One: Tidings and Reversals

Early Autumn 595, Havenport, Kul Tiras

Yanov Proudmoore. Crown Prince of Kul Tiras. Born on the early summer of the Year of Light 573. Died on the waning summer of the Year of Light 595.

Gerthon Proudmoore. Prince of Kul Tiras. Born in the midst of winter of the Year of Light 577. Died on the waning summer of the Year of Light 595.

His sons. Gone.

Two weeks had passed since that though had first crossed his mind, had taken hold and obliviated all of his senses. The grief Dealin Proudmoore had felt, so indescribable in its intensity, had left him weak, without hope, and even now it lingered in his heart. He simply couldn't live with the idea that both young men, so vibrant, so full of possibilities, were erased from his life.

Gone. He would only see them again the day he would die. It hurt. It hurt far too much for it to be real.

His sons had been the only worthwhile outcome that he had found from his first marriage. It had been an arranged event. His father, the previous king, had made a deal with an affluent house, and had betrothed the high noble's newborn daughter with his own three-year-old prince. There had been no doubt that he would marry this woman from as far as he could remember. Whether it thought it fair and good was of no consequence to his parents, who simply told him this was the way things were.

He had never loved his first wife. Too serious, not adventurous enough, he respected her yet felt she stifled him. He had fathered children to satisfy his duty to the nation, and to placate his aging father. Nothing more. When he had ascended the throne of Kul Tiras for the first time, he had been certain that the woman beside him would be there for all his days. It hadn't been a very joyful reflection.

But his sons had made up for that. More than made up. Both strong, inquisitive about the world, they had grown quick-witted and strong, and had soon become their father's pride and joy. Although he was often away on his duties as king, Proudmoore had always been quite glad to return to them and their constant pestering about Kul Tiras, Azeroth, and all of the human lands.

It had been a blow when their mother had died. To them and, surprisingly, to the king himself. He had never loved her, but he had grown used to her presence. Together, they had all three mended their wounds, and carried on. It was then that he had met Larienne Sarastha, a vibrant young noblewoman he had loved from the first moment. He had wooed her in earnest, held back only by the fear that their son might not like her.

To his relief, she had been the kind of woman they liked. Strong-minded, idealistic, and knowledgeable, she had been quickly accepted by both boys, until it seemed she had always been with them. Yanov, with his strong adventurous streak. Gerthon, with his understanding mind. They had always supported him, and he they, without question. With Larienne, they had become the pillars of his existence.

Now, two of these pillars were gone, and it made the world uncertain, cruel. He was tilting into the waters of despair like some sinking ship.

He sat now on the throne he had occupied for some eighteen years, in the very throne room of the very castle his ancestors had walked about in for centuries, from Telin Proudmoore the Founder to Dealin's own father, guiding the fate of the people of Kul Tiras. He sat alone, uncaring of the people who certainly needed his counsel. He had delegated everything, and ordered that no one disturb him. So had it been for days now. And so, in his mind, would it continue as long as his mind wished for it.

No one, he had thought, would dare disturb his grief. When the door of room creaked open to reveal a pretty figure, he realized that his assumption might just have been wrong.

Larienne looked at him with sadness in her eyes, but her tone was firm when she told him "This has to stop, my husband. You are confusing our people, when what they ask for is strength and confidence. The Compact his vanquished here, but the scars of their doings yet remain. You must return and lead them, as you have done so long and so well."

It was the truth, part of his mind knew. The city had suffered little damage to its structures, except for the loss of a few ships. There had been fewer casualties and wounded than expected. But the people had been shaken by the appearance of a faction, which blatantly sought to destabilize and take over the Alliance. He knew that compared to the citizens of Havenport, compared to Kul Tiras, his grief was insignificant. That was what his rational mind told him.

But he wasn't very rational these days. "The capital can survive for a few more days without me. I intend to come back-"

"-only when you are but a husk of your former self?" she asked him sharply, a strong light of mingled anger and sorrow in her eyes. "You have a duty to the people of Kul Tiras, the duty to be their strength to lead them and assure them that-"

"I have no need to be told of my accursed duties!" he suddenly growled, harsher than he intended. "The people would - should! - understand that this loss is so heavy on my heart that at time...at times...I..." he fell silent, the despair cloaking him once more. He only knew that she had moved close to him when he felt her hand on his arm, and he raised his head to look into her eyes, and found them gentle and sympathetic.

"I know, Dealin." she said softly "It takes all I can to see you like this, knowing that I can't soothe this grief from your heart. I wish I could, but I am unable. All I can do is be there for you, and counsel you as your consort should."

"As my consort...and my love?"

"As your consort, for the lover would be of little use, since her heart is so heavy she would only make your feelings worse." she replied, the hand on his arm trembling for a moment.

There had been many times when he had felt that being king was stifling. His coronation, the many voyages to other nations to promote trading - although he left the little trade going on between Gilneas and Kul Tiras to others - and, mostly, the fact that all of those years of being trained for leadership, and then assuming that position, had left him with a facade he presented to the world. Only Larienne had seen behind it. Had his sons?

"Did I show my sons the love they deserved?" he wondered to himself "They buoyed me through so much before I met you. They made all of this" and at that he gestured at the expansive carpets and pennants, and the great banner that showed a golden anchor on a green field "more bearable. Sometimes, I fear-"

"They loved you, Dealin. And they knew you loved them as well, in your own way. They accepted what you gave them, and knew that you tried to give them more..."

His grief spasmed in his heart. "And was it enough?" he asked.

She didn't answer at once, obviously trying to come up with the right words, and he sighed in despair, almost letting a mirthless chuckle out. Larienne had always been so good at telling what she thought. If she was choosing her words so carefully, it could only meant one thing: what he had given his sons hadn't been enough. He had let his position as ruler of the Kingdom of Kul Tiras get in the way.

If only they had known that he would have given the crown away in an instant for them. If only they had known...but they never would know. Not in the realm of the living.

"I think that you gave what you could, and gave this fully." she said, her words clear, her eyes soft but firm on him "I know many rulers, many fief lords and counts and noblemen who never gave their children anything but speculation and a desire for duty. You showed them you loved them, and that is more than..."

He sank his head into his hands, and fought back the sobs he was certain were hiding near. "I...miss them...so much..." he forced out, his voice cracking with the strain, and from those words came the flood of tears. His grief finally gushing free, after being pent up for so long. He barely felt her cradle him gently. His senses were dulled; all that existed was the thought that he would never see his sons again. This, and another feeling he was unaccustomed to...

"I know, Dealin." he heard her say. But his mind had shifted to something else entirely. As he let out his grief, a part of him reminded him that it was the Horde who had extinguished his beloved sons' lives. The Horde, whom he had treated far more fairly than they deserved.

No more, Dealing Proudmoore swore in his grief. No more gentleness. The Horde will know how bitterly a Proudmoore fights!

* * * * * * * * * *

Autumn 595, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

Doomhammer was in a foul mood. Although this was usual recently, today was a particularly fearsome time to be around the great warchief. He had been known to be less than merciful to those who dared to distract him while he ruminated bleak or dark thoughts. Thus, his servants and aides were all doing their very best to avoid him, rendering him utterly cut off from the very war machine he was supposed to lead and manage.

This, however, suited him just fine. He had received the numbers from his most trusted scouts and leaders, and it gave him a mental image which could make him go all the way to murder with inopportune fools right now.

His angry, bloodshot eyes looked at the parchment he had received, compiled by his personal scribes and give to him by one fearful peon.

The horde had once, at its height, numbered nearly one million warriors, a massive sea of armour, axes, spears, and magic. It had been the largest force the orc race had ever fielded, and with it, it had been thought that ridding themselves of the humans would be easy. After all, Azeroth hadn't prevailed against a third of that number, and it was said to have been the greatest of all nations. That was what the warlords kept saying, however.

Doomhammer, however, had known better.

Azeroth had been defeated, true, but it had been only after a war of five years, at the end of which a large part of its population had managed to flee. Moreover, he had read - as soon as he'd learned the human script - the history books the Horde had captured and that so many discarded as useless. He had learned that there had been peace in the world for two hundred years, ever since a sort of agreement between nations called the Pact of Stormwind. As such, there had been no large wars in many lives of men.

"So they weren't ready. Which wasn't the case with the Alliance. They were ready, and made us feel it! Over a fourth of our total army slain or crippled in four years!" he growled to himself "What does it matter that the human losses were abysmal themselves? They, at least, can replenish their forces!"

This was no longer possible for the Horde. The purges and the wars on Dreanor had gravely reduced their numbers, so that the Horde could count on nearly nothing from the homeworld. Nearly, now nothing because of Ner'Zul's cowardly edicts. Yet, even this wasn't what made Doomhammer rage.

No. What truly did was that Gul'Dan - that filthy pig! - had undermined the Horde for his own selfish goals! Slightly over a third of his soldiers had defected to his banner, forcing him not only to fight his own people, but also to let go of an Alliance he could have broken at Whitefort. Yes, Whitefort. There had been many of the human leaders gathered there, including some of their best generals. With these dead, the Alliance army would have been fractured. And then all that would have remained would have been to pick the Alliance apart piece by piece.

"But that will not happen today." he growled, his anger mounting impossibly. "It won't happen this year! And perhaps, because of that CURSED warlock, it might never happen at all!!" a large part of his mind rebelled at the very thought, but he knew, outside of the haste of his bloodlust, that it was right: he had to fight the rebel orcs first to reassert his authority. But by doing so, he was giving the true enemy a chance to recuperate and fortify itself. He had been in enough battles and wars to know that only a fool did this with an enemy.

In fit of rage, he took the table upon which he usually wrote orders and read battle plans, and threw it into the wall with a great heave. It shattered upon the stone and fell in a noisy heap. No one outside stirred. None, he knew pretty well, would dare to come check on what had happened. Argal had been the only one he trusted who hadn't feared him enough not to come anyway, but he was still arranging the crossing of his remaining forces. Riding on dragonback, Doomhammer had found, was quite profitable where speed was concerned.

He stopped.

What had he thought there? Dragons...yes...the young dragons...they should be able to fly now, wouldn't they? Dozens of dragon fledglings, a powerful force for him to use! So far, he had been able to force only a few older ones by threatened Alexstraza's safety. But it was a risk. A risk he would soon no longer have to take...

Yes...yes...dragons...this could be the key to his problems...

He went and threw his door open, his nerves still on edge, and the rage simmering, barely controlled, and grabbed the grunt that guarded his door. Although actually slightly bigger than Doomhammer himself, the horde warrior cringed under the Warchief's baleful gaze.

"I want a messenger sent to the caves of the Dragonmaw Clan. Tell them I demand to see Zuluhed as soon as he received my summons. Any complaints are to be taken as rebellion against my words, and the entire clan branded as traitors!" his eyes narrowed "Am I being clear with my orders?"

The orc nearly flattened himself on the ground at that. "N-No, warchief! We'll do like you said right now!"

"Good! Then stop crawling and carry out my command! And have a table sent to here while you're at it!"

"Yes Warchief!!" the grunt said, nearly tripping in his own feet as he quite literally ran away.

'So, frightening today, am I?' he told himself, then shrugged and returned in his room 'I admit I couldn't care less.' He didn't care about anything except to bring order back into the situation he was in, and especially to take care of Gul'Dan. Whatever the warlock was preparing, it wouldn't be good for anyone, not even for the orc race.

He spotted the carrier pigeon at once, perched on a chair next to the small window he always kept open for such a purpose. Carrier pigeons were a human invention the horde had taken to quite quickly. Taking it, and feeding the pigeon with some seeds, he saw the very pale blue ribbon attached to the message. Only one man used that shade of colour: Grimfrost. He opened and read it quickly.

Warchief,

Right this moment, half of my forces are either crossed or crossing territory back into Khaz Modan, with orders to make haste to Blackrock Spire and await your orders, as you commanded. However, I have to tell you that events seem to be getting agitated in Alterac. The population is increasingly agitated, and I think that, if things continue long, it might be only a matter of time before a rebellion brews against Perenolde, with annoying repercussions for our people. Do you wish me to do something to strengthen our hold in this place, or should I let things as they are?

Grimfrost, Warlord of the Blackrock Clan.

Doomhammer couldn't help but sigh. Alterac. With all of his troubles, he had forgotten about the little, cowardly realm the Horde all but controlled through its spineless leader. Perenolde, pah! Although it served the Horde, Doomhammer couldn't stomach cowards for whatever reason. If, however, the people of that realm rebelled and overthrew their own leader, it might later be troublesome to find purchase into Alliance lands once Gul'Dan's forces were taken care of.

After a moment of thought, he went to find a place to write and wrote a small note for Grimfrost.

Warlord,

Leave a few thousand orcs to force Perenolde's hand, but for the rest leave him to his fate. We have more pressing things to deal with.

Doomhammer

Satisfied, the warchief rolled to parchment, sealed it with his deep red ribbon, and gave it to the pigeon, which took off at a few whispered words. One thing done.

So many left. As soon as the bird was far away, the warchief's mood descended once more. He had work to do, and the work would end with Gul'Dan's head on a pike!

* * * * * * * * * *

Autumn 595, Hidden Valley, Stromgarde

"What is the meaning of this?!?"

No one answered Gelmar Thornfeet, although many turned to see him arrive. Most of their attention, however, was on the two orcs who stood face-to-face, spiritual energies crackling from their arms. He recognized them at once - Benta and Horak, two good students, who had always seemed at odds for reasons he couldn't quite define - that part of their heart was cloaked.

Now, however, whatever the reason was, it had gone too far. Both seemed ready to fling magic at each other. Deadly, offensive spiritual magic. This, by definition, couldn't be allowed to continue on.

"What are you two doing?" the head shaman growled, "There will be no fighting here!"

Neither seemed to be listening, standing as they were in the circle the students used to practice spells on each other. Each regarded the other with loathing, and it seemed evident that they were an inch from hitting each other.

Benta, the larger of the two, growled, "I'll scrap your head, you traitor!"

"Try if you dare! I follow our people's true purpose - unlike some!" Horak sneered back. The energy mounted, the energy crackled louder, and then Benta lifted stones from the ground, while Horak summoned a blade of spiritual energy. After one last, hateful look, each uttered a yell and moved in.

That, at least, was what they had wanted. And, from their expression of pure surprise, it was what they were supposed to be doing. Only they didn't they stayed there, poised on the edge of vile violence, but unable to follow through with their acts.

Prevented from it by Gelmar's power.

When he had seen the blind battlelust holding them so fast, the shaman had immediately felt though his own spirit and brought it forth, paralysing them both almost a second to late. Now he held them both by the force of his own spirit, and the crowd now parted for him quickly as he glared at the two would-be fighters.

"I distinctly remember the rules each person who is welcomed here has agreed to." his said, his voice biting and harsh. "One of these is that we of the Hidden Valley have vowed to renounce needless violence, no matter how hard it is. I will not let anyone violate what we all agreed on together!" he released them, and they staggered, their looks now a mix of awe, shame, and fear. He hated that last, but it was necessary. If reason didn't work, then Gelmar would make certain that fright would.

"Am I being completely understood, apprentices?" he asked acidly. To his growing displeasure, they hesitated. Finally, Horak answered.

"I had to, Patriarch! This fool was defending one who has made our race divided!"

"You...! Doomhammer is our Warchief! I at least know the meaning of-"

"ENOUGH!!" Gelmar bellowed, his voice now openly tinged with anger. He lowered his voice to a more normal tone, but the fire remained in his voice. "I don't want to hear your reasons. You have broken the rules of this community, and as such you will work to think about your mistake. Benta, you will help our smithy for the next two weeks. Horak, you help with the tending of the provisions. Until then, you are forbidden from using any spiritual powers. Rest assured, I will ask the Spirits if you have!"

They found themselves unable to say anything to that. Which was just as well, because he didn't want to listen to any more excuses. Turning around, mastering his anger with the help of years of effort and deep connection to the spiritual currents of the living, he walked back to his home. He felt Xirral's presence beside him suddenly, and raised a hand before he could talk.

"I know what you are about to say, Xirral." he said, feeling tired now "There is no reason to blame yourself."

"Still, I'm sorry Patriarch. I was the one who taught them these techniques. I never thought that they'd-"

"It was inevitable that something like this would happen, my friend. As I said, stop blaming yourself."

"But, Patriarch-"

"Enough, enough, Xirral. You have become a full shaman, recognized by the spirits and by me. You started to teach and you made a mistake. I did my share with you at first, although you all seem to see fit to forget that part." he said wryly. The other orc, however, looked unconvinced.

"None of us ever shamed your teachings in this way!"

"At that time, we weren't thrust one against the other. I fear something is happening to the Horde. I did feel unease from the Spirits."

Xirral nodded beside him as they walked. "Yes. I felt it too, and took the liberty to find some information to help us."

It shouldn't, by all rights, be something that Gelmar should find annoying. After all, it was only normal that his strongest student would come into his own faster than any other. And three others would be ready within a season, perhaps two. He would soon have others around him who have fully mastered the ways of the spirit. He admitted that he was almost sorry for that. Being the only orc left with this talent had helped him gain the confidence he had lacked early in his life, after all...

And what had he really lost? Xirral, if anything, had shown himself even more respectful ever since his powers grew enough for him to learn on his own. Everyone in this small community was respecting him as a leader, which wasn't important, and as a teacher, which was. He had no reason to complain.

After all, this was the wish of the Spirits. This was the mission he had set himself to do. He firmly pushed these unwanted feelings away and gave the other shaman an inquisitive look. "From what I just heard, something must be wrong within the Horde itself."

"Yes, Patriarch. It's split in two, or just about. Gul'Dan and the Stormreaver Clan rebelled recently when the Horde was ready to crush Whitefort itself. From what I gathered, the Twilight's Hammer Clan and most of the Black Tooth Grin Clan have joined him.

"A civil war..." Gelmar muttered distastefully. "That's quite like Gul'Dan, I fear, to create such a thing for his own selfish needs. This frightens me, Xirral..."

"Patriarch?"

How could he truly explain? How could he explain the reasons of his fears? He was one of those select few - very few now - who had known Gul'Dan for a certain length of time, and who knew how at least a part of his mind worked. He had seen the warlock's ambition when he had been but a fledgling necrolyte. It was an ambition, which had driven Gul'Dan to lead the Horde from the Shadows. It had led them to the Kingdom of Azeroth, into yet more bloodlust and conquests.

It had been this ambition, which had killed all those necrolytes he had called friends, and those of them he didn't. Simply to get some power to create powerful tools. If he was willing to slaughter so many who trusted him...

...what would he do to achieve power for himself?

Anything. That was all of it in one word. Anything, even if it meant having the whole Horde destroyed to achieve what he wanted.

"I know Gul'Dan better than most." he said at last, an edge of bitter remembrance to his tone "Trust me, he will attempt something truly mad if he thinks it is worthwhile."

"Through battle and blood and death."

"Through much more than that, Xirral. Through much more than that."

* * * * * * * * * *

Autumn 595, Northshire Abbey Ruins, Azeroth

Gul'Dan sneezed. Hard. Three times. The third was so loud that it actually choked him for a second. Fortunately, he was alone, so no one saw him gag and splutter. If someone had, that person would have died, of course, to keep that weakness a secret.

"Someone must be talking about me." he muttered "Someone who really hates me."

He did not care to speculate on who it was - the list was simply too long to take the time to sift through. Nudging the idle problem away into the abyss of his memory, he carefully poked through the remains of the Northshire Library, hoping to find something to correlate what he had learned in Silvermoon.

Ah, Northshire Abbey. It was one of the few places he hadn't wanted destroyed. The old monastery had been a pool of human knowledge and ancient lore which came only after that of the elves of Silvermoon. Even Medhiv had been known to make forays to this 'holy' place. He'd wanted it for himself, to probe its secrets and increase his powers. But the Archbishop, Alonsus Faol, had seen though him, and acted too quickly, having most of the books removed, and destroying the abbey and nearly all that was valuable within.

Still, he risked one last look, one last search, before he went back to his abode in the Emerald Tower, which had once belonged to the mages of Azeroth. It had taken the Horde many warriors to take it, and he had subtly worked with his Death Knights to reactivate it wards. There, with the large number of followers with him, it would take Doomhammer much time to reach him.

Doomhammer would win, Gul'Dan was certain. He had more troops, better troops, and dragons, against which his Ogre-Magi and Death Knights couldn't hold forever. But it wouldn't be easy, and it would be bloody, and the fool Warchief would find that he had won an empty victory by then. For the last Warlock had many plans in the works...

It was then that he felt it. Senses sharpened by the years of constant vigilance, attuned to magic, and through that, to people's energy.

Letting go of a burned out book, he jumped to the side...

...and a blade sliced right next to him. The long blade of a spear, which had almost disappeared in the mists of his people's history.

As old as he was, Gul'Dan was on his feet and facing his opponent in an instant, calling upon the powers of the Great Dark Beyond to his aid. Across from him, quite visible in the gloomy, shattered room, which had been the Abbey's library. A lean, but strong-looking orc holding the weapon of a dying profession. His eyes narrowed, but he smirked nonetheless.

"A blademaster..." he muttered "A true blademaster. So rare in these time. I'm frankly surprised..."

The enemy didn't smirk back, only looked at Gul'Dan solemnly, his face taut with determination, blade ready, poise firm. "Gul'Dan, chieftain of the Stormreaver Clan. You have defied the will of the Warchief of the Horde. I have been given the duty of eliminating you!"

"That comes as no surprise. But I sense you have more reasons than that. Or are the last blademasters Doomhammer's dogs?"

A slight twitch. He had hit a nerve it seemed. "You are right, Gul'Dan. I kill you because he asked this of me. But my real reason is for you to fall, in the name of those who followed the one decent orc in living memory." his eyes flashes, his spear rose. "In honour of the lost Frostwolves Clan!"

"The Frostwolves?" he couldn't help but gape for moment. Then his hold on himself returned. The Frostwolves. It figured. Blademasters were far more numerous and powerful in Durotan's clan. It didn't really surprise him that this whelp wanted to kill him. But that didn't matter in the end. It couldn't. It wouldn't. After all, he had a destiny! He showed his tusks, channelling his powers "Interesting. One of Durotan's. Very well! Come and face me, blademaster! Come and face your doom!"

The blademaster rushed forth, his blade smashing in a great arc, right into Gul'Dan's shield. Before the warlock could react however, the blade moved once more, to the side, and then to the top. One angle after another, until it was a flurry of blows, tearing and smashing and biting, draining the force of his shield, too quick for Gul'Dan to manage a retaliation.

Worry creeped into the back of his mind. Blademasters were known as the finest warriors in the Horde in the days before, and it those of Durotan's were the finest of the finest. The speed and precision of the strikes was too great to be anything else than what was taught amongst the Frostwolves.

Still, he would not be denied. Not by this blademaster, or Durotan's ghost, or anything else!

He ran energy from his shield and provoked a burst of electric power right as the blade made contact with the shield. The shock caused a gasp to burst from the enemy, who was thrust into the air, but flipped and landed on his feet, poise readying at once. But it had given the Warlock the instant of free movement he needed.

As the other orc rushed, Gul'Dan released bolts of green light from his hands, intent on destruction. The blademaster, however, swung the pole and the blade into a swift backward sweep, and then swept it forward, right into the magical energy. There a was a boom, and part of the blade snapped off at the impact.

But the blademaster yet stood.

"Very impressive." Gul'Dan said "Few have survived that spell. I suppose I shall have to treat you in a more serious manner from now on!" He concentrated his energies as his enemy attacked once again.

The blademaster was worthy of the name, moving as he did with strength and an agility, which few of any race - except perhaps amongst the elves - could achieve. Many times the blade actually penetrated enough for the warlock to receive a wound, and many times a spell was turned aside or dulled.

The blademaster was superb. But Gul'Dan's power, in the end, proved to be undeniable, as was the right of things.

Darts of energy burst from the Warlock's hands, stunning the enemy as the warlock uttered eldrich words. Maniupulating the palne of fire, he called forth the fiery energies and sent a stream of incandescent death at the blademaster, who, unable to dodge as weary as he was, swiped his spear to protect himself. For an instant the spell was caught, but then the blade snapped off completely, and the other orc was smashed into a burned, charred wall of stone.

The warlock saw that his enemy wasn't dead yet - the blade had had enough power for this much before it failed. "A good, steady effort." he said, actually meaning it "And you lasted more than most did against my might." He then smirked once more "But your efforts fall far short of your goals, I'm afraid."

"Y-y-you..."

"Just what I'd expect from a follower of Durotan. Strong, brave, but utterly clueless about how the world turns. That is why the fool fell despite his exile, and that his clan is all but decimating - except for a few lackwits, that is." he amended sarcastically. A flash of anger crossed the orc's bruised and burned face. Painfully, the one who had had the gall to face him stirred his charred body, forcing it from s crumpled position as he glared at the obvious victor.

"Y-you will fail...Durotan isn't forgotten by all. One day, you w-will die. You are only mortal....only mortal..."

Gul'Dan chuckled. "Yes, quite right. Mortal. But for how long? You have no idea what will happen. Suffice it to say that, soon, my destiny will be complete. My powers will be enough for me to control this entire world, and Dreanor, and so many other worlds!"

"You're insane..." The orc said, but was cut off by his own scream as the magic of a death coil rotted him alive, siphoning his life energies off. Gul'Dan looked on with a tusky, satisfied grin.

"You were entertaining, little whelp." he said amidst the screams "But I have things to do, and I can't be bothered. Let your knowledge of having wounded someone as great as I comfort you in death." And with this, Gul'Dan left the rotting, agonized orc to die alone in the debris of a useless abbey.

* * * * * * * * * *

Autumn 595, Land Bridges, Stromgarde

Rellon Minvare wasn't one who ordinarily fidgeted. In fact, he was the opposite of that kind of man. But this was a special case. After all, he had just taken command of the Alliance's entire southern forces - over two hundred thousand mean and women, humans elves and dwarves - and plotted an attack which could either secure the Land Bridges definitely, or dangerously weaken the fortifications which protected most of the Alliance from an overwhelming Horde land assault.

It was an overwhelming task which would challenge the will of even the strongest being. And then there was another task that weighed heavy upon his heart.

So fretted without feeling shame of it.

As he looked at the armies preparing themselves for the beginning of the operation, he wondered what his father, who had, through acting to prevent bandits from taking over a town, gained a noble rank and lands for his family. He had a feeling that the man, as much as he was fond of him, would have been overwhelmed and inadequate to the task, being more at ease with smaller groups. And here Minvare, his heir and the second representative of his House was about to lead an operation, which had a force larger than the entire Imperial Army of Arathor at the time of its height thirteen centuries before.

"I'll do my best and see, father." he murmured, and then let go of any nostalgic feelings. He had a job to do, and he darn well intended to do it.

His infantry commander came towards him and saluted. "General, sir. The army is ready to march at your command. Waiting for your orders."

"The mages?"

"Sir, a total of one hundred and fifty-three mages from various magical colleges and nations have been dispersed amongst our armies following Lord Antonidas and your instructions. There has been no problem with integrating them with our forces."

He nodded. So far, the war hadn't used magic-users extensively, as most of the magical colleges had refused to actively participate in actual combat. The Kirin Tor of Dalaran and the Karal Tor of Azeroth, however, had worked to convince the magical population to lend a much-needed strength to the Alliance Armies, and so far some the sorcerers willing to fight had started to trickle through.

Still, Minvare knew that most of these new troops were intended for the Northern Forces, to deal with the Compact Rebellion - as it was generally called - in Whitefort, Hillsbrad and Harpgate. All the rest belonged to his operation to do with as he saw fit. One hundred and fifty-three...

...officially, that was.

He looked at his plans one last time. A total of around one hundred and twenty-five thousands, made of largely human forces, but also a few elves which remained despite the turmoil in Quel'Thalas, and dwarves who had come from Ironforge with Muradin Bronzebeard. A large force facing a force larger than their. The Horde, from what the navy and the few scouts who returned could tell, number over one hundred and fifty thousand despite large numbers which went away. Doomhammer was keeping his door closed.

However, there was a change. Although always ready to fight with anyone, the orcs had been a rather unified force until two seasons ago. Since then, however, things had degenerated. They were fractured, and their morale was low, lower than the Alliance even with the Compact and some Horde forces still roaming around in the north. He could use this - and the supreme dwarven knowledge of the deep - to take them by surprise in a calculated attack.

The final plan called for three armies of fifteen thousands to make simultaneous attacks across each of the Land Bridges. While the Horde reacted, the rest of his forces would use dwarven passages and mount a quick, powerful attack intent on destroying or severely crippling Dun Algaz. If successful, it might not only allow it to fall into their hands, but also fracture the remaining Horde Forces even further.

For all of its possibilities, however, Minvare was too cerebral not to see how miserably it could fail. If the tunnels were blocked, or if the Horde didn't react the way he hoped. Or if someone in his own ranks - one of his peers - worked to undermine the strong feel of confidence, of unity that years of warfare had created. There were simply to many variables to take into account.

Well, at least now, with the mages, his chances had somewhat improved. Fate had recently been favouring the Alliance more than disfavouring it. He'd just trust into it and the Light this time. He gave a final nod and looked at his commander. "Everything is good then. Pass signals for the army to move. Remember, as silently as possible, so that our picket people can make it look at if our camp is still uninhabited."

The commander nodded, donned the helmet he had under his arm, and left. Being attired for combat already, Minvare followed suit. In full burnished plate mail, he looked resplendent and totally unprepared to undertake the kind of operation he had in mind. Which was good as far as he was concerned. Let the orcs scratch their heads if they ever found out he moved away. Let them wonder...until he showed them the reason himself.

Around his horse, most of his aides and commanders were already mounted and waiting for him, with a detachment of powerful knights guarding. Only one, old, bearded and unarmored, looked out of place, and Minvare nodded to him first.

"Well met, lord Antonidas. I see lord Khadgar isn't with you today." he said much more calmly than he felt these days. The strong sorcerer, member of the Kirin Tor of Dalaran, only, brushed his beard quickly before responding.

"He is needed at the Violet Citadel. Events of the world has caught our own capital as well." was all he said, and Minvare saw that he would get no more of him on the subject. Silently accepting this as he accepted everything, he took another way to converse as he mounted, aided by one of the footmen.

"Well, let's hope we can do something here that'll lessen the threat lurking south of us, so that we might just shift northward a bit."

"That would be for the best."

"Indeed." he lifted his arm, and swept it downward, and a horn uttered a short, special sound which no orc would have time to decipher, and that few - at least they had all hoped - would truly notice at all.

The ninth army - all fifteen thousand footmen, knights, mages, archers and mercenaries, with wagons and equipment - fell into line and lumbered forward slowly. The line was long, and he hoped that the Land Bridge armies were screening them sufficiently. Scouts rode or ran ahead, searching for spies and unwanted eyes. Behind him, the banner of Azeroth floated since the commander of the Army was Azerothian, but other flags flew here and there: Lordearon, Stromgarde, Gilneas...

The army had barely been on the road for an hour that someone on a horse came riding hard, shouting "Message! Message for the general!" and ridding straight to the head of the column. The knights stiffened, hands on weapons just in case the messenger turned out to be a threat, but Minvare looked on with unwavering calm. Inside, he sighed: he knew this was about to happen.

"General!" the man - or boy? - said quickly, stammering a bit "I've been sent to tell you that general Fillav has disobeyed orders and turned the Seventh Army towards the north!"

It should have been shocking news. And indeed many did look out in shock. To Minvare, however, this actually relieved him. At least he had a partial answer to a very uncomfortable question. "Xalbreth Fillav... I'm saddened to know its him. Still, now at least, we know." he looked at Antonidas, who nodded solemnly and closed his eyes in obvious concentration.

His cavalry commander came to him quickly, his face filled with determination. "General, if general Fillav is disobeying an order, we should pursue him at once!"

"Good advice. Yet...we will continue on our way."

"But milord...!"

"Don't worry." he smiled without one bit of mirth "Fillav is only playing a part. He just doesn't know it. A part that'll end badly for him. A part we prepared for him." he sighed "I am truly sorry for that, in a way. But enough. Sound the march! We must be on our way!"

And the Ninth Army's march slowly continued.

* * * * * * * * * *

Autumn 595, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde

There wasn't any reason to worry. He had gone away relatively unnoticed, and even if Ironhorse or Minvare or any of the blind loyalists saw it for what it was, it'd be too late by then. It would take them at least three days to reorganize themselves and their operation against the Horde. And by that time, Redgates and the ruler of the nation of Stromgarde would be under the control of the Compact.

Xalbreth Fillav hadn't always believed in what the Compact wanted. Once, he had served Lordearon and the royal bloodline as loyally as he could. Those were days of peace, where bandits and some rogue bands of monsters - easily dealt with - were the most one could expect. The Pact of Stormwind held the peace between the nations, held back the shadow of such things as the War of the Heirs, the War of Liberation, or the Island War - conflicts which had cost far too many lives.

There was peace. And the household Terenas came from had been bred in that peaceful past for generations. He had never thought he would turn against them.

But he had to. Duraz was right. The Horde couldn't be stopped by the petty squabbling of hold bloodlines, or by the peaceful words of diplomats! He had been fighting them for years now. He knew their ferocity, their dogged determination to destroy, and their insane bloodlust. Kings and queens and princes were but toadies next to that - images of a better time now gone. They had to be replaced by men and women who were prepared to make every sacrifice to stop these THINGS from overrunning the northlands.

Terenas. Lothar. Proudmoore. Trollbane. All those prestigious leaders. They had guaranteed that the people would be safe. But what did they show for it? Provinces razed in Stromgarde and Lordearon, Quel'Thalas shattered, and the proud capital of Lordearon - the former seat from which all of humanity was led - had nearly fallen. No. They had failed. The times were changing.

Thus, Xalbreth Fillav had reneged his oath to his king and pledged himself to the new order Duraz had talked about. And he intended to use the Seventh Army to secure the lightly protected capital of the Defiant Fist.

One of his commanders, a man devoted to the new cause, answered the question he had asked. "Seven hundred men all told. Could be some militia, but they won't be expecting us to enter and take over the city right now. At worst, they'll hesitate, and that'll be good enough for our men to work."

"I want the casualties kept to a minimum, remember." Fillav warned. "We will need to convince them we are right soon enough, after all."

The commander grinned slightly. "I understand completely, sir." he might have wanted to add something else, but then the first column cleared a ridge...and Fillav's heart actually skipped a beat. He almost choked at what he saw.

There should have been nothing ahead except for fields and farms. Nothing but empty grasslands. Instead of this, however, he saw a human army arrayed there. Large. As large as his own at least. Knights at the very front and at the wings. Footmen in tight ranks, flanked by archers. Catapults clearly visible. That army was ready for a battle! He looked towards the back, where their leader would be. He tried to discern the flags, but his archery commander saw clearer and gasped.

"That's the banner of Kul Tiras! And the Dolphin flag! This Voss' army!" he exclaimed.

Fillav's eyes narrowed as a cold clump took hold of his stomach. Voss was supposed to be elsewhere entirely, scouting Dun Modr and securing help from the garrison at Tol Barad! He was supposed to be leagues upon leagues away! This didn't make any sense...unless...

"I cannot be true. Did Rellon..." he forced his mouth shut for a moment. "Take a defensive position. Fortify our lines. Signal all the men to ready for battle!"

He knew it was too late. Deep down, he knew that it wouldn't do much good. The men were in a long line, and it would take a while for them to arrive. They would be confused and disorganized, and faced with a foe, which they shouldn't have had to face at all. Still, he wasn't about to meekly let things be.

Riders had barely been sent that a voice, certainly amplified by some spell, rung out. He easily recognized Voss's voice.

"Well met, Xalbreth! I wish this meeting was under better circumstances, but there's no place for that right now! So I'll get straight to the point: you are a traitor to the Alliance and to your home kingdom of Lordearon! You are a member of the Compact to disrupt this Alliance, and I can't abide that. By lord Lothar's edict, which I have in hand, I have been given the duty to engage and, if necessary, destroy your forces!"

Worried mutterings came from the troops that heard that. Their officers were mostly Compact, but they were just following orders. They could be convinced to conquer a city, but hearing a man saying that they were being branded as traitors changed things. Many began to trade looks, some giving their officers wary expressions. Damning it all, the mage who was supposed to be beside him wasn't there, and so Fillav had no choice but to continue hearing Voss' arrogant tirade.

"Men of the Alliance! I know some of you are loyal to the true cause - that of beating the Horde back, and not create dissention in these troubled times. Those who do not fight or who surrender will be treated fairly. Those who fight beside us will be released back as loyalists to the Alliance!"

"Where is that damn mage?!?" Fillav asked in frustration. As if he'd heard, the enemy general answered.

"Already, you may have noticed that the sorcerers in the Seventh Army have left your ranks. They are here, among us, ready to fight and obey the oaths they gave! Do the same! End it now before any further blood is spilled!"

There were more hesitations now. He could feel it. But only some in the first rank had truly grasped what Voss had said. Quickly, deciding that the odds were not improving at all and that he needed to act now, he motioned to his archery commander.

"Take your most loyal men and shoot towards Voss' position." he saw the brief hesitation on his subordinate's face. "That is the only way to make him stop talking!" and also, he knew, the only way to secure his position in the army. He didn't have to wait long. Soon, a small flurry of arrows sped towards Voss's army, and he saw some fall. The older General's voice, however, returned, this time grim and angry.

"So be it! If that is the way you wish for things to be, Fillav, then I will meet your challenge!" He spoke no more, but a moment later the ranks of the enemy army were surging forth, lines upon lines of footmen and knights and archers coming towards him. The gloves were off.

He knew how things stood. Voss' army, he was certain, had been there a while - if it was Minvare who had laid this little cold trap, then it had been around for a few days. Consequently, it was probably fresh, while his own forces were tired from marching for many hours with packs and provisions. Most of his own men were in no way ready - or even aware, for that matter - of a fight, while Voss' people had been only awaiting that. He was a better tactician than Voss, a better soldier too. But that wouldn't help him in the present situation.

No matter how he looked at it all, only one thing was certain: he would not win this battle.

Still, he wouldn't surrender. He had let go of his loyalty towards the king, but not of his principles as a leader and a warrior. He had been raised to never surrender for any reason, and he intended to follow this old edict one last time. He would, somehow, make certain that Voss suffered grievous losses before the end.

"We're under attack! Sound the horns! All men, prepare for battle!" he bellowed, and the doubts and worries were forgotten by the men around him. Behind, more and more soldiers came to try and take advantage of the Higher ground. Many more were hastening forth.

Not enough to win. But certainly enough to hurt the Alliance forces and their misguided leadership. It would have to do. This would be his contribution. He unsheathed and raised his sword up high, rallying his knights.

"To me! For Lordaeron and the Seventh Army!" And with that, heart decided, conscience clear and pure, he rode down with his men to meet his doom. And make his enemies pay it dearly in blood!

BONUS

Alliance Army Organization

The Alliance Army is divided into sixteen different armies, all of which never number more than 20,000 Soldiers. In each army, a company of Knights - usually about two hundred - leads a further eight hundred squires on Horses, making a Cavalry of about one thousand. Added to that, each army has an Archery force of about four thousand warriors, these being mostly made up of elves and men, while the infantry - 12,000 footmen - is made up of humans, dwarves and elves - although humans are usually the dominant race by far in terms of sheer numbers. The remaining three thousand are special troops, including a possible attached sea force, mages, and other support troopers of special talents.

Thus, an army has four Commanders (Cavalry, Archery, Infantry and Specials) who answer only to their General and are usually left to their own devices as long as they follow their General's orders. The General, however, can easily override any order one of his Commanders give, in any circumstances. These Sixteen Generals answer only to the High General of the Alliance Army, Regent-Lord Anduin Lothar. The Army's maximum strength in these conditions is 320,000 soldiers, but it has never reached that number, being of roughly 215,000 by the time of the Compact Rebellion.