Chapter Twenty-Two: Shadow and Stealth
Autumn 595, Ancient Khajin Tunnel, Somewhere in Khaz Modan
Rellon Minvare decided that he wouldn't be caught in a dwarven underground tunnel for the rest of the war. And, if he survived to see it through the end, the rest of his life afterwards. Although he appreciated the possibilities that the contraption had opened, he simply couldn't stand the restraining feel as he was. The feeling of being enclosed entombed in rock. Tight spaces had never sat well with him - he much preferred the open sky. But this was worse than anything. He knew that it bothered many of his men, too. He saw it written on their faces.
It didn't bother the dwarves in the slightest, of course. Born and raised underground, a tunnel was to them was a dirt road was to a human - common, unimpressive, even boring at times. Although he didn't see any bored expression from Muradin Bronzebeard and his cohorts as they picked their way through a passageway built, if what the dwarves said was true - well before humans became more than a pack of nomadic tribes. But although alert, there was a casual air to them all, whereas all humans were nervous.
Yet, Minvare showed nothing of all this. Keeping his poise, face and voice level in the way which came naturally to him and which he'd honed over the years, he calmly gave orders and encouragements when they were needed. His men seemed to take heart from that. There was no need to show them any clue that their general was feeling every bit as edgy as they did.
"How long, Lord Muradin?" he asked the short, heavily built dwarf walking about next to him.
"Lad, no need to call me lord. None of that between us. Just Muradin's plain fine to me." the dwarf replied quickly "As for the question, I'd ken we're just two days or so away from the place connecting to old Dun Algaz."
"How can you tell?"
"Easy to smell, lad." was the reply, given in a rather surprised tone. Minvare resisted the urge to remind the dwarf that, to most humans, a rock smells like any other rock. Light, what he'd give for a good walk under the clear blue sky right now!!
He looked back at his men. They had been walking for a long time now, and looked fatigued. Although this wouldn't normally have moved him, he decided to act upon it now. The walk underground, through halls and tunnels forgotten by all but the Dwarven soldiery, had been much more draining than any normal day. If it wasn't night already.
When he asked the dwarf lord, he saw a bit of bewilderment, then understanding. "Aye, aye. I apologize. Forgot you humans don't like tunnels that much. Well, don't worry. From the lay of the carvings, a resting hall is up ahead, maybe two hours of marching away. Take heart! We'll make it yet, we will!" he said that so happily that there was a moment where Minvare wondered if the dwarven warrior REALLY was related to Magni Bronzebeard, King of Ironforge.
There was much to this place. Whatever the dwarves of Khajin had been, they must have been masters in tunnelling. Although cracked at places, with debris fallen in a sea of dust, the Ancient Tunnels of Khajin had withstood the millennia. If he looked at the walls in the glow of the torches, he saw pictures, runes and unreadable words, all artfully crafted with precision and a great deal of care. Moreover, the tunnels were practical, being wide enough to accommodate seven men walking side by side and then some.
"These tunnels are perfect to march an army through." he noted in wonderment. Bronzebeard's bitter snort made the human general focus on the bearded dwarf once more. "You seem rather...unhappy with my assessment."
"Unhappy?" the dwarf said, shaking his head "Nay, it's not that. Just reflecting on how right what you just said was, and what price came from it. Ever heard of the Dwarven Wars?"
He shrugged. "I do remember glancing at a tome in Northshire, and hearing the hearsay from my elders at the time. From what little I know, it's a series of conflict between Dwarves when Arathor was young."
"Aye, just about right. But there's more. The Wars went on and off for many years, 'till it broke the backs of my people, causing our civilization to buckle. Took us a full thirteen centuries to get us back on our feet somewhat, and there are some things that're still lost right here now. Things the old dwarves knew that we've forgotten. Grand things. Gone forever." He gestured briefly around himself. "These walls helped to make it all happen. They were built to protect Khajin. Instead they destroyed it in the end."
"A double-edged sword. A boon and a curse." Minvare answered after a moment, caught by the emotions he perceived in the dwarf's words.
"Aye. One that has lived in the mind of my father, and his father, and his father's father, all the way to the first Bronzebeard, Barelak, third son of the High Thane of Khajin." Muradin sighed, and then looked at him with renewed vigour. "But the past's still the past. Although we've not gone back to the glory of Khajin, Ironforge is gettin' to be more than a pale shadow. But enough about me. What about you, human?"
Only innate self-control kept Minvare in place. His voice, however, couldn't help but betray some of his surprise. "Me? Lo...Muradin, sir. I can't really tell you much. My father was a knight raised to the Peerage by King Demar the Third, King Llane's father. We lived at a small mansion. My mother died when I was very young. My father passed away two years before the orcs began to attack the kingdom. That's about it. Nothing interesting. Nothing out of the ordinary. I am just a small baron, nothing more."
"Nothing more? I can't believe that, my lad. I just can't. I've seen how these men there look at you. I don't think you quite see how great you are. But, then again, great men rarely see their own worth for what it really is."
"Sir, I really do not..." But at that moment one of the dwarves who had been sent to scout ahead came back, clutching some kind of object in his hands. He came to Muradin, who became grim the moment he saw the piece his kinsman was holding. An urgent, whispered conversation followed, after which he turned back, his eyes carrying a grim message.
"Goblins." was all he said, and that was sufficient to make the hair on the back of Minvare's neck rise and stand up.
"There have been goblins here?" he asked "For how long?"
It was the other dwarf who answered. "They were in one of the side tunnels. Its one of the condemned areas, and is very fragile. Maybe they didn't come all the way to the main tunnels."
"Or maybe they did, and this plan is doomed before it's even begun." That couldn't be, however. They NEEDED this. They needed to break the long stalemate at the Land Bridges. The Horde holding the southern side, the Alliance the northern one. Both sides fortified, but neither able to budge from their position, even as lives upon lives were lost in pointless raids and insignificant skirmishes. With the Alliance caught up with the Compact and the captured major cities, the only hop was to use the Horde's own conflict and secure Dun Algaz.
But with goblins having been here, maybe the Horde already knew about these ways. Maybe they had laid a trap for his men. They would make their surprise attack and be slaughtered. The best option, given this, would be to return his forces to Alliance territory, and re-establish his lines...
Yet, two arguments stopped him from seriously considering this. First was the fact that the land forces would launch their assault soon, and that the lives lost there would be wasted if he didn't at least TRY to take the base. Moreover, from what he'd seen in the First War, the Horde was just as prone to use a possible advantage. Yet there had never been an attack upon friendly forces from an underground position ever reported. Maybe it was all a trick to lure them in, yet even that was doubtful.
No. No, he wouldn't change his plans. Unlike Swiftblade and, up to a point, Ironhorse, he wasn't a general whose forte was to fight upon constantly changing plans. He would have to trust in the Light and his own luck to carry him through.
"We'll have to hope the goblins didn't see this tunnel or told the Horde about them." he finally decided. "We've committed ourselves. Now we must follow it through, whether for good or for ill."
Muradin Bronzebeard nodded. "Aye. That's the only way now. To be sure, we'll seal that passage as we go."
"Thank you." Minvare then stepped back to talk to the other officers. They would have to strike harder and faster than they had first thought. He just hoped the other forces made enough of a skirmish up there. They'd need it a lot now...
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 595, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde
If he had felt there was a way to curse this situation in a way which would convey the bitterness and the dismay he felt at this moment, there was no doubt that Zathu Voss, self-acknowledged martinet and general of the Alliance Sixth Army, would have had his mouth spewing expletives right about then. But nothing, neither gesture nor word, could replace or tell of the sensation he felt upon seeing the ruined bodies of the many Seventh Army soldiers.
Broken bodies of young men and even women littered the blood-soaked plain and ridge. Knights in shattered armour, footmen with cloven shield and mail, archers with broken bows. Too many young lives had been lost in this foolish clash between two forces, which should have been friends in this time of great need, and darkness. And yet, it had to be done, as despicable as things were.
'And yet, to come through so much, and finally face this.' he reflected sourly even as he rode to the small hillock from which his commanders and other advisor awaited him for what would be the final assault. An assault he didn't want to order.
The Seventh Army had been taken by surprise, and Fillav's attempt at forging defensive positions had been swept away by magical bolts and mighty cavalry charges. The thousands of men had fought bravely in a quite uneven fight against fresh, prepared troops. Many had died. Many more had, - Thank the Light! - surrendered or turned their swords to the Alliance side. Still, Fillav had been a respected commander, a good general, and many had followed him through to the end. Into and out of the battle, then chased to this hill by magic and steel, until what little remained of the rebel forces had been chased here. To the green hill just ahead.
He saw it stand out in the midst of flat terrain, and spotted the last, beleaguered survivors grouped around Lordearon's banner. Hundreds, perhaps, but no match for the four thousand he had brought in pursuit. The end of the battle was near, as shameful as ending it would be in his heart.
He said none of this as he dismounted near the knoll, gave the reins to a boy who should never have been on a battlefield - Light! So young, all of them! - and gave the men who were noticing and turning to him a calm but intense acknowledgement. He came to stand amongst them and asked, "Has there been any response to our query?"
His infantry commander shook his head quickly. "None. He doesn't acknowledge us. He came here, and shot arrows to any envoy we sent. We already lost two men in these attempts.
Voss grimaced. "What cam anyone tell me of their resources in terms of manpower." he said quickly. "How many men does he have holed up the hill?"
"Eight hundred at the very most, general."
"Our present forces outnumber them more than five to one, their cause is not the one they chose to upheld, and yet here they stand ready to die." Voss considered his options quickly. None of them were ones he considered encouraging. Or wanted at all for that matter. In war, there were certain things he couldn't stand - most notably women leading men into battle. The sheer impudence of females like Jenalla Ironhorse and other female Alliance leaders appalled him. But not as much as unnecessary bloodshed. "Let me talk to him one last time. If it could only be resolved..."
It was a very slim hope indeed, and they all certainly knew it. But none gathered there wanted to be fighting other humans at a time when the horde was still straining the Southern forces. Which was why no one objected as the leading mage cast his spell and nodded as it was ready. He cleared his throat.
"Greetings, men and women, soldiers and knights of Lordearon! I come to ask you once more: please end this bloodshed. The Alliance of the three races is facing greater threats than has ever been in human history. We have no time to fight amongst ourselves..."
"So we should follow the orders of leaders who are failing to serve us?" Fillav's voice retorted suddenly. "If you believe I shall do that, General Voss, you are even more of a fool than I credited you with!!"
"Are you prepared to sacrifice all those men who have remained loyal to you?" The old general asked the rebel leader. "You have hundreds of men, while I have nearly five thousand. If you force a confrontation, you will die, and do will most of them."
"These men have my entire trust, and I have theirs. You will not find us so easy prey!"
"General." one advisor piped up. "Please give the order. We'll crush them and return to help at the battle at the Land Bridges." Voss gave the advisor a serious, level look, then resumed talking.
"Xilbreth!" he said, this time sternly, decisively. "You made an oath to King Terenas, and to the Alliance, as we all did! Now you turn against king and country and dare to call it just?!?"
"We do what must be done, Voss! A man steeped in the old ways like you cannot understand. WE saw the Alliance leadership was frail, vulnerable, defective. Many defeats came from their direct decisions. They are callously throwing lives away, while they eat and carouse and drink like fool! We need a stronger leadership to weather this onslaught. THAT is what the Compact offers."
Voss was taken aback by the words, but even moreso by the sheer tone he heard in the younger general's voice. This was the voice of one who truly believed in what he was doing, in the very heart of it. Yet, the words also sent a wave of anger burning through Voss' veins. Anger born from disbelief and the betrayal of a man who worked with him to stem the tides of the Horde, who had laboured to fortify the Land Bridges, and even planned on how to take Dun Algaz when the time came. He had cast away his oath and honour, and this, for a knight, was unacceptable.
"Fillav, all that the Compact has offered is to split us apart, shattering the confidence our troops have built for the past four years. You say the Compact offers a new age? I think it only shows a road to ruin, and I will not take it." He fell silent, strangely spent from saying these few words. A long moment of silence followed on the other side, on the hill where the remnants of the Seventh Army were arrayed for one final stand.
At last, Fillav spoke. In his voice was grim knowledge of what was to come, and more than a bit of sadness. "If neither of us can believe anything else than our own path, then we know what we must do. Farewell, general Voss."
Voss, greyed by more than just his fifty-two summers of life, shook his head but responded with all the respect and the dignity the other man still deserved. "I understand. Farewell to you, general Fillav." As soon as he said so, he gestured for the mage to undo the magical spell, which amplified the leaders' voices across the no-man's land. He turned his gaze to the men who would now carry out his order.
"Take three infantry units and one cavalry unit." he told his commanders. "Have the sorcerers and the archers ready to support. I want it done cleanly, and done with dignity. Nothing drawn-out and nothing cruel, these aren't orcs, and in this war we're waging that means a lot."
They nodded in understanding. "What about prisoners, sir?" one asked. As an answer, Voss looked towards the hill, where the last of a once-proud army was waiting for its inevitable doom.
"There won't be any survivors. These men are ready and prepared to fight to the last man. I can feel it." he shrugged off the pall he felt upon his heart. He was a man of caution, a man who scorned those who foolishly plunged into lofty plans. But he was also a man of duty, who couldn't afford to overthink an already dreary situation. His eyes turned steely. "You heard me. Now move out!"
Immediately, things started moving. Orders were passed, shields taken, horns blown to rally the troop. From the Hill, a few horns blew back in a tone of desperate defiance. Yes, there wouldn't be any survivors today.
"What does that make me?" he wondered "Am I a despicable man, or a good man? Or am I both?" he said, finally chuckling mirthlessly. Behind him, he heard the first clashes of steel upon steel, the first sound of a last battle being joined. He should look upon their last stand. He should look and see his enemy fall.
Yet, for all of his bluster, all of his rants and harshness, Zathu Voss never turned around, refusing to see the massacre he had ordered.
What did all this make him? What?
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 595, Over the Northeron Peaks, Lordaeron
Kurdran Deephammer knew only a few things, which could make him perfectly happy. One was a large, frosty pint of Bluegloss Ale from the Flare Talon Aerie, along with a good meal of spicy, seasoned roasted mountain sheep legs. Another was to visit and shower his nephews and nieces with gifts, spoiling them, much to the chagrin of his older brother and his wife. But nothing, nothing could ever beat, at least in Kurdran's mind, the ability to fly with a gryphon.
The wind whipped past him as he surveyed the land around him. He was nearing the border to the peaks, and could see the valley, which began those, lands the humans claimed as their own. Although the kings of Lordearon had claimed Northeron as their own long ago, they had never been able to enforce their rule, until both the Thane of the Grand Aerie- whom Kurdran gladly served - and the King of Lordaeron had settled, after small skirmishes which showed neither had the strength to conquer the other, they had simply settled for ignoring each other.
That attitude had suited the dwarves of Northeron perfectly. They wanted nothing to have with neither the humans and their fickle interest, the High Elves and their condescendence, and even less gave at thought to their former kin. The had never taken part in many endeavours - like the Pact of Stormwind which had held the racial hatred back for many decades. They acknowledged the Pact freely as a remarquable piece, but were themselves unconcerned. On the Aerie, nothing could touch them. And if something dared, their flights of griphon riders would take care of any danger.
Or so they had thought, and this was enough to crush the optimism, the elation he felt everytime he flew. This time, it was serious. A single carrier pigeon had come to the Grand Aerie, alerting them all. The Greatpeak Aerie was under attack by massive forces. Unbelievable. A force that wrought great destruction and left no survivors. This implacable enemy had beaten even the resident griphon riders.
"Too darn bad we don't have some Alliance support on this, ain't it Sky'rie?" He asked his griphon and friend, which growled. The Alliance. His people were aloof of the alliance humans, elves and dwarves had forged. They had never believed that it could work, not even when a noble high elf - whose race had been friends to the Aeries since they were first founded - came to plead to the Thane for help on behalf of that very Alliance. It wasn't right, Kurdran had decided. Their stubbornness might one day cost them far more than they ever imagined.
Muttering at the blindness of the Thane in these dire times, Kurdran urged his mount east, towards the place in which Greatpeak Aerie and the human village of Nathfarn stood, marking the borders between the two realms cleanly. Behind him, a full wing of Griphon Riders - the best the Grand Aerie had to offer - flew into formation, following the changes their leader made effortlessly, regardless of the great speed they were travelling. They would be in sight any moment now...
What he saw made Kurdran choke despite the many horrors he had foreseen as Griphon riders, as Nathfarn came into view. Or rather, when the burned out ruins, which had been Nathfarn, came into view. Where a small community of a few dozen houses existed, with farming fields surrounding it, now there was nothing but smoke, burnt wood, and the stench of death. Kurdran's eyes widened as he saw the way the buildings had been attacked. He had seen enough to know when a building had been torn down and burned. Whatever had done this had been large and decidedly deadly. This narrowed the possibility to only a few. First Griphons, which had never been known to attack human settlements. Wyverns, perhaps, but the scale of the damage was insufficient. Or...
With a tap and a muscular thrust, Kurdran ordered proud Sky'rie to faster speed. He raised his hammer to signal the other to follow him with all haste to Greypeak Aerie. He remembered the stories circulating from emissaries and scouts who had surveyed the Horde-held southern continent. There had been stories of dragons being trained to serve the orcs and their immense armies. If this was true...if this was, Greypeak might very well be in great danger, as it was a small hold and did not have a large force of Riders.
Although never having been a firm believer of anything that he could not see and feel, Kurdran preyed to the Light that they be in time, although something deep in his gut told him otherwise. Driven, his wing sped quickly towards the mountain in which the hold had been crafted.
He saw the battle from afar, although the smoke was less from lack of wood in the area. Flashes of blue lightning and of fiery lines struck to and fro, and his keen eyes saw indistinct flying shapes struggling against each other. Below him, Sky'rie screeched a battlecry known only to gryphons, and the dozen beasts, which followed, echoed it in a sort of eager passion. There was no turning away Griphons when they wished to fight. Nor, for that matter, did Kurdran wish it.
He hefted his Stormhammer and bellowed. "Greypeak is besieged! Attack, my brothers!" and he heard them roar back in the flapping, screeching wind.
The wing came into the fight that still raged, although things were decidedly one-sided. The slopes below the hold were littered with bodies. Some of them draconian - small draconian he saw - but more were bodies were of griphon and broken dwarven riders. In the sky, a few dwarves were barely holding their own against the five remaining dragons, three blacks and two reds. None of his men hesitated: they struck as hard as they could, chanting ancient war cries.
The effect was immediate. The Griphon Riders of the Grand Aerie not only were the best trained in all of Northeron, they were also those who had fought dragons the most, and all those who served with Kurdran were expert dragon-slayers. They swerved and struck before the dragons could respond, five of them striking one dragon simultaneously, killing it outright as the others joined the beleaguered, tired defenders.
A dragon roared at Kurdran, and Sky'rie growled back in defiance. "Want to fight, lizard?" he roared, "Come, then!"
And come the dragon did, spewing a stream of fire towards him.
Kurdran and Sky'rie flew aside from it, and positioned themselves to the side of the dragon, being stationary for a brief instant. In that moment Kurdran threw his hammer at the dragon. Which roared in pain and anger as the magically endowed weapon struck with much more force than its mass should have. It lashed out in mid-air, but already Sky'rie was elsewhere, expertly skirting death from both claw and flames, as the dwarven rout became a battle once more.
The hammer returned to the hand, which had launched it, as it had been designed to do, and once more griphon and dwarf attacked the dragon. The draconian beast, black as the night, this time feinted before pouncing, and tried to dig its fangs into his enemy's left wing. Sky'rie, beset by primal bloodlust, might have fallen then, but for Kurdran who saw through the enemy's feint and ploy. At the last moment, as the dragon's head went in for the kill, the Griphon swept up a gust of air and found itself above the draconian body. It was a chance neither beast nor dwarf would allow to pass up.
Griphon claws dug into draconian scales and flesh, even as the enemy roared in fear and hatred, throwing fire in all directions as it attempted to dislodge the stubborn, smaller beast from its back. The dwarf, as it was, had thus a clear view of the dragon's head. He struck, hurling his magical hammer at it again and again. Twice, then a third time, then a forth. Finally, blood fountained at the fifth as it penetrated through the dragon's thick skull and smashed into its brains. The dragon roar lost all form of cohesion, and it writhed in agony, not yet quite aware that it was dead.
Sky'rie let go with a crow of triumph to which Kurdran added his own victorious shout, and he looked over to the rest of the battlefield, as it had been blocked from his senses by the life-and-death struggle.
He saw that the battle, although certainly frightful, had gone very well. Two dragons lay now down with his own, and the last was being chased by four of his riders. He saw, however, that two of his own rider, and all but three of the defenders, had also fallen to their doom. The realization grasped him for a moment, but he pushed it away. He would grieve for all the lives lost when it was appropriate. Instead, he looked as one of the survivors - the captain of the Greaypeak Riders, from what he could see, flew towards him.
"I thank the Light you arrived!" the dwarf said, and went about praising the strength of his men. Kurdran did not listen to him. Instead he looked about at the devastation, remembering the similar horror around the human village. Dragons, attacking. It might be that the scouts' tales were not inaccurate.
The Grand Thane of Northeron had to be told. Told of the possibilities, of the facts, and of the reality that the dwarven aeries might not be able to stay away from the conflict, which was ruining the land below after all.
"I must speak with your Thane at once. There is much I have to tell him." he said at last.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 595, Dun Algaz, Khaz Modan
Hirlok Grindteeth was a firm, realistic warrior. He knew what could happen and what could not. He was certain in his knowledge of life and death, of duty and battle. He knew - and vicariously enjoyed - the bloodlust that lay at the edge of his conscious every single moment of his life, coming to life and filling him with energy and strength during battle. He knew that things were supposed to happen, and others weren't.
And mostly, he knew that where humans were concerned, an orc who wasn't ready for the impossible was most likely doomed in the long run.
It was thus with less surprise than he thought he would have that he heard the explosion resounding from deep within the Horde base. It was with less disbelief that he saw the smoke and heard the human warcries. It was with far less shock than any would have thought that he heard the shouts of 'Humans!' and 'To Arms!' and many 'Intruders!' here and there. Instead, he immediately left his seat in the room he had occupied, took his axe and went to look at the situation.
Outside, there was a great deal of confusion, as orcs ran here and there, carrying weapons and bereft of command and purpose. He shouted at them to get their heads together, hefting his weapon to emphasize his points, and took a passing grunt by the arm, stopping him with sheer strength and will.
"Stop this!" he growled loud enough to be heard by all around him. He looked around in contempt "All of you bring shame to the Blackrock Clan! Running around like a pack of animals while the enemy is within our walls!! Take your formations! Meet the enemy and push him back! Now MOVE, by the Beyond!" Shamed or cowed - Grindteeth did not really care which it was - by his words, the Grunts in the compounds, as well as the Ogres and Trolls, began to file out in a more orderly fashion. He returned his attention to the warrior he had grabbed. "Now you! Where are the humans, where did they come from, and how many are there?!? Speak!!"
The grunt, unfortunately, couldn't tell him much. He knew that the humans had attacked the northern part of the fortress. What didn't and yet did make sense was that they had seemed to appear from the ground itself, and that their numbers were many. From what he had seen, already hundreds of humans - footmen and Knights on foot, with dwarves and spellcasters to boot, were already within the stronghold, with more being disgorged every day.
From the ground? He had heard that Dun Algaz was named like this because Dwarves had once inhabited the region, back when they had been more powerful than they were now. If that was true, than the damned ground burrowers might well have known a way to go right under the newer Horde base. The fact that dwarves were fighting the humans bore that idea well. But that would be something to think about another time.
"Good. Good. Organize all of our forces, and send messengers to the front for reinforcements at once! We have to repulse the invaders now! This place is too important!" with that, he let the grunt go and went to command his troops in battle.
He had to give his people credit. Although caught by surprise - who, realistically, wouldn't have been? - they were doing a superb work on keeping the enemy contained. The humans had managed to infiltrate a part of the fortified grounds, but grunts and Ogres were now pressing upon them in large numbers, albeit not nearly as large as it would have been normally. At its height, Dun Algaz had been the home of over sixty thousand Horde warriors. With many traitors having gone to join Gul'Dan to the south, and the intense skirmishes with both the Alliance and the rebels, barely twelve or so thousand remained. It would have to do.
Grindteeth entered the fray without pausing to consider. His axe cleanly decapitated two humans at once, and he grappled with three others as they attempted to break out of their position. Around him, the noose was tightening. Warriors by the hundreds were joining the battle from all sides, and it was only a matter of time before the humans and their allies had no chance but to retreat.
"Forward!" he growled as loud as breath could allow "Press them forward! Crush them into a circle! Press on!" He couldn't use the Trolls in this melee, but neither could humans use their archers, elven or otherwise. This was a contest of pure will and strength. And the Alliance forces had always lacked where this was concerned.
Here and there, there were flashes of energy, lightning flying from fingertips, streams of fire, mostly hitting larger targets like the Ogres. Spellcasters, of course. If he'd been in his normal state, Grindteeth would have recognized the strategy, would also have seen that the humans weren't making as much efforts as they might have to resist being drawn into a circle. But he saw none of that. He had killed yet one more armoured human, and the bloodlust was upon him. He embraced it, not caring for anything else but the ecstasy that it brought him as his axe tasted flesh and went awash with red blood.
"Forward! All forward! Press them down, in Doomhammer's name!! CRUSH THEM!!" he roared as he stepped aside from a human sword and repaid the insolent insect by taking its little useless life. All around, the Horde was gaining the decisive upper hand. It would be a rout soon enough.
Full as he was of the visions of death and gore and glory and victory, he barely registered the second explosion, which went out behind him. Neither, it seemed, did most of his forces, which were in the same state that he was. It was only when he distinctly heard human, dwarven and elven shouts from behind him that his brain relayed the significance of what he'd seen through the red haze.
Forcing his gaze away in a lull around him, he looked back. And once again did not feel the complete surprise he should have felt as he saw more humans, in large numbers, running towards them from behind, shields and swords in hand, alongside some few dwarves with axes. Streams of magical energy struck from human spellcasters again, this time more freely, into the exposed backs of many an orc or ogre.
A two-pronged attack, he realized. This had been their plan all along!
"Turn about! Meet the other charge!" he called, desperately fighting the bloodlust, which gripped his very being. His eyes were opened, as were his acts, but this was not the case for many of his people. Many were deep within the unnatural rage and need of battle, and so those who turned to meet the new threat - few than should have been - did so in an uncertain, bewildered fashion which made Grindteeth act like his name said.
There were many more human knights on foot in this new wave, and most of the dwarves and spellcasters had been kept ready for this second offensive. As Grindteeth watched, a grey bearded human struck down five orcs and two trolls with a spell thrown almost casually. Elsewhere, a human warrior - large for one of such fragile race, was busy sweeiping through the Horde forces like a scourge. Near the centre of the new attack came a human knight dressed in the colours of an Alliance general, flanked by the short but muscled stature of a dwarf. The two of them seemed to be sweeping back the grunts before them, backed by many humans and almost all the dwarves there was in that attack.
But this did not deter Grindteeth. He had commanded troops on difficult battlefield before, and knew how to react. He whipped his people into shape, his voice carrying far, and gathered many around him to counter the human-dwarven push through the lines. The two groups met in a clash of violence, as the two factions - and especially the orcs and the humans - fought each other with grim hate. Grindteeth found himself faced with the human and dwarf who led the offensive, and struck at the larger human at once.
The human was skilled and strong, and met Grindteeth's attacks with his own. The battle, however, was quickly swaying to the orc's side through sheer strength and greater experience. Feinting to one side, blocking a blow, he hit the human deep in the side and watched as he fell to the ground, gasping for breath. One moment, triumph engulfed him, the bloodlust returned, and he raised his axe for a victory shout-
-and received a tremendous blow to the throat crushing his windpipe. The Dwarf! Curse it all to the Beyond! How could have forgotten the Dwarf?!?
He tried to growl, but could only gasp, his breath unable to come, his vision going hazy and his axe falling from nerveless hands as he clutched at his crushed throat. Another blow, to the knees, painful yet barely felt, forced him down, and suddenly the ugly face of the dwarf filled his vision. The Dwarf spat on him, and raised his smaller axe for a blow.
'Yes.' he found himself thinking as the time lengthened 'Yes, we are powerful. But the bloodlust we are cursed with is even stronger. It makes us unstable, and dangerous. It sunders us. It -'
The dwarf struck.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 595, Whitefort, Lordearon
"Are you certain that this is accurate information?" asked Sylphord Duraz, former Alliance General and now Supreme Commander of the Grand Compact Army. His voice did not betray any of the unease he might have been feeling.
"It is, milord." Kelnam Pedran answered in a gruff, elderly voice "We've learned it from our people who are bidding their time in Dalaran. The Alliance has taken hold of Dun Algaz, and of one of the southern ends of the Land Bridges. The Horde is presently-"
"I don't give a wit about what the Horde may or may not be doing! It doesn't matter, not with Minvare holding Dun Algaz, and not with the damnable orcs breaking apart at the seams!" In the Alliance, Duraz had been an excellent strategist, and he knew the potential implications that the Calm General's successful bid had wrought. None of it went according to his plans, and none of it could possibly please him right now. He decided to bring his attention on a less irksome and worrisome subject. "What about our forces elsewhere?"
"Tarrak holds Harpgate and Hillsbrad, but there has been many raids by Alliance forces in the area, and the hold he has there is becoming thin, especially with the increasing number of troops stationed in and around Taren Mill. Moreover, the people are beginning to talk amongst themselves despite our best efforts. They do not approve of us."
"What some bean counters and farmers think is not my concern!" Duraz said disdainfully. The very idea that mere PEASANTS could have any idea on how they should be ruled was ludicrous. They were to serve those in power, and nothing more! If necessary, he would make some examples of why they should serve the Grand Compact...
It might have been his imagination, but for a moment Pedran's face, always grim and withdrawn, looked dark. But that might only have been a trick of the light given from the candles. "Milord, I daresay you have never seen the effect civil unrest has on the troops. Morale is low, and getting lower by the day. If something is not done-"
"That's ENOUGH! As long as King Terenas is in our hands, the Alliance will have their hands tied! They have been forced to keep us and the city supplied, given us time to fortify ourselves! Now leave me, I wish to think." he gave a gesture of dismissal. Pedran, however, did not move at once, but bent closer for a moment. "I will not make my men pawns again." was the clear warning he heard. But before he could do anything, the former commander had stalked out of the room.
With an angry heave, Duraz shoved the plate he had been eating off the table. He had taken to dine in this opulent room, furnished with beautiful paintings, mainly to show that he now owned this castle. It had been the queen's private dining room when she had been well, and the wealth with which Terenas had furnished it, was quite suitable to his needs.
But he saw nothing of all this at that very moment. All he could see were his plans - his painstakingly orchestrated plans - slowly crumbling. It had been perfect, to take power when the Alliance would have been at its weakest, and use the fear and instability to take complete control.
The occasion, when the Horde had retreated from Whitefort, had seemed perfect. He had been so relieved himself that he had not counted on whatever had caused the Horde offensive to shatter to be so deep, and to have such repercussions. He had thought that the Alliance would have had no choice but to send all of its forces to reinforce the south. Nothing but his own forces should have remained after a little while, leaving him with the entire north to reshape to his will, while the remaining Alliance forces would keep the Horde at bay.
Only it hadn't gone that way. The Horde, which had always seemed so unified during the First War -facts upon which he had based his plans on -, had fragmented far worse than he had thought it possible to. Reports came from their hidden sources that fighting was occurring between two large factions. If they were lucky, they might batter themselves to oblivion! But as joyful the news of a defeated Horde would be, the fighting among the orcs had blunted their strength in the south, allowing the fronts to stabilize. The loyal alliance forces in the North had never had to leave. And what was worse, they had been able to concentrate on retaking that which was the Compact, which was his...
Damn it all.
"But the day is not done." he muttered. "As long as I hold Terenas and Wrynn, Lothar won't dare attack me!"
"Talking to yourself, Sylphord? Have things already started to crumble and slip through your fingers as dust?" The voice, soft, cultured and pleasant, and yet holding a detectable note of contempt, belonged to Eira Fregar, named Swiftblade now. She glided into the room confidently, knowing that, in his days of victory, he had let her roam about. Fool woman. He should have her under lock and key.
"Leave me, woman." he said sternly "I have no wish to cross verbal swords with you tonight." He gestured dismissively. However, she did not move, only continued to look at him with that calm and condescending look, the look only a Fregar could take. It was said that there was elven blood in House Fregar, and the haughtiness their members showed, with their usual beauty, certainly never denied that theory. He glared at her more forcefully. "Do not force me to do much worse, woman. Remember that you merchant husband is not there to protect you from my wrath."
She looked at him calmly still, and a part of him did want her very much at that moment. If only she would have seen how things were supposed to be, they would have done great things together. Most of him, however, was incensed. He started to tell her to leave him, this time far more forcefully, when she finally spoke again.
"You never understood why I chose Aerth over you. I'll be blunt - I didn't love you."
"Neither did you love him..."
"That's what I kept telling myself for so long, that it was just a whim at first, that I married this penniless knight because I saw some potential in him. If only for that, the marriage would have been worthwhile, wouldn't it." her face, so cold and beautiful, gained a more wistful air "But I was blinding my own eyes. I think I did love him even then. He cherished me without caring about my wealth or my position. He never had your finesse, but his feelings, at least, were more real than yours ever could be."
This was getting irritating, on top of everything else which was happening. "Please, could you simply tell me where this rather...absurd...sentimental drivel is leading to? I have better things to do than to listen to your phantasms."
"Do you prefer listening to yours? Fantasizing about re-forging Arathor, or some similar nonsense, when you have already lost?"
"I doubt a spoiled noble like you would know anything about strategy, or whether a battle is lost or not!" he said, his tone filled with contempt, his eyes with spearing ire. Eira remained unmoved, unwilling to take what to his eyes was a female's place - servitude and obedience.
"I never fought any battles, but I saw some being fought years before, have spoken to people who have been through war. Moreover, I am wedded to a man who is your superior in all things regarding warfare. You wanted an empire? All you have are a few, besieged cities, which will fall eventually. You hold King Terenas, but that is the only thread which is preventing those troops outside the walls from launching an attack." She turned her back to him, radiating contempt. "You fancy yourself an Emperor, when you are nothing but a rebel living on borrowed time."
Duraz almost killed her then. Almost drew his blade and killed her on the spot. Disobedient, vile, blind female! He shook with rage, and only brought himself from the edge of murder by a thin thread of reason. No, not yet. Killing her now might spin events out of his control, and he needed control.
What he needed...was further insurance. But what could it be? Wrynn and Terenas would never agree to any of his ploy, and he had already threatened to kill the ailing queen if supplies weren't allowed into the city. This was as far as he could go in that direction. He needed another thread.
Suddenly it struck him. Of course. He wouldn't get much from threatening the Queen. But there was another he would be able to use. One who would have even more sway on the stubborn monarch...
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 595, Alliance camp outside Whitefort, Lordaeron
Uther Lightbringer finished his story as interested eyes looked at him from around the campaign table. "-although I don't believe they would have surrendered solely upon the Archbishop's words, I think they saw that their position was buckling. I was glad to see your relief force arriving two days later, however. If they hadn't left, I don't know what we would have done, short of battle - they had managed to hit our stores."
Swiftblade saw Lothar nod pensively, looking older than ever recently - fighting humans, it was true, was more taxing than fighting orcs. "I am glad to hear this, Lord Uther. I trust the Archbishop will join us soon?"
But Lightbringer answered by shaking his head. "No, milord. He has learned that the people of Harpgate have been suffering much under the Compact's hold, and he has gone to do what could be done."
"I have convinced him to take an escort of some of my best knights. He will be safe as he travels." Swiftblade added.
"You two have this all thought up already? What can I do but to acquiesce." A wan grin, small and fleeting, flickered on the old face before the usual grim visage took hold once again. "But, as much as I am glad that the Haven of the Hand and your Order of the Silver Hand is safe, it only seems to increase my discomfort at this present situation."
Discomfort? That was a pale word compared to what Swiftblade felt. Although he knew Eira was a strong and proud woman who's spirit would never be broken, his heart ached to know she was up there, captive inside what should have been one of the safest havens in the Alliance. Day by day it grew inside him, and he had to keep himself occupied to keep from going mad with worry. Thus, he had taken on every mission Lothar could give him and had helped to prepare the siege in every way he could. But now the forces were poised, ready but unable to attack, and the worry was coming back to the fore of his being out of inaction.
"Well, we're as ready as we could ever be. Aren't we, Turalyon?" Lothar asked the serious, short-haired blond paladin. The serious man, whom Swiftblade had felt only great respect - and a bit of irritation - for, gave an affirmative gesture. He looked as fresh as he looked any day. Swiftblade envied him.
"We are, Sire. The people have been - outraged is the mild word - by rebels taking hold of their capital. Thus many new recruits have joined us, and are being trained. At this rate, we might be at full strength before the first snows, certainly before this year is out." his eyes, always grim, darkened further "But strength is useful only when it is used. Thus far, however, our hands have been tied by these traitors having the King hostage. The same situation, I think, is holding off liberation forces at Harpgate."
"Yes. I don't think they planned for us to remain here. I suspect, however, that they always thought of using the royalty as a bargaining tool. And they have." he showed them a piece of parchment. "I received a new demand from them which reflects that desperate yet cunning poise."
All present leaned forward intently. "What new trick are these curs up to now?" Turalyon asked in a grimmer voice than usual. He, then, like Swiftblade had spotted the disgust in Lothar's tone. They weren't going to like what they would hear, he was certain of that.
"I will dispense you with Duraz's arrogant tone. To put it simple, they have told me that I have three days to take my army away from Whitefort and take it to a distance of no less than one hundred miles, or they will kill Lordaeron's one and only heir."
Shock and disgust filled all present, but none showed it more than Uther Lightbringer. A former, devout priestly adept, the news probably went against everything he was. "They would kill Crown Prince Arthas, a four year old child?!? And here I had thought the orcs were repulsive! What will you do, milord."
"The only thing I can. I will comply with his demands, lest Lordaeron's succession be put in serious jeopardy."
"What??" Swiftblade knew taking this kind of tone with the Alliance High General was uncalled for, but couldn't contain himself any longer. "Sire, I know my opinion is tainted by my worry for my family, but even if it weren't, I'd say this is madness! We can't keep jumping through that traitor's hoops like pawns!" he tried to calm himself, found only a faint ability to calm his frenzied ire as the three other man looked at him with a mixture of pity and understanding - which made him feel even worse. "I will obey any order you give, milord, since your are my Regent-Lord and my commanding officer. But I maintain leaving like this, leaving the Compact free reign of this region is too dangerous."
Turalyon crossed his fingers for a moment, then sighed softly. "As much loyalty I have for Lordaeron, I have to agree with lord Aerth, sire."
Lothar looked at them both, imposing and grave, keen eyes gazing deeply into each face, before he smiled ever so faintly. "I would expect no less from two commanding officers of your calibre. And you are right; leaving this place completely is out of the question. And I have no intention of doing so. Only, our actions will have to be more...secret...if we are to free the important hostages and retake this ancient capital.
"And how do you propose to do this, milord?" Uther asked.
"Perhaps this is where I come into this discussion." A voice, feminine yet decidedly deadly, purred from outside the tent flap. All three men stood at this intrusion, and Turalyon stepped forth with his blade half-drawn, but Lothar stopped them all.
"Peace. This is Magdella. She leads the group who can help us. Please do come in, Magdella."
The woman who came out was nondescript at first glace. Of average build and height, with a face neither beautiful nor ugly, almost as if it was up to its owner's decision to pick one. Her brown hair, though lush, was also unremarquable. Her attire was a simple uniform of cotton and leather, with a slim dagger hanging from an unadorned belt. She could easily have gone anywhere in a human village without anyone noticing her.
At second glance, however, Aerth's alert skills - grown from years of warfare - picked up a sense of undeniable grace in this woman. A sense of grace, added to clear cunning in the eyes. All of this, and something else he couldn't quite define, told him that this woman might seem ordinary, but that, in truth, she wasn't. Quite the opposite actually.
She bore the intrigued and irritated glares from the three men with casual ease, drifting to Lothar without paying them much heed. The old knight was the only one who didn't seem the least bit concerned by the way she moved or acted. "I see you've received Duraz's ludicrous letter, milord. What would be your intentions."
"Watch your tongue when you speak to the Regent-Lord!" Swiftblade growled. She slotted ordinary but keen almond eyes towards him.
"Ah, the famed general of the equally famous First Army." she nodded, but it was just acknowledgement, not respect. "This isn't your battlefield, young lord, but mine. You should be careful in how you speak with me."
The 'young lord' was about to say something, which would probably have been regrettable, but Lothar forestalled him. "Peace, my friends. Magdela is...arrogant, but I assure you she is on our side in this matter. You knew of this matter already, of course?"
"Since this morning. And I knew how you would react to this. Shall I tell my girls to move in?"
"As soon as the matter here is cleared up. I see all these men here have questions, and they deserve the answers." he sighed, looking at the three men. "Magdela is on our side, friends. She and those like her serve the Alliance in their own way. I have formed them some months ago, and they so far have shown tremendous potential."
"Who are they, sire?" Lightbringer asked. But it was Magdela who answered..
"We don't really have a name. But if you must call us something, then let us be the Infiltrators to you. We do the jobs such as this, where armies and martial strength is useless." she smiled at their shocked looks. "You can't get to the hostages. But we can, and we will."
"And how will you do that?" Turalyon questioned. "And how can you be sure you'll be able to do it."
Her grin became feral. "Because they don't know we're there. They don't suspect women to be a danger, to be able to outwit them, silly men. They will be proven wrong, in the most humiliating way..."
_______________________________________________________________________
BONUS
The Alliance Fleet
The Alliance fleet was first created in late autumn 588, when the human nations of Lordaeron, Azeroth, Stromgarde, Kul Tiras, Dalaran and Alterac signed the Alliance Pact. Kul Tiras possessing the largest fleet and the best sailors, it fell upon King Proudmoore and his people to build a cohesive naval force of the six nations, which soon also had ships from the humans of Gilneas (591) and the Elves of Quel'Thalas (592). Dealin Proudmoore has since merged the ships and trained them together, and presently eight effective Fleets patrol the Great sea and the many shores, attacking Horde and human pirate ships both, keeping the waters as safe as possible in the Second War's trying times.
This here is a breakdown of the present Alliance Fleets as of late Autumn 595.
1st Fleet
Leader: Daelin Proudmoore, Lord-Admiral and Ruler of Kul Tiras
Ships in Fleet: 4 (5) Orca-Class Battleships
9 (15) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
7 (10) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
11 (15) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
8 (10) Daring-Class Transports
9 (15) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Kul Tiras Shores/Great Sea
2nd Fleet (Destroyed, Allied with Compact)
Leader: Carpallian Jerakuth, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: None, ships destroyed or redistributed to other
fleets, fleet had 34 ships upon defection
Area of Defense: None, Formerly Kul Tiras Shores/Great Sea
3rd Fleet
Leader: Salvan Fargold, Vice-Admiral *Acting*
Ships in Fleet: 0 (3) Orca-Class Battleships
4 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
3 (8) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
7 (12) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
2 (10) Daring-Class Transports
5 (10) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Northern Great Sea Region
4th Fleet
Leader: Varth Xallios, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: 3 (3) Orca-Class Battleships
8 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
5 (8) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
10 (12) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
7 (10) Daring-Class Transports
8 (10) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Stromgarde Shores/Great Sea
5th Fleet
Leader: Edne Arroweye, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: 3 (3) Orca-Class Battleships
9 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
17 (20) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
9 (10) Daring-Class Transports
8 (10) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Gilneas Shores/Great Sea
6th Fleet
Leader: Doronin Malkavth, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: 2 (3) Orca-Class Battleships
7 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
6 (8) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
9 (12) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
6 (10) Daring-Class Transports
7 (10) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Northern Great Sea Region
7th Fleet
Leader: Beugrand Tellim, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: 2 (2) Orca-Class Battleships
5 (6) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
3 (4) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
7 (8) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
7 (8) Daring-Class Transports
8 (8) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Northern Great Sea Region
8th Fleet (Main Elven Fleet)
Leader: Estalai Waverule, Armada Commander (Admiral)
Ships in Fleet: 1 (1) Orca-Class Battleship
27 (35) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
9 (10) Daring-Class Transports
10 (10) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Elven Waters/Land Bridges
9th Fleet (Main Reserve Fleet)
Leader: Leriom Fegell, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: 5 (5) Orca-Class Battleships
18 (20) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
16 (20) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
25 (30) Daring-Class Transports
17 (20) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Lordaeron Shores/Reserve Force
10th Fleet (Planned)
Leader: Undecided, but Proudmoore said to be deciding soon
Ships in Fleet: None, but planned to have no less than 60 ships,
including prototype Gnomish submarines
Area of Defense: None. The 10th Fleet will be a dedicated attack
force
11th Fleeth (Planned)
Leader: Undecided
Ships in Fleet: 53 ships, same composition as 3rd Fleet
Area of Defense: Planned to replace 3rd Fleet positions
Present total strength of the Alliance Fleet: 353 Ships in active service, including 80 Battleships (20 Orca and 60 Grimstorms), 128 Destroyers (51 Sunstriders and 77 Bielevants), 73 Transports and 72 Support and Supply ships. In addition, several lightly-armed sloops protect smaller towns in the Alliance and are affiliated with the Fleet, and several dozen Line ships are being built, no less than 16 at the immense Havenport Shipyards alone. In total, 28,000 enlisted men and officers serve the Alliance Fleet at this time, and there is talk of recruiting more for the upcoming strengthening Proudmoore has decided on.
Autumn 595, Ancient Khajin Tunnel, Somewhere in Khaz Modan
Rellon Minvare decided that he wouldn't be caught in a dwarven underground tunnel for the rest of the war. And, if he survived to see it through the end, the rest of his life afterwards. Although he appreciated the possibilities that the contraption had opened, he simply couldn't stand the restraining feel as he was. The feeling of being enclosed entombed in rock. Tight spaces had never sat well with him - he much preferred the open sky. But this was worse than anything. He knew that it bothered many of his men, too. He saw it written on their faces.
It didn't bother the dwarves in the slightest, of course. Born and raised underground, a tunnel was to them was a dirt road was to a human - common, unimpressive, even boring at times. Although he didn't see any bored expression from Muradin Bronzebeard and his cohorts as they picked their way through a passageway built, if what the dwarves said was true - well before humans became more than a pack of nomadic tribes. But although alert, there was a casual air to them all, whereas all humans were nervous.
Yet, Minvare showed nothing of all this. Keeping his poise, face and voice level in the way which came naturally to him and which he'd honed over the years, he calmly gave orders and encouragements when they were needed. His men seemed to take heart from that. There was no need to show them any clue that their general was feeling every bit as edgy as they did.
"How long, Lord Muradin?" he asked the short, heavily built dwarf walking about next to him.
"Lad, no need to call me lord. None of that between us. Just Muradin's plain fine to me." the dwarf replied quickly "As for the question, I'd ken we're just two days or so away from the place connecting to old Dun Algaz."
"How can you tell?"
"Easy to smell, lad." was the reply, given in a rather surprised tone. Minvare resisted the urge to remind the dwarf that, to most humans, a rock smells like any other rock. Light, what he'd give for a good walk under the clear blue sky right now!!
He looked back at his men. They had been walking for a long time now, and looked fatigued. Although this wouldn't normally have moved him, he decided to act upon it now. The walk underground, through halls and tunnels forgotten by all but the Dwarven soldiery, had been much more draining than any normal day. If it wasn't night already.
When he asked the dwarf lord, he saw a bit of bewilderment, then understanding. "Aye, aye. I apologize. Forgot you humans don't like tunnels that much. Well, don't worry. From the lay of the carvings, a resting hall is up ahead, maybe two hours of marching away. Take heart! We'll make it yet, we will!" he said that so happily that there was a moment where Minvare wondered if the dwarven warrior REALLY was related to Magni Bronzebeard, King of Ironforge.
There was much to this place. Whatever the dwarves of Khajin had been, they must have been masters in tunnelling. Although cracked at places, with debris fallen in a sea of dust, the Ancient Tunnels of Khajin had withstood the millennia. If he looked at the walls in the glow of the torches, he saw pictures, runes and unreadable words, all artfully crafted with precision and a great deal of care. Moreover, the tunnels were practical, being wide enough to accommodate seven men walking side by side and then some.
"These tunnels are perfect to march an army through." he noted in wonderment. Bronzebeard's bitter snort made the human general focus on the bearded dwarf once more. "You seem rather...unhappy with my assessment."
"Unhappy?" the dwarf said, shaking his head "Nay, it's not that. Just reflecting on how right what you just said was, and what price came from it. Ever heard of the Dwarven Wars?"
He shrugged. "I do remember glancing at a tome in Northshire, and hearing the hearsay from my elders at the time. From what little I know, it's a series of conflict between Dwarves when Arathor was young."
"Aye, just about right. But there's more. The Wars went on and off for many years, 'till it broke the backs of my people, causing our civilization to buckle. Took us a full thirteen centuries to get us back on our feet somewhat, and there are some things that're still lost right here now. Things the old dwarves knew that we've forgotten. Grand things. Gone forever." He gestured briefly around himself. "These walls helped to make it all happen. They were built to protect Khajin. Instead they destroyed it in the end."
"A double-edged sword. A boon and a curse." Minvare answered after a moment, caught by the emotions he perceived in the dwarf's words.
"Aye. One that has lived in the mind of my father, and his father, and his father's father, all the way to the first Bronzebeard, Barelak, third son of the High Thane of Khajin." Muradin sighed, and then looked at him with renewed vigour. "But the past's still the past. Although we've not gone back to the glory of Khajin, Ironforge is gettin' to be more than a pale shadow. But enough about me. What about you, human?"
Only innate self-control kept Minvare in place. His voice, however, couldn't help but betray some of his surprise. "Me? Lo...Muradin, sir. I can't really tell you much. My father was a knight raised to the Peerage by King Demar the Third, King Llane's father. We lived at a small mansion. My mother died when I was very young. My father passed away two years before the orcs began to attack the kingdom. That's about it. Nothing interesting. Nothing out of the ordinary. I am just a small baron, nothing more."
"Nothing more? I can't believe that, my lad. I just can't. I've seen how these men there look at you. I don't think you quite see how great you are. But, then again, great men rarely see their own worth for what it really is."
"Sir, I really do not..." But at that moment one of the dwarves who had been sent to scout ahead came back, clutching some kind of object in his hands. He came to Muradin, who became grim the moment he saw the piece his kinsman was holding. An urgent, whispered conversation followed, after which he turned back, his eyes carrying a grim message.
"Goblins." was all he said, and that was sufficient to make the hair on the back of Minvare's neck rise and stand up.
"There have been goblins here?" he asked "For how long?"
It was the other dwarf who answered. "They were in one of the side tunnels. Its one of the condemned areas, and is very fragile. Maybe they didn't come all the way to the main tunnels."
"Or maybe they did, and this plan is doomed before it's even begun." That couldn't be, however. They NEEDED this. They needed to break the long stalemate at the Land Bridges. The Horde holding the southern side, the Alliance the northern one. Both sides fortified, but neither able to budge from their position, even as lives upon lives were lost in pointless raids and insignificant skirmishes. With the Alliance caught up with the Compact and the captured major cities, the only hop was to use the Horde's own conflict and secure Dun Algaz.
But with goblins having been here, maybe the Horde already knew about these ways. Maybe they had laid a trap for his men. They would make their surprise attack and be slaughtered. The best option, given this, would be to return his forces to Alliance territory, and re-establish his lines...
Yet, two arguments stopped him from seriously considering this. First was the fact that the land forces would launch their assault soon, and that the lives lost there would be wasted if he didn't at least TRY to take the base. Moreover, from what he'd seen in the First War, the Horde was just as prone to use a possible advantage. Yet there had never been an attack upon friendly forces from an underground position ever reported. Maybe it was all a trick to lure them in, yet even that was doubtful.
No. No, he wouldn't change his plans. Unlike Swiftblade and, up to a point, Ironhorse, he wasn't a general whose forte was to fight upon constantly changing plans. He would have to trust in the Light and his own luck to carry him through.
"We'll have to hope the goblins didn't see this tunnel or told the Horde about them." he finally decided. "We've committed ourselves. Now we must follow it through, whether for good or for ill."
Muradin Bronzebeard nodded. "Aye. That's the only way now. To be sure, we'll seal that passage as we go."
"Thank you." Minvare then stepped back to talk to the other officers. They would have to strike harder and faster than they had first thought. He just hoped the other forces made enough of a skirmish up there. They'd need it a lot now...
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 595, Thandol Valley, Stromgarde
If he had felt there was a way to curse this situation in a way which would convey the bitterness and the dismay he felt at this moment, there was no doubt that Zathu Voss, self-acknowledged martinet and general of the Alliance Sixth Army, would have had his mouth spewing expletives right about then. But nothing, neither gesture nor word, could replace or tell of the sensation he felt upon seeing the ruined bodies of the many Seventh Army soldiers.
Broken bodies of young men and even women littered the blood-soaked plain and ridge. Knights in shattered armour, footmen with cloven shield and mail, archers with broken bows. Too many young lives had been lost in this foolish clash between two forces, which should have been friends in this time of great need, and darkness. And yet, it had to be done, as despicable as things were.
'And yet, to come through so much, and finally face this.' he reflected sourly even as he rode to the small hillock from which his commanders and other advisor awaited him for what would be the final assault. An assault he didn't want to order.
The Seventh Army had been taken by surprise, and Fillav's attempt at forging defensive positions had been swept away by magical bolts and mighty cavalry charges. The thousands of men had fought bravely in a quite uneven fight against fresh, prepared troops. Many had died. Many more had, - Thank the Light! - surrendered or turned their swords to the Alliance side. Still, Fillav had been a respected commander, a good general, and many had followed him through to the end. Into and out of the battle, then chased to this hill by magic and steel, until what little remained of the rebel forces had been chased here. To the green hill just ahead.
He saw it stand out in the midst of flat terrain, and spotted the last, beleaguered survivors grouped around Lordearon's banner. Hundreds, perhaps, but no match for the four thousand he had brought in pursuit. The end of the battle was near, as shameful as ending it would be in his heart.
He said none of this as he dismounted near the knoll, gave the reins to a boy who should never have been on a battlefield - Light! So young, all of them! - and gave the men who were noticing and turning to him a calm but intense acknowledgement. He came to stand amongst them and asked, "Has there been any response to our query?"
His infantry commander shook his head quickly. "None. He doesn't acknowledge us. He came here, and shot arrows to any envoy we sent. We already lost two men in these attempts.
Voss grimaced. "What cam anyone tell me of their resources in terms of manpower." he said quickly. "How many men does he have holed up the hill?"
"Eight hundred at the very most, general."
"Our present forces outnumber them more than five to one, their cause is not the one they chose to upheld, and yet here they stand ready to die." Voss considered his options quickly. None of them were ones he considered encouraging. Or wanted at all for that matter. In war, there were certain things he couldn't stand - most notably women leading men into battle. The sheer impudence of females like Jenalla Ironhorse and other female Alliance leaders appalled him. But not as much as unnecessary bloodshed. "Let me talk to him one last time. If it could only be resolved..."
It was a very slim hope indeed, and they all certainly knew it. But none gathered there wanted to be fighting other humans at a time when the horde was still straining the Southern forces. Which was why no one objected as the leading mage cast his spell and nodded as it was ready. He cleared his throat.
"Greetings, men and women, soldiers and knights of Lordearon! I come to ask you once more: please end this bloodshed. The Alliance of the three races is facing greater threats than has ever been in human history. We have no time to fight amongst ourselves..."
"So we should follow the orders of leaders who are failing to serve us?" Fillav's voice retorted suddenly. "If you believe I shall do that, General Voss, you are even more of a fool than I credited you with!!"
"Are you prepared to sacrifice all those men who have remained loyal to you?" The old general asked the rebel leader. "You have hundreds of men, while I have nearly five thousand. If you force a confrontation, you will die, and do will most of them."
"These men have my entire trust, and I have theirs. You will not find us so easy prey!"
"General." one advisor piped up. "Please give the order. We'll crush them and return to help at the battle at the Land Bridges." Voss gave the advisor a serious, level look, then resumed talking.
"Xilbreth!" he said, this time sternly, decisively. "You made an oath to King Terenas, and to the Alliance, as we all did! Now you turn against king and country and dare to call it just?!?"
"We do what must be done, Voss! A man steeped in the old ways like you cannot understand. WE saw the Alliance leadership was frail, vulnerable, defective. Many defeats came from their direct decisions. They are callously throwing lives away, while they eat and carouse and drink like fool! We need a stronger leadership to weather this onslaught. THAT is what the Compact offers."
Voss was taken aback by the words, but even moreso by the sheer tone he heard in the younger general's voice. This was the voice of one who truly believed in what he was doing, in the very heart of it. Yet, the words also sent a wave of anger burning through Voss' veins. Anger born from disbelief and the betrayal of a man who worked with him to stem the tides of the Horde, who had laboured to fortify the Land Bridges, and even planned on how to take Dun Algaz when the time came. He had cast away his oath and honour, and this, for a knight, was unacceptable.
"Fillav, all that the Compact has offered is to split us apart, shattering the confidence our troops have built for the past four years. You say the Compact offers a new age? I think it only shows a road to ruin, and I will not take it." He fell silent, strangely spent from saying these few words. A long moment of silence followed on the other side, on the hill where the remnants of the Seventh Army were arrayed for one final stand.
At last, Fillav spoke. In his voice was grim knowledge of what was to come, and more than a bit of sadness. "If neither of us can believe anything else than our own path, then we know what we must do. Farewell, general Voss."
Voss, greyed by more than just his fifty-two summers of life, shook his head but responded with all the respect and the dignity the other man still deserved. "I understand. Farewell to you, general Fillav." As soon as he said so, he gestured for the mage to undo the magical spell, which amplified the leaders' voices across the no-man's land. He turned his gaze to the men who would now carry out his order.
"Take three infantry units and one cavalry unit." he told his commanders. "Have the sorcerers and the archers ready to support. I want it done cleanly, and done with dignity. Nothing drawn-out and nothing cruel, these aren't orcs, and in this war we're waging that means a lot."
They nodded in understanding. "What about prisoners, sir?" one asked. As an answer, Voss looked towards the hill, where the last of a once-proud army was waiting for its inevitable doom.
"There won't be any survivors. These men are ready and prepared to fight to the last man. I can feel it." he shrugged off the pall he felt upon his heart. He was a man of caution, a man who scorned those who foolishly plunged into lofty plans. But he was also a man of duty, who couldn't afford to overthink an already dreary situation. His eyes turned steely. "You heard me. Now move out!"
Immediately, things started moving. Orders were passed, shields taken, horns blown to rally the troop. From the Hill, a few horns blew back in a tone of desperate defiance. Yes, there wouldn't be any survivors today.
"What does that make me?" he wondered "Am I a despicable man, or a good man? Or am I both?" he said, finally chuckling mirthlessly. Behind him, he heard the first clashes of steel upon steel, the first sound of a last battle being joined. He should look upon their last stand. He should look and see his enemy fall.
Yet, for all of his bluster, all of his rants and harshness, Zathu Voss never turned around, refusing to see the massacre he had ordered.
What did all this make him? What?
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 595, Over the Northeron Peaks, Lordaeron
Kurdran Deephammer knew only a few things, which could make him perfectly happy. One was a large, frosty pint of Bluegloss Ale from the Flare Talon Aerie, along with a good meal of spicy, seasoned roasted mountain sheep legs. Another was to visit and shower his nephews and nieces with gifts, spoiling them, much to the chagrin of his older brother and his wife. But nothing, nothing could ever beat, at least in Kurdran's mind, the ability to fly with a gryphon.
The wind whipped past him as he surveyed the land around him. He was nearing the border to the peaks, and could see the valley, which began those, lands the humans claimed as their own. Although the kings of Lordearon had claimed Northeron as their own long ago, they had never been able to enforce their rule, until both the Thane of the Grand Aerie- whom Kurdran gladly served - and the King of Lordaeron had settled, after small skirmishes which showed neither had the strength to conquer the other, they had simply settled for ignoring each other.
That attitude had suited the dwarves of Northeron perfectly. They wanted nothing to have with neither the humans and their fickle interest, the High Elves and their condescendence, and even less gave at thought to their former kin. The had never taken part in many endeavours - like the Pact of Stormwind which had held the racial hatred back for many decades. They acknowledged the Pact freely as a remarquable piece, but were themselves unconcerned. On the Aerie, nothing could touch them. And if something dared, their flights of griphon riders would take care of any danger.
Or so they had thought, and this was enough to crush the optimism, the elation he felt everytime he flew. This time, it was serious. A single carrier pigeon had come to the Grand Aerie, alerting them all. The Greatpeak Aerie was under attack by massive forces. Unbelievable. A force that wrought great destruction and left no survivors. This implacable enemy had beaten even the resident griphon riders.
"Too darn bad we don't have some Alliance support on this, ain't it Sky'rie?" He asked his griphon and friend, which growled. The Alliance. His people were aloof of the alliance humans, elves and dwarves had forged. They had never believed that it could work, not even when a noble high elf - whose race had been friends to the Aeries since they were first founded - came to plead to the Thane for help on behalf of that very Alliance. It wasn't right, Kurdran had decided. Their stubbornness might one day cost them far more than they ever imagined.
Muttering at the blindness of the Thane in these dire times, Kurdran urged his mount east, towards the place in which Greatpeak Aerie and the human village of Nathfarn stood, marking the borders between the two realms cleanly. Behind him, a full wing of Griphon Riders - the best the Grand Aerie had to offer - flew into formation, following the changes their leader made effortlessly, regardless of the great speed they were travelling. They would be in sight any moment now...
What he saw made Kurdran choke despite the many horrors he had foreseen as Griphon riders, as Nathfarn came into view. Or rather, when the burned out ruins, which had been Nathfarn, came into view. Where a small community of a few dozen houses existed, with farming fields surrounding it, now there was nothing but smoke, burnt wood, and the stench of death. Kurdran's eyes widened as he saw the way the buildings had been attacked. He had seen enough to know when a building had been torn down and burned. Whatever had done this had been large and decidedly deadly. This narrowed the possibility to only a few. First Griphons, which had never been known to attack human settlements. Wyverns, perhaps, but the scale of the damage was insufficient. Or...
With a tap and a muscular thrust, Kurdran ordered proud Sky'rie to faster speed. He raised his hammer to signal the other to follow him with all haste to Greypeak Aerie. He remembered the stories circulating from emissaries and scouts who had surveyed the Horde-held southern continent. There had been stories of dragons being trained to serve the orcs and their immense armies. If this was true...if this was, Greypeak might very well be in great danger, as it was a small hold and did not have a large force of Riders.
Although never having been a firm believer of anything that he could not see and feel, Kurdran preyed to the Light that they be in time, although something deep in his gut told him otherwise. Driven, his wing sped quickly towards the mountain in which the hold had been crafted.
He saw the battle from afar, although the smoke was less from lack of wood in the area. Flashes of blue lightning and of fiery lines struck to and fro, and his keen eyes saw indistinct flying shapes struggling against each other. Below him, Sky'rie screeched a battlecry known only to gryphons, and the dozen beasts, which followed, echoed it in a sort of eager passion. There was no turning away Griphons when they wished to fight. Nor, for that matter, did Kurdran wish it.
He hefted his Stormhammer and bellowed. "Greypeak is besieged! Attack, my brothers!" and he heard them roar back in the flapping, screeching wind.
The wing came into the fight that still raged, although things were decidedly one-sided. The slopes below the hold were littered with bodies. Some of them draconian - small draconian he saw - but more were bodies were of griphon and broken dwarven riders. In the sky, a few dwarves were barely holding their own against the five remaining dragons, three blacks and two reds. None of his men hesitated: they struck as hard as they could, chanting ancient war cries.
The effect was immediate. The Griphon Riders of the Grand Aerie not only were the best trained in all of Northeron, they were also those who had fought dragons the most, and all those who served with Kurdran were expert dragon-slayers. They swerved and struck before the dragons could respond, five of them striking one dragon simultaneously, killing it outright as the others joined the beleaguered, tired defenders.
A dragon roared at Kurdran, and Sky'rie growled back in defiance. "Want to fight, lizard?" he roared, "Come, then!"
And come the dragon did, spewing a stream of fire towards him.
Kurdran and Sky'rie flew aside from it, and positioned themselves to the side of the dragon, being stationary for a brief instant. In that moment Kurdran threw his hammer at the dragon. Which roared in pain and anger as the magically endowed weapon struck with much more force than its mass should have. It lashed out in mid-air, but already Sky'rie was elsewhere, expertly skirting death from both claw and flames, as the dwarven rout became a battle once more.
The hammer returned to the hand, which had launched it, as it had been designed to do, and once more griphon and dwarf attacked the dragon. The draconian beast, black as the night, this time feinted before pouncing, and tried to dig its fangs into his enemy's left wing. Sky'rie, beset by primal bloodlust, might have fallen then, but for Kurdran who saw through the enemy's feint and ploy. At the last moment, as the dragon's head went in for the kill, the Griphon swept up a gust of air and found itself above the draconian body. It was a chance neither beast nor dwarf would allow to pass up.
Griphon claws dug into draconian scales and flesh, even as the enemy roared in fear and hatred, throwing fire in all directions as it attempted to dislodge the stubborn, smaller beast from its back. The dwarf, as it was, had thus a clear view of the dragon's head. He struck, hurling his magical hammer at it again and again. Twice, then a third time, then a forth. Finally, blood fountained at the fifth as it penetrated through the dragon's thick skull and smashed into its brains. The dragon roar lost all form of cohesion, and it writhed in agony, not yet quite aware that it was dead.
Sky'rie let go with a crow of triumph to which Kurdran added his own victorious shout, and he looked over to the rest of the battlefield, as it had been blocked from his senses by the life-and-death struggle.
He saw that the battle, although certainly frightful, had gone very well. Two dragons lay now down with his own, and the last was being chased by four of his riders. He saw, however, that two of his own rider, and all but three of the defenders, had also fallen to their doom. The realization grasped him for a moment, but he pushed it away. He would grieve for all the lives lost when it was appropriate. Instead, he looked as one of the survivors - the captain of the Greaypeak Riders, from what he could see, flew towards him.
"I thank the Light you arrived!" the dwarf said, and went about praising the strength of his men. Kurdran did not listen to him. Instead he looked about at the devastation, remembering the similar horror around the human village. Dragons, attacking. It might be that the scouts' tales were not inaccurate.
The Grand Thane of Northeron had to be told. Told of the possibilities, of the facts, and of the reality that the dwarven aeries might not be able to stay away from the conflict, which was ruining the land below after all.
"I must speak with your Thane at once. There is much I have to tell him." he said at last.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 595, Dun Algaz, Khaz Modan
Hirlok Grindteeth was a firm, realistic warrior. He knew what could happen and what could not. He was certain in his knowledge of life and death, of duty and battle. He knew - and vicariously enjoyed - the bloodlust that lay at the edge of his conscious every single moment of his life, coming to life and filling him with energy and strength during battle. He knew that things were supposed to happen, and others weren't.
And mostly, he knew that where humans were concerned, an orc who wasn't ready for the impossible was most likely doomed in the long run.
It was thus with less surprise than he thought he would have that he heard the explosion resounding from deep within the Horde base. It was with less disbelief that he saw the smoke and heard the human warcries. It was with far less shock than any would have thought that he heard the shouts of 'Humans!' and 'To Arms!' and many 'Intruders!' here and there. Instead, he immediately left his seat in the room he had occupied, took his axe and went to look at the situation.
Outside, there was a great deal of confusion, as orcs ran here and there, carrying weapons and bereft of command and purpose. He shouted at them to get their heads together, hefting his weapon to emphasize his points, and took a passing grunt by the arm, stopping him with sheer strength and will.
"Stop this!" he growled loud enough to be heard by all around him. He looked around in contempt "All of you bring shame to the Blackrock Clan! Running around like a pack of animals while the enemy is within our walls!! Take your formations! Meet the enemy and push him back! Now MOVE, by the Beyond!" Shamed or cowed - Grindteeth did not really care which it was - by his words, the Grunts in the compounds, as well as the Ogres and Trolls, began to file out in a more orderly fashion. He returned his attention to the warrior he had grabbed. "Now you! Where are the humans, where did they come from, and how many are there?!? Speak!!"
The grunt, unfortunately, couldn't tell him much. He knew that the humans had attacked the northern part of the fortress. What didn't and yet did make sense was that they had seemed to appear from the ground itself, and that their numbers were many. From what he had seen, already hundreds of humans - footmen and Knights on foot, with dwarves and spellcasters to boot, were already within the stronghold, with more being disgorged every day.
From the ground? He had heard that Dun Algaz was named like this because Dwarves had once inhabited the region, back when they had been more powerful than they were now. If that was true, than the damned ground burrowers might well have known a way to go right under the newer Horde base. The fact that dwarves were fighting the humans bore that idea well. But that would be something to think about another time.
"Good. Good. Organize all of our forces, and send messengers to the front for reinforcements at once! We have to repulse the invaders now! This place is too important!" with that, he let the grunt go and went to command his troops in battle.
He had to give his people credit. Although caught by surprise - who, realistically, wouldn't have been? - they were doing a superb work on keeping the enemy contained. The humans had managed to infiltrate a part of the fortified grounds, but grunts and Ogres were now pressing upon them in large numbers, albeit not nearly as large as it would have been normally. At its height, Dun Algaz had been the home of over sixty thousand Horde warriors. With many traitors having gone to join Gul'Dan to the south, and the intense skirmishes with both the Alliance and the rebels, barely twelve or so thousand remained. It would have to do.
Grindteeth entered the fray without pausing to consider. His axe cleanly decapitated two humans at once, and he grappled with three others as they attempted to break out of their position. Around him, the noose was tightening. Warriors by the hundreds were joining the battle from all sides, and it was only a matter of time before the humans and their allies had no chance but to retreat.
"Forward!" he growled as loud as breath could allow "Press them forward! Crush them into a circle! Press on!" He couldn't use the Trolls in this melee, but neither could humans use their archers, elven or otherwise. This was a contest of pure will and strength. And the Alliance forces had always lacked where this was concerned.
Here and there, there were flashes of energy, lightning flying from fingertips, streams of fire, mostly hitting larger targets like the Ogres. Spellcasters, of course. If he'd been in his normal state, Grindteeth would have recognized the strategy, would also have seen that the humans weren't making as much efforts as they might have to resist being drawn into a circle. But he saw none of that. He had killed yet one more armoured human, and the bloodlust was upon him. He embraced it, not caring for anything else but the ecstasy that it brought him as his axe tasted flesh and went awash with red blood.
"Forward! All forward! Press them down, in Doomhammer's name!! CRUSH THEM!!" he roared as he stepped aside from a human sword and repaid the insolent insect by taking its little useless life. All around, the Horde was gaining the decisive upper hand. It would be a rout soon enough.
Full as he was of the visions of death and gore and glory and victory, he barely registered the second explosion, which went out behind him. Neither, it seemed, did most of his forces, which were in the same state that he was. It was only when he distinctly heard human, dwarven and elven shouts from behind him that his brain relayed the significance of what he'd seen through the red haze.
Forcing his gaze away in a lull around him, he looked back. And once again did not feel the complete surprise he should have felt as he saw more humans, in large numbers, running towards them from behind, shields and swords in hand, alongside some few dwarves with axes. Streams of magical energy struck from human spellcasters again, this time more freely, into the exposed backs of many an orc or ogre.
A two-pronged attack, he realized. This had been their plan all along!
"Turn about! Meet the other charge!" he called, desperately fighting the bloodlust, which gripped his very being. His eyes were opened, as were his acts, but this was not the case for many of his people. Many were deep within the unnatural rage and need of battle, and so those who turned to meet the new threat - few than should have been - did so in an uncertain, bewildered fashion which made Grindteeth act like his name said.
There were many more human knights on foot in this new wave, and most of the dwarves and spellcasters had been kept ready for this second offensive. As Grindteeth watched, a grey bearded human struck down five orcs and two trolls with a spell thrown almost casually. Elsewhere, a human warrior - large for one of such fragile race, was busy sweeiping through the Horde forces like a scourge. Near the centre of the new attack came a human knight dressed in the colours of an Alliance general, flanked by the short but muscled stature of a dwarf. The two of them seemed to be sweeping back the grunts before them, backed by many humans and almost all the dwarves there was in that attack.
But this did not deter Grindteeth. He had commanded troops on difficult battlefield before, and knew how to react. He whipped his people into shape, his voice carrying far, and gathered many around him to counter the human-dwarven push through the lines. The two groups met in a clash of violence, as the two factions - and especially the orcs and the humans - fought each other with grim hate. Grindteeth found himself faced with the human and dwarf who led the offensive, and struck at the larger human at once.
The human was skilled and strong, and met Grindteeth's attacks with his own. The battle, however, was quickly swaying to the orc's side through sheer strength and greater experience. Feinting to one side, blocking a blow, he hit the human deep in the side and watched as he fell to the ground, gasping for breath. One moment, triumph engulfed him, the bloodlust returned, and he raised his axe for a victory shout-
-and received a tremendous blow to the throat crushing his windpipe. The Dwarf! Curse it all to the Beyond! How could have forgotten the Dwarf?!?
He tried to growl, but could only gasp, his breath unable to come, his vision going hazy and his axe falling from nerveless hands as he clutched at his crushed throat. Another blow, to the knees, painful yet barely felt, forced him down, and suddenly the ugly face of the dwarf filled his vision. The Dwarf spat on him, and raised his smaller axe for a blow.
'Yes.' he found himself thinking as the time lengthened 'Yes, we are powerful. But the bloodlust we are cursed with is even stronger. It makes us unstable, and dangerous. It sunders us. It -'
The dwarf struck.
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 595, Whitefort, Lordearon
"Are you certain that this is accurate information?" asked Sylphord Duraz, former Alliance General and now Supreme Commander of the Grand Compact Army. His voice did not betray any of the unease he might have been feeling.
"It is, milord." Kelnam Pedran answered in a gruff, elderly voice "We've learned it from our people who are bidding their time in Dalaran. The Alliance has taken hold of Dun Algaz, and of one of the southern ends of the Land Bridges. The Horde is presently-"
"I don't give a wit about what the Horde may or may not be doing! It doesn't matter, not with Minvare holding Dun Algaz, and not with the damnable orcs breaking apart at the seams!" In the Alliance, Duraz had been an excellent strategist, and he knew the potential implications that the Calm General's successful bid had wrought. None of it went according to his plans, and none of it could possibly please him right now. He decided to bring his attention on a less irksome and worrisome subject. "What about our forces elsewhere?"
"Tarrak holds Harpgate and Hillsbrad, but there has been many raids by Alliance forces in the area, and the hold he has there is becoming thin, especially with the increasing number of troops stationed in and around Taren Mill. Moreover, the people are beginning to talk amongst themselves despite our best efforts. They do not approve of us."
"What some bean counters and farmers think is not my concern!" Duraz said disdainfully. The very idea that mere PEASANTS could have any idea on how they should be ruled was ludicrous. They were to serve those in power, and nothing more! If necessary, he would make some examples of why they should serve the Grand Compact...
It might have been his imagination, but for a moment Pedran's face, always grim and withdrawn, looked dark. But that might only have been a trick of the light given from the candles. "Milord, I daresay you have never seen the effect civil unrest has on the troops. Morale is low, and getting lower by the day. If something is not done-"
"That's ENOUGH! As long as King Terenas is in our hands, the Alliance will have their hands tied! They have been forced to keep us and the city supplied, given us time to fortify ourselves! Now leave me, I wish to think." he gave a gesture of dismissal. Pedran, however, did not move at once, but bent closer for a moment. "I will not make my men pawns again." was the clear warning he heard. But before he could do anything, the former commander had stalked out of the room.
With an angry heave, Duraz shoved the plate he had been eating off the table. He had taken to dine in this opulent room, furnished with beautiful paintings, mainly to show that he now owned this castle. It had been the queen's private dining room when she had been well, and the wealth with which Terenas had furnished it, was quite suitable to his needs.
But he saw nothing of all this at that very moment. All he could see were his plans - his painstakingly orchestrated plans - slowly crumbling. It had been perfect, to take power when the Alliance would have been at its weakest, and use the fear and instability to take complete control.
The occasion, when the Horde had retreated from Whitefort, had seemed perfect. He had been so relieved himself that he had not counted on whatever had caused the Horde offensive to shatter to be so deep, and to have such repercussions. He had thought that the Alliance would have had no choice but to send all of its forces to reinforce the south. Nothing but his own forces should have remained after a little while, leaving him with the entire north to reshape to his will, while the remaining Alliance forces would keep the Horde at bay.
Only it hadn't gone that way. The Horde, which had always seemed so unified during the First War -facts upon which he had based his plans on -, had fragmented far worse than he had thought it possible to. Reports came from their hidden sources that fighting was occurring between two large factions. If they were lucky, they might batter themselves to oblivion! But as joyful the news of a defeated Horde would be, the fighting among the orcs had blunted their strength in the south, allowing the fronts to stabilize. The loyal alliance forces in the North had never had to leave. And what was worse, they had been able to concentrate on retaking that which was the Compact, which was his...
Damn it all.
"But the day is not done." he muttered. "As long as I hold Terenas and Wrynn, Lothar won't dare attack me!"
"Talking to yourself, Sylphord? Have things already started to crumble and slip through your fingers as dust?" The voice, soft, cultured and pleasant, and yet holding a detectable note of contempt, belonged to Eira Fregar, named Swiftblade now. She glided into the room confidently, knowing that, in his days of victory, he had let her roam about. Fool woman. He should have her under lock and key.
"Leave me, woman." he said sternly "I have no wish to cross verbal swords with you tonight." He gestured dismissively. However, she did not move, only continued to look at him with that calm and condescending look, the look only a Fregar could take. It was said that there was elven blood in House Fregar, and the haughtiness their members showed, with their usual beauty, certainly never denied that theory. He glared at her more forcefully. "Do not force me to do much worse, woman. Remember that you merchant husband is not there to protect you from my wrath."
She looked at him calmly still, and a part of him did want her very much at that moment. If only she would have seen how things were supposed to be, they would have done great things together. Most of him, however, was incensed. He started to tell her to leave him, this time far more forcefully, when she finally spoke again.
"You never understood why I chose Aerth over you. I'll be blunt - I didn't love you."
"Neither did you love him..."
"That's what I kept telling myself for so long, that it was just a whim at first, that I married this penniless knight because I saw some potential in him. If only for that, the marriage would have been worthwhile, wouldn't it." her face, so cold and beautiful, gained a more wistful air "But I was blinding my own eyes. I think I did love him even then. He cherished me without caring about my wealth or my position. He never had your finesse, but his feelings, at least, were more real than yours ever could be."
This was getting irritating, on top of everything else which was happening. "Please, could you simply tell me where this rather...absurd...sentimental drivel is leading to? I have better things to do than to listen to your phantasms."
"Do you prefer listening to yours? Fantasizing about re-forging Arathor, or some similar nonsense, when you have already lost?"
"I doubt a spoiled noble like you would know anything about strategy, or whether a battle is lost or not!" he said, his tone filled with contempt, his eyes with spearing ire. Eira remained unmoved, unwilling to take what to his eyes was a female's place - servitude and obedience.
"I never fought any battles, but I saw some being fought years before, have spoken to people who have been through war. Moreover, I am wedded to a man who is your superior in all things regarding warfare. You wanted an empire? All you have are a few, besieged cities, which will fall eventually. You hold King Terenas, but that is the only thread which is preventing those troops outside the walls from launching an attack." She turned her back to him, radiating contempt. "You fancy yourself an Emperor, when you are nothing but a rebel living on borrowed time."
Duraz almost killed her then. Almost drew his blade and killed her on the spot. Disobedient, vile, blind female! He shook with rage, and only brought himself from the edge of murder by a thin thread of reason. No, not yet. Killing her now might spin events out of his control, and he needed control.
What he needed...was further insurance. But what could it be? Wrynn and Terenas would never agree to any of his ploy, and he had already threatened to kill the ailing queen if supplies weren't allowed into the city. This was as far as he could go in that direction. He needed another thread.
Suddenly it struck him. Of course. He wouldn't get much from threatening the Queen. But there was another he would be able to use. One who would have even more sway on the stubborn monarch...
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 595, Alliance camp outside Whitefort, Lordaeron
Uther Lightbringer finished his story as interested eyes looked at him from around the campaign table. "-although I don't believe they would have surrendered solely upon the Archbishop's words, I think they saw that their position was buckling. I was glad to see your relief force arriving two days later, however. If they hadn't left, I don't know what we would have done, short of battle - they had managed to hit our stores."
Swiftblade saw Lothar nod pensively, looking older than ever recently - fighting humans, it was true, was more taxing than fighting orcs. "I am glad to hear this, Lord Uther. I trust the Archbishop will join us soon?"
But Lightbringer answered by shaking his head. "No, milord. He has learned that the people of Harpgate have been suffering much under the Compact's hold, and he has gone to do what could be done."
"I have convinced him to take an escort of some of my best knights. He will be safe as he travels." Swiftblade added.
"You two have this all thought up already? What can I do but to acquiesce." A wan grin, small and fleeting, flickered on the old face before the usual grim visage took hold once again. "But, as much as I am glad that the Haven of the Hand and your Order of the Silver Hand is safe, it only seems to increase my discomfort at this present situation."
Discomfort? That was a pale word compared to what Swiftblade felt. Although he knew Eira was a strong and proud woman who's spirit would never be broken, his heart ached to know she was up there, captive inside what should have been one of the safest havens in the Alliance. Day by day it grew inside him, and he had to keep himself occupied to keep from going mad with worry. Thus, he had taken on every mission Lothar could give him and had helped to prepare the siege in every way he could. But now the forces were poised, ready but unable to attack, and the worry was coming back to the fore of his being out of inaction.
"Well, we're as ready as we could ever be. Aren't we, Turalyon?" Lothar asked the serious, short-haired blond paladin. The serious man, whom Swiftblade had felt only great respect - and a bit of irritation - for, gave an affirmative gesture. He looked as fresh as he looked any day. Swiftblade envied him.
"We are, Sire. The people have been - outraged is the mild word - by rebels taking hold of their capital. Thus many new recruits have joined us, and are being trained. At this rate, we might be at full strength before the first snows, certainly before this year is out." his eyes, always grim, darkened further "But strength is useful only when it is used. Thus far, however, our hands have been tied by these traitors having the King hostage. The same situation, I think, is holding off liberation forces at Harpgate."
"Yes. I don't think they planned for us to remain here. I suspect, however, that they always thought of using the royalty as a bargaining tool. And they have." he showed them a piece of parchment. "I received a new demand from them which reflects that desperate yet cunning poise."
All present leaned forward intently. "What new trick are these curs up to now?" Turalyon asked in a grimmer voice than usual. He, then, like Swiftblade had spotted the disgust in Lothar's tone. They weren't going to like what they would hear, he was certain of that.
"I will dispense you with Duraz's arrogant tone. To put it simple, they have told me that I have three days to take my army away from Whitefort and take it to a distance of no less than one hundred miles, or they will kill Lordaeron's one and only heir."
Shock and disgust filled all present, but none showed it more than Uther Lightbringer. A former, devout priestly adept, the news probably went against everything he was. "They would kill Crown Prince Arthas, a four year old child?!? And here I had thought the orcs were repulsive! What will you do, milord."
"The only thing I can. I will comply with his demands, lest Lordaeron's succession be put in serious jeopardy."
"What??" Swiftblade knew taking this kind of tone with the Alliance High General was uncalled for, but couldn't contain himself any longer. "Sire, I know my opinion is tainted by my worry for my family, but even if it weren't, I'd say this is madness! We can't keep jumping through that traitor's hoops like pawns!" he tried to calm himself, found only a faint ability to calm his frenzied ire as the three other man looked at him with a mixture of pity and understanding - which made him feel even worse. "I will obey any order you give, milord, since your are my Regent-Lord and my commanding officer. But I maintain leaving like this, leaving the Compact free reign of this region is too dangerous."
Turalyon crossed his fingers for a moment, then sighed softly. "As much loyalty I have for Lordaeron, I have to agree with lord Aerth, sire."
Lothar looked at them both, imposing and grave, keen eyes gazing deeply into each face, before he smiled ever so faintly. "I would expect no less from two commanding officers of your calibre. And you are right; leaving this place completely is out of the question. And I have no intention of doing so. Only, our actions will have to be more...secret...if we are to free the important hostages and retake this ancient capital.
"And how do you propose to do this, milord?" Uther asked.
"Perhaps this is where I come into this discussion." A voice, feminine yet decidedly deadly, purred from outside the tent flap. All three men stood at this intrusion, and Turalyon stepped forth with his blade half-drawn, but Lothar stopped them all.
"Peace. This is Magdella. She leads the group who can help us. Please do come in, Magdella."
The woman who came out was nondescript at first glace. Of average build and height, with a face neither beautiful nor ugly, almost as if it was up to its owner's decision to pick one. Her brown hair, though lush, was also unremarquable. Her attire was a simple uniform of cotton and leather, with a slim dagger hanging from an unadorned belt. She could easily have gone anywhere in a human village without anyone noticing her.
At second glance, however, Aerth's alert skills - grown from years of warfare - picked up a sense of undeniable grace in this woman. A sense of grace, added to clear cunning in the eyes. All of this, and something else he couldn't quite define, told him that this woman might seem ordinary, but that, in truth, she wasn't. Quite the opposite actually.
She bore the intrigued and irritated glares from the three men with casual ease, drifting to Lothar without paying them much heed. The old knight was the only one who didn't seem the least bit concerned by the way she moved or acted. "I see you've received Duraz's ludicrous letter, milord. What would be your intentions."
"Watch your tongue when you speak to the Regent-Lord!" Swiftblade growled. She slotted ordinary but keen almond eyes towards him.
"Ah, the famed general of the equally famous First Army." she nodded, but it was just acknowledgement, not respect. "This isn't your battlefield, young lord, but mine. You should be careful in how you speak with me."
The 'young lord' was about to say something, which would probably have been regrettable, but Lothar forestalled him. "Peace, my friends. Magdela is...arrogant, but I assure you she is on our side in this matter. You knew of this matter already, of course?"
"Since this morning. And I knew how you would react to this. Shall I tell my girls to move in?"
"As soon as the matter here is cleared up. I see all these men here have questions, and they deserve the answers." he sighed, looking at the three men. "Magdela is on our side, friends. She and those like her serve the Alliance in their own way. I have formed them some months ago, and they so far have shown tremendous potential."
"Who are they, sire?" Lightbringer asked. But it was Magdela who answered..
"We don't really have a name. But if you must call us something, then let us be the Infiltrators to you. We do the jobs such as this, where armies and martial strength is useless." she smiled at their shocked looks. "You can't get to the hostages. But we can, and we will."
"And how will you do that?" Turalyon questioned. "And how can you be sure you'll be able to do it."
Her grin became feral. "Because they don't know we're there. They don't suspect women to be a danger, to be able to outwit them, silly men. They will be proven wrong, in the most humiliating way..."
_______________________________________________________________________
BONUS
The Alliance Fleet
The Alliance fleet was first created in late autumn 588, when the human nations of Lordaeron, Azeroth, Stromgarde, Kul Tiras, Dalaran and Alterac signed the Alliance Pact. Kul Tiras possessing the largest fleet and the best sailors, it fell upon King Proudmoore and his people to build a cohesive naval force of the six nations, which soon also had ships from the humans of Gilneas (591) and the Elves of Quel'Thalas (592). Dealin Proudmoore has since merged the ships and trained them together, and presently eight effective Fleets patrol the Great sea and the many shores, attacking Horde and human pirate ships both, keeping the waters as safe as possible in the Second War's trying times.
This here is a breakdown of the present Alliance Fleets as of late Autumn 595.
1st Fleet
Leader: Daelin Proudmoore, Lord-Admiral and Ruler of Kul Tiras
Ships in Fleet: 4 (5) Orca-Class Battleships
9 (15) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
7 (10) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
11 (15) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
8 (10) Daring-Class Transports
9 (15) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Kul Tiras Shores/Great Sea
2nd Fleet (Destroyed, Allied with Compact)
Leader: Carpallian Jerakuth, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: None, ships destroyed or redistributed to other
fleets, fleet had 34 ships upon defection
Area of Defense: None, Formerly Kul Tiras Shores/Great Sea
3rd Fleet
Leader: Salvan Fargold, Vice-Admiral *Acting*
Ships in Fleet: 0 (3) Orca-Class Battleships
4 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
3 (8) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
7 (12) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
2 (10) Daring-Class Transports
5 (10) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Northern Great Sea Region
4th Fleet
Leader: Varth Xallios, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: 3 (3) Orca-Class Battleships
8 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
5 (8) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
10 (12) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
7 (10) Daring-Class Transports
8 (10) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Stromgarde Shores/Great Sea
5th Fleet
Leader: Edne Arroweye, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: 3 (3) Orca-Class Battleships
9 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
17 (20) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
9 (10) Daring-Class Transports
8 (10) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Gilneas Shores/Great Sea
6th Fleet
Leader: Doronin Malkavth, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: 2 (3) Orca-Class Battleships
7 (10) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
6 (8) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
9 (12) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
6 (10) Daring-Class Transports
7 (10) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Northern Great Sea Region
7th Fleet
Leader: Beugrand Tellim, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: 2 (2) Orca-Class Battleships
5 (6) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
3 (4) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
7 (8) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
7 (8) Daring-Class Transports
8 (8) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Northern Great Sea Region
8th Fleet (Main Elven Fleet)
Leader: Estalai Waverule, Armada Commander (Admiral)
Ships in Fleet: 1 (1) Orca-Class Battleship
27 (35) Sunstrider-Class Destroyers (elven)
9 (10) Daring-Class Transports
10 (10) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Elven Waters/Land Bridges
9th Fleet (Main Reserve Fleet)
Leader: Leriom Fegell, Admiral
Ships in Fleet: 5 (5) Orca-Class Battleships
18 (20) Grimstorm-Class Battleships
16 (20) Bielevant-Class Destroyers (human)
25 (30) Daring-Class Transports
17 (20) Support/Supply Ships
Area of Defense: Lordaeron Shores/Reserve Force
10th Fleet (Planned)
Leader: Undecided, but Proudmoore said to be deciding soon
Ships in Fleet: None, but planned to have no less than 60 ships,
including prototype Gnomish submarines
Area of Defense: None. The 10th Fleet will be a dedicated attack
force
11th Fleeth (Planned)
Leader: Undecided
Ships in Fleet: 53 ships, same composition as 3rd Fleet
Area of Defense: Planned to replace 3rd Fleet positions
Present total strength of the Alliance Fleet: 353 Ships in active service, including 80 Battleships (20 Orca and 60 Grimstorms), 128 Destroyers (51 Sunstriders and 77 Bielevants), 73 Transports and 72 Support and Supply ships. In addition, several lightly-armed sloops protect smaller towns in the Alliance and are affiliated with the Fleet, and several dozen Line ships are being built, no less than 16 at the immense Havenport Shipyards alone. In total, 28,000 enlisted men and officers serve the Alliance Fleet at this time, and there is talk of recruiting more for the upcoming strengthening Proudmoore has decided on.
