Chapter Twenty-Three: Escapes and Undertakings
Early Winter 596, Grand Aerie, Northeron
"Dragons."
This was a word spoken in a musing tone, with not a bit of wistfulness related to the splendour of these species, or with the fright their destructive tendencies invoked. It was said with all the seriousness of a fact, and a possible problem. If the High Thane of Northeron, a veteran griphon rider, felt any fright, he never showed it in the least.
It had little effect amongst the dwarven men and women gathered, all leaders of their own Aeries, except for frowns and the slight widening of eyes. Each took the news Kurdran had told with a stony calm which other races - such as the flimsy High Elves or the temperamental humans - wouldn't have believed normal.
Stony, pondered, calm as the rock. Such was the way of the dwarven race when a new event came to it.
Kurdran, like all the others in the room - from thanes and captains to the guards - looked towards their leader as he sat on his stone throne, pondering possibilities. It was a long while before he spoke again, following that single, provocative, world-shaking word. When he did, it was with the calm of settled steel. "Kurdran, you are our best warrior. Doubting your word is out of the question. If dragons attacked the Grey Peaks Aerie, then it was dragons, and the Thane of Grey Peaks adds his trusted word to what you say. No, my question is different: did you find that these dragons were different from those you might have encountered?"
If Kurdran had been a human or an elf, surprise and a question might have followed. But this was not the way a dwarf answered. A question was a question, and demanded an honest answer. Thus, Kurdran answered at once, honestly. "I must admit, my Thane, that there WERE peculiar details about these dragons."
For some reason, the Thane seemed satisfied with that answer. "And what were those?"
It took only a few moments of deep thought for the explanation to form. "My Thane, the dragons attacked like beasts. Although I have met violent dragons - the Black Dragons especially - I have never known Red Dragons to participate in such a reckless attack. They are usually much wiser, much more...thoughtful. What's more..."
"Aye, lad?" the leader of the Northeron dwarves prodded.
"To be quite honest, my Thane, honoured brothers, I doubt that I truly faced dragons as we are used to. They were worse than violent. They were...animalistic."
One of the lesser Thanes, a greybeard dwarf from a western Aerie, stirred. "Are you saying that they possessed no intelligence."
"Nay, Thane." he explained, his eyes never leaving those of the leader of his race. "I am saying that they had no active use of intelligence. They were acting almost solely upon instincts, relying on breath weapons and claw. No real tactics to speak of, no real subtlety, and no use of spells. It was a harsh fight, I admit, but not quite what I have come to expect from angered red dragons. Further, this destruction seemed so...so..." he struggled to find the right word.
"Childish, perhaps." The High Thane proposed. Kurdran blinked once, considered, and nodded agreement.
"Aye, Thane. It could be so." he admitted. It in fact went with the impressions he had gotten from the fight perfectly. As if fighting a violent, childish mind. And yet, it didn't seem quite possible. These dragons seemed too old to have such a mind. They looked like young adults. This was why the High Thane's next statement surprised him despite himself.
"The way I see it, good Kurdran, they most probably WERE children." he stated, his tone still as musing as ever.
Pandemonium happened...in a dwarven way. To shout or to even exclaim in the High Thane's presence was impossible by all of the old laws and traditions. But the quick looks the captains and thanes gave each other spoke of the same disbelief that Kurdran himself couldn't help but feel. He didn't want to speak against his revered ruler's judgement on the matter, however, and waited until one who could did.
It was another Thane - Rirkel Grandfield - an esteemed warrior and proud ruler, from a family going back many generations as leaders of the prosperous Huntfield Aerie, who spoke, his tone curious but respectful. "Forgive me, my Thane, but I find what you said strange. Light, more than strange! Children, and so big? How could that be?"
The proud, respected leader only grinned behind his flowing beard. "You don't have to use these fancy words with me, Rirkel. Not you. Our families have been friends for too long. What you meant was: 'Have you gone utterly daft?!?', isn't it?" he asked, his eyes dancing.
Rirkel deadpanned. "Are you?" And the other thanes - and Kurdran - barely had time to look at him in indignation - before the High Thane's roaring laugh brought their attention all back to him. He laughed long and hard, as if enjoying it immensely, and it was some time before his calm returned.
"Aye, that's EXACTLY what your father would have said to me. He feared nothing, whether in battle or in the Halls, which is why he was always a good friend. Keep being like this, it's a good thing." he paused "I'll be truthful. No, I haven't gone mad. I'm telling what I've told because what Kurdran has told us confirms reports of sightings and observations my scouts have reported to me recently."
"Scouts, my Thane?" Rirkel asked. "But we were not aware-"
"And you weren't supposed to. I acted on my own, purely on what humans call a hunch, and what news we had of this war being fought in the lands below."
"The elven embassy." Kurdran blurted despite himself, and then shut his mouth firmly, appalled at what he had said. But the High Thane only nodded.
"Quite. Their passionate pleas, though I refused them, moved me. This Illadan Eltrass was convincing when he talked of this threat, enough that I sent a few trusted dwarves to investigate." His brow came down. "What they returned with and reported unsettled me. It appears this enemy is devious. And, as Illadan said, can now touch our realm. With Dragons."
Kurdran could scarcely believe that. And he knew that he wasn't the only one who felt that way about this statement. For centuries upon centuries, ever since they had forged the first Aeries, they had been unassailable. Even the humans of Arathor at their height hadn't wanted to try waging war against them. To think that this...this Horde...could do it! And with dragons to boot! It was simply too much to be believed.
And yet...the High Thane told it, so it had to be the truth. It HAD to be believed as the truth. And although his head was full of disbelief, something in his heart did. The part, which remembered his instincts during the battle at the Grey Peaks.
The High Thane hadn't ruled over the many Aeries for over two centuries without having learned to read the moods around him, however. He nodded as if the display did not surprise him. And by the Light, perhaps it didn't, Kurdran reflected. "You doubt. I would in your place. But I believe the words of these dwarves. None would tell a lie. This Horde is immensely powerful, and the combined might of our cousins of Khaz Modan, of the High Elves and the humans is barely holding it back. But what is worse is this: they have captured Alexstrasza, the Dragonqueen. And they are forcing her eggs to mature so that they may fight, controllable, in the sky. Against the humans, the elves, the dwarves of Khaz Modan...or against us."
Now the dwarven rules were forgotten. Now the Thanes whispered amongst themselves, looking at each other in both horror and relative anxiety. It didn't last long, but the sight shook Kurdran more than he cared to admit. The Thanes of Northeron weren't supposed to behave like this. They weren't supposed to be unsure of what would happen. The only one who remained calm was Rirkel, who simply said. "Are you saying we should join this...Alliance, that Lordaeron created?"
"I am saying we have to seriously consider it. Not only for our people, but also for the world. For the dragons weren't the only fact the scouts brought back. I heard of death and blood, of gutted fields and farms where bounty once existed. The Horde is bringing worse devastation than even the wars fought before the Pact of Stormwind. We must consider things."
"Even if they go against our very way of life?"
The final words the High Thane spoke sent a chill down Kurdran's spine. "Aye. Or we might find we are not above falling along with those who live below."
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Winter 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron
Snow had fallen upon the land of Lordaeron like bliss, settling down to cover the old blood that soaked into grounds in and around Whitefort. Blood of many races - orcs, humans, elves, ogres, trolls, and so on - which had been spilled in a conflict which could not seem to be avoidable, or having any way for anyone to stop the terrible onslaught. Eira had been born into a world where war between countries was a thing of the past, where all one had to worry about were renegades, bandits and the occasional wild beasts. And now how long had it been, she wondered as she looked towards the many lights illuminating the city against the night through the soft blanket of snow.
A disquieting feeling not born of fear made itself felt, reminding her of something more pressing than her forlorn musings. Her child, still quite unformed, still not having swelled her belly, made its demand for attention. She was forced to sit down by the passing sickness, and found herself staring at the fire of her room. The room, which had become her cage.
Each day dimmed her hopes a little bit. She had first hoped that the Alliance - that Aerth - would come and quickly retake the city, but realism had made this impossible. Using threats, the foul Duraz had forced the armies massing to besiege the city to leave, allowing his forces to take control of some farmlands, which he had taxed heavily. Each day he tried further and further to ingratiate himself to her, and each failure seemed to spur him even further into attempting to seduce her. He had even tried to gain her son's friendship. Fortunately, Vedran had been too afraid of the man to give him anymore than a stare.
Vedran. And her unborn child. She didn't want them to live with Duraz. She wanted Vedran to grow and be a strong but good man like his father, not a vile thing like Sylphord. She squeezed her eyes shut and stifled a sob. She couldn't take it anymore, yet she had to. As long as her son remained in the castle, in danger, she would protect him, never weaken, and never cry.
No matter how hopelessness might sometimes try to quench her heart.
It was at that moment, as her eyes were closed, that she heard the heavy wooden door to her room open. Her eyes opened at once, and she swiftly looked across the rich carpeted floor to see the stern soldier who guarded her room staring at her. Far from fear at the sight, the very indiscretion inflamed her mind, and her voice lashed out, scathing. "You. How dare you enter this room without permission?!? Your lord himself has ordered you...to..." she stopped her indignant tirade as a feminine chuckle resounded, and the staring soldier crashed forward in a jumble of armour and flesh, dead.
Behind her stood a woman of medium height, with short hair of undefined colour and wearing a black cloak, which covered her body. A smirk was on the woman's face as she looked at Eira.
"So that's Eira Fregar Swiftblade, the sweetness of the great general Swiftblade." she made a humphing sound "Noblewoman to the core, even when a man enters without invitation. How flimsy and typical." her eyes suddenly lost their amused air "Now, get the little boy. We're leaving."
This was too much too fast for Eira in her current condition. "Leaving? What do you mean?"
"There's no time for that kind o' talk. Get the brat."
Anger at hearing her son called a 'brat' by some unknown entity nearly drowned out the fact that this arrogant woman had just killed a trained soldier in cold blood. But not quite. "I...no...I will not move before you tell me what you mean!" she glared, trying to settle her fright at the gamble she was making.
This seemed to disgust the woman even more. "Bah. Nobles. Always prattling, even when their damned little lives are at stakes. How very typical. Well-" and as she said this dragged the armoured corpse in with a surprisingly powerful heave for her rather ordinary frame. "-since I have no choice but to get you, I'll tell you. Here's the brief of it."
In swift, gliding strides the woman crossed the distance, and before she could even react hands dug into her shoulders and she found herself staring at smouldering, impatient eyes. "Sweetness, Lothar's sent us to get you out, and that's what we're doing right here and now. Now get the kid before I go myself. Trust me, he won't like it if I go."
This implied threat - no, this CLEAR threat - was enough for Eira. If it had been a threat against her, she never would have budged. But not Vedran. Not her son. Although she glared murder into the other woman's eyes, she nodded, and the pressure was relieved from her shoulders.
She didn't waste anytime, knowing how quick escape had to be from painful, personal experience. She was quickly crossed into her son's bedroom, which she had insisted to be contiguous to her own. No maid. No one. All she could see in that room were cooling coals from the foyer and a sleeping bundle. Not missing an instant, she quickly woke the infant up.
"Mama?" the one face asked her, eyes blinking sleepily. She took her into her arms, and he clung to her. "Is cold mama, wanna go back to bed." he slurred.
"I know. I know. You will be in bed soon, my son. As soon as possible. But just hold on and be quiet for now, right?" she asked quickly. Whether he understood or fell back asleep, her son didn't say anything more, which suited her fine. She went back to her room, where the fire had been doused. In the gloom, however, she saw the woman clearly, near the door.
"Took you long enough. sweetness." the woman sneered. "Now you and the brat put that cloak on and follow."
Eira was truly starting to hate that woman, saviour or not.
The woman quickly looked in the hallway, where flickering torches provided some illumination, and beckoned to them. They quickly made their ways through halls, the weight of her son becoming heavier with every step, as Eira struggled to keep up with the other woman's pace. She wasn't completely convinced about this. However, an unconvincing chance was better than none at all, and she knew it.
They finally came into a room, one that she had never noticed before, somewhere in the castle's western wing. The woman took out a strange object and inserted it into a weird-shaped lock just over the real one, and turned. She was relatively unsurprised when a part of the wall rumbled softly and slid out, revealing a new entryway. Fregar Keep, which had once loomed over Sunshire, had had a few secret passages. The Royal Castle of Whitefort, having been built centuries upon centuries ago, should have its share of these as a matter of course.
She walked inside, right into the midst of a group illuminated by a single magical light. Four women stood on either side of the opened section of wall, sword in hand, and kept watch as it eventually rumbled back and clicked into place. Two other were farther off, in the more shady parts of the room, the magical light playing tricks with their features. She had no problem recognizing the two men who stood with her.
"King Terenas. Lord Varien!" she said softly, noticing that Terenas held someone by the hand. A blonde child who seemed more curious than frightened. She recognized prince Arthas. "So they have taken you too. I am glad."
Varien nodded, and even gave her a wry half-smile. "And I am glad they took the time to take you as well as your son." He gave the arrogant woman beside her a wintry look. "Some found it a waste of time."
"Bite me, nobleman." The sneer was there in full force. A female, nondescript voice broke things up before anything further came of it.
"That's enough, Jerika. Our mission is to take them all to safety, and I will not have your arrogance mar my plans." For some reason, the voice seemed to have the effect of a cold shower to the sneering woman, who suddenly looked actually respectful.
"Yes, I understand."
"Good. Now all that remains is one person. Once she is here..." The wall slid open once more, and there entered two strong women, both wearing cloaks, supporting a shivering, emaciated woman. Terenas had a movement, but it was Arthas who told this new person's identity, running to her.
"Mother!" he said happily. Eira stared. The queen?!? She'd never seen her. But before she could think any further, the nondescript voice spoke again.
"Good. That's everyone, then. Now, I am telling you this: Lord Lothar has entrusted me to get you to safety, and I shall. Now, listen to me very, very carefully..."
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Winter 596, Whitefort, Lordearon
Varien Wrynn had seen too many strange and horrible things for the past thirteen years that he didn't consider himself someone who was easily impressed anymore. Whether it was healthy or not, his times fighting the Horde and its depravations, and fighting men who had lost their way into darkness, had made him somewhat impervious to the macabre and the frightening. So he had - arrogantly, it now seemed - thought.
He had never thought that a place so very eerie could exist under the great capital city of Lordaeron. A 'sewer', he supposed this place had become now. And it fit, with its rivers of putrid water and grimy walls, containing so many diseases and infection that his skin crawled just thinking about it. But they also passed places, which had looked, like a city. A broken, old city, long gone and forgotten, deep under the pride of humanity. Vestiges of proud bastions and building cropped out of the filth here and there, like a forgotten city.
Like a city of the day.
"This place is old." Varien found himself saying, a little louder than he intended to. The rest of the trudging throng stopped at his words. Terenas, still showing much composure despite the stench and the eerie feel, nodded solemnly.
"Older than you think. This, my young friend, is what remains of the city of Strom, the capital of Arathor, buried in the War of Heirs that shattered the Empire forever. Nine hundred years, these ruins have smouldered."
The ordinary but very dangerous woman who led the female group of assassins, which had rescued them, eyes the king. "How do you know this, if I might ask?"
"I've been here before. Long ago, when I was young and foolish, long before I began to rule. Coming here cured me of much immaturity. Rarely have I known such fear. We shouldn't dally here."
One of the women looked towards the ordinary-looking one. "I agree completely, Magdella. This place...there's something awfully WRONG about it. Something's here. Somewhere. I can feel it."
"Come off." the arrogant-looking woman named Jerika muttered, but there was unease in her gaze as she looked beyond the lights they had readied before venturing downward. "Those are just moldy remains, nothin' else."
Magdella looked about herself. If she felt intimidated, she didn't show it. Varien wondered if ice ran through her veins. Given that Lothar had sent her himself, it was likely that little frightened her, if anything did at all. "This place is certainly not the nicest I've ever seen. But if all goes well, we won't spend more than an hour more here. There is a way out to the west of here."
As if to remind them that time was perhaps shorter than even she thought, queen Herlai coughed, the rasping sound reminding them of her gravely weakened lungs. Eira, who stood nearby, helped her stay up, and then gave the others a look. "We can't stay here. She needs a healer, and we all need to get out this stench."
No one argued with that, and the group quickly continued, following Magdella's lead as they went through tunnel after wretched tunnel, which looked nearly the same. The two boys were being held in the arms of the two strongest women of the group, and from his position he couldn't know whether they were awake or not. He couldn't see how they could sleep in a mess like this one, but then again children could sleep nearly everywhere.
They had perhaps gone two-thirds of the way when they heard moan. It was deep and pain-filled, but also possessed of a kind of savage glee, which made Varien cold all over. He grabbed the hilt of his sword, instinctively knowing that it would be useless. "That...that wasn't normal..." All of the women spread around them, slender blades of elven make at the ready. Fear was so present now - in Eira's eyes, in the King's eyes, in his own certainly - that he could almost taste it. The moan returned, louder this, time, but it was impossible to pinpoint the source.
"Where is that sound coming from?!?" One of the infiltrators hissed in both fear and frustration.
"Calm down!" Magdella commanded firmly. "Sevanni, protection spell?" At once, a woman began to chant the esoteric and warped words of a magical spell. The moan came again, and this time there was triumph in it. Varien Wrynn, for all of his battles, broke into a cold sweat and shook.
And then Jerika screamed, making them all nearly jump out of their skin in fright. Varien whirled, sword flashing out of its sheath on instinct. It was a scream of horror, bordering on hysteria. And he saw why and understood at once.
Hands of old stone had grabbed the no-longer-arrogant woman's hands, and were dragging her towards the section of wall. To their horror filled eyes, they entered into it, and her hands followed. She was being dragged inside. Her screams became more hysteric, more desperate as she tugged desperately. Varien saw that the screams had woken the children - who had been asleep the whole trip it seemed, and who were blinking it confusion now - and shouted. "Don't let the children see this, damn you! Hide the sight from them!!" Startled, the women instinctively obeyed. Both started to wail as Jerika's cries became more and more insane with fear. Already she had disappeared to her elbows, and her feet were gone in as well.
She gave them a look Varien would never forget - a look of such pure fear that he had never seen in the entire First War OR Second War. He hoped never to see the like again.
"HELP ME!!! LIGHT OH PLEASE PLEASE HELP!! HEEEEELLLP! NOOOOOOO!!! NOOOough-" was the last thing they heard before she disappeared entirely into the wall. Another hand grabbed at Magdella, but she smashed it away with the hilt of her sword. And then the hands - many of them - stopped as if striking a wall.
Sevanni's spell was protecting them. Of all of them, she seemed to be the only one to know what they had just seen. "Come! This will not hold these restless spirits back for very long! Only true clerics can battle these! We must move!!!"
Fear and the certainty of what would happen if they stayed forced to look away from the place where one of their group met a grisly end. They pressed on; even the ailing queen did, supported by Eira on one side and another woman on the other. Only Terenas looked back for a moment, his eyes wide.
"I had thought these tunnels horrible in my youth. But how much worse they actually are. To think that these spirits roam far under my city's proud old streets and walls."
They pressed on however, all of them hurrying, with moaning all around them, until, finally, the undecipherable voices faded away into the gloom. Still the two children wailed as they finally, after much running, started to climb back. Meter after meter, with the stonework becoming more familiar, until finally they came upon a culvert covered by moss. Magdella, whom her underling's death didn't seem to have shaken that much outwardly, sighed as she saw it, and banged her sword on the bars. Two quick taps, one long, three quick.
"Who is the Guardian of the Night?" A male voice called out quickly.
"One who does not fear the Light." Magdella replied, and after few moments, the culvert opened, and lights were uncovered. There, standing amidst snow, were footmen dressed in heavy cloaks. They seemed to be on edge. When they saw the king and queen, all fell to one knee. Quickly Terenas bade them to rise.
"Please stand. I would not wish to spend an instant longer near that tunnel, not if I lived fifty or a hundred more years."
One of the footmen approached. A lieutenant, Varien saw. "Our group is camped in a grove near this place. We will take you there." He took in their devastated looks, the crying children "If I may ask, what happened? We heard strange sounds from that tunnel. It sounded like-"
"Questions later." Magdella said firmly. "A friend's death is what you heard. His Majesty is right. We need food and a bath, and that story can wait." she paused "If any of us really ever wish to tell of it."
Varien looked back at the now-closed culvert. So much darkness in there. The kind he hoped never to face again. What kind of world allowed such evil, such depravity towards life to exist? He shook his head. And then followed the others, never looking back again.
But in his head, he heard Jerika's plea. And most of all, he saw her eyes as insane fear took over her. He wondered when - and if - the vision would go away.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 596, Dun Algaz, Khaz Modan
The Orcs came up the walls once more. They were spent from an entire day of fighting, and were truly at the end of their strength. Still they climbed, mostly because of the fact that bloodlust controlled them. They came up the ladders, and for every one the defenders pushed back, two more came up. Still the day was waning, and there was no crack in the defence of the human-held fortress.
Rellon Minvare fought back to back with Muradin Bronzebears as they worked to repulse the orcs off the walls along with their knights, footmen and mages. The sorcerers hurled spells on the massed Horde troops below, but they were nearly ineffective in a melee. It was there that steel came handy.
The man and the dwarf made an effective duo. While Minvare slashed an orc belly open, the dwarf beheaded a troll who had made the mistake of coming too close. Bodies of friends and foes alike were heaped on the ramparts, and everywhere Alliance and Horde soldiers battled each other with equal hatred and ferocity. Fortunately for the defenders, ogres weren't present, as the ladders used would never be able to bear their weight.
Minvare had lives through many battles, many of which he considered to have been lucky to still live on. That wasn't the case there. Everywhere his eyes roamed, swords and maces and warhammers and axes danced, blood splattered stone in grim torrents, and screams mingled with other screams, the wounded and the dying heightening the macabre reality of the battlements.
It was enough to drive a man to distraction, but he didn't allow himself to be. Instead he roared in response to an orc's bestial challenged, and quickly found himself locked in a deadly struggle. Although he prevailed in this fight, the orc falling never to rise again, another came to take his place, and then another. Finally he stopped caring, and kept striking until he either died or the enemy stopped attacking. He fell into a haze...
...and came out as the Horde horns - finally! - sounded the retreat. No more orcs came at him, and for the first time in far too long, he started to breathe again. It was an ugly wind, filled with the scent of blood and death, but it was good nonetheless when he hadn't been certain he would live to see this night. Beside him, Muradin raised his axe and hammer and raised a mighty yell that many humans and dwarves took up. And the Alliance horns sounded in defiant triumph.
Dun Algaz had held off the Horde's attempt to retake it once more.
"Light, lad!" Muradin roared, his eyes filled with an almost angry glee "We showed these filthy beasts who their betters were!"
But at what cost? The general looked around him and saw that the last trolls and orcs were retreating from the walls. Already soldier were bodily flinging dead or wounded Horde soldiers over the battlements, while others went about collecting the wounded and the dead.
There were too many of the latter for Minvare's eyes.
Still, he knew that the dwarf's reasoning wasn't completely wrong, so he calmly replied. "So it would seem."
The dwarf reached up and gave him a mighty pat on the back. "HAH! As serious as ever, I see! But come! Tonight we shall eat and drink to this! The orcs can't keep hassling us anymore. They're too wounded, and they don't trust each other at all anymore."
That was actually an understatement, and this was something to be thankful for. Indeed, the Horde had sent this large force but little else to regain Dun Algaz. Two years before, it would have been three such forces. Their numbers would have been overwhelming. No longer. The orcs and ogres seemed busier fighting each other than fighting the Alliance. The reason, he could only wonder at. But it certainly served.
A footman, perhaps Minvare's age and wearing heavily dented and blood-spattered armour, came up and saluted. "Lord Minvare, sir! We've successfully regained full control of the battlements. What are your instructions, sir?"
He nodded in thought. "Clear the dead and wounded, and then put a guard as heavy as possible to those walls. The orcs may be gone for good this time, but I won't be taking any chances with them."
"Sir!"
"Oh, and one more thing..."
"Yes, milord?"
He granted himself the luxury of a smile. "Have some of the wine barrels found in the cellar opened. The men can have a little; they've more than earned it. Just make certain no one gets drunk. We need to be ready, if this is only a feint to lure us into complacency." He personally doubted it, but discounting the possibility would be unforgivable.
The footman saluted again, with more gusto this time. "Yes milord. And with pleasure for the last, I might add. By your leave..." and he went off to carry his instructions to the other commanders. Minvare watched him go, and then looked at the knights and soldiers, the sorcerers and clerics and healers, all milling about. He slumped slightly, only to be nudged by Muradin's gentler pat.
"There lad, what're ye doing? This was here a fine battle, and we made the Light proud by standing firm. It's no time to be depressed. Is it about the men lost?"
"No. I think I got used to seeing it." That was more frightening than anyone thought. What did thinking of death as usual make of him? "And I'm used to leading. But not leading OTHER generals. Since when do I make all the decisions?"
"Since ye took charge. And well, I might add laddie. I'll tell ye plainly, ye impressed me many times. Never thought humans quite had it in them." the dwarf chuckled with mirth "Shows what I know."
"You honour me, sir..."
"Pshaw! Don't start there lad! I can't stand it. And don't 'sir' me! I may be the king of Ironforge's younger brother, but I ain't wanting to be called royalty in these parts. Now, ale's my favourite, but wine sounds fine right about now. Let's go and empty a few fancy cups together!"
"I'll join you soon, I'll just stay and enjoy the freshness of the night for a while." Already, night was falling, and torches were being lighted. Below in both inside and outside the fortress, bonfires were being lighted. For the Alliance at least, it would be a celebration... if only for those who lived to celebrate that precious fact.
When Muradin had gone, Minvare leaned against the battlement and slumped down. Finally, some time to himself. Finally, alone with his own thoughts. That was what he liked. Not the loneliness, but the relative silence. He enjoyed it all he could while the moment lasted.
He had never been a spur-of-the-moment man. He had never slept with a woman, rarely drunk. It wasn't that he disliked female company or to drink, rather that he had never wanted to complicate his life with such things. He had never wanted these elements in his life. He wanted it stable and ordered. And here he was in one of the most chaotic wars in history, asked to make spur-of-the-moment decisions, drinking with others and - despite his efforts - finding female company quite comforting indeed.
"What a paradox, what irony..." he muttered, and then heard steps coming his way. And lights as well, He groaned for himself. Muradin had sent people to look for him, damn the dwarf. Well, there was no helping it, it seemed. The silent time would have to come later.
With a creak and the clinking of armour, he struggled to his feet and waved to the lights. They quickly came his way. Knights, it seemed. His personal guard, no less. Worried sick, certainly. How very annoying and unavoidable they were.
Still, he supposed he should cheer up a bit. The battle was all but won here. Jennalla had managed to secure the westernmost Land Bridge, and soon fresh forces would come reinforce them. Further, with the news of King Terenas's liberation, morale had climbed back up, and the army was in better shape than ever. Yes, there was much to celebrate, even if he felt like being alone.
Thus, Rellon Minvare, reluctant but respected general of the Alliance, walked towards the approaching torches and joined the throng once more as the men cheered as wine was passed.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron
"Fire those ballistae! Have companies three, six and ten ready to storm the moment we breach the eastern wall!"
"Yes sir!!"
"Have the archers go forward. I want these walls cleared around the breach before we storm in. Call in the mages!!"
"Sir!"
The soldiers milled about, carrying out Aerth Swiftblade's orders. Knights waited on horses, giving him a protective barrier, which he was quite certain, wouldn't be effective if a ballista pole fell on top of them in a shower of ironwood and steel. But he didn't say anything, stayed at his place and issued orders. His mind was busy sizing up the weakened walls and preparing his part in lord Lothar' offensive. It had been a long time since he had felt that way.
He knew that nearly all of that control and command had returned the moment he had seen and embraced Eira in his arms. She had let him hug her and take her to his tent, along with his young, tired son, whom he had put in his own bed, only wanting to gaze at him and his beloved wife both. He had been so afraid to lose them both...to know that they were safe and sound, under trusted guard at his camp was enough to elate him, and almost make him forget he was fighting humans instead of orcs.
He gritted his teeth at that thought. Humans. Fighting humans wasn't something he was used for, or wanted to do. Certainly, he wanted the Compact put down - its very existence slowed the Alliance's ability to plan and remain a unified whole as long as was necessary. But he hadn't forgotten that the Horde, although seemingly locked into a sort of civil war, were the enemy humanity had to fight.
Enemy ballista poles detonated amidst his troops, killing some and maiming many others. He growled deep in his throat. Of course, events in the past few days were making him less and less amiable towards these human enemies. "Don't falter! Keep firing the ballistae. Same target! Break up the wall!"
He couldn't help but ironically remember that these were the very walls that he had once defended - and nearly lost them completely. The Horde had battered them nearly to submission before retiring. He wondered if Doomhammer had known that he had been mere days away from taking the city at the time. However, the weakness of the walls were now an asset, and the repairs given to them had been insufficient. Thus, the plan to break the walls down and storm the old capital.
"Breaking down the walls? What if the Horde comes back?" Turalyon had asked upon learning of the plan.
"I doubt we could hold the walls again at any rate." Lothar had explained. "But I don't think that they will. Something happened which sundered them entirely. If we weren't caught in problems of our own, we could probably use this to our advantage, much like Minvare and Bronzebeard had done by putting a strong Alliance toehold south of the Land Bridges."
"So its a question of destabilizing. The first power who happens to rectify its situation would gain an advantage." Swiftblade had noted
"An IMMENSE advantage. Which means that we will follow this plan, because it is expedient."
That had ended the conversation, and the fifty thousand strong combined forces had moved in and attacked. Facing them had been a little over twenty thousand rebels of the Compact. A hard fight, that is was.
Still, there were some reasons that allowed the Alliance forces to gain ground. First, that it appeared that many Compact units had only been following orders so far, and that many were restless, on the way to a major revolt - aided and baited by paid infiltrators and professional spies. Lothar's declaration that any units, which surrendered, would be welcomed back with no questions asked had appealed to many a frightened soldier.
To add to the enemy's discomfort - and to the besiegers' morale - was that the populace itself seemed tired of this occupation. Civil unrest was becoming more and more common, and once or twice riots had broken out. The city was breaking up between the Compact's hands into nothing.
Duraz was failing in his plans, obviously. Duraz. That had never been a name he had liked by any stretch of the imagination, but the past siege and Eira's situation and subsequent stories had transmuted it into hatred. He hoped that he would live to se that traitor dead, as he quite deserved!
Finally, however, his wish might be coming true. The increasingly uncertain defenders were giving in to their doubts, rendering them much less effective. And the ballistae finally, with one last salvo, broke up one part of the wall. Centuries old stonework crumbled down to the ground, exposing a battered house and street.
Swiftblade had led few too long now to miss such a chance. He wouldn't allow the enemy the opportunity to regroup. At once his voice resounded. "This is our chance have our knights in section three engage the enemy. Other units stay behind as support! Go!"
Flags were unfurled, horns sounded, and the First Army roared in triumph as the first of its forces made its way towards the breach, galloping at full speed. He looked at his cavalry commander, who nodded in satisfaction.
"Don't worry, milord. We'll take care of them swift and clear!" was all the man said in response.
Aerth looked towards the battlements and, suddenly and much to the displeasure of his knights, spurred his barded mount into a gallop, streaking to the front of the positions. One of his knights came close to him, his face a mixture of respect and frustration behind the heavy, horned helm.
"Lord Swiftblade! General! Please desist. This is folly!"
Aerth only shook his head. "It is not folly this time, Beadre! It is a necessity. I need to be with my men for this action! I will not let them take the lives of their own former friends without I at the front!" Not waiting for a reply, he kicked his horse and sped to the front of the line of human footmen, who looked and pointed as they recognized him. In response, Swiftblade raise his blade high in the air. He felt sick of what he was about to do - much worse than when he had fought orcs when he was like these men, a lowly grunt - but such was not the voice he took. He took a voice of command and confidence, of inspiration.
"Men of the First Army, I am Aerth Swiftblade!" he shouted "And I have led you through countless battles, sometimes from behind, sometimes in front! I know that here stand some of the bravest warriors of Azeroth, of Lordaeron, of Stromgarde, of all human nations in the Alliance! Today, friends, we face traitors of the worst kind! We face humans who divided us, who took other humans captive in this time of great need! I ask, you, men of the Alliance, can we bear this without doing a thing?!?"
Voices growled, and clear 'NO!' resounded through the ranks. Still, Swiftblade did not relent. He had to push away doubt from their hearts.
"Will we let these traitors terrorize our folk?!?"
"NO!!!"
"Will we let them betray us to our deaths?!?"
The voices that shouted know were now filled, some with purpose, some with bloodlust, as a shouted 'NO!!!!' was heard throughout the area, amidst the whistling of arrows and the crash of ballista and rock. He was shamed of himself. He was manipulating them, like officers had manipulated his own feelings in the First War. Had these officers felt this dirty? He supposed some of them, those who put duty in front of personal interests, had. But if he manipulated them into this, he would also lead them - fairness and honour, as much as he could. He waved his sword towards the breach in the old, proud walls.
"Then let us regain this capital, in the name of Lord Lothar and King Terenas! MEN OF THE FIRST ARMY! FORWARD!!!!"
And, sword in hand, Aerth Swiftblade led the roaring charge which would kill many humans who could have helped to stem the Tides of Darkness.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 596, Havenport, Kul Tiras
Dealin Proudmoore couldn't help but sigh as he walked to his capital city's shipyards. Everywhere he looked, lumber was being chopped, crafted, nailed, and carried as hulls upon hulls stood on special building keels. Havenport's shipyards were the largest in the Alliance by far, and had produce by themselves over a third of the entire Alliance Fleet. Here, Orca-class battleships were being built, along with lesser Grimstorms, Bielevant destroyers, and transport crafts. Here and there, foundries processed ores and scrap into cannons and armour to be fitted.
Everywhere, men walked with a purpose. There was a swagger to their stride, which showed they knew the importance the facilities had. Proudmoore wouldn't have had it any other way.
"It is fortunate that the shipyards have been undamaged during the uprising, is it not, Salvan?"
Salvan Fargold, a Dalaran mariner, nodded his head, almost completely hiding the discomfort he must certainly have felt. "Yes, Your Majesty. Indeed it is so. We are more than fortunate, if I may say so."
Proudmoore hid a tremor in his voice when he spoke next. "What is the status of your fleet?" Months, the presence of Jaina and Larienne near him, and constant work had calmed the grief in his heart, but to directly speak of the fleet on which his sons had been killed still took great effort. The way that Fargold stiffened his middle-aged, wiry frame, he had felt that quite well. Unease poured out of the man in waves.
"Sire, our surviving ships have been repaired, and most have taken to the sea once more. Only my ship, the Cuathan, is still docked at the port."
"So I have noticed. I have given the Cuathan to Vice-Admiral Halfadas. He will be taking over your command." The man stiffened as if either struck by lightning or across the face - probably both as it was. Proudmoore lifted a hand to stall the protests he knew would come. "Please, calm yourself. I am not depriving you of command. I have another task for you, on the sea. You managed to regroup the fleet and counter a flight of dragons. I have need of such aggressive effectiveness."
Fargold relaxed slightly, moustache still bristling slightly. "If I may ask?
"You certainly may. But I ask you to stall your curiosity for the moment. I have one thing to see before I speak. Come with me."
They made their way to a lone building strip, surrounded by outlandish materials and contraptions, and manned not by humans, but by small, skilful creatures called gnomes. These were working - enthusiastically; it seemed - on some sort of strange contraption. Oddly-shaped - like a cucumber, perhaps - with two smaller shapes of the same design, one on each side. Although wood was present, metal and glass seemed to make up most of it. It looked to Proudmoore's eyes like something nightmarish and utterly unreliable.
Yet he hoped with all his heart that, for once, his assessment proved to be incorrect.
"Well met, sirs! So, are you ready for the test?" The gnomes turned at the sight of his voice, and one quickly hopped - there was no other way to describe that movement - to him.
"Hello, Admiral Proudmoore! Yup, yup, we're ready. The crew's inside and the wreck is in place." he gestured to an old ship, anchored farther off the bay. "Ready to begin when you want."
The king of Kul Tiras and Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet nodded. "Very well. Proceed then."
He had no true idea of what was about to happen, Proudmoore had to admit to himself as he watched the strange vehicle go into the waters. The gnomes had raved about the device, saying that it would be the perfect response to the giant turtle the Horde had been using. The peaceful behemoths, it seemed, were controlled into acts of destruction by orcish magics, and Proudmoore had had many promises from the gnomes that they would find a solution. Time to see if the time and resources he had allowed them - rather significant, given the strain it was to build new ships while the land army sucked up money, recruits, metal and wood in immense quantities - paid off.
The ship went into the water...bobbed on the surface for a few moments, then promptly sank. Proudmoore stared at it, then glared at the gnomes. He was about to ask them what kind of jest all of this was, when the decoy was hit from the water, and blew up quite nicely. A few moments later, the metal ship bobbed back to the surface, to the cheers of the gnomes and the incredulous stares of the humans. Proudmoore took a moment to compose himself, then asked. "It can go UNDER the water?"
The head gnome gave a large smile, eyes shining with triumph. "Yup! It can! And we have weapons that can strike from there, too! King Proudmoore, allow me to show you the first prototype of what we call the Undershine Submarines!
Proudmoore's head whirled for a moment as the implications sank in. The craft was unwieldy, rickety and rather unreliable in his opinion, but if it could go under the waves...then he certainly could find uses for them. He gazed back at the gnomes. "Well done, gentlemen! You have my permission to build these ships. I want ten at least to be ready before summer!" He left with a dazed Fargold as the gnomes bowed. None griped about the immensity of the task he had given - gnomes loved challenges of that sort.
"Now, that was better than I expected. It makes me feel better than I felt in a long time. With these ships, I can finally implement my plan. And you, Fargold, will be crucial into carrying out."
It was clear that the naval officer didn't quite follow. "Sire?"
"For all these years, we've had the upper hand on the sea. Almost since the beginning, when the fleet was mismatched, we still could defeat them. Now, we are clearly superior. Yet we've never taken the fight to them. We have many fleets, but they are mostly restricted to regions they need to protect. But the attack on the Third Fleet..." he paused "...that attack made me realize we needed to strike at them as well, this is why I am creating a new fleet. Built of Bielevant Destroyers, Orca Battleships and those gnomish contraptions. They will take the fight to the Horde on the sea." he pointed a finger to Fargold. "And I have decided that you shall command this fleet."
The other man's eyes widened. He took a step back as if to take a deep breath, then straightened. "Sire...I...I am just a captain...surely, one with more experience-"
"No. I need a fighter for this and you're the man who has proven he can hold a fight in the worst possible situations. Salvan Fargold, as Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet, I grant you the rank of Admiral of the Tenth Alliance Fleet, with the mission of eradicating Horde ships and bases off the face of the world wherever you may find them."
There was a long pause, and for a shocked moment Proudmoore thought the other man would decline. But he saw that it had only been a lapse, for Fargold's eyes were firm when they met his. "Sire, I accept this commission, and your task. I will not fail you or the Alliance."
"I believe you on that, Admiral Fargold. Now, you will have to excuse me, but I need to make preparations myself." With a nod of acknowledgement, the king began to walk back to his castle, the personal guard that he hardly noticed nowadays falling in with him.
His plans were going rather well. He had convince the Alliance High Command to give him more resources, and he intended to use these to rebuild the fleet, with strong ships able to outfight even the heaviest Horde dreadnought, and fleets to take them on again and again. His people thought that he wanted to protect them with these means, and it was partly true. But only partly.
The part he kept for himself, even from his beloved Larienne, was that he had a reason to do these things, to build these fleets, which were completely selfish. He didn't want to stop the Horde on the sea, he wanted to destroy them there. Outright.
For Kul Tiras. But mostly for his dear sons.
He wondered what the two young men would think if they knew this. They would probably be disappointed. And he wouldn't be able to blame them. After all, he was setting himself on the lonely path to vengeance, a path most in Kul Tiras shunned.
But it didn't matter. He would be damned if that was his fate, but he would see the Horde wiped clean from every body of water.
Forever.
It would then be up to the Light to judge his deeds.
______________________________________________________
Alliance Ranks
This here is a breakdown of the present Alliance Ranks as of Winter 596.
Third Sword/Third Seaman: The first rank one attains upon entering the army and finishing the basic training. These men and women have little to no fighting experience, and are all commoners.
Second Sword/Second Seaman: The rank attained by soldiers and sailors who have survived a certain number of battles or gained good recognition. This is a very widespread rank amongst the Alliance. Here, all are commoners as well.
First Sword/First Seaman: Those who obtain this rank have proven themselves in combat more than once, or happen to have good political or social connections are given this rank. Lesser nobles always begin at this rank. Any squire is also automatically promoted to this rank. The First Sword commands a force of five swords of lesser rank, and the First Seaman five lesser seamen.
Sergeant/Deckhand: This is the lowest of the officer ranks. In the army, the Sergeant usually leads four First Swords - or 20 men, while the Deckhand commands to everyone on the ship, service as the middleman between the captain and first mate and the rest of the crew. Some nobles have this rank, and it is by far the most widespread of the officer ranks.
Lieutenant/First Mate: The middle ground of the officer ranks, this rank holds a little prestige, since a lieutenant either commands around 100 men or is a knight, while the First Mate is second only to the Captain on a given ship. Greater nobles are often awarded this rank after training.
Captain: The highest of the officer ranks. It is impossible for commoners with no link to a noble family to attain higher than this. Captains are often the unit leaders, and the most seen figures in commanding positions. A captain usually commands about 500 men, while a Captain in the Navy commands a ship of the Fleet.
Commander/Vice-Admiral: This flag rank is very important and has much influence, as the commander usually controls thousands of troops, and the Vice Admiral no less than 15 ships of the Fleet. Nearly all Commanders and Vice-Admirals are nobles or married to one of noble birth. Some Commanders make up the High Command
General/Admiral: The most highly regarded men in the Alliance, each of these men control an entire Army - over 20,000 troops - or Fleet - over 50 ships. They are nearly all of the nobility, and reap much glory and recognition, especially the more able ones. All Generals are automatically granted a seat and a vote on the High Command.
High General/Grand Admiral: These two people command the entire Army or Navy, only responding to the Alliance Council, and being key figures in the high command. They are at the top of the Alliance military power structure.
Early Winter 596, Grand Aerie, Northeron
"Dragons."
This was a word spoken in a musing tone, with not a bit of wistfulness related to the splendour of these species, or with the fright their destructive tendencies invoked. It was said with all the seriousness of a fact, and a possible problem. If the High Thane of Northeron, a veteran griphon rider, felt any fright, he never showed it in the least.
It had little effect amongst the dwarven men and women gathered, all leaders of their own Aeries, except for frowns and the slight widening of eyes. Each took the news Kurdran had told with a stony calm which other races - such as the flimsy High Elves or the temperamental humans - wouldn't have believed normal.
Stony, pondered, calm as the rock. Such was the way of the dwarven race when a new event came to it.
Kurdran, like all the others in the room - from thanes and captains to the guards - looked towards their leader as he sat on his stone throne, pondering possibilities. It was a long while before he spoke again, following that single, provocative, world-shaking word. When he did, it was with the calm of settled steel. "Kurdran, you are our best warrior. Doubting your word is out of the question. If dragons attacked the Grey Peaks Aerie, then it was dragons, and the Thane of Grey Peaks adds his trusted word to what you say. No, my question is different: did you find that these dragons were different from those you might have encountered?"
If Kurdran had been a human or an elf, surprise and a question might have followed. But this was not the way a dwarf answered. A question was a question, and demanded an honest answer. Thus, Kurdran answered at once, honestly. "I must admit, my Thane, that there WERE peculiar details about these dragons."
For some reason, the Thane seemed satisfied with that answer. "And what were those?"
It took only a few moments of deep thought for the explanation to form. "My Thane, the dragons attacked like beasts. Although I have met violent dragons - the Black Dragons especially - I have never known Red Dragons to participate in such a reckless attack. They are usually much wiser, much more...thoughtful. What's more..."
"Aye, lad?" the leader of the Northeron dwarves prodded.
"To be quite honest, my Thane, honoured brothers, I doubt that I truly faced dragons as we are used to. They were worse than violent. They were...animalistic."
One of the lesser Thanes, a greybeard dwarf from a western Aerie, stirred. "Are you saying that they possessed no intelligence."
"Nay, Thane." he explained, his eyes never leaving those of the leader of his race. "I am saying that they had no active use of intelligence. They were acting almost solely upon instincts, relying on breath weapons and claw. No real tactics to speak of, no real subtlety, and no use of spells. It was a harsh fight, I admit, but not quite what I have come to expect from angered red dragons. Further, this destruction seemed so...so..." he struggled to find the right word.
"Childish, perhaps." The High Thane proposed. Kurdran blinked once, considered, and nodded agreement.
"Aye, Thane. It could be so." he admitted. It in fact went with the impressions he had gotten from the fight perfectly. As if fighting a violent, childish mind. And yet, it didn't seem quite possible. These dragons seemed too old to have such a mind. They looked like young adults. This was why the High Thane's next statement surprised him despite himself.
"The way I see it, good Kurdran, they most probably WERE children." he stated, his tone still as musing as ever.
Pandemonium happened...in a dwarven way. To shout or to even exclaim in the High Thane's presence was impossible by all of the old laws and traditions. But the quick looks the captains and thanes gave each other spoke of the same disbelief that Kurdran himself couldn't help but feel. He didn't want to speak against his revered ruler's judgement on the matter, however, and waited until one who could did.
It was another Thane - Rirkel Grandfield - an esteemed warrior and proud ruler, from a family going back many generations as leaders of the prosperous Huntfield Aerie, who spoke, his tone curious but respectful. "Forgive me, my Thane, but I find what you said strange. Light, more than strange! Children, and so big? How could that be?"
The proud, respected leader only grinned behind his flowing beard. "You don't have to use these fancy words with me, Rirkel. Not you. Our families have been friends for too long. What you meant was: 'Have you gone utterly daft?!?', isn't it?" he asked, his eyes dancing.
Rirkel deadpanned. "Are you?" And the other thanes - and Kurdran - barely had time to look at him in indignation - before the High Thane's roaring laugh brought their attention all back to him. He laughed long and hard, as if enjoying it immensely, and it was some time before his calm returned.
"Aye, that's EXACTLY what your father would have said to me. He feared nothing, whether in battle or in the Halls, which is why he was always a good friend. Keep being like this, it's a good thing." he paused "I'll be truthful. No, I haven't gone mad. I'm telling what I've told because what Kurdran has told us confirms reports of sightings and observations my scouts have reported to me recently."
"Scouts, my Thane?" Rirkel asked. "But we were not aware-"
"And you weren't supposed to. I acted on my own, purely on what humans call a hunch, and what news we had of this war being fought in the lands below."
"The elven embassy." Kurdran blurted despite himself, and then shut his mouth firmly, appalled at what he had said. But the High Thane only nodded.
"Quite. Their passionate pleas, though I refused them, moved me. This Illadan Eltrass was convincing when he talked of this threat, enough that I sent a few trusted dwarves to investigate." His brow came down. "What they returned with and reported unsettled me. It appears this enemy is devious. And, as Illadan said, can now touch our realm. With Dragons."
Kurdran could scarcely believe that. And he knew that he wasn't the only one who felt that way about this statement. For centuries upon centuries, ever since they had forged the first Aeries, they had been unassailable. Even the humans of Arathor at their height hadn't wanted to try waging war against them. To think that this...this Horde...could do it! And with dragons to boot! It was simply too much to be believed.
And yet...the High Thane told it, so it had to be the truth. It HAD to be believed as the truth. And although his head was full of disbelief, something in his heart did. The part, which remembered his instincts during the battle at the Grey Peaks.
The High Thane hadn't ruled over the many Aeries for over two centuries without having learned to read the moods around him, however. He nodded as if the display did not surprise him. And by the Light, perhaps it didn't, Kurdran reflected. "You doubt. I would in your place. But I believe the words of these dwarves. None would tell a lie. This Horde is immensely powerful, and the combined might of our cousins of Khaz Modan, of the High Elves and the humans is barely holding it back. But what is worse is this: they have captured Alexstrasza, the Dragonqueen. And they are forcing her eggs to mature so that they may fight, controllable, in the sky. Against the humans, the elves, the dwarves of Khaz Modan...or against us."
Now the dwarven rules were forgotten. Now the Thanes whispered amongst themselves, looking at each other in both horror and relative anxiety. It didn't last long, but the sight shook Kurdran more than he cared to admit. The Thanes of Northeron weren't supposed to behave like this. They weren't supposed to be unsure of what would happen. The only one who remained calm was Rirkel, who simply said. "Are you saying we should join this...Alliance, that Lordaeron created?"
"I am saying we have to seriously consider it. Not only for our people, but also for the world. For the dragons weren't the only fact the scouts brought back. I heard of death and blood, of gutted fields and farms where bounty once existed. The Horde is bringing worse devastation than even the wars fought before the Pact of Stormwind. We must consider things."
"Even if they go against our very way of life?"
The final words the High Thane spoke sent a chill down Kurdran's spine. "Aye. Or we might find we are not above falling along with those who live below."
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Winter 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron
Snow had fallen upon the land of Lordaeron like bliss, settling down to cover the old blood that soaked into grounds in and around Whitefort. Blood of many races - orcs, humans, elves, ogres, trolls, and so on - which had been spilled in a conflict which could not seem to be avoidable, or having any way for anyone to stop the terrible onslaught. Eira had been born into a world where war between countries was a thing of the past, where all one had to worry about were renegades, bandits and the occasional wild beasts. And now how long had it been, she wondered as she looked towards the many lights illuminating the city against the night through the soft blanket of snow.
A disquieting feeling not born of fear made itself felt, reminding her of something more pressing than her forlorn musings. Her child, still quite unformed, still not having swelled her belly, made its demand for attention. She was forced to sit down by the passing sickness, and found herself staring at the fire of her room. The room, which had become her cage.
Each day dimmed her hopes a little bit. She had first hoped that the Alliance - that Aerth - would come and quickly retake the city, but realism had made this impossible. Using threats, the foul Duraz had forced the armies massing to besiege the city to leave, allowing his forces to take control of some farmlands, which he had taxed heavily. Each day he tried further and further to ingratiate himself to her, and each failure seemed to spur him even further into attempting to seduce her. He had even tried to gain her son's friendship. Fortunately, Vedran had been too afraid of the man to give him anymore than a stare.
Vedran. And her unborn child. She didn't want them to live with Duraz. She wanted Vedran to grow and be a strong but good man like his father, not a vile thing like Sylphord. She squeezed her eyes shut and stifled a sob. She couldn't take it anymore, yet she had to. As long as her son remained in the castle, in danger, she would protect him, never weaken, and never cry.
No matter how hopelessness might sometimes try to quench her heart.
It was at that moment, as her eyes were closed, that she heard the heavy wooden door to her room open. Her eyes opened at once, and she swiftly looked across the rich carpeted floor to see the stern soldier who guarded her room staring at her. Far from fear at the sight, the very indiscretion inflamed her mind, and her voice lashed out, scathing. "You. How dare you enter this room without permission?!? Your lord himself has ordered you...to..." she stopped her indignant tirade as a feminine chuckle resounded, and the staring soldier crashed forward in a jumble of armour and flesh, dead.
Behind her stood a woman of medium height, with short hair of undefined colour and wearing a black cloak, which covered her body. A smirk was on the woman's face as she looked at Eira.
"So that's Eira Fregar Swiftblade, the sweetness of the great general Swiftblade." she made a humphing sound "Noblewoman to the core, even when a man enters without invitation. How flimsy and typical." her eyes suddenly lost their amused air "Now, get the little boy. We're leaving."
This was too much too fast for Eira in her current condition. "Leaving? What do you mean?"
"There's no time for that kind o' talk. Get the brat."
Anger at hearing her son called a 'brat' by some unknown entity nearly drowned out the fact that this arrogant woman had just killed a trained soldier in cold blood. But not quite. "I...no...I will not move before you tell me what you mean!" she glared, trying to settle her fright at the gamble she was making.
This seemed to disgust the woman even more. "Bah. Nobles. Always prattling, even when their damned little lives are at stakes. How very typical. Well-" and as she said this dragged the armoured corpse in with a surprisingly powerful heave for her rather ordinary frame. "-since I have no choice but to get you, I'll tell you. Here's the brief of it."
In swift, gliding strides the woman crossed the distance, and before she could even react hands dug into her shoulders and she found herself staring at smouldering, impatient eyes. "Sweetness, Lothar's sent us to get you out, and that's what we're doing right here and now. Now get the kid before I go myself. Trust me, he won't like it if I go."
This implied threat - no, this CLEAR threat - was enough for Eira. If it had been a threat against her, she never would have budged. But not Vedran. Not her son. Although she glared murder into the other woman's eyes, she nodded, and the pressure was relieved from her shoulders.
She didn't waste anytime, knowing how quick escape had to be from painful, personal experience. She was quickly crossed into her son's bedroom, which she had insisted to be contiguous to her own. No maid. No one. All she could see in that room were cooling coals from the foyer and a sleeping bundle. Not missing an instant, she quickly woke the infant up.
"Mama?" the one face asked her, eyes blinking sleepily. She took her into her arms, and he clung to her. "Is cold mama, wanna go back to bed." he slurred.
"I know. I know. You will be in bed soon, my son. As soon as possible. But just hold on and be quiet for now, right?" she asked quickly. Whether he understood or fell back asleep, her son didn't say anything more, which suited her fine. She went back to her room, where the fire had been doused. In the gloom, however, she saw the woman clearly, near the door.
"Took you long enough. sweetness." the woman sneered. "Now you and the brat put that cloak on and follow."
Eira was truly starting to hate that woman, saviour or not.
The woman quickly looked in the hallway, where flickering torches provided some illumination, and beckoned to them. They quickly made their ways through halls, the weight of her son becoming heavier with every step, as Eira struggled to keep up with the other woman's pace. She wasn't completely convinced about this. However, an unconvincing chance was better than none at all, and she knew it.
They finally came into a room, one that she had never noticed before, somewhere in the castle's western wing. The woman took out a strange object and inserted it into a weird-shaped lock just over the real one, and turned. She was relatively unsurprised when a part of the wall rumbled softly and slid out, revealing a new entryway. Fregar Keep, which had once loomed over Sunshire, had had a few secret passages. The Royal Castle of Whitefort, having been built centuries upon centuries ago, should have its share of these as a matter of course.
She walked inside, right into the midst of a group illuminated by a single magical light. Four women stood on either side of the opened section of wall, sword in hand, and kept watch as it eventually rumbled back and clicked into place. Two other were farther off, in the more shady parts of the room, the magical light playing tricks with their features. She had no problem recognizing the two men who stood with her.
"King Terenas. Lord Varien!" she said softly, noticing that Terenas held someone by the hand. A blonde child who seemed more curious than frightened. She recognized prince Arthas. "So they have taken you too. I am glad."
Varien nodded, and even gave her a wry half-smile. "And I am glad they took the time to take you as well as your son." He gave the arrogant woman beside her a wintry look. "Some found it a waste of time."
"Bite me, nobleman." The sneer was there in full force. A female, nondescript voice broke things up before anything further came of it.
"That's enough, Jerika. Our mission is to take them all to safety, and I will not have your arrogance mar my plans." For some reason, the voice seemed to have the effect of a cold shower to the sneering woman, who suddenly looked actually respectful.
"Yes, I understand."
"Good. Now all that remains is one person. Once she is here..." The wall slid open once more, and there entered two strong women, both wearing cloaks, supporting a shivering, emaciated woman. Terenas had a movement, but it was Arthas who told this new person's identity, running to her.
"Mother!" he said happily. Eira stared. The queen?!? She'd never seen her. But before she could think any further, the nondescript voice spoke again.
"Good. That's everyone, then. Now, I am telling you this: Lord Lothar has entrusted me to get you to safety, and I shall. Now, listen to me very, very carefully..."
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Winter 596, Whitefort, Lordearon
Varien Wrynn had seen too many strange and horrible things for the past thirteen years that he didn't consider himself someone who was easily impressed anymore. Whether it was healthy or not, his times fighting the Horde and its depravations, and fighting men who had lost their way into darkness, had made him somewhat impervious to the macabre and the frightening. So he had - arrogantly, it now seemed - thought.
He had never thought that a place so very eerie could exist under the great capital city of Lordaeron. A 'sewer', he supposed this place had become now. And it fit, with its rivers of putrid water and grimy walls, containing so many diseases and infection that his skin crawled just thinking about it. But they also passed places, which had looked, like a city. A broken, old city, long gone and forgotten, deep under the pride of humanity. Vestiges of proud bastions and building cropped out of the filth here and there, like a forgotten city.
Like a city of the day.
"This place is old." Varien found himself saying, a little louder than he intended to. The rest of the trudging throng stopped at his words. Terenas, still showing much composure despite the stench and the eerie feel, nodded solemnly.
"Older than you think. This, my young friend, is what remains of the city of Strom, the capital of Arathor, buried in the War of Heirs that shattered the Empire forever. Nine hundred years, these ruins have smouldered."
The ordinary but very dangerous woman who led the female group of assassins, which had rescued them, eyes the king. "How do you know this, if I might ask?"
"I've been here before. Long ago, when I was young and foolish, long before I began to rule. Coming here cured me of much immaturity. Rarely have I known such fear. We shouldn't dally here."
One of the women looked towards the ordinary-looking one. "I agree completely, Magdella. This place...there's something awfully WRONG about it. Something's here. Somewhere. I can feel it."
"Come off." the arrogant-looking woman named Jerika muttered, but there was unease in her gaze as she looked beyond the lights they had readied before venturing downward. "Those are just moldy remains, nothin' else."
Magdella looked about herself. If she felt intimidated, she didn't show it. Varien wondered if ice ran through her veins. Given that Lothar had sent her himself, it was likely that little frightened her, if anything did at all. "This place is certainly not the nicest I've ever seen. But if all goes well, we won't spend more than an hour more here. There is a way out to the west of here."
As if to remind them that time was perhaps shorter than even she thought, queen Herlai coughed, the rasping sound reminding them of her gravely weakened lungs. Eira, who stood nearby, helped her stay up, and then gave the others a look. "We can't stay here. She needs a healer, and we all need to get out this stench."
No one argued with that, and the group quickly continued, following Magdella's lead as they went through tunnel after wretched tunnel, which looked nearly the same. The two boys were being held in the arms of the two strongest women of the group, and from his position he couldn't know whether they were awake or not. He couldn't see how they could sleep in a mess like this one, but then again children could sleep nearly everywhere.
They had perhaps gone two-thirds of the way when they heard moan. It was deep and pain-filled, but also possessed of a kind of savage glee, which made Varien cold all over. He grabbed the hilt of his sword, instinctively knowing that it would be useless. "That...that wasn't normal..." All of the women spread around them, slender blades of elven make at the ready. Fear was so present now - in Eira's eyes, in the King's eyes, in his own certainly - that he could almost taste it. The moan returned, louder this, time, but it was impossible to pinpoint the source.
"Where is that sound coming from?!?" One of the infiltrators hissed in both fear and frustration.
"Calm down!" Magdella commanded firmly. "Sevanni, protection spell?" At once, a woman began to chant the esoteric and warped words of a magical spell. The moan came again, and this time there was triumph in it. Varien Wrynn, for all of his battles, broke into a cold sweat and shook.
And then Jerika screamed, making them all nearly jump out of their skin in fright. Varien whirled, sword flashing out of its sheath on instinct. It was a scream of horror, bordering on hysteria. And he saw why and understood at once.
Hands of old stone had grabbed the no-longer-arrogant woman's hands, and were dragging her towards the section of wall. To their horror filled eyes, they entered into it, and her hands followed. She was being dragged inside. Her screams became more hysteric, more desperate as she tugged desperately. Varien saw that the screams had woken the children - who had been asleep the whole trip it seemed, and who were blinking it confusion now - and shouted. "Don't let the children see this, damn you! Hide the sight from them!!" Startled, the women instinctively obeyed. Both started to wail as Jerika's cries became more and more insane with fear. Already she had disappeared to her elbows, and her feet were gone in as well.
She gave them a look Varien would never forget - a look of such pure fear that he had never seen in the entire First War OR Second War. He hoped never to see the like again.
"HELP ME!!! LIGHT OH PLEASE PLEASE HELP!! HEEEEELLLP! NOOOOOOO!!! NOOOough-" was the last thing they heard before she disappeared entirely into the wall. Another hand grabbed at Magdella, but she smashed it away with the hilt of her sword. And then the hands - many of them - stopped as if striking a wall.
Sevanni's spell was protecting them. Of all of them, she seemed to be the only one to know what they had just seen. "Come! This will not hold these restless spirits back for very long! Only true clerics can battle these! We must move!!!"
Fear and the certainty of what would happen if they stayed forced to look away from the place where one of their group met a grisly end. They pressed on; even the ailing queen did, supported by Eira on one side and another woman on the other. Only Terenas looked back for a moment, his eyes wide.
"I had thought these tunnels horrible in my youth. But how much worse they actually are. To think that these spirits roam far under my city's proud old streets and walls."
They pressed on however, all of them hurrying, with moaning all around them, until, finally, the undecipherable voices faded away into the gloom. Still the two children wailed as they finally, after much running, started to climb back. Meter after meter, with the stonework becoming more familiar, until finally they came upon a culvert covered by moss. Magdella, whom her underling's death didn't seem to have shaken that much outwardly, sighed as she saw it, and banged her sword on the bars. Two quick taps, one long, three quick.
"Who is the Guardian of the Night?" A male voice called out quickly.
"One who does not fear the Light." Magdella replied, and after few moments, the culvert opened, and lights were uncovered. There, standing amidst snow, were footmen dressed in heavy cloaks. They seemed to be on edge. When they saw the king and queen, all fell to one knee. Quickly Terenas bade them to rise.
"Please stand. I would not wish to spend an instant longer near that tunnel, not if I lived fifty or a hundred more years."
One of the footmen approached. A lieutenant, Varien saw. "Our group is camped in a grove near this place. We will take you there." He took in their devastated looks, the crying children "If I may ask, what happened? We heard strange sounds from that tunnel. It sounded like-"
"Questions later." Magdella said firmly. "A friend's death is what you heard. His Majesty is right. We need food and a bath, and that story can wait." she paused "If any of us really ever wish to tell of it."
Varien looked back at the now-closed culvert. So much darkness in there. The kind he hoped never to face again. What kind of world allowed such evil, such depravity towards life to exist? He shook his head. And then followed the others, never looking back again.
But in his head, he heard Jerika's plea. And most of all, he saw her eyes as insane fear took over her. He wondered when - and if - the vision would go away.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 596, Dun Algaz, Khaz Modan
The Orcs came up the walls once more. They were spent from an entire day of fighting, and were truly at the end of their strength. Still they climbed, mostly because of the fact that bloodlust controlled them. They came up the ladders, and for every one the defenders pushed back, two more came up. Still the day was waning, and there was no crack in the defence of the human-held fortress.
Rellon Minvare fought back to back with Muradin Bronzebears as they worked to repulse the orcs off the walls along with their knights, footmen and mages. The sorcerers hurled spells on the massed Horde troops below, but they were nearly ineffective in a melee. It was there that steel came handy.
The man and the dwarf made an effective duo. While Minvare slashed an orc belly open, the dwarf beheaded a troll who had made the mistake of coming too close. Bodies of friends and foes alike were heaped on the ramparts, and everywhere Alliance and Horde soldiers battled each other with equal hatred and ferocity. Fortunately for the defenders, ogres weren't present, as the ladders used would never be able to bear their weight.
Minvare had lives through many battles, many of which he considered to have been lucky to still live on. That wasn't the case there. Everywhere his eyes roamed, swords and maces and warhammers and axes danced, blood splattered stone in grim torrents, and screams mingled with other screams, the wounded and the dying heightening the macabre reality of the battlements.
It was enough to drive a man to distraction, but he didn't allow himself to be. Instead he roared in response to an orc's bestial challenged, and quickly found himself locked in a deadly struggle. Although he prevailed in this fight, the orc falling never to rise again, another came to take his place, and then another. Finally he stopped caring, and kept striking until he either died or the enemy stopped attacking. He fell into a haze...
...and came out as the Horde horns - finally! - sounded the retreat. No more orcs came at him, and for the first time in far too long, he started to breathe again. It was an ugly wind, filled with the scent of blood and death, but it was good nonetheless when he hadn't been certain he would live to see this night. Beside him, Muradin raised his axe and hammer and raised a mighty yell that many humans and dwarves took up. And the Alliance horns sounded in defiant triumph.
Dun Algaz had held off the Horde's attempt to retake it once more.
"Light, lad!" Muradin roared, his eyes filled with an almost angry glee "We showed these filthy beasts who their betters were!"
But at what cost? The general looked around him and saw that the last trolls and orcs were retreating from the walls. Already soldier were bodily flinging dead or wounded Horde soldiers over the battlements, while others went about collecting the wounded and the dead.
There were too many of the latter for Minvare's eyes.
Still, he knew that the dwarf's reasoning wasn't completely wrong, so he calmly replied. "So it would seem."
The dwarf reached up and gave him a mighty pat on the back. "HAH! As serious as ever, I see! But come! Tonight we shall eat and drink to this! The orcs can't keep hassling us anymore. They're too wounded, and they don't trust each other at all anymore."
That was actually an understatement, and this was something to be thankful for. Indeed, the Horde had sent this large force but little else to regain Dun Algaz. Two years before, it would have been three such forces. Their numbers would have been overwhelming. No longer. The orcs and ogres seemed busier fighting each other than fighting the Alliance. The reason, he could only wonder at. But it certainly served.
A footman, perhaps Minvare's age and wearing heavily dented and blood-spattered armour, came up and saluted. "Lord Minvare, sir! We've successfully regained full control of the battlements. What are your instructions, sir?"
He nodded in thought. "Clear the dead and wounded, and then put a guard as heavy as possible to those walls. The orcs may be gone for good this time, but I won't be taking any chances with them."
"Sir!"
"Oh, and one more thing..."
"Yes, milord?"
He granted himself the luxury of a smile. "Have some of the wine barrels found in the cellar opened. The men can have a little; they've more than earned it. Just make certain no one gets drunk. We need to be ready, if this is only a feint to lure us into complacency." He personally doubted it, but discounting the possibility would be unforgivable.
The footman saluted again, with more gusto this time. "Yes milord. And with pleasure for the last, I might add. By your leave..." and he went off to carry his instructions to the other commanders. Minvare watched him go, and then looked at the knights and soldiers, the sorcerers and clerics and healers, all milling about. He slumped slightly, only to be nudged by Muradin's gentler pat.
"There lad, what're ye doing? This was here a fine battle, and we made the Light proud by standing firm. It's no time to be depressed. Is it about the men lost?"
"No. I think I got used to seeing it." That was more frightening than anyone thought. What did thinking of death as usual make of him? "And I'm used to leading. But not leading OTHER generals. Since when do I make all the decisions?"
"Since ye took charge. And well, I might add laddie. I'll tell ye plainly, ye impressed me many times. Never thought humans quite had it in them." the dwarf chuckled with mirth "Shows what I know."
"You honour me, sir..."
"Pshaw! Don't start there lad! I can't stand it. And don't 'sir' me! I may be the king of Ironforge's younger brother, but I ain't wanting to be called royalty in these parts. Now, ale's my favourite, but wine sounds fine right about now. Let's go and empty a few fancy cups together!"
"I'll join you soon, I'll just stay and enjoy the freshness of the night for a while." Already, night was falling, and torches were being lighted. Below in both inside and outside the fortress, bonfires were being lighted. For the Alliance at least, it would be a celebration... if only for those who lived to celebrate that precious fact.
When Muradin had gone, Minvare leaned against the battlement and slumped down. Finally, some time to himself. Finally, alone with his own thoughts. That was what he liked. Not the loneliness, but the relative silence. He enjoyed it all he could while the moment lasted.
He had never been a spur-of-the-moment man. He had never slept with a woman, rarely drunk. It wasn't that he disliked female company or to drink, rather that he had never wanted to complicate his life with such things. He had never wanted these elements in his life. He wanted it stable and ordered. And here he was in one of the most chaotic wars in history, asked to make spur-of-the-moment decisions, drinking with others and - despite his efforts - finding female company quite comforting indeed.
"What a paradox, what irony..." he muttered, and then heard steps coming his way. And lights as well, He groaned for himself. Muradin had sent people to look for him, damn the dwarf. Well, there was no helping it, it seemed. The silent time would have to come later.
With a creak and the clinking of armour, he struggled to his feet and waved to the lights. They quickly came his way. Knights, it seemed. His personal guard, no less. Worried sick, certainly. How very annoying and unavoidable they were.
Still, he supposed he should cheer up a bit. The battle was all but won here. Jennalla had managed to secure the westernmost Land Bridge, and soon fresh forces would come reinforce them. Further, with the news of King Terenas's liberation, morale had climbed back up, and the army was in better shape than ever. Yes, there was much to celebrate, even if he felt like being alone.
Thus, Rellon Minvare, reluctant but respected general of the Alliance, walked towards the approaching torches and joined the throng once more as the men cheered as wine was passed.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron
"Fire those ballistae! Have companies three, six and ten ready to storm the moment we breach the eastern wall!"
"Yes sir!!"
"Have the archers go forward. I want these walls cleared around the breach before we storm in. Call in the mages!!"
"Sir!"
The soldiers milled about, carrying out Aerth Swiftblade's orders. Knights waited on horses, giving him a protective barrier, which he was quite certain, wouldn't be effective if a ballista pole fell on top of them in a shower of ironwood and steel. But he didn't say anything, stayed at his place and issued orders. His mind was busy sizing up the weakened walls and preparing his part in lord Lothar' offensive. It had been a long time since he had felt that way.
He knew that nearly all of that control and command had returned the moment he had seen and embraced Eira in his arms. She had let him hug her and take her to his tent, along with his young, tired son, whom he had put in his own bed, only wanting to gaze at him and his beloved wife both. He had been so afraid to lose them both...to know that they were safe and sound, under trusted guard at his camp was enough to elate him, and almost make him forget he was fighting humans instead of orcs.
He gritted his teeth at that thought. Humans. Fighting humans wasn't something he was used for, or wanted to do. Certainly, he wanted the Compact put down - its very existence slowed the Alliance's ability to plan and remain a unified whole as long as was necessary. But he hadn't forgotten that the Horde, although seemingly locked into a sort of civil war, were the enemy humanity had to fight.
Enemy ballista poles detonated amidst his troops, killing some and maiming many others. He growled deep in his throat. Of course, events in the past few days were making him less and less amiable towards these human enemies. "Don't falter! Keep firing the ballistae. Same target! Break up the wall!"
He couldn't help but ironically remember that these were the very walls that he had once defended - and nearly lost them completely. The Horde had battered them nearly to submission before retiring. He wondered if Doomhammer had known that he had been mere days away from taking the city at the time. However, the weakness of the walls were now an asset, and the repairs given to them had been insufficient. Thus, the plan to break the walls down and storm the old capital.
"Breaking down the walls? What if the Horde comes back?" Turalyon had asked upon learning of the plan.
"I doubt we could hold the walls again at any rate." Lothar had explained. "But I don't think that they will. Something happened which sundered them entirely. If we weren't caught in problems of our own, we could probably use this to our advantage, much like Minvare and Bronzebeard had done by putting a strong Alliance toehold south of the Land Bridges."
"So its a question of destabilizing. The first power who happens to rectify its situation would gain an advantage." Swiftblade had noted
"An IMMENSE advantage. Which means that we will follow this plan, because it is expedient."
That had ended the conversation, and the fifty thousand strong combined forces had moved in and attacked. Facing them had been a little over twenty thousand rebels of the Compact. A hard fight, that is was.
Still, there were some reasons that allowed the Alliance forces to gain ground. First, that it appeared that many Compact units had only been following orders so far, and that many were restless, on the way to a major revolt - aided and baited by paid infiltrators and professional spies. Lothar's declaration that any units, which surrendered, would be welcomed back with no questions asked had appealed to many a frightened soldier.
To add to the enemy's discomfort - and to the besiegers' morale - was that the populace itself seemed tired of this occupation. Civil unrest was becoming more and more common, and once or twice riots had broken out. The city was breaking up between the Compact's hands into nothing.
Duraz was failing in his plans, obviously. Duraz. That had never been a name he had liked by any stretch of the imagination, but the past siege and Eira's situation and subsequent stories had transmuted it into hatred. He hoped that he would live to se that traitor dead, as he quite deserved!
Finally, however, his wish might be coming true. The increasingly uncertain defenders were giving in to their doubts, rendering them much less effective. And the ballistae finally, with one last salvo, broke up one part of the wall. Centuries old stonework crumbled down to the ground, exposing a battered house and street.
Swiftblade had led few too long now to miss such a chance. He wouldn't allow the enemy the opportunity to regroup. At once his voice resounded. "This is our chance have our knights in section three engage the enemy. Other units stay behind as support! Go!"
Flags were unfurled, horns sounded, and the First Army roared in triumph as the first of its forces made its way towards the breach, galloping at full speed. He looked at his cavalry commander, who nodded in satisfaction.
"Don't worry, milord. We'll take care of them swift and clear!" was all the man said in response.
Aerth looked towards the battlements and, suddenly and much to the displeasure of his knights, spurred his barded mount into a gallop, streaking to the front of the positions. One of his knights came close to him, his face a mixture of respect and frustration behind the heavy, horned helm.
"Lord Swiftblade! General! Please desist. This is folly!"
Aerth only shook his head. "It is not folly this time, Beadre! It is a necessity. I need to be with my men for this action! I will not let them take the lives of their own former friends without I at the front!" Not waiting for a reply, he kicked his horse and sped to the front of the line of human footmen, who looked and pointed as they recognized him. In response, Swiftblade raise his blade high in the air. He felt sick of what he was about to do - much worse than when he had fought orcs when he was like these men, a lowly grunt - but such was not the voice he took. He took a voice of command and confidence, of inspiration.
"Men of the First Army, I am Aerth Swiftblade!" he shouted "And I have led you through countless battles, sometimes from behind, sometimes in front! I know that here stand some of the bravest warriors of Azeroth, of Lordaeron, of Stromgarde, of all human nations in the Alliance! Today, friends, we face traitors of the worst kind! We face humans who divided us, who took other humans captive in this time of great need! I ask, you, men of the Alliance, can we bear this without doing a thing?!?"
Voices growled, and clear 'NO!' resounded through the ranks. Still, Swiftblade did not relent. He had to push away doubt from their hearts.
"Will we let these traitors terrorize our folk?!?"
"NO!!!"
"Will we let them betray us to our deaths?!?"
The voices that shouted know were now filled, some with purpose, some with bloodlust, as a shouted 'NO!!!!' was heard throughout the area, amidst the whistling of arrows and the crash of ballista and rock. He was shamed of himself. He was manipulating them, like officers had manipulated his own feelings in the First War. Had these officers felt this dirty? He supposed some of them, those who put duty in front of personal interests, had. But if he manipulated them into this, he would also lead them - fairness and honour, as much as he could. He waved his sword towards the breach in the old, proud walls.
"Then let us regain this capital, in the name of Lord Lothar and King Terenas! MEN OF THE FIRST ARMY! FORWARD!!!!"
And, sword in hand, Aerth Swiftblade led the roaring charge which would kill many humans who could have helped to stem the Tides of Darkness.
* * * * * * * * * *
Winter 596, Havenport, Kul Tiras
Dealin Proudmoore couldn't help but sigh as he walked to his capital city's shipyards. Everywhere he looked, lumber was being chopped, crafted, nailed, and carried as hulls upon hulls stood on special building keels. Havenport's shipyards were the largest in the Alliance by far, and had produce by themselves over a third of the entire Alliance Fleet. Here, Orca-class battleships were being built, along with lesser Grimstorms, Bielevant destroyers, and transport crafts. Here and there, foundries processed ores and scrap into cannons and armour to be fitted.
Everywhere, men walked with a purpose. There was a swagger to their stride, which showed they knew the importance the facilities had. Proudmoore wouldn't have had it any other way.
"It is fortunate that the shipyards have been undamaged during the uprising, is it not, Salvan?"
Salvan Fargold, a Dalaran mariner, nodded his head, almost completely hiding the discomfort he must certainly have felt. "Yes, Your Majesty. Indeed it is so. We are more than fortunate, if I may say so."
Proudmoore hid a tremor in his voice when he spoke next. "What is the status of your fleet?" Months, the presence of Jaina and Larienne near him, and constant work had calmed the grief in his heart, but to directly speak of the fleet on which his sons had been killed still took great effort. The way that Fargold stiffened his middle-aged, wiry frame, he had felt that quite well. Unease poured out of the man in waves.
"Sire, our surviving ships have been repaired, and most have taken to the sea once more. Only my ship, the Cuathan, is still docked at the port."
"So I have noticed. I have given the Cuathan to Vice-Admiral Halfadas. He will be taking over your command." The man stiffened as if either struck by lightning or across the face - probably both as it was. Proudmoore lifted a hand to stall the protests he knew would come. "Please, calm yourself. I am not depriving you of command. I have another task for you, on the sea. You managed to regroup the fleet and counter a flight of dragons. I have need of such aggressive effectiveness."
Fargold relaxed slightly, moustache still bristling slightly. "If I may ask?
"You certainly may. But I ask you to stall your curiosity for the moment. I have one thing to see before I speak. Come with me."
They made their way to a lone building strip, surrounded by outlandish materials and contraptions, and manned not by humans, but by small, skilful creatures called gnomes. These were working - enthusiastically; it seemed - on some sort of strange contraption. Oddly-shaped - like a cucumber, perhaps - with two smaller shapes of the same design, one on each side. Although wood was present, metal and glass seemed to make up most of it. It looked to Proudmoore's eyes like something nightmarish and utterly unreliable.
Yet he hoped with all his heart that, for once, his assessment proved to be incorrect.
"Well met, sirs! So, are you ready for the test?" The gnomes turned at the sight of his voice, and one quickly hopped - there was no other way to describe that movement - to him.
"Hello, Admiral Proudmoore! Yup, yup, we're ready. The crew's inside and the wreck is in place." he gestured to an old ship, anchored farther off the bay. "Ready to begin when you want."
The king of Kul Tiras and Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet nodded. "Very well. Proceed then."
He had no true idea of what was about to happen, Proudmoore had to admit to himself as he watched the strange vehicle go into the waters. The gnomes had raved about the device, saying that it would be the perfect response to the giant turtle the Horde had been using. The peaceful behemoths, it seemed, were controlled into acts of destruction by orcish magics, and Proudmoore had had many promises from the gnomes that they would find a solution. Time to see if the time and resources he had allowed them - rather significant, given the strain it was to build new ships while the land army sucked up money, recruits, metal and wood in immense quantities - paid off.
The ship went into the water...bobbed on the surface for a few moments, then promptly sank. Proudmoore stared at it, then glared at the gnomes. He was about to ask them what kind of jest all of this was, when the decoy was hit from the water, and blew up quite nicely. A few moments later, the metal ship bobbed back to the surface, to the cheers of the gnomes and the incredulous stares of the humans. Proudmoore took a moment to compose himself, then asked. "It can go UNDER the water?"
The head gnome gave a large smile, eyes shining with triumph. "Yup! It can! And we have weapons that can strike from there, too! King Proudmoore, allow me to show you the first prototype of what we call the Undershine Submarines!
Proudmoore's head whirled for a moment as the implications sank in. The craft was unwieldy, rickety and rather unreliable in his opinion, but if it could go under the waves...then he certainly could find uses for them. He gazed back at the gnomes. "Well done, gentlemen! You have my permission to build these ships. I want ten at least to be ready before summer!" He left with a dazed Fargold as the gnomes bowed. None griped about the immensity of the task he had given - gnomes loved challenges of that sort.
"Now, that was better than I expected. It makes me feel better than I felt in a long time. With these ships, I can finally implement my plan. And you, Fargold, will be crucial into carrying out."
It was clear that the naval officer didn't quite follow. "Sire?"
"For all these years, we've had the upper hand on the sea. Almost since the beginning, when the fleet was mismatched, we still could defeat them. Now, we are clearly superior. Yet we've never taken the fight to them. We have many fleets, but they are mostly restricted to regions they need to protect. But the attack on the Third Fleet..." he paused "...that attack made me realize we needed to strike at them as well, this is why I am creating a new fleet. Built of Bielevant Destroyers, Orca Battleships and those gnomish contraptions. They will take the fight to the Horde on the sea." he pointed a finger to Fargold. "And I have decided that you shall command this fleet."
The other man's eyes widened. He took a step back as if to take a deep breath, then straightened. "Sire...I...I am just a captain...surely, one with more experience-"
"No. I need a fighter for this and you're the man who has proven he can hold a fight in the worst possible situations. Salvan Fargold, as Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet, I grant you the rank of Admiral of the Tenth Alliance Fleet, with the mission of eradicating Horde ships and bases off the face of the world wherever you may find them."
There was a long pause, and for a shocked moment Proudmoore thought the other man would decline. But he saw that it had only been a lapse, for Fargold's eyes were firm when they met his. "Sire, I accept this commission, and your task. I will not fail you or the Alliance."
"I believe you on that, Admiral Fargold. Now, you will have to excuse me, but I need to make preparations myself." With a nod of acknowledgement, the king began to walk back to his castle, the personal guard that he hardly noticed nowadays falling in with him.
His plans were going rather well. He had convince the Alliance High Command to give him more resources, and he intended to use these to rebuild the fleet, with strong ships able to outfight even the heaviest Horde dreadnought, and fleets to take them on again and again. His people thought that he wanted to protect them with these means, and it was partly true. But only partly.
The part he kept for himself, even from his beloved Larienne, was that he had a reason to do these things, to build these fleets, which were completely selfish. He didn't want to stop the Horde on the sea, he wanted to destroy them there. Outright.
For Kul Tiras. But mostly for his dear sons.
He wondered what the two young men would think if they knew this. They would probably be disappointed. And he wouldn't be able to blame them. After all, he was setting himself on the lonely path to vengeance, a path most in Kul Tiras shunned.
But it didn't matter. He would be damned if that was his fate, but he would see the Horde wiped clean from every body of water.
Forever.
It would then be up to the Light to judge his deeds.
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Alliance Ranks
This here is a breakdown of the present Alliance Ranks as of Winter 596.
Third Sword/Third Seaman: The first rank one attains upon entering the army and finishing the basic training. These men and women have little to no fighting experience, and are all commoners.
Second Sword/Second Seaman: The rank attained by soldiers and sailors who have survived a certain number of battles or gained good recognition. This is a very widespread rank amongst the Alliance. Here, all are commoners as well.
First Sword/First Seaman: Those who obtain this rank have proven themselves in combat more than once, or happen to have good political or social connections are given this rank. Lesser nobles always begin at this rank. Any squire is also automatically promoted to this rank. The First Sword commands a force of five swords of lesser rank, and the First Seaman five lesser seamen.
Sergeant/Deckhand: This is the lowest of the officer ranks. In the army, the Sergeant usually leads four First Swords - or 20 men, while the Deckhand commands to everyone on the ship, service as the middleman between the captain and first mate and the rest of the crew. Some nobles have this rank, and it is by far the most widespread of the officer ranks.
Lieutenant/First Mate: The middle ground of the officer ranks, this rank holds a little prestige, since a lieutenant either commands around 100 men or is a knight, while the First Mate is second only to the Captain on a given ship. Greater nobles are often awarded this rank after training.
Captain: The highest of the officer ranks. It is impossible for commoners with no link to a noble family to attain higher than this. Captains are often the unit leaders, and the most seen figures in commanding positions. A captain usually commands about 500 men, while a Captain in the Navy commands a ship of the Fleet.
Commander/Vice-Admiral: This flag rank is very important and has much influence, as the commander usually controls thousands of troops, and the Vice Admiral no less than 15 ships of the Fleet. Nearly all Commanders and Vice-Admirals are nobles or married to one of noble birth. Some Commanders make up the High Command
General/Admiral: The most highly regarded men in the Alliance, each of these men control an entire Army - over 20,000 troops - or Fleet - over 50 ships. They are nearly all of the nobility, and reap much glory and recognition, especially the more able ones. All Generals are automatically granted a seat and a vote on the High Command.
High General/Grand Admiral: These two people command the entire Army or Navy, only responding to the Alliance Council, and being key figures in the high command. They are at the top of the Alliance military power structure.
