Chapter Twenty-Four: Meetings and Preparations

Late Winter 596, Elwynn Forest, Azeroth

Banners were held high, even as the whirr and thunder of the catapults, as the roar of thousands of throats and the ominous sounds of magic were heard. The very air was electrified with tension and anticipation, but also by a burning trepidation. The Horde had finally caught one of the Tuskless - the derogatory term used to call Gul'Dan's forces - and was finally prepared for battle.

Banners flew amongst the troops, flapping in the wind and the cold. Most prominent and numerous was the red and black banner of the ruling Blackrock Clan, but others were also present. The Black Tooth Grin's Macabre Smile, the Eye of the Bleeding hollow. Even the sigils of the Dragonmaw and the Burning Blade clans could be seen, although in fewer numbers. On the other side, clearly shown was the gold Crescent Moon and Blue Wave of the Stormreavers and the Hammer of the Twilight's hammer clan. From a simple perspective, it would seem that five clans had come to fight but two.

But Argal Grimfrost had lived to long, had seen to many battles and intrigue and deceits to be fooled by something as useless as looks. Although the opposing armies were mostly made of the two offending clans, only the clans of Blackrock and Bleeding Hollow had stayed wholly devoted to the Horde and the Warchief. Many traitorous units from other clans had joined Gul'Dan, until he governed over a third of the Horde. His forces had clashed with the loyal ones, but never had they been able to force a full army to a fight.

Until today.

There was a certain amount of irony to the place where the battle was about to be fought as well. On that very field, many years earlier, the Horde had fought the last army standing between Stormwind and death. The humans had given a good fight, but had been overwhelmed and killed quite satisfactorily. The years of rain and snow and sun had not erased all signs of that glorious battle, either. Here and there, the rotten husks of human and orc earthworks and catapults could be seen, covered by ice and snow. But Grimfrost barely gave that a thought. Instead he turned his attention to his warriors, impatiently waiting for his signal to begin.

"Fire one last salvo, then retire the artillery. This won't break them." he growled, and his orders were immediately implemented. Soon dozens of catapults rumbled one last time, its missiles killing some, wrecking little, then fell silent. He nodded, his will bent on controlling the boiling of his blood, the infernal voice in his ears as the moment came nearer. He raised his great axe and growled. "First wave!! Advance!! FOR DOOMHAMMER AND THE HORDE!!!!"

The grunts were barely contained. The moment the order was passed, they charged with a mighty roar heard far about. A stream of green and metal charged, and the response from the other side was immediate. Under the feet of many warriors, the ground exploded, killing of crippling, body parts flying. Seeing this, other Horde units yelled and began to enter the fray.

"NO!!" Grimfrost growled in fury. "Force those fools back!! Their time will come!!" explosions and screams of pain almost drowned his voice, but he willed his orders with his eyes as much as his voice. Many were drawn by the bloodlust. Many sough to disagree, to let the warriors fly to glory. None did. Rarely did Argal Grimfrost's fury came to the fore. None wished to be on the receiving end of his fatal displeasure. The orders went forth by swift messengers, and most of the throng was hauled back by the growls and fists of Ogre enforcers. The first wave continued, with grave losses.

"Explosive runes...are you certain there were no Death Knights sighted in that army?" he asked.

"No, Warlord." one of his subordinates answered gruffly. "None at all. They've been making themselves scarce, except for the few who joined our side."

"Our side.." he scoffed "The Death Knights have not side except their own. Damn undead things!" Deep down, however, he knew that most would follow Gul'Dan, and that the depraved necromancer would keep them close to himself until they could do the most damage. So be it. The war was barely beginning.

Suddenly the explosions faded, and he saw that a only a fraction of the first wave continued forward. From afar, he saw some of the ogres gesturing strangely, and knew what they had cast at once. He gave a grim smirk. "Magic won't save you from idiocy, you poor fools! Horns! At my command, sound the retreat for the first wave!"

"Lord?"

"Silence and obedience is all I need! Wait for my signal!" He looked hard through the Longview that goblins had crafted. The first wave was close, and as he watched the front of the enemy lines sped towards them. Fast. Too fast. Another Ogre trick, but one he had seen at least twice. It made the ones affected powerful, but as blind as a raging bull. He waited until the two lines had merged. "NOW!" The Horn sounded, followed by others. Although lost in the fight, the first wave attempted to disengage, many falling to an axe or club or spear. Yet they disengaged, followed by a large throng of enervated, blind Orcs and Ogres.

"There are few of the first wave left." one subordinate said.

"I don't care. They were unimportant grunts that were barely better than farming peons." another growled. Grimfrost caught them off with a look.

"Stay focused. Now, send the second wave, and have the trolls flank it!"

He remembered briefly how the humans had been broken. A surprise force of wolfriders had outflanked them, while their knights had been drawn too far forward to help. It was different here. Although he was the one with the most troop, his enemies had some magic, and he could no longer count on wolfriders, for they were no more. But he would count on his own mind, and the tenacity of his people. He looked as the second wave charged forward into the fray.

The first wave had been relatively small, just big enough to entice the enemy. The second was much larger, with some of the best troops he had, and instead of just orcs scores of Ogres made the second line, while hundreds of trolls ran on the flanks. They hammered the enemy with their axes, and received no response from their own brethren - too angry and blind with bloodlust they were. The forces clashed, and fought. Harsh screams and warcries wafted to his ears in a symphony of violence even as the scent of blood became stronger. Giddy from it, he guffawed before bringing himself under control.

It had worked. At one stroke, he had mired half the enemy in combat, and he would not allow the other half to interfere. "Bring the artillery back! Pound the rear of the enemy and prevent any junction!" It wouldn't work for long, and he knew that this was only the first of many days of battle. But he also knew that he had just dealt the enemy a blow he would not allow recovery from.

"Once the enemy manages to disengage from the second wave, keep pounding on them. Harass them. Use all means but do not engage massively. Let them be in disarray." He turned his wolf around and nodded to his subordinates. "Garkal, handle the rest. It is dull and does not need my attention."

"Warlord, as you command!" his chief warrior nodded respectfully. With that, he turned his face away and urged his mount to put some speed. It was only as they neared the camp that he felt that his senses were his own again. He dismounted and walked about in agitation.

"Close...the bloodlust...the burning need...so close to my heart." he sighed with despair. How could he free himself? How?!? This was destroying him, destroying his people. He knew this was only making the split within the Horde worse, dividing them, pitting them against each other. They would fight each other until only a few remained. And then the humans and their allies would come and scourge the rest.

He knew many scoffed at the very idea. The Alliance was weakened and crippled by the war. Whatever gains they had made would be regained soon. The Horde would prevail in the end. He wished that. And it was possible, if they all stood behind Doomhammer. But they weren't. All because of a civil war, which was caused in great part by this unnatural lust for battle, the one he and his warchief wanted off their race, the one that only Durotan and his small clan had escaped.

As he heard the din of the battle behind him, he steeled himself. Bloodlust or not, he was an Horde warrior, and would bring his forces to victory. He would press them until he found Gul'Dan and Cho'Gall and took their heads. He would triumph and bring unity back.

For the Horde.

For Doomhammer.

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Winter 596, Scarven Mountains, Stromgarde

Gelmar Thornfeet sighed as he breathed the crisp, cold air of the mountainside, enjoying the silence and the solitude. He was a little bit light-headed from it, actually. After all, it was the first time he had not to think of others ever since he had begun teaching well over a year before.

It hadn't been easy for him to do so. Although the Hidden Valley - the home and refuge for those who wished to learn to free themselves from the hatred and the bloodlust and regain the old ways - was and would always be his home forevermore, he simply hadn't expected that it would grow so fast. He had come to it guided by the Spirits with only a few, but in the intervening year, it had grown into small community of nearly five hundred - of orc males, females and even orclings. The village contained a smithy, a butcher, and small farms that fed its population. All of it was centred on the two buildings he had insisted to be built. One was what had come to be called the Grand Spirit Lodge, a large structure of leather and wood inscribed with spiritual runes, where those gifted came to learn shamanism.

The other was his pride and joy - his Halls of Knowledge, the only building built mostly out of stone except for the smithy. In its walls, books and scrolls taken through forays were being brought in, and with these he and others had begun to teach the orclings to read. It was his hope that one day these youths would pave the way to a better, unspoiled future, out of bloodshed and hatred. It was, perhaps, only a fool's hope. But it was a good thought to have nonetheless, and he held on to it when he doubted.

At this moment, however, he was enjoying a day out of that burden, walking the trails leading to his home, far out of the forward pickets. This had made his students - indeed the whole community! - skittish, worried that a beast or worse, a human patrol would come upon him, but he had waved those concerns away. He doubted danger would come to him. And even if it did, some of his students - especially gifted ones such as Xirral or Drek'Tar - had enough knowledge of the workings of shamanism to continue without him. He could afford to walk without worry, and he truly intended to do so.

Which is part of the reason he almost willingly missed the noise down a road he wasn't about to take. His spiritual awareness, however, did not let him miss it. He stopped and listened, tensing. Was it a beast? A human from the Alliance Army? Neither truly concerned him - his magic would allow him to fight all but the strongest foe off. Still, he needed to be careful.

He strained his senses, carefully feeling the currents of spiritual energies to discern what he might be up against. He quickly ascertained that whatever this was weak, and as such posed little threat to his person. It certainly wasn't what he would get from say, a mountain lion or a roving human band. It was smaller, and he couldn't make it out.

For a long moment he considered letting it go, going back to the Valley and tell the pickets to be careful around the place. But he didn't something in the noise he'd heard bothered him. Something about it spoke of despair, and fright. And he couldn't walk away from that without at least seeing if he could somehow mend this feeling. He nearly laughed. "So much for taking it easy, you old fool." he muttered to himself. He went down the path.

It wasn't long before he heard a rustle farther on, and he froze again. No danger, yet something was there. "If anyone is there, come out! Whether you are orc or human, troll or elf, I will not harm you if you do not come to fight." The rustling noise started again, from a sparse collection of fens growing just farther down. He however picked something else. Voices. Young, very young voices. Children? Children here? His mind was disbelieving, and he stepped forward to have a look.

He almost took a stone in the face for his trouble. It whizzed out of the bushes even as three small forms ran out of the bushes into the rocky path.

The rock was rather large and had been thrown with surprising strength. However, the one who had thrown it had bad aim, and it fell three feet next to him clattering. He looked at the small forms and, seeing green flesh, immediately reacted. "Orclings...stop, little ones, I mean you no harm! Gorak taragorth!" he shouted the command to stop in old orcish, and was relieved to see them hesitate. He immediately reached out to his spiritual and elemental roots, bringing forth a wind barrier in front of the little ones. They crashed against it, and wailing, finally huddled together as he caught up.

He quickly saw why there had been not a hint of danger from his spiritual senses. Before him, huddling in fright, were three little orclings who probably had not seen four winters. One looked at him almost defiantly while the others fairly bawled, scared out of their wits. He quickly put his walking staff down and walked to them.

"Easy, little ones." he said a soothingly as he could, lifting his hood. "I am also an orc. Gelmar is my name. What's yours?"

That barely went better. Two bawling ones stopped crying to look at him, sniffling, while the defiant one spoke shakily. "H-Horarg."

"Well, Horarg. If I may say, what are you doing here? This isn't a very friendly place." He also wondered how long they had been there. They looked fairly famished. Before he even quite knew what he was doing, he had taken the loaf of bread he had packed for himself and handed it out to them, only to see them tear into it like starved little beasts. Pity filled his heart, and he waited until they had eaten so they could tell their tale.

It came in a rather fragmented fashion, with many hesitations and vague descriptions, not to mention tears, but the bread seemed to have worked better than words, since they no longer seemed to see him as an enemy. From what they, said, however, he pieced what had happened together.

It seemed their parents had been peons travelling with a rear scouting force. The camp they had been in had been attacked by humans and as the fight turned against the Horde forces, the parents had ordered them into the mountains, telling them they would joint them quickly. They had waited like this for over three days now. Gelmar suspected that the parents had been killed along with the rest - the war had no mercy for anyone, be they warriors or not.

He wasn't about to tell them that. They wouldn't understand it fully, and the last thing he wanted was to make things worse than they were. They only wondered where their parents were. Let it be so until they had recuperated.

He quickly made up his mind. It wasn't hard - he simply couldn't leave children there in the wilds of the mountain. It was a miracle that they had survived this long in the cold without food. "I think that your parents might come to the Hidden Valley is they can. I think you should wait for them there." he proposed.

The smallest seemed sceptical. Though his voice was small and wavered, his question had merits. "But ii daa an' maa come here?" Gelmar smiled as benevolently as he could, though his heart ached for these orphaned little ones.

"I will send people to look every day. That way, if your parents come here, they will tell them where to find you." He would do it too, but the patrols would be to make certain no humans had come up the Scarven Mountains. This seemed to reassure them somewhat, and he finally nudged them enough so that they accepted to follow him. Calling upon his powers, he cast a spell to keep them warm for the three hours it would take to reach the entrance to the Hidden Valley. The little ones looked amazed when his eyes glowed. The oldest looked at him in curiosity.

"Necomacer?" he asked in his little voice.

"No. Shaman. It is much better, believe me." Actually, many of his older students had begun calling him a Far Seer, which he was explained would denote his larger mastery of shamanism. Students had such strange ideas. "Shamanism is good magic compared to necromancy." Not wanting to confuse them further, he left it at that.

He walked up the path with them, and before long found himself having one on his shoulder, with the other two holding a hand each. He sighed. Why couldn't he have had a nice, quiet day?

"Gemar?" one asked.

"Yes."

"You nice."

He grinned, touched by this more than he thought he would be. "Thank you." he said, and continued up the path with his charges.

Maybe it was a good day, after all.

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Spring 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron

"My peers and friends, good lords and leaders. I am glad that you have come. There are many things we need to discuss. The first that I would put on the table is the fate of our newfound enemy, the traitorous Compact. What news of they, Lord Lothar?"

Underneath the polish and refinement of the words, the Regent-Lord of Azeroth, who also happened to be High General of the Alliance, detected a trace of unmistakable hatred. King Terenas of Lordaeron was enraged that Sylphord Duraz and some troops had escaped the city's second siege. Although he knew his men did not deserve any blame for that, he also understood why the king was so agitated.

Whitefort, after suffering two sieges, was a wreck, which would take years to fully rebuild. Its people were haggard and dispirited. Even the castle showed scars of the fighting and inevitable pillage. Worst to Terenas was that the Queen had been badly shaken by the entire ordeal, and was having a very hard time recovering. Added to that the personal humiliation of being a prisoner in the castle from which he ruled, and one certainly couldn't blame the King.

But Lothar had learned many things over the years, and the most important was that there were times for anger and time for patience; this was definitely the latter.

The council who had gathered was the greatest ever, as Terenas had wished all leaders - save Alterac, which was under suspicion for a long while - to meet and discuss what to do in the war against both the Compact and the Horde. Kings Proudmoore and Trollbane had answered for Kul Tiras and Stromgarde and sat there, looking tired and strained. The Kirin Tor had sent a young but forceful magi named Kel'Thuzad to oversee the matters in the Alliance while hunting for renegade members of their own in the wake of the Compact's failed coup. Only Genn Greymane was absent, busy as he was with besieging his own capital, and had sent an old ambassador in his stead.

Queen Pureglade of Quel'Thalas and King Bronzebeard of Khaz Modan were also present, while Alonsus Faol and Uther Lightbringer represented the Church of the Light. Also present were Turalyon and Swiftblade, without a doubt the most respected military leaders in the north. A very powerful group to speak to. And all were looking at him. Clearing his throat, the old knight chose his words very carefully.

"We know that Duraz had gathered the remnants of many routed groups - about three thousands at the most - and has fled towards Alterac. We are waiting for Perenolde to act, but so far nothing."

"Damned coward." Trollbane rumbled.

"Or traitor perhaps." Proudmoore countered. "Yet we cannot move against his nation before proof his found of true treachery. To do otherwise would break us, and this is truly not the time."

It was the plain truth. It could be seen in the elven Queen's stern lines. Although the human nations had done what they could to help their elven allies, many elves were convinced that they had been betrayed. She was holding on to the Alliance for now, because of the sheer threat the Horde represented. But what about afterwards? And he saw similar emotions coming from Stromgarde and Gilneas lately. He only hoped these people would put pride and ambition aside long enough.

Hiding his growing unease, he replied firmly. "True. We had scouts and spies at the borders. If they make a move, we will know it. Now, if you will forgive me, I would talk to you of our military situation. To put it simply, it is precarious at best. Turalyon?"

The proud Paladin faced the royal stares unflinchingly. "Sires, our recent losses against the Compact and the battles in the south have finished crippling us. According to what we know, our total military force barely exceeds one hundred and thirty thousand. We have barely forty thousand here in the north, and that is barely sufficient for our needs. But the southern forces have ninety thousand, and that, I am sorry to say, is simply not enough."

There were looks and murmurs between courtiers and captains at this, but the leaders of the Alliance welcomed this with silence. At length Terenas spoke. "I was told that the Horde was fractured, that it was more busy fighting itself than our forces."

Lothar spoke up again. "It is fractured now, and as such it is weakened. More than it ever has been. This is a chance to strike hard; it is impossible with only ninety thousand. We need the Alliance army to be much larger."

"How much larger?" the elf queen inquired.

Lothar cleared his throat once more. They were not going to like this. "To defeat the Horde, even as it stands now, we need a standing force of four hundred thousand, counting knights, footmen, archers and all support crews."

There was a dead beat. And then the place flew into a flurry of shouts and argument. So loud were they that things were incoherent. Only Lothar and his military commanders retained their calm. It was only by Archbishop Faol's calming words that calm began to reign again. But it did not stop Trollbane from attacking Lothar scathingly. "Four hundred THOUSAND. Have you lost your mind, Lothar?!? We are talking about conscription to such a degree that the populace might rebel. And even putting that aside, how will we find the resources to arm, to feed and to pay that immense gaggle?"

"The people of Azeroth are ready to pay that price, Sire." Lothar said simply. It did not seem to calm matters. Suddenly, however, a voice spoke.

"Very well. Let it be done. Kul Tiras will follow Azeroth's lead."

All eyes - all of them disbelieving - fastened on grim-faced Proudmoore. Trollbane seemed ready to explode. "Proudmoore, you too?!? Of all the foolishness, why-?!?"

Proudmoore's hand slammed hard enough on the wooden table that everyone jumped slightly and Lothar wondered if the man had broken his hand on it. If he had, however, it did not show on his face, which was twisted in a sort of frightening mix of determination and hatred. He fixed Trollbane with a glare that shut the larger monarch quite completely.

"Why?" he spat "Because those savage, those BEASTS took my sons away from me!" he growled, his voice hoarse from controlled emotion. "And no matter what I might do, I can't go back and save them! But I WILL take any step - ANY step - to make certain my daughter won't have to fight in this madness! Do any of you want your children to live in this world with the Horde at our doorstep?!? I don't, and I'm certain you'll find many who don't want that either. Kul Tiras'll give its share, you can be certain of that!"

He fell silent, and an embarrassed moment passed. But Kel'Thuzad broke it quickly. "Those words, albeit heated by hate, have a truth to it. I myself find these brutes to be quite unflattering to the pursuits of knowledge and magic. Dalaran pledges to follow Azeroth."

The dwarven king banged a fist on the table. "Why if humans can do it, so can dwarves. You'll get troops!"

"Although I am loathe to promise much, " the queen of Quel'Thalas mused, "I can agree to raise an army for you. The elves will follow your plan, Lord Lothar.

The ambassador for Gilneas quickly gave his support as well. All that remained were Lordaeron and Stromgarde. Terenas didn't waste time. "Lordaeron will never forgive the wounds these beasts gave us. My nation will do what it can." Then all eyes turned to Thoras Trollbane, who had fallen silent and brooding.

The large king finally sighed. "I think we'll suck our countries dry with this. However...no one will say Stromgarde hid while others fought. Very well, then. Four hundred thousand." he suddenly laughed "What an army! The Horde'll have its hands full and more!"

The tension passed from the leaders, and Lothar gently let out the breath he had been holding. It had worked. He had passed it, helped into it by Proudmoore's unexpected - expected? - speech. It seemed that the Alliance army would grow, although it would not be easy to conscript, arm and feed such an immense force on an ongoing basis. But those were problems for another day. For, at least right now, the Alliance had held together.

But how long would it take before it broke, before it fell apart and the camaraderie and sense of purpose was lost? Would it hold until the Horde's defeat?

Lothar hoped so. And looking at his trusted commanders, he saw that they hoped the same thing.

* * * * * * * * * *

Spring 596, Alterac City, Alterac

There was no mistaking the ragged state of the forces, which slunk into the city. Their uniforms and armours had seen better days, and their march, quick and fearful, showed that they had been pursued for quite some time. She spotted some standards, and although she didn't recognize the lesser ones, she did know whose army's pathetic remnants King Perenolde was housing today.

Sylphord Duraz's army. Duraz, formerly a respected Alliance general and high-ranking Azerothian noble. Now little more than a criminal on the run from the allied authorities. He had come here to beg for asylum against the forces hunting him, safe in the knowledge that the other Alliance countries could not investigate into Alterac without its ruler's approval. And she was pretty certain that Perenolde would stall as long as he could.

To bring Duraz on his side.

As an ally.

And possibly as a scapegoat.

To Polla Mendrannon, seeing that traitorous army walk in was the icing on the cake, the last blow to the illusion. The one which she wanted to believe: that Alterac still stood with the rest of humanity in the war, that it hadn't betrayed the whole continent out of fear and convenience. She had wanted to believe it for many months, as she was born in Alterac and wanted to have pride in her small nation. But reality had set itself. The illusion had worn away into dust, and what she saw now was the simple truth.

Looking from the window overlooking the main street and the ragged fugitives and their tattered standards, Polla growled out the word she never thought she would say while talking of her own countrymen. "Traitors."

"What was that, cap'n?"

"I said traitors, Hezav. I'm talking about those on the streets. Traitors. And we are taking them in as rightful refugees. What does it make our people?"

The lean man, seated across a chessboard from Cynth, another member of their group, made a small, musing noise and gently pushed a knight into position. "It certainly looks bad. My opinion? Perenolde is playing a very, very dangerous game."

"Like having orcs lying about in camps not far off ain't enough?" Cynth replied. "Oh, come you two! We all suspect what that regional ban means."

The man nodded. "You're right. But in a way, this is even worse. Lets say that the King wants to hide the Horde presence from the Alliance. Since the other national leaders don't KNOW - and WE haven't been able to find them proof - they can't do anything about that." Cynth moved a tower. He quickly countered with a rook. Better than either at the game, Polla negligently saw that Cynth was making herself wide open for an attack, but kept most of her attention on Hezav's reasoning.

"But here we have refugees from a group which tried a wide military coup to seize power within countries of the Alliance." he continued after a little pause. "There's no way to hide the fact they came in. Light, I'm pretty certain that there are Alliance divisions prowling the borders right now. If they don't see the traitors come out, the cat'll be out of the bag."

"But entering without proof might endanger the bond of trust necessary to maintain the Alliance."

"But if the King dallies too long, stalls for a long length of time, the other leaders'll get suspicious. They'll pressure him again and again, and if he doesn't give him what they want-" he left the rest unfinished, for there was little need to add anything. Cynth took the rook with her queen, which was in turn taken by a knight. Hezav's stack of captured pieces was swelling quickly.

Polla mulled over what had been said. It made sense, of course. In the way that the Alliance would eventually be tired of Perenolde's suspicious stalling. She could picture it: Lordaeron invading from the west, Stromgarde from the east. A nightmare that all who had lived in the small kingdom had faced, stuck as their land was between the two far larger, far more powerful human nations. Yes, Perenolde's plan, if that was it, was plain stupidity.

Which is why she didn't think it was so. It was too stupid, too simplistic. It was suicide for the nation, no less than that!

"Unless he has a plan to use Duraz." she said at last. She looked down the street. The ragged soldiers had passed, and now ordinary citizens went to and fro about their business. Nothing could hide the unease she saw in their face and gestures, however. They were afraid. Just as she was herself. "Maybe this is a fallback plan he wishes to use to his advantage."

Cynth looked dubious, frowning as she looked down at her shrinking pieces. "You think so, captain?"

"I don't know. After these past months, nothing'd surprise me!" she looked at the time on the massive city clock. Almost noon, eh? "Hezav, when do the other return?"

"They had some questions in the southern taverns. I'd say they'll be back in an hour or so." the man said, taking yet another pawn from Cynth and smiling gently at her irritated groan. "Maybe a bit later. They always run a little late about those things. You know them."

"The taverns. I hope they keep their liquor. The last thing we want is to have one of us drunk and telling the city guard that we're spying on the King and his doings." she muttered.

"Do I detect a note of paranoia in your voice?"

"I prefer to call it caution."

"Is that what they call it when in polite company now?"

She wasn't about to be baited. Although he had proven an excellent gatherer of information, Hezav's way with words could also be annoying. They both knew that the last months had been hard, and last year hadn't helped, with the Alliance in mortal danger only to be miraculously given a reprieve. All followed by the Compact's Coup d'État. It had been a hard year, and it hadn't helped her nerves.

So yes, perhaps she was feeling a bit paranoid. She was feeling as if it was too easy, as if something was letting them have their way in the city. The mission the High Command had given her was very dangerous, but no danger truly loomed on the horizon. And she was almost certain they must have slipped a little, unused as they were in their new roles.

Paranoia? Maybe. But still, she had prepared something, just in case. One plan if things truly went wrong. It was personal yet, and she saw no reason to put it in action. Right now, she knew, there was something else that they had to do.

"As soon as the others arrive." she said "We'll go and see if we can't get a look at these orcs. I want to see them with my own eyes." Her subordinates gave her a long look, and then returned to their game. The war and the present mission had made them pretty much impervious to trepidation, for that was what killed you.

"So, the game is afoot." Hesav said with the same pleasant grin he wore when things became dicier than he liked. He moved to corner Cynth's king despite her resistance. "We move in for the kill. But we'll still need to bring more tangible proof for the people up there in the High Command."

She knew it. Without a sort of undeniable proof, the Alliance's hands were tied. She wished to see them for herself, however. It would be the last straw, the last string that would cut all loyalty to her homeland. For herself, she had to see the orcs and see reality as it was - not as others told her it was.

"Checkmate." she heard Hezav say, and Cynth huffed as she usually did when she lost a game.

"Checkmate, indeed." she told herself in a whisper. "But when the king falls, on whose side will it be? The king's...or ours?"

* * * * * * * * * *

Spring 596, Rockvalley, Khaz Modan

Khadgar finished his incantation just as the orcs came about to attack the group he was with. Streams of elemental lightning ripped from the chaotic energies of the world and channelled through his body rippled outward and struck half a dozen grunts down. Whether they were alive or not was no longer his concern, as the archmage immediately frowned in concentration for yet another spell.

He found it difficult. He had cast so many spells, for so many days. Many lesser sorcerers and mages were nearing collapse, desperately needed as they were. Letters magically sent promised that others were being prepared for the journey, but in the meantime, the Alliance's magical edge - one of the few things which truly allowed the foothold in Horde territory to be kept - was waning fast. Without the magic, the footmen and Knights would eventually be overwhelmed, no matter how hard they fought.

So Khadgar bore the pain his heart and mind and soul, fought the chill in his body, and called upon his magic once again. His mind formed the image of a ball of fire; his lips spoke the arcane words, which would call the energies to him, all in a haze. He found the battle, which was raging just a moment before, with its screams and stench of sweat and blood and its pungent aroma of death, to fade away. He couldn't hear the cries, the horns blowing, and the steel clashing. But he saw the enemy, and drew the arcane power, channelled it with every last bit of his will.

Lesser mages would have fainted from the sheer shock the drawing gave him. But he was no lesser spellcaster. Medhiv, the Betrayer of the World, and the most powerful human sorcerer of his time had trained him. He had learned how to cope with weakness. His body was failing, but his mind held fast and fought everything.

He saw a Horde line. Not far, not close. He didn't know if his spell would make any damage at this range. But it was better than letting go. His lips formed the last words, the fiery energies ripped from his body and in front of him, forming an incendiary ball of destruction. With a word he felt more then heard, he release the power, and watched it begin to streak towards the enemy.

But something was wrong. The sky and soil tilted, his vision was fading. He tried to reassert control, but found no mental purchase. The last image he saw, before darkness took him, was the dry, rocky soil upon which many were fighting and dying.

Then all went black. And Khadgar found himself lying facedown upon pavement. Not dusty soil. Solid flagstones. And his weakness seemed to have passed. He looked up to find himself home.

Well, as home as he could be these days. This was the Violet Citadel, with its many graceful towers and bridges, its graceful, magically carved balconies, its steps and crafted ledges and many fountains gurgling. Passerbies walked without seeing him, which would have been unusual given his position. But something else made that fact fly right out of his head.

Everything was in tones of white, black and grey. Not an hint of colour could be seen.

"What's this?" he marvelled "I know I am not colour-blind, so unless the magic has taken more than I thought it did, this must be a spell."

"As quick-witted as ever, I'm quite pleased to see. And you are quite right. A spell. A very old one. Created by Medarin himself, at the dawn of Quel'Thalas."

Khadgar turned to see a man sitting near one of the fountains. He was cloaked and hooded, bearing a gnarled staff. He looked like a cross between a mage and an old hermit. And he was the only thing which either had colour or any interest in him. Alarm bells should have rung in his head, yet all he felt was curiosity and a strange sense of dread. His mind was screaming 'I know this man' and yet, he couldn't tell who it was.

"You are the one who brought me to this?"

"Astute, curious, pragmatic. Very good. Yes, it is I. And I maintain this spell as we speak."

"Who are you?" he asked, hushed. Part of him screamed again, an older part of him. He knew, he knew who it was. And the other man knew he did. The face beneath the cowl - a bearded face - gave a wry grin.

"I don't think I really need to answer that, do I?" the man mused "I know you are more than intelligent enough to learn it simply by looking...and feeling."

That tone! That tone of voice. The one, which had sternly made him, repeat each syllable of a spell until he knew it by heart. The taskmaster who had given him so much...and had shattered everything. It was impossible...yet it was. "Master Medhiv?" he asked tentatively. The other man just looked silently for a long moment. Then gave a soft sigh.

"You need not call me master anymore. I don't deserve it. And besides, you are no longer anyone's student. You have become powerful. Extremely so. And you have stayed honest despite that. I am proud."

The archmage could think, couldn't feel. He had hated his master for what he had done. He had hated him for the suffering he had caused the people of Azeroth, for the shattering of the peace the humans had finally been savouring under the Pact of Stormwind. Hated him for two wars and so much hatred unleashed. And yet at that moment he felt only a sort of relief. He stepped forward in the unseeing thong. "Sir..."

The cowled archmage stopped him with a raised finger, which he shook. His voice no longer held any madness, but it had lost not one bit of its power and strength. How could he have doubted that voice was that of his old teacher? "Time presses, Khadgar. I must give you this advice, while the spell holds. You will awaken soon."

"Awaken? Then this is all-"

"There is no time to explain! Listen and remember! The Compact was aided by members of the Kirin Tor. Although he thought himself a ruler, Duraz was nothing but a pawn in their hands. They are a danger, Khadgar. Their lack of morality is too dangerous, and they cannot remain in power. They must be found soon, before they hatch yet another scheme and plunge the human lands into chaos!"

Something in him wasn't surprised by this revelation. He had surmised that some spellcasters must have aided the Compact. But Kirin Tor members? That was much higher than he thought. "Reveal Kirin Tor members? Who are the traitors? How will I know?"

"The mark, Khadgar. The mark of Azshara. The mark of those who broke the world..."

"What is that mark?" he asked, and found himself asking the ceiling of a tent. The Violet Citadel was gone, along with his old mentor. Instead, it was under the concerned eyes of Antonidas, who sat nearby closed book in hand, that he stirred.

"Ah, awake at last!" The older mage said. "Light, my friend! We were starting to lose all hope. Nothing the clerics or we tried roused you." Khadgar tried to sit up, and found his strength absent. He fell back with a groan, and the other archmage moved forward. "Easy there, you fool. Your magic was drained in that last battle. Not to mention you haven't eaten for three days now."

Three DAYS?!? His mind fairly raved. No wonder he felt so weak. So the spell had taken hold of him a long time. The spell. Medhiv. The warning came back to him full force. "I need food then, my friend. I need to get back on my feet, and travel to Dalaran, to the Violet Citadel. I need to go there as soon as possible."

This confused the other man. "Light, why would you wish that? Dalaran doesn't need our skills at this moment-"

He thought about what Medhiv had said. Could it have been a trick of his imagination? A raving dream. No. It held too much of Medhiv and his power. And it fit with his own doubts well. Message or premonition, he felt something was real in what he had heard while in that state.

The Kirin Tor. The leaders of the most powerful order of magic in the world. Corrupted. It was something he couldn't let continue. No matter the cost to himself. After all, this might be his master's way of making amends, however insufficient they were.

"You're wrong, good Antonidas." he said at last, firm despite his weakened state, "Dalaran - all mages of decency - are in need of us today. We have to go to Dalaran. Because Dalaran is sullied. And those who dirty it must be stopped."

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Gorefang 34th Year of the Great Pact, Dark Portal, Dreanor

'I have brought my people to damnation, and I feel no regret.' Ner'Zul thought even as he watched the cascading, dizzying effects of the tremendous magical energies, which connected two worlds. The sight, no matter how many times he watched it, was both irksome and awe-inspiring to him. It also reminded him that he had insufficient power. After all his apprentice Gul'Dan, who was today irritably more powerful in his demonic powers than he was, was weak compared to what this human - this Medhiv - had been in life.

He wondered what it made of him, and the forthcoming answer wasn't pleasing.

"I don't understand, Ner'Zul." An irritated voice made even worse by the audacity of youth. The older shaman couldn't help but give an irritated growl as he turned from the wondrous sight and its many possibilities toward the Horde warrior before him. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered to answer at all - in fact, he would probably have killed the one who dared question him - but this orc wasn't ordinary. For all of his improper questioning, for all of his youthful arrogance, Grommash - or Grom Hellscream as some tended to call him - was an important ally, being the newly anointed Chieftain of the Warsong Clan.

He gave Hellscream a look. Outwardly he was a perfect specimen of orcish might. Tall, muscular, and feral. He had been trained with the axe and found quite adept with it, but his greatest strength came from wielding the Korath Blade - the blade used by the now nearly extinct Blademasters of old. His family had once been a line of respected warriors who followed the Korath-Galarath - the Code of the Blade. Unused for three generations, the blade had been well preserved nonetheless, and when Hellscream had found the blade, he had insisted to keep it.

Dorok Felblade, his father, had acquiesced, surprising no one. As strong and powerful as he was - Dorok had been the one to form the Warsong when they made the Great Pact - and as feared and respected as a warrior as he had been, the chieftain had never been able to refuse his only son anything. So Hellscream took the blade and became so highly proficient with it that, at twenty-six years, he was probably one of the greatest warriors in the Horde.

Yes, outwardly, Grom as a good an ally as his father. Yet, sometimes Ner'Zul doubted. The young orc had taken to following the old ways of the Blademaster. And it wasn't just all show; Rumors went that he had found some of the last ones who roamed the outlaying wastes amongst small remnants of the fool Dreanai. And those were one of the few who had shown support to Durotan"s dissent.

Yes, Hellscream bore watching. But for now Ner'Zul was patient. "I take it you wonder about my latest decision."

Subtlety didn't exist for the younger orc. He hefted his great lade and swung it in a wide arc, clenching his other hand into a fist. "The Horde is divided, and weakened! We should go and help them, or else go to fight these...humans...farther on. It's better than sitting here doing nothing!!"

Patience had virtues, he knew. But the curse which rang through his vein made him growl. How dare that young pup tell him what to do?!? He had far more power than that youngling. With his Shadowmoon clan, he could crush the little upstart with ease! He-... Ner'Zul realized the trap he was falling into, and brought himself back from the abyss of the bloodlust. Once again, he forced himself to answer. The words came, stiff but clear.

"Help?" he inquired. "Which side? Gul'Dan or Doomhammer's?"

The response was indignant. "The Warchief's camp, of course!"

"And how would we do that? Remember that we've bled ourselves dry over the years. We sent far too many grunts over the years. And peons, and females and children. All to re-establish society on that world." He felt like he was reciting. How many times had he said this? Too many. "And so, besides my clan and, to an extent, your clan, our forces are minimal. We can't send more without endangering ourselves HERE. Do you understand?"

Grom's eyes flashed crimson for a second, a sure sign of his anger. "I'm not stupid, old shaman!"

"Then stop bothering me with this nonsense!" Ner'Zul raged, "I refused because I had good reasons to! And if that means you'll have to sit and wait for your chance to do more than hunt Draenai or dissidents, then so be it, by the Beyond!!" He made an aggressive gesture, desperately trying to calm himself. "Now go and practice with that overgrown knife of yours. Play at war. Just stop bothering me with facts you already know!!"

There was a tense moment, as both powerful chieftains eyes each other with smouldering eyes. Many of the surrounding grunts had been uneasy with the meeting from the beginning, and now he felt many fidgeting uncertainly, knowing from personal experience that to come between two warriors lost in bloodlust was an invitation for a much-shortened life. And although nearly fearless, orcs weren't stupid or openly suicidal.

The moment passed, however, when Hellscream passed the unspoken challenge in the shaman's eyes. With a grunt of anger - or was it simple longing? - he stared at the Dark Portal with greedy eyes. "I understand what you're saying. And I renew the pact between the Warsong and Shadowmoon clans. But there are times when I'd give anything to fight on that world."

Ner'Zul managed to calm himself. No matter how it increased his powers, that demonic curse certainly had its drawbacks. He shrugged. "It might come, one day. Just be patient, Grom. Just be patient and watch what happens."

He hid what he truly thought as best as he could. Not a hint on his face. But how could he tell that idealistic, naive warmonger of a chieftain that he secretly hoped that Gul'Dan and Doomhammer would tear each other to shreds. For the Horde, this was tragic. To him, it was a truly welcome opportunity.

He knew Doomhammer, for all his ruthlessness, had once been friends with the traitor Durotan, and probably helped him escape the clutches of Gul'Dan's Shadow Council. He certainly couldn't trust anyone who had ever been friends with the chieftain of the Frostwolves. Moreover, he had taken the place of Warchief through the assassination of his predecessor. And he presently held far too much power.

Doomhammer's death would be pleasant to learn. But it wouldn't compare with Gul'Dan's.

Gul'Dan. Arrogant, conceited, far too powerful a necromancer. He had never thought that by taking the runt and teaching him, that he would create a warlock so powerful that he would usurp his place as leader, but actually pushed the Great Pact much further, willingly moulding his people into a tool for the Burning Legion - even though very few knew that the Horde had a master.

But even these masters, even the powerful demonlords feared one thing: Medhiv. That a human wizard frightened them so seemed unbelievable, yet, there had been no denying that whoever had created that portal - which was stable, perfect in every way - had had a mastery of the arcane which made Ner'Zul dizzy just thinking of it. Dizzy, and burning with desire.

So the thought of Gul'Dan and Doomhammer tearing each other apart did not bother him. Let them. He cared not. He didn't even care if the pink ones - the humans - managed to defeat the Horde in their homeland. Even if they did, they would certainly be spent. Weakened. Fractured. Easy to manipulate and counter. He would be able to meet his own expectations much better if the Horde was defeated.

"And once this happens, I will have a clear road to what has eluded you, apprentice: true power. But not through demonic power, through something else." In his mind he saw it. He would find Medhiv's technique. And when the time was right, he would open countless portals. Into worlds weaker than this one, where the Horde would conquer and multiply, bringing him control over an endless empire.

Yes, he saw it.

He saw it so clearly.

___________________________________________________

Shamanism amongst Orcs...

Once, the orcs had shamans who dispensed wisdom to their tribes. Their powers were derived from the elements and the souls inhabiting these elements. They were at one with the spirits. Some were extraordinarily powerful. But some shamans wanted more, and delved into other means of magic, until one Shaman, named Ner'Zul, began to control another magic. Demonic magic, derived from the Great Dark Beyond. He struck deals with the demonlords of that dimension, and eventually damned his race.

Through Ner'Zul, and Gul'Dan his apprentice, the art of Shamanism became a memory of simpler times, and the destructive forces of necromancy replaced that of the spirits. The orcs darkened, became violent and warlike, and eventually became the force today known as the Horde.

But from those who practiced the dark magicks, rose Gelmar Thornfeet. A mediocre necrolyte, he was ridiculed by his fellows for his unwillingness to kill outright, or to make an enemy suffer. It was he who escaped Gul'Dan's murdering of the Necrolytes and, fleeing, stumbled into an old human who, though his own brand of wisdom and magic, reconnected his wayward mind to the Spirits. The former necrolyte was changed forever. After over three decades of darkness, he became the first Shaman.

Today as of 596 Shamanism is still weak and small. Gelmar has taken in those who did not wish the violence, and formed a Hidden Valley, where people are taught to read and write and think rather than fight. There, as well, are the first Shamans rising. Few now can be called that, and none come near Gelmar's power. But they exist. And they are beginning to teach.

Shamanism still exists. And for the orcs, though they may not know it, that fact means hope.