Chapter Twenty-Five: Argument and Happenstance

Spring 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron

"To do this! I...this is so utterly ridiculous a notion, let alone a plan! I will NOT allow it, no matter what your intentions are! If necessary, I'll have you locked up in your bedchambers for the rest of this conflict!"

Uther Lightbringer wondered if that would actually work. Looking at Larienne Proudmoore's stance, he decided it wouldn't. And seeing Dealin Proudmoore's answering glare, he found himself wishing it did. How by all the powers of the Benevolent and All-Encompassing Light had this quite uncomfortable situation happened to him?

The day hadn't started badly enough. Woke up, did his morning prayer, ate an adequate breakfast and went to check up on the group of Paladins he intended to take with him to remove the Death Knight who still maintained a hold on elven Caer Darrow for some mystical reason human priests and sorcerers hadn't quite pieced together yet. He had seen that they would be ready on the date of departure, and had been about to go mass at the royal church - he never missed a mass while in a city or town or even indeed a small hamlet - when he had been accosted by both Proudmoores.

Before he had quite understood what was happening he had found himself within the spacious chambers which served as the rulers' home while in King Terenas' court. And found himself part of an argument he could well have done without.

It was rather simple, on the surface: Larienne wished to go to Caer Darrow, both to talk to the humans and to the orcs there, to try and understand the terrible conflict. It was both a dangerous and selfless act. Dealin, however, would have none of it, pointing out - rather realistically, Uther privately mused - that the Death Knights would rather steal her soul than talk to her diplomatically. The danger was too high; she was the queen of Kul Tiras. No, no, no.

She argued.

He argued.

And Uther was fast starting to get a headache. But he couldn't quite excuse himself without bringing both royals' wrath on himself, and he really could do without having two of the most prominent people of the Alliance glaring at him.

She was talking again. From her tone, her patience was wearing thin as well. "There won't be anything achieved if we continue this struggle this way! Look at us! Years of war, thousands and thousands of lives lost. Villages burned, or taxed nearly into starvation to maintain our outrageously large armies-"

"It is those very armies which have, more than once, made it so that we are still here to have this argument, my dear!" Proudmoore growled, moustache bristling slightly.

"I know this! Nor am I putting down the soldiers who bravely held the line against our enemy! They have my respect, all men and women there! But what of the future. Do we keep flailing each other, like two wounded behemoths, destroying even more? Even if you manage to gather the new army you wish for, even if you catch the Horde off-guard and defeat them, it will still mean many years of war, thousands of deaths. This is madness!"

"War is madness!"

"Which is why I go there! To see if it might not be stopped!"

Uther simply blinked. He had thought she wanted to understand the orcs, but... "A peace initiative?" They looked at him as if just remembering he was there. Fortunately they didn't glare. Not that he would have noticed, stunned as he was by the very proposal. "Is that what you wish for, Your Highness?"

She hesitated, delicate brow contracting. Finally she shook her head slightly, noncommittal. "Its too early to tell. That is why I wish to come with you. To see if they might be reached. To see if there is any point to it at all."

Proudmoore huffed, beginning to pace the room. "Even if it might succeed, which I very much doubt, I think that going to Caer Darrow is insane! You are a fine woman - a better woman than I am a man by your generosity and intelligence. But you are not a warrior. To send you against undead warriors is a folly I am not about to commit myself to!"

"Come, husband, don't be a fool!" she snapped, and Uther wondered who else could get away in calling the king a fool. "I know that you're not! I have no intention of talking with these undead. I intend to let the paladins do their duty. But there are some orcs there yet. THEY, I wish to talk to once the battle is done."

There was no doubting the light in the wilful queen's eyes. She was already committed. She already believed that what she was about to start could succeed. She had faith that peace could be reached between the Alliance and the Horde. It made Uther wonder at her, and at his own faith.

Did he believe in such a peace? There was a time when he might have, he was certain. When he had been young and idealistic, ready to think that goodwill could cure any dispute, that reason would prevail as it had between nations when the Pact of Stormwind was signed and two hundred years of relative peace followed. Yes, once he would have jumped at the prospect of peace with great enthusiasm.

Not so now. For he had seen too many friends die, had seen too many children orphaned, too many parents bury their little ones because of a retreat which had gone badly, or an Horde raid, or battle. The First War had opened his eyes in a way he had never expected, and this desire had been dulled.

No, not dulled, he realized. Forgotten. Willingly.

What did that make of him, he who pretended to follow the benevolence of the Light?

"Are you certain of this, Your Highness?" he found himself saying. "Do you understand what you are asking, what you might face?"

She eyed him with a certainty he found increasingly irritating. He knew that look. It was that which people who hadn't been directly involved in the war took when they began to talk about how the soldiers should feel, or think, or eat while they...no. Larienne Proudmoore wasn't like that. She simply didn't understand.

"I know you have reservations, Lord Lightbringer." she said carefully, her expression searching while the king looked on, frowning. "But I assure you that I am prepared-"

"Pardon, Your Highness. I mean no disrespect, but you are not. Even the best-trained, even the most prepared, is not prepared. Only those who have faced an orc charging him and lived to tell of it may say so. Do you know what orcs are, Your Highness? Brutal, savage, ruthless, brought forward in battle with a lust for blood which can hardly be believed."

She seemed about to talk, but he plunged on, closing his eyes. "Grand Hamlet. There lived seven thousand people. There escaped only six hundred or so. All the rest were later found. Some had been planted on pikes, some had been dismembered, some...some...well, let's just say it was by no means a pretty sight. And that was but the beginning. They are a scourge...they pillage, they torture, they destroy. Everything is but ruins and death where they pass. Look here!"

He strode to the only window in the room and waved at what they could see of Whitefort. He had nothing more to say - the damage was still readily apparent. "Azeroth lies in ruins like some of these buildings, as do large parts of Lordearon, Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas. Nothing stands in their wake. Nothing remains." he fell silent, unable to speak anymore. At last the king gently broke the silence.

"My Queen. I...I do not wish for you to go. I think this is folly, which might bring you to harm if you persist. And you have listened to him. Lord Lightbringer is a survivor of the First War and a stalwart warrior of this one. If he accepts to take you...I will trust him with your safety."

"And I will bring you, Larienne Proudmoore, Queen of Kul Tiras." Uther stated, keeping his voice even. "For it is the duty...the duty of the Light to seek p-peace. But if you come, you must be certain. You must truly be ready for the despair and the hatred you will see with your own eyes."

She stood before him like a statue, her face unreadable, but her eyes showing her fire. He did not need any talent to know what she would respond. He nodded, truly wishing he'd skipped mass just this ONE time.

"Very well, Your Highness." he sighed "Thy will be done."

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Spring 596, Horde Camp, Quel'Thalas

Alleria admitted that she was fighting harshly. That she was sometimes losing her objectivity. Her centuries of training balked at her strategy. After all, attacking twenty orcs head on was bad strategically. She knew that. But she hadn't been in a very caring mood. Not since the moment her Queen - the elf all Quel'Thalas bowed to - had ordered her exile from the ancient capital of the elven Kingdom.

Silvermoon. Shining as a beacon for six thousand years of struggle, the eldest surviving city in the entire continent, the centre of the High Elves' existence...denied her. It seared her soul. And what made it worse is the fact that, had she been at the Queen's place, she would have done exactly the same thing.

Thus, the only way she could deal with her dishonour was to take it out on the people who had been responsible for it.

The orcs advanced quickly, axes drawn, spread out. Faced with a dozen High Elves, they growled warcries and charged. Quick as lightning she aimed an arrow and murmured words of power, calling upon the magic, which was inherent to all elven people. Before the orcs had made more than a few lunging steps, her shot rang out, a powerful stream of energy which, amplified by her angry spirit, became much more than a simple arrow. It struck true. The orc was cleared rammed backward, thudding to the soil. It never moved again. She smothered a grin of satisfaction, nocking another shot.

But by then the other orcs - some hit with other arrows - were coming within melee range, their eyes burning with a lust which had cowed many for its unnatural intensity. She let loose one last shot - hitting an enemy straight in the head - dropped her bow and drew her slender blade. Elven runes of power danced on the perfectly crafted metal. 'Anshawa', 'loyalty' in old Kalimdorian it had been called. But to herself, she called it by another name.

'Tarbora'. Wrath.

"Come!" she called to the nearest grunt, and charged him with a shout to the Queen and city she could no longer even look at.

The grunt fought and swung with power and not a little bit of skill, showing the natural affinity the orcs had for combat. But Alleria was a ranger. She had been taught how to fight decades upon decades ago, and had refined it through hard personal training. She wore no armour, but then the axe blade never bit into her skin. Instead she instinctively dodged, no even blocking, until the orc, in increasing rage, began to become more aggressive, forgetting its defence. One stroke at the belly, and another at the throat, delivered with fatal precision, quickly ended the enemy's life. She really did smile then, and searched for more orcish blood to spill.

Her...activity...was then interrupted rather abruptly ended, as a rain of arrows cut in from the trees. She barely had time to register that a full squadron of elves had taken position that the orcs, one by one, were cut down. As she watched them fall by the doing of another, she felt a strong disappointment. They were hers!

"Whoever you are, I command you to leave us! Now!" She growled. "You had no right to interrupt our hunt!"

"A HUNT?" a female voice, delicate yet bitter, hissed out of a treetop. A voice she recognized at once. "Is that what you call this...this dangerous, foolish act?"

Alleria tried to keep her temper in check, failed. "This is not your unit, therefore not your concern, Sylvanas!"

"It is very much my concern, sister." And with that, the younger ranger dropped out, landing gracefully, bow slung on her shoulder as she surveyed the skin tents, fires and bodies lying about. Her expression was that of slight disgust, and her gaze, when it fell on her, showed itself to be disappointed. A tense moment of silence followed. "This was wrong, Alleria."

"Don't you dare take that tone with me, young one. I had the situation well in hand-"

"You didn't understand the situation at all." Sylvanas' hands gracefully circled around the small battlefield. "Look at what's happened!"

Glaring, Alleria made a circular view of the field. And immediately started. Twenty orc bodies littered the soil, but no less than five elves - half of her strike force - also lay there, dead, while the other half sported wounds. 'Impossible!' she thought, her mind swirling in denial 'These are elves! I would have noticed! I-'

No, she wouldn't have. Because she hadn't been focused, a part of her mind told her. She wouldn't have because her judgement had been gone, gone in the fires of revenge. Frantically she tried to shut off the nagging voice, calling upon her anger, her feeling of loss. But it didn't quite work. This was too stark.

Her shame must have shown on her face. But Sylvanas wasn't moved by her anguish. Her voice bit as hard as steel. "You attacked twenty orcs in the open with a group half that strength. This was unnecessary, and these lives rest directly on your hands."

How deep her words cut! But at the same time, anger and pride were quickly coming back to the fore. "It has to be done! The orcs are no longer in our cities, but groups of them have stayed behind. We must get rid of them."

"Agreed. But not this way. This is not how we do things. We do not endanger brothers and sisters only to soothe one's ego!" She reeled back from the accusation in her friend's eyes, and opened her mouth, unsure of what she would say. The other female, however, rode her speech right over her hesitations. "Don't you dare tell me this isn't true! This is all to put a balm on your hate! To forget your exile!"

That touched a nerve she wasn't prepared for. The words struck at the direct source of her ire, and before she could think, she had grasped her friend by the shoulders her hand becoming implacable claw. She ignored the unease from all the other elves around, as her vision tunnelled on Sylvanas alone.

"You think you know everything, don't you? Well, old friend, I doubt you can even begin to imagine what exile is! To be forced out of my home, of my city, to never return to where I was born, raised and trained for so very long! You CAN'T understand. You didn't attack your own KING. You weren't controlled by some vile orc to do his bidding, like some puppet! Can you tell me you can understand that?!?" she actually shook her the despair she felt. "CAN YOU?!?"

Tense silence. Still startled and frightened by the battle that had taken place so little a while ago, no animal or insect noises interrupted it, and only an uneasy shift or two showed that the other elves were still there. Listening to the confrontation.

This time, however, it was Sylvanas who faltered, her gaze averting itself. "I don't pretend to know how horrible it was. I hope I'll never have to feel used that way, or banished that way." Her voice was gentler now, although it remained firm. Alleria, realizing what she was doing, let go of the other ranger, rather appalled. Something WAS wrong with her, for her to do this to one she had helped train.

"And I hope it never happens to you." was all she replied.

"But still to do this...its like you think you're alone in the world."

"I a very real sense, I am alone. I am not a citizen, anymore. Not fully."

"This is where you err, my friend!" the ranger replied hotly "You are NOT alone. I care about you, as does Illadan, the King. Even the Queen cares deep down. She is simply distraught that-"

"That I nearly killed her beloved mate and consort?" she scoffed bitterly "It is no wonder..."

Sylvanas grunted with mild disgust. "Very well. It seems that you don't want to be reached today. However, you are still a soldier of Quel'Thalas, and your actions are still wrong. Make certain you don't repeat them." then, in a kinder voice, "Please heed this."

Could she? She was uncertain of that. Uncertain of her pride. But her friend deserved her efforts. "I do not know that I will be able to. But I swear that I will try to...curb this." she said as steadily as she could. Sylvanas looked at her for a moment, and then turned to the other elves, only muttering one small sentence.

She said. "I dearly hope so, Alleria."

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Summer 596, Caer Darrow, Quel'Thalas

Theron Gorefiend was having a very good day. Not that he was happy or anything. After all, being for all intents and purposes stuck in a rotting human body and rusting suit of armour was far from being an amusing situation. Even the great powers he had been bestowed through this state of undeath - powers such that he outranked all other Death Knights, indeed all Horde spellcasters save Gul'Dan himself - hadn't made things truly enjoyable.

Yet, as he stood upon his skeletal steed and faced the warmth of an early summer day, he felt quite at ease. Not that he could feel or smell anything now, whether it be from sun or wind. Rather, it was the expectation of battle, which excited his unnatural frame.

After months of effort, a strike force of human and elven warriors had succeeded in securing a toehold on the mystical island, and had been an irritant since then. It was not his concern. It had never been, until he learned who had disembarked with the new arrival of reinforcements.

Paladins.

He had heard of them. At first, he had thought them only a way for the foolish priests to make themselves believe their powers were any match for necromancy, but over the past years that fledgling order had grown. It appeared that the small group had successfully melded the steel of the knightly orders to the magics of the priests. Indeed, he had heard through his own means that some of the spells taught had been given to the new fighters through Alonsus Faol.

Faol. Perhaps the only priest of Azeroth, which the Horde warlocks he had been part of had feared. To think that this old man had given away some of the old spells from his religion was an indication that the so-called Knights of the Silver Hand might be a challenge after all.

That was a very exciting thought. Gorefiend had fought the human and elven mages, and had found them paltry, frail and cowardly. He wanted more! To feel something resembling life again in his dissecated bones.

And so he had ordered his brethren to march towards the battle. There had been balking at this: wasn't it their duty to guard this site of power, for possible future usage? He had waved that aside easily.

"We are not Gul'Dan's pawns, my comrades." he had said to them "We are beings of power, faced with power opposing our own directly. We can't turn our back on this challenge, or else we would be truly nothing but corpses. Remember what we were! Members of the Shadow Council!"

And so they had come. They had gathered and ridden with him to the field of battle. There, the situation was as chaotic as ever. Humans and elves fought orcs and trolls and ogres with abandon, and the noise of battle rang upon a ground filled with the dead and wounded and the blood of life seeping in. Neither side was giving away even an inch. It looked like a stalemate to Gorefiend's magical eyes.

He laughed a hollow laugh. They would change that! "Attack!" he called, and as one the undead warriors surged through the lines towards that held by the Alliance.

The humans and elves felt them coming more than they saw them. Suddenly, their stance changed from determined to confused and uncertain - the effect a Death Knight's unnatural presence had on a living person. The Horde warriors felt it as well but, more used to it as they were, they took that chance to press the advantage. Suddenly, the stalemate was starting to become a rout.

Disappointing.

"Stand firm, brothers! For the Alliance and Lothar!" a strong voice resounded, and Gorefiend saw several mounted humans thundering his way. On their plate mail was the sign he had wanted to see. A badge made up of a silvery hand poised in warding. There they were, the so-called Paladins of the Alliance! If the Death Knights had still had lips, he would have grinned ferally.

With a shout, he stirred his beast towards the one who seemed to lead the enemy, even as the undead effect drove both sides away from him like a stone skimming through water. Yet the mounted warriors did not relent. As they approached, Gorefiend felt the stench of priestly magic coming from them. Indeed, that despicable aura came strongest from the one in the lead. He raised his staff and prepared his magic, muttering arcane, necromantic words, feeling the demonic powers strengthen him.

He let go of the spell, a powerful death coil, and watched the green energy slam into the other warrior, who faltered in pain, screaming. But the blissful moment was quickly interrupted as a white light came from the human. The scream stopped abruptly, and the warrior spurred his barded steed forward with renewed vigour.

"The Light guide me! At you, fiend!"

"As you wish, human!" Gorefiend growled back with his ethereal voice.

The two warriors slammed into each other full force, and empowered staff and warhammer met in a deflagration of power, bluish-white meeting greenish force. Both steeds were forced to reel back some steps for a moment, and both stared at each other for a fleeting, searching moment before attacking once more.

Three times they met, and three times their powers cancelled each other. Energy such as Gorefiend hadn't felt in a long time stirred from his displaced soul. That was it! That was the way he wanted to feel! A challenge! An opponent who could meet him! At last!

Energy danced upon his fingers, and he released a destructive wave of magical energy. The attack was met by a magical field, which shattered on impact. Yes, this one had mastered much magic, even if it was only lowly priestly spells.

"You truly think you can defy death, human?" he sneered.

"I defy you, aberration! You and your kind! I shall never rest as long as you trouble these lands!" the human replied in a voice that vibrated with duty and determination. Disgusting.

There had been a time when Gorefiend had felt that sense of duty. He had been young and foolish then, and had learned better. Duty was meaningless, and determination only useful when one fought solely for his own sake. That human, it seemed, had never had the intellect necessary to make this distinction. Gorefiend had become a warlock and had accepted to return to unlife as a Death Knight because he had come to respect only one thing: power. That was what Gul'Dan offered, and so he followed him. For now.

But this human...foolishly believed his own words. Blind fool. In thanks for the splendid battle, he would open his eyes before he killed him!

"Is that so? Foolish little mortal. Come forth, then!"

"Have at thee!"

Once again they met for a strike. But this time Gorefiend did not strike. Instead, he grabbed the human's arm with frightening speed and channelled his demonic energies into him. A shout of pain escapes the human as he struggled against the undead grasp, but he would not yield. At last, the human let go of his shield and, with a yell, coursed his own energies into Gorefiend's body.

It was like being swallowed by the flames of the underworld themselves. The pain was excruciating, and there was no telling how long they stood in that fatal deadlock. Finally he shook the human off, trembling, his body trying to deal with the raw energies of life. In front of him, the human was clearly shuddering.

"Your foul magics will not slay me, creature!" the human said in an almost-steady voice. "The Light protects me!"

Gorefiend steadied himself. Yes, this human was a powerful challenge. Yes, his spells were more potent than he had first thought that they would be. But it was still a human. And no human knight, no matter how trained, could stand against him forever.

"Then, let us see how long you 'Light' will continue to protect your little life!" he said, and once again charged.

Around him, the battle raged, his brethren fighting the paladin's brethren, the Horde fighting the Alliance. Things were as they should be.

* * * * * * * * * *



Summer 596, Narkand Province, Lordaeron

"You know, this job is simply worse than being in the pits."

"You've said that that twenty times already."

"You really think I care? I mean look at what we're doin' here."

"We all here know its for a good reason. But if you'd prefer to have the damned greenskins come knockin' again-"

"I don't be meanin' that! But damn -"

"Alright. That's enough from both of you." Lieutenant Sarses growled. He wasn't any happier than either of his younger subordinates about the situation, but the arguments the two kept having were only making things worse. "We don't like it, but its what the brass and royals up in Whitefort want us to do. Besides, would you prefer being back on the Light-blasted front facing those things on the damnable Bridges?"

The thought wasn't a pleasant one. Knowing that the odds were great that they'd all end up someplace similar in the future, the other footmen finally stopped their bickering. But it didn't stop the gloom from showing on their faces.

Sarses couldn't blame them. After all, being agents for the massive conscription the Alliance was doing as part as its military build-up was anything but pleasant, making what would have been a nice walk through a simple dirt road and farmlands feel like a mortal trudge through a cemetery.

The worst of it was, there was no way to sidestep things. The province of Narkand was located far to the west of the capital. It had been settles centuries ago, had a pretty large population and lots of farms. Which implied a great many boys that the army wanted. He wished he'd never learned to read and write, for it was for that reason that he had been one of the unhappy selections. Well, he could read the numbers fine. The region had well over fifty thousand inhabitants. Which meant that they'd have to take quite a few boys from their homes yet.

"We should be coming over our first stop fairly quick. Around those fields, from what I hear."

"Joyful." one of his subordinates sighed. "Huh, lieutenant? What do we do if the kid resists us?"

Why did they ask him that?!? Why did they ALWAYS ask him that! "You know what happens then! You keep a'hold of him and drag'im along." He prayed they wouldn't have to do that, but realistically thought that they would have to, sooner or later. What a joyful assignment indeed!

His musings were interrupted by one of his men, stopping. Sarses turned and looked at the footman askance. The soldier in question only pointed to his ears and then to the air. Taking the cue, the lieutenant strained his ears. And quickly heard a faint now which couldn't be a cow, a horse, or any other noise something around a farmland would make, except.

"A church's bell." he nodded "Yes, that's it."

"But what's it for?" the other subordinate asked. "Its past the mid-day bell. Why would they ring it so loud, so soon?"

The more experienced footman had been a young man when the First War had started in Azeroth. He had enlisted voluntarily, and so had never had problems with recruiting. But, conscription had been enforced in the later years as well. And, from the stories he had heard in camps and taverns, bells ringing for no reasons could mean only one thing...

His eyes widened as he realized what had happened. "Light! We've been walking around so plain, of course they saw us! The bells are alerting them! Its a signal!" he picked up some speed. Fortunately, they wore only lighter leather armour for the recruiting trip. This allowed them to quickly sprint up the dirt road, right in sight of the farm.

They came right on time. Moments later, and they would have missed the two shapes running into the woods. As it was, they jumped over the fence and ran as one, their trained legs not tiring. Sarses spotted an older man coming towards them with a hoe, and he stopped, signalling the other two to pursue the would-be conscripts, which they did. He drew his sword and presented it in a warding gesture.

"Halt! You are interfering with the will of the Alliance Council!" he called. 'Bad reason, it'll never convince anyone. Please, old man, don't force the issue.'

But the old man did force it. With an air both angry and desperate, the peasant swung his weapon in a powerful but slow and predictable arc, which Sarses dodged. He then brought his sword up to parry, and then flung it blade first at the man face, where it connected with a crack. The peasant dropped like a mass. He wasn't completely out, however, and the veteran footman crouched to hear the words being half-coherently mumbled.

"...on't t-take m'boys..." he heard quickly, and he sighed sadly. He cast about for something to say, found that none would ever repair what he would do, and simply replied with the truth.

"I don't have a choice, old man. I'm sorry."

Light, he was beginning to prefer being back fighting at Whitefort's sieges, or at the Land Bridges, instead of this madness. At least there the enemies had been clearly-cut, and his actions had been ones he could somehow stomach. This was different. Here, he was the foul one. He was the one whom these people would remember as the monster. Not the Trolls, not the Ogres, not the demon-fed orc. Him.

But there was a part that hanged on nonetheless. Not duty or honour, but rather the knowledge. The knowledge that they needed people to fight. To make certain Stormwind didn't fall in vain, that the thousands and thousands who had taken part in so many defences, so many attacks in the past six years, hadn't fought for nothing. Sarses had seen how horrible war was, and if it meant him becoming a monster to someone to make it shorter, then so be it!

'Yes,' he thought sourly 'I wish my feelings were that clear-cut. But I still feel like horse dung...'

He shook himself and rose, his sword firmly in hand, but no one else was in sight. Good. He wasn't in the mood to fight peasants who only wished to protect their children from the battlefield.

A noise made him turn his head, and Sarses saw the two other footmen leave the depths of the woods. One was carrying a teen, slung over his shoulders like some meat, while the other struggled with his charge. He went to meet them quickly. Not too soon, it seemed: The child was struggling hard, and had enough built to resist even the veteran who was wrestling him. Quickly he pointed his sword at the boy.

"'ts enough, kid." he growled, "Don't be making that worse than it already is, alright?" His tone was gentle, but his hand extremely steady. That, he thought, was probably what deflated the youth more than anything else.

"I don't be wantin' to go. Not to battle. Not to die." The young guy sobbed, and everyone understood his feelings perfectly. They'd all either said or thought like that somewhere along the line. And in some ways, they still did.

"Sorry, kid. But you're both big and old enough, and it happens that we came here to get you to join the Alliance force. That's our job and that's what we'll do."

He looked around the farm farther on. Did he detect movement? There was supposed to be a large brood on that farm. Better not dally. He motioned the others to walk towards the path, while he checked over his shoulder, sword at the ready.

"And don't worry, kid. If you want to survive, stick with our First Army! We've rarely been beaten! And remember to listen to our general. He's the best of the best! Aerth Swiftblade!"

And maybe, if those kids and the others he'd force to join...if most survived, he might decide he wasn't that much of a monster...

...or so he fervently hoped...

* * * * * * * * * *

Summer 596, Whitefort, Lordaeron

"Are you gonna make mother sad again?"

The blunt question was the last thing Aerth expected to hear from the small, pudgy, brown-haired being who happened to be his three-year old son. Upon reflection, however, it wasn't one that he felt was out of place. Indeed, wasn't he preparing for another long campaign, which would deprive him of his family - and his family from him - for an undetermined time?

The eyes who looked back at him were blue, the blue that neither Eira nor he had. These were the eyes of Aerth's own father, dead many years now. It really gave him the bothersome impression that both son and father were looking through the same soul and awaiting the same answer. The mere exception was that his old man would have asked the question much more sharply, in a voice that would have demanded an immediate answer.

As it was, a child's innocent and inquisitive eyes weren't much better to set someone at ease than a father's demanding ones. He framed his thoughts as best he could. "I don't wish for mother to feel sad, son. It's just that...I have something very big and very important to do."

"What?" The question immediately lanced out at him. The eyes never wavered as the two - the tall nobleman and the small boy - walked side by side through the halls of the royal castle. Children, he was discovering quickly, wanted to know the answer to everything and have everything mapped out and explained no matter whether the adults around them had a clue on how to answer or not. How had his own parents coped?!?

"I'm...fighting big, green monsters who want to hurt you and your mother and your friends." 'There. That should be enough.'

Little Vedran Swiftblade, unwitting heir to a newly-founded noble house, pondered that for a moment. Then his eyes once again locked with his father's. "Do they want to hurt you?"

'I think that, after Zul'Dare and Dun Modr alone, they'd be quite happy to rip me to tiny little pieces and use the meat for a stew.' "Uh...yeah."

"Why you can fight and not mother?"

A strange, delicate question. "I'm a knight. A soldier. That's what soldiers do right now. They stop the evil monsters." It sounded poor to his ears, but that seemed to cheer the boy.

"Then knights are good?" his asked enthusiastically.

That question threw him more than he cared to admit. He had few memories of his early childhood, but he quite vividly remembered himself asking his father the same. Hadn't there been a saddened indulgence on the Swiftblade patriarch as he assured him that yes, knights were indeed great people? He grew up with that idea, had given himself away in efforts to equal the knights he saw. And when he had actually joined, them, he had seen they were the same as he: people. Some good, some bad, all flawed in some way. He had reflected that it would have been less of a frustration if his father had told him the truth straight out.

Now, however, he saw what his father had seen: youth, and an innocence that would one day be lost. Why rush things? And so, he shrugged, wondering if his old man was chortling at him somewhere, and answered. "Yes, Vedran. The knights are the best people."

He wasn't really supposed to be doing this, really. He had been chosen to lead one of the four Grand Armies as Lord-General, and as such, he was expected to deal with meetings with officers, trainers, nobles and everyone who had a hand in its formation. He actually had little time to spare. Yet he did not begrudge answering the questions, as astute as some of them were, in that free time. He had missed so much of Vedran's childhood, and would miss so much more.

He looked around and saw a difference he had come to feel every time he walked through this place of rebuilding luxury with his son. Respect was there; if nothing else he had earned that. But whereas the respect was strong and genuine in the face of knights and footmen and some nobles, many in the nobility gave him looks, which he did not find very endearing. They were slight, and always when they thought he wouldn't notice, but it was clear that some gave him respect only grudgingly.

He knew the reason as well: common blood.

No matter what he did, no matter how high the deeds or glorious the victories. No matter his rank or rewards, to some he would always remain the son of a clockmaker and a housewife, simple people without one single drop of noble blood in their veins. So be it, as far as he was concerned. When he remembered the hard day's work his father did, that his mother did, to keep their little universe safe, he felt no shame. Indeed, when he saw how some of the nobles seem to squander riches, he felt a great deal of pride towards his personal bloodline.

But personal pride did not change how others thought. And although he cared not about opinions, and Eira could easily deflect them, he didn't want his son - and the child which would quickly follow - to have to face any of that. His desire to better himself, first to give his dear Eira the position she deserved, had enlarged into making certain his children took great pride in continuing the family name despite their father's common heritage.

They finally passed through the halls - well refurbished since the Compact's gutting of them - and finally came to their apartments. Albeit he usually preferred to stay in a tent while his men broke in and trained the new recruits, he did not begrudge it in this case. This was where his family lived, and that was enough.

Inside, Eira was reading from a slim, leather-bound book, on a chair next to the window. A book of poetry, he saw with slight distaste - poetry had always seemed like useless drivel to him. Eira looked lovely as always, despite the great girth which showed that their next child might arrive any day, and she looked up and smiled as Vedran ran to her.

"Ah, Vedran!" she said, hugging the boy as best she could. "Did you have a nice walk with your father?"

"Yes, mother!"

"I'm glad to hear it! Now you can go play if you want!" She looked up as the child went off to his own amusement. "And you, my dear lord, was the walk satisfying?" a smirk was teasing her lips, but fondness was present in every line of her body.

He grinned and bowed in amusement. "Yes, my lady! Quite amusing. I answered more questions today than I did for the last four months!"

She laughed lightly. "Now you see what it means to be with a child every day! By no means an easy task!"

"A daunting, complicated task." he agreed "My high respect for motherhood keeps increasing by the hour!"

She laid the book on a table and held her chin high in mock haughtiness. "You had better, good sir, or then you will have problems getting back into my good graces!" She seemed about to say something more. But at that moment her face changed. Her mouth set, and her eyes widened momentarily. She sat stiffly on the chair while he looked on in confusion and concern.

"My love?" he asked, "Are you well?"

She took a moment before responding, and what she said was far more strained than ever before. "Oh, I feel wonderful, beloved. Our child has decided to come to us today. Now."

It took a moment for that to fully register. Then it did, as did the implications. "WHAT?!?!?"

She faced him, and this time there was only urgency on her face. "Yes, its coming! Now don't stand there gawking! Call for the priests or a midwife, would you?"

Needless to say, he leapt to obey!

* * * * * * * * * *

Summer 596, Stormreaver Fleet, On the Great Sea

Gul'Dan couldn't help but chuckle in childish expectation as he surveyed the body of water. This was it. This had to be it! He once again read the passage from the book he had finally found after looking through many ruins.

...And as I left these broken lands, barely certain in the belief of my own victory, I felt the magic which had upheld these places break. They sundered into the water before my very eyes, and it was but with the strength of the winds and the remaining powers I was able to call forth that I did not meet my end. Nothing soon remained of this dark place where Sargeras, the Fallen Titan, met his end at my fortunate hands. May his power forever remain buried deep within the Great Sea...

It had been an interesting read - copied chronicles left by Medhiv's own mother, Aegwyn. Within it, the story had been told, as well as the length and direction she had taken to get to the islands to face the preparing demons. More than enough for him to deduce where they had been, and how long it would take his ship to get there.

It was here. He would gamble his soul on that. There was a very strong feel of demonic magics - old but powerful, sign that something tremendous happened in this area long ago.

"The Guardians..." he said with a mixture of awe and contempt "So very powerful, but so vain and arrogant that they talked of everything they did. But I shouldn't be complaining. After all, Aegwyn gave me the means I needed.

Beside him, the Death Knights and those few orcs he had taught some spells looked both frightened and dubious. "Master," one of the living said, " This place is overflowing with darkness. It is blighting the surrounding waters."

Gul'Dan nodded absentmindedly. He wasn't surprised that it was the case. But then he had read the histories and legends and chronicles about Aegwynn's great deeds, and they had not. Considering what certainly took place in this area, it was no surprise that the energies were still so dark and so frightening. More than anything, it was very endearing. Because strong power meant a possible remaining source. And if the source was what the warlock thought it was...

"Yes. The power is very strong here." he acknowledged.

"The power of death and the demon race." A Death Knight said reverently, his fear clear despite his dead, hollow voice.

"More!" Gul'Dan exclaimed. "This is not the shadow of the Legion! This is the place where the Legion's creator, Sargeras the Dark Titan, fell to the Guardian who ambushed Him. Here is where he reposes. Beneath us. Below these waves is Sargeras' tomb!!"

Sargeras. He had learned of him. Once, the Dark Titan had been a champion, maintaining order throughout the myriad of inhabited worlds. But in fighting the darkness, he had eventually lost all loyalty towards the other godly Titans, and so the most powerful of them all decided to destroy their works. He had destroyed many worlds, only to be thwarted by this one.

The first time, he had fought a great war in which elves - possible ancestors to the cursed High Elves - had resisted him and ultimately banished his forces. The second time had been fatal, as he had come only to face a human being of immense powers who had taken advantage of his weakened state and slain him. The Dark Titan...so much power...Aegwyn was a fool not to have taken it for herself. He would not be so blind as she had been...

He hefted the staff he cherished. Now his, it had once been Medhiv, who might have been even more powerful than his own mother. It was this staff, which had helped the sorcerer open the Portal, and it had stayed with the sorcerers until that fateful day he had been attacked by a desperate but powerful band of Azerothians and seemingly slain. The staff had been pried from his fingers, and locked in Stormwind, where Horde soldiers had seized it. Doomhammer, poor fool, had agreed to let him use that staff to help his magical preparations to serve the new Horde. He would soon learn to remember never to underestimate him.

A huge shadow fell over the warlock, and Gul'Dan looked up to see the ogre chieftain Cho'Gall looking down at him. The right head, usually in control, was the one that spoke. "So, is that the place? I can feel a strong magic from here."

The orc, who really couldn't care less about the ogre in truth but needed his power for the present, gave a benevolent grin. "Yes, my friend. This is what we have been searching for. With this, we can push both Doomhammer and the humans aside. This world will be ours for the taking!"

It seemed to satisfy them so much to hear him say those words. Push them aside. Crush them. Conquer them.

How utterly boring.

Not that he wouldn't be perfectly happy to stomp Doomhammer into a pool of blood. But those around him only thought of material powers. Of conquest of the continent and, in some cases, to use what power they'd find to build an empire encompassing two worlds. He had stopped being so simplistic. With the power of Sargeras, he would have the veritable power of a god at his command. Anything would be possible. He could reshape this world, and then Dreanor, to his will. And then, when that would be done, he would spread his armies from world to world, conquering all until he controlled all life!

Soon, that dream would become true. Soon. Nobody could stop it. He would not allow it!

He put the staff in front of him, and then shouted the mystical words to activate it. The staff did not change but for the emerald on top of it, which started to emit a green light. He spread his hands and concentrated on the water.

"By the fire of the Ancient Lords, by the powers of Tirisfal, I command thee!" he intoned, "Lost ages begone, deep into the abyss of eternity! Rise above the waves into the Light! May the power which inhabits this place heed my call. I, you wields the Staff of Tirisfal! I, who is pledged to this world! Forces of the deep, rise to my call and bring forth what sunk so long ago, I COMMAND THEE!!"

First the waters simply churned, then the waves began to become wild. Orc crews began running to and fro in increasing panic as the skies clouded almost instantly, and the powers of Tirisfal began to yank lost landmasses from the sea. Those around Gul'Dan muttered in fright, and even the Death Knights seemed uncertain. But not Gul'Dan. Even as day turned to night, as the ocean seemed to speak against him, he held on. He wouldn't fail here! He would ALLOW himself to fail!!!!

"Heed me, water! Heed me, wind! I am of Tirisfal and I have come! Guardian from Guardians, I beseech and command your majesty! Open the deep and let me through!!"

He could feel the powers raging around him. But there was a problem. The powers knew the staff he held, but he himself was by no means a Guardian, and would never be one. It was a struggle simply to stay afloat of the powers, divine and demonic, elemental and physical, which fought both within and without. He was drenched but barely noticed. Panic had overtaken the fleet as the area became a deadly zone. But that was nothing. All that mattered was controlling the power. All that mattered was SUCCESS!!!

"Gul'Dan! The power is too strong for us!" one of the Death Knights howled.

"Master, please!"

"We must retreat the fleet!"

Retreat? At his moment of triumph? Never! "I commit my soul to the power! Heed me, Sargeras! Do you not wish to be freed from your prison! Help me, and you will save yourself from this torment!

Yet the powers would not answer to him. Was there no way to control?!? There had to be! How else would Medhiv have seen these ruins from the inside with such magicks present, if not for his own eyes? Suddenly all around him cried out in panic, and Gul'Dan saw why. A wall of water of unimaginable proportions was heading their way, threatening them with death.

"NO! I WILL *NOT* BE TWARTHED!!!" The warlock howled. "POWERS, HEED MY COMMAND AND LET US THROUGH!!"

The wall of water struck down. Gul'Dan, caught between rage and absolute terror, uttered what seemed to be the last word he would utter.

"MEDHIV!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

'How ironic.' he thought fleetingly. 'That going to my death I would call a dead human.'

And then, in the midst of the end, light submerged all senses.

______________________________________________________

The Empire of Arathor

Three thousand years before humans and orcs first met and clashed in the blood and hatred of the First War, humans were little more than a powerful barbarian band, living from the lands and the woods in small villages, fighting against trolls and other beasts. This barbarous time ended when a great human warrior named Halgan unified the most powerful tribes under his leadership and brought all others to heel through diplomacy and martial strength. He founded the city of Strom and became the first and probably greatest of Arathor's emperors.

For many years, Arathor struggled to get its own bearings in the world, and for that end managed to secure trade with the elves of Quel'Thalas and the dwarves of Khajin. First seen as an upstart realm ruled by a lesser people, the humans quickly multiplied. Unified, the humans fought trolls out of their borders and cleared much land for farming, and became prosperous and numerous. They learned magic from the elves, metallurgy and stonework from the dwarves. And what the two elder races would not teach, the humans either found out or created on their own. Arathor grew, establishing other cities, and finally building a growing fleet of ships to explore and colonize the continent. By 1600 of the Imperial Calendar, the Emperor controlled much of the continent, and the might and splendour of the human realm outshone even mighty Quel'Thalas.

But it was not to remain. Through plagues, wars and evil rulers, the Empire weakened, then fractured as other nations rose from it. Azeroth, in 1772 IC, was the first realm to secede, plunging the empire into a troubled time, culminating into the War of the Heirs, which effectively ended Arathor after nineteen centuries of existence, and paving the way for the times of wars and deceit which would go on for centuries, before the nations came together in peace during the time of the Pact of Stormwind.