Chapter Twenty-Six: Mages and Spies
Late Summer 596, Alterac City, Alterac
The orc commander looked smug and superior as he grinned at the humans seated on the other side of the conference table. There was something about that which made Duraz bristle, almost making him forget his own hatred and humiliation. "I don't think we can put more troops into your city. The warchief has need of his forces for more important battles."
It only seemed to agitate the King of Alterac further. Perenolde's face was a remarkable study of fear and distraught anger as he lashed out. "There is a treaty between Alterac and the Horde! Will Doomhammer dare to break it?" he demanded. It, of course, phased the orc not a bit.
"And what will you do if he ever does?" was the thoroughly smug question. It was one that Duraz might have asked himself. "Attack us by yourself? Tell your human allies that you have been giving us information and even some troops to aid us for the last five years?"
As much as this might have angered Perenolde, he was smart enough not to answer anything to that. Indeed, the fallen general knew, there was very little the King could do. He didn't have enough troops to threaten anyone, and his personal position and political power were only potent as far as the other Alliance nations had no idea whether Alterac had betrayed them or not. Oh, they were suspicious, and if he could bet on something, it would be on the fact that the old dog Lothar or that weak-bodied Terenas had already sent missions to see if rumours and the words of capture of barely-literate sailors held any truth to them. Surrounded by Lordaeron, Stromgarde and New Azeroth, it was clear that things would go badly if the truth ever got out.
Such was the state of his asylum! How could things have gone from so encouraging to such lows of despair?!? That question had been eating at his mind ever since the day he had had to flee Whitefort and his ambitions.
In a way, however, his flight to Alterac had allowed him to learn what the Alliance planned. He had thus learned that the Alliance Council - without asking for Perenolde's vote or approval, had voted to raise a large army totalling at least four hundred thousand men and women from all participating nations, with the intent to fully take the fight to a seemingly fractured Horde. It was a bold plan, utilizing a force, which hadn't been seen since Arathor had been at the height of its power.
"Without Alterac, the Horde shall have no way to maintain its remaining bases north of the Land Bridges." Perenolde told the orcish commander with a cold edge to his voice. His fear was almost perfectly hidden. Almost. Beads of sweat could be seen under the slim golden crown. "Your forces have had less than grand successes against Alliance forces of late, so I am told. I do think that you need every edge."
Duraz didn't wish to hear the orc's response. He could guess it. Perenolde was caught like a rat in a hole; he simply refused to admit that either of the two opposing powers would destroy him if only one thing went wrong. He rose politely and coldly excused himself, leaving before he told the sovereign of his unmitigated stupidity and so lost his last refuge.
Perenolde had ordered his country to follow the council's wishes, so that his country would not appear suspect. But the fact that the council had acted without so much as a by-your-leave told the story: suspicion was high, and something was imminent. Something large and unpleasant might soon befall this small, blind country.
"Why, why hello, milord Duraz!" a jolly voice he knew crowed "Been living well despite it all, I see!"
Without thinking, the elaborate blade came out of its sheet as Duraz took hold of the man who had just appeared, pressing the blade to his neck. The man was small, but well muscled and sinewy, with a rather nondescript face. It was the face of one who had once given him information - and had abandoned him like a coward.
"Falanzin!" he growled "You double-crossing little cur, I should kill you right here and now!" To press the point home, he pressed the blade further, drawing blood. Falanzin only looked at him with a smile that lacked any of the nervousness he was used to with the man. Where had this confidence come from?
"Come, come." said the spy, who seemed not at all concerned of the mortal danger he was in. "Come, come. You are alive, aren't you? You should be happy enough with that."
"Happy with that?!?" he shouted in stupefaction, uncaring whether or not one might hear him and come. How dare this fool believe in telling HIM how he should feel! "After my plans are destroyed, my ambitions dashed?!? Happy is the farthest from what I am."
"I'm very sorry to hear that. But at the same time, I must congratulate you. You did excellently." was the response he received. "You played your part even more perfectly than we thought you would. That is why I came."
Duraz, for a moment, thought he'd heard wrong. "What are you saying?" he asked the man beneath his blade.
"Oh, now come!" the other man said, his face seeming to change as it adopted a far more confident, craftier look than he ever thought Falanzin was capable of having. "Did you really think that your great successes - and your most abysmal defeat - was due to such a naughty thing as fate? Let me jog your mind a bit."
And with that, the impossible happened. Falanzin raised one hand and muttered three syllables, which threw Duraz right into the opposite wall. No one came running as he came to his feet. And now he was beginning to understand why. "You're a wizard."
"You're catching on. Yes, that IS why no one has come to bother us here, 'milord'. Yes, I am a mage. And I am not the only one who has been shaping your actions. Many have. You were, I must admit, the perfect foil."
"A foil...the Compact...my contacts...my troops. I procured these through my own negotiations!" Duraz growled. He wouldn't believe that everything he had achieved and lost had been nothing but...nothing but...
"But the games we played to a pawn? Yet, that is what you are. A pawn. A silly pawn that thought himself a king."
"You lie!"
"I certainly do not." Falanzin replied gamely "Do you think we'd want the Alliance to be in turmoil at a time like this? When the Horde is barely checked more through its own troubles then the valour of our armies? No, we wanted the Alliance strong, strong and secure in their own world so that, when came the time - and it will come! - we can take control without anyone in the council being the wiser."
"And here you came along. An extremely talented general, a wealthy lord who suffocated from pride and delusions of grandeur. It was so easy for me and others to feed these emotions in you. We helped you organize the Compact. You had the men, the troops, and the power. You made quite a show. We knew, of course, that you'd be defeated. Just as this fool Perenolde will be crushed by either of the powers he is struggling against. Now, with Harpgate fallen but three days ago, the last of the Compact will be considered vanished, leaving the Alliance smug and secure. Just as we wanted."
Duraz got back on his feet slowly; his mind refusing to grasp what was being said fully. Him, the descendant of generations of intelligent and successful nobles and knights, a mere pawn? His compact, and the new Alliance he had envisioned born from his Compact, only an illusion? How could it be? How could it be? How could it be?!? All his preparations, all of his schemes and years of deceit...all for naught? All to PLAY THE FOOL?!?
"Me...your...pawn?" he gritted his teeth as he struggled to gather himself, and his dignity. "I think not! I am Sylphord Duraz of House Duraz, Duke of the Saren Lowlands and lord of Southshore!"
"You are none of that now. Your lands, your titles, your wealth." Falanzin - if that was this creature's name - clapped his hand once "Gone. All you are now is a Rebel Lord to a band of ragged Rebels, stuck in a country about to collapse. You are nothing to the Alliance, nothing to the Horde...and certainly nothing to us."
Duraz howled in what couldn't be - wasn't! - a mad voice and threw himself bodily upon the man, only to find him gone, with mocking words ringing in his ears, and to his soul, searing away much of what had been there, of the illusions which had dwelled within his heart. He screamed a long scream - the last he would utter for the rest of his life.
The words, as he heard them, were "Enjoy your rewards, Lord Duraz. They are equal to your worth."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Summer 596, Broken Islands, On the Great Sea
A few words, deft gestures and the fraction of his will, and Gul'Dan was encased in a sphere of power that broke the energies that the serpent women had wrought and thrown at him. Magical steam and lightning battered his shield but did not deter him as he stepped forth and conjured his own power. Words of power growled out, and quickly the arcane energies - so very strong in this place - responded to him. A cloud of mist, greenish and yellowish at the same time, streamed into the opposing ranks of his enemies like an inevitable scourge.
Many of the large, reptilian snakes immediately convulsed, dying in great pain as the cloud rolled away quickly, but the females - who looked like a cross between large elven females and snakes - held firm, their hands moving in chant, sending spell after spell into his ranks of warriors.
Although it was a waste of time, Gul'Dan's blood relished the feel of facing a truly strong opponent. It was a feeling he had not had since facing archmages in Azeroth. The clash of spells, the blending of arcane energies smashing into one another, was exhilarating.
"You are strong, female serpent!" he called "Very strong to resist me for so long with so few! But your journey ends here, for I intend to take the power within these islands as my own!"
It was impossible that the woman could understand his words - spoken in orcish - and respond in orcish without magic, yet he detected none when she did. "You shall never have this place, Landwalker! The cursed Guardians of Tirisfal have bound us to this place, to defend it forever!"
"Ruthless and practical, to bind water-dwellers and sink these islands anew." he grinned. He found it a pity he would never meet the powerful Aegwynn. If nothing else, he liked her style. "But that changes nothing! This land belongs to me now! And if I must kill every single one of you, I will with great pleasure!"
"Then face us, dark-souled one! Face the Naga until you die!"
Searing Lightning flew from her fingers and crashed through his shield, sending him back writhing in pain. Fighting it, Gul'Dan raised his hands in a chant and shouted a word of power hidden deep within the mists of the arcane flow. At once the Naga female reeled, stunned by the arcane impact within her, and the warlock painfully came to his feet. Beside him, the Death Knights and Ogre Magi fought fiercely with the other spellcasters, while grunts and ogres fought the male serpents in furious physical combat. Many more orcs covered the bloody field than naga, but the serpents had not been that numerous to begin with, and the Horde's numbers were beginning to prevail as it always had in the end.
The setting in which the battle occurred must have once bee the heart of a truly magnificent city. If the stonework and collapsed statues and paves, overgrown ways were any indication, it must have once been such that it outshone even such human places as Stormwind, Whitefort and the Violet Citadel, or indeed even elven Silvermoon itself. Even now, decayed, muddy, no more than mere ruins, still greatness lingered in this shattered place. Still the arcane flow pulsed strong.
Suddenly scores and scores of corpses surged to their feet, attacking the surprised females at the Death Knights' orders. Several went down under the mass of straining undead flesh, while others began to panic outright. Without their firm guidance, the males began to falter, their ferocity diminishing even as the bloodthirsty grunts and ogres, their curse augmented by Ogre Magi spells, surged forth one more time. Behind the scene of war, shadows began to lengthen as the day waned.
Having fought the annoying beasts for over six such days, with Doomhammer certainly hot in pursuit of his forces and time running out, the warlock vowed that he would break and scatter the so-called Naga before night came - and raised his hands to summon help.
Summoning was by no means tempting - the demons of the Burning Legion were dangerous in the best of circumstances, and any slip might turn the summoned fiend against him. But that female would not be stunned forever, and he needed an edge immediately, before she could recover. Thus, he chanted the words, letting his being be the conductor needed to bring one such fiend into the material world. The tug against him was strong, yet his strength of will bent the energies to do his bidding.
Finally, the energies coalesced, and a ball of green energy slammed into the ground, scattering the large guards around his recovering enemy. Out of the small crater came an enormous humanoid shape filled and surrounded by fire not of this world. It strained against his control, yet the construct had no mind of his own, and yielded to him as he poured his power.
"Now, Infernal." he commanded, enunciating his command clearly so no outside interference might warp his words. "I command you to destroy the serpent women next to you. Do so, and be returned to your plane of existence!" Several male nagas rushed to engage both him and the Infernal as it turned and, with one mighty blow, swatted the female spellcaster away.
They never quite made it. Although large and powerful, the nagas were intercepted by large Ogres, which had been left to protect Gul'Dan. Led by Cho'Gall himself, they tore into the enemy ranks, even as the Infernal struggled against the combined might of the wounded spellcaster and the male Nagas. In time, he knew, it would fall. But not before it had done some very real damage.
Gul'Dan knew that this was perhaps the only time in the battle during which he would have time to recuperate; yet he did not. Time was growing short as the day turned to night, and he did not wish to waste more time fighting these sea dwellers. Gathering his reserves, he began to chant, gathering his power for one terrific blow. Energy gathered as he did, while a feeling of weakness developed in his gut. This spell was taking much after such long days, but the warlock had suffered through worse. His goal in sight, he refused to yield to his body's demands and struggled with words, gestures and power, molding them together even as the Infernal began to be torn apart by his opposition.
A little more and they would have been upon him. A little more and he would have been an easy target.
They did not have time to do it. He did not permit himself to fall.
Light illuminated the field even as balls of fire rained down upon his opponents, smashing them to flaming bits or delivering fiery torment to those who were unlucky enough to survive. The scorching eat was nearly untenable even to the warlock himself, fed as it was by the arcane energies of this world and mixed with the special magic which could only be found in the twisting nether. Screams of death and pain roared as the smell of burned flesh wafted to his nose.
He slumped despite himself. Even if he did want it, he would be unable to throw another spell of that kind for some time yet. This costly fight, although enormous, had drained his reserves of mystical energies.
And yet, as he looked towards the carnage he had wrought and its consequences, he saw clearly that it had been worth it. The charred corpses were unrecognizable, and without their leader, the Naga had faltered, and were breaking against the might of his orcs and ogres. Looking battered but triumphant, Cho'Gall approached him, his lumbering body also showing the strains of the battle.
"Success, master Gul'Dan." he said, elated despite his tiredness.
"Yes." he answered, and closed his eyes for a moment to savour that fact. These islands were his to explore. And the power contained was his to take. No one - and certainly not Doomhammer - would be able to stop him now.
He saw something move. His eyes spotted the movement amongst the corpses, and he saw, approaching, that the female spellcaster had survived the last spell he had cast. Defiant to the end, her hands moved in agony as she tried to raise something of her magics. He came next to her and looked down. Aegwynn's tools, these Naga had been. How said he had never been able to meet this truly ruthless Guardian.
"My thanks for these islands: I release you from you burden." he said, and sent a last bolt of magic into the dying body. It ceased twitching at once. For a few moments, he stared down. In disgust...and perhaps in a sort of pity.
And then he turned away. There was much to be done. Much to be discovered. It would be all his!
No matter the price that might be asked.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Autumn 596, Wyvern Army Training Camp, Lordearon-New Azeroth Borders
Bram's shield slammed hard into the trainee, and the recruit was flung back, blood spraying from a broken nose. No one went to help him. No one dared to, for Bram looked at them sternly, daring them to make a move. He looked down at the inexperienced man and snorted.
"Issat all you've got?" he demanded "You think you'll get an orc with an attack like that?! I be tellin', this is pathetic!" he smirked in disdain, which carried the mood over to the surrounding conscripts and recruits, as well as the veteran soldiers present. "You'll need to do better than that if you want to be of any use. 'S far as I can see, you'd be o' better use as a damn decoy!"
Some of the veterans chortled at that, while the other man - one about Bram's own age, if he was any judge - bristled. There was poignant pain, despair and anger in his eyes as he spat. "The Light blasts ya! I never asked to be in this place, listening to you and your useless things!" There was a hesitant mutter of agreement from the assembled civilians-turned-soldiers, and even the presence of battle veterans did not deter it.
Bram looked over them and wondered how he and the other Alliance officers were ever going to make such a low-morale, despondent bulk of people into a large, well-trained army strong enough to take the Horde and push it back for good. The feelings he had from these people had nothing to do with the training he had had, a lifetime ago it would seem. But then again, he and the others had been volunteers, who had joined freely. These were conscripts - farmers, merchants and minor nobles who never asked to have anything to do with the war beyond paying the heavy taxes and seeing a large part of their goods regularly taken to feed and equip the army.
Deep down, in his heart of hearts, the young man from the little farm near Gregsburg felt much empathy for these people. He had no wish to force people into such a fight. But on the other hand, he had seen what the Horde could do. He had been on many battlefields, had seen the mounds of bodies, the numbers of wounded. He had seen the graves, the fallen villages, and the burned fields and forests.
He had seen what the War was costing good men and women on the front lines at that very moment. And if bringing them reinforcements meant that he had to break a few heads, then see if that wouldn't be what he'd do. Growling slightly, he rammed the man back down. The mutters stopped as he turned to look upon them all.
"Get this well and good." he spat "You don't want to be here, and I don't want to be wasting my time. You'd like to be home and I'd like to be out there, fighting with boys and girls with whom I have a very special bond now. But that's not how life is. The Alliance wants armies to face the Horde fair and square. You're part of that now. So I suggest you deal with it, and stop complaining about things you can't change!"
"Big words for a regular soldier!" the man said, his words increasingly slurred because of his bleeding, swelling nose. "You don' worry abou' anythin' but your sword..."
That did not go over well. A few of the veteran soldiers approached the guy, and it was clear from the light in their eyes that they didn't intend just a little bashing. Bram took a few steps forward himself, with the intent of stopping them, while the crowd of reluctant recruits watched with ever-increasing apprehension. Damn it to the Beyond! Damn the council for making the conscription, and damn Fate for making it necessary!
"I understand what you're saying, better than you think." a firm voice came over the crowd, and seemed to break the volatile tension as many looked in that direction. The soldiers and Bram quickly recognized the armoured man who was striding to them, and pulled themselves into salutes.
"General Swiftblade. Welcome, sir!" Bram said. The worst of it was that he meant it. Even though the other man seemed to be sometimes cold and unfeeling, sometimes asking things which shouldn't be asked, he was the general who did his best to make his men win and go home to tell the tale. If only for that, Aerth Swiftblade, newly named Lord-General of the Wyvern Army, had earned the respect of his soldiers.
"Captain Poorglade." The general nodded, then looked down at the man who had almost started a fight. "I said that I understood what you meant. I've fought on more battlefields than anyone here, but I can understand the needs and dreams people have. I myself have a wife I love, and two children I wish to see grow up." he paused "Yet, I will fight on. Because, friends, there is no other option. This is not a war that will be stopped so easily. There will be no negociations. There will be nothing but blood and death. Until we win or they do. I can understand that this is frightening..."
The man started to get up, and Swiftblade, despite wearing heavy armour, swiftly swept him down again, his face suddenly cold "However...never talk of those who gave their lives so you can stand there and rant like they meant nothing. Every soldier who died meant something. To me, to the Alliance and to the world. Never talk about them in this way again." He stepped away, his gaze taking everyone in. "This is a war. And we will win it. So the next generation never has to become as despicable as we have to be."
There was much muttering now, both fearful and awed, as the general moved away. Spying Swiftblade's look in his direction, Poorglade swiftly whipped up his subordinates to continue the fighting demonstrations, and briskly followed his commander. They had not walked long before the older man stopped.
"Are all groups like this one?"
Lying wasn't the way to go with the general. "Pretty much, sir. Some places its worse, some a lil' better, but that's much the same in the end of it."
A resigned sigh. "I see. I suppose I should have expected this."
"Sir, with respect, gettin' those people ready for a fight ain't gonna come quick. We got the men to train 'em here, but' it'll take time to give 'em some backbone."
Swiftblade looked towards the group they'd just left, where the sergeants were starting drills once more. His expression wavered between disappointment and understanding, until the lines hardened into firm decision.
"We have until early spring next year to get them up to speed, and arm them as well as possible. Then the Wyvern and Lion armies will move south to aid Minvare's Unicorn Army, which isn't faring too well lately."
Poorglade wanted to argue the point, but knew better than to do it. The fact was that the general, although using plain terms, was only saying what all officers had learned by then: that Rellon Minvare's thrust into Khaz Modan had been blunted, and that he and his veteran forces were being slowly but surely forced back to the Land Bridges. The most optimistic estimates stated that the stalemate situation which had been before Minvare's daring plan would be gone within a year. That meant the Alliance had to act before then.
Only it wouldn't be much good to strike back without a good deal of fresh forces. And with these civilians, he wasn't too certain about the possibilities.
Bad luck it was this camp was made up mainly of Lordaeril conscripts. Of all countries, the people of Lordaeron - especially the western provinces - had tasted less of the war, and thus found themselves detached from it. Stromgarde and New Azeroth, by contrast, had little difficulty finding men and women to fight because of their intimate knowledge of the war, while most other nations had given more reluctantly, yet more readily than populous Lordearon had. For all their speeches and high words, despite the undeniable strength of their numerous ranks of knights and priests, it was clear that Lordaeron's people did not have the sheer will of the other nations.
Well, when all was said and done, there was no use crying about things. Things were as they were, and as the officer in charge of that training camp, it was his job to make things work out so that they'd be able to send back the green monsters back where they belong.
"I'll give ya your army, Lord-General Swiftblade." he said, surprised by his solemn tone. "But if I might say, it'll be your work that'll make it survive in the end."
If the other man was surprised or shocked or angry of Bram's words, he didn't show it. Instead he just nodded once. "You give me the men, captain, and I'll do my best to see that as many of them as I can return home to whatever they did before."
And Swiftblade, for all his faults and cold judgements, was known as a man of his word. Another reason his men respected him so much.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 596, Violet Citadel, Dalaran
Khadgar walked the streets of the magical city briskly, his mind torn between disbelief and anger. He had known, deep down, that going to the Halls of the Wind and talk with the Kirin Tor would be a wasted venture, but he simply couldn't believe that the archmages were considering waiting before sending more mages in the field!
Gerath Daretyl, looking older by the day, had explained it to him while he had been resting from his travels in the Karal Tor's impromptu headquarters in Hillsbrad. It seemed that the people of Dalaran, for all of their devotion to sending out common soldiers, gold and goods to the war effort, were hesitant to send out their most precious commodity - magicians.
"They seem to fear that Gilneas might attack them if they became too weak." the old man had said.
"That is pure fantasy, sir! We both know that, when the war ends and IF it ends in our favour, we'll all be far too busy rebuilding than thinking of conquest!"
"That is what we Azerothians might say, but then again we never had a true enemy. Bad blood between Gilneas and Dalaran has existed ever since Orumei was split centuries ago. It is not easy to forget the past."
"For the good of humanity, we should!" he growled, forgetting himself, uttering words he would find quite ridiculous and naive soon. The old man, head of a shattered and slowly healing order, only transfixed with a look.
"And if, for the good of humanity, we had to ally ourselves with the Horde one day?" he asked mildly.
He had immediately gritted his teeth. "That's..." he'd then stopped. He had once believed, once, that peace with the orcs could be achieved. He'd once believed in it. He had heard that Larienne Proudmoore, having taken a view of the battles, had begun talking with orcs with that purpose in mind. He had once been like that - he had trusted an half-orc once - but these feelings were now removed beneath years of conflict and growing hatred.
The old archmage had seen his expression, and had nodded. "So you see why Dalaran is using so few of its mages in this Second War yet."
He had. But that hadn't stopped him from trying to convince the Kirin Tor otherwise. Unsurprisingly, and frustratingly, he had had little success. Which explained why, as he entered his own room, located in a small tower assigned to Karal Tor guests, he felt nothing amiss until he was shocked by a point-blank lightning bolt.
His concentration nonexistent, wide open as he was, he should have died. Yet, the lightning curved around him and struck the writing table next to his bed. It tore asunder, just as he realized what had just happened.
Not knowing how or why the bolt hadn't touched him, his brain called forth possibilities that the fighting portion of his mind pushed away until later. He doubted his attacker had intended for him to be spared from this point-blank attack, and thus only had an instant to rally.
Instincts born and cultivated in the First War guessed where the enemy must be standing, at the same time his left hand grasped one of the four wands at his belt, pointing it behind him. Out of practice, the word of activation burst forth, and a great stream of fire gushed forth. The smell of sulphur came to his nose, but nothing else, and he guessed that he had missed. That his enemy hadn't fought back, however, suggested that he had surprised it.
He discarded the wand of flame - no power was left in that one - and seeing no one around, took out a slender knife and cut his hand, letting the blood drip into his hand. He then flung the same gathered blood into the aid, stopping it with a gesture, letting go of the knife and molding a divination seal with it. He muttered words of divination as he formed it.
"By the blood of the pact, I command thee. By the flow of the arcane and the soul, reveal thy form to me!" he growled. At once energy glowed from the blood seal, and lanced out, forming patterns of divination in the room - and revealing shape. He quickly pointed his wand towards it.
The shape - a person in a magical cloak, most likely, did not stay still. Showing great dexterity and agility, it, deftly dodged the beam of frost and replied with a hail of magically endowed knives. Acting on instinct, Khadgar summoned a plane of force to counter it. He was thus surprised when a counter spell broke it, and magical missile streaked towards him.
He ducked out of the way, letting go of the wand, quickly rubbing his bloody hand with the other to augment the energy of his attack - a trick Medhiv himself had taught him long ago. He whispered the Tirisfal words of quickening, and without barely a snap of thought, a second of movement, a cone of cold slammed into his opponent.
It seemed that his opponent, however, had managed to see the attack, as it teleported out of the way at the last moment. Appearing to his side. At once Khadgar summoned his staff to him, and pointed it towards the intruder, only to find it moving. Discarding the staff as useless in such a quick fight, knowing that aiming would not aid, him, the young archmage instead called upon a ring that he wore, and sent out a psychic shock to his opponent.
The moving cloak seized its rapid pace and chant for just a moment, breaking its prepared spell, but immediately a gust of wind swept to Khadgar, who barely deflected it with a counter of his own.
'Its been a while since anyone has given me such a fight. Whoever that assassin is, it is an extremely cunning and talented magi!' he thought to himself. A silence ward must be around his room, so no one would come to check the disturbance. This, however, opened a door to him. Slapping his hands together, Khadgar moved his fingers while incanting words that had ever been known only by a very select few.
"Uniyan Koh Tirisfalis ko Nunuian Moko Leiun-men Tirisfalas Kado-Kos..." he muttered, and in an instant the room flashed once, then twice, and finally took on a bluish hue. Khadgar stood up and looked towards his would-be assassin.
"You are a remarkable spellcaster, but your tricks end here. This spell stops any magic except some that only I possess from working. Give yourself up and tell me who wishes me dead, and I will be very-" he was about to say lenient when a pair of knife nearly stuck into him, and he once again dodged. Just in time for a smoke bomb to go off.
Stupid, stupid, stupidstupidstupidstupid! Here he was paying the price of smug superiority. Certain in having disabled his opponent's magical ability, he had forgotten about physical tricks. He tensed for a renewed attack, readying those spells Medhiv had taught him, until he saw no one when the smoke cleared. Whoever had come to kill him had decided to cut its losses and run.
He got to his feet, and surveyed his room - which was in unrecognizable shambles. No use trying to find that one. Someone that skilled certainly hadn't left any trace.
It was only the last of many occurrences, which made certain that something was up. A sorcerous assassin of that level of skill and power certainly didn't come cheap at all. In fact, only very wealthy individuals had historically been able to afford one to kill an archmage.
Each member of the Kirin Tor had access to such wealth, and Khadgar refused to believe that this was coincidence. It was too soon, and too perfectly timed. In his mind, there was no longer any doubt: there was great corruption at the heart of the most powerful magical organization in the world.
That was a disgusting concept, and one he had never wanted to come true despite his suspicions. Now however, he knew that he would have to prepare himself. To find out what the evil amongst the greatest archmages of the world was.
And, with allies, eliminate it.
Stopping his anti-magic field, Khadgar took one last look around his room, nodded once, and teleported away. He had a lot of work to do.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 596, Hidden Valley, Stromgarde
Gelmar Thornfeet watched as Drek'Thar and Xirral, the two most gifted of his first pupils, taught new and less able students with a mixture of pride and envy. Not that he minded not having to teach all the time - it certainly had been an handful, finding those who could be taught, convincing them to renounce the bloodlust and turn back to the way their people once were - but he did feel that emotion when he saw the easy way the pupils reacted to them.
He might have had that once. In the beginning, when the Hidden Valley's population had been small and not quite as secured. But now, things had changed. A few of his pupils, although weak yet compared to him, could now stand on their own and needed but supplementary lessons at best, while prodigal shamans like the two orcs he looked at no longer needed those at all. A few were now shamans, and each had taken pupils.
He was now the Patriarch Gelmar, the Far Seer and the Friend of the Spirits. Or some similar nonsense. Now, the pupils looked at him with more than respect. It was nearing adulation, and that bothered him. That had not been how his old master - Spirits guard the old human! - had viewed things, and neither was it what he wanted. But for some reason things had shaped themselves that way.
Now, few came to him for lessons, and those few who were full shamans were sending only those they deemed 'worthy of his attention'. How was he supposed to react to that, except that it made him seem like a picky old orc? Still, he said nothing. After all, the others were also caught up with the growing myth around him. Except for Drek'Thar - may that sensible orc be thrice blessed! - he was being treated like some sort...
...some sort of ICON.
Him. Gelmar Thornfeet. A former Necrolyte of mediocre skill and drive.
He wasn't certain if the irony of it was going to make him laugh or cry, so he usually settled for unsettled grunts when he thought about that.
The Hidden Valley itself had changed, as orcs had taken to tiling the empty lands around the village. All around the larger structure of his Halls, orcs cultivated, forged, cooked, trained and did all sorts of mundane things. All without much if any violence, which was greatly discouraged except in the case of an attack. Having learned reading from captured humans in what was seemingly called the First War, Gelmar had taught the basics, and now the interest in filling his Halls with books was growing. Here, the orcs were starting to let go of violent tendencies.
Now, if he could get them to stop looking at him like he was some sort of prophet or saint, he'd be perfectly happy with his life at the moment!
"Grandpa, will you tell us a story?" asked a voice, and he turned to see three orcling faces looking at him hopefully. He grinned benevolently at them, affection showing plainly on his face.
If his status had taken a confounding twist, his relationship with the three wayward, orphaned orclings had been the light in his life. Having brought them to the Hidden Valley and fed them, he had soon discovered that the little trio wanted to be with him. Bemused at first, he had quickly developed a liking for the three youths that only deepened with time. When they had started calling him 'grandpa', he hadn't flinched like when his pupils and adult orcs had begun to call him 'patriarch'.
It was Horarg, strong-minded and loud-mouthed, who had asked. No surprises there. Being the oldest of the three and the most forceful, he had become the leader of the three 'siblings.' Beside him sat introspective, intelligent Rana and the big - for a four year old - and definitely sympathetic Koro. He had subtly looked for clues and had found that only this last, big one had no capacity for shamanism, while Rana, although less obvious in her strength then her older brother, had what could be great potential.
"A story? Again?" he asked in an amused tone "Mind you, you three'll suck the knowledge right out of me if this continues."
"We want to hear a story from you, grandpa! You know all the good stories! You know everything!" Koro told him excitedly. He couldn't help but chuckle softly - and a trifle sadly - at the orcling's naiveté.
"If only that were true." he mused, more to himself than to them. "Then I might have found a way to stop what is occurring outside the Valley. Very well, then. A story it will be. But not right now. I must go see to the shamans and talk to them one last time. Then we will eat, and I will tell you a story. How does that sound?"
It was a done deal, although the three would certainly have preferred a story right away. Yet they agreed, and scampered from the Spirit Lodge. He had no fear that they would be harmed. Even if they weren't already enjoying a sort of 'privileged status' from being his adopted grandchildren, violence done to orclings was one of the few things to which there was no mercy - even from Gelmar.
He had lied, however, when he had said that he had wished to talk to the shamans. Although he often did so, he was now more interested with an orc who had just come in. From his garb, he was probably one of their scouts, which was gathering news of the northlands. He was busy talking with Xirral, who had actually dismissed his own students and was now listening with rapt attention. Intrigued by this behaviour, Gelmar approached the pair.
A meditative fire burned nearby, and the lights danced on their expressions as they took notice of him. Both bowed slightly but respectfully - the Far Seer checked his need to grunt in dismay - and turned their attention to him fully.
"Master Gelmar." Xirral said in a voice with contained far too much respect "Forgive me for not seeing you approach."
"Think nothing of it, Xirral. I was intrigued when - Uoroth, is it?"
"Yes, patriarch."
Checked the flinch. "...when Uoroth came to talk to you? The news seemed very interesting, and I would like to hear of them."
"This may only be nonsense, master."
"Nonetheless, I will hear it and decide for myself. Please, Uoroth, do go on."
The young orc looked embarrassed from talking to him - which was ridiculous as far as Gelmar was concerned - but spoke readily enough. "It's just a rumour that I heard north of here. It seems that there's this human woman... Larienne Proudmoore, I think the name is. She's an important human female, and there's talk of her talking to orcs, of her talking about the possibility of peace."
"A possibility of peace? Between us and the humans?" Gelmar asked in amazement.
"Yes, patriarch." he chuckled in embarrassment. "I know that she sounds like a crazy human..."
"If she is doing what you say she is doing," he corrected solemnly "then she is not only worthy of respect but of heartfelt admiration." Inwardly, he had trouble believing it. A human, seeking peace after all of this insanity? It didn't seem possible. And yet...if it was...this might be something he could anchor his hopes on. "Where is the human woman now?" he asked.
"Travelling to the Stromgardian capital of Redgates, I think."
"Good. Then we will find her. I want to...talk to her."
They both looked at him as if he'd announced he was the King of Azeroth in disguise. Xirral nearly swallowed his tongue, while the scout seemed to want to fade into the ground. The shaman stepped to him almost frantically. "Master, you musn't! The Hidden Valley needs your wisdom! Our people need you! We can't allow you to put yourself in danger."
Gelmar understood what the other orc was saying, but still he held firm. "I know, Xirral. But peace is a prospect more important than me, probably more than the Hidden Valley. If one human has extended a hand, we must grasp it, and not let this conflict continue. I will meet her. Arrange it as you will, and if you must, but it will happen." He thought about Koro's naive assertion that Gelmar knew everything. It was an untruth. But if he could learn shamanism from one human, he could certainly talk of peace with another.
"This Larienne Proudmoore who talks of peace." he said softly "I wish to see her, hear her, for myself."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 596, Alterac City, Alterac
Polla Mendrannon, leader of the Alliance Council's special investigation team, was tossed to the floor and grunted as pain shot through her body. Still, although the pain and humiliation from the torture and questioning had taken its toll, she refused herself anything more than that. Not in front of these two men who had betrayed not just their nation, but had also put humanity's continued existence on shaky grounds because of their deeds.
She lay there a second, gathering her strength, before she was painfully yanked to her feet. Still she did not cry out. Instead she glared with all the hatred she could muster into the eyes of the men in front of her.
Perenolde, looking old and worn, looked at her crumpled, broken body before resting a cool gaze on her. "So, mistress Mendrannon, it appears that you still wish to refrain from telling us what exactly you learned about this Nation and its dealings."
She kept her mouth thinly shut, her glare unrelenting. It seemed to tire the monarch, moreso than the obvious discomfort that he had of being in his castle's lowest, dankest dungeon.
"Surely, you realize what your other team-mates suffered through because of your stubbornness?"
Months of spying, of controlling her reactions, allowed her to keep a straight face as her fear and anger rose to the surface. Almost all of her comrades - nearly the entire band with only two exceptions, had been captured suddenly, and put through cruel, ultimately fatal treatments even as she refused to talk to her captors. Cynth, Jerome, Danikth...all had died slowly, begging for the end as they lost their mind through the torture. Those cries still haunted her soul.
But she wouldn't show it. Not to them. The friendship she felt for these people, the bond she had, they didn't deserve to know. Thus, her only answer was silence.
"You're wasting your time trying to coax that reaction." said Duraz, who looked unsteady and unusually unsure, yet still spoke with arrogant contempt. "She was picked by Swiftblade to lead that team, and for all the things I can say about that common-born peasant, I admit he judges people well enough. She won't tell you anything."
"Then I suppose we will have to convince her that we know almost everything already, shall we?" Perenolde mused, and beckoned with his hand. And from the shadows emerged a smirking lean man of average build. A man she knew quite well.
"Hello, Polla." Hesav said calmly, looking actually sorry of seeing her broken state "It's not a good day for you, is it?"
Looking at that face - remembering the meetings, remembering Hesav's continued playing chess with Cynth, his apparent devotion to the Alliance cause - she couldn't help but let a little bit, a mere fraction, of her ire into her voice as she spoke her first two words in days. "Damned traitor."
He actually looked affronted by that word. "I'm a patriot, Polla. Unlike you, my people come first. My king and my country before anything else. I've no regrets about my path."
"Sir Hesav has been taking care of your investigations and the documents you secured, destroying them as you thought them secure." Perenolde added, in a tired but smug voice.
Her documents...that meant that they...yes...yes, if what she was hearing was true, it meant that...yes...
"But some documents never came into my hands, you see." Hesav stated "With the group crushed like this, the chances of anything coming of it are slim, but still, no one here - except for you - wish to see it fall into the hands of people who put foreign concerns above those of their nation!"
She couldn't help but let out a bitter chuckle, and was rewarded with a hot poker being prodded into her from behind. She growled in pain, but her inner mirth never quite ceased. These people, who had betrayed everything, that they still thought themselves noble and right yet struck her as crazy, stupid, and definitely amusing. In this struggle, national boundaries had to be temporarily abolished in the name of mutual aid and, most importantly, in the name of survival.
"I will...not...give you the information. Might as well kill me now." she smirked, and let out another strangled grunt of pain as the hot poker was rammed into her bruised backside again.
"We will kill you, Polla." Hesav said matter-of-factly "The only choice you have is the length your death will take."
In short, they would torture her until she died. She had seen interrogation teams, and few were known to go 'soft' on captured prisoners. Their promises were flimsy, and inconsequential. She shot her mouth, clearly stating that she wouldn't be saying another word to them. Her hair was yanked back, and she was forced to her knees, the jailors obviously preparing her for something definitely unpleasant. Fear blossomed in her heart, yet she kept a hold of it.
"What about the last one." she heard Perenolde comment "Hasn't the last one been captured yet?"
"Cay?" Hesav snorted, "He'll be back tomorrow. I sent him on a useless mission to divide them. He'll be easy to capture, so-"
"Heh. Hehehehe...hehehehahahahahaha!! Idiots!" she burst out despite herself, despite the pain in every part of her being. She knew that, by doing this, she was sealing her fate, but she didn't care. The fact that she knew the answer to the joke dimmed her fear, and not even the poker could stop it. The three men looked at her as if wondering if she had gone made - which she may be now, who knew or cared? - until finally Duraz's expression changed as realization hit.
"Quick!" he said, grabbing Hesav. "When did you send that Cay away?"
"Four days ago. It was a five-day mission. Not to worry, though-"
"Not to worry! Fool! That woman's nothing! HE'S the real infiltrator!" he gritted his teeth "Light blast it all! This reeks of Lothar's sneaky tricks!"
"But I don't understand." her former comrade cried, "Cay was the least cooperative. He was always complaining, never taking our theories seriously."
"On the outside!" Polla uttered a pain-filled chuckle "That had been the point of it. We were just the obvious people. If we could gather the information, good. If not, Cay made certain at least he would. In case there was a mole. I was the only one in the team to be told of that - that's why the others never told you.
Cay, always lumbering along reluctantly, but in truth one of the Alliance's greatest infiltrators, was probably halfway out of the country by now. Before they even began to mount a search, she was certain he'd have reached safe Alliance lands. The men in front of her had been the butt of a superb joke, and she felt that, as a last defiant act, she'd have to tell them how costly it would be for them.
"Cay'll give the information to Lothar! And Alterac can't stand against all of the other nations! Help or no help, Horde or not, this nation's finished!"
Perenolde looked at her in pure, sudden rage. "Traitorous whore!"
"YOU are the traitors, Perenolde! Because of you, this country will end!" she said, and received a strong blow to the head. Her consciousness flickered, and she met the ground. Still she held on, knowing deep down that this was the end.
But she'd been ready, hadn't she? She'd been ready the moment Lothar had told her the real goals. She'd accepted the risks.
"Take her away!" she heard as if from far away, and she felt herself drifting into the welcome black of nothingness. Her last thoughts turned to apologies for her fallen comrades, and with one thought she shouted in her mind with a relish which would have appalled and infuriated an Alterac-born woman like her a year before.
Alterac was finished.
______________________________________________________
Alliance Army Rank Structure
In early 592, as the different Alliance nations were busy bringing their different armies together into one diversified, well-trained combat force, a rank structure was adopted and ratified by the Alliance High Command. These ranks, except for a specially added rank in late 595, have since stayed constant and will most likely continue to do so in the foreseeable future. These ranks will now follow, from lowest to Highest.
1.Third Sword
The basic rank a new recruit receives upon finishing it's training, this rank is the lowest in the Alliance Army, given to soldiers with little to no experience, or responsibilities. All Third Swords are commoners.
2.Second Sword
The rank of Second Sword Is generally given to soldiers who have either been on duty for more than 2 years, or else have proven their mettle on the field. Although they have little more responsibility, these soldiers have some experience and are dependable. They currently make a very large part of the Alliance Army. All Second Swords are also commoners.
3. First Sword
First Swords have proven themselves in a few battles or have served 4 years or more. They are generally experienced, which allows them to command small scouting or sentry units. The Alliance Army currently has quite a few First Swords due to its many battles with the Horde. Like the Third and Second Swords, First Swords are all commoners.
4. Sergeant
Soldiers who become Sergeants have either proven strong leadership and military abilities, or else have served in the armed forces for 7 years or more - something that was rarely seen before the First and Second Wars. Sergeants are experienced and well trained, and are usually given command of ten to fifteen men on the field. Like all ranks below them, Sergeants are always commoners.
5. Lieutenant
The basic Officer Rank in the Alliance Army, Lieutenant ranks were generally given to nobles before the First War, yet since then the far larger number has been made up of strong, capable commoners. This is the basic rank a noble serving in the armed forces, or a member of a knighthood, receives. In charge of about one hundred men on the field, those Knights who attain that rank have little power over their own peers.
6. Captain
Once the highest rank a commoner could achieve, today nearly two-thirds of these are not of noble birth, as the horrors of war have convinced the Alliance commanders to give ranks to those who deserved them. A Captain is often in charge of training camps, of over five hundred troops, or - if a knight - of a one hundred knightly unit. Captains are always men who have proven themselves trustworthy and more than able to deal with anything the Second War might show.
7. Commander
Either commanding a whole army section, a region, or a fort, commanders are expert soldiers and strategist who answer only to generals. Once exclusively intended for nobility, a few commoners have been able to gain this rank through sheer merit, yet this remains rare. Commanders command thousands of troops on the field, while a Knight holding this rank commands the entire Knight Unit in one particular army.
8. General
Powerful soldiers, quick-thinking leaders and excellent strategists make up a large part of what a general is about. This rank is the highest attainable, except for the special ranks, and are always given to noble. It could be said that Aerth Swiftblade was the first commoner to receive such a title, yet he was raised to the peerage so soon after that it might not quite count. A general commands armies of twenty thousand, or sit at the Alliance High Command.
9. Lord-General
A new, special rank invented by Lothar in 595, ratified and finally given in 596, this rank is almost unique as only four hold it. From the Generals of the Alliance, the four most remarkable have been given command over the four grand armies that are forming, each numbering at least one hundred thousand. Thus, each of the Lord-Generals is a strong warrior, and a proven leader of very great abilities, answering only to Anduin Lothar himself. The four Lord-Generals are Illadan Eltrass, Rellon Minvare, Aerth Swiftblade and Turalyon Kharan.
10. High General
The title currently held by Anduin Lothar, the High General has command over all Alliance Armed forces, even able - under duress - to command the Grand Admiral of the Fleet. This is the highest military title in the entire Alliance.
Late Summer 596, Alterac City, Alterac
The orc commander looked smug and superior as he grinned at the humans seated on the other side of the conference table. There was something about that which made Duraz bristle, almost making him forget his own hatred and humiliation. "I don't think we can put more troops into your city. The warchief has need of his forces for more important battles."
It only seemed to agitate the King of Alterac further. Perenolde's face was a remarkable study of fear and distraught anger as he lashed out. "There is a treaty between Alterac and the Horde! Will Doomhammer dare to break it?" he demanded. It, of course, phased the orc not a bit.
"And what will you do if he ever does?" was the thoroughly smug question. It was one that Duraz might have asked himself. "Attack us by yourself? Tell your human allies that you have been giving us information and even some troops to aid us for the last five years?"
As much as this might have angered Perenolde, he was smart enough not to answer anything to that. Indeed, the fallen general knew, there was very little the King could do. He didn't have enough troops to threaten anyone, and his personal position and political power were only potent as far as the other Alliance nations had no idea whether Alterac had betrayed them or not. Oh, they were suspicious, and if he could bet on something, it would be on the fact that the old dog Lothar or that weak-bodied Terenas had already sent missions to see if rumours and the words of capture of barely-literate sailors held any truth to them. Surrounded by Lordaeron, Stromgarde and New Azeroth, it was clear that things would go badly if the truth ever got out.
Such was the state of his asylum! How could things have gone from so encouraging to such lows of despair?!? That question had been eating at his mind ever since the day he had had to flee Whitefort and his ambitions.
In a way, however, his flight to Alterac had allowed him to learn what the Alliance planned. He had thus learned that the Alliance Council - without asking for Perenolde's vote or approval, had voted to raise a large army totalling at least four hundred thousand men and women from all participating nations, with the intent to fully take the fight to a seemingly fractured Horde. It was a bold plan, utilizing a force, which hadn't been seen since Arathor had been at the height of its power.
"Without Alterac, the Horde shall have no way to maintain its remaining bases north of the Land Bridges." Perenolde told the orcish commander with a cold edge to his voice. His fear was almost perfectly hidden. Almost. Beads of sweat could be seen under the slim golden crown. "Your forces have had less than grand successes against Alliance forces of late, so I am told. I do think that you need every edge."
Duraz didn't wish to hear the orc's response. He could guess it. Perenolde was caught like a rat in a hole; he simply refused to admit that either of the two opposing powers would destroy him if only one thing went wrong. He rose politely and coldly excused himself, leaving before he told the sovereign of his unmitigated stupidity and so lost his last refuge.
Perenolde had ordered his country to follow the council's wishes, so that his country would not appear suspect. But the fact that the council had acted without so much as a by-your-leave told the story: suspicion was high, and something was imminent. Something large and unpleasant might soon befall this small, blind country.
"Why, why hello, milord Duraz!" a jolly voice he knew crowed "Been living well despite it all, I see!"
Without thinking, the elaborate blade came out of its sheet as Duraz took hold of the man who had just appeared, pressing the blade to his neck. The man was small, but well muscled and sinewy, with a rather nondescript face. It was the face of one who had once given him information - and had abandoned him like a coward.
"Falanzin!" he growled "You double-crossing little cur, I should kill you right here and now!" To press the point home, he pressed the blade further, drawing blood. Falanzin only looked at him with a smile that lacked any of the nervousness he was used to with the man. Where had this confidence come from?
"Come, come." said the spy, who seemed not at all concerned of the mortal danger he was in. "Come, come. You are alive, aren't you? You should be happy enough with that."
"Happy with that?!?" he shouted in stupefaction, uncaring whether or not one might hear him and come. How dare this fool believe in telling HIM how he should feel! "After my plans are destroyed, my ambitions dashed?!? Happy is the farthest from what I am."
"I'm very sorry to hear that. But at the same time, I must congratulate you. You did excellently." was the response he received. "You played your part even more perfectly than we thought you would. That is why I came."
Duraz, for a moment, thought he'd heard wrong. "What are you saying?" he asked the man beneath his blade.
"Oh, now come!" the other man said, his face seeming to change as it adopted a far more confident, craftier look than he ever thought Falanzin was capable of having. "Did you really think that your great successes - and your most abysmal defeat - was due to such a naughty thing as fate? Let me jog your mind a bit."
And with that, the impossible happened. Falanzin raised one hand and muttered three syllables, which threw Duraz right into the opposite wall. No one came running as he came to his feet. And now he was beginning to understand why. "You're a wizard."
"You're catching on. Yes, that IS why no one has come to bother us here, 'milord'. Yes, I am a mage. And I am not the only one who has been shaping your actions. Many have. You were, I must admit, the perfect foil."
"A foil...the Compact...my contacts...my troops. I procured these through my own negotiations!" Duraz growled. He wouldn't believe that everything he had achieved and lost had been nothing but...nothing but...
"But the games we played to a pawn? Yet, that is what you are. A pawn. A silly pawn that thought himself a king."
"You lie!"
"I certainly do not." Falanzin replied gamely "Do you think we'd want the Alliance to be in turmoil at a time like this? When the Horde is barely checked more through its own troubles then the valour of our armies? No, we wanted the Alliance strong, strong and secure in their own world so that, when came the time - and it will come! - we can take control without anyone in the council being the wiser."
"And here you came along. An extremely talented general, a wealthy lord who suffocated from pride and delusions of grandeur. It was so easy for me and others to feed these emotions in you. We helped you organize the Compact. You had the men, the troops, and the power. You made quite a show. We knew, of course, that you'd be defeated. Just as this fool Perenolde will be crushed by either of the powers he is struggling against. Now, with Harpgate fallen but three days ago, the last of the Compact will be considered vanished, leaving the Alliance smug and secure. Just as we wanted."
Duraz got back on his feet slowly; his mind refusing to grasp what was being said fully. Him, the descendant of generations of intelligent and successful nobles and knights, a mere pawn? His compact, and the new Alliance he had envisioned born from his Compact, only an illusion? How could it be? How could it be? How could it be?!? All his preparations, all of his schemes and years of deceit...all for naught? All to PLAY THE FOOL?!?
"Me...your...pawn?" he gritted his teeth as he struggled to gather himself, and his dignity. "I think not! I am Sylphord Duraz of House Duraz, Duke of the Saren Lowlands and lord of Southshore!"
"You are none of that now. Your lands, your titles, your wealth." Falanzin - if that was this creature's name - clapped his hand once "Gone. All you are now is a Rebel Lord to a band of ragged Rebels, stuck in a country about to collapse. You are nothing to the Alliance, nothing to the Horde...and certainly nothing to us."
Duraz howled in what couldn't be - wasn't! - a mad voice and threw himself bodily upon the man, only to find him gone, with mocking words ringing in his ears, and to his soul, searing away much of what had been there, of the illusions which had dwelled within his heart. He screamed a long scream - the last he would utter for the rest of his life.
The words, as he heard them, were "Enjoy your rewards, Lord Duraz. They are equal to your worth."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Summer 596, Broken Islands, On the Great Sea
A few words, deft gestures and the fraction of his will, and Gul'Dan was encased in a sphere of power that broke the energies that the serpent women had wrought and thrown at him. Magical steam and lightning battered his shield but did not deter him as he stepped forth and conjured his own power. Words of power growled out, and quickly the arcane energies - so very strong in this place - responded to him. A cloud of mist, greenish and yellowish at the same time, streamed into the opposing ranks of his enemies like an inevitable scourge.
Many of the large, reptilian snakes immediately convulsed, dying in great pain as the cloud rolled away quickly, but the females - who looked like a cross between large elven females and snakes - held firm, their hands moving in chant, sending spell after spell into his ranks of warriors.
Although it was a waste of time, Gul'Dan's blood relished the feel of facing a truly strong opponent. It was a feeling he had not had since facing archmages in Azeroth. The clash of spells, the blending of arcane energies smashing into one another, was exhilarating.
"You are strong, female serpent!" he called "Very strong to resist me for so long with so few! But your journey ends here, for I intend to take the power within these islands as my own!"
It was impossible that the woman could understand his words - spoken in orcish - and respond in orcish without magic, yet he detected none when she did. "You shall never have this place, Landwalker! The cursed Guardians of Tirisfal have bound us to this place, to defend it forever!"
"Ruthless and practical, to bind water-dwellers and sink these islands anew." he grinned. He found it a pity he would never meet the powerful Aegwynn. If nothing else, he liked her style. "But that changes nothing! This land belongs to me now! And if I must kill every single one of you, I will with great pleasure!"
"Then face us, dark-souled one! Face the Naga until you die!"
Searing Lightning flew from her fingers and crashed through his shield, sending him back writhing in pain. Fighting it, Gul'Dan raised his hands in a chant and shouted a word of power hidden deep within the mists of the arcane flow. At once the Naga female reeled, stunned by the arcane impact within her, and the warlock painfully came to his feet. Beside him, the Death Knights and Ogre Magi fought fiercely with the other spellcasters, while grunts and ogres fought the male serpents in furious physical combat. Many more orcs covered the bloody field than naga, but the serpents had not been that numerous to begin with, and the Horde's numbers were beginning to prevail as it always had in the end.
The setting in which the battle occurred must have once bee the heart of a truly magnificent city. If the stonework and collapsed statues and paves, overgrown ways were any indication, it must have once been such that it outshone even such human places as Stormwind, Whitefort and the Violet Citadel, or indeed even elven Silvermoon itself. Even now, decayed, muddy, no more than mere ruins, still greatness lingered in this shattered place. Still the arcane flow pulsed strong.
Suddenly scores and scores of corpses surged to their feet, attacking the surprised females at the Death Knights' orders. Several went down under the mass of straining undead flesh, while others began to panic outright. Without their firm guidance, the males began to falter, their ferocity diminishing even as the bloodthirsty grunts and ogres, their curse augmented by Ogre Magi spells, surged forth one more time. Behind the scene of war, shadows began to lengthen as the day waned.
Having fought the annoying beasts for over six such days, with Doomhammer certainly hot in pursuit of his forces and time running out, the warlock vowed that he would break and scatter the so-called Naga before night came - and raised his hands to summon help.
Summoning was by no means tempting - the demons of the Burning Legion were dangerous in the best of circumstances, and any slip might turn the summoned fiend against him. But that female would not be stunned forever, and he needed an edge immediately, before she could recover. Thus, he chanted the words, letting his being be the conductor needed to bring one such fiend into the material world. The tug against him was strong, yet his strength of will bent the energies to do his bidding.
Finally, the energies coalesced, and a ball of green energy slammed into the ground, scattering the large guards around his recovering enemy. Out of the small crater came an enormous humanoid shape filled and surrounded by fire not of this world. It strained against his control, yet the construct had no mind of his own, and yielded to him as he poured his power.
"Now, Infernal." he commanded, enunciating his command clearly so no outside interference might warp his words. "I command you to destroy the serpent women next to you. Do so, and be returned to your plane of existence!" Several male nagas rushed to engage both him and the Infernal as it turned and, with one mighty blow, swatted the female spellcaster away.
They never quite made it. Although large and powerful, the nagas were intercepted by large Ogres, which had been left to protect Gul'Dan. Led by Cho'Gall himself, they tore into the enemy ranks, even as the Infernal struggled against the combined might of the wounded spellcaster and the male Nagas. In time, he knew, it would fall. But not before it had done some very real damage.
Gul'Dan knew that this was perhaps the only time in the battle during which he would have time to recuperate; yet he did not. Time was growing short as the day turned to night, and he did not wish to waste more time fighting these sea dwellers. Gathering his reserves, he began to chant, gathering his power for one terrific blow. Energy gathered as he did, while a feeling of weakness developed in his gut. This spell was taking much after such long days, but the warlock had suffered through worse. His goal in sight, he refused to yield to his body's demands and struggled with words, gestures and power, molding them together even as the Infernal began to be torn apart by his opposition.
A little more and they would have been upon him. A little more and he would have been an easy target.
They did not have time to do it. He did not permit himself to fall.
Light illuminated the field even as balls of fire rained down upon his opponents, smashing them to flaming bits or delivering fiery torment to those who were unlucky enough to survive. The scorching eat was nearly untenable even to the warlock himself, fed as it was by the arcane energies of this world and mixed with the special magic which could only be found in the twisting nether. Screams of death and pain roared as the smell of burned flesh wafted to his nose.
He slumped despite himself. Even if he did want it, he would be unable to throw another spell of that kind for some time yet. This costly fight, although enormous, had drained his reserves of mystical energies.
And yet, as he looked towards the carnage he had wrought and its consequences, he saw clearly that it had been worth it. The charred corpses were unrecognizable, and without their leader, the Naga had faltered, and were breaking against the might of his orcs and ogres. Looking battered but triumphant, Cho'Gall approached him, his lumbering body also showing the strains of the battle.
"Success, master Gul'Dan." he said, elated despite his tiredness.
"Yes." he answered, and closed his eyes for a moment to savour that fact. These islands were his to explore. And the power contained was his to take. No one - and certainly not Doomhammer - would be able to stop him now.
He saw something move. His eyes spotted the movement amongst the corpses, and he saw, approaching, that the female spellcaster had survived the last spell he had cast. Defiant to the end, her hands moved in agony as she tried to raise something of her magics. He came next to her and looked down. Aegwynn's tools, these Naga had been. How said he had never been able to meet this truly ruthless Guardian.
"My thanks for these islands: I release you from you burden." he said, and sent a last bolt of magic into the dying body. It ceased twitching at once. For a few moments, he stared down. In disgust...and perhaps in a sort of pity.
And then he turned away. There was much to be done. Much to be discovered. It would be all his!
No matter the price that might be asked.
* * * * * * * * * *
Early Autumn 596, Wyvern Army Training Camp, Lordearon-New Azeroth Borders
Bram's shield slammed hard into the trainee, and the recruit was flung back, blood spraying from a broken nose. No one went to help him. No one dared to, for Bram looked at them sternly, daring them to make a move. He looked down at the inexperienced man and snorted.
"Issat all you've got?" he demanded "You think you'll get an orc with an attack like that?! I be tellin', this is pathetic!" he smirked in disdain, which carried the mood over to the surrounding conscripts and recruits, as well as the veteran soldiers present. "You'll need to do better than that if you want to be of any use. 'S far as I can see, you'd be o' better use as a damn decoy!"
Some of the veterans chortled at that, while the other man - one about Bram's own age, if he was any judge - bristled. There was poignant pain, despair and anger in his eyes as he spat. "The Light blasts ya! I never asked to be in this place, listening to you and your useless things!" There was a hesitant mutter of agreement from the assembled civilians-turned-soldiers, and even the presence of battle veterans did not deter it.
Bram looked over them and wondered how he and the other Alliance officers were ever going to make such a low-morale, despondent bulk of people into a large, well-trained army strong enough to take the Horde and push it back for good. The feelings he had from these people had nothing to do with the training he had had, a lifetime ago it would seem. But then again, he and the others had been volunteers, who had joined freely. These were conscripts - farmers, merchants and minor nobles who never asked to have anything to do with the war beyond paying the heavy taxes and seeing a large part of their goods regularly taken to feed and equip the army.
Deep down, in his heart of hearts, the young man from the little farm near Gregsburg felt much empathy for these people. He had no wish to force people into such a fight. But on the other hand, he had seen what the Horde could do. He had been on many battlefields, had seen the mounds of bodies, the numbers of wounded. He had seen the graves, the fallen villages, and the burned fields and forests.
He had seen what the War was costing good men and women on the front lines at that very moment. And if bringing them reinforcements meant that he had to break a few heads, then see if that wouldn't be what he'd do. Growling slightly, he rammed the man back down. The mutters stopped as he turned to look upon them all.
"Get this well and good." he spat "You don't want to be here, and I don't want to be wasting my time. You'd like to be home and I'd like to be out there, fighting with boys and girls with whom I have a very special bond now. But that's not how life is. The Alliance wants armies to face the Horde fair and square. You're part of that now. So I suggest you deal with it, and stop complaining about things you can't change!"
"Big words for a regular soldier!" the man said, his words increasingly slurred because of his bleeding, swelling nose. "You don' worry abou' anythin' but your sword..."
That did not go over well. A few of the veteran soldiers approached the guy, and it was clear from the light in their eyes that they didn't intend just a little bashing. Bram took a few steps forward himself, with the intent of stopping them, while the crowd of reluctant recruits watched with ever-increasing apprehension. Damn it to the Beyond! Damn the council for making the conscription, and damn Fate for making it necessary!
"I understand what you're saying, better than you think." a firm voice came over the crowd, and seemed to break the volatile tension as many looked in that direction. The soldiers and Bram quickly recognized the armoured man who was striding to them, and pulled themselves into salutes.
"General Swiftblade. Welcome, sir!" Bram said. The worst of it was that he meant it. Even though the other man seemed to be sometimes cold and unfeeling, sometimes asking things which shouldn't be asked, he was the general who did his best to make his men win and go home to tell the tale. If only for that, Aerth Swiftblade, newly named Lord-General of the Wyvern Army, had earned the respect of his soldiers.
"Captain Poorglade." The general nodded, then looked down at the man who had almost started a fight. "I said that I understood what you meant. I've fought on more battlefields than anyone here, but I can understand the needs and dreams people have. I myself have a wife I love, and two children I wish to see grow up." he paused "Yet, I will fight on. Because, friends, there is no other option. This is not a war that will be stopped so easily. There will be no negociations. There will be nothing but blood and death. Until we win or they do. I can understand that this is frightening..."
The man started to get up, and Swiftblade, despite wearing heavy armour, swiftly swept him down again, his face suddenly cold "However...never talk of those who gave their lives so you can stand there and rant like they meant nothing. Every soldier who died meant something. To me, to the Alliance and to the world. Never talk about them in this way again." He stepped away, his gaze taking everyone in. "This is a war. And we will win it. So the next generation never has to become as despicable as we have to be."
There was much muttering now, both fearful and awed, as the general moved away. Spying Swiftblade's look in his direction, Poorglade swiftly whipped up his subordinates to continue the fighting demonstrations, and briskly followed his commander. They had not walked long before the older man stopped.
"Are all groups like this one?"
Lying wasn't the way to go with the general. "Pretty much, sir. Some places its worse, some a lil' better, but that's much the same in the end of it."
A resigned sigh. "I see. I suppose I should have expected this."
"Sir, with respect, gettin' those people ready for a fight ain't gonna come quick. We got the men to train 'em here, but' it'll take time to give 'em some backbone."
Swiftblade looked towards the group they'd just left, where the sergeants were starting drills once more. His expression wavered between disappointment and understanding, until the lines hardened into firm decision.
"We have until early spring next year to get them up to speed, and arm them as well as possible. Then the Wyvern and Lion armies will move south to aid Minvare's Unicorn Army, which isn't faring too well lately."
Poorglade wanted to argue the point, but knew better than to do it. The fact was that the general, although using plain terms, was only saying what all officers had learned by then: that Rellon Minvare's thrust into Khaz Modan had been blunted, and that he and his veteran forces were being slowly but surely forced back to the Land Bridges. The most optimistic estimates stated that the stalemate situation which had been before Minvare's daring plan would be gone within a year. That meant the Alliance had to act before then.
Only it wouldn't be much good to strike back without a good deal of fresh forces. And with these civilians, he wasn't too certain about the possibilities.
Bad luck it was this camp was made up mainly of Lordaeril conscripts. Of all countries, the people of Lordaeron - especially the western provinces - had tasted less of the war, and thus found themselves detached from it. Stromgarde and New Azeroth, by contrast, had little difficulty finding men and women to fight because of their intimate knowledge of the war, while most other nations had given more reluctantly, yet more readily than populous Lordearon had. For all their speeches and high words, despite the undeniable strength of their numerous ranks of knights and priests, it was clear that Lordaeron's people did not have the sheer will of the other nations.
Well, when all was said and done, there was no use crying about things. Things were as they were, and as the officer in charge of that training camp, it was his job to make things work out so that they'd be able to send back the green monsters back where they belong.
"I'll give ya your army, Lord-General Swiftblade." he said, surprised by his solemn tone. "But if I might say, it'll be your work that'll make it survive in the end."
If the other man was surprised or shocked or angry of Bram's words, he didn't show it. Instead he just nodded once. "You give me the men, captain, and I'll do my best to see that as many of them as I can return home to whatever they did before."
And Swiftblade, for all his faults and cold judgements, was known as a man of his word. Another reason his men respected him so much.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 596, Violet Citadel, Dalaran
Khadgar walked the streets of the magical city briskly, his mind torn between disbelief and anger. He had known, deep down, that going to the Halls of the Wind and talk with the Kirin Tor would be a wasted venture, but he simply couldn't believe that the archmages were considering waiting before sending more mages in the field!
Gerath Daretyl, looking older by the day, had explained it to him while he had been resting from his travels in the Karal Tor's impromptu headquarters in Hillsbrad. It seemed that the people of Dalaran, for all of their devotion to sending out common soldiers, gold and goods to the war effort, were hesitant to send out their most precious commodity - magicians.
"They seem to fear that Gilneas might attack them if they became too weak." the old man had said.
"That is pure fantasy, sir! We both know that, when the war ends and IF it ends in our favour, we'll all be far too busy rebuilding than thinking of conquest!"
"That is what we Azerothians might say, but then again we never had a true enemy. Bad blood between Gilneas and Dalaran has existed ever since Orumei was split centuries ago. It is not easy to forget the past."
"For the good of humanity, we should!" he growled, forgetting himself, uttering words he would find quite ridiculous and naive soon. The old man, head of a shattered and slowly healing order, only transfixed with a look.
"And if, for the good of humanity, we had to ally ourselves with the Horde one day?" he asked mildly.
He had immediately gritted his teeth. "That's..." he'd then stopped. He had once believed, once, that peace with the orcs could be achieved. He'd once believed in it. He had heard that Larienne Proudmoore, having taken a view of the battles, had begun talking with orcs with that purpose in mind. He had once been like that - he had trusted an half-orc once - but these feelings were now removed beneath years of conflict and growing hatred.
The old archmage had seen his expression, and had nodded. "So you see why Dalaran is using so few of its mages in this Second War yet."
He had. But that hadn't stopped him from trying to convince the Kirin Tor otherwise. Unsurprisingly, and frustratingly, he had had little success. Which explained why, as he entered his own room, located in a small tower assigned to Karal Tor guests, he felt nothing amiss until he was shocked by a point-blank lightning bolt.
His concentration nonexistent, wide open as he was, he should have died. Yet, the lightning curved around him and struck the writing table next to his bed. It tore asunder, just as he realized what had just happened.
Not knowing how or why the bolt hadn't touched him, his brain called forth possibilities that the fighting portion of his mind pushed away until later. He doubted his attacker had intended for him to be spared from this point-blank attack, and thus only had an instant to rally.
Instincts born and cultivated in the First War guessed where the enemy must be standing, at the same time his left hand grasped one of the four wands at his belt, pointing it behind him. Out of practice, the word of activation burst forth, and a great stream of fire gushed forth. The smell of sulphur came to his nose, but nothing else, and he guessed that he had missed. That his enemy hadn't fought back, however, suggested that he had surprised it.
He discarded the wand of flame - no power was left in that one - and seeing no one around, took out a slender knife and cut his hand, letting the blood drip into his hand. He then flung the same gathered blood into the aid, stopping it with a gesture, letting go of the knife and molding a divination seal with it. He muttered words of divination as he formed it.
"By the blood of the pact, I command thee. By the flow of the arcane and the soul, reveal thy form to me!" he growled. At once energy glowed from the blood seal, and lanced out, forming patterns of divination in the room - and revealing shape. He quickly pointed his wand towards it.
The shape - a person in a magical cloak, most likely, did not stay still. Showing great dexterity and agility, it, deftly dodged the beam of frost and replied with a hail of magically endowed knives. Acting on instinct, Khadgar summoned a plane of force to counter it. He was thus surprised when a counter spell broke it, and magical missile streaked towards him.
He ducked out of the way, letting go of the wand, quickly rubbing his bloody hand with the other to augment the energy of his attack - a trick Medhiv himself had taught him long ago. He whispered the Tirisfal words of quickening, and without barely a snap of thought, a second of movement, a cone of cold slammed into his opponent.
It seemed that his opponent, however, had managed to see the attack, as it teleported out of the way at the last moment. Appearing to his side. At once Khadgar summoned his staff to him, and pointed it towards the intruder, only to find it moving. Discarding the staff as useless in such a quick fight, knowing that aiming would not aid, him, the young archmage instead called upon a ring that he wore, and sent out a psychic shock to his opponent.
The moving cloak seized its rapid pace and chant for just a moment, breaking its prepared spell, but immediately a gust of wind swept to Khadgar, who barely deflected it with a counter of his own.
'Its been a while since anyone has given me such a fight. Whoever that assassin is, it is an extremely cunning and talented magi!' he thought to himself. A silence ward must be around his room, so no one would come to check the disturbance. This, however, opened a door to him. Slapping his hands together, Khadgar moved his fingers while incanting words that had ever been known only by a very select few.
"Uniyan Koh Tirisfalis ko Nunuian Moko Leiun-men Tirisfalas Kado-Kos..." he muttered, and in an instant the room flashed once, then twice, and finally took on a bluish hue. Khadgar stood up and looked towards his would-be assassin.
"You are a remarkable spellcaster, but your tricks end here. This spell stops any magic except some that only I possess from working. Give yourself up and tell me who wishes me dead, and I will be very-" he was about to say lenient when a pair of knife nearly stuck into him, and he once again dodged. Just in time for a smoke bomb to go off.
Stupid, stupid, stupidstupidstupidstupid! Here he was paying the price of smug superiority. Certain in having disabled his opponent's magical ability, he had forgotten about physical tricks. He tensed for a renewed attack, readying those spells Medhiv had taught him, until he saw no one when the smoke cleared. Whoever had come to kill him had decided to cut its losses and run.
He got to his feet, and surveyed his room - which was in unrecognizable shambles. No use trying to find that one. Someone that skilled certainly hadn't left any trace.
It was only the last of many occurrences, which made certain that something was up. A sorcerous assassin of that level of skill and power certainly didn't come cheap at all. In fact, only very wealthy individuals had historically been able to afford one to kill an archmage.
Each member of the Kirin Tor had access to such wealth, and Khadgar refused to believe that this was coincidence. It was too soon, and too perfectly timed. In his mind, there was no longer any doubt: there was great corruption at the heart of the most powerful magical organization in the world.
That was a disgusting concept, and one he had never wanted to come true despite his suspicions. Now however, he knew that he would have to prepare himself. To find out what the evil amongst the greatest archmages of the world was.
And, with allies, eliminate it.
Stopping his anti-magic field, Khadgar took one last look around his room, nodded once, and teleported away. He had a lot of work to do.
* * * * * * * * * *
Autumn 596, Hidden Valley, Stromgarde
Gelmar Thornfeet watched as Drek'Thar and Xirral, the two most gifted of his first pupils, taught new and less able students with a mixture of pride and envy. Not that he minded not having to teach all the time - it certainly had been an handful, finding those who could be taught, convincing them to renounce the bloodlust and turn back to the way their people once were - but he did feel that emotion when he saw the easy way the pupils reacted to them.
He might have had that once. In the beginning, when the Hidden Valley's population had been small and not quite as secured. But now, things had changed. A few of his pupils, although weak yet compared to him, could now stand on their own and needed but supplementary lessons at best, while prodigal shamans like the two orcs he looked at no longer needed those at all. A few were now shamans, and each had taken pupils.
He was now the Patriarch Gelmar, the Far Seer and the Friend of the Spirits. Or some similar nonsense. Now, the pupils looked at him with more than respect. It was nearing adulation, and that bothered him. That had not been how his old master - Spirits guard the old human! - had viewed things, and neither was it what he wanted. But for some reason things had shaped themselves that way.
Now, few came to him for lessons, and those few who were full shamans were sending only those they deemed 'worthy of his attention'. How was he supposed to react to that, except that it made him seem like a picky old orc? Still, he said nothing. After all, the others were also caught up with the growing myth around him. Except for Drek'Thar - may that sensible orc be thrice blessed! - he was being treated like some sort...
...some sort of ICON.
Him. Gelmar Thornfeet. A former Necrolyte of mediocre skill and drive.
He wasn't certain if the irony of it was going to make him laugh or cry, so he usually settled for unsettled grunts when he thought about that.
The Hidden Valley itself had changed, as orcs had taken to tiling the empty lands around the village. All around the larger structure of his Halls, orcs cultivated, forged, cooked, trained and did all sorts of mundane things. All without much if any violence, which was greatly discouraged except in the case of an attack. Having learned reading from captured humans in what was seemingly called the First War, Gelmar had taught the basics, and now the interest in filling his Halls with books was growing. Here, the orcs were starting to let go of violent tendencies.
Now, if he could get them to stop looking at him like he was some sort of prophet or saint, he'd be perfectly happy with his life at the moment!
"Grandpa, will you tell us a story?" asked a voice, and he turned to see three orcling faces looking at him hopefully. He grinned benevolently at them, affection showing plainly on his face.
If his status had taken a confounding twist, his relationship with the three wayward, orphaned orclings had been the light in his life. Having brought them to the Hidden Valley and fed them, he had soon discovered that the little trio wanted to be with him. Bemused at first, he had quickly developed a liking for the three youths that only deepened with time. When they had started calling him 'grandpa', he hadn't flinched like when his pupils and adult orcs had begun to call him 'patriarch'.
It was Horarg, strong-minded and loud-mouthed, who had asked. No surprises there. Being the oldest of the three and the most forceful, he had become the leader of the three 'siblings.' Beside him sat introspective, intelligent Rana and the big - for a four year old - and definitely sympathetic Koro. He had subtly looked for clues and had found that only this last, big one had no capacity for shamanism, while Rana, although less obvious in her strength then her older brother, had what could be great potential.
"A story? Again?" he asked in an amused tone "Mind you, you three'll suck the knowledge right out of me if this continues."
"We want to hear a story from you, grandpa! You know all the good stories! You know everything!" Koro told him excitedly. He couldn't help but chuckle softly - and a trifle sadly - at the orcling's naiveté.
"If only that were true." he mused, more to himself than to them. "Then I might have found a way to stop what is occurring outside the Valley. Very well, then. A story it will be. But not right now. I must go see to the shamans and talk to them one last time. Then we will eat, and I will tell you a story. How does that sound?"
It was a done deal, although the three would certainly have preferred a story right away. Yet they agreed, and scampered from the Spirit Lodge. He had no fear that they would be harmed. Even if they weren't already enjoying a sort of 'privileged status' from being his adopted grandchildren, violence done to orclings was one of the few things to which there was no mercy - even from Gelmar.
He had lied, however, when he had said that he had wished to talk to the shamans. Although he often did so, he was now more interested with an orc who had just come in. From his garb, he was probably one of their scouts, which was gathering news of the northlands. He was busy talking with Xirral, who had actually dismissed his own students and was now listening with rapt attention. Intrigued by this behaviour, Gelmar approached the pair.
A meditative fire burned nearby, and the lights danced on their expressions as they took notice of him. Both bowed slightly but respectfully - the Far Seer checked his need to grunt in dismay - and turned their attention to him fully.
"Master Gelmar." Xirral said in a voice with contained far too much respect "Forgive me for not seeing you approach."
"Think nothing of it, Xirral. I was intrigued when - Uoroth, is it?"
"Yes, patriarch."
Checked the flinch. "...when Uoroth came to talk to you? The news seemed very interesting, and I would like to hear of them."
"This may only be nonsense, master."
"Nonetheless, I will hear it and decide for myself. Please, Uoroth, do go on."
The young orc looked embarrassed from talking to him - which was ridiculous as far as Gelmar was concerned - but spoke readily enough. "It's just a rumour that I heard north of here. It seems that there's this human woman... Larienne Proudmoore, I think the name is. She's an important human female, and there's talk of her talking to orcs, of her talking about the possibility of peace."
"A possibility of peace? Between us and the humans?" Gelmar asked in amazement.
"Yes, patriarch." he chuckled in embarrassment. "I know that she sounds like a crazy human..."
"If she is doing what you say she is doing," he corrected solemnly "then she is not only worthy of respect but of heartfelt admiration." Inwardly, he had trouble believing it. A human, seeking peace after all of this insanity? It didn't seem possible. And yet...if it was...this might be something he could anchor his hopes on. "Where is the human woman now?" he asked.
"Travelling to the Stromgardian capital of Redgates, I think."
"Good. Then we will find her. I want to...talk to her."
They both looked at him as if he'd announced he was the King of Azeroth in disguise. Xirral nearly swallowed his tongue, while the scout seemed to want to fade into the ground. The shaman stepped to him almost frantically. "Master, you musn't! The Hidden Valley needs your wisdom! Our people need you! We can't allow you to put yourself in danger."
Gelmar understood what the other orc was saying, but still he held firm. "I know, Xirral. But peace is a prospect more important than me, probably more than the Hidden Valley. If one human has extended a hand, we must grasp it, and not let this conflict continue. I will meet her. Arrange it as you will, and if you must, but it will happen." He thought about Koro's naive assertion that Gelmar knew everything. It was an untruth. But if he could learn shamanism from one human, he could certainly talk of peace with another.
"This Larienne Proudmoore who talks of peace." he said softly "I wish to see her, hear her, for myself."
* * * * * * * * * *
Late Autumn 596, Alterac City, Alterac
Polla Mendrannon, leader of the Alliance Council's special investigation team, was tossed to the floor and grunted as pain shot through her body. Still, although the pain and humiliation from the torture and questioning had taken its toll, she refused herself anything more than that. Not in front of these two men who had betrayed not just their nation, but had also put humanity's continued existence on shaky grounds because of their deeds.
She lay there a second, gathering her strength, before she was painfully yanked to her feet. Still she did not cry out. Instead she glared with all the hatred she could muster into the eyes of the men in front of her.
Perenolde, looking old and worn, looked at her crumpled, broken body before resting a cool gaze on her. "So, mistress Mendrannon, it appears that you still wish to refrain from telling us what exactly you learned about this Nation and its dealings."
She kept her mouth thinly shut, her glare unrelenting. It seemed to tire the monarch, moreso than the obvious discomfort that he had of being in his castle's lowest, dankest dungeon.
"Surely, you realize what your other team-mates suffered through because of your stubbornness?"
Months of spying, of controlling her reactions, allowed her to keep a straight face as her fear and anger rose to the surface. Almost all of her comrades - nearly the entire band with only two exceptions, had been captured suddenly, and put through cruel, ultimately fatal treatments even as she refused to talk to her captors. Cynth, Jerome, Danikth...all had died slowly, begging for the end as they lost their mind through the torture. Those cries still haunted her soul.
But she wouldn't show it. Not to them. The friendship she felt for these people, the bond she had, they didn't deserve to know. Thus, her only answer was silence.
"You're wasting your time trying to coax that reaction." said Duraz, who looked unsteady and unusually unsure, yet still spoke with arrogant contempt. "She was picked by Swiftblade to lead that team, and for all the things I can say about that common-born peasant, I admit he judges people well enough. She won't tell you anything."
"Then I suppose we will have to convince her that we know almost everything already, shall we?" Perenolde mused, and beckoned with his hand. And from the shadows emerged a smirking lean man of average build. A man she knew quite well.
"Hello, Polla." Hesav said calmly, looking actually sorry of seeing her broken state "It's not a good day for you, is it?"
Looking at that face - remembering the meetings, remembering Hesav's continued playing chess with Cynth, his apparent devotion to the Alliance cause - she couldn't help but let a little bit, a mere fraction, of her ire into her voice as she spoke her first two words in days. "Damned traitor."
He actually looked affronted by that word. "I'm a patriot, Polla. Unlike you, my people come first. My king and my country before anything else. I've no regrets about my path."
"Sir Hesav has been taking care of your investigations and the documents you secured, destroying them as you thought them secure." Perenolde added, in a tired but smug voice.
Her documents...that meant that they...yes...yes, if what she was hearing was true, it meant that...yes...
"But some documents never came into my hands, you see." Hesav stated "With the group crushed like this, the chances of anything coming of it are slim, but still, no one here - except for you - wish to see it fall into the hands of people who put foreign concerns above those of their nation!"
She couldn't help but let out a bitter chuckle, and was rewarded with a hot poker being prodded into her from behind. She growled in pain, but her inner mirth never quite ceased. These people, who had betrayed everything, that they still thought themselves noble and right yet struck her as crazy, stupid, and definitely amusing. In this struggle, national boundaries had to be temporarily abolished in the name of mutual aid and, most importantly, in the name of survival.
"I will...not...give you the information. Might as well kill me now." she smirked, and let out another strangled grunt of pain as the hot poker was rammed into her bruised backside again.
"We will kill you, Polla." Hesav said matter-of-factly "The only choice you have is the length your death will take."
In short, they would torture her until she died. She had seen interrogation teams, and few were known to go 'soft' on captured prisoners. Their promises were flimsy, and inconsequential. She shot her mouth, clearly stating that she wouldn't be saying another word to them. Her hair was yanked back, and she was forced to her knees, the jailors obviously preparing her for something definitely unpleasant. Fear blossomed in her heart, yet she kept a hold of it.
"What about the last one." she heard Perenolde comment "Hasn't the last one been captured yet?"
"Cay?" Hesav snorted, "He'll be back tomorrow. I sent him on a useless mission to divide them. He'll be easy to capture, so-"
"Heh. Hehehehe...hehehehahahahahaha!! Idiots!" she burst out despite herself, despite the pain in every part of her being. She knew that, by doing this, she was sealing her fate, but she didn't care. The fact that she knew the answer to the joke dimmed her fear, and not even the poker could stop it. The three men looked at her as if wondering if she had gone made - which she may be now, who knew or cared? - until finally Duraz's expression changed as realization hit.
"Quick!" he said, grabbing Hesav. "When did you send that Cay away?"
"Four days ago. It was a five-day mission. Not to worry, though-"
"Not to worry! Fool! That woman's nothing! HE'S the real infiltrator!" he gritted his teeth "Light blast it all! This reeks of Lothar's sneaky tricks!"
"But I don't understand." her former comrade cried, "Cay was the least cooperative. He was always complaining, never taking our theories seriously."
"On the outside!" Polla uttered a pain-filled chuckle "That had been the point of it. We were just the obvious people. If we could gather the information, good. If not, Cay made certain at least he would. In case there was a mole. I was the only one in the team to be told of that - that's why the others never told you.
Cay, always lumbering along reluctantly, but in truth one of the Alliance's greatest infiltrators, was probably halfway out of the country by now. Before they even began to mount a search, she was certain he'd have reached safe Alliance lands. The men in front of her had been the butt of a superb joke, and she felt that, as a last defiant act, she'd have to tell them how costly it would be for them.
"Cay'll give the information to Lothar! And Alterac can't stand against all of the other nations! Help or no help, Horde or not, this nation's finished!"
Perenolde looked at her in pure, sudden rage. "Traitorous whore!"
"YOU are the traitors, Perenolde! Because of you, this country will end!" she said, and received a strong blow to the head. Her consciousness flickered, and she met the ground. Still she held on, knowing deep down that this was the end.
But she'd been ready, hadn't she? She'd been ready the moment Lothar had told her the real goals. She'd accepted the risks.
"Take her away!" she heard as if from far away, and she felt herself drifting into the welcome black of nothingness. Her last thoughts turned to apologies for her fallen comrades, and with one thought she shouted in her mind with a relish which would have appalled and infuriated an Alterac-born woman like her a year before.
Alterac was finished.
______________________________________________________
Alliance Army Rank Structure
In early 592, as the different Alliance nations were busy bringing their different armies together into one diversified, well-trained combat force, a rank structure was adopted and ratified by the Alliance High Command. These ranks, except for a specially added rank in late 595, have since stayed constant and will most likely continue to do so in the foreseeable future. These ranks will now follow, from lowest to Highest.
1.Third Sword
The basic rank a new recruit receives upon finishing it's training, this rank is the lowest in the Alliance Army, given to soldiers with little to no experience, or responsibilities. All Third Swords are commoners.
2.Second Sword
The rank of Second Sword Is generally given to soldiers who have either been on duty for more than 2 years, or else have proven their mettle on the field. Although they have little more responsibility, these soldiers have some experience and are dependable. They currently make a very large part of the Alliance Army. All Second Swords are also commoners.
3. First Sword
First Swords have proven themselves in a few battles or have served 4 years or more. They are generally experienced, which allows them to command small scouting or sentry units. The Alliance Army currently has quite a few First Swords due to its many battles with the Horde. Like the Third and Second Swords, First Swords are all commoners.
4. Sergeant
Soldiers who become Sergeants have either proven strong leadership and military abilities, or else have served in the armed forces for 7 years or more - something that was rarely seen before the First and Second Wars. Sergeants are experienced and well trained, and are usually given command of ten to fifteen men on the field. Like all ranks below them, Sergeants are always commoners.
5. Lieutenant
The basic Officer Rank in the Alliance Army, Lieutenant ranks were generally given to nobles before the First War, yet since then the far larger number has been made up of strong, capable commoners. This is the basic rank a noble serving in the armed forces, or a member of a knighthood, receives. In charge of about one hundred men on the field, those Knights who attain that rank have little power over their own peers.
6. Captain
Once the highest rank a commoner could achieve, today nearly two-thirds of these are not of noble birth, as the horrors of war have convinced the Alliance commanders to give ranks to those who deserved them. A Captain is often in charge of training camps, of over five hundred troops, or - if a knight - of a one hundred knightly unit. Captains are always men who have proven themselves trustworthy and more than able to deal with anything the Second War might show.
7. Commander
Either commanding a whole army section, a region, or a fort, commanders are expert soldiers and strategist who answer only to generals. Once exclusively intended for nobility, a few commoners have been able to gain this rank through sheer merit, yet this remains rare. Commanders command thousands of troops on the field, while a Knight holding this rank commands the entire Knight Unit in one particular army.
8. General
Powerful soldiers, quick-thinking leaders and excellent strategists make up a large part of what a general is about. This rank is the highest attainable, except for the special ranks, and are always given to noble. It could be said that Aerth Swiftblade was the first commoner to receive such a title, yet he was raised to the peerage so soon after that it might not quite count. A general commands armies of twenty thousand, or sit at the Alliance High Command.
9. Lord-General
A new, special rank invented by Lothar in 595, ratified and finally given in 596, this rank is almost unique as only four hold it. From the Generals of the Alliance, the four most remarkable have been given command over the four grand armies that are forming, each numbering at least one hundred thousand. Thus, each of the Lord-Generals is a strong warrior, and a proven leader of very great abilities, answering only to Anduin Lothar himself. The four Lord-Generals are Illadan Eltrass, Rellon Minvare, Aerth Swiftblade and Turalyon Kharan.
10. High General
The title currently held by Anduin Lothar, the High General has command over all Alliance Armed forces, even able - under duress - to command the Grand Admiral of the Fleet. This is the highest military title in the entire Alliance.
