Chapter Twenty-Seven: Fools and Demons

Early Winter 597, Ialen Hills, Stromgarde

Larienne started as she heard a sound nearby, and all of the soldiers who were with her stiffened suspiciously. Their usual careful movements were made all the more nervous by the situation in which they found themselves. After all, weren't they charged with protecting the beloved queen of Kul Tiras? Although a part of her enjoyed seeing these men squirm a bit every time she did something unexpected, she did feel sorry for burdening these, who had enough worries with the war itself.

Yet, it couldn't be helped. Lord Uther Lightbringer, leader of the Knights of the Silver Hand, respected Alliance leader and warrior, insisted upon the matter. So heavily, in fact, that she wondered that he hadn't come along himself to keep an eye on her every move. Still, he had duties, and she felt that she had hers.

In the paladin, she had found a reluctant ally. Although bitter and nurturing some understandable coldness towards orcs, it was clear that Uther was one who did not like war. If the fighting ended, she felt, he would be more than happy to lay down his sword and shield and go back to being a priest. Still, he had had many reservations towards her path, even though he had reluctantly agreed that someone must try it.

That noise again. The knights about her looked around, while the footmen grasped their weapons with deadly intentions. Yet there was nothing on this fine morning as they passed the hilly terrain which the road leading to Redgates lead to, nothing if for a slight fog about the air.

A fog, which she realized, was thickening at a worrying pace.

"Careful, Your Highness." The knight in charge of her protection said urgently. "No ordinary fog is this. I fear..." he didn't say what he feared, for at that moment he made a strange, strangled cry, even as he and his horse both actually crashed to the ground. Around her, similar sounds were uttered, even as she looked about in true terror. What was happening?!?

And then there was stillness as the fog blocked her vision, and then lifted as if it had wafted from a strong breeze. Yet the air stood still as it cleared, and Larienne beheld something she wasn't quite prepared to deal with, for all her words and good intentions.

There, around her fallen escort, Orcs were standing, looking at her intently. There was no mistaken the muscular, tusked, green bodies - she had had them described enough. Some were dressed in the some armour and hefted heavy axes, while three others only wore robes, which seemed more like the stories about druids of old rather than clerics or wizards. Of these three, the smallest looked at her the most intently, and part of her mind asserted that this one must have some authority over the others.

Yet it was only the minor fraction of her mind that gave her this information. Most of her being was cold with fear, her stomach clenched, and only what remained of her reason and her pride kept her where she was. Her tension must have been readily visible, for the smallest orc made a quick gesture of appeasement.

"Please, milady. Don't be alarmed. We wish you no harm." he said, and his voice surprised her. She had counted on hearing a bloodthirsty, rough, terrible voice. Yet, although it was deeper and rougher indeed, there was nothing monstrous at all about the voice or the manner with which it spoke. In fact, the voice seemed gentle and respectful. For some reason, it gave her the courage to speak.

"I...I-I daresay that I cannot f-fully believe you. What you have done to these men, and what a prize I know my person would mean to the H-H-Horde..." she couldn't bring herself to say anything else. The gentle-sounding orc, however, merely inclined his head a moment and made another gesture of appeasement. It seemed to somewhat leech out much of her tension, and she wondered if magic wasn't being applied upon her until she noticed the same effect from the other, huge orc warriors.

Yes, this time she was certain: this particular orc was the leader. And, she would be willing to guess, an unquestioned leader.

"Your escort was numerous, and I did not want unnecessary bloodshed merely to meet with you. I put them under a spell from which they will wake soon enough. As for taking you as a prize, you mustn't be too afraid of that."

"W-what do you mean?" Her throat was dry, yet she forced herself to speak as calmly as she could.

"Isn't your intent to speak to my people and yours to try and convince her to end this tragic war? If that is so, your fear of being used must not be that strong. For that alone, you are worthy of respect among my kind."

Such politeness and intelligence! Was this truly the brutish race that all veterans from the war spoke of? She found that hard to believe, and yet what she saw began to both intrigue and excite her. If these were orcs, and she could talk with them this way, her mind raved a moment' if she could talk to them...

"You...do not seem to feel as if this conflict should be continued..." she ventured.

"With the costs the previous war have been, and this present war?" he mused in answer "It shouldn't be hard to understand that this is foolish..."

She controlled herself, controlled her steady fear and her rising excitement even as she realized how true the words were. The total death toll of the First War, if it was to be believed, were staggering. Added to the tremendous losses suffered in Stromgarde, in elven Quel'Thalas, dwarven Khaz Modan and even in shining Lordaeron, it felt only moreso. It reached the core of her arguments: so many lives have been lost, why continue to waste them in something, which might never end?

She knew, of course, that what she was proposing was unrealistic. War could not simply stop, hatred neglected and people made to see their mistake simply with words. Although not a warrior at all, she was by no means naive. She did not intend to change the world. But if they could listen... If she could plant a seed which might lead to less fighting...

Yet...the strain must be felt by the Horde. The Alliance was suffering, because of heavy taxes on everything, as well as increasing recruiting and conscription. But the combined nations had the means so far. They were installed. The Horde, she had learned from her husband and her own deductions, had not been established enough to have this infrastructure. Maintaining these horrendously large armies in the field must be a war all by itself.

"If you think that the Horde will be beaten through crop and lack of support, I must warn you... we have been a warrior society before we came to your world. We subjugated the ogres of our world, and all but destroyed another race. No, if battle continues, my people will never be defeated except by battle." he said suddenly, and she looked in surprise and renewed fear. He shook his head. "I can't read your mind. I only supposed you might have thought of this. My people know only battle. Few remember or are thought much of anything else. Everything is designed to fuel the war effort."

She shivered at the sudden intensity in his tone.

"Orcs are born to fight if strong enough." he continued "If not, they become people we call peons. Workers, and a sub-caste as it might be. Only those who had a talent for magic escaped it. As I did, although I now use another kind of magic. The orcs live to fight. Some of them exist to fight and some wouldn't be able to live without the possibilities of a fight. Death, destruction, chaos. THAT is the Horde."

She looked about her. All were watching her. But none made a move towards her. None seemed even to look hostile. She took a deep breath, chasing down the fear, facing the fear. "I don't believe that. I see you here, and you are not monsters. And that means others in your people aren't monsters. I will talk to them all, as naive as it may seem. I will make them listen, and see if blood is all they want. I will talk to my own people, and ask them the same. I will see this conflict resolved or I will die."

She didn't know what had taken over her. Were these her words? Had she truly used her own voice, or was it another's? Around her, the orcs were looking at her in surprise...and grudging respect. The smaller orc only nodded.

"The Spirits have spoken to your heart. I wish you good luck, Queen Larienne Proudmoore. And I do hope your succeed in your quest. Who knows? We may meet yet again."

There was a flash, and by the time her eyes had stopped blinking, they were gone. Beside her, her escort were stirring drowsily.

Larienne, as far as she was concerned, was decided. No matter what Daelin, Lothar, or Lightbringer might be thinking, she'd try to make peace. She'd cry out as hard as she could.

And she would make certain she was heard.

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Winter 597, Broken Islands, On the Great Sea

He had found it.

Nestled in the midst of shallow waters, off from one of the Northernmost islands, a small outcropping of land had been spotted by advance parties led by some of these foolish children to whom Gul'Dan had taught a few necromantic spells over the years. They had felt a strange power when they had neared the place, and had quickly told him of their discovery.

Although cynical, he had investigated as intently as ever, and had understood why the energies had seemed so queer to those who had scouted the place. The energies, after all, were by no means created by this world, or even truly drawn from the Twisting Nether. This was magic, but somehow unconnected to normal flows.

To Gul'Dan, who had spent so many years in frantic research, there was no doubt. He had read of this magic in passages in tome in Stormwind and Northshire, in the Towers of the Karal Tor and, even more recently, from taken books of the arcane libraries of Silvermoon. All pointed to these effects, this strangeness and yet this greatness. There was no doubt: this was the magic of the Order of Tirisfal. A magic that had died with Medhiv in Azeroth.

Yet the power coming from that place was undeniable. This certainly was the place where Aegwynn had sealed the Dark Titan, Sargeras, after her miraculous victory over him. Such a permanent seal would have been necessary to keep the energies contained. It was possible that she, powerful as she had undeniably must have been, must have feared the Titan's presence upon the world.

But he, Gul'Dan, did not fear it.

He embraced it, grasped it with eager hands.

And now, he stood before the cracked marble doors of what must once have been a great temple of some sort, but now remained only a broken memory, which still conveyed the grandeur, and conceit that had been theirs. The Kalimdoran Empire, which had once controlled most of the world in times long gone by - so long ago that it was a myth when the High Elves began to write their own chronicles - had been reduced to these ruins and whatever cursed remnants still existed deep beneath the waves.

He walked nearer, and then heard booming sounds from farther off. He cursed. "By the Nether...have they already reached that far?"

One of the youths who had accompanied him spoke up. "Master Gul'Dan, the Warchief's forces have been marching on us for weeks. Last I heard, they were making for our main strongholds."

"And their numbers?"

"Always increasing. They probably outnumber us." an uneasy pause "And more transports have come yet."

The warlock smirked in bitter amusement. "Of course they do. Doomhammer's angry I've defied him. The fool won't stop sending troops even if it means crippling his chances in his little war later on."

It certainly explained the booms, at any rate. The crashing sounds were probably heavy catapults assembled by Doomhammer's forces. His own forces were better equipped, having prepared for the voyage for a long while. Furthermore, he had larger magical forces at his command, since he was willing to think the foolish orc leader had kept the few death knights and ogre-magi who had stayed loyal to the Horde proper close to him. Terrain, supplies, allies and weaponry. Everything was in his favour.

Except for numbers. Although composed mostly of Orcs and Orgres, the enemy had been constantly increased, going from an annoyance to a problem to a full menace in a smaller time frame than he'd thought even with Doomhammer's known skills as a warleader. The situation was such that Cho'Gall had gone to the main battle site to command the troops themselves. It had stalled them for a moment as they fought on the small, broken chain of islands, fighting the never-ending heat as well as each other. Even now, heavy beads on sweat singed Gul'Dan's hot skin, and his clothes seemed to be sticking to him.

If things kept up, and he knew they would, his forces would eventually be defeated. Not now, perhaps, but soon enough. Doomhammer commanded loyalty more easily, damn him, and so most of the people he had shaped and controlled had turned their backs on their rightful leader once more and followed an unworthy upstart. Had he been filled with the bloodlust of his race, Gul'Dan would have been ranting in rage for that.

But all of these worries were little specks, compared to the greatness which awaited him. If only a fraction of Sargeras' power remained, and was added to his own, then no one - not Doomhammer, not Lothar, not even his old teacher Ner'Zul - would ever be able to stop him. To wield power beyond imagination...THAT was why he had lived and endured the disgrace the upstart had thrown upon him. Soon, the reckoning would come.

"Just beyond." he breathed, and he couldn't keep his voice from shaking in excitement. "Just beyond this ancient door." he saw that the others were looking at him, and regained his composure with an effort. "Now, bring me the book."

Even as the crash of battle was heard, one of his followers presented him with a package carefully wrapped, which he carefully undid. The book, which was revealed, wasn't particularly large or heavy as far as spellbooks went. Nor did it look impressive, being neither ornate nor obviously protected. It was, if only for a particular glyph resembling either a star or a tree, a normal-looking, black-bound book.

Yet Gul'Dan, for all of his powers and knowledge, for all of his ability, had taken years to decipher its guarded secrets. The secrets passed down from Guardian to Guardian, from Aegwynn to Medhiv, inscribed upon this spellbook by the dead human sorcerer. The spells of Tirisfal. Even now, he wasn't certain that he had found a way to counter the probable spells Aegwynn had cast so long ago. Yet he would do it.

After all, it was his destiny.

He opened the spellbook, and finding the necessary spell, began the incantation. Gesturing in the air, creating patterns that yes were never meant to see, uttering words no one existed who could fully understand, he began to work the magic against the great wards, which had been cast. Immediately, however, he realized that something was wrong. A sensation was invading him, filling his limbs like lead, trying to force him to stop. He tried to continue; yet seemed to be dragged down by his own body!

'What's happening?' he thought feverishly 'This can't be happening at this stage. Why is my magic-AARGH!' The last part of his thoughts joined his voice as he growled in pain. Yet he still felt that he held on to it, still felt the link with the ward, however tenuous. Forcing everything he had, he reconnected and attempted to bring the ward down.

"B-by Derethis the Wise...f-f-First Guardian o-o-of Tirisfal, I c-call upon the m-magic buried so long. I-I..." The pain of the magic of the place, so unlike the usual magic that he was used to molding, finally took its toll, and his knees gave out from under him. He sprawled, losing contact with the powerful ward, and lying there. Rejected by the power, humiliated.

He felt more than saw one of the young pups coming towards him. "Master Gul'Dan..." the voice began to say something else, but probably caught something in the warlock's posture and wisely kept the rest to himself. He gave the ancient door a baleful glare and clutched the book tighter even as he came back to his feet, breathing hard.

"Is your power trying to deny me? ME?" he snarled, "To deny ME, Aegwynn?!? I, the most powerful of all warlocks? This is not the wait it will be! I refuse failure! I WILL break this wall that you've brought up! I will undo your works!" He opened the spellbook once more. "I will not be denied1 Not by Doomhammer, not by Ner'Zul, not by Tirisfal or the Twisting Nether itself!!!"

He opened the book once more. He would try all the ways he knew, and then try those he didn't think would work. Nothing would stand in his way.

For Gul'Dan, the end of his long voyage was nearly over.

Finally, power that he had dreamed of was within his reach.

He had no intention of returning empty-handed.

* * * * * * * * * *

Winter 597, Taren Mill, New Azeroth

Snow was falling heavily outside of the Swiftblade Mansion. It was one of the worst drifts to have gone through in many years, forcing folk inside whatever place they could find, horses and cattle inside stables and barns. It was a gloomy day where night couldn't be quite differentiated from day.

Inside the mansion, it didn't matter that much. A warm fire was going on in the hearth of the small meeting room, and good wine - fetched from the supply Eira's father had secreted away before Sunshire fell - warmed the bones of those who drank it. Yet nothing could drive away the constant worry the men gathered in that room endured. Nothing would even drive it away, save for a true victory over the Horde.

Swiftblade wondered how it had gotten that people such as Lothar, Turalyon and Varien Wrynn could be there. But then again the road leading to Hillsbrad was clogged with snow, and instead of wasting the talents of good mages to go to that city, he had invited them to remain. Thus, in short order the meeting room had become one of the most important places in the Alliance, at least temporarily.

Swiftblade gave the snowy picture outside a glance, then resumed what he had been saying. "My army will be ready, milord. But I must say the bulk of it will be greener than green. Many of those soldiers are little more than children, and know nothing of warfare."

"As did many Azerothian soldiers when the First War began, general." Lothar replied, but the sigh showed that he understood what had been left unsaid. "I, too, would have preferred a slower method of building these four Grand Armies...but the fact remains that time is a precious commodity we don't have. You've all seen the reports. You all know of what I speak."

They did. Although the Compact had finally broken at Harpgate, and Gilneas was freed from their clutches, elements still remained - Compact bands without strong leadership, fleeing from Alliance troops - which still held small positions and still raided Alliance supply posts. Such was the same in New Azeroth in parts of northern Stromgarde and even in Lordaeron. Thus far, only the nations of Alterac, Kul Tiras and Dalaran hadn't had to contend with increased banditry and piracy.

Then again, Alterac's status was questionable at best, as evidence of betrayal had been found, although no substantial proof had yet been found.

But it was the Horde that remained the greatest danger. Although Minvare's push had allowed the Alliance to take the crucial Horde base at Dun Algaz, things were no longer looking up, far from it. Over the last season Minvare and the armies now under his command had been forced to give ground. Only the coming of winter had stalled the degradation somewhat. The last reports were clear: Minvare could no longer hold out, and would have to retreat to the Land Bridges - which were quickly gaining the popular name of Bridges of Blood thanks to the constant battles fought over and around them.

"What of the elves?" Turalyon asked, "Will they send us all the troops they can? I fear they no longer see us in a very friendly eye."

"No." this time Lothar's sigh carried frustration "Some of the elven nobles think that it was our lack of strength which allowed the sacking of their capital and the despoiling of much of their lands. Still, they haven't been able to convince enough people yet. I think we can count on them to send what they promised...for now. The dwarves of Khaz Modan have already taken many of their forces to Stromgarde, however, and we can count on even more."

"I should think so." Wrynn mused, his elegant face creased by a frown. "Since they see the Horde all 'round them. Which means we will be able to leave small forces as a militia."

A footman suddenly appeared in the doorway, bowing low but awkwardly. "Milords, I don't wish to stop you, but there's one queer man waitin' about, wanting to speak with you."

Swiftblade couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at that. "In this weather?!? Its insane to be about in these conditions!"

"Aye, milord, and the lout sure looks the worse for it. Looks downright famished to me."

"Well then, go give him something to eat. There's plenty in the larder last I heard."

"Aye, and we were going to, but when the fellow learnt you be here, he said he wanted to see you. Said his name was Cay or some like that. Kept saying it was crucial he saw you, if you take my meaning."

But Swiftblade - as well as the others, he saw from the corner of his eye - had just about stopped listening the moment they heard the name of the mysterious man. He pounced on the surprised guard at once. "I do take your meaning. Bring the man to us at once! We will hear what he has to say."

There was little the footman could do but obey, and within a very short time a man they had never been certain they'd see again came in, followed by the footman and another fellow guard. There was no mistaking the man. Large and rather muscular, even though all that seemed to have been eaten by much hardships. Cay's clothes were caked with mud and snow, torn and sporting marks which Swiftblade's eyes recognized as dried blood. The man looked more like a beggar than anything else, yet there was no mistaking that face.

Lothar rose at once, and commanded the guards to help the man into a chair by the fire, and prepare food for later. "For now, however, I want to door to this room locked and guarded by the best here. No one enters, no matter the reason, no matter the event or the need. Is that clear?" Overwhelmed - as everyone except a handful was bound to be - by Lothar's commanding presence, the footmen scurried out, and closed the door behind them. Only then did they turn to look at the spy they had sent, hidden shamelessly amongst people who, Swiftblade was shamed to think, nothing more than sacrifices.

"So, Cayleth." the most powerful man in the Alliance said in what could have been expectation "You've returned to us. What news from Alterac."

"That the team sent there is captured and dead. If they are in luck. I, myself, barely escaped with my life. The others gave me the time I needed to cross the distance, although it was a near thing. I managed to come here, and give you what these people gave their lives for." the man answered, and there was nobility to his simple traits as he spoke. Swiftblade winced at the news. 'I'm sorry, Polla.' he whispered in his mind. Yet, had there been any other way?

There was little to say, and even less when Cayleth showed them the plans and messages he had managed to take from many sources. Signed by the unmistakable seal of King Perenolde himself, it showed what they had all feared. The sailors caught at Caer Darrow, as well as those prisoners who had been involved with the Tyr's Hand massacre, had spoken the truth. Alterac had been allied with the Horde since the war had begun. It had given them intelligence, allowing their enormous army to pass unchecked until it was too late to stop it.

So much was their fault by this that there was no reparation which could be possible. Tyr's Hand destroyed, as well as much of Quel'Thalas and many of Lordaeron's eastern lands. The Alliance had all but fallen in the Siege of Whitefort, saved only by a miracle. Saved by that miracle, the end would have come to mankind.

All because Perenolde had betrayed them and played them for fools.

Swiftblade felt a searing wave of rage shoot through him as Lothar summarized the documents. Human nations had fought each other before the Pact of Stormwind had been enacted. But for a country to betray, to break a pact when everything hanged in the balanced. This was worse than being scum to him. Far, far worse.

Lothar's look was sombre but composed when he finished reading. "I feared as much. Damn the fool. Turalyon?"

"Yes, milord?" The paladin looked ready to kill, by the way his eyes smouldered.

"Three of the four grand armies will go fight the Horde. I want you to take your army...and to make an example out of Perenolde and his ilk."

"Yes, milord!"

* * * * * * * * * *

Winter 597, Broken Islands, On the Great Sea

The seals had finally fallen. The door had been opened. His destiny had finally been revealed to him: the power of Sargeras, buried here!

He had been elated, taking with him three dozen of the best spellcasters amongst the Death Knights, the Ogre-Magi and even the orc puppies he'd managed to train. With them had come three hundred of the most experienced orcs in the Stormreaver and Twilight's Hammer Clans. Enough, he had thought, to take care of any guardians Aegwynn and her allies had left behind.

Only it hadn't been so. Once again, he'd underestimated them. Aegwynn had known the door could be breached by a powerful spellcaster, obviously. Although the first level of this labyrinthine had been clear of any foe, the rest had been as full of them as could be. Water and Earth elementals, bound to this place, as well as stone and iron golems had attacked them. Not just one or two, but a dozen at a time. His spells and the spells of his companions had resounded at the same time the grunts charged with their axes. But for each melee, many of those escorting him had been killed or maimed, reducing their numbers ever further.

Three hundred and fifty had entered this place. And through the many levels to this one - the last by the feel he had of the place - less than thirty, battered and frightened still came forward. Bloodlust counted for nothing now, as the fear was too great even for demonic intervention to hold sway.

They all wanted to run. Only they wouldn't. Not out of any impressive loyalty or honour code, but for a far simpler reason: he frightened them even more. He had shown what happened to those who turned their back on a goal HE set.

It had been on the last level, after the decreasing group had been reduced much further after meeting greater earth elementals and disposing of them at the cost of much energy and many lives. One of the youngest of his own apprentices had come towards him and insolently demanded that they leave.

"Don't you see that it's crazy? This place is too powerful for us! We need more people. Much more. Two thousands! Three thousands! Goin' like this is suicide!!"

Gul'Dan had never been able to stand cowards. Or whiners. This orc, being both, wasn't going in the right direction. But nothing beat the fact that the young little orcling was trying to tell him what to do.

"No." he had said at length. "We are orcs. We do NOT retreat before a fight! We do NOT retreat before our goal!! We move forward." It took with the others somewhat. But not with the young one. His eyes only widened a moment, and he began to back away from the shrunken throng.

"But this is crazy! Completely insane! We won't make it to what you wish for, Master! I'm sure you all see that!" he had swept a trembling arm towards the others, and Gul'Dan saw, to his growing fury - that some were considering the words. It was time to intervene, lest he lost too many of them. He pointed a finger towards the younger orc, who froze.

"You will follow me, orcling. I am chieftain of the Stormreaver Clan. I command and you obey." he had said with dire finality.

"No! No, I won't follow you! Not into this deathtrap. This is all beyond us, and you're mad if you believe I'll continue on!"

"So be it. Die then." And before anyone could more, he had uttered the words of the spell, and a great bold of lightning crashed into the younger orc. The would-be warlock had writhed for a moment, then collapsed on the ground convulsing in his death throes. All looked at the corpse with intensity. The ogres and orcs in fear and disgust, Cho'Gall with interest, and the death knights as impassively as rotting corpses could be phlegmatic.

"Does anyone else have anything to say about our course of action?" he had asked mildly. "Please, speak up now and save me the trouble."

No one had dared. He hadn't thought they would. And so he had led them, past the last of the guardians, to this chamber, which radiated untold power.

"Finally." he heard Cho'Gall say fervently, and he almost laughed a maddened laugh. Finally, indeed! He would soon hold enough power that would far surpass even such powers as Archimonde and Kil'Jaeden. He would no longer be their pawn, held by a pact, but the master!

And then, it would mean that the magics of Kalimdor would be his!

He saw that the door - made of pure steel, it seemed - had been carved with many protections and runes. In old elvish, it seemed, yet he could read it: 'Beyond This Door, The Dark Titan's Will, Lies Shackled As Per Fate Is. Keep Away, Keep Back, Lest his Arms Be Freed.' Something was strange in that sentence, but he couldn't figure out what. He felt too impatient, however, to pay much attention to it.

He felt enormous power blocking the door. Impassable...if he didn't have the key in his hands. Medhiv's spellbook, in which he had noted the flaw in each Tirisfal Spells. A crack none but the Guardian - and Gul'Dan - knew of. He had found how to make it worse. And by that, he had learned how to break the seal upon any door. Even this one.

"And now, my brethren. Now is the time for our reward!" He had almost said mine there. Careful. He might need them yet, if a few last guardians remained. When Sargeras' power would be his, they would be easy to dispose of. He felt only a twinge of regret that Cho'Gall, the poor fool might not live to see much longer. He opened the book and began to recite, until the book glowed and rose out of his hand. Still he kept the incantation, spreading his arms as the glow grew and shot out of each page.

They struck his hands, and he almost screamed when they seared him. But he had endured the pain before. And he would do it again. For the power. Always for the power!

His voice reached a higher pitch, as he willed the energy into the cracks known only to a Guardian. The wards fought back with firm energy, but he was subtly bypassing them. The energy crackled and fought, surged and warped as two forces struggled. But he held on, not allowing any weakness in himself. He was so close! He wouldn't lose it now, he wouldn't. His body, battered from the previous ordeals screamed, yet he still fought the wards and twisted them. Harder. Harder...

And then they were gone, their ancient magics disrupted, leaving behind only a last lingering brush of powerful magics which died away, snuffed out. The door lay before him, immense demonic power beyond it. Now everyone could feel it, for all behind him gasped or growled or otherwise showed the terrible effects of it upon mortals.

He started laughing. A pleasant laugh - the most pleasant he'd had in years, certainly. Perhaps of his entire life. He laughed even as he advanced and grasped the handles to the heavy doors and, with a heave, slowly pried them open. "Now, Sargeras! Showed me your fearsome power!"

The doors opened open ancient hinges, and he stepped forth boldly. And stopped at once when he heard something. First faint, then far greater, like some great beast awakening. The room he was in, cavernous as it was, was settled in gloom. He could make nothing inside. As the sounds grew louder, as his mind screamed through his confused elation that he should recognize them, he spoke the words of a light spell and illuminated the darkness a trifle.

It was enough. His mind nearly went insane from the sight, for there was no mistaking what the noise was. Demons screaming in pure madness. Nor was there any doubt about what was rushing towards him.

Felguards. Doomguards. Fel Stalkers. Infernals. Crazed by their inability to move. Crazed out of any reason. Hundreds. Thousands. Rushing towards him. He had the taint of Tirisfal upon him, and it was that which had sealed them here. He suddenly understood what was happening even as the tide came towards him.

Aegwynn had perhaps defeated Sargeras, and perhaps sealed him somewhere. But this wasn't what had been sealed here. It hadn't been his Arms, as he'd read. He'd been wrong.

It had been his army. An army of destruction beyond nightmares.

He only had time for one last thought before fear - true, complete terror - made him fleet back in panic: Was it all a trick, Sargeras? To mock mortals? To mock me?

Behind him, as he ran, Cho'Gall and the rest of his group were screaming as a true demonic horde tore them apart. But they wouldn't have him. No, never. NEVER. NEVER!!!!

...never?

* * * * * * * * * *

Winter 597, Broken Island, On the Great Sea

Each day made Argal Grimfrost angrier. Here he was, at the head of a large part of the Horde forces, fighting another Horde force that was proving hard to dislodge and destroy. Although he outnumbered the defenders, it had taken time for his forces - over one hundred fifty thousand warriors, peons and support - to find where the bulk of Gul'Dan's traitorous group had fled. By the time they had been found, it had fortified itself on three small islands, protecting a smaller outcropping right in the middle.

Yet, for all of their fortification and their desperation, he had been able to secure surrounding islands and had staged a simultaneous naval and land attack, which had been able to dislodge most of the rebel orcs and ogres. Now with one island nearly in their possession, Argal passed his frustration by ordering any enemy to be slaughtered. It was the blood and the pact that went with it which spoke to him at that moment, but he didn't care at all. Not this time.

And so, catapults constructed or seized rained death upon earth works and barricades, while forces of orcs and ogres - aided by the increasingly untrustworthy trolls - took the remaining defenders in combat. The slaughter had been an invitation. And with these - traitors to his people and the cause Doomhammer ultimately followed - he had no qualms with joining in.

And so his strong arms and able axe - justly feared in the Horde - bit into the head of an enemy grunt, splitting the skull and killing him, with Argal and his personal guard of hand-picked warriors ploughed through the battlefield with deadly precision.

"Die!" he laughed harshly "Let your deaths be a reminder of the true Horde's power!" Most of his mind didn't truly believe in those words. But his warriors did. They were galvanized into frenzy, and cut bodies apart with greater, bloodier vigour. A young grunt came to face him in the fray. He saw that this was a youth. Little more than an orcling, the other grunt was utterly maddened by bloodlust and charged, heedless of the danger.

"That is why the humans and their damn Alliance were able to thwart us at times. No, still do thwart us." he reminded himself of the last grudgingly, and a new wave of fury took him, aimed at Gul'Dan. They'd had it. They'd had the Alliance on the run, and would have been able to deal a fatal blow. Yet because of the warlock, that chance had passed. Perhaps forever.

He dodged the rageful attack, and retaliated with a blow, which bit deep into the enemy's tight. It slowed the grunt down, and he quickly dealt it a fatal blow. Once more the bloodlust came to take him, but a lifetime of fighting it off was still paying off. He was not consumed, yet he almost decapitated the orc that urgently tapped him on the shoulder. Fortunately, he checked himself when he saw the bewildered, slightly frightened expression on the orc's face. Grunt did not scare easily. Something dire was up.

"What is it?" he growled curtly. The grunt surprised him again by hesitating. Since WHEN was a grunt hesitant?!?

"Warlord...there is something happening in the place the enemy leaders went into. Things are coming...no, streaming out."

"Things?" He inquired, yet something cold touched his soul and made him shiver. "Show me."

The two travelled through the battle, breaking away - regretfully, probably - and climbed a seized tower. Two grunts were still there, eyeing the small bump of land with - apprehension? He didn't acknowledge their bows, only snatched a longview - based on a human design - and looked towards the parcel of land. Yes, indeed, he immediately saw that...things were coming out of there in all direction, crossing to the three main islands. He tried to make it out, and found that he couldn't. He focused on one, trying to understand what he was saying. One of the shapes was familiar with something he had read. Old human legends, speaking of a time long past when the land had been attacked by...by...

His heart nearly stopped. "The Legion..." It wasn't possible. They couldn't enter this plane so easily, could they? And yet, it all fit. And if he was only halfway right... "Send orders, NOW! Ready for defence. Demons are attacking us!!"

They blinked, stared at each other, and it took another order - this time far more dangerous-sounding - to get them moving. He looked in the longview again. Yes, they were coming closer. Many of them. And if they were as powerful as the stories said. Without further hesitation, Argal nearly jumped back down to go and rally his troops for the ordeal before them.

Argal's heart, so used to only feeling the thrill of the fight or the steady cold of controlled fear, didn't quite know what to do about the terror it now experienced, and was beating wildly. The old warrior didn't know if those fiends were under Gul'Dan's orders or not, but it didn't truly matter. The Burning Legion was something he had glimpsed only once, long ago. He knew they couldn't be trusted. Or controlled.

He also knew that they were an extremely powerful force.

The tide had almost reached his lines. Huge beasts with horns, some humanoid, some the shape of animals, amongst them lumbered huge, golem-like forms which glowed a greenish light. He couldn't put a name to each form. His mind refused to work, and a part of his blood felt called by what he was seeing, forced into a wild rage. He ferociously settled that part of his heart. His heart had never been controlled; he would never allow it to be. His troops, however, were another tale entirely.

Order had ceased. Orcs around him struck to and fro, growling, yelling, slashing and bashing everywhere they could. It was the madness of the bloodlust, without anything to mitigate. Those around him had stopped thinking entirely, and forgot to even differentiate between ally and foe. They struck at allied orcs and ogres and trolls who, confused and scared, struck back. Argal himself had to stop the attack from one of his own bodyguard, who had to be put down by the others.

"Stop!" He shouted, knowing full well that it was futile. "Stop! This is madness! Stop acting like unthinking, stinking animals!!!" Yet his words went unheard by those orcs who were at hand. He looked at the remainder of his bodyguard, who worked to keep their maddened brethren at bay while fighting their own troubled heart. He had chosen them well. He wouldn't lose them in something that - something in him was certain - a horrid, mindless bloodbath.

He turned to the orc who had the horn of recall. "Sound a full retreat! We're pulling out, right now!"

The orc hesitated, probably surprised at hearing an older warrior talking of retreating so earnestly. "Warlord...?" he asked.

"Do it!" he snapped as loudly as he could, "If we don't pull our, we lose everyone here. Don't you see? These are demons! They are striking everywhere now, and driving everything into madness!!!"

It was the truth. He saw it with his own eyes. Demons of shapes unimaginable to his mind attacked both Gul'Dan's forces and his - proving they were truly out of control - while both forces were fighting foe and allies as well as demons, It was a maelstrom of blood and death, beyond anything he had ever seen while fighting the Draenai, the humans of Azeroth or the Alliance. Limbs, blood and gore were suddenly everywhere, on an island that had lost all reason.

He glanced back at the orc with the horn. All who were still sane were fighting the strange taint inside of them. This time, there was no hesitation. The call of full retreat - used so grudgingly - rang clear and true, and the group began to retreat to the waiting landing ships. Three times they were assailed, and three times they killed former comrades. His chest heaving, Argal saw that other groups were also running towards the ships - so few of them, such a small fraction.

He turned back only once, despite his legs, which told him to keep running, to look at the carnage going on this island, and probably on the others. Everyone here - Legion or Horde - was certainly lost, except a few. There would be no victory here. Not for either side. Only death and blood and fire.

"Gul'Dan." he breathed ferociously. "I hope you roast in a fine corner of the worst nightmarish realm for this!"

And then, with a heavy heart, his mind fighting the urge to fight, Argal Grimfrost turned back and ran with his troops, with his people, and had the strangest thought. A frightening thought for a lifelong warrior such as he.

'I don't think I want to fight anymore, but what else can I do?'

Farther on, hidden from sight and watching the bloody carnage with troubled eyes, a man wondered if what he had done - what he had allowed to happen with his own powers - would truly tip the scales. Yet there hadn't been any choice. It had to be done.

For the future, humans had to defeat this Horde...or the Legion would win...

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Late Winter 597, Havenport, Kul Tiras

The mighty Alliance flagship, Jurin Halfadas decided, was a sight to behold. Supposedly an Orca-Class battleship, the Dauntless had been based on that design. Yet it was squarely in a class of its own.

No larger ship had ever been built. No even the legendary Arathorian flagship, the Fist of Heaven, could compete. Half again as large and wide as a true Orca-class, the Dauntless was a mass of sails and oars, armed with twenty-seven cannons on either side. It had enough firepower to take out a Horde Juggernaut in a single volley, and had enough armour to survive many volleys of its own. To be truthful, Halfadas wondered if magic hadn't been heavily used to allow such a ship to stay afloat, but there was no denying the strength and endurance it had.

It was an icon of the Alliance's naval superiority, was crewed by the very best sailors and officers in the Navy, and commanded by the man who held sway over the waves of the Great Sea.

It was this man, King Daelin of Kul Tiras, whom he was to meet for reasons he couldn't quite pin down.

Halfadas' fortunes had been good enough in the five years of naval warfare which had followed his working with Aerth Swiftblade for the strategic feint that had led to securing much of Lordaeron's and Dalaran's shorelines. From a captain of a small squadron of sloops then, his actions at Zul'Dare had made the High Command take notice, and he had been given command of a newly built Grimstorm-class battleship in the Third Alliance Fleet, where he had served until the present day.

On the day that strange, unusually violent and simple-minded dragons had attacked his fleet, Halfadas had managed to rally some destroyers to defend the fleet just as its flanks were about to break. He had seen many ships go down, and had been an active part of the fleet's restoration. Whatever had happened, he could find no significant fault in his actions. In fact, he had been warmly congratulated in a letter from his old comrade Swiftblade.

"Well, whatever happens, happens." he muttered, swallowing the mental twinge of apprehension he was feeling.

As he gave his name to the soldiers on duty, he saw looked at Havenport's huge docks and saw that they were filled to capacity. Dozens of ships - battleships, destroyers, frigates, sloops and other transports and support ships of all kinds were docked, and he could see that many half-completed hulls stood in the shipyards. Something big was certain to be happening soon, if what he saw was any indication.

He was brought to his liege much quicker and with much less pomp and fanfare than he'd expected, but considering what he'd seen - and the rumours that Queen Larienne had gone off on some mission to end the war - it probably meant that the Grand Admiral had no time for such things anymore. No time or not patience, and perhaps both.

He was introduced in the Admiral's meeting room, which was empty of anyone save the lean monarch, who was occupied with reading one of the many maps strewn about the room and did not look up when they entered. As such, Halfadas uncomfortably waited until he had finished.

"I heard from some distinguished navy officers that you were instrumental in keeping the Third Fleet in the fight when these...dragons, one should have to say... attacked it." Proudmoore said without looking up, and only control allowed the captain from jumping at the sudden comment. He cast about for an answer and, having none, finally simply decided to answer plainly.

"I aided, Sire."

Now Proudmoore looked at him. There was a slight grin on his face, but the rest of his face was grim, fatigued and paler than it certainly should be. Yes, the rumours about Queen Larienne had to be true. Jurin, an unmarried man who never had much interest in women or relationships, wondered how it would feel to lose sons, and then have his wife leave on some dangerous errand. He repressed a shiver.

"You did more than aid. Your talents for naval ingenuity and daring are well known amongst the captaincy. You have the drive to win, but also the ability to think before you enter something you aren't prepared for. Yet, you are also willing to take risks if it helps the general cause." he showed a folded piece of parchment. "I asked Lord-General Swiftblade and Admiral Fargold of the Third Fleet. Their answers agree with that reputation. Swiftblade, in particular, is full of compliments about your work around Zul'Dare."

Halfadas felt both pride and embarrassment fill him at these words. He was used to his work, but open praise had always been something he had been bad at answering. "You honour me, milord. I only can say that I seek to serve to the best of my abilities."

"And so you shall!" There was more life in Proudmoore's voice now, a strength that offset the previous weakness. He showed another letter. This one, he saw, had many seals, some of them bearing the sigils of Azeroth, some of Lordearon and one being the magical seal used by Dalaran. Obviously, an extremely powerful paper. "This is news that I received a tenday ago. I can tell you what it is: the Kingdom of Alterac has been found a traitor nation working for the Horde, betraying the Pact of Alliance."

The younger man couldn't contain his shock at hearing this. "Humans...siding with the orcs. After all the deaths and the bloodshed. Sire, that's...completely..." he didn't know of a word strong enough for it. Minor, traitorous groups and rebels always existed. But for a nation to align itself against something all of humanity had been fighting for years...

"Completely horrifying? Unredeemable? Inexcusable?" Proudmoore grunted, setting the document amongst the pile of others. "Choose whatever word you wish, and you won't even come close. As such, all other human nations have cut all agreements and ties to Alterac, including Kul Tiras, and have agreed to make Alterac pay dearly. The land forces have already begun to move to invade. But Alterac has many shores, and a small fleet of its own. This is where we - and most importantly, you - come in."

Proudmoore rose from his seat, and seemed to gather his will. He stared at Halfadas with stern, strong eyes. "Jurin Halfadas, under my authority as Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet, my seat on the Alliance High Command and as King of Kul Tiras, I hereby promote you to the rank of full admiral of the newly created Tenth Fleet, with your first orders being the sinking of the Alterac fleet and the crippling of its port facilities."

It took a moment for that to register.

Actually, he wasn't certain it had registered. But his mind kept telling him he'd heard it. Him, an admiral? Commanding the Tenth Fleet? "Sire...I...don't know what to say...this is..."

"If you don't know what to say, then don't say anything except this: do you accept this task?"

"Of course! It would be my honour to serve the Alliance in this way!" There had been no hesitation there. Good, good.

The Grand Admiral nodded, as if he'd expected this. And who was to say? Perhaps he had expected it. He seemed to consider something, then grunted. "The Tenth Fleet isn't your usual Fleet. It's the first using these underwater 'submarines' the gnomes have cooked up lately. These will be useful for the ultimate mission this fleet has."

"Which will be, milord?"

There was an unhealthy glint Halfadas didn't really like - a raging bloodthirst which made his skin crawl - in Proudmoore's eyes as he answered. "To strike at Horde ships wherever they may be. To sink their fleet, burn their shipyards, and work to help us wipe them off the sea with extreme prejudice!"

Did the king hear the hatred in his voice? Probably not. Halfadas himself hated the orcs, had seen the ravages their ships had done, but he was certain it didn't come close to what his liege was conveying. Yet there was nothing wrong with the mission. The orcs were diminished, but still a nuisance on the sea. It would be a good thing to finally find where they launched their main force from, and destroy it. After Alterac had been dealt with, of course. He found himself looking forward to showing those traitors why Kul Tiras was the nation that ruled the Great Sea.

"Sir, I will be setting sail to Alterac." he said at last, with as much fervour as he could muster "And I will make certain its fleet never betrays humanity again."

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Arcane Magic in Azeroth as of 597

Magic has existed on Azeroth since before the High Elves ever founded Silvermoon and formed the magical realm of Quel'Thalas. Human shamans and seers were using basic magical means even 9,000 years ago, when the first recorded tribes gathered in the northwest where the main provinces of Arathor and later Lordaeron would later exist. The Dwarves themselves have used magical runes for their weapons nearly 7,000 years. It is the High Elves, however, who brought arcane magic fully to the fore, founding a magical academy in their capital.

Humans themselves might still be far behind the elves today, if the High Elves themselves hadn't been forced, through arranging help from the massive Imperial Army of Arathor, to teach gifted men and women their magics. Although they only taught humans the basics of advanced arcane magic, within two centuries, the Violet Citadel was erected, and the first Human order of magic, the Kirin Tor, were formed nearly 2,500 years ago, and it is from that point on that Humans could be said to have entered the realm of Arcane Magic fully.

Today many human orders - the most powerful still being the Kirin Tor - teach and study magic throughout the continent, while the elves of Silvermoon, despite being outnumbered, still have a more refined magic. It is however worth noting that the High Elves have what seems to be a sort of natural addiction to arcane energies that no human, dwarf or gnome seems to have. This addiction makes them naturally skilled, but if it ever becomes a problem, what will the High Elves do