Chapter Thirty-One: Tragedy and Despair

Early Winter 598, Grim Batol, Khaz Modan

She had heard the first sounds of battle even as she was delivering one more peaceful speech to yet another band of doubtful - and yet so desperate - orc people. Over the past few years, she had gone from one end of the horde city to the other. She had gone from the fearsome strongholds built from old dwarven ruins, to the outlying farmlands where poor orcs tried to raise wild pigs as food for the troops. Everywhere, she had used the same words. In each instance, she'd been met by something akin to disbelief, even denial.

The orcs didn't want to believe that peace could exist. It went against their very way of life. That had frustrated her, until she had learned from Argal Grimfrost. Unlike most other orc commanders, Grimfrost was truly respected instead of simply feared, and he had a wisdom gained from years of war and pain. He had told her what he could. With the knowledge and her own eyes, she had understood: these orcs had never had peace. They'd never been given the choice at all. Confronted with it, they had reacted with instinctive hostility.

She had braved that, however. Certain that, underneath it all, the orcs weren't that different from humans. Humans could be monstrous, she knew. All the wars fought in humanity's past proved it. But humanity could also promote peace and enlightenment, as it did with the Pact of Stormwind and the Clerics of Northshire. She was certain that this peaceful core, hidden for so long, could be reached.

And, slowly, it had worked. The hostility had given way to troubled irritation, then doubts. Groups were ever larger at her gatherings. Where there had been few thoughtful looks in the beginning, now there were many. It had all nurtured her hope. Until that hope was shattered by the sound of battle.

The shouts and clashes - steel against steel, she knew the sound quite well - were unmistakable. She heard the voices, and knew at once that humans had attacked the docks and its refineries. She even knew enough by now to understand why the humans would do it. It was all very logical and understandable.

But it also threatened to destroy the fragile doubts she gave unto so many. She wouldn't allow it.

"Milady, this is certainly an Alliance attack!" one of the loyal knights who had followed her for so long stated as the crowd broke up in stupefaction, civilians quickly trying to vacate the area while the grunts took up arms and sped toward the noise. She nodded. "Milady, we should also remove ourselves." the knight noted.

"No! That is not what will happen!" she snapped. She ignored the knights' stares, "I don't care if this is the Alliance, there is too much at stake. It goes beyond the war, beyond hatred. It is the salvation of an entire race." she shook her head "Why can neither side see that much?"

"Milady, I insist!" The knight said, and went to take her arm. Instinctively, she jerked back. This can't be. I was reaching them. And more conflict threatens to engulf the idea of peace. More youths dying on both sides. More unnecessary deaths. I cannot allow this! Fuelled by that personal directive, she began moving towards the sounds of battle, startling her guardians with her movements.

"Highness!" they called, but she had already entered the throng. Lithe and slim, she wormed her way through the masses, while she knew that the knights, larger and armoured, were certainly struggling to move through. It would give her time. Light, let it be enough. Let me convince them!

She was getting closer to the din of battle; saw more and more grunts and the occasional orgre run past her, when the first explosion shook her off her feet. She barely scrambled back when another nearly knocked her back down. The refineries. They're exploding. Damn whoever commands this army! Damn him! Warmongering fool! She turned the corner of a roughly built depot, and nearly ran into a large altercation between Alliance and Horde soldiers.

What she saw both awed and disgusted her. She had seen the blood and bodies on the battlefields, but never a battle up close. Humans with swords fought orcs with axes. There was no difference besides that. Both sides fought with equal hatred and ferocity, equal abandon. The humans, however, had the element of surprise still, and quickly gained the upper hand. Amongst them, slashing with a skill which was more brutal than fine, was a human in heavier armour, wearing a golden feather on his helm. She had heard enough from her husband to understand its meaning, and drew herself up.

"General of the Alliance! I order you to stop, in the name of the Golden Anchor and the Throne of Kul Tiras!" She called even as the humans were slaughtering the last orcs in the area. The general - fearsome with his horned helmet - stopped and stared, apparently either shocked or confused.

"By the Golden Anchor? Who would you be, lady?" the general asked, his bloody blade ready for any tricks.

"I am Larienne Proudmoore, Queen of Kul Tiras, wife to Dealin Proudmoore, King of Kul Tiras and Grand Admiral of the Alliance!" she intoned strongly, trying hard to blot out the screams and death around her. The general and his soldiers didn't appear bothered by either. What they appeared, however, was speechless. She pointed to the general. "Obey my will, general! By my blood and my crown, I order you to cease this attack!"

The general didn't seem to react for a moment. His blade trembled, and then he shook his head. "Highness...I am glad to see you alive and well. I respect your words. But I must refuse. This raid must continue." Another explosion, signifying the end of yet one more refinery, seemed to give his voice even more frightful strength. Larienne gritted her teeth in despair.

"You don't understand! This isn't the way it should be!" she cried.

"Perhaps. But that is what I was told to do. With King Proudmoore's consent. This is much too important. It won't be stopped now." the general answered, and sounded tired as he said that.

Larienne wasn't surprised when she heard that. It hurt to hear that her husband wanted this war to continue, but she knew that the deaths of his sons had affected him deeply. Still, she couldn't let go. She couldn't simply leave and let everything here go to ruin. I can't. I've felt something in the orcs! There's something beneath the hatred.

"If I tell you where the other refineries are, will you leave this place?" she asked at last. Before her, the armoured group hesitated. Hope flared in her bosom as she waited for an answer.

"Treacherous human witch! By Warchief Doomhammer's order, you die!" A voice screamed in fury. The humans raised all blades, and Larienne saw the general rush towards her. Confused, she raised her arm to ward him off as she also turned her head to look at who might have shouted. She never had time to finish either movement.

She didn't actually feel much pain. A thud. A wrenching sensation, and she was looking at the shaft of a spear protruding from her left breast Already the whole side was being seeped in blood. She looked at the metallic edge of the wooden pole in surprise, her legs giving out under her. She vaguely felt most of the men run past her yelling, and being caught by the general. She looked up and tried to discern an expression behind the helmet, yet she couldn't. So fuzzy. My vision. I'm getting so tired. Am I...dying?

She tried to speak, but instead ended up coughing blood on the general's armour. The sight struck her, and ignited realization. I'm dying. No! No! I can't leave now! No! I want peace to be achieved. I want to see a peaceful land again. I want...I want to see my little Jaina grow up! She jerked, grasped the general's gauntleted hand tightly. Her eyes searched his.

"Helm...take...off..." she managed to say between bloody coughs. Almost immediately, the fearsome helm was removed, and Larienne saw a brown-haired, sad-eyed man looking at her. Young, and yet old. Battered by war. So tired...but...

"Peace...I had...to...t-t-try...had t-to...talk...they not...not...monsters..." She struggled to speak, but each word was harder, more tiresome, more blood-filled. Dealin, my Dealin. My beloved. Please don't hate in my name. Jaina...I wish...I could have seen you grow up. Please. Some way, I'd like you to know that your mother wanted to spare you this war.

"Stop...hate...Dealin...Jaina...love..." her words made no sense. Can't I speak? I'm so tired. Light, so tired. The general held her hand, sad, grim eyes looking down. "I...wanted...it... to..stop...it...to..." she sighed as the fatigue overwhelmed her. "Dealin."

Light, forgive me. I tried. I tried.

So tired...Dealin...

Early Winter 598, Grim Batol, Khaz Modan

Aerth Swiftblade could only watch the catastrophic event as Larienne Proudmoore, beloved by the people of Kul Tiras and known as the Hope-Giver among many in the Alliance army, slowly relinquished her hold on life. Part of him knew that there was no way he could have stopped the attack which had killed her, but another part of his mind still ranted, wondering if he could have tried something. Both arguments were moot, however. Only the results were clear.

He held on to the woman who, through compassion or simple naiveté, had dared to go to the Horde and speak of peace. Her eyes were already seeing things he couldn't. Things he probably would never see until he, too, died. She clutched at him and through bloodied lips, told him words he could barely understand - and yet did. He forgot, for a time, that he was in the midst of an intricate raid, surrounded by enemies. The queen's blood drenched the muddy street and the cracked dwarven flagstones.

And, finally, her eyes fixed on a point beyond sight, and she sighed a single word. A name, spoken longingly and lovingly. "Dealin."

And then her breathing stood still. Having fought in too many battlefields and having witnessed too many deaths, Swiftblade knew that she was gone beyond the reach of all. He regarded her for a long moment, battling the urgent callings the soldier in him uttered.

"You died still clinging to peace. If only more people were only half as great as you, Your Majesty. Rest well in the Light. You have deserved it more than most." To him, it seemed wholly inadequate a thing to say. What she had done, although perhaps useless and foolhardy, was something that put her on higher grounds. But it was all that could come to his mind. A few soldiers gathered around him, looking at him for guidance. He reasserted his control and brought the body to some of the men.

"Bear this body away safely. At the cost of your lives, if you must. She is the Queen of Kul Tiras, Larienne the Hope-Giver. And I refuse to let orcs or foul trolls have their hands on her body. Is that clear?" he ordered sternly. The men seemed to be jolted, though whether by her name or his implacable tone he could not tell.

"Aye, milord. We'll protect her body from those stinkin' things! Let's go, you slugs!" Taking the body as carefully as they could, the small group began making their way through the bodies and debris, making their way back to the foothold from which Swiftblade had launched his raid. Judging from what he'd observed, he would have judged the plan a fair success, but the queen's death jarred that perspective. He motioned to the messenger who had stayed with him.

"How many of the refineries have we crippled?" he asked.

"Three, general. We can't get to the others. Furthermore, I received a message that the attack to the Black Tooth Grin is being attacked by dragons."

Dragons! So, the rumours are true. The Orcs have been controlling dragons. Or breeding them. Either possibility is dangerous. "Give the men the order to withdraw, immediately! As soon as we are clear, I want the gnomes to fly to our forces up north and tell them to retreat."

"Milord, I'm not certain..."

"Nothing is certain, except for the fact that we have done enough damage to slow this city down, and that we cannot stand against a flight of red dragons! Order the retreat at once!" He glared towards the streets as, as if on cue, orcs began to engage the picket sentries in great numbers.

They've recovered from their surprise quickly. We have to escape now, or we never will. Behind him, the horn of retreat sounded. Swiftblade raised his blade and charged the group of orcs. He killed one at once, and wounded two others, but this was only the first of many such groups. As soon as they were retreating, he raised his blade again.

"To the transports! Follow me!"

Follow they did. As they did, more orcs and trolls came at them. Each time, they fought the Horde's rallying forces off. Swiftblade, however, wondered at the small numbers they were facing. He knew that, even though his forces had attacked the Black Tooth Grin base, there should have been thousands of troops in Grim Batol. Although he'd never spoken this way with the other generals, he had thought that this mission, although worthwhile if successful, would probably be suicidal.

It was when he came near the port that he realized that he had been outmanoeuvred. As he and the soldiers he had managed to rally went forth to the transports, they came face to face with a large Horde strike force. Hundreds strong certainly, with many trolls and ogres to boot. In front of them were the men who had carried Larienne, all in a tight group.

Well, this is it. Luck has to run out one day. Forgive me, Eira. he thought to himself. The Alliance styled him a genius tactician, but no tactics could win against such odds. Still, he readied his men to make a worthwhile stand.

It was as he began to talk that one orc came forward. Large enough, with a mighty axe, he wore the black armour of one of importance, and his grey hair and many battle scars only imprinted the power this orc had. He came near Larienne Proudmoore's body, ignoring the humans levelling swords at him. He seemed to contemplate the body with ire, yet Swiftblade didn't seem to feel that the ire was directed at the queen.

"You struck a sound blow, as you humans would say. Good work." the orc said, "What's your name, human leader?"

"I am Aerth Swiftblade, of Azeroth." Swiftblade answered readily. There was no point in trying to lie at any rate. The orcs and trolls muttered and growled, their eyes hardening. It appeared that Swiftblade was as infamous in the Horde as he was famous in the Alliance. But he wouldn't hide. The older orc, however, only stared at him, then nodded as if it fit what was in his mind.

"Aerth Swiftblade. You're well-known. This attack fits your talent. It was well orchestrated, and timed almost perfectly." the orc hefted his axe. "But, sad for you, you underestimated us. I am Argal Grimfrost, Warlord of the Blackrock Clan, and I have your life in my hands!"

Now it was the Alliance soldiers who blanched further, fingers tightening upon hilts. Swiftblade understood them. Grimfrost. The architect of the attacks that had almost shattered the Alliance. The greatest Orc leader next to Orgrim Doomhammer himself. Swiftblade felt oddly honoured, despite the circumstances. Yet, he had faced too many years of wars and too many deadly situations to simply surrender.

"You have our lives. We are prepared to defend it. It is your word, sir, which will decide it." he was surprised the slaughter hadn't begun already. What is it with these orcs? This isn't normal! Again Grimfrost looked at the Queen's body again.

"She was human. And yet, she was more like Durotan than either Orgrim and I. How ironic life is." The orc said, and then speared Swiftblade with a look. "You and your men can go. My gift in the midst of this insanity. Take care, human, because if we meet again, your life will be mine to take again. And I will take it."

It took a moment for Swiftblade to realize what had just been said. From a human, it would have sounded almost normal, if unusual. But to hear such words from an orc was nearly impossible. He had fought the Orcs for nearly fifteen years, ever since the battle of Grand Hamlet, and never had he heard an orc speak mercifully. The world is a surprising place, he wondered. He saw that the orcs were generally surprised and displeased at the turn of events. None, however, disobeyed. It seemed that the Warlord of the Blackrock Clan was highly respected indeed.

The man wasn't fool enough to tempt fate. Cautiously, he gathered his men and began to move away from the Horde troops. Both sides gave themselves looks, which showed that this was only a reprieve. Both sides would meet again. And there would be no more mercy then.

Yet, before they left for their transports, Swiftblade looked towards Grimfrost, who had been watching the Alliance forces go amidst the tension and chaos.

"You do this for her?" he asked.

"I do this because she is what we once were. And, perhaps, stopped being." was the only answer he received.

Swiftblade felt he probably never would see Grimfrost again. They would fight their battles, until one side was defeated. Most likely, one would die before they met again. But if they did see each other...

...he would ask this very special orc what he had meant.

Early Winter 598, Grim Batol, Khaz Modan

Argal Grimfrost had never totally stopped believing in the Horde until that day. Although he knew that their entire mission was wrong, he thought that, after the humans and their allies were destroyed, he could begin helping his people shake off the mental shackles chieftains of old had forced upon his people for decades. That bloodlust which always simmered at the back of his mind, he was certain that they could fight it together when war finally stopped.

However, today was different. Today he had seen most of his hopes die with one strange, zealous human female.

He looked at the weary, fleeing humans. He knew that the troops wouldn't like to be told to disengage - retreat of any type was shameful to any Horde warrior, and disengaging sounded much like retreating. They wouldn't disobey, however. If nothing else, Grimfrost knew how to make troops obey his will. He was very good at it. Exceptional.

He was an orc warrior, through and through, and he often found himself disappointed in his own abilities for that very reason.

"Bring him." he ordered of the orcs nearby. Murmurs of disapproval or not, the orcs, trolls and ogres had no doubt about obeying him. Soon, a beaten orc was carried in his presence, looking defiant and almost unafraid. He had been the orc who had, if the story was true, stabbed Larienne Proudmoore to death.

"What is you name, warrior?" the orc stayed silent, and Grimfrost scowled. This was a breach of politeness. Not to announce one's name to one greater simply wasn't done. But it appeared that things were changing. "Did you lose your tongue to the humans? Speak, before I lose my temper!"

"Norgon Highflame, of the Blackrock Clan." was the terse answer he received. Grimfrost nodded.

"You have killed that human female, Norgon." A nod answered him. "I ordered you all not to hurt her or your escort. But you did, grunt. You disobeyed me." That accusation caused the younger grunt to stiffen.

"Lord, I did not. I was acting on orders from the Warchief. His orders were to stop the human and her treacherous plans!" Before he could utter another word, the orc found himself lifted up to eye level with Grimfrost. The warlord had heard the words, but they simply didn't ring as the truth. It can't!

"The Warchief ordered this?" he growled.

"Yes, Warlord. I swear on my life." the grunt said, suddenly less assure than before. The older orc tightened his hold.

"You just did. Explain. Explain very well. And you may yet live tonight." The Warlord of the Blackrock Clan warned.

The orc did. He explained that the Warchief had discerned that the human female was deluding the warriors, confusing them when what was needed was strength. Doomhammer, it seemed, was certain that all of Proudmoore's actions were part of Lothar's plan to destabilize the orc war machine before they could recoup from their losses and truly launch their growing dragon flights upon the human armies. Larienne Proudmoore had been an obstacle to victory, and had to be removed.

Argal Grimfrost had received many blows, both mental and physical, throughout his life. But none of them came close to this one. For the first time, Grimfrost had seen Doomhammer act exactly like Blackhand. Blackhand, who had been strong but cruel, consumed by his bloodlust. An orc Doomhammer, Grimfrost and a few others had wanted out. The type of orc they wanted to stop from appearing.

Doomhammer had acted just like Blackhand, rationalizing an inexcusable act through his own impressions and frustration. Grimfrost had never felt such a swell of despair.

He let go of the orc. "Very well. Since it was the Warchief's decision." he paused, considering. All these years, he'd thought that replacing Blackhand with Doomhammer had been the right decision. And it had been true, up to a point. But did Doomhammer make anything better? No. The wars had continued. More lives had been taken. Peace had never entered Doomhammer's mind.

Doomhammer's? My mind too! I'd almost forgotten Durotan's teachings. It took a human to remind me! Before that Larienne Proudmoore, naive but oh-so convincing, had arrived, he'd found the concept of peace ridiculous. He had mocked the rumoured group hiding in the mountains of Stromgarde. Ridiculed the blademasters for abandoning the Horde years before, going into the wild. I thought I'd resisted the bloodlust. But not really. It was there. It was always there!

"By the Beyond! Recall all the troops! All the possible forces we have! We'll take the battle to the Alliance once more!" He bellowed. All around him, to his grief, his people yelled in glee, their eyes wild. All except a few. A few, who looked dismayed by what was happening. Among them was the tall Kerak Fadeburn. Once the mightiest of the Blackrock grunts, the lethal orc fighter had been taken by Larienne Proudmoore's words, and had been hit hard at seeing her dead body. He stood, his face saddened, no longer relishing the thought of fighting.

Perhaps the female had convinced some. But not enough. And that, it seemed to Grimfrost at last, was his race's destiny. To fight only to fight. To kill only to kill. No other purpose but feeling the blood of the enemy escaping from its wounds.

An empty, meaningless existence.

An endless, useless war. Slaves of demonic masters, ignorant of their people's more peaceful past.

And it was in that moment that Grimfrost's anger took hold of him. Years of keeping anger in check had taken its toll, and now it controlled him. The unnatural, demonic whispers weren't at fault, however. That anger was his. Anger at his people, at himself. Mostly, anger at Doomhammer - a friend who had decided not to even try to break with the demons' hold. It was too much to bear.

"Give me one of the Dire Wolves! I travel to Blackrock Spire now!" he suddenly uttered. Some looked surprised.

"But won't you come join us in the fight?" One Ogre asked.

"No. I will speak to Doomhammer. Prepare yourselves and go! Only these humans will have our mercy. A promise fulfilled, and nothing more!" He laughed inwardly at the hateful words, and how easily it swayed them. Pawns. "The Horde will crush the Alliance once and for all. We will destroy their pitiful army in one great blow! We will conquer this land and this world!"

They roared, and he despaired. Except for a few, they would follow and believe in the words blindly. No real will. A fell and fallen people.

So be it. If they wanted death so much, let those fools go and taste it. He knew the truth. It was impossible to gather more than forty, perhaps fifty thousand together before the army would have to leave. All in all, sixty thousand orcs would face a force easily four, perhaps five times greater. Strength would fail against such numbers.

And he suddenly didn't care if it did. If blood was his people's destiny, it would one day end in blood at any rate. He left the warriors gathered there to spread the word. He quickly made his way farther from the port, looking over some human bodies on the way. The queen's escort had been slaughtered, as well. Their reward for such remarkable loyalty.

He didn't mind. All he could think about was Doomhammer. He wanted to speak with the orc again, no matter what happened. He wanted to see the friend whom he had trusted so much, whom he had put his hopes on, and ask him why. Why he had let it come to this. Why he hadn't been able to stop the bloodshed.

Why he had found it necessary to kill the only being who might have shaken his people out of demonic lethargy.

He would ask Doomhammer these questions.

And, if they weren't to his satisfaction, he would kill his friend for betraying his own people, however unwittingly.

Winter 598, Ironfang Plains, Khaz Modan

The Alliance had been making remarkable strides. Even with all that had happened, Anduin Lothar had to admit that much. More than he'd originally thought possible given the circumstances.

With the Land Bridges finally taken, Rellon Minvare had led a strong assault upon the battered orcish stronghold of Dun Algaz. Weakened from the general's previous attack upon it, it fell readily enough. But then, it seemed, the orcs hadn't been very numerous. No more than two thousand or so, which was insufficient to guard such an enormous compound.

With Dun Algaz's fall, the Alliance forces had driven hard against the struggling horde Armies. A new stalemate might have begun, if new hadn't come of Larienne Proudmoore's death. Lothar sighed as he looked upon yet another map inked with army positions. To all First War veterans, the queen had been seen as a naive lady, but worthy of respect despite it all. To the common soldier, she had seemed radiant and glorious, buoying their hopes with speeches of peace.

Lothar felt grief, for he knew his friend Dealin would perhaps never recover. The soldiers, upon hearing the news - and they had spread faster than a raging wildfire - had felt grief for the one who had seemed to be an icon of beauty and hope. And soon, that grief had turned to angry energy, and even recruits fought horde forces with near-abandon. No stalemate had thus developed. Every single day brought them near Ironforge.

'Once Ironforge is liberated, we'll be able to use those dwarven tunnels to break their forces up all through occupied Khaz Modan.' Lothar thought. 'I don't like to think cruelly, dear Larienne, but your death may have galvanized my men to proper victory.'

Yes, he decided. A most cruel thought, even if true.

Aerth Swiftblade, who was leaning on one of the tent poles, looked over. "Milord, if I may? Has there been any news from the Alterac Front?"

"News? The last I heard, the capital had fallen. Perenolde has been taken in, and most of the country is now under martial law." Lothar sighed angrily. He hadn't been quite surprised by Perenolde's treachery, given that the monarch had always been reluctant, mincing troops and goods for the joint war effort. "Perenolde's treachery...it makes me fear for the future of the Alliance."

"Surely you jest, my Regent."

"How I wish it would be so. Perenolde will be jailed and tried after the war begins to swing fully our way. That will bring ill feelings from Alterac folk. But I think that, with the leadership and throne of the nation broken, other nations will wish to take the land for themselves. Stromgarde and Lordaeron."

"Oh, the unified occupation will hold until the war is over. Bickering has shown what could happen with Alterac, the sneaky deals of Gilneas and the mage trouble in Dalaran. But afterwards? Oh, that won't go over well. But, then, it will not be my concern by then. A new king will be chosen."

At this, Swiftblade, who was admittedly more inclined to being emotional than most generals, showed shock. "But, my Regent, you are beloved by the people! If you took the crown, no one-" the younger man had no choice but to stop when Lothar gave a long, hearty bout of laughter.

"Ah, my good Lord Swiftblade! You are a good soldier and a superb general, but I can see your common roots with this political naiveté. Don't feel slighted! I mean no disrespect to your parents, who I am quite certain were fine, honest folk. But it remains that you know little of politics." Lothar said, and watched as the younger general struggled with himself, trying to keep emotions in check.

"I...you're right. You are right." Swiftblade coughed into his gauntleted hand. So close to Horde positions, every knight - including Lothar - wore armour even when off the battlefield. "I was never interested in politics. My wife, however, is quite versed in this aspect of the crown."

"I would think so, the last of House Fregar, one of our most powerful houses! You life is now bound to her, and by your own deeds to the nobility. You will have to learn. No, my friend, I have no intention of putting a childless, old man like myself on the throne. No Lothar should be on the throne. No. The only one who deserves it, by blood and right, is Varien Wrynn." Lothar turned to pour himself some wine in a rough cup, and looked back to see Swiftblade gaping.

"Varien Wrynn? I noticed the name, and he told me that he was connected to our late King Llane, but I never thought he was close enough in blood to be king outright!" The younger man cried, then fidgeted as he digested the information. Lothar drank his wine in one, swift gulp, then filled the cup again. It was rather cold for his old bones, here on the plains.

"His relation to Llane is distant but distinct. And he is a Wrynn, and a man of decency for all his faults. Still, you just touched the problem. Although he has the clear claim, it is a distant one. Some old Azerothian families survived the realm's fall, like House Duraz did." Lothar smirked in mild disgust. "Some will try to plot and put one of their own on the throne. But I cannot let it happen. I vowed to my old friend Llane that I would give back the throne to one of his blood. And for that to happen, I would like your help when the coronation comes."

"Me?"

"Yes. You are married to the wealth and lands of House Fregar, which gives you weight. But, more than that, you are a hero to our people." Lothar grinned as the younger man considered this, and shook his head slowly.

"A hero? What I did wasn't very heroic, my lord. I sent men to fight a battle while I watched more often than not, many of whom I sent to their death."

"There you are with the naiveté, again, my young friend. That is not the way the people see. That is not the way the soldiers see it. You have won more often than any other alliance general, and lost fewer men than anyone. That makes you a hero to the people. The soldiers will follow you and the common folk will listen to you. That will give you weight when the time comes."

Swiftblade reflected on that for a moment, and then looked at Lothar seriously. "Lord Wrynn is one I consider a friend. Although he is arrogant and lacks some understanding of the common folk, he is a very good man at the very end of things. I will support him in the name of House Swiftblade."

'Naive, blunt, and of extreme feelings, but honest and loyal to a fault.' Lothar reflected mildly 'Refreshing after all the old, arrogant bloodlines. I hope the new king rewards you well, young man.'

But, he knew, the times weren't to naming a new king for Azeroth. His homeland still remained in orcish hands. When the Horde had been beaten back and the ruins of former homes could be rebuilt, then it would be time for a coronation. Lothar would then be able to finally give up his regency and leave work to younger folk.

Like Turalyon, Minvare and Swiftblade, Wrynn and younger nobles. 'Light, for I am so very tired. This war has cost so many lives, destroyed so much. I wish to win the day, but will be content when I sheathe my sword for the last time.'

"My Regent, what of Queen Proudmoore?" Swiftblade asked, and the encouraging thoughts Lothar had bee entertaining evaporated. He sighed heavily.

"What of her, indeed? It is a tragedy. But not a wholly surprising one. Not only because I think that the Horde is corrupt, but also because the blood of so many battles hang between us. Queen Proudmoore was braver than I, to try it now. But her death is not a surprise. Not at all." The old knight mused.

The younger man looked outside, at the men walking about, laughing, growling, polishing weapons or simply cooking themselves some watered stew. There was an uncertain look on his face for a moment, but it passed so quickly that Lothar wondered if he truly saw it.

"The greater tragedy, milord, may simply be that her mission of peace and her murder gave our men the will to make war ever more violently, equalling the ferocity of our enemies."

Lothar, for all his wisdom, could only nod.

Winter 598, Dragonmaw Lair, Khaz Modan

Zuluhed the whacked looked at what he had managed to create, and finally felt contentment. All through the plain leading to the lair, they stood. Reds created by magic, and a few blacks to direct them. A draconic army numbering in the dozens, and ready to fall upon the Alliance like a scourge.

"This will bring fear to the humans! They'll wish they were never born!" the elder chieftain cackled. Not even the one who stood beside him told him otherwise. A feat, since the one who looked so much like a black-haired human and yet was not seemed to relish contradicting non-draconics.

"You could be right. And this is quite an achievement, I admit. But will it be enough?" The dragon in human form wondered.

"With all due respect, Lord Deathwing," Zuluhed said, knowing better than to be impolite with such a powerful being. "The Alliance certainly has a navy, an army, but nothing that flies in the air!"

"Yet."

"What?!? Impossible! The other wings would never-"

"You orcs really have no mind when it comes to thinking harder than the obvious." Deathwing smirked, brushing his dark sleeves in contempt. Having the form of a human certainly didn't make the orc happy, but he knew better than to show his rage at the words. Those orcs which hadn't had met a gruesome fate.

Fortunately, Zuluhed had been able to somewhat avoid the bloodlust that his people now suffered from ever instant. Ever since his youth, he had been attuned with the spirits. Even the pact with the demons hadn't cut him off. Although his powers were only a shadow of what he could once use, he could still call himself a shaman, and could yet call upon the spirits to calm his boiling blood if the need came.

"You think of the humans, but I say look to the dwarves of the Aeries. The Wildhammer clan, to be precise." The great dragon mused. "The Griphon Riders, as they are known to the other peoples of this world."

Zuluhed looked at the assembled dragons, and almost felt like laughing. "You'll have to forgive me, Lord Deathwing. But a griphon can't compare to one of your race. Even with the strongest dwarf on its back."

"Quite right, quite right. But you said that the Alliance would have no air force. If the wildhammers join the humans, it will have one, inferior though it would be. If this happens, then the aerial advantages are lessened by quite a lot."

Zuluhed opened his mouth, then closed it again.

If it had been only two years ago, he could have protested more. But the war with the humans wasn't going well. Only a few weeks ago, the humans had struck Grim Batol, disappearing before word even came to his lair. It angered Zuluhed immensely to think about the war and knowing that the Alliance, far from being crushed, was now pushing his people back every day.

"They will be there when the cold breaks." Zuluhed agreed.

"Indlitarius." Deathwing snapped, and one of the Black Dragons bowed its head at once. "You flew over the battlefields as I told you?"

"Of course, Patriarch. The human and elven armies are coming south at a quick pace. They will be rushing the forces encircling the dwarven lair of Ironforge far before the end of winter." The dragon growled. It looked able to eat the smaller Deathwing. Yet it spoke with nothing but fear and reverence.

Deathwing nodded, then looked at Zuluhed sharply. "If you want to truly turn the tables on the humans and their allies, you have very little time to do it. This force is large and powerful, but we can strike at the possible threat without risking it."

The orc detested being outwitted by anyone, even a dragon, and couldn't help an acid undertone as he replied. "Strike the Griphon Riders."

"Strike at the Grand Aerie, their largest and most defended stronghold. But not with these mind-numbed reds. With the red dragons who swore an oath to their dear queen. The queen that you captured with my own help, I'd add." The transformed eyes danced with amusement.

No, not just amusement. There was something in that expression. A pleasure, a lust so deep and so twisted that the fallen shaman thought he looked upon the very demon that had given the chieftains his blood. It frightened him more than he thought he would be.

He then thought of the stories Alexstraza had told him...

"You do not know Deathwing, foolish creature." the enfeebled Dragonqueen had told him. "Deathwing was once Neltharion, a beloved friend, a brother every dragon could lean on. But even in his madness, Deathwing still retains much of Neltharion's great schemes and wisdom, although all twisted. Everything is a bitter game. Everything is done so that he gains something for himself.

He hadn't believed then. She had been chained, weakened, and he couldn't believe that Doomhammer would truly have trusted such a creature. That the Horde would be a plaything for some fallen Dragon Aspect as the Queen of the Red Dragons stated.

She had looked him less with her usual hatred and more with pity. "You will see of that which I speak." she had said, and she had said no more afterwards.

'And here I see.' he realized. 'I see the madness. No, not just madness. Something even darker, even more twisted.' Even though it shamed him and made his blood boil, Zuluhed shivered.

He wished to flee.

He wished to rage.

He could do neither.

"Calm yourself, good Zuluhed. I swear Orgrimm Doomhammer will be quite pleased by my actions." Deathwing said.

"I...I don't think so." he said. He froze as the dragon's eyes stared at him through its transformed medium. "You...all you want isn't to help us. This is just a game to you!" He took a step back. No matter what, this dragon's treachery had to be revealed to the warchief!

A human hand gripped his arm with quite inhuman strength, holding him in place. Deathwing grinned widely, making real terror flow through the orc's veins as it had never flowed before.

"There is nothing to fear. I am a friend of the Horde. And together, we will save it!" Deathwing said, and Zuluhed's worry suddenly abated. The dragon was right. How stupid he'd been! Of course the dragon was a friend. The warchief had recommended him, and he'd been of great help!

"I...I'm sorry. Something strange went through my mind." he said. He couldn't even remember what it was. Deathwing only beamed, and patted him.

"Pay it no mind. We were about to prepare the dragonflight to fight the Alliance, weren't we?" the dragon said, pushing him forward. Something nagged at Zuluhed's mind, but he dismissed it. He had no time for doubts now.

As he went with the dragon, he wondered why he was so clear in his purpose. Hadn't he been unsure just now? What had happened? But he brushed that aside. He had work to do. The Alliance was coming, and the dragons would turn the table.

He was certain of it now.

And if something even attempted to warn him otherwise, Zuluhed ignored it.

Winter 598, First Alliance Fleet, On the Great Sea

Dealin Proudmoore, from the deck of his flagship, looked over the water of the Great Sea and realized just how much a man who wanted nothing more than to eradicate something could do to acquire the tools to do his deed.

He had his tools. His swarm of ships. His Armada.

His goal, to sink the bulk of the Horde Fleet, and crush Crestfall to lifeless rubble.

He had the means to do so. Before him, like small islands, was gathered over half of the entire Alliance Fleet. Well over two hundred ships, a third of them battleships bristling with cannons and catapults, supported by many human and elven destroyers, as well as twenty gnome-ridden submarines. Between them, filled with a special Tirassian volunteer force, were dozens of transports. Few support ships had come. It was going to be only one battle. But Proudmoore vowed it would be a decisive one.

"I'll have them pay. Every last one of them." he muttered, and looked at the letter he'd read again. He had read it so many times, but each reading made it even worse. He could remember each word as if they were seared in his mind.

'...I must tell you, to my grief, that Larienne Proudmoore was killed by the Horde while we raided Grim Batol. We managed to save her body, and it will be returned to Tirassian soil...'

The letter Swiftblade had sent him - through magical means, no less - had been much longer, telling the king how much he wished things could have been different, and how he took responsibility for this tragedy. But Proudmoore had only seen that sentence, and probably always would.

The unthinking, savage green beasts had killed the woman who had utterly earned his heart, the most intelligent, peace-loving person he had known. That was all there was to it. He didn't consider Swiftblade to be responsible. The man wasn't. The Horde was. In his grief, it was the only target he could bring his wrath again.

He would never forgive the Horde. His sons, now his queen. They would feel his wrath upon the sea!

"Your Majesty, the spell is ready. You may speak when you wish." A sorcerer who stood near him along with the flagship's captain said. The whole fleet would hear what Grand Admiral Proudmoore had to say. He had gathered the Armada in his rage, and now he would impart part of it to them. He came forth to speak with them.

"People of the Alliance." He called firmly, "My friends of the wave. You come from many nations, but you all share hatred for the Horde and its ships. Now, today, is the day for the Alliance to crush the Horde upon the sea forever. Here is gathered the largest armada ever assembled, even in Arathor's glory days. With our might, we will engage the Horde Fleet in an all-out attack, until every dreadnought, every destroyer, every goblin-controlled turtle is destroyed. We will bring Crestfall down! Today!"

They cheered. He could only hear those from the flagship, but Proudmoore knew that the elation had reached the entire fleet. The Grand Armada he'd put together through his grief and hate was prepared to give the greenskins of Crestfall a well-deserved death. He would have grinned, if the void in his heart hadn't stolen all smiles from his face. Only the fact that little Jaina was still alive had kept him from doing something to himself.

"All ships. Our operation begins now! The order is given! All ships, forward to Crestfall!"

The cheers again, and then everyone milled about his ship, the captain and first mate bellowing orders. He looked around, and saw that it was the same on all ships. He had pulled back the most experienced ships and crews. All present knew to work quickly and efficiently. A good tool. An efficient weapon. He motioned to the captain of the ship, who came close to him.

"What's our information about the Horde at Crestfall?" he inquired.

"They have about one hundred forty ships, forty or more dreadnoughts among them. Crestfall itself is well defended by coastal cannons." The captain told him. Proudmoore dismissed that with a wave.

"If their fleet falls, the island won't withstand our bombardments indefinitely. Have all the captains received the general plan outline?"

"Yes, Sire. All of them. We made sure of that."

Proudmoore clapped him on the back with an energy he had stopped feelings a month ago. "Well done! Well, there's nothing more to be done, my good captain. Now all we can do is fight and believe the Light will see us to victory."

"May it be so, Your Majesty." The captain said, and he walked back to the front of the deck, shouting.

The Light. Proudmoore nearly smirked to himself. He no longer have a strong belief in the Light, truth be told. He probably would make someone like the Archbishop Alonsus Faol sigh with despair with his lack of faith. But how could he have faith in such a world where foul things like Doomhammer survived, and good people like his beloved wife died? It was a very hard thing to do, and Proudmoore had no intention to make the spiritual effort.

He shoved the letter in a pocket, adjusted the naval hat that spoke of his supreme rank, and quickly descended to his cabin. It had been built especially for him, and as such was large and well furnished. Proudmoore sat in his favourite chair by his window, and contemplated the sea. Since Larienne had been reported dead, only the calm of the waves and his seeing his daughter had calmed the grief in his soul.

He hated the Horde for what he had done, and would punish them dearly.

But his self-hatred was all the more passionate that this tragedy could have been averted.

"If only I'd been stern with you. If only I had forced you to give up this mad bid, my love." he shook his head. "But I never found the heart to refuse you anything. You always had your way. And my weakness has caused this." he banged the edge of the window. "I can't weep for you, my love. I'm sorry. I'm too angry. At them. At myself. But I will grieve, once they have paid. and once I deem I have paid enough."

A part of him remembered how he had met her. He had been younger then. He had lost his first wife, from whom he had had three young sons but to whom he had felt little attachment. A lady from a strong Tirassian house, she had quickly bedazzled, and he had wooed her with an earnest he hadn't thought he had in himself.

Their wedding had been a grand affair, with all the wealth the Kingdom could show. It had been a time when Kul Tiras had yet been untouched by warfare.

But now she was gone. She had loved peace and foolishly sought to make the orcs understand. However, she had failed to understand something herself. He knew it now, that the Horde couldn't be reasoned with. They had laid waste to Azeroth and mighty Stormwind, and would do the same to Kul Tiras if they ever won.

They would even slaughter his dear Jaina. But he would not allow it. They would never be able to touch the last precious person he had. He would destroy them all on the sea, so that his realm would never be touched. He would eradicate them.

Already, news of Larienne's death was spreading, and it seemed that it was angering the Alliance soldiery, spurring them to greater feats of arms. Ironic, he told himself, that Larienne, who wanted nothing but peace, would have her name used to promote war.

The ship began to move, and he looked toward the opposite cabin wall, where a map of Crestfall and its environs were detailed. Everything had been prepared to strike the Horde Fleet down in one decisive strike. And then, he would see that every orc - grunts, sailors, peons, orclings - would be put to the sword.

None would survive. Terenas would fulminate, but he couldn't care less.

"For you, beloved." he said softly. He didn't care about the very tragedy of saying that, either.

-Dealin's Lament-

I will not weep, for I have no more tears.

Grief has gone over, into the black night.

My love, Larienne, has gone to the light.

Too early, I say. Weep, Kul Tiras.

Too swiftly, I say. Weep, my people.

She is gone, with her my moral fears.

Anger and hate, now will be my sight.

I will spill orc blood on this sea bright