Chapter Thirty-Two: Friends and Foes
Winter 598, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth
Heavy footsteps stalked angrily through the vast, forbidding halls of the Horde's great fortress of Blackrock Spire. They weren't the only ones to resound, nor were they the loudest. But the orc to whom it belonged made grunts, trolls, and even the ogres step back hastily. Most gaped, many a warrior quailed, and all prayed not to incur that person's displeasure.
Which was just as well, since Argal Grimfrost didn't want anything to stand between him and his goal; namely, the Horde Warchief, Orgrim Doomhammer.
He had ridden one of the few available dire wolves remaining ragged, refusing to use any of the dragons. He hadn't cared that the beast, having been pushed beyond exhaustion, would surely die from the means the warlord used to keep it running. It didn't matter. None of that mattered. The war itself didn't matter.
All that mattered was talking to Orgrim Doomhammer, the one in whom Grimfrost had put much of his hopes for the future.
He climbed stairs, passed training grounds and smithies. He walked past a multitude of bunkrooms, kitchens, armouries and, mostly, he cut like a knife through the press of people in the great fortress.
He walked through, and then came through one great arch to face the closed door leading to Orgrim's private chambers. A large orc was grimly keeping watch. Although the other orc was much younger and larger than he was, Argal Grimfrost never even slowed his stride. The younger orc's eyes widened a bit, then narrowed as he stepped forward to stop the other, important orc, barring the way.
"I'm sorry, Warlord." The Grunt grunted gruffly. "But the Warchief has-"
The young orc didn't realize that Grimfrost didn't listen, didn't even care. All that the warlord saw was an obstacle, and he reacted accordingly. His knee struck the grunt in the abdomen, which forced the other orc to double over in his shock. A fist struck his jaw upward and, before the dazed youth could recover his dazed senses, he was slammed headfirst into the wall, slumped and lay there. The warlord didn't even bother to look. He yanked the heavy wooden doors open.
Doomhammer had been looking at the great map he had used throughout the war to place stones where armies were situated - black stones for the Alliance and grey ones for the Horde. Even though his mind was reeling, Grimfrost saw that there were many black rocks, and that the grey ones were getting pushed back. This only made him angrier.
"Tell me it wasn't you." Was all Grimfrost could find in his mind to say.
The warchief looked up, his expression of surprise and annoyance. It lost the latter as he recognized who was present, but the former only strengthened.
"Argal? What are you doing here? You should be at the front lines commanding your troops. I need you there to hold the line against the humans." The other orc stated.
"Tell me it wasn't true, Orgrim. Tell me it wasn't you." Grimfrost snarled, furious, yet pleading. It seemed to affect the Warchief.
"What's wrong? What do you mean? Stop babbling and get to work, Warlord!" Orgrim commanded, using his most commanding voice. Grimfrost fingered his great battleaxe and ignored the words altogether.
"Tell you didn't give the order to kill Larienne Proudmoore." Grimfrost almost pleaded. "Please. Please don't tell me its you."
The Warchief fell silent at that, and stopped to read one small scroll, moving one of the black stones southward. Immediately, it gave Argal the answer he had awaited. It struck him harder than any blow, right through his heart, into his very soul. He nearly staggered. His rage remained, yet he didn't know what to do with it. He only looked at Orgrim and spoke the only word that mattered.
"Why?!?" Everything hinged upon that word. His failing faith in victory, his failing loyalty and, most importantly, his failing friendship towards an orc he respected and admired. It took some time before Doomhammer spoke again.
"I had to. She was talking about peace at the wrong moment. She was bringing doubts when our people don't need any. It was the only way to stall the human forces long enough. With ones of their leaders dead, they will have to recoup." Orgrim explained.
"You...you really believe what you're saying?" Grimfrost's tone was aghast, and yet almost impudent. "You think that this is HELPING our people?!"
"What else could I do? Our lines were being strained tight since Gul'Dan's last, fatal act destroyed such a large part of our forces. We needed to keep the upper hand somehow, and if I'd let her keep ranting about..." Orgrim began.
"Y-you FOOL!!!" Grimfrost roared, his mind enraged and grieves, his beliefs and hopes sundered with such simple words. He lunged forward, took hold of the table and, using his rage to fuel his arms, he sent the map, the rocks and the table into the left wall, where it crashed with a terrific noise. Doomhammer was stunned, but had enough presence of mind to grab his mighty 'Dommhammer' from which he had gained his name.
"You fool...." Grimfrost hissed. "You just gave the war to the humans. You think this will BREAK them?!? It won't! It didn't! They aren't slowing down! They're all pushing on us like they never did before! You killed a great person, Orgrim, and even our people see that we're in the WRONG here! You wanted to save the Horde. You broke it."
He didn't understand. It was clear on the Warchief's face as he hefted his great hammer cautiously. He didn't understand what Grimfrost was trying to tell him. In his mind, Doomhammer was still certain his decision had been right. He didn't see that the humans were different from orcs on that point.
Killing their leaders didn't break them. It galvanized them.
"Larienne Proudmoore wasn't spouting nonsense, Orgrim. She was talking about peace. The kind of peace that Durotan talked about long ago. Do you remember that? Do you remember when he taught us that peace must come before war, if only to save our souls? Peace, Warchief of the Orcish Horde. She brought this to our people. And they didn't hate her. They respected her for having the reckless courage to speak." Argal's voice nearly shook. He didn't know if it was sadness or anger anymore. Perhaps both. It didn't matter.
"And they were listening! They were...beginning to listen! Do you know what that means! Do you?!"
"Yes, I do!" Orgrim snapped. "It means that, if it had continued, the humans would be overrunning our lines already! They'd be on the verge of defeating us!"
"They ARE on the edge of defeating us. Our lines are being overrun. Their sorcerers are fighting in greater and greater numbers, and their cursed Paladins keep countering our Death Knights. Our numbers aren't being reinforced anymore! And Proudmoore, from what I learned, has brought together their entire fleet. He'll strike Crestfall. And if Crestfall falls, our naval strength will be-"
"Crestfall will stand! I've sent ships to reinforce it. As for the ground troops, a human was never a match for an orc. They have the better weapons, but we have the strength and honour!" Orgrim growled. "The Horde won't fall this pesky little Alliance. They're on their last stretch. Eventually, the fight will go out of them, as it always did. Now I want you there to be leading those troops when that time happens."
Grimfrost wasn't even listening. His mind recoiled from the hurt the truth had shown him. All the while, he'd thought that Orgrim Doomhammer still remembered Durotan's wisdom. Perhaps he even did. But the power of his position had corrupted him. He wanted the war to continue. He wanted to kill all humans and destroy their lands. He certainly didn't want peace.
A thought came to the warlord then: this wasn't what he'd been fighting for.
His anger mounted, but some scraps of the respect he once had for Doomhammer yet remained. He couldn't raise a hand against the Warchief. But his loyalty and dreams were shattered.
He faced Orgrim Doomhammer one last time. He knew he would never forgive the orc. "I'll go back to the front lines, Warchief. But not for you. Never for you. You don't have my respect. You lost it the moment that human woman fell, the moment you forgot Durotan's words. Think on that, Oh Great Orgrim Doomhammer!" he spat the name with venom, and stalked away, vowing never to set foot in Blackrock Spire again.
Winter 598, Alliance Fleet, on the Great Sea
Jurin Halfadas wasn't quite certain he liked what was about to happen. He certainly understood the basis for it: without Crestfall, the Horde Navy would lose most of its power, and would degrade to serious annoyance rather than a threat. He understood that taking it would also mean that the Alliance would then be able to bring all of its attention to bear in liberating both Khaz Modan and Azeroth. Those battles were certainly near. Last Halfadas had heard, the Alliance armies were marching hard on the forces blockading Ironforge.
Yes, he perfectly understood the need for an attack upon Crestfall.
What didn't sit well with him was the fact that Grand Admiral Proudmoore had ordered that all of the Horde people on the shipyards, port and island were to be utterly eliminated. The order he'd received clearly stated that this included non-combatants.
It didn't work out. In Halfadas' mind, the fact that the Alliance had managed - because of some devastating civil war amongst the orcs - to gain the upper hand didn't mean that it should act as barbaric as many in the Horde had shown themselves to be. Even the land army kept at least some prisoners.
"But it's not my place to judge, is it?" Halfadas wondered as he left his cabin, adjusting his naval hat. "I might want to, but His Majesty gives the calls, and I have to follow those as best as he could." And as best he could would he follow them. He understood that much of Proudmoore's fury came from an evident source. No human in the Alliance had quite digested the news of Queen Larienne's death. It enraged many, and was one of the reasons the Horde was now purely on the defensive, pushed back from territories it had held for years.
Besides, Halfadas had to think of his position. As an Admiral, he had to appear confident to his men. 'No,' he admitted, 'its not just that. Deep down, I think that killing orcs doesn't really bother me at all. Kids or not.'
That, more than anything else, truly frightened him. He wondered if this Second War - as the fops and historians safely back in Lordaeron kept penning the conflict as - hadn't forced humanity into something just as hard and cruel as the orcs. With hundreds of thousands dead, it probably did.
The admiral saw his first mate running towards him and knew that, self-disgust or not, his duty was about to begin. He was thus unsurprised to have orders to move out. The three Attack Groups would begin operation at once.
"Then let's not disappoint the Grand Admiral, shall we? Ready all hands! Send a message to the other ships! The Tenth Fleet will proceed as planned! Operation Red Crest begins now!" The cheers he received from his men were both heart-warming and worrisome. Twenty decades of peace had all but been forgotten by less than two of conflict. Such, it seemed, was fate.
Halfadas sometimes truly hated fate.
Before him, Crestfall sprawled in all of its glory. Originally a bandit base, it had been conquered by Dealin's grandfather. In the intervening years, a modest port and shipyard had been built, only to fall to the Horde. Since then - and Halfadas could see it from his position - the orcs had expanded the facilities, garrisoned the port and strengthened it with wooden guard towers and a defence fleet.
The Horde Fleet had assembled to defend its main base, and it was an impressive sight indeed. Nearly two hundred ships - from swift troll destroyers, to magically controlled giant turtles to the gargantuan dreadnoughts - had taken position to deflect the enemy attack. However, many such ships appeared to be damaged in some way, which was the case with only very few of the Alliance four hundred warships. From the deck of many battleships rose the flying machines even as the horns of attack sounded. Everything was in position; the invasion force was ready to move. It all meshed.
"Time for us to do our jobs, mates! Signal the destroyers for the first advance!" he called to his men. "Helm, steer the ship broadside! Starboard cannons, ready to fire on my command!" All around the battlefield, the elven and human destroyers - well over three hundred strong - began to advance. Beneath the waves, over forty submarines joined them. Speeding quickly, they closed in with the enemy fleet, and cannon exchange began to resound.
The ship finished turning as this happened. Other ships copied the manoeuvre along the wide line. Farther off, he spotted the Dauntless, Grand Admiral Proudmoore's immense and powerfully armed flagship. The booms, explosions and splashed water brought him back to the fight. At the same time, he heard his men shout to him.
"All battleships in position!"
"Guns loaded! Everything's ready, Admiral!"
"All crew on standby!"
"Admiral, a flyer is sending us a message!"
That last almost made Halfadas jump, then cursed as he looked at the flying machines. To communicate basic sightings, the gnomes used mirrors to convey a message. He waited for the regular repeat. Long. Short. Short. Long. Short. He knew what that meant, and he cursed anew. This time, it was an elven curse, learned from an elven ship captain.
"We've got a turtle coming here! Scan the waters! Look for a ripple! Cannons, remain on standby!" He shouted. Turtles. Something else to gripe about. Many ships had been lost in engaging the manipulated creatures, many because they had no advance warning.
The men scanned the water intently, and finally one shouted, pointing aft. Using his longview, Halfadas indeed saw a ripple. And one a sort of boiling point. The thing was about to fire one of the canisters on its back. Immediately, Halfadas ordered to turn the starboard cannons towards the target, but it was already too late. The canister slammed the ship's aft with all its might, making many a seaman stumble or fall. The ship turned about slowly, and Halfadas glared at the ripple.
"How's the armour!" he asked. His first mate checked and answered.
"It's all blasted on the outside, but no hole in the hull!"
"Right! Cannons, as soon as we turned enough, I want you to fire at the ripple. Messenger, relay!" Still the ship turned, and another hit nearly made everyone fall. But no ominous sound came. The ship held. And the Orca-class battleship finished turning.
"FIRE!!" Halfadas thundered, and fifteen cannons fired one after the other in a deafening thunder. Other ships nearby didn't help, but stayed at their posts faithfully.
The water splashed in many place, and then one of them burst in crimson. The Admiral of the aggressive Tenth Fleet smirked. When submarines were hit once, they sunk. When turtles were hit, they died. A cheer arose as the men surveyed what had happened. Halfadas allowed them a moment, then firmly brought order back.
He gave the battle a look. The destroyers and submarines - helped by some flyers - tangled with the Horde Fleet fiercely. It was a doomed battle if they remained there. The towers and dreadnoughts would eventually cut them to pieces, although the Horde would lose many ships in the exchange. But this fight also meant the orcs manning many ships were becoming filled with bloodlust and rage. They would want to board and kill.
A horn sounded, and the fighting destroyers retreated. After them came at least two dozen enemy ships. Crews gone crazy. Halfadas had nothing but cautious respect for the strength the orcs showed at times.
"But, Light have pity, they're so predictable." He muttered. "Alright, mates! We earn our pay here! Take position! Reload all cannons! When the others begin the fun, I want to join in!" That got him a few laughs, and the ship turned to face the retreating ships and those blindly following.
The battle would be long. He was certain of that. But he had felt Grand Admiral Proudmoore's anger in everything here. He knew what would happen here in the long run. He simply wasn't certain he liked it.
"Cannons, ready!"
"Enemy in range, Admiral!"
"FIRE!!!"
Winter 598, Ironforge, Khaz Modan
As Grimfrost returned to the battlefield in delusion, he learned that the large part of the Horde armies had gathered to defend the siege bases around the dwarven citadel of Ironforge. Just learning this, he thought the very notion foolish. Ironforge had resisted their best assaults for many human years. With the Alliance forces besieging the besieged, the tide of the battle was assured. But not toward an orcish victory.
Still, he ran another ragged dire wolf, eluding human and elven patrols, skirting the edge of one enemy army, to finally arrive at the Horde's early picket lines. The orcs and trolls there were glade to see him, for the situation hadn't gone for the better since Grim Batol had been damaged mere weeks previously.
"They outnumber us by much. They have more siege weapons. But that's not the worst, Warlord." One grunt told him. "We can deal with the rest. The worst is food. We don't have much. And they got plenty."
"Didn't you try hitting their supply wagons?" Grimfrost asked, while knowing that it would be difficult at best.
The grunt shook his head. "Hard to hit. They protect those real good. Soldiers, archers and a few of their warlocks. We just damaged one, but it changed nothing. Because the Dwarves are helping, using all those secret holes of theirs to given them things and sometimes raid small forces."
Grimfrost was no fool. He'd seen the impossibility as soon as he'd asked. Although destroying the Alliance supplies would greatly help, aid from the dwarves and the Horde's dwindling resources would still bring disaster.
Still, he made his way to one Holgar Firespear, a spearman in the old days, now in charge of the orcs and other Horde forces. He found Firespear an intelligent orc, very calm as far as orcs were. Calm and intelligence, however, was still mingled with a knowing look. It wasn't long before the orc asked Grimfrost a question.
"Any reinforcements?" The orc asked almost hopefully. When the older orc shook his head after a moment, he sighed. "Then we'll have to make do."
"You know the terrain better than I do, Warlord Firespear. Can you hold them with what you have?" Grimfrost asked.
The younger warlord considered the question for a moment, then looked almost fierce. "We'll fight to the end. We'll make human blood fill the rivers. We will make the enemy weep with fright. But we can't win this battle."
The orc who had once almost succeeded in breaking the Alliance looked at the other in surprise. It wasn't like any orc commander to admit defeat. He had expected excuses, ranting anger and a desire to hold on. Not the less courageous - and sensible - telling of the facts.
'We're changing. That human woman might be right about us. We're starting to shrug the bloodlust off a bit.' he reflected. This revelation, however, didn't help the present predicament many orcs - including Grimfrost - found themselves in.
"We can't win this fight. Any orders from the Warchief?"
"None. The last message was for us to hold fast."
Grimfrost grunted. This certainly wasn't looking good. He was good at coming up with plans, but he somehow doubted he had the resources to truly trick Lothar. 'Well, I could, but only to get ourselves out of this stranglehold. This battle is doomed to fail us as few have. "Well, I suppose we'll have to do the best that we can." Immediately, a voice sounded, making him and Firespear whirl around behind them, to the far side of the hide tent.
"Or, you could simply look at the future of the Horde, and do the decent thing, Warlord Grimfrost." A voice sounded. With a sharp, short gust of wind, two figures appeared, dressed in archaically cut robes. Grimfrost recognized the fact that the two were orcs, both middle-aged, both looking at Grimfrost intently. The warlord's hand went to his axe, a gesture, neither missed.
"There will be no need for that, Warlords. I am not your enemy at all. Quite the opposite." The most forward orc, probably the leader, noted. A surprisingly calm, reasonable voice. But Grimfrost would not be assuaged so easily.
"Not your enemy? Allies don't sneak up. And they introduce themselves." Those robes, however. They meant something to him. An hidden memory. What was it?
"I do apologize about this. My name is Gelmar Thornfeet, and this is my former best pupil, Drek'Thar. Our names mean nothing, but we are here to tell you something very important."
Grimfrost, despite the unreality of the situation, raised an eyebrow. Firespear, however, drew his axe and took a step forward. The one named Drek'Thar only raised a hand and closed his eyes a moment, and the younger warlord gasped as electricity went around the weapon, and let it go, grasping his hand. Gelmar never stopped staring at Grimfrost's face.
"Warlord Grimfrost, Doomhammer has committed a murder to help his cause. Instead, he has doomed it. The war is swinging for the humans, and will remain there. But all is not lost there is still a future for our race. Still a chance to redeem ourselves. But for that...you must order the Horde armies here to retreat. Leave Ironforge to the humans." The orc said.
Firespear, despite the pain, spoke in angry incredulity. "What?!? Are you trying to taint our honour! The enemy is here, and we will fight it with all our might!"
"And fail." Gelmar noted. "You are strong, and wise. Your warriors are powerful. But also tired, hungry and hurt. The army fighting you is enormous, and its soldiers in better shape than yours. Yes, you will fight. Long and hard. But when the Alliance moves in for the kill from outside while the dwarves poor from the mountain, very few will survive. You know this, Warlord Grimfrost."
As difficult as it was for him, Grimfrost nodded at that. He knew that, beyond every hope, winning was impossible. But the thought of fleeing irked him.
"I will not abandon my post. Even if the battle is lost." he said slowly.
"Then you will die, and the future will be in jeopardy."
That was too much for Grimfrost. He took a step towards the short orc. "What does it matter where we die? Who are you to know that it's better to flee?! What hope is there if this war is lost? Those trapped here will be reduced to slaves, outcasts, and refugees! What then?"
The angry tone had no effect on the short, calm orc. And then he smiled sadly, something that, for some reason, bothered Grimfrost immensely.
"Our people will be defeated if you retreat. We will be defeated if you don't. But, if you die here, the defeat will be far more complete. And the one who will one day make the title of Warchief a noble one will fail to found a future for those who will survive." Was the answered the warlord received.
"You're not making any sense!" Grimfrost roared. "A noble Warchief? Who would that be?"
"An image. A possibility. Without him, we will fail. With him, we will recover. So the Spirits told me." The short orc nodded, as if he'd said everything that needed to be said.
"The Spirits!! Don't be a fool! You're talking like one of the old -" His voice cut off as his brain remembered a time when he had been young, when some orcs wore such simple robes, and used spiritual and elemental magics to guide the Orc clans, when the Horde didn't exist yet. "Y-you...you're..." he stammered.
"I am, who I am. I, too, will give this Warchief something. When and if he comes to me." The short orc looked at both warlords. "Remember, Grimfrost. Leave, and our people will have hope. Fight, and we will crumbled to nothing before two decades are out." Another gust of wind, and both were gone, leaving a dumbfounded Grimfrost behind. He looked at Firespear.
"Gather the unit leaders. I have to talk to them."
Winter 598, Crestfall, Crestfall Isle
'Strange. Seems like Crestfall really never gets any snow. Or any cold. Strange.'
It was the only thought that Maijin, second leader of the Howl Axer Tribe, could find himself able to think as most of his mind acted largely on instinct. That instinct saved him, as he rolled away from a human cannon shell which decapitated the top of yet another guard tower. Splinters and wooden scraps nearly entombed him, but he managed to struggle to safety.
'If we can call anyplace here safe.' He reflected in sour acknowledgement.
For the last tenday, the ships from the cursed elves and humans had laid siege to the primary Horde port and shipyards. He'd heard that the Alliance had called up nearly all of its forces for that, and he could believe it. With the amount of destruction he'd seen done each day, the troll could believe anything.
Crestfall had riposted with its own cannons and defences, as had much of the Horde Fleet. But, although he'd seen many human ships - and even, to his pleasure, some elven ones - sink beneath the waves, a tenday of fighting had all but destroyed the defending fleet, as well as destroying almost every defence the port still had. The base commander had then ordered every able-bodied orc, troll and ogre to prepare for an invasion force.
All in all, the port and shipyards had fielded a very large force. Really large. But most of these were peons, orc that were of little use in a fight. If the Alliance sent a large force - and they were about to, Maijin had heard - then he didn't think that the makeshift army could hold them at all.
That being said, Majin wasn't worried. He loved to fight more than anything. His entire people loved to fight. Not as bloodily as the orcs, perhaps, and not as stupidly as the huge ogres. But most trolls, like Maijin, weren't frightened by the prospect of a fight.
"Gonna be a big bash." "Yup,yup, big big bash." He heard two voices speak almost in unison, and lifted his head to see that an ogre stood nearby, both heads talking, probably to one another. Two orcs were talking nearby as they looked at the devastation.
"What else can we do? The humans want to destroy. They didn't even listen when we tried to...surrender." The last word was almost spat out, but largely ignored.
"I don't know. I don't care. I'll fight here. I'll die here. But my mate and my sons are here! I can't just let them die!"
"I get what your saying. I get it. But we can't escape, not with the humans all around. And we can't negotiate, because the humans don't even listen!" A moment of silence followed.
"If it comes down to a fight, if we're all going to be killed, I'm going back to the hut, and I'll kill as many humans as a I can before they even get close to them."
"You speak like a real Horde Warrior. Die a good death."
"You, too, friend."
The two orcs went back to prepare for the battle. Maijin watched them go. He didn't understand what having a family meant, but it was a better reason to die fighting than most. He silently wished the orc with the family luck. 'Those orcs, most of them time their bloodthirsty, but at times they just surprise ya. Sometimes.' he reflected. He had no more chance to think of that, as he heard the horns signalling that the invasion force was landing.
He took out two throwing axes, and went to rejoin his people. The trolls were roughly grouped together, and strangely excited by everything. One of them waved to him.
"Hey, Maijin. Come join the fun, mon!" Others roared in laughter as the shots from the human cannons stopped. 'No doubt now. They're coming to party with us.'
He stopped in front of them. There was no time to give orders, even if they were inclined to follow them - which wasn't often. Trolls liked to strike at their own leisure, and fight at their own pace. Maijin felt it too, and decided on the only reasonable action to take in the current situation. He raised one of his axes.
"Let's get this party on the road, ye idiots!" he yelled, and the trolls laughed, jeered and roared back. Despite the situation, they were feeling quite well about things. Maijin couldn't help but grin grimly.
Then the enemy came.
Humans in their iron armours, some wearing leathers, all with a weapon of some kind, came from the many breaches in the walls. Some Maijin saw landing in the port, staggering under the strong response it provoked. Screams of hatred and agony began to resound as steel and wood fought and clashed. Familiar sounds. Even more familiar to his eyes were the handful of elven warriors amongst the human archers. The elves were much more precise than their human counterparts, which was no surprise.
It was towards those elves that he and many of his people began to charge.
"For the Light!"
"Human scum!"
"Alai Na Quel'Thalas!"
"For the Horde!"
Many oaths and screams intermingled as the troll group charged. Maijin's axes decapitated a human, his green face splashing with warm blood, and he launched another axe at a human archer. He quickly took another and pressed on. All around him, the trolls were taking wounds but none fell. All around their charge, humans and elves screamed. They were death on this part of the battlefield.
Then a human managed to dodge a swing and get his sword in Majin's body. Growling in pain, the troll beat the human aside, pulling the blade off, and using it to skewer the human. The enemy's screams were most satisfying, repeated in many different ways across the battlefield as the Horde fought hard against the attacking Alliance.
Yet more humans and elves came, disgorging from their grey-tinted transports. One troll fell beneath human strikes, another with an elven arrow in his head. Still, the Trolls pressed on. Maijin knew why: they knew that the battle was lost, and so they gave as hard a time as they could.
A noise gained his attention, and he saw flying forms farther off. Large forms, which seemed to be struggling. He wondered what those could be, but was soon distracted as lightning struck at his companions, killing several. He saw that, farther off, several human and elves were making gestures and shooting bolts from their palms. Maijin growled as he recognized human sorcerers. Neither the fearsome Death Knights nor any Ogre-Magi were present in Crestfall - the mainland hoarded them all.
They had no chance against magic, without magic. And yet Maijin decided that charging them just might be a worthwhile way to pass the time.
"Come an' get me, sorcerers! If you think ya can fry me!" Maijin howled, laughing as he plunged into the fight headfirst. He saw many of his comrades going down forever, more hesitating. He was alone on this charge. He didn't care. He raised his blade as he charged at a desperately gesturing elf.
An arrow pierced him, then another. He didn't care. He savoured the elf's panicked expression as he planted one of his axes right in the elven face. Then a blade pierced him from behind, then another. He flayed at the attacking humans, but one struck him on the knees, and he fell on them. He saw a human preparing his blade to strike...and smirked right in the human face.
"Do your worst, mon." he snapped.
As the blow came, he wondered how long the war would last, and if Zul'Jin would still hold the Troll Warparties in the Horde. He wondered about the fighting in the sky. Could they be dragons? Dragons fighting what? It was a mystery to him.
Mostly, he wondered if that orc and his family were dead already.
'Now, ain't that just strange?' he wondered inwardly. The human then struck.
Winter 598, Whitefort, Lordaeron
Winter had cloaked the great capital of Lordaeron in its frigid cloak of ice and snow. Yet despite the fact that braziers warmed the insides of the ancient royal castle, no place in the capital would have felt as cold to an observer as King Terenas' throne room. There was an air of decision, especially as many other exalted people occupied the overhead balconies, each of them a voice for one of the Alliance countries.
Both Genn Greymane of Gilneas and Thoras Trollbane of Stromgarde had come personally, leaving their realm in the hands of trustworthy subordinates. Others hadn't come, but employed powerful emissaries to make their will known.
The stocky, grey-bearded Borth Ironhelm stood for Khaz Modan, while the spidery Asthot Galan, ambassador for Kul Tiras for nearly two decades represented the island country. Larienne Proudmoore, who had represented the country so well before, had left a void and a rage, however. Quel'Thalas, ever more distant from the rest of the Alliance since the Horde rampaged through its territory, had nevertheless sent one of its princes, the young warrior-mage Kael'Thas Sunstrider, who had served well in some battlefields. Dalaran had also sent one of its most important members, a cloaked sorcerer named Drenden, from the upper echelons of the Kirin Tor.
But it was Anduin Lothar's choice of an ambassador that put the court in turmoil. Instead of asking one of the present nobles that remained in Hillsbrad, Lothar had appointed Narrida Wrynn, wife to Varien Wrynn. When Terenas had inquired as to the choice, the only answer had been that it was 'fitting for future events'. The aging king, having talked of Azerothian politics with the High General, understood what it meant: using a Wrynn in such an event would allow the Azerothians to notice and appreciate that name again. And once they did, it would be time for Lothar to play a quick, dicey game to put a new Wrynn on the throne.
But that was then, and this was now. And now was the time for the leaders of the Alliance to judge one of their own.
"He may enter." Terenas called. Moments later, the great doors to the throne room, which was illuminated by a great brazier, groaned open, allowing three figures to shuffle in.
Although bereft of the golden circlet, which had been proof of his position, the captured King of Alterac, Perenolde, walked in with confidence, dressed well with expensive clothes of dark tones. One each side walked a Knight of the Silverhand. Dressed in resplendent armour and helms, each of them wore a great warhammer instead of the swords, which were slowly becoming the norm for the other knights. The two had been dispatched by Uther Lightbringer and Alonsus Faol - their contribution to the proceedings.
"Well met, Lord Perenolde." Terenas intoned, his tone glacial. No matter how merciful he normally felt, the strongest leader in the Alliance couldn't feel pity for this man. "You are looking well for one in your position."
"My position? Surely you jest. As if this court has the right to judge my decisions." The former King scoffed with remarkable aplomb.
"Decisions? Queer. That treason should be taken in with such a light word." Kael'Thas interjected smoothly. The deposed monarch only raised his head slightly, as if to address everyone in the room.
"I made a decision for my own people. I gauged the risks, and took a path. It was all for the sake of my people, certainly not my own." He said, but a hint of nervousness seeped in. His words far from convinced his peers, especially the colossal King of Stromgarde.
"It was ALWAYS for you, you snivelling worm! You minced when asked for troops, and even in defeat you hinder us. Five thousand of our soldiers to guard your little land. Five thousand who will be missed south, where the struggle continues!" The man growled.
There was truth in that. The nations of the Alliance were spent. The losses in terms of lives and materiel had been staggering, and the immense means undertaken to constantly supply and reinforce the enormous army was draining all of the continental economy. They could only find a few hundred people here, a thousand there. The populace, bereft of many coins, food and men, forced into stiff rationing, was beginning to groan and protest against the war effort. It wasn't yet strong, but the dissent would grow.
Still, Terenas and Lothar were hopeful. The Wildhammer Dwarves, famously known for their Griphon Riders, had made tentative overtures to Quel'Thalas and, by extension, to the Alliance. Limited help had been promised, but with the Horde beginning to utilize strange dragons against the land forces, Terenas hoped that the Wildhammers would agree to pledge their entire aerial fleet.
Whatever happened on that end, Lothar had no intention of letting up. After liberating Khaz Modan, he'd bypass weakened Grim Batol and surge south, towards Azeroth, then east, to Blackrock Spire, a location the Horde simply would have to defend with much of their force. With the Horde increasingly on the run, the end could very well be in sight.
Which made having five thousand good soldiers having to stay behind to pacify a former ally all the more infuriating. Not only would that certainly spell trouble for the future, it strained the present war effort further, something it didn't need.
"Whatever you say, Lord Perenolde, the fact remained that you broke the Pact of Alliance, established in this throne room, signed by your very hand." Terenas stated. "Not only did you only give weak support to the Alliance, you actually made a deal with the Horde to survive. That is unacceptable, and will be punished."
"You would dare?!" Perenolde cried with increasingly fake bravado, but no one listened.
"By decree of the Alliance Council and the Alliance High Command, a tenth of your population, as a well as the third of your country's resources, will be immediately funnelled into the war effort." he ignored Perenolde's gasping protests. "Our army will ensure that our will is obeyed. As for you, Lord Perenolde..."
"You cannot do this! I am of royal blood! I'm worth more than thousands of commoner!" Perenolde no longer cared for appearances, and Terenas could only pity the man as he all but grovelled. The feeling, however, passed quickly.
"As you are of royal blood, you will not be killed. But your will be stripped of your rank, lands and title, and remain a guest in Whitefort for as long as you live. Members of the council, your word."
"Kul Tiras follows Lordaeron in this." The tirassian ambassador stated.
"Aye, Khaz Modan follows." The dwarf muttered gruffly.
The pledge was followed stoutly from Thoras Trollbane and the calm Drenden, but came more slowly from Quel'Thalas and Gilneas. For different reasons, both nations had argued for the death sentence, but doing this would have created greater trouble in Alterac, necessitating more troops the Alliance couldn't afford to send. They had accepted the solution, but only grudgingly. Finally, only the Azerothian representative remained.
The woman, dressed in a simple but alluring gown, glared down at the man. She had been friends with Queen Larienne, and like all of the Alliance, had been shocked, saddened and driven into a fury by the great woman's murder. She looked like a queen passing judgement, and Terenas nodded to himself in approval. Yes, he realized, people will believe in Varien and she.
"In the name of our Regent-Lord, Anduin Lothar, and my husband, Varien Wrynn, I approve of this for Azeroth." she said regally.
'Well played,' Terenas admitted 'You just linked Varien Wrynn to Azeroth. Well played indeed.' He then looked at the former King.
"The council has spoken. It will be done. Sirs, take 'sir' Perenolde out of my court at once. He is never to set foot in it again unless I will it."
Perenolde tried to speak, took a hasty step forward, but was stopped in his tracks by the Paladins. Each armoured man took hold of the broken monarch and dragged him out, away from the stony Alliance Council.
The doors to the throne room cut off his pleas with sudden finality.
Winter 598, Near Crestfall, Over the Grear Sea
Kurdran couldn't help but yell with savage joy as his magical hammer struck a great blow to the unnatural Horde dragon, while Sky'ree, his griphon, grabbed and tore at it brutally. The Wildhammer dwarf had fought in the sky for nearly two centuries, and had learned that one must strike first, strike fast and, most importantly, strike hard. Following that straightforward philosophy had kept him alive in many battles, and this one was no exception.
"How'd you like that, ye beastie?!" he yelled, "Wanna meet the real masters of the sky??" His hammer came to his hand a mere instant later, even as Sky'ree disentangled himself and shot away from the raging beast. Its roar was angry, furious even, but also pain-filled.
Kurdran hardly could believe he was here, over the water, fighting a battle at the humans' side. But orders were orders.
The High Thane of the Aerie Peaks had sent word for him and twenty of his best riders to make haste towards Crestfall, where a battle waged between the human-led Alliance and the beastly, invading Orcs. It was 'crucial that the Alliance wins the battle', the High Thane had said, following other queries with cryptic answers. Kurdran had gone to follow the decree to the best of his abilities, his mind full of questions.
It wasn't that he truly questioned the orders themselves. He'd surveyed the damage the Horde had done, flown over many battlefields, and seen the many dead littering the grounds. The Horde had brought a war of horrifying magnitude, equalled only by the great wars of legends past. Consequently, he'd begun to feel that the Wildhammers should ally themselves with the Alliance, if only to help stop the fighting.
No, he didn't question the High Thane's stance.
Rather, he questioned the reason behind it. It was unlike a dwarf to change his mind so abruptly. He'd heard that the elves of Quel'Thalas - emissaries from Silvermoon itself - had visited the High Thane. What could have been said, what secrets and deals were spoken, to have the leader of all Griphon Riders decide to help humans, a race the Wildhammers had distanced themselves from over the many centuries.
But he had stopped questioning when he and his brethren had arrived to see the immense Alliance Fleet's situation. It had routed the Horde forces - several damaged ships were fleeing the scene - and was ransacking Crestfall itself, with cannons and swords.
But the fleet had also been struggling with a force of dragons in the sky. The moment he'd seen them, Kurdran's duty firmly pushed questions away, and he'd ordered the riders to charge. Now, as the sun began to wane on the very bloody day, fourteen of the twenty-one riders had been lost, while a dozen dragons yet remained in the sky. Kurdran had personally killed one and wounded others, before tangling with an angry one which, he had decided, would be his second dragon kill in this conflict.
The adversaries circled around each other, forgetting the rest of the battle that raged around them. They searched for weaknesses, for one moment of fatigue. Kurdran knew that Sky'ree must be near his limit, but that the griphon was far too stubborn to show it. Time and again, the dragon would attempt to pounce, spewing fire or clawing, only to be met with skilful dodging or with griphon claw and hammer.
"Just hold on a little while, lad. A little while." he pressed the best griphon he'd ever ridden. There was a low growl of acknowledgement. And then the battle started anew.
The dragon surged forward with a roar, and the griphon barely dodged the fire, and found itself under the large frame. Acting on instinct, Kurdran threw the Stormhammer, and the magically-energized weapons slammed into the dragon, making it roar in newfound pain. The dragon lashed out with its rear claws, but Sky'ree had swerved away even as the attack struck, and the swiped missed by mere inches. The Stormhammer reappeared, and Kurdran readied himself for a new attack.
"Up front, Sky'Ree, my lad. Let's finish this now!" He stated, and the due charged directly at the pain-filled dragon.
It wasn't acting like a true red dragon would. Reds were highly intelligent, and probably wouldn't fight so obstinately after most of their numbers were killed. Not, these dragons had little intelligence, just a rage of sort. Nothing like the dragons the riders had been distant neighbours with. It appeared that the Horde used more dirty means than he'd first thought.
The two enemies met again, and their contact was far from peaceful. Strikes were exchanged, one clipping Sky'Ree's wing, destabilizing the flight somewhat. The dragon, sensing the weakness, came very near, opening it mouth to shoot flames, and the dwarf desperately hefted his weapon, ready to throw it as a last mean of defence.
Then the battle was changed as a cannon shot struck the dragons left hind leg, shattering it to pieces in a shower of gore. A roar went up and the dragon's head instinctively glanced at the damaged leg. In doing so, it left the top of its head a plain target.
With all of his strength, Kurdran launched both of the Stormhammers he held. They whirled on the dragon's head, and slammed together. Blood fountained from the massacred head as the crippled dragon plummeted down into the sea, dying or already dead.
Only then, with the fear and energy of the fight ebbing away, did Kurdran look to see the situation around him.
Three more riders had fallen, and the others were bloodied, but the dragons had been all but destroyed by the riders and the efforts of the human fleet. Only two still flayed about, wounded by arrows, hammers and claws. Kurdran knew that the battle was effectively over. Sky'Ree being wounded, he decided to land on the deck of the largest humans ship, which seemed to have been only lightly damaged.
The humans scattered from the main deck as the Griphon, wounded but prideful, managed to land well enough. It was a very mighty ship - it didn't even sway a bit at the added weight. Elsewhere, the remaining riders were landing, having obviously killed the dragons or forced them to flee. The humans gaped at the griphon, and one among them came forward. He was dressed more impressively than any other and moved with the confidence of a man used to power. Kurdran, seeing that the ship had been the largest in the fleet, surmised he was meeting the leader of the human fleet.
"Well met, sir Dwarf! I am Daelin Proudmoore, Grand Admiral of the Alliance Fleet. Your arrival - and your aid! - could not have come at a better time. Shooting down those beasts would have taken far too many ships and lives. And the Alliance has lost enough today to accomplish this objective."
"Hammer and Stone! T'was nothing, nothing at all. I can't stand t'see dragons doing something like that. But ye say ye lost some ships, too, eh?" Kurdran asked. He didn't dislike the human, but he felt something in the fleet leader, a sort of grief or rage, which made him shiver as the man nodded almost coldly.
"Aye, that we did." Proudmoore seemed to contemplate this an instant. "We lost a third of our total fleet in this engagement, perhaps even more. The wrecks you must have spotted were as much ours as theirs. But, the return was worthwhile."
For some reason, Kurdran didn't like that last sentence. "Worthwhile?" he inquired. The human looked up at him and smiled grimly, almost nastily.
"If our scouts and spies are to be trusted, we just destroyed nearly four fifth of their total fleet. Further, we are also proceeding in the complete eradication of Crestfall. We can recoup our naval losses, especially as many of our people abandoned ship. They can't, for they will have no more shipyards of note. Nor will there be survivors."
'Looks like the idea's making him almost...happy.' Kurdran shivered. 'Here's one with some mighty ghosts.'
But it was too late to do anything about anything. His people were becoming committed to this Alliance. The High Thane had ordered it, and Kurdran would follow. He would see this conflict through to the very end. If that meant dealing with haunted humans, then so be it. His mind made up, Kurdran went to the most important piece of business.
"Can anyone treat my mount? And, if ye don't mind, is there some bite to eat?"
The Knights of the Silver Hand
The Knights of the Silver Hand are a new order of militant warrior-priests. Presently less than a decade old, the order has already gained fame with its staunch defence of the weak and its unyielding drive to protect the Alliance people. Alonsus Faol founded the order a mere three years after the Second War. Faol selected the worthiest, most noble-hearted of the knights, and with the help of the Clerics of Northshire - an order nearly destroyed in the First War, he taught them what divine magic he could.
Today the order - individually known as Paladins - number well over two hundred, and new people apply to be part of the order every year. Paladins always are seen wearing armour, and using great, mystical warhammers in defence of the Alliance and the weak.
Led by the great Paladin, Uther Lightbringer, the Knights of the Silver Hand are a beacon of hope in a world struggling with death and war.
