Chapter Thirty-Three: Oaths and Deceptions
Early Spring 598, Ironforge, Khaz Modan
The battle had raged for six weeks now, and Aerth Swiftblade, Lord-General of the Griphon Army and third in command of the entire Alliance Army, could finally see the end coming on the horizon. The steep hills surrounding the great dwarven mountains had echoed with enough clashes of steel, explosions and cries of rage and agony as it was. It was time to end it and move on.
Under Lothar's orders, he, Rellon Minvare and Illadan Eltrass had done their best to keep the pressure on the Horde besieging the immense Fortress-City of Ironforge, effectively besieging the besiegers. Despite the fact that the Horde forces had been outnumbered nearly seven-to-one, the orcs hadn't given in, and the humans, dwarves and elves had met the ogres, trolls and ogres time and time again, each time gaining only a little ground.
But results were showing. The dwarves had struck many times, in the last week destroying two large supply depots. Although the Alliance and dwarven forces deplored over ten thousand dead or wounded, the Horde numbered, if Gnomish scouts could be trusted, well over twice that number. And in the last week, the Horde had been driven at great cost from outlying earthen works.
One man had been more than incredible in this endeavour, it seemed. A certain Danath, in Minvare's forces, had personally led a charge that had saved King Magni Bronzebeard, who had been set upon during a raid. The daring former mercenary had made quite a name for himself during the war, but in that battle alone, he had been said to have killed three ogres, nineteen orcs and six trolls.
Having met the man, Swiftblade wasn't certain that this was even exaggerated.
Presently, Swiftblade sat on top of his barded warhorse, a black and white stallion named Stormcloud, who had been his for the last years of the war. He had, as usual, donned his armour but refused to wear a helm as long as he was commanding from afar. He was too far from the actual battle to be truly endangered, and wished to see the entire battlefield from the small hill he and his staff occupied. Although many others were on hand - captains and knights and officers of all sorts - Swiftblade instead turned to look at the one beside him.
"So, Lord Uther. What say you?" he asked. The leader of the Paladins scratched the grown beard he had adopted recently. He too was arrayed in armour, but instead of a sword, a warhammer hung at his hip. It was well used: Uther Lightbringer was known to charge in with surprising zeal and ferocity.
"I'd say, Lord Aerth, that they are tired. Their supplies must be running out."
"But their courage has not." Although he still despised the Horde for forcing the world into such a long and bloody conflict, a conflict in which he had seen his parents and too many friends perish, he couldn't help but marvel at the orcs' stout spirit.
Uther nodded at this, looking pensive. "Yes, that much is true. But will it suffice? Not from where I'm standing. Its clear that Doomhammer isn't sending any reinforcements."
Aerth saw what he meant. The army had pushed through the Horde at the Land Bridges, but the fleeing forces had not stopped there. Indeed, the reports seemed to indicate that there were only a few thousand troops in Khaz Modan, aside from the fifty thousand encircling Ironforge. It was clear that Doomhammer was recalling all of his remaining forces towards Azeroth, to have the advantage of excellent supply lines. However, this made Khaz Modan's liberation a question of days now, if all went well.
"Home. It's been a long time." Aerth mused for a moment.
"Yes. Although the Haven of the Hand is now my home, I yearn to see Northshire restored." The Paladin answered. Uther, for all of his prowess, was first and foremost a man of the Light, and remembered the days when he had first learned divine magic with the Clerics of Northshire fondly. It had always galled him, Swiftblade knew, that the hallowed grounds of the Abbey had been defiled.
Swiftblade almost grinned, then stopped as he stared up at the battlements. He froze, then took his longview and surveyed the Horde battlements.
"Uther." he began.
"Yes, I see it."
The Horde forces had begun moving. Not in small groups but, rather, as a whole. The ranks of ogre maulers and orc grunts had thinned considerably, and the northwestern battlefield which the Griphon Army had control of was shifting to the south. Swiftblade looked towards the south, and saw that most of the Ogres were being moved into a sort of strike vanguard. Trolls at the flanks and the rear. He knew the manoeuvre at once.
"They're breaking out?" Uther asked, but there were many doubts in his voice.
"No. They're pulling out all of those they can. They're giving this battle up." The Lord-General replied. He knew his voice showed certain astonishment, but he couldn't help it. He could remember the times a Horde Army had withdrawn from the field with over half of its forces in fighting shape on the fingers of one hand. For some reason, he flashed to the important orc who had shown much honour at Grim Batol, and wondered at how surprising life could be.
The Alliance soldiers were taking the opportunity they saw. Units of footmen and archers, as well as bands of knights, took firm hold of some of the heights which had been in the thickest of the fight, while crews were slowly pushing and dragging ballista to support them. Here and there, pockets of orc fighters were cut off from the main group, and in two instances undead raised by death knights were met by divine magic from healers and Paladins. Knights and soldiers immediately set upon the pockets, while mages kept harrying all enemy forces and explosive runes left behind by ogre-magi meant death for the unwary.
The soldiers did not pursue foolishly. Nor had Swiftblade expected to. His orders had been firm and absolute: secure the heights, survey the situation, then hold your ground. Although a few groups attempted to follow the main force, it was clear that most officers had their units well in hand, and order remained in the chaos of battle. The lines of bloody humans and elves waited for their leaders to decide what to do next.
"Astonishingly ordered retreat for a people so unused to it." Uther mused. Swiftblade gestured for his messengers.
"I want the second, tenth and fourteenth battalions to secure the heights. All other battalions are to harass the enemy and ensure it does not move into new fortifications." Swiftblade, however, doubted this was the case here. "No general or commander may fully engage beyond harassment unless forced to do so without my order. Understood? Very well, go." As they left he drew his sword and faced Uther and the knights of his personal guard, as well as his captains and aides. "Gentlemen, to the front!"
They followed the soldiers' path, up the field where many bodies still lay, forgotten, sprawled where they'd died in agony. The sight, however, brought nothing to Swiftblade. 'Back in the early days of the First War, this would have disgusted and frightened me to no end.' he thought. 'Have I grown callous, or simply used to it. And is either answer a good answer?' He decided not to dwell on it.
He came to soldiers belonging to the tenth battalions. Wearing tattered livery from many countries and regions, all wore worn or rough chainmail. Most still had a sword in hand, and all looked tired beyond belief. Yet, somehow, some recognized him, and in instants Swiftblade was almost swarmed. His knights moved to disperse the soldiers, but Swiftblade stopped them, and looked at the tired men.
"My friends. The war is not over. I wish I could say it was. But today is a great day. No longer will humans hide from the Horde. They are in retreat, men, in retreat! Soon, we will drive them back from Azeroth, and then back to the hole where they came from! Today, friends, today begins the end of the Horde!" he growled. It was an impromptu speech, and not one of his best ones. He had never been very good with words to begin with.
But it was enough for these men. They gave a great cheer, and they pressed together as Swiftblade began firmly shaking each hand, handing down words of gratitude. Nearby, he could see Uther having dismounted, and being surrounded by wounded men from many nations - and even some elves and one dwarf - asking for healing. Like Swiftblade hadn't refused to comfort those who fought in the plans he made, the leader of Paladins did not shirk the duties of a healer, and began to look for those in most need of healing first.
'Victory.' Swiftblade thought as he continued shaking hands, looking at the moving enemy columns. 'Victory because the Horde left the field. Could it be possible? Are they truly starting to run?'
'Is this truly the beginning of the end of this unending conflict?'
Early Spring 598, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth
Doomhammer surveyed the remaining leaders of the orc clans. Killrogg Deadeye, by far the strongest of the chieftains but for the warchief himself, looked at the map spread before him almost angrily. There was, however, a slight, knowing air about the orc that did not bode well. Nearby, Zuluhed the Whacked of the Dragonmaw Clan sat, looking as anti-social as ever, saying little. Jargan Flameguard, a rather young orc with zealous eyes, sat for what remained of the Black Tooth Grin clan, Rend and Maim having disappeared during the Horde civil war. None stood for the chaotic Burning Blade clan.
It was a diminished gathering from the great days at the beginning of the war. Too many warriors had been lost in a war Doomhammer had sincerely believed would be easy. And he still believed victory would have squarely been his people's. However, Gul'Dan...
'No time to think of that. I can't allow myself to think of that! That time is past, like a dream! Only the present counts.' he reminded himself firmly as he faced his chieftains and other leaders.
"So, it seems that the Alliance truly means to drive us south." Doomhammer mused.
"They've already succeeded." Zuluhed muttered. The warchief chose to ignore it, and looked at Killrogg.
"We have the strength to resist them. With our full numbers, we will be able to take their forces and break them, and send them back screaming to the north!" Some eyes alighted at the prospect, and Doomhammer kept the encouragement, the strength. "We won't be defeated by some weak-kneed humans and frail elves! We are a warrior people, and if they think that some farmers wielding a blade can defeat us."
"Might just be true, Warchief." Killrogg surprisingly cut Doomhammer off, drawing all eyes towards the sole one which remained his. The powerful chieftain seemed angry rather than anything else. 'This really doesn't feel good. I can't afford to lose him. Not now.' Still, the warchief had to maintain his dignity. He growled at the aged chieftain.
"What are you saying, Chieftain?" he asked, taking a step closer to the old orc. The chieftain seemed unconcerned by the thinly veiled threat.
"The humans...this Alliance...we can't treat it as less than the Horde now. They've been beating us back for over two cycles now. They've pushed us back, captured many, and killed much more. And they seem never to run out of supplies and manpower. Their countries are supplying them with men and food and weapons." he shook his head. "We can't do any of that. No, the Alliance is no less than the Horde."
"Traitor!!" One of the younger leaders growled. Although Killrogg's good eye flared, he kept his calm despite the outburst. Still the look he gave the younger orc was murderous. Calling a chieftain a traitor was dangerous, often deadly. The young orc recognized his mistake, and chose to sit back sullenly. Only then, with a satisfied note, did Kilrogg resume.
"If we fight the Alliance this way, we might not be able to hold them back. We have the numbers, but we can't use them that much. We're spread too thin." He slammed his hand down on the page, down on the lands of Azeroth. These were the lands that Blackhand, Doomhammer's predecessor, had conquered. Now, those lands were almost all that remained in orc hands.
"They have a huge force, and we have several large ones here and there. If we don't gather our forces, they'll just attack each one by one, all the while-" Deadeye said. Doomhammer finished his thoughts.
"While marching right to these doors. Lothar wants it. I know that human. We've faced each other too many times. That old knight's greatest wish is to hurt Blackrock Spire's strength, and laugh at me from below." he gritted his teeth. Was there any way to prevent that? He didn't see it.
"There's no way to stop him if we keep our forces spread out. You recalled them here, and that's good, but -"
There was a struggled outside the door, and then a grunt burst through. "Warchief!" he said, his voice grim and urgent. Doomhammer glared, ad the younger orc realized where he was.
"I'm...sorry...chieftains, warchief. But it's about Warlord Grimfrost's army. I just heard-" The grunt swallowed, and seemed to be both angry and afraid by what he had to say. Finally even Zuluhed couldn't stand it anymore, and the warped shaman leaned forward.
"Speak up, since you've wasted our time already!" he spat. It seemed to convince the grunt.
"The forces around Ironforge have lifted the siege. The Dwarves and the Alliance had joined up on the hills." The grunt said, wincing. No one liked bringing bad news to the warchief, let alone the entire Horde leadership. Growls of anger, hands slamming down, curses and shouts were heard from all, but no surprised yell. For all of their battle lust, none of the orcs here were fools. The Alliance had had an overwhelming force, and the Dwarves always managed to make things harder. The army's fall had been certain.
"Then they couldn't hold anymore. I expected that. Tell Warlord Grimfrost-" Doomhammer began at last.
"No, Warchief. That's not it. I'm sorry, but that's not it. The army could hold a while more. It was the Warlord who gave the order to retreat." The grunt said, then his eyes widened as he found his leader eyeing him closely, eyes glaring.
"Lies!"
"I speak the truth, Warchief! On my life!" The grunt replied, actually sounding defiant. Doomhammer searched for falsehood, and saw none. He too a step back. This, as crushing as it was, wasn't surprising either. Not after the last discussion the two had had in Blackrock Spire, after Doomhammer had ordered Queen Proudmoore killed.
Something in this was unsurprising. Although an excellent warleader, Grimfrost had never agreed with the deal the elders had taken with, the warchief had learned, the Burning Legion. Nor had Doomhammer, but not to the same degree. Both had agreed to Durotan's wisdom, but Doomhammer had found it wanting in the war, while Grimfrost had held on to it. When that human female had been killed, the leader of the Horde had thought it would paralyse the humans for a bit, give him time to recoup, if only for a short time.
Grimfrost had angrily disagreed, and the following events - the Alliance pushing with ever more force - had proven his subordinate and friend right. More than once, in the last few weeks, Doomhammer had wondered if he had lost his way, and forgotten the ideals of the chieftain of the banished and destroyed Frostwolf Clan. Whatever the case, he had lost perhaps the last true friend he had left. And this loss hurt more than a hundred defeats.
"Gather our forces here." he said at length. "I want every grunt, ogre, and troll we can muster to gather here. Leave only a fifth of the garrisons. That will be sufficient."
"If they attack them, warchief, they'll easily overrun our territory." One of the Warlords - an able middle-aged orc - interjected. "We won't be able to defend there."
"They won't need to. Lothar is coming here. Always wanted to, that human. He'll come here and try to break us. But we will be the ones breaking him. The defences of Blackrock Spire are the greatest the Horde had ever built. Here, the Alliance will fail. Their spirit will break. And we will regain momentum.. Once that happens, we'll need the garrisons to keep what human slaves we have here in line. A fifth is enough."
"And if we don't break them? Don't say its impossible, warchief. I respect your hammer. I'll follow it. We'll all follow you. But be honest with us. What happens...if the humans don't break here? Or worse, if they break us?" Killrogg said. Doomhammer shot him a serious look and pondered his answer, finally shrugging.
"If by some impossible feat the humans wins...then the garrisons won't be a big help. They'll be broken too. That's why we'll prevail. Our destiny is to rule this world for the Horde!" he growled, taking and hefting his great hammer.
Still, if Grimfrost no longer believed in the cause...in the Horde...and if the orcs loyal to him followed him. There might be a new civil war. And that one would be harder to win. Caught between Lothar's forces and Grimfrost's anger, the warchief of the Horde could only look confident, and calm the searing doubts in his soul.
Spring 598, Ironforge, Khaz Modan
The dwarves had been more than gracious hosts, Lothar decided. Even if the praise was deserved, they had been exceptional in their hospitality.
The moment that the Horde army had marched away, the Alliance and dwarves had gone to the battlefield to look for survivors and prisoners, and had found only about three hundred. Many in the Alliance - not just the Azerothians - understood what it meant. Thousands of bodies lay around Ironforge. The bodies of the fallen ones, but also those of the wounded. The orcs had preferred to kill their own rather than see them captured.
The thousands of orcs had been cremated, while the Alliance soldiers had been buried in a marked mass grave, where names and deeds would one day be inscribed. A prison camp guarded by all three races had been built to take care of and watch the surviving orcs and trolls. All of this had taken nearly two weeks. All the while the wounded had been treated, and the army settled for a short rest before beginning the end of the journey.
That was when the dwarves had shown their generosity. Their healers walked with the elven and human ones in treating the wounded. Blacksmiths and armourers went about mending weapons and armour freely. Ale was given to many of the companies who had been crucial in the siege, and it was known that Danath's strong men had been given quite a feast.
King Magni had been the loudest in his appreciation, telling Lothar that the Dwarves of Ironforge now had a life-debt to repay the Alliance, and that it would see it repaid. Magical messengers had been sent out in short order, and, through teleportation, the leaders of the entire Alliance met once more, with most of the field generals and the Alliance High Command attending. Varien Wrynn and Aerth Swiftblade sat with Lothar for Azeroth.
The Hall of Kings, the oldest, grandest room in Ironforge, had been the gathering place for the dwarven lords over the centuries, and today it served as the meeting ground for planning the last great offensive of the war. King Magni presided this meeting. A short argument had come between Terenas and Magni, the dwarf wishing the Alliance patron to take his place momentarily, but the aging king of Lordaeron wanted none of that. And so it came to the dwarf to arbitrate this important meeting - a task he had shown himself proficient at.
A new arrival was at this meeting, standing before the assembled leaders. The High Thane of the Wildhammers of Northeron had come himself, and had pledged himself and his griphon riders in front of the entire Alliance. None had even complained one bit - the griphon riders had taken to skirmishing with the increasingly frequent dragons kinds that the Horde controlled. They were an enormous asset. Following the pledge, however, Thoras Trollbane stood up.
"I've enjoyed the roasted boar and the ale, and I rejoice at the words I've heard today. But, forgive my impatience; couldn't we begin talking about our future plans? The Horde isn't defeated yet." The King of Stromgarde said gruffly, if not unkindly. Daelin Proudmoore nodded most empathically, and Lothar felt a twinge of sadness. The man's fury against the orcs had abated a bit, but had by no means dissipated.
"We have plans. Out resources are not being squandered." The maritime ruler mused.
"I should hope not! This war is the most costly ever fought for centuries, if not millennia! Not even talking about lives, the gold, food, weapons and goods needed to keep the war effort strong are staggering." Genn Greymane of Gilneas, always the first to argue, put up stoutly. Many murmurs of assent came from the other leaders.
"True, the Kirin Tor is also committed to the idea of ending this war as swiftly as possible." Antonidas replied, stroking his long, grey beard."
"As if you wizards knew of sacrifices!" Greymane scoffed. If the archmage was offended by the remark, he showed nothing of his ire, only looked at the other ruler calmly.
"May I remind all here that, without the Kirin Tor's magics, this army would never have been supplied swiftly enough for our needs. There are other ways to fight."
"No one is denying the great help the people of Dalaran offer us." Lothar stood up quickly, before Greymane could endanger the meeting, as the main had poisoned others. "We're all tired. The conscription is still too high, and we can't maintain the resources to keep fighting like this for long. Two years, at most, is what we can hope for?"
"And after these two years, what would happen, Lord Lothar?" Fenna Pureglade, possible the most beautiful sight the old knight had seen in life, asked melodiously.
"Your Highness, in two years, the people will be dissatisfied, and will refuse the conscription. We shall be short on resources, and cohesion will wane. No, in two years, the battle would be lost. We'll have to fight and prevail before a year and a half had passed." The High General if the Alliance grinned somewhat. "But worry not, I won't let it drag on that long. Everything will be settled soon. If I can, by parlay. If not, then by force."
"Enough artful words, Lord Lothar!" Greymane snapped. "What's your plan?"
Lothar looked to the side, and Aerth Swiftblade took a step forward. "Your Majesties will have to forgive my common ways as I speak. We intend to strike as strong a blow towards Blackrock Spire, using all of the forces gathered here. We have over three hundred thousand here. With this, we can fight the remaining Horde forces on equal grounds."
"But with no insurance that we will be victorious." Terenas stated gently.
"Not with us simply charging into battle, indeed not, my lord."
"And can you somehow circumvent this? Increase the odds?"
"Yes, King Terenas! With the Fleet and a landing at the western shores!" Proudmoore suddenly piped up, rising to join in the plan. "You see, sirs, we're betting that the orcs think that we're throwing all we have at them from the north. That's mostly true. But they've forgotten one army: Turalyon's army. Thirty thousand humans and elves. We're basing ourselves on the fact that they don't know we have it to throw at them."
"But wouldn't the orcs have some strong naval defences there, King Proudmoore?" Queen Pureglade wondered.
"If they wish to throw back the force coming at them from the north, they'll have to put together an immense force. My impression is that most of the naval defences will be terribly undermanned. And with their own fleet all but destroyed, we can pummel the entry points into submission easily. Once they secure a front, their sheer number should be enough to roll back the opposition." The King of Kul Tiras mused.
"You see, quite a few Azerothians have remained in their hands, being used as slave labour and amusement. They'll divert at least some forces for that. If we strain them further, we just might confuse them enough to throw off their plans enough to talk and, if all else fail, to negate the position of strength they'd be aiming for."
"Looks like its all planned out." Antonidas mused. "Let's hope everything goes well."
"It has to, I'd say." Herag Flamehammer, Ironforge's best general, stated. "They got it well planned-out. If we can beat them here, we can break'em badly."
"Badly, yes. Perhaps badly enough for us to push them to what my master kept calling the Dark Portal." Khadgar, who had been silent for much of the time, suddenly spoke. He seemed to have only disgust for his master's works. Lothar was saddened by the fact that all that tragedy had been brought by one man he considered a friend.
Still, he felt an excitement from the Azerothians, which went beyond whatever the dwarves had shown. Home. They were going back to Azeroth. And this time, the battle between man and orc would end differently. Lothar had vowed that much. He wished to live to see proud Stormwind Keep standing, Northshire recovering its dignity, and to see his realm resettled by the people who gad put their faith in him for so long.
Yet, Larienne Proudmoore had shown that the orcs could be talked to, if what the prisoners had told them - that she had made them sick of warfare - was true. For her sake, he would try to make peace once. Only once.
"And what happens if we push them back? The Dark Portal is not just another dimensional portal. Medhiv created it, and he was the strongest magical being on this planet!" Antonidas warned. Khadgar only smiled in response.
"Lord Antonidas, you seem to forget. Medhiv was my master. I know his strengths in magic. But I also know where to look for flaws."
Late Spring 598, Emerald Tower, Azeroth
The Emerald tower had stood almost as long as Stormwind had, longer than the Kingdom of Azeroth had existed. When the human settlers had been little else but farmers and herders controlled by the Empire of Arathor, the tower was rising, until it reached great heights. It had contained hundreds of chambers, great and small, and the largest store of magical knowledge south of the Violet Citadel itself.
That time was no more.
The Horde had reduced the edifice to little more than ruins, and Gul'Dan's last machinations - the killing of the Necrolytes to create the Death Knights - had completed the transformation. Now, only crumbling arches and shadows made their home there.
Theron Gorefiend did not usually care about such things. However, given that he had been a powerful warlock in life, he found the destruction of such knowledge somewhat...wasteful.
'This is no time to be sentimental, you fool.' the powerful undead told himself, casting his blazing eyes around the ruins. Nearby, several of the lesser Death Knights awaited his decision. The presence was one he knew quite well. And he wasn't certain he wanted to fall into its grasp again.
"Let's go, brothers." He decided, lumbering forward. No matter the power they had, he inhabited the rotting body of a human warrior. A party of Death Knights was anything but stealthy. 'Not that we often need to be.' He reminded himself wryly.
The group of undead lingered near the entrance. Despite the decrepit state the once-great building found itself in, remnants of powerful wards and spells lingered. Shattered iron golems, used to bolster the defences when the Horde lay siege to it, lay scattered about, unmoving. Gorefiend wondered about the human conjurors and their resistance. Had they defended the place long enough to displace as much of their vital knowledge as possible? Or had they just done it because they cared about their home?
'Humans are so complicated; it could be either, both, none, a mix of the two reasons or something unfathomable altogether. Human minds are so complicated.' The undead mused.
His body, after all, had been human. A human knight named Pietrek Laras. Although whatever soul had inhabited the husk was long gone, the body remembered, and remnants of the mind had allowed him to piece the host's previous life in some vague whole.
Pietrek Laras had been a minor nobleman of relatively high standing and higher ambitions. He had attempted to grab glory and power at the worst of time - from a human perspective, at least - and had mangled the city of Sunshire's defences in the hopes of rallying it and make Anduin Lothar look bad, usurping his power.
A silly attempt, but it had cost the humans dearly in those days.
Gorefiend had found little beyond that, save that it appeared a younger knight had foiled the plan somehow. The undead knew that it had involved a castle, and some great regional family. Whether Pietrek had been killed by the human or in the attack was unknown.
However, Gorefiend realized, one of the deadly wounds the body had suffered had definitely been made by a human sword...
Idle possibilities about the dead human knight's fate left the Death Knight's mind as he felt the presence once more. There was no doubt about it this time. The other Death Knights also felt the call, this time.
"Can it be?" one unnatural voice wondered.
"It couldn't! Even with his powers, the enemy he had to face would have been-" Another began arguing. 'Still willing to haggle.' Gorefiend thought in contempt, and cut off any dissent before his companion's talk degenerated.
"Who else would do this? Look at this place...look at its meaning. Its very fitting for him, I think."
"But if it IS he, then his power-"
"Ah, yes." the most powerful of the Death Knights mused coldly. "His power...we shall see. It might be interesting for me."
They walked through cracked corridors where apprentices had once studied, halls were magic had been practiced with abandon. A sliver of disgust lingered from the human body, but the orc mind thirsted for the magicks that had once permeated the place. Nothing of this had ever existed among the orcs. Only the paltry shamanism. The necromantic arts had been too young, and had never been researched for millennia like the human and elven spells.
'Spiritual magic... far too similar to those despicable Paladins'.' He remembered in disgust. He had faced the armoured, zealous warriors who wielded the clerical magic too often for his taste.
They made their way through a great arch, and found themselves in a room where important meeting must have taken place. The dilapidated state hid nothing of the site's former importance. It was perfectly fitting for him to have installed a stone throne in the middle of the place the greatest human wizards of the southern lands congregated. The presence had long ago noticed them, and awaited to see their answer.
'You are strong yet. But no longer as mighty as you once were. The demons you unleashed put their mark on you, haven't they?' The undead warrior mused. Just then, the voice - a living, if strained voice - spoke.
"So, it appears that you heard my call."
And Theron Gorefiend, strongest of all the Death Knights, bent his rotting knees and knelt, his followers imitating his example at once. It was a very rare occurrence. Only Doomhammer had also seen it happen. But his loyalty had never been to the warchief. It had never even been... to him.
"I am pleased to see you well." Gorefiend lied.
"You are not. But it is better than following Doomhammer's bid for power, is it not?"
"Yes. In many ways...Master Gul'Dan..." The former warlock bent his head to his former teacher.
"Rise. Although I am your greater, I have no time for false praise or worship. I need facts, and you can give them to me. How is the Horde, Theron? How is Doomhammer?"
"The Horde is no longer the superior power it once was compared to the Alliance. The battle is equal at best. At worst...at worst they beat us. They certainly have pushed us far to the south in the last year. Doomhammer hasn't lost any support yet, however. The remaining clans are firmly behind him." The decaying corpse told the orc warlock.
"So, the humans have brought their little Alliance to us. Doomhammer's incompetence has put our people in serious trouble, haven't they?"
'That's just like you, to blame another. The Horde would already have won the war, if you hadn't betrayed it and gone to hunt down a myth!' The Death Knight thought in disgust, very privately, however. 'Now the tables have been turned. Now it is the humans who are winning the war! And you'd accuse Doomhammer of incompetence for your own mistakes!'
Gul'Dan shifted, and as he did Gorefiend felt it. A strain in the aura the other projected. It seemed only slightly weakened, but the feel he'd just add showed far worse. But the orc remained largely in the shadows and couldn't be observed very well. Still, it meant that Gul'Dan might lack his previous strength. That opened many possibilities.
"Gather all the Death Knights. Tell them to come. We have much to discuss." Gorefiend nodded, bowed, and walked out the room. Yet, as he did, his mind kept spinning.
"Yes, master Gul'Dan, I'll see to it personally." 'And then, we'll decide if you are still worthy of being our leader!" If he weren't, then the Death Knights - with Gorefiend at their head - would take their own freedom.
Things were bound to become interesting very soon, and Gorefiend already knew why.
Late Spring 598, Moonbrooke Ruins, Azeroth
"Drive them out of there! Ballista, fire at will!"
"Fourth battalion! Contain the enemy on the right flank!"
"Move, you orc spawns! Move it now before I kick ya!"
Orders, demands, and shouted curses continued as Turalyon knelt by a fallen soldier. Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer to the Light, and a soft light emanated from his hands. The gaping wound, a mortal blow caused by an orcish weapon, began to close swiftly as the Paladin channelled what healing energies he possessed into the fallen man's body. The man's shallow breath became even and deep, and the shock and healing drove him into a deep slumber.
Heaving a sigh, the Lord-General of the Lion Army rose to join what remained of the fighting. It was good, at times, for the man to remember that the Knights of the Silver Hand were not only warriors, but also healers.
'I'm almost more useful healing than giving orders. Even though this was the largest force we've faced yet, its no challenge.' The Paladin reflected. Everything, it seemed, was going according to Lothar's plan.
Sixty transports had crossed the Great Sea, escorted by one quarter of the Alliance Fleet, destroying small Horde naval groups and shipyards as they went. Although some groups had put up a good fight, it became clear that Admiral Proudmoore had done much to wipe out most of the enemy fleet - Few destroyers and only three juggernauts were seen at all. The invasion fleet and its escort had come to the four points of entry which Proumoore and the admiralty had chosen as the best places to disembark, the largest being Nelcourt, formerly Azeroth's main port, turned Horde fortress.
Battered by bombardments from the accompanying battleships, the defences wouldn't have been able to hold off half of the invasion force for long, even at full strength. The garrison, however, had been reduced by much, barely enough to keep control over the few hundred humans who remained there as slaves.
The orcs and the few ogres present had quickly been hard-pressed by disembarking footmen and archers, and had been overwhelmed as knights, mages and paladins entered the scene, all the while the dwarves worked to undo whatever defences the place still had. Within a day, Nelcourt had been secured, soon followed by the other three points. Each was left with a garrison of five hundred men, while the Lion Army had reformed within a few days, beating back three small Horde attacks, and liberating strategic points.
Many officers, seeing the ragged, malnourished condition of the surviving human slaves, argued to begin a full liberation of the Human kingdom, especially the Azerothians. Turalyon, however, had been adamant: the Lion Army was meant to divert attention by making its way across the land quickly, taking only those places which had strategic importance. Moonbrooke was quickly decided as one such place. It had been a rather large town, and its ruins would be the perfect place to set up a base from which to ride further east.
Once the Horde was defeated, Turalyon would personally aid in the liberation. But, for the sake of the Alliance's mission, he quieted his Paladin side and followed only the code of the Knight. As a Knight, he had to achieve the endeavour given to him by his lords.
He looked from the ruinous town to the north, and spotted the trees of Elwynn. Despite the damage to the land, the Forest still survived well. Turalyon knew that many ruins and occupied cities - turned - slave camps, where out there. And that just beyond the forest lay the ruins of proud, powerful Stormwind.
But this would be for another time. Gritting his teeth, Turalyon hefted his heavy warhammer and ran towards where the battle still ran strong, bellowing help from the Light to aid him in his mission. He came upon the orcs like a thunderstorm, killed three before they could react. The rest were holding the human footmen at bay. However, the humans had numbers, and if the orcs managed to wound one soldier, a hale one took his place, while Elven arrows rained. The few trolls left had long been killed.
Eventually, the Horde lines broke, yet the orcs wouldn't surrender. Turalyon saw that, and finally gave the order to give no quarter. He would deal with how much it bothered his paladin training later.
The Alliance tore through the former town, swarming the place. In some places, human slaves began fighting the Horde with a vengeance, further muddying the situation. Eventually, however, Turalyon and his commanders met at the former town hall. Although some small spots of trouble remained, the town was theirs.
"Casualties?" The Paladin asked his infantry commander, a slender, steely elven female.
"We're still uncertain. Less than one hundred, certainly. Perhaps three hundred wounded. Most can be healed and be ready to fight soon."
"Wasn't much of a battle. They simply don't have the numbers to oppose us. I guess its true then: the orcs are massing to the east." The Knights commander mused, an unhealthy light in his eyes. Turalyon didn't like the younger Knight's passion for killing. He also didn't like the disgust he showed towards the elves, dwarves, and anyone who wasn't perfectly human. No, worse. He hated it. The only reason Turalyon kept the man was that, for all of his faults, the man knew how to lead a charge.
"Garrithos. The battle is over for now. Let it be." Turalyon said calmly. No one missed the hidden warning. All saw the younger knight stiffen. Garrithos, however, wasn't foolish enough to talk back to the second in command to the Alliance Army. He bowed.
"I am sorry, Lord Turalyon. My manners were too blunt." he said, stiffly. The Paladin shrugged it off.
"We have managed to secure this town. How many people did we liberate?" He inquired.
"Eight hundred or so. Again, we don't have the count yet." The elf replied.
"That means we have more than two thousand people freed. Hard to believe, after a decade of occupation." Garrithos muttered. Turalyon wasn't so surprised. The orcs, after all, had limited manpower from what it seemed. And someone had to mine the ore, make certain food is produced enough.
"Azeroth had a population of two and a half million citizens when what Lord Lothar calls the Dark Portal was opened. Only half managed to flee. Its not impossible a significant fraction was beaten into submission and became...menial manpower." The Paladin mused, almost to himself. "Whatever the case, give the people we rescued as much aid as you can. Make makeshift habitats from all of this rubble."
The commanders looked around. Moonbrook had been, according to Aerth Swiftblade, a large, prosperous town. There were signs of this, even now. Some buildings still retained some semblance of their former glory. Turalyon pointed to those as a focus point for the small construction efforts.
'I wonder...where Swiftblade lived? I'm certain he'll tell me about it if we both visit this place together...after the war ends.'
After a while, the discussion shifted to supplies and sentries. Work would be put in to erect a defensive perimeter while scouts would make certain that no large Horde force would take the gathering army unawares. Supply wagons would need to be protected at all costs - the Kirin Tor was too busy keeping the northern army in Khaz Modan supplied. The Navy would help, but would be unable to assist on land. The officers agreed to double the guard on the convoys.
"And what should we do, once we're fortified here?" The man commanding the archers asked. "We can't stay idle, and Lothar might need us to do some damage to the Horde main force."
"And we will. Tiredia, you will command my main force. Move to Grand Hamlet's location, and empty the place of Horde troops. Once these, await further instructions." Turalyon noted. "As for myself..." he grinned slightly at the thought.
"Sir...you?" Garrithos asked. The Paladin's grin widened. He knew that the proud, younger knight didn't like not understanding. As such, he decided to educate the rougher, angrier youth.
"I'm thinking that we should send Doomhammer a message he can never ignore. You see, I intend to take Stormwind now. Wouldn't that take Doomhammer's notice quickly enough?" The Paladin wondered.
Whatever the case, he would find out soon.
Early Summer 598, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth
The Horde was assembled.
Or rather, as much of the Horde as could be assembled without losing control of the human slaves and territories already held. Despite that fact, the massed warriors which camped below the Spire's foreboding walls was greater than any which had been fielded, aside from the ill-fated Shadow Army. With Argal Grimfrost's forces arriving, their numbers and position was right to meet the Alliance.
Doomhammer looked down at the innumerable numbers of orcs, at the thousands of ogres and trolls and goblins awaiting word of him, and felt a grim satisfaction. Once again, he was certain that his people would prevail. The humans were spent - the armies they were sending were certainly the last they could muster. Even with the dwarves formally joining, there was no way that they would breach Blackrock Spire.
"The Horde has assembled, Warchief. As you commanded." A grunt said respectfully. The leader of the Orc Clans, Warchief of the Orcish Horde, the orc who had won the First War for his people, hesitated before nodding firmly.
"I'll talk to them immediately." he said.
"And what will you tell them? That they'll be losing their lives for a great cause?" An angry voice sounded, and Doomhammer found himself face to face with his best warlord and, until recently, his closest friend. After the human queen had died, however, the two had become distant, almost strangers to one another.
"I might just do that. It'll get their blood pumping faster." The warchief half-joked. Grimfrost, however, didn't seem to find it amusing at all.
"Hypocrite." The Warlord hissed. Fatigued by the many hard decisions he had had that day, Doomhammer lost patience and grabbed his former friend, slamming him into a wall. The other orc grunted, but said nothing else.
'There are limits to what a warlord may tell the warchief, Argal! You'd do well to remember that much?" he hissed. It only deepened the contempt he felt from the other orc.
"Or what? What will you do? Have me killed? That'll only be trouble for you. You were a great general in the days, Orgrim. But it was over a human decade ago. You've lost touch with things and become dependant on those who haven't. Killing me kills your best general. Isn't that so?"
"You flatter yourself." Doomhammer growled. Inwardly, however, he sighed.
"I don't. I'm the best there is where it comes to leading orcs to battle Can you tell me of another orc who does that better than me?" Grimfrost asked, almost taunting.
Doomhammer growled, but found nothing - no name - to say. As much as he hated to admit that fact, Grimfrost was indeed his best. And he would need him in the days - the weeks - to come. He let go of the smaller orc, who came to his feet easily. A tense moment followed as the two regarded each other, and Doomhammer was suddenly appalled by the chasm that had opened between them. They had been so close, once. Good - no, GREAT - friends.
And then something had changed. The supportive Warlord had changed. The two had quarrelled over the finer points of the war, until neither could understand the other. Couldn't Grimfrost see that his efforts were confusing the other orcs, in this time when they should all stand together?
"The Alliance is at our door, Grimfrost."
"I know that."
"If we don't unite our people, if we can't agree on leading them, our people will fracture." He walked a few pace, studying the masses below. They didn't seem him from his point, but he could see them well. Orcs from so many clans, difficult Ogres and worse Trolls. Utterly unpredictable, greedy goblins. A volatile group, to say the least. "The Alliance army is great. Perhaps as great as ours. If we break, lose trust now..."
"...The Alliance will prevail? Orgrim, it has already prevailed." The Warlord mused. The Warchief turned to his subordinate in anger, but the warlord continued. "Think about it. If we defeat them here, it will still cost us an enormous fraction of our people. Our army will be diminished. With the forces left, we couldn't even hold Khaz Modan properly, and we wouldn't be able to hurt Lordaeron or Quel'Thalas. With Ner'zul refusing to send the small forces on Dreanor, and his refusal to send more settlers, the humans would recoup their losses in less than twenty years. We won't."
Doomhammer opened his mouth to retort something, than thought better of it. He was no fool. He could see what Grimfrost was driving at. They'd barely be able to hold on to their present territory. All they'd be able to do would be to fortify what they have, and await the second coming of the humans. A reversal of roles, and one they wouldn't survive. Yes, for all of his pride, Doomhammer could see it. And hated it completely.
"What do you propose?" He asked at last.
"Talk to them. I have heard that Anduin Lothar may want to parlay with you. It would be an opportunity, Orgrim." The warlord said in earnest.
"You're deluded! Talk with the humans? There's too much bad blood between us to talk peace!" The hammer-wielding orc scoffed. Yet, inwardly, he considered what had been said. If it was true, it did present some possibilities. Only perhaps different possibilities than what Grimfrost implied.
"I know. But, if we could have these lands, we could rebuild and make this place a true Orcish home. A nation for all the clans!" The warlord said. Grimfrost smirked as he said this. 'He realizes that this is naive from his point of view, for all our views.' the warchief reflected 'But he believes in it. Or at least, he wants to believe in it.'
The warchief warred with himself. Could he lead his people to this, if it was possible? He had been tainted by so much conflict, so many battles. His black hammer had been awash with blood from the very first day it had been crafted. Orgrim Doomhammer, Warchief of the Horde, searched for his faith in peace, and considered the possibility of it with the humans.
He considered, and found it wanting. 'The humans hate us as much as we hate them. Lothar would only do this to put us off-balance. That's clever of the old knight. But I won't fall for it so easily!' Still, he didn't say this to Grimfrost out loud. His friend had different ideas, and a blunt mind for these things. He was a brilliant warlord, but would make a poor warchief. No, his friend wouldn't see the truth of the matter. 'Better spare him. I need him to lead, not worry about Lothar's schemes.'
"If I agree to talk to him - assuming he does - will you fight for me? Will you stand with me and the Horde?" He asked the orc he had been friend with for so long. The other orc seemed to consider, then finally nodded.
"I want our people to have a true future. If you stand to do that, I'll help defend this place. I stake my honour on this."
'Why did you have to say something like that, my friend?' Doomhammer wailed inwardly. The warlord had put him at a crossroads: he could accept to try to talk peace, and as such buy Grimfrost's complete trust once again. But if he didn't do it, it would be betraying Grimfrost's honour code, and the warlord might react badly. This time, there might be no way to ever repair the damage.
'Sometimes you must sacrifice to make sure you people have a chance. Sometimes, even sacrifice friendship. The Horde is too important for our future...' he reminded himself.
"Grimfrost...I will talk to Lothar if he comes to me. I'll let him talk." he lied - he knew he never would. The whole thing was a farce, since Lothar was entirely a warrior too. Warriors never talked about surrender. Warriors did not leave the field easily.
Still, it seemed to reassure his naive friend, and although it hurt Doomhammer to have lied to him, the warchief was inwardly glad to have such a strong warrior on his side once again. Grimfrost bowed slightly, and gestured towards the gathered masses.
"Then, Warchief, rouse our people. Rouse them for battle! Argal Grimfrost will fight this battle for you! As long as I stand here, I swear Blackrock Spire won't fall to the Alliance!"
The Crownless Throne
Ever since King Llane's death in 587, no true ruler has ruled over Azeroth. Anduin Lothar, although beloved by all, refused to be more than a regent, and vowed to step down the moment a new king was chosen. For well over a decade, the remaining Azerothian nobility has squabbled over who could sit on the throne. Three factions now vie for control of the Throne.
The Royalists: Dedicated to King Llane, they intend to put the closest of Llane's relatives on the throne - a fourteen year old nephew who has no ambitions and, some believe, even less wits.
The Dependant: They find that life in Lordaeron is very suitable, and some are considering turning over the territory to Terenas himself once Azeroth is reconquered. The King of Lordaeron, however, vehemently condemns such thoughts.
Lothar's Group: Small but powerful, this group has many great generals, gaining them widespread support in this. Lothar, for his part, has decided that Varien Wrynn, second level cousin to King Llane himself.
