Chapter Thirty-Four: Values and Valour

Early Summer 598, Stormwind Keep, Azeroth

The Gold Lion flew from the battlements of Stormwind Keep once more. Although some other factions had wanted to raise their own flags upon seizing the once-mighty castle from the Horde, Turalyon had refused. Stormwind had been served and defended by Azerothians since the first King of Azeroth first raised it over eleven centuries ago. To the Paladin, nothing else but Azeroth's flag flying in the breeze could be a greater blow to the Horde. After some debate, his officers had acquiesced, just as they'd agreed to let their leader visit the royal catacombs with only a small escort.

Turalyon remembered that Azeroth's throne, held from Kelvion the Liberator to Llane the Just, had been found intact, strong magics having prevented any damage to come to it. It lay upright, in a ruined room, which spoke of past glory, waiting for one to restore that same room, the Keep, and the entire kingdom.

"The crown. That is the key. For if one has the crown of Azeroth on his head and is named king, that will be enough." Lothar had said, then shrugged. "Well, I personally don't believe it will be quite that simple, but I have a plan in motion. But for that, we need the crown. And I can tell you where to find it."

And so Turalyon, second of the Paladins and Lord-General, had penetrated beneath the ground and descended deep within the realm of dead kings and heroes.

"Much work was done to these places. The very best work humans can do." Garithos said, peering through the magical light the globes they had brought emitted.

"It should be. In these catacombs are buried all of the Kings, Queens, princes and Princesses of the Wrynn Royal House. Its understandable that their resting places represented the lofty place they held in life." The mage accompanying them, a middle-aged Azerothian conjuror, whispered almost reverently.

"Its not all human. If you look, you can see some dwarven stonework here and there." Turalyon mused.

Garithos opened his mouth, looked towards the other persons in the party and wisely kept his mouth shut. For, at Lothar's request, Alleria of Quel'Thalas accompanied them. Although the knight wasn't a sort who frightened easily, the elf maiden had dispatched too many orcs too swiftly for the human to believe antagonizing the former Ranger would be anything but suicidal given the circumstances.

"How deep does this go?" Was all the elf asked, ignoring the race-blinded knight to focus on the more open-minded one.

"We have almost arrived. Auren Wrynn the Second's tomb... take three steps, stretch your arm and touch the tomb while reciting." Turalyon sighed at the secretive ways of those of royal blood, and took out a scroll, opening it and reading the text written there.

"I come in the name of the Lion, the Sword and the Horse. For the past and the future, in the name of the King, in memory of the fallen, I beseech the door to open and reveal its charge." he read out loud.

The sentences, as simple and - to Turalyon's ears - quaint as they were, had an immediate effect. The wall he stood in front of vanished, revealing a wide opening two men could walk through. 'Lots of hard security for this one item. But, then again, it IS an important one.' He thought as he beckoned to his companions, who after a hesitation followed him.

They came to a sturdy wooden door guarded by two iron constructs. 'Iron Golems, eh?. Pretty hard to make, those.' The constructs raised enormous axes, and Garithos fumbled for his sword. Then Alleria spoke.

"Aradei dalathein, kyudon kerzth." she said, and the constructs became still once more. Catching the humans' inquisitive eyes, the ranger shrugged. "It was the sentence to be uttered to deactivate them. 'Arms rest, war's end.' is what it meant. Elven sorcerers built these golems, after all."

Garithos humphed in slight disdain.

Turalyon gave him a warning glare. He was truly starting to dislike the commander. Garithos, however, was good at what he did, which was commanding knights on the field. As long as he excelled, the Paladin had no choice but to keep him, especially at this critical phase of the war.

It didn't mean, however, that he was about to let the man sour the already not-so-stable relations between Quel'Thalas and pretty much the entire human parts of the Alliance. Once again, the younger man grudgingly subsided, bowing to superior authority.

The small incident over - Alleria, once again, did not affect to notice - he pushed the doors open and entered, to a room which came alight the moment he stepped inside, revealing an object resting upon a small pedestal, left alone since King Llane and Lothar had gone there in the First War's final weeks.

"Well, that's a fair sight." The Paladin had to admit as he looked at the crown the Kings and ruling Queens of Azeroth had worn, and was the symbol of the King's legitimacy.

The crown was a large, gleaming circlet of gold, with a ruby set in the middle. Smaller sapphires were set in around it, and the entire surface was craved with subtle, inlaid designs of silver. It gleamed brightly despite having been left there for over a decade.

"King Llane's crown." The mage said. "Praise the Light! With this-"

"With this, lord Lothar or anyone else can become King, if he has support for it." He secretly hoped that Lothar would be the one. The Regent-Lord had the popularity not only in New Azeroth but also in the whole Alliance, and the entire Alliance army would follow him if he took the crown. Turalyon's wistful musings, however, would not happen. Lothar had made it clear that he had no wish for the throne at all.

"All of my life has been in service to my home. Being Regent-Lord is no different than the rest." The aging hero had told him, grinning. "I am rendering a service, and when the land's leadership is restored - and it WILL be - then I will once again become a simple Knight serving my King."

"And who shall be King, if not you?" Turalyon had asked. The old knight's grin had widened, and he had told him some of his plans. The Paladin hadn't agreed with some of it, but his position and loyalty allowed none of these feelings to show, and he had vowed to carry out Lothar's task if the old knight couldn't.

"A new King...that will not be an easy task." Garithos muttered. "The nobles are divided about the succession. If we show this crown too soon, the factions might begin to fight."

"That would be disastrous." Alleria said.

"As if you elves could grasp that, with all your high-and mighty-" The knight began hotly. Turalyon's warhammer swept in front of the knight, making the man stop talking out of sheer surprise.

"Garithos. That will do. I've heard enough of your baseless rants and I won't allow more to happen! Is that clear between us?" A moment of silence passed, and the Paladin's eyes narrowed slightly. "Answer me, commander!"

"General. My apologies. I was out of line!" The knight answered stiffly. He did not apologize, however. Turalyon glared a moment more, and then let it go.

"Yes, you were. About the crown...well, I believe we can rest easy. Lord Lothar has a plan already in motion. I think he has already chosen a person to lead Azeroth." he said, and the mage leaned in interest, brow slightly furrowed.

"Indeed, General? And who might that be?"

"That is for lord Lothar to say. I merely suppose. I only know that things are being put in place to put the chosen man on the throne." He sighed. "I, for one, will trust Lothar's judgement. It has never led us astray."

Even with his faith in Lothar, however, Turalyon wondered how the old man would make certain his choice would have no opposition. And he hoped, deep down, that that choice would not be a disappointment.

'You had better be a good king, Varien Wrynn. Or I will be much irked.' The Paladin thought, as he took hold of the crown and put it in a velvet bag. The party left, and the room fell into obscurity once more.

Summer 598, Karal Tor Ruins, Azeroth

Disobedience.

It wasn't a term Gul'Dan had come into contact with in a very long time. Ever since his power had begun outstripping that of his old master, the warlock's world had been sharply divided into comfortable lines. There had been enemies, and there had been allies. Enemies were to be eliminated by whatever means deemed necessary. Allies, on the other hand, were people who served him without questioning him. Such had been his life, from the creation of the necrolytes to the vast expedition to Sargeras's tomb.

But things had changed. He had survived the trapped demons' fury, but at a high cost. His ability to use magic had been diminished, and some of his wounds persisted. His Death Knights, once so loyal, now minced their aid, while his edicts could barely round up a thousand of the surrounding orc troops. Most of the remaining Horde forces in the area had clearly disobeyed the edicts

"How can this be?! I am the most powerful warlock ever seen!" He growled to the thin air of his death-enshrouded, broken throne room. "How can I reclaim my glory in these conditions!"

It was then that he felt another presence. It was a strong aura, indicating a powerful will. But the energies he felt nearly made him sick. 'I know these energies.' his mind told him. 'I know them well, as much as I hate them!'

"I would have an answer, Gul'Dan, but I don't think you'd find it very amusing." A voice sounded from the archway leading from the gloomy throne room to the darkened halls beyond. An orc appeared, wearing brown garments and bearing a wooden staff. His stride was firm yet wary. It did not show overconfidence, only determination. The warlock could only glare.

"And you are?" He questioned harshly.

"Gelmar Thornfeet. The orcs I call my children call me Patriarch, but my calling is that of a Shaman." The orc paused. "I am also the last of your necrolytes."

Gul'Dan's eyes widened. Although he affected to react to the latter remark - how had a necrolyte escaped him? - the former truly bothered him more. 'That's what I thought.' he reflected in disgust. 'Spiritual magic! Shamanism! The orc reeks of it!' "A necrolyte? So, you gained power for revenge then. Fool! As if your paltry power means anything!"

The other orc - rather small by orc standards - seemed not to notice the challenge. "Revenge? No. Revenge would be wasted. Whatever friends I had with them are gone, and I am closer to them now than you can imagine. No, Gul'Dan, I do not come in the name of the past. But in the future's name. The Spirits told me you had survived, and I come to rectify this. I will protect the hope a few have begun creating."

"Gelmar...Gelmar...were you the one under Kryske?" Gul'Dan wondered, smirking. "Weak...you were a very weak necrolyte." If the barb had any effect, it did not show.

"Very weak, yes. I never had talent, or even liked, the magic I was taught to use. But I received wisdom from another. A human of all people, who happened to be wiser than any orc I have met in my life."

"So that old human made you embrace shamanism. Human magic? You're a gullible fool." Gul'Dan snapped.

"The Spirits are everywhere, Gul'Dan. They will accept anyone willing to embrace them. The race doesn't matter. To think that the universe is meant to be ruled by one species is madness." Gelmar answered. The warlock had an impression of deja vu, and wondered who this fool was reminding him of.

Suddenly, it dawned on him. He had heard similar foolishness before. When he had been younger, and the Blood Pact had been taken with the Burning Legion, the Shamans had fought the change coming over the forming Horde. Their words had been naive and filled with blind faith in a bygone time.

As more warlocks and necrolytes were trained, however, their power waned, until they had been hunted to extinction. There were rumors that some, like the Draenei, had survived and were in hiding. But their power on Dreanor had been crushed forever. It had been decades since he'd last heard a shaman's foolish words.

He decided, however, that time had only deepened the scorn he felt towards the weak-willed spellcasters.

"Don't be a fool! Shamanism has never given anything but weakness! Even Ner'Zul and Zuluhed have abandoned nearly all of your old practices!"

"They've been listening to their hunger for blood and their own greed. The Spirits are lost to them. There is no greatness in taking the more powerful path, if it corrupts you!"

"You bore me. Out!" The warlock said, and summoning his power, he flung his hand towards the naive interloper. Expecting to see the shaman fly off from the impact, he was surprised when the other orc gripped his staff and raised his hand in answer. What should have launched the short orc merely forced him three steps backward before it stopped. Gul'Dan's eyes widened in displeasure, while the shaman straightened.

"I am no longer your pet necrolyte, Gul'Dan. Neither your powers nor your will will force me out easily now. The Spirits talk of a new era, one in which you do not belong..."

"The future belongs to ME!" The warlock growled, summoning his power. No upstart shaman would be taking his manifest destiny from him! It enraged him further when the other orc answered his rage that what appeared to be grim pity.

"If the Spirits deem that it is my time, then it is. I will not die without doing what I can to protect our people's true future, however. Remember that, Gul'Dan!" The last words contained more heat, and the warlock sensed a shift of power. The enemy was preparing as well.

Gul'Dan muttered a spell, bending the arcane power to his will. His wounds and mental fatigue made it slower to come, but come it did to him, surging into the stone beneath them. After a moment, a monstrous figure or earth and stone came out, swatting at the shaman, who stumbled backward. The warlock grinned: although summoning might not be such a good idea in his condition, he was confident it would hold the interloper for a time.

The shaman dodged a stone fist, closed his eyes and began chanting in a very low, very quick voice. A cracking sound was heard. Before Gul'Dan could react, vines where springing out and entwining the earth elemental. It rushed forth sluggishly, but his movement was stopped by the increasing amount of plants, which bound it. Suddenly, every link tightened, and the elemental crumpled to earth, granite and pieces of flagstone. The vines shot towards Gul'Dan, who quickly spoke another spell.

Energy lanced out, and although the shaman ran out of the way in time, the vines died within a moment, drained of life. The one named Gelmar responded by a hail of lightning bursting from his fingertips. Wild, spiritual lightning, it hit hard against Gul'Dan's shield but didn't penetrate it.

'This failure is stronger in this paltry magic than I thought he would be.' The warlock thought grimly. The shamans he'd met hadn't been fighters at all. They had talked and talked but, when the fight had come to them, they'd done nothing. Perhaps because he was raised within the Horde, Gelmar fought more than had been expected. 'But fight or not, he won't survive my powers forever!'

Gul'Dan muttered the words of a new spell, this time adding his whole power behind it. It was a spell he'd learned from human scrolls, and which he'd transformed some effects, making them stronger and even deadlier than it had originally been. When he stopped chanting, pools of ice fog sprang from his hands, filling the room, turning anything it touched to ice.

Within moments, everything in front of him was covered with the fog, and everything it touched was immediately covered with a thick, icy layer. Any flesh coming into contact would die in an instant. Gul'Dan stepped back and winced at the strain casting the powerful spell caused. 'I've lost much strength. But at least...' he began, then stopped as he felt something else. Steam.

In the midst of the icy grave, the orc shaman stood protected behind a spiritual, fiery shield. He was panting slightly, but looked as determined as ever. The warlock's mind whirled as he tried to grasp the fact that this new breed of shamans, it seemed, really had less to do with the old one than he'd initially thought. For the first time, worry tinged Gul'Dan's consciousness.

"Not yet." Gelmar Thornfeet rasped. "Not quite yet. It's not my time to join with the Spirits. It will take more than that, Gul'Dan!"

Summer 598, Karal Tor Ruins, Azeroth

The battle had lasted a long time. The shaman and the warlock, locked in battle, had been fighting each other with spells for nearly an hour, bringing the weakened room close to falling in pieces. The Karal Tor tower had been reinforced to prevent spells from affecting the structure, but the Horde's invasion and years of neglect had eroded the carefully-maintained power.

Spiritual energy had met arcane energy in a terrific clash. As the warlock had deployed his full powers, fiends had appeared to do his bidding, while the answer had come in the form of elemental winds. Dozens of spells had been cast, countered and deflected as the two combatants struggled. Both were giving their all as they destroyed their way through the hall-turned-throne room, into the remains of a small library, where the few books which hadn't been taken or destroyed were.

They were no closer to finding a victor to the contest. Even thought both were now fatigued and on the edge of collapse.

Gelmar Thornfeet, however, had vowed never to bend his knee to Gul'Dan again, and intended to fulfill that vow.

"You're weakening, little shaman." Gul'Dan said triumphantly. The cruel tone made Gelmar shiver, but he held fast, nurturing what remained of the spiritual energy he could channel.

"So are you, warlock."

"Fool! My powers are too vast for you to comprehend! I am beyond your measly power, little upstart!"

'And, normally, that would be true.' Gelmar thought. 'Your power was once well beyond mine. But no more.' He wasn't entirely sure why. The wounds were demonic in nature, that much Gelmar was certain. It was possible that the ordeal had shattered part of Gul'Dan's magic. 'An incredible thought. And yet how else can I still be standing here, fighting you on equal grounds?'

"I don't want to understand your powers." the shaman said at last. "They are so corrupted, I grieve to think that our people descended so low. But you are also incapable of understanding what the Spirits want, Gul'Dan. But mostly, you don't have a future. With shamanism, the orcs will have a future.

"Enough talk! Die, weakling!"

"If the Spirits wish it, but not an instant before!" Gelmar answered as both forces entered the fray once more.

A string of arcane words were spoken, and flames danced around and along the warlock's arms. As the flames gathered intensity, the shaman closed his eyes and concentrated, beseeching the spirits for aid, and finding the spell he needed. He gathered what strength he had left and a the world wavered around Gelmar just as a great burst of flames washed over him. The flames were searingly hot, but they did not quite touch him. Still, the spell wavered just as the flames vanished, and the shaman panted hard.

He quickly took out a wooden figuring he'd crafted to aid in focusing his powers, and channeled what ambient positive energies into himself, healing his wounds. Still, he wasn't ready for the backlash of cold elements which buffeted him as Gul'Dan renewed his arcane attack. The figuring absorbed part of the blow, then cracked and dissolved, but it gave Gelmar enough time to think, forcing his spiritual energies to ignite, and forming flames around his entire body, protecting him from the cold.

"You're weakening, little necrolyte..." Gul'Dan rasped as Gelmar forced his consciousness to fold matter and spirits, summoning a being from the magical flames. Gathering the fiery magic, a humanoid form took shape and advanced towards the warlock.

Smirking wearily, Gul'Dan raised his hands towards the fire elemental and muttered words of power. In a few instants, the fiery creature was snuffed out, leaving two panting spellcasters facing each other once more. Gelmar trembled, however. His spiritual strength was almost gone, while the weakened spellcaster muttered tired arcane words. The shaman's shoulders began to sage, but he brought them back up and stood straight.

Inwardly, he felt regret. He had been unable to stop Gul'Dan's rampage. Not that the foolish warlock wasn't doomed already. Even if the evil orc managed to kill Gelmar, the human forces now pouring into the old human capital would probably destroy him, especially in that weakened state.

'But, I wished to stop him myself.' Gelmar thought. 'Perhaps it was mostly pride, or over confidence. But, my students, my people, it was also for you all. I am not to be the one who leads the Horde to a new age, but I could at least have made sure that this one didn't stand in that young orc's way.'

But, failure or not, Gelmar Thornfeet was no longer the fleeing, hungry necrolyte. He had learned much from orcs and humans, had created the Hidden Valley as a haven of hope and learning. He had seen and prevented strife, and had, perhaps, touched the most honorable of the Horde's forces. He would not die whimpering. 'And that is pride. Spirits, forgive me. I will joining with you shortly.' And yet, as he did so, he delved for one last bit of spiritual strength, even though he knew he'd be spent too much already, preparing one last blow.

"Now is the time to beg, Necrolyte!" Gul'Dan crowed, magical lightning dancing around one forearm.

"You waste your time. I have long made peace with the other side. I only regret I didn't have the opportunity to finish you myself." The shaman answered. The warlock humphed in contempt, and prepared to launch his spell. Mentally, Gelmar prepared himself for the coming blow.

It did not come. Gul'Dan's movement suddenly froze, and he seemed to gape at something behind the shaman. The next moment, he gasped in pain, his magic scattering. The shaman didn't know how or why this had happened, but he knew what it meant for him: one chance to defeat the warlock.

He gathered the last of his spiritual energy, risking his own oblivion, and conjured a fiery hail to fall upon his enemy. Gul'Dan saw the threat, it seems, yet his arms seemed to refuse to move. No counter came, and the spell hit the last true warlock fully. It seared his flesh, burning it in an instant, as the orc screamed in agony before his throat was destroyed along with the rest. Still Gelmar pushed on, spending his power on this desperate gamble.

It was only when the warlock was reduced to little more than a skeleton that the shaman let the spell go. His head swam from the exertion and his remaining wounds, and he fought to keep from falling down on the smashed ground. Strong magical hues remained from the battle, and Gelmar fell hard on his behind, staring at the remaining telltales of the magical duel.

It was then that it truly hit him: he had won this battle.

Gul'Dan was no more.

"It appears that the Spirits still have a part for me to play." He reflected in a drained voice.

"The future did not need him. It does, however, need you. Farewell, shaman. We may meet again before all of this ends." A voice - calm and with Azerothian accents - told him. Gelmar shivered as he turned around to see who had spoken, but he saw nothing there. Only a damaged hall and crushed mystical ornaments.

All he heard was a soft sound, at the edge of his hearing. The orc listened attentively. 'Yes, there is something. Leaving. It sounds like...wings...' This puzzled him. Perhaps a shapechange? Some powerful wizards could do it almost at will.

'But why was Gul'Dan...the warlock...his look before pain seized him...' He reflected wearily. 'It felt like...fear...'

"How amusing." He told himself idly. "The world is a more mysterious place than I'll ever know."

With that wise thought, Gelmar Thornfeet, Patriarch and first of the shamans of the Hidden Valley, fell into blissful unconsciousness.

Late Summer 598, Northshire Abbey, Northshire

When an Arathorian missionary had first found the hill, small remnants of ancient stonework had been found. After finding out through magical probes that the stonework was far older than even the oldest Elven or Dwarven work, theories had flooded the halls of universities and churches for a few years, while the missionary and some acolytes founded a small temple dedicated to the teachings of the Light.

The theories finally stopped. But the temple endured and prospered, eventually taking the name of Northshire Abbey after the small town which had cropped up nearby. Over time, Northshire became a center of religious and spiritual teaching.

It was the place Alonsus Faol called home. Finally, after years of absence, the remaining Clerics of Northshire had come to reclaim that home. The elderly Archbishop stared at the structure he'd known for most of his life, finding in outwardly surprisingly intact. 'Inwardly, however...' He reflected grimly as his mind sought out unseen threats.

"I feel uneasy, Holiness. This Abbey hides some evil things." The paladin commander who rode beside the great cleric said, and Faol sighed.

No less than forty clerics accompanied him on this mission. Uther Lightbringer, his former pupil, had however found out about the Archbishop's plans. Unswayed by any arguments, he went and ordered the equivalent number of Paladins to guard the Archbishop and the clerics with their lives, and had arranged for a force of two hundred infantry to follow. The old man had had no choice except to agree - to do anything else would simply have undermined Uther's leadership.

"Yes. This place has been fouled." the Archbishop mused.

"These grounds?" The Paladin seemed shocked.

"The Abbey itself. I feel magic such that I have no seen for many years, yet that I remember all too well." He saw the faces of his brothers and sisters as well as that of some former knights of Azeroth. "Necromancy. That is what we are dealing with here."

Before anyone could react to the news, Alonsus Faol had disembarked and strode towards the marble steps and open doors of the former religious center. He heard shifts and shouts and the clank of steel as the group disembarked. It was while they did so that the elder cleric heard it. A moan. Frightful, sad, hungry and utterly inhuman, it showed what the enemy was at once.

"Zombies. Brethren, come with me help give these poor souls their rest in the Light."

It wasn't long before the wretched creatures came into view. Once human, they wore little except peasant clothes and a short sword they wielded with little skill. Moans escaped their decaying mouths, and dead eyes that shone with slight, ever-present red. This was what the necrolytes and those who followed favored: to use the dead to unwillingly do their bidding instead of fighting a battle head-on.

The clerics faced the incoming onslaught with calm, their eyes closed as they began chanting to the light. The Paladins had drawn their weapons and made a rampart of steel along with the infantry, barring the zombies and skeletons' way. White light began to appear from the Archbishop hands, as well as some others.

"By the grace and power of the Light. By this here name and this here will, I abjure thee from this world's existence, and command thee to return to the guiding fold of the Light!" He exclaimed suddenly. As he did so, others joined in, a chorus of implacable voices. White fire burned around their hands, and at the Archbishop's signal, it shot towards the charging undead.

The undead never had a chance.

The light seared many, burning them whole almost as soon as it struck, while the Paladins and the footmen charged them. Although more resilient than a human, and stronger, the zombies were also slow, devoid of anything but basic intelligence. The humans quickly gained the upper hand, as spells healed their wounds or killed enemy undead.

Before long, rotting corpsed littered the stairs leading to the inside of the Abbey. A few of the soldiers had been wounded during the short-lived attack, but clerics were already tending to them.

"Zombies don't just attack so conveniently. Someone is controlling them." A priest hissed. Faol nodded grimly, then stood in front of the opened room.

"The Order of Northshire Abbey had come to reclaim it from your clutches! Face me, or flee! Such is my word!" The strongest of Northshire clerics intoned. Silence was the only answer he received.

He didn't know if his challenge would be answered. If it had been a necrolyte, the Archbishop wouldn't have used such an archaic formulae. 'But the power I feel, although necromantic, is deeper. This is no Necrolyte's work.' he thought, and he suddenly heard a horse neighing in an unnatural voice, and he understood.

"I see. Death Knights." he muttered, his old, bent frame hunching over the golden staff of office he'd held on to for over thirty years. He felt the Paladins tense at his words, and he looked at them calmly. "No, there is no need to fear. I can feel something from these creatures. They will not attack us."

"I apologize for appearing doubtful, Holiness, but how would you know this? The Death Knights have been fearsome enemies on the battlefield for many years now. What could change their minds?" The paladin commander asked.

"Because these death Knights have the souls of powerful, clever orcs in them. Or so it seems from what the reports said. They are known to be very intelligent. Now, they should know that forty clerics, forty paladins and over two hundred footmen is a force they cannot hope to overcome. I say that they will leave shortly, using magic." He explained. The Paladin commander did not seem quite convinced. 'Why did Uther choose him? Well, I suppose all of the good commanders have gone with Lord Lothar's armies.'

"Orcs rarely pull out unless they have no other choice."

"And they don't. This region is barely held by the Horde, and most of its forces are gone. It would be a spectacular, but ultimately wasted effort." The Archbishop said calmly.

He never knew if the Paladin would have protested further, because a flash of light illuminated the inside of the Abbey through the windows, despite the clear blue morning sky. Feeling out the confines of his home, the Archbishop eventually nodded, unsurprised, and began to enter the Abbey.

"Holiness-!"

"It is alright. Come with me if your wish. The Death Knights have gone, but there are still quite a few undead scattered about. This place must be cleansed of this horrible taint before the Order rekindles the Light in this place. Let us go, my Brethren." The Archbishop entered into the darkness, summoning a light to guide his way.

Despite his confidence, what he saw shocked the elderly cleric, as well as any who entered afterwards.

The great hall had once been a place of prayers and meditation, where the clerics would come to commune with the Light and their inner selves. In the order's absence, however, it had become nothing less than butchery. Corpses lay everywhere, as well as blood and half-eaten parts. 'Feeding grounds for the zombies, no doubt.' The man thought as his stomach lurched painfully. Other clerics who'd followed - as well as some Paladins - threw up at the gruesome sight, even as the Archbishop struggles inwardly.

'So, this is what they did with the center of our faith. They made this a place of death. Such a hateful way to savour their own victory.' he thought, but fought off the anger and bitterness which were surfacing. The hallowed place had been scarred, but it would be the Order of Northshire's duty to heal these.

"Friends...we have come home." He said to no one in particular. His tone, he knew, was sad, held no triumph. With an effort, he roused himself. "Now we have much to do. Come, everyone!"

"We will restore Northshire Abbey, and then spread the Light to those who lived under Horde rule for so long. We will no longer allow suffering. Not as long as I did!" Alonsus Faol said, as he began praying for the Light in the midst of death.

Late Summer 598, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

"I tell you right here, mon, the orcs are losin' this fight!"

"Can't just stand here and get our asses kicked bad! This isn't even our home here, mon!"

"Zul'jin, you gotta get our people outta here!"

The voices of the other leaders of the Troll Warparties mingled into one single, whining litany as Zul'jin tried his best to make sense of everything which was being said. Not that it was hard, really - it revolved around the same theme. The mutterings the trolls had always entertained had become shouts, and the volatile situation was becoming worse by the minute.

Still, Zul'jin held the troll leaders back from violence and strife, as he'd done for many years. Of all of the leaders, he was the most cunning and the most powerful. He had led the trolls through countless battles, and had amassed more individual victories than any two other leaders. It counted for a lot, and the power this gave him allowed Zul'jin the leverage he usually had over the other trolls.

But not amount of reputation could calm this storm, he feared. For over a human decade, the trolls had served under the Orcs, because their Warchief had promised that, once the Alliance was defeated, the Trolls would have the territory, which once belonged to them. That entailed Zul'Aman, the hates realm of Quel'Thalas, the northern parts of Stromgarde and some of Lordaeron's eastern lands. That promised had been very inviting to the leader of the trolls upon being released from a human prison camp after a failed raid, and Zul'jin had convinced most of the forest trolls of Zul'Aman to aid the Horde.

It was clear now, however, that the Alliance wasn't about to be defeated. The elves, although weakened, were strong enough to defend their lands still, while the human militia had repulsed troll forays even after being drained of almost any military forces. The Horde was losing the prolonged war. Only a blind Trollig wouldn't see it.

"I get what you're saying." He told them when he could put a word in edgewise. "I get it well 'nough, but it not helpin'. We can't just pack up an' leave, not now. Not like that." He snapped his long fingers. Scowls answered him, but no insults came. He was far too respected - and too skilled with his axes - for the other leaders to risk a confrontation. Still, they wouldn't simply leave the matter alone that easily.

"Why not? We decided to come help the damn orcs ourselves, mon! They had promises to keep, and we got nothin'! No, we got worse'n nothin'! Damned humans plan to get a punitive force into Zul'Aman after this! We got trouble, more trouble'n before! We owe the orcs nothin' at all!" One of the leaders, a young troll with yet-to-yellow teeth said brashly. His elders hushed him, but the words had been said.

And Zul'jin couldn't help but agree.

For the Troll leader knew what was eating at his people. Once, the humans and elves had destroyed most of the trolls in a great war long ago, destroying the forest troll realm and restricting his people to the poor forests of Zul'Aman, while the Elves occupied the bountiful northern forests and the humans took hold of the rich plains. Ever since then, both races had made forays to Zul'Aman. A major strike was an unnerving thought indeed.

Moreover, Zul'jin didn't feel the kinship he'd thought he had with Orgrimm Doomhammer. Over the years, the warchief had been deprecating towards the troll bands, using them on useless attacks and blaming them for the failures afterwards. The only orc leader the trolls couldn't help but respect was Argal Grimfrost, who'd led well and treated the trolls as allies rather than annoyances. But Grimfrost wasn't the warchief. 'And even ol' Grimfrost looks pretty tired of Doomhammer these days. This who thing is unravelin' pretty damned fast.' The troll thought.

"Listen!" he said at last, and his voice carried through the Troll lumber mill which had become the place for the impromptu meeting. The others fell silent, surprised - Zul'jin very rarely raised his voice at all to talk.

"Listen. I'm not big on stayin' here, either. Doomhammer's been treatin' us badly, and its pretty clear now that Quel'Thalas ain't gonna be beaten this far south. I'm all for goin' back north and kickin' some human and elven stuffin'." He continued before tempers could rise or words fly back and forth again. "But you gotta see what's happenin' here. The humans an' elves an' dwarves are comin' here. A huge force, yes? Now that makes the orcs and ogres here plenty edgy. Imagine if we tried to leave now."

"I...I get you. They'd get plenty mad. Might see us as an enemy too."

"You got it. We're strong, but we can't fight them off here. They outnumber us way too badly. And even if we could manage to get away, I don't think we'll be in any shape to escape the Alliance force comin' here." Zul'jin stated. To his relief, he saw that his words were beginning to have an effect on the other leaders. They were beginning to truly think rather than just reacting to what happened. They didn't like it, but he'd forced them to consider things carefully.

"We can't just stay here an' die. Wouldn't be right. They'll need help up north. I got my people up north!" the young troll said angrily. Other voices gave their assent, and the troll leader huffed in exasperation.

"Don't start like that! Who ever said we're not going home?" he snapped.

"But you just said-"

"I said we can't leave right now, and I'm right! You all know it, or you should! We'd just get all killed by the orcs and Ogres here, and that wouldn't help our people, now would it?" Zul'jin said easily.

"Then what?" One elder troll asked, and all eyes seemed to ask the same question, with the same despair and frustration.

He considered how to answer. There weren't many ways to escape from the coming fight, really. The Horde and Alliance were spent, both were betting everything on that single battle. It would decide the conflict. That meant that it would be merciless, bloody and extremely hard to escape beforehand. Too much hate and tension involved. However...

"We'll escape durin' the thickest part of the fight, when everythin's mingled so badly that no one's gonna really be able to stop us." He decided.

They reacted to this rather badly. Many called him insane. Other thought that idea was good. Insults began to be screamed, fists pounded, and tempers flared. After a little while, Zul'jin raised his voice again, sternly calling for attention. This time, it came too slowly, and he slammed one of his axes into the wooden table with a thunderous crack. Silence reigned immediately.

"That's the way it has to be! You people got that, right? Yeah, we'll lose some people, but its better'n just standin' here and fightin'. Even if the Horde wins this one, you've seen what's happenin': they'll be beat anyway. No, mon, we'll escape when the timin's good, not before." He considered the options. "I heard that Jagal of the Cloudspear Tribe doesn't want to stop fightin' for the Bleedin' Hollow Clan. Let it. We don't need people who don't put us trolls first."

"You realize we'll be betrayin' the Horde here. Doomhammer'll never forget this." One troll said.

"Let him! We paid him back'n more." Another argued.

Zul'jin considered the truth in those words. Certainly, whatever his people did wouldn't be forgiven by the orcs. But the troll leader was willing to take the chance. The Horde, if it won, would be too spent to do anything far north for years, if not a full human decade. And if the Alliance won, the humans and elves would be too depleted to make much more than one large, symbolic foray. It would be years before they could turn their sights towards Zul'Aman.

It didn't matter, he decided as he remembered watching the Alliance lines moving towards the orc stronghold. The armies gathered at this point were too large to fully comprehend and grasp, and Zul'jin wanted his people out of the soon-to-be-bloodbath.

"Do it. We leave when we can." the leader of the troll warparties said in a final tone. He expected no further discussion on the subject.

Unsurprisingly, there was none.

Early Autumn 598, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth

'Over fifteen years of conflict, we've come to this.' Lothar reflected 'A battle fought at the end of the world.'

Poetic as the thought was, it fit reality quite well. The area around Blackrock Spire had never been inhabited by humankind, or by any race except for some goblins in ages past. Although resources - metals and stone - existed, the growing human settlements had always preferred to leave the area alone. It was a barren land of rocks, with no greenery or pleasant sight, nor could food and drink be found easily even by the best of dwarves.

However, as a place to construct a fortress, the place had possibilities, and the Horde had made certain to utilize them all. Blackrock Spire had been constructed near the only small lake in the area, and had sprawled over much of its southern parts. A chain of foreboding stone and earth works surrounded the myriad of barracks, stores and smithies, while mines and smelters worked day and night, the smoke from the constant warcrafting hanging thick in the area. Over all of this rose Blackrock Spire itself - a work of stone and steel as large as Stormwind Keep itself, and certainly more fortified.

Lothar decided that the sight fit the area quite well: a place of death, desolation and dread all in one. From that place, the Horde had launched a war that had seen his homeland taken and reaped of lives and beauty.

'This time, however, the scourge will be us.' he reminded himself as he turned northward, towards the Alliance forces. 'This time, it will be the Spire which will break, while the Keep will rise again.'

The Alliance camps, while nowhere near as impressive as the orc works, were vast and fortified, with innumerable tents and makeshift depots, and many areas dedicated to training. While the dark colors of the Horde barely seemed to alleviate the dead atmosphere of the mountains, the bright pennants and banners of the Alliance Nations - Lordaeron's gold and white, Azeroth's gold and bright blue, Stromgarde's red and silver and many others - gave a certain light to a desolate place. To Lothar, it was the light of hope.

Today, however, wasn't a day for practice of fortifications. After nearly a month of both sides staring at each other and preparing, with only a few skirmishes occurring - especially with the irrational and reckless Burning Blade Clan - the Horde was massing its forces for battle. In response, Lothar had ordered the entire Northern Forces to arm themselves and prepare. In front of his eyes, rank upon rank of armored humans, legions of knights and elven rangers, as well as a whole army of doughty dwarves were preparing, arming, gathering. As flights of Horde Dragons circled overhead, the Alliance's sky was kept safe by the many Griphon Rider wings the Wildhammer High Thane had sent.

According to estimates, six hundred thousands from all of the main races of the war were gathered in that sole place. Such a battle had been fought, Illadan Eltrass had said, since humans and elves had destroyed the bulk of the forest trolls. Even then, such numbers had never been committed in one such battle. The only comparable battles came from elven myths, from before Quel'Thalas, an apocalyptic war, which sundered the world and nearly destroyed it.

A small group was making its way to Lothar and his knightly escorts. Members of the four races that made up the Alliance - humans, elves, dwarves and gnomes - each was a face Lothar knew well. Aerth Swiftblade and Rellon Minvare, Illadan Eltrass and Sylvanas Windrunner, Hergal Flamehammer and the gnomish leader of the Alliance's information network, Igrid Sallav. Uther Lightbringer and Khadgar. And some others. The leadership of the Alliance for this crucial battle, each a person Lothar trusted implicitly.

"My Lord Lothar." Illadan spoke first. "It seems that our people are almost ready."

"So it appears, Lord Eltrass."

"This, for a lack of a better word, will be it." Aerth Swiftblade mused, flecks of gray appearing prematurely in the man's brown hair. The boy-general had weathered into a tired yet dedicated man. 'But, then, I shouldn't be thinking such thoughts. I am an old man myself, and my bones are weary of this conflict.' Lothar admitted to himself 'Yet I will see it through the end, for well or ill.'

"Any news of Turalyon's forces, Lady Windrunner?" The High General of the Alliance turned to the present Ranger-General of the feared Elven Ranger caste. The beautiful, fey elf woman exchanged a look with Illadan before nodding.

"Some, milord. Lord Turalyon has succeeded in retaking Stormwind, and is coming now with most of his forces to strike the Horde in the back. So far, no action has been taken on the Horde's part to impede him. We thus believe and hope that the Southern Forces have been undetected so far." The elf woman rasped.

"Let's hope it stays that way." Minvare interjected, sounding almost bored with the entire situation, which in turn had a calming influence on the others. "Turalyon striking the greenskins in the back while they fight us from the front might just tip the scales in our favor."

Lothar was about to respond when Uther stirred, looking at the massing men. "Lord Lothar....the men are ready, I would think."

All turned their attention slightly downward, and saw that the groups were indeed assembled. Footmen, knights, rangers, mages and clerics were all together, and seemed to be roughly converging their attention towards Lothar's group. Mostly, unconsciously, towards Lothar himself. The weight of responsibility suddenly weighted more than ever, but the old leader shrugged it off. The time for indecision was long past.

"Then, I will talk to them all, as I should." Lothar agreed, nodding to Khadgar. "Work your magic, my friend. Let them all hear what I have to say!"

The archmage closed his eyes, and his hands began moving even as energies danced. Words of the arcane spilled from his mouth as he gathered and wielded energies many feared and yet had been so very useful in the two great wars against the Horde. At last, Khadgar nodded. "Speak, milord. They will all hear as if you spoke among them."

"Friends..." Lothar uttered, and it seemed as if the entire force ushed at once. The weight of their combined gaze increased. Lothar wondered about the word he'd used, then charged forward. "Yes, friends is the word! Hear me, friends! I am Anduin Lothar, Regent-Lord of Azeroth!"

"We have come a long way, my friends. There are some among you who have seen it in full. Some were present when the Horde overran the armies of Azeroth. They were there when Stormwind Keep fell! They were there and heard that King Llane of Azeroth had been ruthlessly murdered by the deceitful Garona!" Lothar exclaimed, and voices rose from the Azerothians, while he saw Minvare and Swiftblade exchanging knowing looks.

"Others were there when Silvermoon was shattered, when Stromgarde was shattered, and the Horde came to Whitefort. At these walls, the Alliance almost failed. We almost fell that day! I remember it well." He looked at the silent mass of people, and grinned slightly despite himself.

"But we did NOT."

A cheer began to rise, but Lothar's voice rode over the shouts. "Now, we did not fall! Whitefort held! The Alliance held! And since then we have regained our footing! The Light, and the bravery of many, has pushed back the tides of darkness! We pushed them out of Lordaeron! Out of Stromgarde! Out of Khaz Modan! To here! To this place, friends!"

"For years our blood has been spilled. The blood of humans, dwarves, elves and gnomes! But we are here! Now! At the doors of their last stronghold! And we will not falter! We will not hold back our strength! One more battle! One more dirge of death! But this time, my friends, my brothers and sisters in arms, brethren of soul, this time THEY will fail! This time, Blackrock Spire and the Horde will be shattered! Forever!"

A cheer went up then, deafening, from a hundreds of thousands of throats. Lothar hoped the Horde all heard this. And trembled. The Alliance had come, and it had come to win.

And Anduin Lothar, the Lion of Azeroth, hefted the great Lionguard, the sword of the Kings of Azeroth, entrusted to him by its last member. He held it aloft, and beside him swords were unsheathed, and hammers hefted, and he knew that the leadership had followed his example. He looked at the people he lead.

"People of the Alliance! For the future! For your children! PREPARE FOR BATTLE!!"

And the mountains shook with the Alliance's fierce roar.

The Clerics of Northshire

The Clerics of Northshire are today considered the best divine practitioners mankind ever produced, on par with the High Elf clerics and with the legendary Night Elf druids. Founded around fourteen centuries ago, the order began as a congregation of like-minded clerics from the Faith of the Light, which had spread throughout the Arathorian Empire. First a small group dedicated to serving the people, the order quickly grew in importance, eventually absorbing all other groups in future Azeroth, until the leader of that faith was named a Bishop by the House of Light's Archbishop.

When corruption became obvious in the House of Light, the Northshire clerics declared themselves independent, naming Northshire Abbey the center of their branch and their own Bishop the Archbishop. The Order greatly aided the Wrynn family in the hard-won War of Liberation that saw the formation of Azeroth, and thereafter became the central faith of the realm. As Azeroth grew to prominence, so did the order, until its mastery of Divine Magic outdid that of any other human faith.

For all their power and benevolence, the Northshire Clerics were unprepared for the First War, and suffered cruelly. Only a few dozen clerics still remain alive, led by their beloved Archnishop, Alonsus Faol. While the Order had been broken, it created the Knights of the Silver Hand and has begun rebuilding its number as New Azeroth citizens become drawn to the faith again. Many Clerics are now hopeful, with the war having swung in the Alliance's way, to retake their Abbey and reinstate the Archbishop in his rightful place as religious leader of Azeroth.