Late Winter 599, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth
Aerth Swiftblade had been through many battles for the last seventeen years. He was by no means a stranger to conflict, to despair, and to pitched battles that asked for and gave no quarter. As a footman and then as a common knight, he'd been thrust in the middle of the thickest of fights. As a general, he'd fought and directed fights with thousands, sometimes tens of thousands, of troops.
But absolutely nothing compared to the sheer awe and terror the battle at Blackrock Spire inspired in him.
The outer walls of the gigantic compound had been ripped open by the combined firepower of two thousand ballista and many hundreds of destructive spells, allowing the troops to gain a foothold in. Dwarven sappers helped in digging wholes, while demolition crews helped to widen the gaps. While this happened, human and dwarven armies had surged in, supported by a myriad of archery units.
The orcs and trolls were just as numerous, and had thousands of ogres to aid them. Knights, all mounted and in armour, moved to confront the latter, and the melee widened, until order was being kept only through the will of the different leaders. It was an orgy of death and slaughter greater than any the experienced knight had ever seen, and Swiftblade hoped he'd never see it again.
More bodies and blood soaked the parched area, and the stench of death was almost overpowering. Swiftblade knew that the Land Bridges had seen similar deaths, but never so many in such a short time. In one season of the siege, tens of thousands had bee lost or wounded, and both sides were quickly hammering each other into position.
"Tell the seventh battalion to reinforce the fifth! Send a cavalry unit down to the right! Keep a sharp eye for explosive runes, those things are foul enough!" The Lord-General shouted, continually giving orders as he did from the very beginning. He couldn't afford to even look tired, however. Not there. Not then.
The battle's din overwhelmed his voice, and his hoarse orders barely reached the ears of nearby messengers. The entire place, where an entire city of Orcs had been established, was chaos incarnate. The Death Knights raised the freshly slain dead, only to find the Paladins striking back with fanaticism. The battlefield had long degenerated into a long, bloody melee beyond the scope of reckoning.
Overhead, the battle was by no means better, as the sky was dark with flights of Horde dragons and griphon riders battling mercilessly. The dragons had appeared in great numbers very recently, but too late to make much of a difference, since the Wildhammers had brought their flights into the fight.
Still, ever so slightly, they were making headway at the cost of untold sacrifices. Each day allowed the Alliance forces to take position a little farther, so that the inner wall was being attacked with more force each day. Once that wall would be breached, only Blackrock Spire - the monolithic fortress always loomed nearby - would stand, and it wouldn't stand to a full assault, just like mighty Stormwind Keep hadn't.
'If this continue, the sheer weight of our magic and armaments will make certain we win the battle. But at what cost?' Swiftblade wondered. Little would remain of the Alliance army after this, forcing the two sides into another stalemate. 'We can't have that! I will most certainly not allow my children to live through something like this!' He thought furiously, but he was intelligent enough to know it was out of his hands.
So Swiftblade did what he could, as best as he could. He had led a few charges when some unit had been in danger, but for the most part had kept away, like the other generals. The five men who led the Alliance in this effort were, after all, of greater importance to the war effort than some soldiers or even a few knights. It was one side of the military he utterly hated while understanding it.
"They're breaking in! Hold them!"
"Hold fast! Hold fast!"
"Where are the reinforcements!"
The gaggle of voices screeched in Swiftblade's ears, and the general turned his head and saw some footment being pushed back by a strong knot of orcs and ogres. He unsheathed his sword and glanced at it a split second. Although he'd held many swords during his many battles, none equalled this one. Forged by the best metal smiths in Ironforge and imbued with magical runes, it had been a gift from King Bronzebeard to the leaders of the army that had broken the Horde siege.
'Doh Elgor' - 'Dread Silver' in human words - had served him well, showing itself to be lighter and yet stronger than any other blade he'd ever wielded. He raised it and growled a charged, kicking his mount into a gallop, ignoring the protest from his surprised aides and bodyguards. They'd hurriedly thundered behind him as he bore down on the enemy.
The first ogre fell as his blade, hitting through bone and muscle with uncanny ease, cut both heads in a swift move, before he settles in a battles with two orc grunts. Both were powerfully built, and hefted strong axes, but his horse and sword kept them at bay, even as his shield blocked the best attempts. He had managed to strike a deadly blow to one and had wounded the other, when the knights who made his personal guard joined the fray.
With the footmen and knights fighting together, the breach was closed, even as another unit came to reinforce the front. Swiftblade's chest heaved more than it should have, the direct result of days with little respite and nights with no meaningful rest. He sighed as he saw the leader of his bodyguard nudge his horse alongside him as they returned farther back.
"I know, I know Sir Horath. I shouldn't have charged ahead. But sometimes even a military commander must take matter into his own hands." He mused, finding his tone a bit sheepish despite the position and power he held over the other man.
"Then if I may, Lord Swiftblade, I will remind you that while the war effort needs every man and woman gathered here, your death would be a much greater blow than mine. Please, if you must entertain such ploys, send me to do them and kindly stay behind next time." The knight said, but his polite words were easy to interpret. This blunt speech was a reason Swiftblade liked the man named Horath, and he grinned in response.
"What would I do without your kind advice, my friend?" he asked, amused despite - or perhaps because - of the precarious situation.
"Milord, I do not know. But I do know that Lady Swiftblade would have a word with me if you were wounded gallivanting where you shouldn't, milord." The knight said, and nodded, as if they were standing around sipping cheap wine in an inn rather than riding, blood-drenched, in the middle of the greatest battle seen in centuries, if not millennia. Swiftblade couldn't help but chuckle at the image of Eira wrathfully whipping Horath with her words.
It was just as they came back to their original positions that a messenger, looking as ragged and tired as the rest of the army, rode to him with a short message, speaking in rushed, strong tone which somehow carried over some of the din of battle.
"Lord-General Swiftblade! By order of High General Lothar, you must meet with him at once for immediate consultation."
"In the midst of battle? Surely you jest! I can't simply leave my post at this time!" Swiftblade replied quickly.
"Milord, these are the High General's orders. They apply to all Lord-Generals, who have all been summoned." The messenger replied firmly, then bowed. "By your leave, Lord Swiftblade." The messenger then kicked his horse and sped away, back towards the place where Lothar's group oversaw the battle.
'Summoning Turalyon, Minvare and Eltrass as well as me? Must be quite a bit of news he has to tell, if Lord Lothar needs to call the entire supreme command together.' It was also quite a risk. If all five of them were together, and the enemy happened to have a lucky hit with a catapult or some other projectile, the army's morale would suffer greatly. 'Its a big gamble, and I'm quite sure Lothar thought of that.'
"Well, orders are orders. I suppose you won't have to worry about me gallivanting anywhere for a while, Horath." Swiftblade noted, before beginning to trot toward Lothar's command group. The other knight nodded soberly.
"Indeed, Milord. Now I'll have the infinite joy of fretting about our five greatest generals huddling in the same location." Horath noted.
"We're troublesome, aren't we just?"
"Yes, milord. Very much so."
Late Winter 599, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth
Lothar wondered just how much being the High General was saving him from a beating. Considering the looks he'd been having, he personally didn't doubt that his title helped him a lot. He couldn't blame the four who looked at him with incredulity, for he would have given the very same look in their place.
"You jest!" Illadan Eltrass exclaimed, words failing even this powerful elven lord. Turalyon, Minvare and Swiftblade were equally speechless. He was just glad Uther Lightbringer hadn't been taken into confidence about that plan - who knew what the Paladin leader would have said?
"I most certainly do not. Since when do I jest about such things, my friends?" He answered simply. His reasonable tone did nothing to soothe them.
"You can't be serious. By the Light, the Fifteen Swords of the Heavens and all the Sainted Priests, you can't be serious!" Turalyon exclaimed, uncharacteristically wordy. "A parlay with Orgrim Doomhammer?!? That is sheer folly!"
"There is a great chance that you are right." Lothar conceded. "I am prepared for the event. But consider the alternative. How long will we keep slugging each other on this battlefield? If this keeps going, there will be little of the victor left. I know the numbers of dead and wounded. You know it as well. This ground will be a necromantic sinkhole for years because of that." He firmly looked around to see if any would deny that fact.
"Yet, Sire, we have the upper hand now. Could we not force the issue, force the Warchief to accept terms of surrender? That would be better, in my opinion." Minvare interjected calmly, although his eyes spoke of displeasure about the situation.
"Doomhammer would never accept such a thing. Surrender doesn't exist for him. It is as simple as that." The old knight answered at once.
"Still...to talk to him as an equal, when his forces are faltering." Swiftblade said, "Pardon my common upbringing and tone, but that's plain foolishness. He wouldn't have done the same, never would have accepted a parlay if Whitefort's walls had failed us!"
"No, he wouldn't have. That is why I will do it."
"By the Light, why Sire?!?"
"Because we need to do it. We need to. Before the transformation I am sensing completes itself." Lothar said, feeling as if he was a man of one hundred years instead of sixty-five. The burden was becoming too heavy to bear. 'And yet I will lead, as long as I am able. I promised this to you, Llane my friend. I never leave promises unfulfilled.'
They didn't understand. He could see it in their faces. There was hidden anger and disbelief, and all of the faces betrayed worry for the High General, which the old human found both irritating and touching. But there was no understanding. Their blood was hotter than his perhaps, or maybe they simply lacked wisdom - although he wondered how an elf who lived hundreds of years wouldn't have amassed quite a bit of said wisdom.
"I do this because there is a chance it may work. But more than that, I wish to do this so that the Alliance can remain above the Horde where morals are involved. We of Azeroth fought the First War well and rather honourably, and the Alliance did so - at least at the beginning. But the years of warfare have eroded that, and our people are becoming as bloodthirsty as the orcs."
"Perhaps it was some design which intended our corruption, but I cannot let us sink down and forget the good will which once spanned our realms when we followed the Pact of Stormwind." Lothar mused. Silence reigned beside him as the Lord-Generals pondered these words. It was finally Minvare who spoke, choosing his words with care as always.
"You may well be right, Sire." he conceded, "I quite agree with keeping the original ideals which bore the Alliance to life alive. However, you underestimate your own importance. We, the men, all see you as a symbol of this very Alliance, of our struggle. Furthermore, you are the ruler of Azeroth, Regent-Lord or King as your title may be."
Lothar slapped the table lightly. It was a simple tap, but it bore his whole frustration.
"Never King. I am old, with no kin to call my own. I hold the title of Regent-Lord, but that only means that I await the next King to leave him the empty throne. I am only guarding it for now. Never will I sit in it."
"And who would sit in it? Who else but you could replace His Majesty King Llane but you, Sire?" Minvare asked.
"That is unimportant." He gave Swiftblade and Turalyon a subtle glance each. "It will be decided soon, however, for good or ill." He mused.
The two generals looked grim, but he saw understanding in their eyes. They knew what had to happen - one way or another, there would be a new King of Azeroth before the year was out. The people had been kingless for twelve years. It had been the longest regency in the realm's long but tumultuous history, and the least hopeful, since there was no heir to this throne.
But, if everything went well, the throne would be filled once more - whether Lothar was alive or not.
For he knew the risks quite well. He knew Doomhammer. The Warchief and he had been playing the wargame, with so many lives at stake, for too long. He knew how ruthless the often-honourable orc had twisted the words of a truce for his own benefit. Going to speak peace with the orc was the closest thing that Lothar had done which could be interpreted as plainly foolish.
Yet, foolish and naive as it was, it there was the smallest chance, Anduin Lothar would try it. 'For honour, and probably for my own sanity." he thought glumly. 'This conflict has drained everyone on both the southern and northern continent. It's lasted too long. We have to regain our strength through peace, as fragile as it may be, before...'
That was the problem, and it fuelled his inner frustrations. Ever since he'd met his old friend, Medhiv, he'd had that feeling. From what Medhiv had said, from the way he'd talked and acted about the First War. As if the Horde was just the first step. As if it came only to put the world off balance.
But for what?
"Well, milord Lothar, we have followed your leadership for many years. I see no reason to stop trusting your judgement." Turalyon said. "We will follow your judgement to the best of our abilities."
"Where will this meeting take place?" Illadan wondered.
"Grounds on the eastern side of the battlefields. It's a patch of ground neither side would want to fight over, with little forces nearby. Perfect as 'neutral grounds'. We will have our preliminary talks at that place. As for what the future holds, we shall see."
Swiftblade sighed upon hearing that. There was wistfulness to his face - unkempt and unshaven from all the days of commanding his troops - that Lothar had no problem placing. Of all of them, all the direct leaders of the Alliance Army, he was the only one with a family. He probably wished for peace, and fought hard to bring it as soon as it possibly would come. Yet he didn't throw himself at the feet of the possibility of peace. For that, Lothar found he respected the younger man, almost as much as he respected his great - if slightly unorthodox - strategic mind.
"What about the battlefield, Sire? And your escort?" The youngest of the present generals asked.
"There will be a truce for the next five days, while we prepare for the meeting. It's a gamble to give them time to regroup, but it will also let our own men rest. And we have the supplies to take those five days into account." The old knight answered.
"And you, milord?"
"I will not go there alone, of course." Lothar grinned tiredly. "Lord Turalyon, you will come with me. Select one hundred of the best Paladins and Knights we have. We meet Doomhammer in three days."
'And I do hope that Doomhammer's desires are the same as mine. And yet...' Lothar thought, but did not allow himself to finish the thought.
Early Spring 599, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth
"If things go as planned, they be coming up the road." Grimfrost stated, as he looked out the rocky place the two leaders had agreed to meet in. He, Doomhammer and a cadre of elite mounted troops - leftover from the dissolved wolfriders - were making their way through as quickly as they could. Whatever speed they managed to put into it, however, it wasn't fast enough for the warlord. Grimfrost was quite excited about the prospect of peace.
Peace...it was a word he hadn't heard since he had been a tiny orcling, it seemed. As long as he had been able to walk, there had been a conflict, it seemed. It had gone from bad to worse, until the chieftains had made the pact that changed the Orc Clans into the Horde. Grimfrost had fought and risen through the rank through strength and intelligence, but also through caring for his men as best as he could, and leading them as a leader rather than an overlord - something most other warlords didn't even seem to grasp.
He had grown tired of the war early, and had taken to Durotan's teaching gratefully, happy to find a bit of light in his dark life. And now...now there might be peace. Peace with the Alliance, with the humans. And, if all went well, perhaps someday within the Horde as well?
His senses returned to the situation as he noticed his surroundings. His keen sense of direction, honed throughout years directing an army, told him the truth as it was.
"Warchief, we're ranging ahead of the place we agreed to meet Lothar and his people." he stated to Doomhammer, who nodded.
"That's right. We are." Turning to one of the wolfriders, Doomhammer seemed to ignore Grimfrost's inquisitive look. "Are they prepared?"
"Everything is ready, warchief! The humans'll never stand a chance!" The wolfrider replied.
"Excellent. Make certain they don't notice. Everything depends on it!" The warchief said fiercely. At once, the wolfrider departed. A feeling of dread began to permeate Grimfrost's limbs. 'I have to be wrong. My senses have to be wrong. I'm not, I'm not, but by all the decency in my heart, I have to be wrong!'
"Warchief, what's happening?" he asked. Doomhammer blinked at him as if seeing him for the first time, and then grinned.
"We're playing our last card, as a human would say. Lothar's always been honour-bound by these meetings - he can't resist them. That's his weakness. Maybe his only real one. And I plan to use it to reverse the situation."
The warlord had a feeling where the conversation was going. Inwardly, deep in his heart, something strained.
"What do you mean? This is a parlay for peace..." he began, but trailed off as Doomhammer looked at him in slight disbelief. 'It was never a parlay. Not one moment.' The warlord realized, struck to the heart by the very thought. 'Orgrimm...you can't be doing this...'
"Lothar is the leader of the Alliance. Beyong Terenas, Proudmoore and anyone else, there is Lothar. Always Lothar. He's crucial to the Alliance. Without him-"
"NO!" Grimfrost reached out and grasped Doomhammer by the arm. He was furious, he was afraid, he was sad. Most of all, he was desperate. He saw what was happening, and what would happen, with frightful clarity. "No, Orgrim! This isn't the way!" All around him, the other orcs looked at Grimfrost in surprise, while Doomhammer looked both amazed and angry as he shook his arm free.
"Not the way?! Argal, you're my very best. No one is better than you on the battlefield. But I've known Lothar for years. I've struggled against him through two wars. I know how important he's become to the humans, to this whole cursed Alliance! If I kill him now, they will lose their foundation!"
"They will lose more than their foundation! Warchief, you've fought against the humans, but you never understood them! They don't think like us! Leadership doesn't mean the same thing! If Lothar dies, something terrible will happen, I'm certain of it!"
"I understand what you mean, Warlord, but I -"
"No, you don't! If Lothar dies, the humans will retaliate with greater force than they have ever fought us! Don't you remember how they united after Queen Proudmoore's death? If you kill one of their own soldiers, their own leader, it'll be even worse! Don't make that mistake again, Orgrim! For our people, you can't do this!"
"ENOUGH!" Doomhammer finally exploded, his anger seeming to fill the entire area. "I have decided on this course of action! Now, I order you to follow through with it! Follow me and trust me, as I you always did before this!" Neither orc seemed to see their uncomfortable subordinates at that point, as the two highest-ranking orcs in the Horde glared at each other. Finally, Grimfrost lowered his gaze.
"As the Warchief commands." He muttered. 'But its the last time. Whatever the outcome, the last time! You've become like Blackhand, Doomhammer! I can't follow a fool. This is the last act I will do as your Warlord!' He thought as Doomhammer nodded curtly, and signalled his people to begin the offensive.
Grimfrost saw it through his rage and grief. Lothar had come; his gold-engraved helm and his mighty sword were unmistakable. Around him thundered a hundred knights and arcane warriors - the ones the humans called paladins. It was a powerful escort, no doubt - Lothar certainly wouldn't have picked the least among them.
But it meant nothing. No one knew the nicks of Blackrock Spire's terrain as well as the Ogres, which had trained in the area. Like a storm they came out of hiding, striking at both sides, blocking all areas of escape except for one. Surprised, the humans turned to give battle, leaving themselves momentarily opened up front, even as Doomhammer's charge came and slammed into them.
The small battle soon became chaotic, as the humans struggled against both orcs and ogres. In the middle of it, Lothar and Doomhammer were cyclones of destruction. The Doomhammer smashed whoever stood in his path, while Lothar's sword - the Lionguard, a blade hated in the Horde -cleaved all who came within reach. It seemed fated that both would meet, and Grimfrost saw as they met and faced each other.
There was surprisingly little animosity as they stared at one another, the white-haired humans and the black-haired orc. Only respect remained as they spoke to one another. Respect, and an odd wistfulness. Lothar cast aside his helm.
"A long time, old nemesis." The human said, looking unimpressed with the danger he was in. "I wished this parlay had been for real. But, at the same time, this doesn't surprise me one moment. So, have you come for my head, Orgrim Doomhammer?"
"You know I did. Believe it or not, I find no pleasure in killing you. Of all my adversaries, you were the only one I could see as an equal. But my people are in danger, and I must stop your strength, here and now! I will take your life, even if it kills me!"
The human nodded, as if he'd expected this. Grimfrost, for all of his anger, couldn't help but find himself amazed by the strength and calm both adversaries showed even as they dismounted. Both were rightfully renowned as powerful warriors, and it was impossible both could walk away from this duel. And yet they dismounted calmly, and faced each other squarely, even as knights and ogres continued to struggle. However, even these struggles petered off as all began to look at the two.
"A fair duel, Doomhammer?" Lothar asked, and the human almost seemed to grin. The Warchief nodded in response.
"I'll give you that much. One on one! Let us decide of this battle between the two of us!"
"We'll see. We'll see. I, for one, do not think the battle will end with us. But Anduin Lothar of Azeroth will not die easily, Warchief! Be prepared!"
"I'd expect nothing less, Lothar!" The Warchief shouted.
And both warriors, leader of their forces, rushed at each other with a great cry each.
And Argal Grimfrost turned away, riding off, his decision made, even as the two great combatants fought for the last time. All the while, his heart bled, and he wondered if the wound he had received would ever heal.
Early Spring 599, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth
The blade and the hammer clashed with such tremendous force that, if there had been any doubt the weapons were heavily enchanted and the combatants mighty, Turalyon was certain no one had any now. He believed in Lothar's strength, having seen it in action. But he was seeing Doomhammer's own power firsthand. And the Warchief's skill was a match for the knight's.
The tale of their battles in the midst of the Battle of North Elwynn, reputed to have filled both sides with fear and awe, wasn't exaggerated. Both fighters circled each other with agility and purpose, striking at any given moment, defending cunningly, and showing more skill than any other two fighters the Paladin had yet seen. The Lionguard and the Doomhammer were exchanging sorties at an astounding pace, only to be turned away by handle and shield.
Yet, even the great skills both showed hadn't prevented some blows from going in. Lothar's shield was a pummelled mess, while the armour at the right side was somewhat caved in. The Knight's breath came in ragged, painful gasps, which were seemingly ignored by the one who bore the wound. The warchief, for his part, sported some minor gashes, while a major one had been cut through dark armour into the orc's left leg. Both were being drained of their strength, and neither seemed even to consider giving an inch of ground.
But Turalyon had no real time to appreciate the view, as an Ogre came in his sight, bellowing and striking with an immense club. The Ogres had only watched the battle for a few moments, before driving against the escorts again, forcing the Knights on the defensive.
The Paladin's warhorse, trained at the Haven of the Hand specifically for the Order, sidestepped the attack with guile and speed, allowing the human to find his enemy wide open for an attack. Turalyon's blade flashed, striking in and out in one swift, slick thrust, slicing the Ogre's heart in two. The two heads looked surprised a moment, staggered backward, gave him another, dual look, then fell.
And then there were more Ogres, more Orcs, to destroy. Turalyon stopped thinking as he slashed at enemies again and again.
When the battle cleared around him for a few heartbeats, Turalyon looked towards his friend and commander, and felt his blood freeze. Both leaders still fought on, as determined as ever, but the battle was taking its toll on the human High General. Lothar's movements were slower, and Doomhammer, feeling victory approaching was increasing the amount of strikes despite the obviously severe wounds he had taken himself.
Panic set into Turalyon. Had Lothar foreseen this somehow? Did he see this end as inevitable? It suddenly dawned on the Paladin that Lothar's late actions had all been done in preparations for his eventual demise. 'As if he thought he wouldn't see the end of this terrible war. But you will not fall, milord, not while Turalyon lives!' The warrior-priest thought savagely, and began hacking his way towards the two, not caring if he broke the rules of dueling and slew the weakened Doomhammer.
"I expected...no less from you...Lothar." He heard the Warchief tell his leader and mentor between painful gasps. "But...this time...it's over. Your battle against the Horde ends...here...in defeat!"
"Defeat? Perhaps for me...but defeat hasn't come for my... my people. Not yet!" Lothar replied defiantly. He turned to Turalyon, who was struggling to fight closer, as if it fit some grand plan the Paladin didn't understand. "Medhiv, my friend...is this the future, or just an illusion? Turalyon, you carry on for that future!"
With that sentence, Lothar projected his battered shield towards the Paladin, sending it to the ground, and the High General grasped his sword hilt with both hands and struck at Doomhammer with a great cry, even as the Warchief struck too. The two blows struck through. Doomhammer left side saw itself partially split, blood fountaining, even as the Doomhammer struck Lothar's head, snapping the human's neck. Lothar staggered, then fell, long dead already.
Time froze for Turalyon as he saw the Alliance's greatest leader fall. For a moment, his mind seemed utterly empty of ideas, of feeling.
Around him, the remaining knights floundered, even as they saw their leader fall. Turalyon didn't even notice the orcs taking their wounded warchief away. He couldn't believe that it had happened. Worse, he couldn't belief he'd let it happen! 'I knew it might be a trap! Why didn't I stay closer! We could have finished Doomhammer if I had been there to help him!' He thought, as shame filled him. He looked down.
There, on the ground, lay Lothar's shield. The paladin remembered the old knight's accepting look as he threw the battered defence towards him. As if it had been his way of passing the torch. Turalyon used his sword to snag the strap and bring the shield to him, uncaring of any attack. He saw the battle, bloody shield and glared.
'Eight years of warfare...eight years of death...and these beast couldn't even accept a parlay!' he growled mentally, as he swiftly replaced his shield with Lothar's. 'Larienne Proudmoore...Lord Lothar...and so many decent people died by their hands, and they couldn't even listen to peace. Animals! Brutal, murderous animal!' Turalyon's control fled. Years of knightly and paladin training went out the door even as he raised Lothar's shield.
"To me! Rally to the shield! Rally and retreat! Your High General commands you!" he bellowed, and the battered survivors broke off quickly. Of the hundred who had come, less than ten remained, yet the Horde forces had been battered as well, and gave only token chase. Not that Turalyon noticed any of that, as his mind burned with something he had never felt before.
On and on he rode, until he reached the Alliance lines. Curtly he called for a mage to make his voice heard to all. He didn't even know what he was going to say, except that his grief and hatred was transforming into something more, something his paladin side despised.
"BETRAYAL!! BETRAYAL, my brethren! Lothar has fallen this day, felled by Doomhammer in a cowardly ambush! The parlay was a lie!" he said, and he saw the men react to that. Surprise, fear, and mostly anger were present on the nearby face. Turalyon took hold of the anger he saw, grasped at it and spoke to it.
"People of the Alliance! Eight years! For eight years, we saw these beasts attack us, kill out loved ones and friends! Eight years! And even now, beaten, they did this! They killed Lothar, they killed peace! They tried to kill our HOPE!" He could see anger growing on the soldiers. The toll had been hard, and this reversal was too much for them to take. Lothar, to most soldiers, had been a legend, a revered man.
"I say enough! Enough of fear - let us frighten them! Enough of death - let us kill them! All of the monsters! All of them! Enough hiding! Enough diplomacy! Enough of civility! Do you hear me! They're beasts! Worse than Trolls, worse than anything else! I can't stand it! Can you, my people? CAN YOU? CAN YOU!?!"
Roars of denial came to his ears. This time, the people were furious. They, too, had been fighting the war for years. They, too, had hoped for slight decency on the warchief's part had vanished like snow in summer. Despair began to grip some as well as anger, and Turalyon worked to head it off - with hatred.
"I can't forgive them! I can't talk to them! All I can do to avenge Lothar's death - the only thing we can all do - is to see Blackrock Spire crushed! We will show them we Humans, we Elves and we Dwarves, we Gnomes that none of us have lost hope! Take arms! Take arms! And kill the greenskins with them! Kill them all now! No mercy to the Horde!"
"No mercy to the horde!" Many echoed, their voices angered, made rageful by sadness, shock and the strain of many years of fighting. Few seemed to resist the call Turalyon put up.
"Death to the Horde!" Turalyon snarled as loud as he could.
"DEATH TO THE HORDE!" Thousands of upon thousands screamed back. Turalyon lifted his shield towards the Horde. His rage burned, and he realized what it was he was feeling, what many the soldiers were being gripped by: bloodlust. It wasn't about victory, now, but simply utter destruction of the enemy.
"At them! At the Horde! Now and until Blackrock Spire falls, not an instant before my brethren! FOR LOTHAR!" The Paladin bellowed.
The soldiers roared, and the entire line quickly surged forward, all bellowing the Horde's death, shouting Lothar's name like a shield and a weapon. Their grief was turning them into things of violence, and no one cared - it was the only life they deserved.
It was, simply, the day the human psyche snapped after years of warfare, intent on avenging itself on the Horde once and for all, screaming the name of the man who had wanted peace as they slew all in their path.
The irony didn't touch Turalyon as he went, fanning the flames of hatred.
Spring 599, Blackrock Spire, Azeroth
There had been no stopping it. The people of the Alliance had heard Turalyon's ragged, grieving speech, and it pushed them all to a feat of steel and blood which left Swiftblade wondering - in what few moments he had - if humanity hadn't just switched places with that which it hated.
Lothar's death had been the signal. Following Turalyon - who acted as acting High General - the whole army had thrust forward, discarding fatigue and wounds in order to push the Horde to defeat. The order was given: push, always push. Keep the pressure on, always march forward, always fight, and always kill. Until Blackrock Spire fell. And so each surviving member of the Alliance - mage, soldier, archer, knight, including those who were wounded but able to hold a weapon - went into the fight.
Clashes occurred between large, armed groups at every instant. Groups of Knights drove out Ogres, while mages worked in tandem with the ballista crews, striking at the weakened parts of the wall. Paladins restored the wounded and brought the Death Knights' undead minions back to eternal slumber. Elven archers and rangers squared off against the trolls, and human and dwarven footmen went into bloody confrontations with the orc grunts. In the air, meanwhile, the air battle between the griphons and the dragons continued unabated.
But, then, something changed. Something that Swiftblade guessed threw the Horde frightfully off-balance. Events that, the strategist in him was certain had broken the stalemate with finality.
First had been the troll break-out. One week after Doomhammer's treachery, the near-entirety of the troll warparties, seemingly led by Zul'jin himself, had driven into the Alliance's western wing, intent on breaking away. Initially suspecting a ploy, the four remaining leaders of the vast army had realized that the trolls were truly trying to break away.
Deciding to use this possibility, Turalyon had ordered the Alliance to let the trolls pass, over many objections. After all, the Paladin had reasoned, the trolls weren't a large enough threat by themselves. What mattered for now was Blackrock Spire. Only Blackrock Spire. The trolls were given their opening and, without fail, had gone back north, with only a token allied force to keep track of them. Their going depleted the Horde of its most able ranged units, as the orcs proved to be no match against the elven archers.
As the battle continued, two groups also managed to break away, further eroding the orcs' battle lines. The first group had numbered almost twenty thousand, and was found to be the core of the Bleeding Hollow Clan. Spies reported that a dispute had broken between Kilrogg Deadeye and Rend and Maim of the Black Tooth Grin, with Doomhammer weakened by the wounds Lothar gave him.
The conflict had degenerated, forcing the chieftain into breaking away from the main force. Turalyon also let it go relatively easily, and the Bleeding Hollow left the field of battle, heading to the Northeast. The most important of the groups, however, was the third and last, occurring but two weeks previous. A small army of Horde soldiers - less than ten thousand - had fought off Alliance assaults and escaped with many of the remaining Horde civilians.
The escape was done flawlessly. The Alliance, unlike the other groups, found itself outwitted and confused, allowing the force to break away and disappear into the mountains. The strategic and tactical strength involved convinced Swiftblade that Argal Grimfrost - certainly the best warleader the orcs had with Doomhammer weakened - had been leading this third and last exodus.
All in all, the Horde lost between thirty and forty thousand troops. In numbers, it put them at a disadvantage. However, the Horde also lost something else as these events happened. As the days rolled on, as the bloodshed continued without pause - up until it seemed that the entire field was nothing but broken bodies and smashed war materiel - the orcs' resolve began to wane.
Ground was lost. Counter-attacks became half-hearted, and infighting became a common sight. Orcs from one clan acted more and more independently from the other clans, something clashing with orders to the ill of the Horde battle lines. Alliance strikes often penetrated deep because the defending groups were as busy attacking each other as they were with putting up a proper defence.
Having come back to reinforce the Paladin ranks, Uther Lightbringer told the other leaders that the Horde was "starting to buckle. Without Doomhammer, without Grimfrost and with all these people leaving the fight, distrust and bloodlust are destroying them from within."
Doomhammer did come back to the fight, eventually. A human commander would have been back long beforehand, but as the Horde lacked any true healing magic, it was nearly three weeks into it before he returned. By the time he did, however, the situation had worsened for the Horde, and brightened for the Alliance, to an unfathomable degree.
Unleashing spells, losing blood and energy as weapons clashed, both sides drove themselves as hard as they could, but the allied races had been pushed the hardest. With Lightbringer, Antonidas, Alleris and Khadgar leading them into the fray, the Alliance forces kept the pressure on, even to the point of neglecting the wounded. If one Alliance footman fell to a grunt, another jumped over the dying man and slammed into the orc.
The second walls were breached. Up in the air, aid from elves and mages was turning the tide of the aerial fight as well. The Alliance tide moved forward. Losses were horrendous, but the Horde suffered far more from a lack of cohesive command structure. Within the second wall, a slaughter such as had never been seen in one battle took place over four days. The Horde was driven back, pushed into the immense walls of Blackrock Spire, while those caught outside were killed, civilian or not. Learning this, the leaders of the Alliance issued orders, but mercy was in no soldier's heart, and few prisoners were made.
By the time Doomhammer took control, spell and missiles from the ballistas were bombarding Blackrock Spire's walls. Overhead, the dragons were scattering. And only a few, small pockets of resistance remained outside the walls as an army of humans, dwarves, elves and gnomes worked to destroy the stronghold's walls.
Sorties were attempted and rebuffed. A defence line was formed around the last-ditch place, the Alliance army digging in deep. The forces left inside Blackrock Spire were less than the tenth of the number they had been before the battle began, as the rest of the orc forces had broken and fled south, towards the Black Morass. And the Portal. Yet Turalyon forbid more than scouts.
His orders remained steadfast, obsessive, unrelenting. Blackrock Spire would fall, and the rest would follow. No one argued.
Careful magical spying soon found that Blackrock Spire's good had been largely destroyed in the bombardments, while the Alliance had secured all the remaining supplies from the shattered depots. The Alliance soldiers could still be fed for weeks. The Horde had merely days. Battle, once bloody and unforgiving, once again settled down, as prisoners were rounded up and the wounded finally taken care of properly.
The walls of Blackrock Spire held, formidable beyond that of any save those of Stormwind Keep itself. But, as with the Keep, the Spire's defences began to fray under the pressure, and reports from flying machines showed that the Orcs were on the verge of open warfare, only held back by Doomhammer's force of will.
It was only then, with the slaughter of untold thousands and the bulk of the Horde largely dead, that Lightbringer and Illadan pushed for the orcish surrender rather than complete genocide. Swiftblade lent his voice to it, although he privately thought that the horror was done - the Alliance had shown how it could be as ruthless and as vile as the Horde, perhaps even worse - and so eventually did Minvare. Turalyon agreed, and arrangements were made.
And so Turalyon rode to the bottom of Blackrock Spire's weakening gates, and asked for Doomhammer's complete surrender.
"Consider this an act of mercy! If you refuse, then we will wait. Until your people starve, or kill one another. We will see Blackrock Spire fall! It is you who will decide if you wish to truly fall with it!" The Paladin said, severely, coldly. Mercy had been greatly dampened in the man's heart ever since Lothar had been killed.
Swiftblade hoped, as he looked up from beside the High General of the Alliance, that none of his children ever learned just how debased their father had been, had agreed to be, so that victory would be achieved. Doomhammer refused the offer.
Three days later, the gates of Blackrock Spire fell, and the Alliance forces moved in. The battle had been decided.
Late Spring 599, Dust Crags, Eastern Wildlands
"There's no doubt about it. Blackrock Spire has fallen."
Only Kerak Fadeburn, the most formidable fighter the Horde had ever seen, could have gone in and out of the immense battlefield and returned without being followed. It wasn't so much because he was stealthy as his strength ensured no one followed him. He told what he'd seen to Grimfrost in a calm, serious voice, towering over the former warlord he deferred to. He told him of the battle, of the deaths and, ultimately, of Doomhammer's capture as the great stronghold fell before a decidedly rabid Alliance.
Grimfrost wondered why he didn't feel more remorse. After all, hadn't he helped the Alliance in its victory by leaving the battle as he had?
"What about survivors? Can you tell me what the strength of both sides is now?" The middle-aged orc asked the legendary grunt.
"I can't tell you exactly...but the Alliance has lost less people. Twice, three times less, maybe more. And many of the Horde survivors have been captured."
Grimfrost sighed. For some reason, he had known that it would be this way. He had felt it ever since Larienne Proudmoore's death, and had been shown the certainty of it when Anduin Lothar had joined the woman in death. It was simple: the Horde, as it was, had forgotten peace. It could only taste defeat - utter, humbling defeat - before it could see its errors. Doomhammer had led their people to their doom, and had never questioned himself.
"That's it, then. Yes, Kerak, it's sad but true. The Second War, as I think the humans call this thing, is just about over." He said with certainty. It unnerved Kerak, as well as several of Grimfrost's advisors, who sat around the orc in the tent in which the warlord had led many campaigns.
"Its not over, warlord!" one said. "The Horde still has forces! Grim Batol is still held, and the Portal, and many part of Azeroth itself!"
"Wasn't Doomhammer captured at Blackrock Spire, Kerak?" The leader of the refugees asked. After a moment, the enormous, towering orc nodded grimly, lips thinning. "Then it is over. Only Doomhammer could hold it together. Oh, they'll make a stand at the Portal. I heard that much of the remaining forces were to gather there, where most of the new dragon roosts are."
"But without a warchief, the forces there will fight amongst themselves, and fall. The Alliance, for its part, still has some good leadership. No, friends, that war is over. What we need to think about is our own future." Grimfrost finished. No one argued, even though the words displeased many. For the former warlord was right, and all of the orcs there knew it.
Their future...not just of the troops who'd decided to follow Grimfrost's lead, but also the thousands of peons, male and female, and orclings who had followed the lead. They had fled much like Kilrogg Deadeye had, with one major difference: Grimfrost had long feared this would happen, and had secretly prepared for the worst.
Over a decade ago, Grimfrost had gone on a secretive foray into the eastern parts of Azeroth. Barely charted, many areas had never been actively surveyed by either the dwarves or the humans, given that they sat far from their cities and trade routes. It was while exploring the blank spaces on one human map that he'd found the place - a hidden, craggy niche, well hidden from prying eyes. He had called it the Dust Crags, and had secretly worked to make it a last retreat if the Horde became something he truly didn't like.
Now however, the purpose would be slightly different. Instead of hiding from Horde forces, they would hide from the Alliance - something Grimfrost would have thought impossible even five summers before.
The stores and the goods he had stashed away and that which the refugees had brought had been pooled. Pig farms were being established at select places, and some spots were selected to attempt what humans called agriculture - something Grimfrost's people had never been adept at. Still, for now the makeshift colony was an amalgam of tents, wagons and cooking fires clustered around a stretch of the sea, held together only by Grimfrost's will and the aid of others such as Fadeburn.
"We'll have to live here for now. This place...the humans don't seem likely to come out this far." one advisor said.
"Even if they try, they won't find it. The place is pretty hard to find." Another said.
"Fools." Kerak growled, and the advisors looked at him indignantly, none offering more than looks to the former Horde Champion. Even without his enormous greataxe, Fadeburn was an orc of immense strength, if no longer a grunt filled with bloodlust. "You talk as if we'll have an easy time here. We won't! It'll take years to make this place liveable for us! And that's only going to happen if we don't go back to our old habits and fight each other." Grimfrost nearly smiled at hearing the former terror of the battlefield talk of battles with scorn. 'Queen Proudmoore, he listened to you, it seems.'
"He's right." Grimfrost said before anything could develop. "Kerak is right. It'll take time to adapt, and we can't let old grudges resurface. No clan feuds or such. If our pig farms, our...agriculture and other places work, we'll have to be very careful with how we interact. That's the only way we'll fight the damned bloodlust well!" He slammed his fist to the ground with a growl.
"How do we do that?" One of the other orcs asked. He was relatively young, but his face was serious. And his question was to the point and very valid.
All heads turned in Grimfrost's direction, except for Kerak's, who seemed to be looking at something far away. The warlord felt the pressure on his person increase, and he worked to control his anger. 'Can't you people think a bit?' he thought irritably 'Why do I have to always make the decisions, even here?'
"It won't be easy." he began "I'd say we'll have to put the clans in different areas at first, until they get used to each other. Of course, we'd have to make sure the land is distributed as equally as -"
"Make us a single clan." Kerak said, stopping Grimfrost cold. "Not many clans having to work together. Just one clan, so that the people here can live together without thinking of grudges and stupid feuds! I have one daughter, an orcling of four summers, and I don't intend to see her caught up in old quarrels. Nor any orcling."
"Are you insane?!" One other orc cried, "We can't just decide on building a new clan, just like that!"
"And why wouldn't we?" Grimfrost wondered aloud, forcing the mounting tension to still. He had always been good at cutting to the heart of matters before disputes erupted, and felt it was time to use that talent to the fullest. "Why couldn't we decide to become a single clan? It has happened before. And the orcs here...they will be living together on this patch of land."
"That is-" The querulous orc began, but subsided when he saw that he had no true support. Grimfrost understood him. He understood how some would feel they'd lost something. 'But haven't already severed the ties? We can't return to the Horde. Not the Horde as it is now.' He nodded to himself, and hoped that the orc - this Gelmar Thornfeet - had had a true vision and wasn't simply a mad orc who believed in shamanism a little too much. He rose from his place and faced the advisors.
He took a deep breath. 'I've led armies, but this is different. Can I lead you well? I don't know, but I will try everything.' "Kerak Fadeburn's idea is the only idea that makes sense. It's perhaps the only idea that we have, the only hope we have. So, I decide it by myself, as your leader, that we will be one clan. From this day, we and our families, our children, will be part of a new clan."
Kerak Fadeburn grinned, and for a moment he looked as fierce as he'd been as Champion of the Horde. "I'll follow you as Chieftain. You're the only orc left who's worth following in this land. Well, then..." he looked at the others, and they seemed to accept it. Some did happily, other grudgingly, but none actually objected. Grimfrost was the best leader, and Fadeburn's support made the position nearly impregnable. "Well, then. What will we be? What is our name, Chieftain Argal?"
Grimfrost thought about it. He thought back to Durotan, and when the Frostwolves had gone into doomed hiding. The wise orc had told him that a clan's name must give an aura of strength, even moreso when the people wanted to live in peace. A name to make those outside wary. Grimfrost grinned as the memory flitted through his mind, and he grinned easily.
"From this day forward, I proclaim myself Chieftain of the Dire Fang Clan. This is where we will leave." 'And hope that, one day, that worthy Warchief does come.'
Warchief of the Horde
The title of Warchief is no old title born by the leader of the Horde. On Dreanor, the Clan Chieftains, who each had one or many Warlords as seconds and advisors, conducted the wars. It was only when the Horde ventured into the Kingdom of Azeroth - or the Kingdom of Stormwind, as some texts call it - that these arrangements had to change.
Unlike the Dreanei, who never had a strong or unified military, the humans of Azeroth were strong and unified. Bickering between Chieftains undermined the opening battles of the First War for the Horde, and collapse would have been inevitable if Gul'Dan, then the most powerful orc in the Horde, hadn't unified the Horde under the ruthless but efficient Blackhand of the Blackrock Clan. Backed by the Shadow Council - who controlled him - Blackhand drew the best warriors to his side and became Warchief in 584, holding the title until Orgrimm Doomhammer, his best Warlord, overthrew him.
Doomhammer's tenure as Warchief was initially less corrupted. But although he held to a cleaner leadership from 587 to 591, the Second War took its toll, until Doomhammer became as ruthless and pitiless as his predecessor, although his fall may be due more because of despair than because of any bloodlust.
Whatever the case, the title of Warchief has so far corrupted the one who held it, and one can only wonder if a new one - if there ever is one - will be able to succeed in being a leader instead of a tyrant where his two predecessors ultimately failed.
One can only watch.
