Chapter Thirty-Six: Crown and Crownless

Summer 599, Stonard, Edge of the Swamp of Sorrow

It was only a heartbeat's time for them to get from the palatial gardens of Whitefort, one moment between breaths, as the magic transported them from one end of the continent to the other. The magic worked flawlessly, as far as King Terenas of Lordaeron could tell - a thing to be expected of Khadgar, who was fast becoming known as potentially one of the greatest archmages of his time.

Yet that moment was enough, although he couldn't remember what he had seen or felt, to make his stomach heave rather violently. Only pride and a lifetime of decorum made him stand his ground instead of staggering. Beside him, he saw Daelin Proudmoore - who would calmly talk about cheese and wine while a ship moved about - grit his teeth, his lips white and his eyes narrowed. Only Varien Wrynn seemed outwardly unaffected. Then again, teleportation didn't have the same effect on people.

It did, however, worked to make Terenas' annoyed mindset blacker still.

"By the Holy Light and all the Saint Knights of the Spear!" Proudmoore uttered in a strained voice. "Turalyon better have a good reason for pulling us to this place!"

"Quite right, milord." Varien answered smoothly. "Yet, they do have cause to call a meeting. They need to show us making decisions. The men, I mean. Lothar's death..." The man shook his head. Neither monarch replied, and he heard a shuffling of feet as Khadgar motioned to the men who would serve as escort.

"If I may, Sires," the archmage mused after a moment. "We can find out more about this if we walk to Stonard. We're just inside Stonard." He sounded both wistful and disgusted as he said the name, Terenas noticed. Yet there was nothing wrong with the spellcaster's logic. The group and its escort moved from their position and walked to the inhabited parts of Stonard.

The Alliance army had suffered a grievous blow when Regent-Lord Anduin Lothar had been killed. The news had shattered the hopes of many in the common folk, and only the news of the decisive victory at Blackrock Spire had kept the populace behind the costly war effort. Still, more riots and grumbling sprang from many sources. Nobles who wanted more privileges, common people who wanted a calmer life. All seemed to forget that the very war effort was the reason they still remained alive to complain.

Still, Acting High General Turalyon had succeeded in driving through to the Swamps of Sorrow's border, taking Stonard as a base of operation after battering the defending Horde soldiers who guarded and forcing the few survivors to flee. The wooden, peculiar fortified houses were all arranged around a central fortress, which was marred by signs of conflict as with much of the frigid, utilitarian looking former orcish city. A veritable sea of tent surrounded it, and several higher structures had been constructed here and there for reasons that escaped Terenas.

Once Stonard had been secured, and the prisoners sent to the makeshift prison camps around Blackrock Spire's shattered walls, Turalyon had ordered his troops to pitch tents, and had made Stonard his temporary headquarters.

And then, he had summoned the two leaders of the Alliance's most prominent countries, and the man who had risen much in Terenas's esteem over the course of the Second War.

The trio were given mounts soon enough - sturdy warhorses of sturdy stromguardian stock - and rode into the town. The sturdy wooden wall had been smashed in at many places when the Alliance took the town, but the King didn't see any sign of repairs. Logical, when one counted on how exhausted the army was, and how few of the Horde had survived the bloody sweep in the area.

Everywhere, soldiers who were not on duty raised weary heads from dice games and cook pots and the sharpening of swords, glancing at the royal entourage and barely rousing enough to pay proper respect. They didn't seem to care if they might offend the most powerful men of the countries they served. Antonidas seemed slightly embarrassed by the sight.

"I apologize for these men." he said, "If you wish, I will talk to the officers in charge-"

"Nonsense! The men have waved their weapons around for us that we can overlook a little weariness!" Proudmoore laughed. Terenas, for his part, felt slightly irked by the common way many soldiers looked at his person, but decided that Proudmoore was right. Beside them, Varien Wrynn only shook his head once, then shrugged.

There was activity at the battered gates to the town proper; however, with a good-sized contingent of footmen guarding it, along with a score of knights on the heavy warhorses only the elite of the orders could ride. A man among them spotted them, and rode forward with several others to meet them. His brown hair was more flecked with grey than before, and a short beard was growing under lengthy hair whereas the man had usually been clean-shaven, with his hair cut short. But there was no missing the enchanted warhammer, or the emblazoned symbol of a greyish hand, turned upright.

"Hail, King Terenas Menethil of Lordaeron! Hail, King Daelin Proudmoore of Kul Tiras!" Uther Lightbringer uttered loudly, and the Paladins around him proudly intoned "Glory to them!" as the Paladin Commander bowed for a bit, before straightening and looking at Varien. He blinked, his smile slipping for just a moment before reappearing. None of the important riders could have missed it, however. "And Lord Varien Wrynn. Welcome to you, milord. The High General and the Lord Generals await to see you all, but they are eager to meet Lord Wrynn quickly.

"I, Lord Uther?" Varien queried, his eyebrows showing slight confusion. Terenas began to feel the same, yet at the same time wondered what the highest military leaders of the Alliance - each of the four being a tremendous general and war leader - could want with the man. A part of him guessed at something, but most of the King was still in the dark.

"You, milord. Lords Switblade and Minvare were adamant that you be here, a need that Lord Turalyon backed fully. But I do not have much knowledge of this, myself. For answers, you would have to ask them, for they are secretive.

'Not so secretive.' Terenas thought wryly. 'Lothar, old friend, is that your ploy unfolding?' The King's fond thought was wreathed with sadness, however. He was convinced that the world was made much poorer for Lothar's death, and his admiration for the man only made the pain stronger.

"Curious, curious." Proudmoore said, but there was a tone to his voice that made Lordaeron's monarch wonder if his royal peer didn't guess what this was all about himself. "I say let us go there. I suddenly find myself quite interested." In fact, the man seemed almost happy, a rare state after his beloved Queen's gruesome death.

The archmage, monarchs and lords, surrounded by the escorting paladins, rode inside the city. Whereas the tents and their soldiers had looked tired and as relaxed as weary veterans could be, here the soldiers moved with an air of purpose. They carried messages, shouted orders, and seemed to be generally in a hurry. As the group passed, they bowed and hailed their leaders. Knights and higher-ranked soldiers, as well as mages and priests of all Alliance races, became more common as they came to the former orcish fortress.

Overhead, the sky was split by a buzzing sound, and then by a screech which made Terenas look up, flinching slightly. A great griphon was flying overhead, passing near an ascending flying machine. 'That's what the outcroppings are for - miniature aeries.' the King thought. The gnome did not appear to find the situation amusing, and he shouted several insults to the griphon rider, who seemed to ignore the other's anger.

They finally came to the command centre, and were taken inside quickly. As they passed groups of people poring over maps of the area, seemingly assigning units to different regions, they were met by a grinning Khadgar, who bowed low before them.

"Sires, I am honoured by your visit. Lord Turalyon is conferring with the other Lord-Generals as we speak. They will want to see you all quickly. I admit this will be a strange moment, but necessary given the circumstances."

"You sound like you know what this is all about, archmage." Proudmoore quipped. Yes, Terenas realized, he almost sounded like the Proudmoore of old. Almost.

"I must admit that I do. It's a little thing to make something right." His smile faded. "It also happens to be part of Lord Anduin Lothar's will." Silence met these words, and even the surrounding soldiers quieted down a moment. After a time, Terenas stirred and clapped Varien Wrynn on the shoulder.

"We owe Lothar the will which brought us this far. I say let us see what it is. What could be the harm in it?" he said, and motioned Khadgar to show them in. He knew what Lothar had planned. Not the details, of course, but enough.

Proudmoore was right, in a way. If nothing else, it would probably be worth seeing.

Summer 599, Stonard, Edge of the Swamps of Sorrow

Despite efforts to clear the room of it, what had once been Stonard's overlord's war chamber still smelled of death and blood to Swiftblade's nose. The wooden door had been repaired as well as circumstances allowed, but those efforts couldn't hid the traces of the breaks which had been made when Alliance soldiers had burst through, quickly overwhelming the few last defenders. Still, it was an ideal place for discussing what seemed to be the twilight of the Second War. There was a current of purpose about his fellow generals, and he wished, not for the first time, that the Regent-Lord Lothar had been with them to see this through.

"They built dikes, diverted a river, and flooded the low areas around the Dark Portal. Not a bad feat, I admit." Rellon Minvare muttered.

"It seems they've fortified the area with everything they could muster. Considering the terrain and their advantageous position, this will in no way be an easy battle. My rangers tell me that there are true black and red dragons, as well. This could be more than troublesome." This came, smooth and melodious, from Illadan, whose face did not seem so grim as that of the three humans and the dwarf.

The latter seemed to be small beside the others, yet he had given more than his share of good ideas when the five had decided to reform the armies, and forged the plans which, hopefully, would break the Horde armies once and for all. Minvare got along well with the dwarf, as he seemed to do with anyone from Ironforge, but Swiftblade also appreciated Flamehammer's ideas.

When he wasn't thinking about what was coming, and what he was to do. Which wasn't often recently. He looked over at Turalyon. The paladin, second only to Uther Lightbringer in devotion to the Light, had taken Lothar's role as best he could, yet the weight of it seemed to be slowly taking a toll. The man looked slightly feverish, and his eyes seemed haunted. Of all of them, Lothar's death had hit him the hardest.

Yet it was with his usual strength with which he spoke. "We have prepared for this battle well. Our plans are solid, and our people loyal. We also have more men and more magic, as well as the highly effective elven archery units, which the Horde cannot counter with Zul'jin having taken most of the trolls with him. The Alliance will manage, as it always had."

The doors suddenly opened, and a knight came in, helm under his arm, his back straight. "Their Majesties of Lordaeron and Kul Tiras, King Terenas Menethil and King Daelin Proudmoore! Their lordships, Duke Varien Wrynn and Antonidas of the Kirin Tor!" he claimed, bowing, then turning and stepping out of the way of the approaching group. All of the generals rose as one and bowed.

"Sires, your presence honours us." Turalyon said, and Swiftblade knew he meant it more for Terenas than for Proudmoore, whose mood had been shifty ever since his wife's murder.

"We are glad to be here." Terenas answered diplomatically, neutrally. "However, I doubt you called us here to discuss strategy, in which we here have far less knowledge than you have." True to himself, Turalyon immediately answered his superior and liege.

"No, Sire. Indeed not. We called you - for I would never summon you - here for another purpose. But for this, Lord Swiftblade is more suitable to talk." The Acting High Genereal stated firmly, his ever-fervent gaze - which had inflamed the troops along with his words at Blackrock Spire - resting on the younger man. All eyes fell on him, except for those of the guards and knights, who listened while maintaining rigid discipline.

Swiftblade cursed Lothar despite the fact that he knew the old man's plan was the most straightforward possible. 'Old man, wherever you are, you and I will have a talk about putting me in this position.' He vowed, then loudly cleared his throat.

"Twelve years ago, I left my homeland's shores. As I left, I learned that my liege, King Llane, had been betrayed and killed. But despair did not take me, or take the people. Why? Because Lord Lothar had pledged to the regency. We Knights would follow him anywhere, and would obey him without question. With Lothar, hope remained." he paused, "And yet, the throne stood empty."

They all looked at him intently now. Terenas and Proudmoore looked as if they would grin, while Minvare simply smirked as he nodded. Even Khadgar seemed expectant. Swiftblade cursed Lothar all over again. Damn the man! Why did he have to go and get himself killed!

"I'm a common man. My father was a merchant, my mother a simple housewife. But my wife is of the highest blood, of which I am unworthy. She knows. In her letters she told me many things, and so I learned that Lothar was all which stood between Azeroth's national unity and dissolution. It was clear to me, to my wife, and many others that we needed a King." He stopped, searched for words, and then fixed Varien Wrynn with every ounce of knight training he ever received. The man seemed to understand now, if his wide eyes were any indication.

"Lord Varien. You have been my friend when I was but a small Lord. You have worked behind the scenes to help the people more than even Lord Lothar. But Lothar did not miss your work, or your dedication. Or your blood. Duke Varien Wrynn, Azeroth needs you, as a King. And so, if you will forgive my impudence, I will do something at once."

This was his moment. The most dangerous, and the most necessary. He would make many enemies today, but if his action saved the nation he had fought - and his men had fought - so long to free, then so would it be. As they watched, he walked to face his friend and drew his sword. He set it point down, and knelt next to it.

"I, Aerth Swiftblade, first lord of House Swiftblade, pledge my bloodline to serving House Wrynn, Royal House of Azeroth. My life, and my army, are yours to command." he said. His voice shook at one point, but he doggedly finished his oath of allegiance and service.

"Lord Swiftblade..." Varien Wrynn began, but another sword unsheathing cut him off. Swiftblade looked to see Minvare kneeling, the grin still present on his face. Minvare also repeated the same oath. One of the guards, his face showing he was overwhelmed fell to his knee, his sword in front of him.

There was a pause, and then he felt Wrynn kneel in front of him. He looked his friend in the eye, and the other man seemed shocked. But also pensive.

"My friend, for only a friend and a very loyal man could do what you just did, I would only ask you: why? This may bring you trouble. Not all of the nobles will agree with you," he whispered.

"So be it. My wife is cunning enough to see their schemes, and I give pity to those who would try to put something past her. As for me, I do this for Lothar, for Azeroth but also because you ARE the most realistic, practical noble I ever saw. And Azeroth will need someone realistic and practical at its head." He replied swiftly, his tone barely audible. "I also do this for my own selfish reasons. Because I refuse to see Azeroth fall, after so much death, because blasted nobles can't decide who should be the next king. They want my head? Let them come and try me. My army marches where I march."

"Yes. That sounds more like you." A long pause, "I thank you, my friend." And then Wrynn was back on his feet, looking at the kneeling men, and was surprised when Uther Lightbringer knelt as well. "Friends, I thank you for this show of loyalty to me. It is more than I had right to ever expect, and I will not disappoint you." He turned to look at the expectant rulers of Lordaeron and Kul Tiras. "Sires, I claim the throne King Llane Wrynn, my parent, left empty ere he died. I pledge to rebuild Stormwind and all of its lands."

"I hear this, and gladly accept." Terenas mused readily. "It would go against my friend Lothar, not to mention my own heart, to say otherwise."

"This reeks of Lothar. This foolishness is so like him. Fool." Proudmoore chuckled, slightly bitter. "As if I could ever refuse his last request like this. Varien Wrynn, ruling is not easy. But perhaps you have what's needed. I accept your claim."

Minvare then led a round of cheers for Varien Wrynn, as Swiftblade staggered away, thoroughly embarrassed, yet proud all the same. It was too much for a common man like him, and he hoped he never had to do this again.

Yes, he and Lothar would have a discussion about old men who died and left the dirty work to others. 'And I wish you could see this, old, sneaky lord. It was perhaps worth it, after all.'
Summer 599, Grim Batol, Khaz Modan

Zuluhed the Whacked hadn't earned his name lightly. Many agreed that, for all of his shamanist powers - which, from rumours heard around campfire, were now outgrown by another orc who was training shamans somewhere - he wasn't the most stable orc in either words or actions. He could compliment an underling or strike it down at whim, and had undertaken many actions which did not come out as wise, such as keeping the Horde Dragons from growing too numerous too quickly.

Still, when all was said and done, Zuluhed was no fool. And only a fool couldn't see how the situation was turning out.

The northern forces had been completely defeated or captured, with only a few, weak groups scattered in human Stromgarde. The fleet had been crushed at Crestfall, and what little was left, aside from a handful of ships, had hidden from the Alliance. Khaz Modan was still in a state of turmoil, especially given the clashes between Dwarves and Trolls when the treacherous betrayers had gone north. But the Dwarves, without the full might of the Horde holding them back, were beginning to regain ground outside their sealed fortresses.

And the southern ends were no better. Although both Grimfrost and Deadeye had seemingly fled into the wild, most of the Horde main forces had been defeated at Blackrock Spire. It still held parts of old Azeroth, but that hold was tenuous at best, and would never hold out if the Alliance defeated his people at the Portal.

"If they do...by the Beyond..." he muttered, "Even if the scouts were exaggerating, there's no way the Horde'll withstand it."

"And that, my Chieftain, is why we must make plans. Careful ones." A voice interrupted him. Zuluhed wasn't surprised - that voice had done so many times, with ever more aplomb. The chieftain didn't even raise his head.

"I don't recall asking for your opinion, Nekros." he pointed out, a bit harshly. "Or do you have something more important to tell me?"

"I do, my chieftain. I am very sorry for my remark. I'm...on edge these days." The other orc said.

Zuluhed heard a sound of something gurgling, and saw a goblet filled with good mead being slipped his way gently. Absent-mindedly he took it, but stopped himself from drinking it. He frowned. Poisoning him was hard, since he knew all orcish concoctions by heart. But the way that Nekros had been lately...

"Well," he snapped, "What have you got to say?" He hoped his tone convinced the other orc it was time to come out and be straightforward. It seemed to work.

"We've received word from some scouts. They saw a large contingent of Alliance Troops. Elite Knights, Paladins and mages, riding around a small knot of orcish prisoners. They formed a magical gate and left, probably for Alliance-"

"The point, Nekros. Now."

"All the scouts swear on their life that they saw the Warchief with them, prisoner."

Zuluhed wasn't certain he'd heard that right. He looked at his subordinate, expecting something which would call the lie, but he saw nothing. Nekros wasn't lying. Not about the news, at least. It was only then that the weight of them hit the Chieftain of the Dragonmaw Clan.

Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer, captured by the Alliance. It was a blow the Horde wasn't prepared to suffer. The grunts, he knew, looked at the warchief as the paragon of prowess and strength. The warchief being prisoner would make them doubt, at such a critical time. Only three orcs might have had the strength to inspire the troops enough, as far as Zuluhed knew: Gul'Dan, Kilrogg Deadeye and Argal Grimfrost - all three of which were either dead or fled.

Himself? Zuluhed knew he wasn't trusted much outside of his own clan. He wouldn't be of much use in the next battle.

"The Alliance, with most of its remaining leadership, will attack a severely outnumbered Horde force with poor leaders. We both know what'll happen, don't we Nekros." He banged his fist against a wall as he strode to and fro around the room. "If the portal is overrun, the humans will be able to prevent any reinforcements from coming from Dreanor. Not that Ner'Zhul sent us much for a long time, curse him! And if they find a way to destroy the portal, then after it falls, we-"

"Hold yourself together, Chieftain. Please. It's most...irritating...to hear you go off on a rant."

The presence seemed to fill the room, and Zuluhed saw Nekros shiver before the orc caught himself. The chieftain, for himself, warred to contain both his fear and rage at the entity who had come unannounced. The aging orc had felt his subordinate enter the room, and yet had felt nothing about this new presence. Not until it had wanted to be felt.

After all, who could feel the Fallen Aspect when it did not wish it? Swallowing his anger, Zuluhed inclined his head, knowing he could never oppose this one.

"Greetings to you, Lord Deathwing." He told the human who wasn't a human. The dragon's human face smiled gently, lifting a slender finger.

"I prefer Lord Prestor, if I may. I have to get used to the name. I think I might be using it a while. Now, now, no need to look at me that way. I am not hungry, and I'm actually here for a proposition you might find...interesting."

"A proposition?"

"One that would benefit us all."

"And why should we listen to you?" Zuluhed knew he shouldn't be telling the Aspect this, not that way, but the reckless anger, which sometimes drove his actions and deeds - and largely earned him his name - now forced him to talk. "We followed your instructions, and captured the Dragon Queen of the Red Flight! But the Dragons we have now are almost useless. They're barely a match for those...griphon riders. Our people are losing this war, after coming so close to win it! Why should we listen to you? Tell me that!"

Silence reigned as both the Dragon and the orc faced each other. Zuluhed forgot about Nekros, felt his will ebb under the pitiless gaze. But the pride and recklessness refused to make him look down. He waited for death. Part of him was ready to embrace it. 'I won't bow down. I'm not a worm! Not a worm! I am Chieftain to the last whole Clan on this continent!' He told himself harshly.

The human face grinned, as if it read the thoughts in the old orc's mind - which it might be doing, and 'Prestor' sat on a chair and folded his hands behind his head.

"Zuluhed, Zuluhed. No need to be so angry. Your position here is still strong. The Dwarves are too weak to attack you here. They're too busy grasping what they can. The Alliance will probably win the war. But it will be spent, weak, and it will take most of their strength keeping the captured clans in line. They won't move against you. This will give you time."

"Time for what? Even if we reinforce ourselves here, the Alliance'll eventually grind us down. Even if it takes years to do it." The chieftain replied.

"Quite true. In time, they will." Deathwing grinned wolfishly, and there was a glimmer of the dragon on the human face. "If the Alliance remains in the hands of people like Menethil, Proudmoore or anyone like this. That will be my task. You keep this place fighting. Force the Alliance to fight you. Force them to commit strength here. While I work at undermining them from the inside. I will even send you some of my flight to help you, like I sent some minor members to make the Horde's last stand more draining for the humans."

Zuluhed exchanged a frown with Nekros. They were being played, that much was certain. Although the thoughts of Dragons strengthening them were very tempting, the old orc knew there would be a price for that aid. Finally, he sighed.

"Why should we help you at all?" He asked, but there was a note of slight resignation now. The answer came, simple and chilling.

"Because, my dear, dear friend, because I am your only real hope."

Late Summer 599, Ilgalar Lowhills, Azeroth

"Think we heard right, Kerak?"

Kerak Fadeburn shifted his enormous frame and surveyed the bleak landscape. Among the dusty, reddish crags and snow-capped peaks that made the region a vast, equally bleak lowland could be surveyed. The only sign of civilization was an old dirt road that led to a tower, a relic of what the humans called the First War.

"I'm sure we did. We can't see much from here." The former Horde Champion noted. "Let's get a bit lower."

"The chieftain wouldn't like it if we were late. Even if we hurry now, we might still be a little late."

"Calm down. Chief Argal won't eat us, after all. And if he's not happy, I'll talk to him. You'll see, everything will be fine."

"Alright, I suppose."

There was a doubtful note to the voice, but then again all three of his companions had said similar things during the trip. Although the grunts of the fledgling Dire Fang Clan respected the former Warlord, many still ached for fighting, and had a hard time figuring that the harsh environment the Horde had been was something that the new Clan was trying to forget. Training remained vigorous, but punishments were becoming far more lenient. On top of that, peons and the lesser fighters had taken to fighting, and the grunts found that the Chieftain and his Clan Champion - renowned, powerful warriors both - encouraged and praised their work.

The Chieftain had contacted the Patriarch - the soft-spoken, gentle-mannered, but determined Gelmar Thornfeet - and he had come, bringing his strongest shamans, erecting wards around the inhabited territories. Furthermore, the shaman had left one of his full-fledged shamans and a few apprentices in Grimfang, the small but growing central village of the Clan. Yes, things were changing for the free orcs - for the better. But some orcs had difficulty in recognizing that.

The sounds came again. Unmistakable this time. There was a nearby. Over the next ridge. Orc voices, young and adult. And human voices. 'A battle? This far away from the main front?' he wondered, even as his powerful legs catapulted him towards the battle. He heard the grunts as they proceeded to run as well, but he came well ahead of them.

In one instant he took stock of the situation: humans were harassing about two dozen peons and their families. But these didn't hold themselves like the Alliance soldiers he'd fought so long. There was a lack of discipline in their movement, and their armour lacked the quality. They were struggling with the males of the group, while females and orclings huddled just farther off. In one moment, Kerak knew how it would turn out, and what he had to do.

He took the axe from his back - the axe he had never named, but that Horde grunts had nicknamed Orom-Garak, 'Steeldeath', the axe none but an ogre could lift, and that none but Kerak could use - and charged into the fray.

The first two of the humans barely had time to react before his axe struck. First one, then two heads flew up in the air, bounding on the ground as bloodied, headless bodies toppled down. This attracted the attention of some of the humans, but also seemed to invigorate the fighting peons.

Kerak felt it then - the burning desire to fight, the boiling bloodlust that he had denied himself ever since he had known Larienne Proudmoore for dead. He pushed it away forcefully. That was the old days, when he waded into battle and killed, not caring about collateral damage. That was the old Kerak Fadeburn, and he refused to become a bloodthirsty animal anymore.

Still, he laughed, hefting his enormous, bloody axe for all to see, making the attacking humans hesitate. There were still about ten of them, but the odds didn't frighten him. He saw their stance, weighted their strength through his years of battle, and thought these humans lacking. Although he had found some humans to be a challenge - including the one called Khadgar - these weren't even worthy to be among the Alliance's better footmen. He did not even care to wait for the other orcs to arrive, and threw himself into the fight quickly.

The first came at him with a morningstar, which Kerak blocked with his axe handle. In a swift move he pivoted, and caught another human in the ribs. There was a resounding crack, and the human flew back, yelling in pain, even as the orc axe shattered the attempt at blocking it and nearly cut the other human in two despite the worn mail armour he wore.

Still other humans came. Kerak grinned. This was a battlefield! This was where he felt the most at home in, even though he had learned to care about the small daughter his only mate had left him.

"This might be my last fight for a while!" he called to the increasingly hesitant humans. "So make it worth it, at least!"

He charged in, huge and powerful, yet quick and nimble, his axe and he a choreography of grim death as he flowed from one move to another, looking less like a brutal grunt and more like an agile human dancer. A very deadly one. Screams and blood followed in his wake, and the human numbers were cut rapidly even as the other orcs joined the fray. Even though some hit him, the orc champion didn't allow himself to feel any pain.

Between himself, the other grunts and the fighting peons, the tables were turned squarely on the humans, and they began to fall quickly, lacking the Alliance discipline to fight and the Horde's will to fight. The few who remained threw down their weapons and ran, and the other orcs looked at Kerak askance. Putting his axe aside, he nodded.

"We can't let them talk about the Dust Crags. Kill them and hide the bodies where none will find them." he commanded, and they leaped towards the humans at his command. Only then did Kerak turn his attention towards the orcs he'd saved.

It seemed that the humans had done their fair share of damage. Four of the peons lay unmoving, each with a weeping female and several bawling orclings surrounding them, while other were being treated for wounds, both great and major. Orclings looked to Kerak and seemed not to know whether to cheer him or hide, and he tried to grin to alleviate their fears. It wasn't something he was good at, grinning gently, but they seemed to relax slightly. One of the peons, suffering only from a minor cut or two, came forward of the group.

"I don't know...I...thank you warrior." he said hesitantly. "I'm not certain we could've beaten them off."

"No need to thank me. I was glad to get...I was happy to help." He looked over the area. "I'm surprised to see anyone around this place. This is far from any settlement. What were those humans - and you - doing this far off?"

"Just...we were...when Blackrock Spire got smashed down, some of us went to get our families. We figured that the humans wouldn't be trying to come after us, busy as they were bringing the fortress down. Going west would be trouble without much strength left there, so we went east because we didn't think some would follow us here." The peon said, brushing away the hands of a female who wanted to clean his wounds. Kerak was certain that this one was the group's leader.

"A good plan. The humans really don't care much for anything beyond this point. Wildlands, empty wildlands. They'll be too busy rebuilding afterwards to come east for a long time, too." Kerak sighed, scratching his black hair. "But it didn't work. You had some company. Not the Alliance army, but some human ruffians who drifted around it."

"That's right. And now we'll have to find ourselves a quiet place. A place we can farm, and build up on." The orc seemed almost afraid he had spoken, but managed to defiantly stare up into Kerak's eyes. "I'm tired of all this fighting. Fighting the Dreanei, fighting the humans, fighting the Alliance...always. Tired of it."

There was a tense moment as the peons all looked at Kerak rather fearfully. The huge warrior barely shifted before he spoke again, giving a tusky grin.

"What's your name, peon?"

"My name? Reldar."

"Then, from here on in, you'll be Reldar Hardgaze to me." Kerak's grinned widened: this trip hadn't been wasted at all, after all. "You want to farm? Listen to what I have to say."

Summer 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands

Bram Poorglade barely had time to lift his battered shield before the Orcish mallet slammed into him. He shifted the weight off as he'd done countless times, distributing the blow through his body and absorbing it through a careful movement of his feet. When struck full force by an orc, he had learned, you either dodged, or diverted the weight of the attack. Anything else was death. It was part of the knowledge that had kept the former farmer and present war veteran alive throughout the war. Still, it hurt a lot. Beside him, human grunts and screams told that others had not been so quick or so fortunate.

It was only a flicker of thought, however. The orc remained, and others besides. Using the orc's own thrust against him, Poorglade forced the confrontation to an end by standing his ground, forcing the enemy to unwillingly come within striking distance. At that range, the captain's blade remained effective, while the mallet had little room for a second, effectively diminishing the enemy's fighting capabilities. And orcs, either too proud or too violent, rarely used the daggers, which would have been so very useful in this case.

There was a time when a sense of patriotism and fairness would have made the veteran do the same. But these days were past. 'Monsters like you deserve nothin'.' he growled to himself. 'Your kind's getting what it deserves, and I'm gonna help, you'll be seein'!' The days when such thoughts disturbed him were long past as well.

As he came close, Poorglade stepped right up to the orc and, thrusting his arm to the side, pushed the blade into the enemy's side with all of his strength, targetting one of the many parts of green flesh, ramming it inside and upward from the right, skewering the orc completely. The greenskin let out a pained bellow - of rage rather than fear - and finally toppled backward, twitching and trashing in its death throes.

Poorglade barely gave it a disgusted look even as he recovered his sword and went for other greenish prey. His band, a group of forty men he'd handpicked, had been hunting orcs, seeking to head off any strikes while the Alliance kept on establishing camps around the flooded lands and the great portal. Although his force had originally numbered sixty-three, the one who had entered the war only to prove himself found himself loving the work his strike unit had been assigned to.

The orcs, however, were mostly huddled around the portal, squeezed in by the slowly encircling Alliance army. Soon the fist would close completely, destroying the last of the true aggressive Horde forces. They had only found a few stragglers, and a few scouts. But then they had come to find a larger party. Twenty-seven orcs, well trained, had fought them. And he had lost many men in this skirmish, he relished the fear and pain he felt on the orcs' faces.

"Keep bottling them in, boys! Just you keepin' doin' that! Don't let the greenskins frighten you!" He shouted to the men who fought. For seventeen fallen or wounded, the horde had endured nine, depleting their numbers. Still, the orcs fought on.

'Just silly beasts,' He though scornfully. 'No tactics, no thinking. Just plain strength!' He refused to listen to the voice that reminded him that that brute strength had toppled the mightiest human kingdom, had humbled the Dwarves, crippled glorious Quel'Thalas and nearly done the same to Lordaeron. Swiftblade had been adamant about that fact: the reversal had come so unexpectedly that the Alliance's ultimate victory might just be a string of lucky coincidences.

Poorglade didn't care. The results were the same. The orcs were getting wiped out, and he loved the prospect immensely. He tried to tell himself it wasn't for vengeance that the fact that a rogue orc band had destroyed several farms, including his own father's, before being hunted down by militia, didn't change anything. It didn't really. He wasn't sure his family had been killed or not. 'No, its already been there. Knowing that just made me stop stupidly second-guessing.' he thought.

Another orc fell, and another human an instant later. The madness and terror, the turning of blood into ice, then to fire, the sounds of steels and flesh rending, the cries of hatred shouted wordlessly between the two sides. This was the world he had come to like! To feel alive in! Another fell to his blade, although he was gashed on the arm. Unheeding, he fought another with a lower-ranked footman, quickly dispatching the beast.

It took a long while, before the fear of death - and perhaps humiliation in death - convinced the orcs that retreat would be the best course. Eight more humans had fallen by then, but the orcs themselves were left to five. Boxed in by the smaller humans, they struck and struck, defending as best they could, attempting to break through. No attempt succeeded. The men Poorglade had picked knew orcs too well.

Finally, one after the other, the remaining survivors fell, until one remained, still slashing, mindless with rage, bloodlust and frank terror. Two grasped his weapon, wrenching it from his grasp, while other bore him to the ground. Swords flashed down. A dozen thrusts. Two dozen. Three. The orc's cries were silenced forever, as the human survivors of the fray began to back away, surveying the site of battle. It was common swamp, and yet had been so important at the moment.

"Well, that was...interesting to say the least." Poorglade grinned, keeping winces at his wounds secret as long as he could. "Wasn't it, boys."

There were murmurs of assent, even from those who had been wounded worse than he had thought. From all but the dead. The lieutenant he had chosen to second him walked to him, limping ever so slightly. Several gashes and cuts were on his person, but the other veteran let little of it show, except a tightening of his eyes.

"Glad to see that the flying machines gave good information, captain." his second replied, not even saluting - Poorglade told him he would never abide by formalities on the battlefield. "These things don't pay off half of the time. At least we have the elves, for what they're worth around this place."

"Indeed." Poorglade had never liked the flying machines, himself.

"What about the wounded, sir?" It was clear he wasn't talking about the human wounded, for they went without saying. And, from the slightly bored undertone, he knew the answer he would be given. Yet the man wouldn't move or act before the captain's decision was made. A dependable man.

"You know the answer to that, lieutenant. I don't want any prisoners. The end is near for the Horde anyway. Now carry out your duty." he replied simply.

"Understood, captain." was the reply, equally as simple. It was like a rehearsed piece between them, like a role both had to play, as they knew the rules of the play so well.

The orcs didn't die quietly. They thrashed, fought with what little strength they had left. Wounded and weakened, however, they were no match for the thrusts of swords and spears that ended their lives. Many cursed all of humanity, and a few actually begged for their lives. One even called out the name of what might have been the beast's mate before it died.

Poorglade enjoyed every second of it. 'That's all that you beasts deserve. You filthy killers. Filthy invaders. No, its better than you deserve.' But he let nothing of these thoughts interfere, and only a blank, cold face was shown to the outside world. Something was different, this time. Yes, very different. But what could it be?

The men then gathered the wounded, and the report was grim. Eleven had died of their wounds, and the rest would need clerical magic to survive. No skirmished with the Horde ever ended without cost.

"Well, we've done our bit in the area. Let's go back to the Wyvern Camps and get the clerics to help our people. As for the dead..." he sighed, this was the hard part. "We mustn't stay here. This place isn't secure. Leave them here."

None argued. All looked uneasy about the prospect, but none said a word of complaint. Each of them had seen enough battles to know better. Swiftly, they stabilized the wounded as best they could, then proceeded to awkwardly transport them between themselves, Poorglade and the ones with free hands offering grim protection.

'No voice against it.' he thought, and then stopped for a moment, eyes widening slightly. He knew, he knew what had been different. Different from all of the other times when he'd ordered the orcish wounded killed.

There had been no voice stopping him.

No voice telling him he was damning himself. Nothing.

For some reason, this bothered Bram Poorglade, and it was brooding man who led his people back to the main Alliance forces.

Summer 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands

"So, is this information accurate?" Swiftblade winced at the words Minvare used to address the best elven ranger known, but the man had always been practical and straightforward. Fortunately, Alleria - who had, from what Illadan had told him, been taken into the Windrunner family as a show of support - did not seem to mind it.

"I went and looked at the Dark Portal myself." She shivered slightly. "An unnatural thing, certainly, even as demonic magic goes. But I am certain that less than two hundred orcs have gone through in the last three days."

The leaders of the Alliance forces hadn't taken any chances in formulating their plans and preparing the last battles of the so-called Second War. With Khadgar, Antonidas and several other archmages of both the Kirin Tor and the former Karal Tor present, a compound had been crafted with magic, looking for all the world like a slightly larger tent from the outside, but a full, stone-walled room, large enough for all of them, with a table with high-backed chairs, all in fine wooden quality. On top of the table were maps of the area, and sketches of the battle plan.

It was also magically shielded, which ensured the remaining Death Knights wouldn't eavesdrop on them. Swiftblade could feel the tension in the room. 'Close, so close. Close enough to taste it. Eira, my love, I'll soon be with you. With you and our children.' he told himself hopefully, before forcing his attention back to the meeting.

"Then, I suppose that means that whatever force remains on their home plane or world, whoever is in control doesn't want to help them for some reason." Khadgar surmised.

"I am inclined to agree with Lord Khadgar." Uther Lightbringer said stoutly, rubbing a beard that was just starting to grey. "The orcs have proven themselves to be unable to hold on to loyalties, or serve a common interest. This is what has defeated them, more than our own efforts."

"Whether we be the main factor for their downfall, Lord Uther, we must be that which defeats them here at the very least." Turalyon countered. "Four camps guard the portal, which itself is guarded by a significant force. We will attack all four to prevent them from fighting as one. We will strike hardest at the camp that is made up of the Burning Blade Clan. I will lead that army, with Lord Uther leading the main group at the head of the Knights of the Silver Hand."

They barely had to nod their heads. It was almost a given. The Burning Blade, they had learned, was the most bloodthirsty clan, but also the least intelligent, made up of orcs driven just about insane with their own bloodlust. They were a great power, but easy to outwit. With the greater numbers that would be brought to bear against them, they were almost certain managing to defeat them.

Once the Burning Blade would be routed, Turalyon would outflank two other camps, leaving the last one to deal with much of the Alliance army, while rafts that the men were making would transport the army to the lands around the Dark Portal.

He noticed that Khadgar looked troubled, the archmage's eyes shifting from one point to another, as if searching for something. Varien Wrynn, who had decided to remain for the last offensive - which was as much a political move as a personal one - also noticed, and opened his mouth, certainly in order to ask the other man what could be the matter.

He never had a chance to do so. Before anyone could fully understand Khadgar's distress, the mage's eyes widened, and he jumped to his feet. "Manawraiths! Defend yourselves!" He shouted, just as shapes seemed to flow from the walls, uncertain in shape but quick and obviously hostile in purpose.

Swiftblade had been in too many engagements to question a call to arms. He rose, kicking his chair backward as hard as he could, unsheathing his dwarven-made blade as he whirled to face whatever assailant could be attacking him. He barely had time to dodge a blow from the indistinct form, and he felt a numbing, icy pain in his arm. He would have cried out, if his mouth hadn't been shut so tight he was half-certain he'd almost bitten his tongue off.

As it was, he grunted, but shifted his blade from injured right to his left arm, and struck at the shifty, human-like mass. Around him, shouts echoed as the other leaders rose to defend themselves. The runes on the blade lit up with a soft light, and instead of striking smoke, the sword bit into what could only be flesh. A surprised, ethereal wail of pain echoed from the attacker. Obviously it was not used to being cut.

Surprise could wait. Suppositions could wait. Everything unnecessary to his survival swiftly flew out of Swiftblade's mind as he took full advantage of his ability to wound the enemy. He slashed and stabbed, twice feeling the icy feel on him, twice grunting it back with an effort. Eventually, the indistinct enemy slowed, staggered and, with one last cleave of the blade, faded away with another, mind-numbing wail.

Fear and animalistic excitement kept Swiftblade on his feet, turning this way and that, searching for enemies. Only three remained locked in battle with some. On one hand, Uther Lighbringer was swinging his warhammer at one, shouting quotes from the Philosophy of the Light, while Turalyon fought three more with Khadgar's help. The third was Varien, who struggled against one. Immediately Swiftblade began to run towards it.

"For King Varien and The Light!" he shouted, finding himself echoed by Minvare, who, looking bloody - but did Swiftblade himself look any better? - was quickly making way to the one both had accepted as their King.

All three came at it together, blades flashing. The uncrowned King's sword was magical as well, and did some damage, while Minvare's and Swiftblade's hurt it badly. It never stood a chance. Within moments, despite the three men's weariness, the apparition died its frightful death. Moments more, and the others followed suit, leaving a wounded, panting group. For many moments, none spoke, the only sounds grunts of pain and hard breathing.

"Curse these...archmage, I thought this room was shielded!" Turalyon growled, leaning on the Lionguard. A hand was raised to his chest, where a light was shrinking the extent of a serious wound.

"It was... the shielding system is a complex one. I do not believe...that anything short of an archmage could do this." The mage said, spent if clear of wounds. "Further, no one came to aid us, meaning that whoever did this shielded our voices from the outside world."

"The Death Knights?" Uther wondered, as he stepped towards a bleeding Alleria. "They have some potent magic, and they'd like nothing better than to eliminate the people here."

"No. I can't believe they could decipher this so cleanly. No, no. This was human knowledge. Purely human knowledge. Even the elves did not help build this. And as only a very high-level sorcerer could do this -"

That sunk in. "Do you know what you're saying?" Varien asked with a bit of worry, tapping both Swiftblade and Minavare on the shoulder as soundless thanks. Swiftblade found himself offering a small bow.

"I do, at that. Someone from the Alliance - probably from the Kirin Tor itself - tried to kill us." Khadgar said firmly. He did not sound surprised at all.

'Light, as if fighting the Horde wasn't bad enough!' Swiftblade thought fiercely 'We still have people thinking like Duraz' Compact!' "Why would someone do this? Killing us would only aid the Horde. They could have stopped the army cold if much of the leadership was lost like this."

Khadgar didn't appear to have heard it. He was looking at the places the attackers had come from. of magic...they're very complicated to do. It would take extensive funds, material and time to create so many. Whoever did this had some means at his disposal."

This wasn't something anyone gathered liked to hear. It was easy to see on Uther's frown, Turalyon's clenched fist, and Varien fingering his sword blade. Swiftblade himself didn't feel joyful by the idea. He only wanted to finally end this nightmare, return home, and rebuild a life in his homeland with the woman he loved. The idea of such short-sighted people high-placed in the Alliance frankly sickened him.

"Well then, it failed. That is that. I think, however, that we will attack in two days instead of four. We will break the Portal. And then we will take care of whatever festers in the Alliance." Turalyon said.

"Yes. After the Dark Portal is destroyed. Yes, of course." Khadgar said, still looking away.

The doubts clear in the archmage's voice chilled Swiftblade more than the ethereally given wounds did.

The Lionguard

The Lionguard, a powerful blade of great magical power, has a long history within the human realm. When Kelvion Wrynn led the War of Liberation against the then-failing Kingdom of Arathor, he found himself protected by a band of knights who called themselves the Brotherhood of the Horse. When the war finally ended and Kelvion became the first King of Azeroth, he ordered mage-smiths to craft a blade of great power, worthy of a mortal champion, and dubbed the sword Lionguard before giving it to the leader of the Knights of Azeroth.

Through the centuries, the blade was passed from worthy hands to worthy hands, achieving great deeds for remarkable masters. Salban Greenhand's victory at Dracolas, Serodian Dalazad's epic rescue of Princess Illiena Wrynn and Olden Kantz's defeat of an enraged sea giant is but a few examples of such deeds. Eventually, the blade was passed on to Anduin Lothar, already then known as the greatest Knight in the kingdom, if not the world.

Under Lothar, the blade faithfully fought for Azeroth, and came to be the blade that symbolized the High General of the Alliance. Recognizing the important symbol the sword was, Lothar struggled to give it to General Turalyon as he fell from his wounds from duelling Orgrim Doomhammer.

Presently, The Lionguard remains in Turalyon's hands, that of a worthy Knight.