Chapter Thirty-Seven: And So It Ends...

Twilight Citadel, Twisting Nether

A group of beings watched as what should have been the first phase in a successful campaign fell to dismal failure. A scrying spell beyond even what the mightiest of human of high elf spellcasters could achieve - except for one such, who was now gone from the world - gave them a clear view of the battle's final phase.

There was a tension in the dark room as the vision played itself out. As they watched, the pinkish races - one of which seemed like a throwback to the Night Elves, the more numerous one a race which little had been thought of until now - began several offensives upon the last of the Horde bases guarding the Portal.

Even to the densest of them, it was clear who would win the battle in the long run. But no one spoke, all waited fearfully for the two largest of the beings to talk. It was finally Archimonde, one of the two masters of the Burning Legion, who spoke in a deep, eternal voice.

"It would appear that we put too much faith in those orcs. A pity. They did look promising at first." The arch demon mused.

"Yes, the first phase was almost achieved." The other master of the Legion, the more secretive Kil'jaeden, was not one who often spoke. But the tension was greater in his being. After all, he had been the one to shape the Orcs, to manipulate them into the Horde as a perfect weapon for the Scourge. To see them fall apart was galling indeed.

"We underestimated Ner'Zul's treachery, and Gul'Dan's greed. These elements allowed these...humans...to rally." Archimonde paused. "They have more strength than we thought they did."

"Bah! To think those savages, who hid in caves when we fought Cenarius and Malfurion when our Lord Sargeras came to claim the great magic of that world, would grow in such a little time! How could we have known?" Kil'jaeden seemed doubtful, but Archimonde detected grudging surprise in his tone. The humans and their allies had shown more power than expected.

Which was, Archimonde knew, precisely what the Legion did not need.

The situation had been well planned. Sargeras, in his eternal, wrathful wisdom, had decreed that the next invasion would have to come to the eastern lands of the magic-rich world. The western lands would have to be the second phase of the Second Invasion. For, although they remained weakened by the cataclysm wrought during the First Invasion, the Night Elves were still commanded by the hated Malfurion Stormrage and Tyrande Whisperwind, still protected by Cenarius and his magical children.

But the eastern lands had had no such protectors. The dwarves were aloof and could have easily been cut off, to be dealt with at leisure. The humans had been little more than rabid bands of nomads fighting the wild trolls. The eastern lands were wild, barbaric. Perfect as a stronghold.

But it had not stayed that way. A faction of the Night Elves had come, eventually becoming different yet largely the same, erecting a realm and fighting the trolls. The humans had gathered strength, learned magic from the elves, and built a vast empire. Yet they had not thought that these new races possessed enough power. They had moulded the Horde to sweep them off, and the massacre of the strongest of the human realms had seemed to comfort them in their calculations.

But then the northern realms had inexplicably rallied, and treachery had undermined the Horde, so that now it stood on the brink of certain defeat.

"What's more..." Archimonde mused. "It seems that some of these orcs are shrugging off the Blood Pact. It appears, Mannoroth, that your power does not hold their hearts as much as you arrogantly told us."

Mannoroth, one of the lesser Lords of the Burning Legion, and the architect of the Horde's ultimate corruption, responded with just as much heat and with as little thought as he always did.

"Impossible!" The demon growled fiercely, wounded pride and rage mingled, "The Orcs are MINE! My warriors! No one can be freed from my Pact! No one!"

"Silence, Mannoroth!" Kil'jaeden hissed warningly. "We have seen enough proof to know you speak like a fool! Be useful, or else let me not hear from you!" A crackle of power shone around Kil'jaeden's hand as he spoke his warning. As powerful as Mannoroth was, he was but a child to any of the Archdemons, as Archimonde and his fellow master were but children to their Lord Sargeras. The demon relented reluctantly, conceding defeat on that point.

"The Invasion is still viable. We will simply have to rethink our strategy." Archimonde mused. Mannoroth, who should have kept silent, burst out suddenly, angrily.

"Then let us strike now! Summon the Legion and attack that world! In their state-" The demon cut off with a scream as Kil'jaeden's energies struck him, and he convulsed on the ground helplessly. Many of the other attending demons cringed at the sight.

"Did I not tell you to be silent, fool? We cannot attack that world yet. Our dimensions are not yet aligned. In this state, we would only be able to send a few dozens, something which even these mortals could easily deal with!" The arch demon grunted.

"But, Lord Kil'jaeden..." Another demon interjected meekly and respectfully. "Can we allow these humans to regain dominion over the lands of the east? Their ships are now strong enough to brave the Maelstrom. If they ever made contact with Malfurion and his Night Elves, if they came to friendly terms before the invasion began..."

"At last, a sensible opinion." Archimonde approved. And one he had addressed. The idea of the humans reigning in the East, allied with the Night Elves reigning in the West, certainly would make the Invasion much harder than it needed to be. The humans would have to be weakened somehow, before such a thing ever happened.

Yes, these humans were a troublesome little race. They irked Archimonde greatly. 'I shall enjoy forcing them - those I will allow to live - into serving me.' He thought cruelly.

"We cannot allow them to meet. Not yet. Not until we have secured much in order to attack the Night Elves. We would do well never to underestimate Malfurion, nor Cenarius. I am certain they have not forgotten us." Archimonde answered at last. "If nothing else, the Horde has proven that the Aspects have been weakened over time. Not counting the traitor among them, Alexstraza herself has been captured, a feat even we were not able to do. It can only mean one thing."

"And that would be?" That from a lesser dreadlord.

"That we have wounded them, weakened them, far more than we had thought at first. The strength of the dragon flights has waned. The Night Elves are weaker. And, if we can proceed carefully, we can prevent these eastern races from re-establishing the dominion they had on these former wildlands."

With a gesture of his taloned hand, the magical image shifted from the dressing battlefield to a view of an orc citadel, constructed on a world both red and wild. On the battlements of the citadel, an aged orc stood, as if pondering events. Growls of anger escaped Kil'jaeden, and the tension in the megalithic chambers became dangerous. All recognized the face of Ner'Zul, the shaman who had broken his side of the bargain with the Burning Legion.

"If the mortal races of the world we seek do defeat the Horde soundly, we may yet have to turn to old pawns to achieve out goals." Archimonde mused. Several demons and dreadlords looked incredulous, yet none but Mannoroth was reckless enough to speak.

"That old shaman thinks his powers are great enough to snub us! The weak fool'll never serve us again!" The large demon growled, his voice carrying a tint of the pain he had suffered at the Archdemons' hands. This time, a simple look from them forced him into reluctant silence.

"True. He would not serve us. Not willingly." He gave the other Arch demon a penetrating look, and Kil'jaeden gave a grim, saw-toothed smile.

"Unwillingly, however, is another matter." the other leader of the Legion finished. "His oath still binds him to me, even while he foolishly thinks he severed all ties to us. He can still be manipulated, but it will take time."

"We have waited millennia for the Invasion to begin." His eyes narrowed on the elder orc's face.

"We can easily wait but a few years more."


Autumn 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands of Azeroth

Fully half of the Knights of the Silver hand, arrayed for battle and mounted, led a charge of nearly five hundred knights and cavaliers, thousands of foot soldiers trailing them, under the booms of exchanged magic spells and mechanic bombardments. Uther Lightbringer hefted his warhammer high in the air, unheeding of the danger, and called forth the power of the Light. A golden glow spread from it to surround him entirely, and he saw other paladins doing the same, saw the same glows affect them just as they charged into the ogres' thick ranks.

The mounted humans and the ogres met fiercely, the larger, two-headed beasts attempting to break the charge before it could do significant damage. The spearhead thrust forward... and manage to penetrate the first ogrish ranks.

Magic kept them at bay, protecting the paladins with the Divine Light, the weapons repulsed by armour made out of faith's power. The Ogres were stupefied by this power - which Alonsus Faol had taught the paladins only recently - and floundered in confusion as they found their attacks to be ineffective. The paladins took hold of that hesitation and quickly capitalized on it, hitting hard upon the ogres of the Burning Blade in the hopes of finally breaking their ranks, allowing the Alliance to pour through the breach.

Uther was everywhere he could be. At one moment, he was facing two furious ogres in combat. The next, he came to the aid of a fellow Paladin who'd been badly wounded by an explosive rune. His horse bucked and pranced along the movements, the beast well accustomed to the intricate, fear-filled moments of war. The knights came right behind, reinforcing the bulge inward.

Although all four camps were being attacked fiercely, the paladin commander knew that the Burning Blade attack force was the largest, and commanded some of the strongest unit. This was the point on which the Alliance High Command - of which the paladin was part of - had been adamant.

'Take it no matter what.' Had been the word. 'It'll be the end soonafter.'

Uther Lightbringer found absolutely no joy in killing. The Book of The Light was one of peace and contemplation, and the paladin personally believed that every race had a core of goodness, a way to redemption. He also knew, however, that far too many had died, far two many had suffered, in the two great wars the Horde had visited upon his home.

To end it, the paladin was willing to kill, no matter how it might grieve him.

The explosions had largely seized by now, since the two forces were largely colliding and that bombardments would aid neither side, but crackles of power could still be heard. Here and there, humans and elven mages faced off against the fearsome ogre-magi. These encounters more often than not ended with the elf or human as the victor, since the ogres didn't seem to have quite the control over magic, quite the discipline the mages had.

Elven knights in slender armour also came forth to fight, while a mixed force of humans, elves and dwarves ran up the last slope to meet the ogres and orcs waiting for them. Both sides met with equal hatred, equal desire to kill the other. Somewhere where Uther did not have to concentrate on healing or fighting, he grieved at the sight.

Many times, Uther had come leading a force towards the Burning Blade Clan, and many warriors of the Alliance showed the scars and wounds of it. But they always came again, to recuperate and heal what could be healed quickly, before charging again. And each time the pressure had bee greater, each time the Horde lines bent further.

Today, however, it was different. Today, as Uther charged in with his faithful paladins, the lines broke.

It wasn't anything spectacular, but he could feel it. The Horde had been worn down by continual assaults of other kind. Without the trolls, they didn't have the force to respond to the elven archers and rangers, while for every catapult the Horde had, the Alliance had eight ballista. The differences in the numbers and materiel were apparent.

The lines began breaking, no matter what the Ogres tried to do, and Uther ordered the reserve cavalry to come forth. Horns sounds, and others answered. Before long, a rumble accompanied another horn, that of the mounted reinforcements.

"Lord Uther! The undead!" One paladin shouted, pointing inward with a ragged gloved hand. The paladin turned in the direction of the inner lines to see a nightmare he had grown bleakly accustomed to.

Dead bodies, dark magics having made them little more than skeletons, pushed forward to meet the main Alliance charge. Behind the ranks of the mindless undead were the Death Knights their hands dancing with greenish energy as they worked their foul arts. Many a knight gasped as the gruesome sight, but the true veterans simply clutched their weapons tighter and, with oaths and curses, pressed towards the macabre fighting force.

"Travesty of the Light!" He growled, angry this time - he had no pity in his heart for such depravity as undeath. His warhammer glowed a soft, bluish hue as he summoned his paladins to him. "Forward, my brothers. Forward! Bring the dead the rest they deserve! Forward, with me! Light! The Divine Light!"

"The Divine Light!" The paladins around him intoned as an oath, following him into the fray.

He called forth the powers of his faith as struck, and where Uther's hammer found a mark, a skeleton crumpled to a pile of rotted remains. He struck one-handed, even as his other hand glowed with the power he summoned from the depths of his soul. Searing waves of light burst forth, striking several undead. His golden protection had long faded, and he didn't seek to re-ignite the energies. He concentrated his powers on pushing back the abominations the Death Knights had created.

He forced his mount forward, and his animal kicked and neighed. He fought it and kept it under control as he had many times before, feeling the unnatural energies that made one of the unnatural lords of death. It twisted in his gut, and his lips couldn't help but twist in revulsion as he came head to head with the putrid visage of one of his enemies. Once a man, now an aberration he couldn't stand.

"Come and join the Beyond, mortal!" The creature hissed, striking with its heavy staff, which itself glowed a greenish hue.

Uther didn't even bother responding, meeting the attack with his own. Sparks of green necromantic power and blue divine powers met, and the Paladin's arm trembled with the strain. But he did not yield an inch. Greatly daring, he reached out with his free hand, clutching the undead on the forearm. Surprised, it nonetheless pulled against the human grip with unnatural might.

In that moment, Uther forced all of the divine energy he had, focused it on his hand, and forced every bit of healing energy in his being down the Death Knight's throat. An unearthly screech of agony answered him, as the powers holding the unholy being together unravelled. It flailed at him blindly, but Uther was more preoccupied by its minions by then to pay attention. Still, his horse's bucking managed to keep any from gaining a grasp on him, and he fought himself free, regrouping with the other paladins.

Some were mission. Others were bloodied. None had lost their resolve.

"They're not giving up. Cursed creatures!" One of the younger ones growled.

"Undead don't give in to anything, only can be returned where they come from!" Uther said, wincing as pain ran down his arm. Warmth flowed into it, and He looked to see that another knight was healing him. He nodded his thanks. "We can't waste time. We've taken down a few, but we must scatter them immediately, not give them time to work more of their fell magic! There are too many corpses here!"

Grim nods answered that. Although the death knights were too few to cause great damage, it might slow the Alliance offensive enough for the ogres to rally the chaotic Burning Blade. It could not happen.

The war had to end.

The suffering had to end.

"For the Divine Light!" Uther Lightbringer howled, as he turned his horse around and led his people against the undead and the Horde once more.


Autumn 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands of Azeroth

"General! You shouldn't be out here!"

Aerth Swiftblade was too busy to even glance at the man who had spoken, much less tossing a sarcastic reply, as he struggled with a large troll. Although most of them had left during the battle at Blackrock Spire, the few who had remained were amongst the most belligerent of their kind. It attacked the human general fierily, growling an oath in the troll tongue, and continued to try and clutch him even as Swiftblade's sword finally managed to sever its head. A kick, and the body toppled backward, clutching at the air.

Taking off an oil gourd from his saddle, the general dumped it on the body, and lighted a gnomish flamestick on it. The oil caught quickly, hungrily spreading the fire as it devoured the flailing body. Swiftblade paused to catch his breath. He had too, even though the melee was still within perhaps twenty paces.

'Light, all that time poring over maps hasn't helped me much. I've never felt so tired!' He griped. He was partly ashamed of himself. During the First War, he could have done much more without feeling this bone-deep level of fatigue. Of course, he had been twelve years younger then...

"General! Milord! I must insist!" The Knights of his personal guard were now surrounding him, and it was clear they would see him out of the battle with or without his consent. Swiftblade sighed. He felt like a child caught doing something he shouldn't do. Strange for a general who commanded thousands into the last battle of the Second War to feel that way, yet he did.

"Very well, Sir Horath. Let's go back to camp, I suppose."

"I most dearly hope so. If the need takes you, milord, to prove your manliness in such a barbaric way, it will be as you will. But I may remind Lord Swiftblade that he is an important member of the Alliance High Command. Lord Turalyon would have my head. And your beloved, sophisticated wife would give me a thousand of sophisticated ways to wish I had gone to the beyond." The knight answered. It was given in such a calm tone that one almost missed the sarcasm.

Almost.

Swiftblade didn't laugh at the man's sharp wit, but rather let his eye rove over the battlefield even as cold rain began dripping down from the sky. Bodies of humans, elves and orcs, ogres and dwarves, could be seen everywhere he looked, and the moans of the dying and the stench of the dead nearly overpowered the naturally putrid odour the region possessed. He swallowed bile and decided to urge his horse just a little more.

There were side of battle one did not like to see, no matter how many times one had to see it.

"How's the food supply holding up?" He asked distractedly. Anything to keep the stench away. Anything.

"We should have enough food for the entirety of the army for six days yet, then we will have to switch to half-rations, which should last us a month if we apply ourselves carefully."

"That bad?"

"Unfortunately so, milord."

"What about the food the army's been promised? The kings must know that its crucial we end things here." He muttered. He knew the answer to that one, however, and didn't even bother to listen to Horath's answer on the subject.

The truth of it was that the Alliance Army had strained itself almost to the breaking point in terms of supplies, and it was taking everything for the Alliance Fleet and other sources to get the supplies through. As such, food only came intermittently.

Amongst the bleakness, he'd heard some good news, however. It appeared that people from Azeroth had already been transported to the ruins of Stormwind, and that work was already underway to reconstruct the capital back to the strength and glory it once enjoyed. No one thought it would take a short time, but several dwarves had gone to freely lend a hand, and a resourceful man had taken much of the efforts on his shoulders.

'What was his name? Ah yes. Van Cleef.' The general thought. This was good. Once the horde was broken, the people themselves could return. Moonbrook, Sunshire, Northshire, and all of the great cities and places the kingdom once owned could be rebuilt.

He could finally restore Eira's home back, and find contentment in her presence.

A loud sneeze from a knight interrupted his thoughts, and Swiftblade shivered. The cold dampness was beginning to seep in. His tent suddenly seemed a good idea. He wasn't afraid to rough it out, but to do it when he had a choice was just foolishness to his eyes.

He came into his tent and immediately shed his cloak, beginning to unstrap his armour. Horath lingered. He was certain the man had better things to do rather than wait on him, but the captain of his personal guard was anything but a man who did things halfway.

"Its alright, Horath. I can manage on my own." He said at last, tired of seeing the man hovering around. He did feel like a child again. The fact that the man was barely older than he was only made it worse. "That's an order, Horath. Go and eat something warm if you can. I promise I won't do anything foolish. Dusk is coming, anyway."

Horath may have been a mother hen, but he was also a pure soldier. An order was an order as far as he was concerned. With a respectful farewell, he bowed and left the wearied general to his aching body - he hadn't been wounded, but the troll had roughed him up quite a bit - and his thoughts.

Magical globes of light came to life as the shadows lengthened - a gift from the mages in his army - by the time he struggled out of his armour. Wearing only his undergarments, he moved to the small chest he always brought with him and brought out a clean set of clothes. They were worn, certainly befitting more a commoner than a noble. The irony of it suited him fine.

He had barely shrugged on the clothes, and was considering his cot with true longing, when the dreaded shout was heard.

"Lord-General Swiftblade! Message for you, milord!"

"It WOULD have to be now, of course!" He groaned, and then looked up. "Light, somewhere up there, someone is laughing at me!" He barely had the time to glance down before a man burst into his tent. Or tried to, stopped as he was by the guard's arms and halberds. "Oh, Light. Let him through. Might as well suffer through it."

He took the message, gave the messenger - a mere boy, barely in his teens - a few coins for it, then read the message on there. It was short, and to the point: The Burning Blade Clan had broken. The time to strike the final blow was now.

Thoughts of cot and aching body, of wife and future plans left Aerth Swiftblade's mind.

Minutes later, the guards were startled to see the Lord-General, back in full armour, briskly walk into the rain. His helmet was on, and despite the damp he looked every bit like the man whom men had followed through many battles. There were no doubts in his gaze, only determination.

"I want generals under me here! And the commanders! And the captains! All officers to the war tent at once!" He had barely given these orders that he was giving new ones. "Get all the reserves ready! All the knights mounted! Prepare all of our forces! Send messengers everywhere!"

Men began to move, voices shouted, and people began to busy themselves with preparations. Swiftblade looked at the beginnings of things, then nodded and began walking to the war tent himself, forgetting the water which clung to him, forgetting the damp and cold. All of that were concerns for a later time.

Tonight, they began. The last offensive.

Soon, the Dark Portal would be theirs. And the Second War would finally come to an end.


Autumn 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands of Azeroth

Grimfrost knew he should be anywhere near the battle. He knew that, deep within himself. The orcs down there were doomed, and there was nothing he could do to save them.

He wasn't even certain he wanted to save them. Yet he felt he had a duty, out of his many years as warlord in the Horde, to witness the battle being waged around the so-called Dark Portal. To that effect, he had to a series of caves he knew about and found a good hiding place from which to observe the battle from on high. Cold whipped about him, but the aging warrior remained steadfast, never wavering from his longview as he surveyed the battlefield.

He'd immediately seen the differences in troop strength. The Alliance forces were more numerous and, as the besiegers, had access to the land and to whatever supplies that could be sent. They weren't starving. Given the thinness amongst the orcs and Ogres he saw, he knew that the food in the Horde camps was running short.

If the Alliance forces would have patiently waited but a few weeks more, only corpses would have been left of the last Horde forces around the Portal.

"I wouldn't do it." Grimfrost muttered to himself. "Too much risk. Dreanor could deice to send food, and troops. Wouldn't risk it." Ner'Zul wouldn't do it, of course, but it would have taken an orc to know how deep the rift between the Horde of the two worlds was. No help would come, but the humans couldn't risk it.

Without the Shadowmoon Clan's help, there was no hope. Already, he was seeing some of the orcs fleeing through the Portal, willing to face dangers in Dreanor rather than dying the way the rest certainly would. It made Grimfrost bristle that some would run instead of fighting. Yet, hadn't he done something very similar?

Shaking his gnawing doubts, he looked to see the Alliance fronts hard-pressing the defences around the Blacktooth Grin and Dragonmaw-led encampments. One camp already lay in ruins, with scattered bands unable to even impede the progress of those Grimfrost still saw as his enemies brought troops to bear on his people.

Mounted units were used to spearhead the offensive. In his mind, Grimfrost could picture how to counter it, remembered when he had led wolfriders against the human knights. But Doomhammer had been fooled by Gul'Dan, and in one of the most ill-advised decisions he had made - a decision Grimfrost himself hadn't, to his shame, questioned much , he had disbanded the riders, relying on Ogres and their strength to win the day.

But Ogres, while powerful, were dull-witted and somewhat slow to follow orders, while the wolfriders had been quick and disciplined. Against the footmen, the Ogres were fearsome weapons. But the knights often faked attacked, quickly stepped out of the way, often managing to strike a deadly blow before the large hands could pound. The Ogres and the Knights had roughly equal numbers left, but the Alliance efficiency was allowing the odds to sway in the Knights' favour.

Weakened by malnutrition and affected by the defeats they had suffered, the Grunts nonetheless gave a savage defence, holding the enemy infantry at bay in many places. Runes and spells the Ogre-Magi cast ravaged the Alliance lines, and the soul-searing spells and whirlwinds and undead the Death Knights called proved merciless.

But the Alliance had its own spellcasters. Rains of icy shards ripped through the lines, while more than one ogre found a fireball greeting him. All the while the magic-using knights, the ones the humans insisted were called paladins, rode between the battle and the wounded, often returning with several men who were suddenly fit enough to fight again.

And there were, of course, more Alliance spellcasters. Hundreds, while a few dozen were all that remained of Gul'Dan's experiments. The damage also sapped Horde strength faster than it did its enemies.

"It will be soon." He said out loud, as he saw the situation developing. He stopped to consider that, and wondered why he couldn't get angry. 'I wonder...is it because I cut the bridges, as the humans would say? Or because I don't think the bloodlust I'm feeling from these orcs don't make them my people in my mind?'

A roar brought him back to the battle, and after a moment he nodded. It had been inevitable.

The Horde lines were beginning to sunder, no matter the efforts to keep them together.

From the information Grimfrost had managed to gather, most of the Horde's most able leaders aside from himself, Kilrogg Deadeye and Doomhammer himself, had been killed in the battle at Blackrock Spire. And so, orders were given more hesitantly than they should be, units were deployed too slowly, or at the wrong places. And, mostly, no one had enough force to keep the orcs from feeling the urges of the bloodlust.

As the battle dragged on, it became clear that many of the grunts had lost themselves in the fear and unnatural fury. They became whirlwinds of destruction, but no longer seemed able to distinguish between friends and foes. The human commanders ordered fresh troops in, and the pandemonium became complete.

Overhead, the battle wasn't decided just yet. The dwarven griphons and the dragons were still locked in a bitter stalemate, sometimes helping those on the ground, but rarely having that opportunity. Some elven archers, however, were assisting the griphons, and that might give them a slight edge. However, it only meant that the battle would have to be won on the ground. That would decide the battle in the air.

Even as magic devastated portions of the battlefield, horns sounded, and most of the knights who remained mounted peeled off from the front, and gathered at a point north of both camps, before splitting into two groups and charging. Such was the mayhem reigning that the Orcs and Ogres were unable to stand even as a full mounted charge hit them just as the infantry managed to pull to the side. It was so well orchestrated that the aging orc warrior thought about the young one named Swiftblade - he was the type to come up with a precise movement such as this one.

Whatever the case, it worked. The Horde forces tried to contain the flow coming their way.

Orcs screamed in madness in greater numbers, attacking anyone in sight. Magic was exchanged, often with Alliance magic winning out of sheer firepower. The Horde lines didn't hold anymore, pierced in many places as they were. As the melee became pandemonium again, the Dragonmaw ranks broke formation entirely, and quickly began to fall to maddened orcs and Alliance groups.

Within minutes, the Blacktooth Grin camp began to scatter to the four winds, pursued by relentless Alliance foes. The Blackrock camp still held, but soon the entire remaining Alliance forces would certainly attack it from all possible angles. Grimfrost knew it would be foolish to lose momentum now for them. He wouldn't wait, wouldn't give a chance. And he doubted the Alliance commanders had any intention of doing anything else but press on.

Oh, the battle wasn't over. But to the former warlord's experienced eyes, it was where it counted.

"Defeat. The Horde is defeated." Even now, even after all that happened, he wasn't sure he believed it. Part of him didn't want to, while another actually rejoiced. The conflicting emotions unsettled him.

He realized he was freezing, and roused himself from the bundle of snow he'd become. It would do no good to stay any longer. He'd come as he wanted, and seen what he wanted. He gave one last look at the terrifying sights, felt the power of the sounds of war, and even smelled the different smells of death.

And then he could stand it no more. He moved away from the battle, into pathways neither side had used, heading away from the titanic battle that was reaching its conclusion.

His people - for they were his people - had lost. From now on, even if it rose again in some way, the Horde would never become an overwhelming threat to the Alliance. An equal, perhaps, but never a definite superior. Those days were past. Even though powerful groups still existed, the present Horde could only decline.

If the Horde ever were to rise again...

"Then, I want this Horde to be something Durotan can smile at from wherever he is. I hope I can live long enough to see it." He muttered.

Cursing himself for a sentimental old orc, Argal Grimfrost began making his way home, only faintly aware that, for the first time in years, the rage, the unnatural rage, no longer burned in his soul.


Late Autumn 599, Stormwind, Azeroth

Stormwind had once been the crowning achievement of human passion and engineering. Vast and surrounded by a thick wall of smooth stone, it had been the seat of the greatest human civilization since the days of the Arathi Empire. Stormwind Keep, by itself, outshone all, it was said, save from the royal palace in Silvermoon and the castle of House Menethil, in Lordaeron.

As a small child, Eira Fregar Swiftblade had seen the city in its glory, and had been awed at it, a feeling, which had never listened each time, her father took her to court. As time passed, and she grew near her time to be betrothed, she had seen the city more and more often. Although she had loved her smaller city of Sunshire, she had been intensely proud of her capital.

It made seeing its fate that much harder to bear.

Proud Stormwind was little more than rubble, what little still stood scorched and gutted. Stormwind's proud spires yet rose, but were broken and humbled. Although the Horde hadn't visited the same level of fury upon each and every human settlement, Stormwind had resisted them long, and they had been thorough in their vengeance.

She stood contemplating the ruins from the place her tent had been pitched, and couldn't repress a shiver.

"So much destruction. Aerth, my love, the Light give that this may stop soon..." she told herself. Work had begun on the city already, with scaffolds and milling workers already reshaping parts of the outer wall and the Keep. But it would be long before the city would be anything like it once was.

Calling the name of the fool knight who had stolen her heart long ago reminded her that, if her sometimes reasonable, sometimes reckless husband ever learned that she'd come with the latest workers and the few Knights the Alliance had sent to protect them, he would probably leave everything, ride to Stormwind and give her a plain piece of his mind about the foolishness of the act. Would he have understood that she had to see the destruction herself? She wasn't certain.

She wrapped her cloak around her and began to walk towards the ruins of Stormwind Keep, where most of the work was underway, and missed the fact that her children weren't here. Vedran, already a healthy, vibrant boy of six springs, had been adamant about coming with her.

The underlying truth was that the boy had wanted to meet the father he only had vague recollections of and yet, through the circulating stories around Whitefort, Taren Mill and Hillsbrad, a father he was already proud of and wished to emulate, as boy his age always seemed to wish.

Her refusal, however, had been firm. Although she was ready to risk - had to risk - her safety, she refused to see her children remotely close to Azeroth before the Horde truly was routed. It wasn't safe, and that was that.

"But father is there!" he'd said "Why can't I come?"

"There's quite a bit of difference between your father and you, my dear son." She'd been amused at the strange logic the boy had taken. "For one, he's older, much taller, he can use a sword-"

"I can use one!" The boy had protested, hefting a well-crafted wooden blade. Crafted by elves, it had been sent by Aerth to Vedran for his fifth birthday, and the small boy had cherished it since. Many times the boy had used it to play mock battles, often playing one of the stories in which Aerth 'The Undefeated' routed an entire Horde army by himself. The story would have made the real Aerth breathless with laughter, but Eira had only smiled at the boy's naiveté.

"A steel sword, Vedran. And he had an army around him, so he's not in that much danger."

The boy had tried to argue further, but she had finally pulled her weight and calmed him. He had been sullen about it, and had barely brightened at the knowledge that he would see his father very soon, if all went well.

Eira, caught up in these thoughts, did not notice several things. She didn't see that the corner she was passing carelessly was an ideal site for an ambush. She didn't notice the shifting of feet as she passed, nor felt the presence - all things she had been taught early in life by the soldier who trained her brothers, and which Aerth had worked further. She only knew she was being attacked when arms grabbed her from behind, one hand clamping tightly over her mouth.

She didn't cry out, didn't struggle uselessly. Instead, she used the fear which coursed through her to take hold of a dagger hidden on herself and, thus armed, sliced deeply at the hand holding her. A howl of pain answered, and the pressure around her waist lessened a moment, allowing her to hit the would-be kidnapper as hard as she could with her elbow, thrusting forward, spinning on her foot as Aerth had showed her, and menacing the thugs with her weapon.

There were three of them. Three men, probably workers, who thought she was just some common woman they could relieve themselves on without so much as a by-your-leave. Fear was replaced by injured pride, which allowed anger to surface. She would not show fear to such lowlifes!

Instead she stood straight and tall, glaring at the men with a grim expression. They hesitated briefly, giving her the advantage she wanted. She couldn't outfight the three, but she could outwit them.

"Come at me, and I will hurt you. And even if you take me, you will die soonafter." she hissed confidently. Two of them hesitated again at her tone - they usually didn't take anyone who put up a fight on - but the one, who had been hurt by her attack, clutching a bleeding hand, gave a sneer.

"Don't make this difficult on ya, pretty. You just calm down and we'll go easy on ya too." he said. She didn't believe a word of it.

"You will do no such thing. I swear it as my name is Eira Fregar Swiftblade!" She replied. Her proud tone didn't seem to faze them anymore. However, her husband's name seemed to have a great effect. She decided to pounce on that opening. "My husband, Lord-General Aerth Swiftblade of the Alliance High Command would be greatly displeased. He might send the rangers after you. Or the mages. Or worse."

She couldn't tell if her bluff had really worked, but the doubts were there in their eyes. Before anything could happen to the stalemate, voices were heard laughing farther down the street, and the three, after one last look at her - baleful gazes that made her skin crawl, even as she looked back confidently - slunk into the rubble and disappeared from sight.

She waited a moment. As the voices drifted closer, she hid her dagger again, but kept it ready to use under her cloak. 'Foolish, foolish girl.' she admonished herself 'Almost getting trapped like that, like some young maidens in a bard's tale!'

She shook her head as she began to walk back the way she came. Quickly, but not as quickly as she could have. No need to show any eyes that might be watching that her fear was beginning to show itself, was beginning to win over the inbred confidence again.

She passed a group of workers, probably the ones who had unwittingly saved her. She tensed, but they only gave her a quick look before continuing on their way. From the words she caught, they were thirsty and eager from some ale.

She eventually made it back to the tents in which the few nobles who'd dared to come back dwelled, and alerted the captain in charge of the knight detail as to her mishap, telling the man descriptions of the three men. The captain immediately ordered a few men to search for them, while telling her, rather condescendingly, that she should have stayed in the camp set aside for the nobility, where things were safe.

She refrained from saying that security was sorely lacking if such deeds were permitted. Slightly disgusted, she walked back to her tent, stopping shortly before entering. Events had driven the chill from her mind, and she looked towards the southeast, where she knew many Alliance soldiers, including her husband, were fighting.

And, perhaps, dying. But she refused to consider that possibility. Aerth would return, and she could talk him into accepting that she already found him more than worthy of being her husband. Far more than worthy.

"Come home, my love." she whispered to herself. "Let us see Azeroth's rebirth together with our children."

With a sigh and last look at the place where the future of the continent was being fought, Eira entered her tent, spent from fear and doubt.


Late 599, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands of Azeroth

As powerful as he was, Khadgar knew that what he would attempt was not only a dangerous task, but also one that was, in the end, only a stopgap solution. And yet he knew he had to do it, if only to give the people more time to regain their footing, to recover from the draining wars they had endured.

The portal loomed before him in the distance, in the middle of a field bereft of all life. It was an imposing doorway of magically constructed stone, etched with runes of fearsome power. In the middle of the doorway, was a purplish hole, which pulsed with energies strong enough to bridge two worlds, and bring warfare and destruction on a scale not seen in millennia.

The Dark Portal. Medhiv's doing, and a work Khadgar had tried to undo, only to come up empty. When Anduin Lothar had led the best knights of Azeroth in a desperate battle against the maddened wizard, many tomes had been lost, many spellbooks and research papers. Much of the knowledge the greatest wizard to ever live possessed had gone away to the flames. Including how the Dark Portal had come into being.

Without some more research, Khadgar doubted he could close the rift between Azeroth and the world the wizard referred to as Dreanor. And his research was far from complete. It would take years, decades. All the while the Horde might renew the offensive from their homeworld, and it was clear that the Alliance would be too weakened to stand to a weakened onslaught. Although the Portal had been secured and the defending orcs slain nearly entirely, less than half of the armies that had participated in the last battle remained.

The griphon riders alone had lost five out of six of their gryphons, and would have fallen entirely if the Alliance hadn't driven the remaining dragons with bow and arrows.

Knowing such an event might come to pass, Khadgar had gone to find another means of defeating his former master's dreadful masterpiece. Carefully searching through tomes of magical lore, including tomes from the Order of Tirisfal, he had researched and structured a plan to stall any Third War for as long as possible.

"Well, there it is, archmagus." The captain who headed the many soldiers protecting him and the other mages gestured towards the Dark Portal. If Khadgar had looked around the edge of the bowl-like depression that held the dreadful object, he would have seen thousands of men arrayed for battle. The Alliance held to the area firmly, shooting down the trickle of orcs, which still sometimes came.

But Khadgar wasn't looking. He was concentrating, searching for the powerful magical auras that made up the three other individuals needed to link the magic with him. Antonidas of the Kirin Tor, the aged Archwizard of the Conjurors of Azeroth, and the High Wizard of Silvermoon had been the only ones who had the needed characteristics for the spell.

All were extremely powerful arcane spellcasters in their own right, although none could have come close to Medhiv. Together, the four formed the spell's core, and began drawing power from other groups of lesser mages who had volunteered.

The power suffused the four of them, and he felt that the elf and the elder archwizard were straining to keep it in, to shape it. The elf was powerful, but lacked some discipline, while age did not allow the elder human to draw that much, even as part of a ritual. Still, they held on grimly, he could feel it. 'Hold on. This spell...will not last long.' he promised. It couldn't last long.

Their life force would be burned out if it went on too long.

The magic suddenly made itself felt, making everything sharper, everything clearer, everything much more than it really was, bringing a wave of pleasure which outranked anything the archmage had ever experienced. His mind began to wander, and it was a chore to keep his mind on the task. Antonidas and the elf were also beginning to lose focus, the elf especially, while the ancient Karal Tor seemed as focused as ever. Khadgar worked to emulate the man, and found his Kirin Tor friend doing the same.

The elf, however, was losing himself into the magic. The High Wizard was losing his mind to the magic, as its powers became too strong. It wouldn't be long before it affected them. Even when cast, it still might. But the ends, in this case, fully justified the means.

Reaching out, Khadgar began to pull at the other three threads of magic, forcing the power upward, into a strong cloud of arcane energy designed to counter that which Medhiv's notes had talked about. Arcane magic from Azeroth, instead of that of the Twisting Nether. He knew some believed that the arcane energies were the same, but Khadgar had his doubts about that. But whether they were true or not, today he would make certain the magic worked for him.

Thrusting his will forward, he spread his arms and began to coalesce the energies, becoming unaware of anything else but the fight against the wave of pure magical energy. He took hold of it, as a man might wrestle with a bear, and found himself overmatched. His mind buckled, and would he have been able to use his voice, he would have screamed in pain and despair.

"You wish to help this world? I would expect no less from you, apprentice." He heard a voice in his mind. A voice he hadn't heard in years, and it no longer had sanity in it by the end. "A worthy, if temporary effort. I will help you."

Suddenly, the pain in his mind subsided, and his arms seemed to move on their own. A presence was within him, guiding his movements. Bewildered, confused, Khadgar could do nothing but acquiesce the role of watched he was being given.

Gestures he had never learned took hold of the power he had summoned with a strength and precision he had never seen any wizard achieve. His mouth shouted words of arcane power he did not understand as a whole, yet knew as the controlling spells the Guardians of Tirisfal had created over the millennia. But these weren't the lower Tirisfal spells that Medhiv had taught him. No, he could feel that the words were something very different, and much more powerful.

The magic screamed as if alive.

The magic raged against the bonds forced upon it at that moment.

But the magic, in the end, could only obey the commands that issued from Khadgar's mind. And struck

The roiling mass of magical energies had called upon the powers of the sky, calling great clouds filled with mystical power, the blood of the world. From that great mass, a single bolt of power erupted, enormous, its power indescribable. Even in the state he was in, Khadgar was both awed and horrified.

The bolt struck the Dark Portal with all of its power, and the great magical pillars that made the doorway shattered, exploding into thousands of piece. The bolt struck down and through the rift between the worlds, and affected the energies there. The links between the two worlds, Khadgar felt faintly, were dimmed, and passage was rendered impossible. But the link was not destroyed. The Orcs still had a way home.

And a way to invade.

"Yes, the danger has not passed." The voice seemed to sigh. "But this may work for the better. With the threat of the Orcs, maybe the races of this world will not scatter again and stand together firmly if the Horde ever rises again. Perhaps. We will see. Or, rather, you will. Farewell, apprentice. You are a worthy man I am proud to have taught to."

The presence ebbed away, and there was nothing Khadgar could do to keep it from going. His mind was once again his own. He looked out as the cloud of dust created by the strike began to dissipate, and then felt his body fail as the backlash of the forces he - they - had unleashed made itself felt.

He had known that voice. That was all which his mind allowed him to register. He had known it. He had known who had, somehow, come to help the world and undo some of the evil he had done.

"Thank you, master." He muttered weakly, before darkness fell upon him. He no longer saw or heard anything.

He never saw the people who ran to him, including many clerics who had watched anxiously, and began to use their magic to heal his body and his mind as best they could. He never saw that Antonidas had survived, but that the other two had not. That none of the lesser mages had. He did not see the shields and swords raised in joy as the remnants of the shattered Dark Portal came into full view.

He never heard the wild roar of reckless joy that issued from thousands of throats, from all the races gathered there.

Khadgar, unconscious, never actually saw the end to the Second War.


The Horde At The End Of The Second War

When the Horde began to wage its Second War against the humans and began its decade-long struggle with the Alliance, it was thought that around a million orcs, ogres and eventually trolls made up its military forces, while at least that number was made of peons and craftsmen and women and children.

Although much of the Alliance was destroyed during the war, the situation of the Horde even as the Archwizard Khadgar's spell severed the connection between the human world and the orcish world was far worse. As the time the Second War ended, late in the autumn of the year 599, the Horde's forces were reduced to little, and most of its surviving populations were kept in temporary prison camps.

The Horde yet controlled nearly half of the Kingdom of Azeroth's lands, but the few military force remaining as well as the many returning humans make their positions untenable. The Horde, however, holds the Grim Batol Region firmly still, with most of the remaining free combatants which had escaped from Blackrock Spire and headed north having gone to strengthen their hold on the region, aided by what little now remains of the Horde Navy. Under the Dragonmaw Clan's control, it poses the only real threat to Alliance security on the continent.

Aside from Grim Batol's region, small places are still held by the Horde in the mountains, where Alliance resources have not yet allowed it to mount a strong offensive. Two other colonies of note also exist. One, Argal Grimfrost's large colony in the eastern tip of the continent, and Gelmar Thornfeet's Hidden Valley community. These last two territories, however, are secret from both Alliance and Horde, and have cast aside the old ways of the Horde.