Epilogue: Receding Tides

Winter 600, Grimhold, Dust Crags

It was a peaceful yet awkward meeting. Argal Grimfrost, the first Chieftain of the Dire Fang Clan, had always been more suited to the battlefield than to anything else. Even when he had known that Orgrim Doomhammer, his former Warchief and friend, had been going down the wrong path, he had remained silent out of both loyalty and an inability to say much in words. Consequently, the Horde - no, his people, the orcs - had fallen to the Alliance.

There he was, seated in his home, facing the only orc who could understand his situation and perhaps the only one who could presently help him. Although Gelmar Thornfeet, the Patriarch of Spiritual Shamanism, was somewhat younger than the former warlord, the orc's eyes were aged by both wisdom and sorrow. The two elder orcs sat facing each other, having been served ale by awed youths of the Dire Fang, both looking into their mugs and saying little for the longest time. It wasn't long before Grimfrost, an orc of action, grew tired of the atmosphere.

"The farmland my people have managed to secure isn't the richest there ever was but, with some hard work, they've managed to make some good crops this year, and many of the peons say there are ways to do even better." The warlord chuckled, his voice caught between frustration and amusement. "Never thought I'd listen to peons, but right now they're the people to talk to if we want to make this place work well enough."

"I've quickly learned that, no matter how powerful the warriors, any land depends on how well the ones who grow the food do." The shaman answered.

"True enough. From what you told me, your own land isn't doing too badly."

"No, we aren't. Our land is small, but hidden from immediate danger and surprisingly bountiful. And we've added to it with cattle and grain we had to steal from humans." The shaman frowned in obvious distaste. "Not something I'm proud of, but at least we've learned to raise enough cattle and grain ourselves that we don't need to steal anymore. We could slowly help you build your own cattle."

"That'd be a bit of help, but I'd like something more." As the shaman finally fully looked up from his mug, Grimfrost gathered his thoughts, banishing any doubts he might have. "Its simple: we need magic. But not Gul'Dan's kind. I mean your kind. I'd like to know if its possible for you to lend us a few of your shamans. To help us, to teach and to train some here."

"I'm certainly not against the ploy, but what brought this on?" Thornfeet asked shrewdly. From his meeting the orc during the war, the former Warlord had guessed that the Patriarch was no fool, and the subsequent meetings had only made him certain of it. It made Grimfrost feel better about the whole situation. Intelligence and wisdom combined meant someone not prone to acting rashly or without knowing what is happening.

"Well, the main reason's simple: we need what you can give." the chieftain said, "You have magic, and not the corrupted one. But that's only one good side of it. What I want is for my people to learn. You say you gathered books of knowledge, don't you?"

"Indeed. And it was no easy task; I'll say this without shame. We gathered books from Tyr's Hand's ruins, from what little of Caer Darrow we could reach, and gleaned what little we could from our own stronghold and even a few daring thefts from Dreanor. I'm proud of what my people achieved there more than I can put into words."

"And I'm proud of my people. But I want my people to learn more than bloodlust and war and weapons. I want some to have ideas that can help our race. We're not out of the Legion's grasp yet. We've lessened it, but until your 'leader' comes we have to do our best." Grimfrost sighed. "But even that aside, there's another reason. And that's that we're the only two groups around this world who can help our people find a better way. Because those orcs who aren't being put into those camps by the humans are as bad and as violent as Blackhand's people."

Although he knew that his people would never be able to do much outside of the Dust Crags, Grimfrost had sent some spies to other locations and learned many disturbing things. One of these was the fact that the Alliance was busy taking any orc they could find into custody, and put them into large camps, each of them strongly guarded. It angered Grimfrost to know his people were being treated in such a way, but he had neither the strength nor the arms to do much about it. On that, he would have to trust in Thornfeet's prophecy.

What troubled him even more were the warmongering elements, which were quickly gathering power. Most of them were minor, but two were a real concern. One was Kilrogg Deadeyes's Bleeding Hollow Clan. A large part of the Clan remained active, roaming the Swamps and Jungles of the southlands. Many of Deadeyes's people wanted to strike at the humans while they were busy re-establishing themselves in their ruined southern realm of Azeroth.

And then there was the highly visible and highly dangerous Dragonmaw Clan. Zuluhed had been doing well, reinforcing his territory with remnants of the Horde's armies and with an increasing number of actual, genuine Red Dragons and many untrustworthy Blacks. He'd fortified Grim Batol into a true stronghold, and established fortresses at many places.

The Alliance - mainly soldiers from Khaz Modon, Azeroth and Stromgarde - had helped establish bases to keep watch over what was considered the last true Horde territory. Grimfrost knew that the Dragonmaw had made tentative contact with the Bleeding Hollow, and were trying to get both forces to wage a new war.

Such a war would spell doom for the orcs. The humans were barely keeping themselves from slaying the ones in the internment camps as it was, and if it came to a true battle between the Horde and the Alliance as both powers stood, the humans and their allies would crush anything they came across. The new, better Warchief Thornfeet talked about might have no people to lead to salvation.

"We can't have a new war against the humans." He said empathically.

"I agree. It would be not only suicide, but it would defeat the purpose of gaining freedom from the Burning Legion." Thornfeet answered smoothly.

"And it might make the humans go into a real frenzy to search for other orcs. Our own people might be in danger. I can't have that. I won't allow that. The Alliance's all for getting only at what they can see, and that's fine by me."

"So what is it you propose?"

"Here's what I see: you help us, we help you. You say some of your people can 'ride the spiritual realm' to get from place to place, a bit like the human mages can do. Link the Hidden Valley with the Dust Crags. We'll aid each other, and trade between each other. Meanwhile you continue the good work you've started at the internment camps. Keep hope alive. And I'll make certain to stall and slow Zuluhed's work as much as I can." Grimfrost crossed his arms. He could already visualize how he would do it - who he'd send, how many and how they could pass information.

The shaman looked at him for a moment, and then grinned a bit sadly. "Still a warlord, aren't you?"

"Yes, Patriarch. That's what I've been all my life. I can't be anything else." He paused. "But this time, I have a new war in front of me. A new kind of war. And I am going to win this one."

"A new war?"

"Yes. A war to make sure your Warchief can build this free place for us. I want to see it before I die. No, I refuse to die before I see it. Not before. Never."


Late Winter 600, Swamps of Sorrow, Wildlands

Khadgar struggled to keep pace with the other wizards, cursing the weakness his body expressed every time he moved. He was supposed to be leading this expedition, and he self-consciously knew he cut a poor figure, nearly hobbling as he was. The overprotective priest and nagging wizardess who constantly stuck to his side made this worse.

'So much for being the one who ended the war.' he mused sourly, then thought better of the notion. He had survived the terrible conflict where hundreds of thousands - soldiers and civilians - had not. He had come out of the dweomer he'd cast well enough if one took the amount of magic he momentarily channelled.

Still, the spell that had rendered Antonidas bedridden up to the present, driven the greatest elven archmage to madness and killed Gerath Daretyl - the last of the great Conjurors of Azeroth - had affected him. His body and magic had been quite wrecked, albeit his mind had come out miraculously intact.

The priesthood had sent many of its greatest members to tend him, and he had been subjected to more healing and restorative spells in three days than in thirty years of his life. He had imbibed too many healing and arcane potions for his state, and had to endure insufferable mothering from priests and younger spellcasters.

The healing, however, had done him good. He could walk well enough now, although he still felt weak after a while. At times, he still shivered and broke into a cold sweat, and had felt faint more than once in the present trip alone. Worse of all was his magic. He found he could barely handle the strain to light a candle with magic, a feat any novice was capable of. Even with the priests' assurances that his strength, both physical and magical - would return in time, it had been a blow. The present mission, if anything, only slowed the recovery process.

But it was something he felt he had to do. It had taken all of his persuasion to convince the ruling body of the Alliance to take a significant number of mages and escorts to the still-dangerous Dark Portal area. After all, the entire Black Morass was still deemed a war zone, and dangers were many.

"You should be in bed."

The firm, slightly miffed voice belonged to Rena Delado. Petite, frail, delicate, her fragility belied the fact she was an extremely powerful archmagess capable of taking down a whole Horde regiment with her spells. She had been adamant about leading the mission instead of him, and had insisted with the elder mages of the Kirin Tor to leave Khadgar in Dalaran. She had been in a foul mood ever since her offer had been rejected, and her eyes seemed to say it was all Khadgar's fault. She had thus taken great pains to remind him of his weakened state.

"If I was given a gold piece every time you said that over the last four days, I'd have amassed an hefty sum by now." he couldn't help but snap. "This is a moot point, at any rate, with the rift just over that ridge."

"We don't even know if there IS a rift here, Khadgar. I helped you finalize that spell. The magic you shot through was powerful..."

"Powerful enough to disrupt the link, but not to break it. Come now, Rena, you know the truth as well as I: the spell will prevent any passage for a number of years, but that will be it. Medhiv's spell is too complicated to be undone so easily. This wasn't a momentary portal, but a permanent one."

"Don't talk to me as if I was an apprentice of yours, Khadgar." She quipped with a steely gaze. "I know spells enough to know that much. What then? Will you cast that spell every time matter can pass through?"

"Until someone finds a way to truly undo the spell, that is the best way." For some reason, he suddenly felt like it wasn't quite what he should have said. His feeling was proven true when Rena gave him a contempt-filled gaze.

"Men. Tapping their chest all the time and thinking we're going to find their suicidal ideas great. Such fools!" She sniffed, giving him a scathing gaze before looking away from him. Khadgar spluttered a moment, glared at the grinning priest, and attempted to recover his dignity as best he could - this was not turning out to be a good day. Fortunately, as he topped the ridge, what he saw put daily concerns out of the archmage's mind.

The blast of magical energy would have been enough to destroy an entire fortress by itself. No material structure could have resisted it. And indeed, the Dark Portal, which had stood there for many years, was no more, transformed into a desolate, blasted crater at the bowl's centre.

But the rift, which had joined two worlds, was nothing of the material plane, and had survived.

Only a few wizards and the priest saw it, the soldiers having been ordered to camp farther off. Suspended above the crater stood a purplish anomaly. Flickering faintly, sometimes almost impossible to distinguish from the early twilight sky, the rift remained for all to see, like a sore. Grimly, Khadgar brought his arcane energies to scry it, but found his spells and concentration slipping even as a shiver drew the priest's attention. Brushing the man aside, the weakened archmage looked at Rena, who nodded, her earlier mood also forgotten.

The wizardess made quick signs with her hands and spoke words very few could comprehend, wielding a power that less than a dozen mages could control. She closed her eyes, and Khadgar could only watch as she concentrated on the rift for a few moments. Sweat soon glistened on her forehead, and her mouth tightened, but her poise held firm. Finally, after a few moments of struggle, she shivered herself and let her magic go.

"It's inactive. Inactive as you thought it would be. But there's something. I could feel something. On the other side. Some...other place. Bizarre...red planet, swamplike somewhat. And I felt orcs there. Many orcs. They can't get through, they can't pass through to our world, but..." she finally shrugged, words failing her.

"By the Holy Light," the priest breathed, "What does this all mean?"

"Something that the people must not become aware of, priest." Khadgar answered sternly. "They must never know that the Horde has been broken...but it has only been broken HERE. On that world, are other orcs. Perhaps another Horde. One we are in no condition to fight as we are presently."

The words hung in the air for a moment, sifting through the silence broken only by the surrounding nature of the marsh. All digested these words in silence, feeling the bitter truth for what it was. None of the mages disputed the claim, Rena being powerful and respected in the Art. But it was clear from the looks on some faces that they wished it had been a wrong guess, that the rift had vanished, that the world could begin to heal from two devastating wars.

Having fought in both, Khadgar had wished to be wrong as much as anyone, all the while knowing he wasn't. He also knew the path the world must take, the steps to be undertaken to keep the Portal from ever coming into being again.

"Let's return. We must talk to the Kirin Tor, and then to the Alliance High Command." He finally stated. Rena nodded pensively.

"You're certain, my friend?" She wondered.

"There are no other possibilities. We aren't ready. Our strength is spent. But we can yet watch. And hope we can do something when the rift awakens. To that end, I will have the Alliance build a fortress nearby, and mages will always be there to watch over the world's bane." He looked at the rift, and sighed. He had read all of Medhiv's notes, had begun writing a possible counterspell. But it might be years...decades...before he would be done.

"We will watch. And hope we will be ready when they come again."

He dearly wished he didn't sound so ominous just then.


Spring 600, Stormwind Keep, Azeroth

Finery was utterly uncomfortable, Aerth Swiftblade decided. It took much out of the enjoyment the scene he was witnessing might have inspired in him. But, as Minvare had told him, this was something nobles had to put up with on a daily basis. And Swiftblade was, the older general had reminded him pointedly, the second-in-command to the entire Alliance Army, and a highly respected war hero.

And so Swiftblade had been dressed in fine red silk, trimmed with golden lines, and fitted with armour so fine and so shiny the veteran warrior knew it would be suicidal to wear it on any battlefield. But Eira, dressed in her own fine gown, wearing only a fine golden necklace and the ring he had given her years before, had told him he looked quite handsome. So he had let it rest. Still, he felt uncomfortable.

He worked hard not to show any hint of his displeasure. After all, he had been asked to stand with Rellon Minvare at the head of the two lines of Azerothian Knights who acted as the honour guard in what would be, in a few more moments, Anduin Lothar's dream fulfilled.

In front of him, kneeling before Archbishop Alonsus Faol and under the gaze of many of the Alliance's monarchs, Varian Wrynn received King Llane's crown. A hush permeated the entire throne room, one of the few chambers rebuilt from the old Stormwind Keep.

"The Light gives you this burden, Varian Wrynn. This gift and this doom, depending on your wisdom. What say you to the Light?" The archbishop asked ritually. Varian remained kneeling, his head bowed.

"The Light cannot be questioned by mere mortals. I will take this burden, for I wish to serve Azeroth. I wish to serve the land and the people." The lord responded, his voice echoing in the silence.

"And how long will you serve."

"As long as the Light commands, so will I obey."

"Then receive this burden, and be worthy of it." The Archbishop intoned, his old voice strong and steady. "With this crown, this symbol, your journey begins." He lowered the crown and set it on Varian Wrynn's head, then bowed his own as his arms fell to his sides. "I acknowledge you by the Holy Light and the crown on your brow. Hail, King Varian, King of Azeroth, Lord of Stormwind Keep!"

The new king rose, turned to face the crowd, and after a moment a man shouted 'Long live King Varian!'. At once, other voices broke out, and soon the entire assembly shouted joyously, their voices making the room, which was so great in space, vibrate with life. Swiftblade was also caught up in the act, genuinely adding a 'Long live the King!' or two of his own, even as he and Minvare led the knights into unsheathing their blade and holding the hilt towards their new lord.

Behind Varian Wrynn, who seemed slightly overwhelmed by the event, stood the kings of the most powerful human nations of Lordaeron, Kul Tiras and Stromgarde. Although Kings Terenas and Proudmoore stood near each other, King Trollbane stood farther apart. Although the Second War had seemingly been won, Swiftblade had heard from the new High General Turalyon that many questions were beginning to cause frictions between the nations of the Alliance, and that relations between Stromgarde and Lordaeron had grown colder.

Sheer stupidity, as far as the general was concerned. Yet, as Minvare said more than once, the races of the Alliance were mortal. Thus fallible. It angered him that so many soldiers' sacrifices, so many civilian's suffering, were being swept aside and belittled by politics.

His emotions dampened by the thoughts, he was glade when the king motioned for silence with a slight smile.

"My people, this crowning must not be remembered as my own achievement, but as another man's. A man far greater than I can be, I say this without shame. A man who united us against the Horde, and kept hope alive by leading by example." Heads bowed, including Swiftblade's and a wave of grief swept through the assembled nobility and soldiery. "As such, I will strive to live up to Anduin Lothar's noble strength as best I may be able. This I vow!"

The cheering began again among the noble families, although some seemed slightly worried in their expressions. Although by no means knowledgeable in court etiquette, Swiftblade had had to deal with shirkers, traitors and liars in his many years in the military, both as a soldier and an officer. He had learned to see those who were conniving and two-faced. Many of the nobles were exactly that.

Eventually, quiet returned, and the king cleared his throat slightly, his face softening. "Yet there are two men here to whom we owe much. As Lothar cannot be with us to receive his just reward, I will ask for those two Azerothians who fought so long and so well under him. Lord Minavare, Lord Swiftblade, come stand before me.

The two men gave each other a look, and Swiftblade saw a brief, irritated flash in Minvare's eye. As for himself, the one common-born general was feeling rather light-headed, reminiscing on another ceremony where, after a successful campaign, Anduin Lothar himself had raised him to the peerage. Both men stepped forth and stood before their king, who clasped each on the shoulder.

"My good friends." He said, still grinning. "You are both long-standing soldiers, having fought the Horde in both of the wars. You, Lord Minvare, are renowned for your defence of the Land Bridges and your taking of Dun Algaz. While you, Lord Swiftblade, are well known as a genius strategist who has scored great victories throughout the Second War. Know that these gifts do not even begin to measure the gratitude I feel towards you." His tone became more formal. "Kneel, friends."

There was no disobeying the new King of Azeroth. Following Minvare's example, Swiftblade knelt to one knee, his hand on the hilt of his blade, even as Varian Wrynn unsheathed the ancient sword that had been in the Wrynn Royal House for centuries. The king first walked to Minvare.

"Lord Minvare. By my power as King and the sovereignty of my crown, I bestow upon you the rank of Count, with your lands increased two-fold. Furthermore, knowing your friendship with the dwarves of Ironforge, I appoint you as the official ambassador to Khaz Modan for as long as you so wish to remain in that post." Minvare's head bowed, and he kissed the sword blade as a sign of acceptance and pledge of allegiance. The King then walked and came to stand before Swiftblade.

"As for you, Lord Swiftblade, the gift I have for you will fit you as well. By the sovereignty of my crown, and by the friendship between us, I give you the noble title of Duke, and induct House Swiftblade into the Great Houses of Nobles. Your marriage with the Fregar heir entitles you to the city of Sunshire and its lands. The nearby Duraz lands, a third of which will go to your family and house will increase these. So will this remain as long as Azeroth endures."

Aerth didn't know if he truly felt happy about the knowledge. His eyes moistened slightly, and he fought back the annoyance, even as he kissed the blade. He was numb. He had always wanted this, if only so that Eira could have the rank and status her blood and wit deserved. But it had always been secondary, far away, and as he rose to his feet, he couldn't help but cast a glance towards his wife and his son, Vedran, who looked the image of a bored little boy. Her radiant smile smothered his fears and doubts, and he smiled back even as the King once again clasped the two men.

"With this, my people, let us forget the past darkness. From this day onward, let us look towards the future, and rebuild Azeroth to its former height!" The King announced.

This time, neither applause nor cheers would be stopped for a long time. Swiftblade sighed even as he fully realized what was happening: the Second War had ended. The sacrifices had not been for naught.

He would be able to grow old with Eira, and would see - the Light willing - his children grow into adults. Wasn't that worth the blood he'd shed, the years of cold decisions, of battles and plans and fears?

'Yes.' His mind answered fiercely. And this time, Aerth Swiftblade did not question it. His war was over.


Kurug Plains, Dreanor

Ner'Zul was growing weary of the battle being played out over the plains. For more days than he cared to count, his Shadowmoon Clan had been fighting over the right to rule in Dreanor with the Shattered Hand Clan. Although it was by then clear which clan had the greater power - the Shattered Hand having been pushed back time and time again by both might and numbers - Kargath Bladefist, the aging chieftain, refused to kneel to him.

It was a frustrating development and only served to show the shaman how fragile the Horde was becoming in many ways.

"The warlocks will unleash their spells on the bulk of Bladefist's warriors. Tell them to use the death clouds." The aged orc said firmly as the stubborn struggle unfolded before his eyes. The order seemed to surprise even Dentarg, his most trusted servant.

"That'll put many of our own to death." One of his subordinates ventured. They did not seem particularly worried about the deaths in themselves; only about the weakness it might bring Shadowmoon. Such was the Horde Ner'Zul himself had been instrumental in creating: lives no longer really matter, only victory and strength.

"Do it. If the peon-born warriors can't defeat the Shattered Hand here, then their deaths will only serve to remind everyone that Shadowmoon doesn't forgive weaknesses and shame!" The shaman couldn't help but feel the hypocrisy in the statement. "We are the strongest Clan on Dreanor! They are disgracing the Clan and allowing the enemy to cling to hope! Destroy that hope! Bring the warlocks into play."

There were no arguments. No one argued. Not with him. He was, after all, the strongest magic-user on Dreanor and, with Gul'Dan seemingly dead, the strongest in the entire Horde. They went to carry on their master's orders.

Ner'Zul looked upon the battle. Ranks upon ranks of grunts wearing black fell on smaller numbers of yellow-clad grunts, with ogres fighting sometimes indiscriminately among them. The chaos was unimaginable, and the old orc growled. How different these were from the warriors who had been lost on Azeroth!

This was the problem, and a large one. When war against the pink ones of that realm had been victoriously concluded, the Horde had been electrified. Thousands of warriors had gone to continue the campaign, wishing to rule not only that realm but also that entire, resources-rich world. When the pink ones - these humans - had retaliated with what they called the Alliance, more had been called, until all of the true great warriors of the Horde had gone.

What remained on Dreanor were large populations of peons. Bereft of training, indoctrinated and bullied into their inferior work, few among them could amount to warriors of any quality. And the warriors themselves had been reduced to second-rate grunts, without imagination and with little true might. Only three clans had managed to hold on to a few units of greater quality: Shadowmoon, Warsong and Shattered Hand.

All three had agreed, when it had become clear that the Horde on Azeroth was failing, to keep what troops they had remaining to themselves, refusing to help Doomhammer further. They had gone to strengthen their defences, not knowing whether the humans would truly defeat the Horde or not. The Portal's destruction had been a sign, to Ner'Zul at least, that the Alliance had defeated the Horde, but that the humans had no intention of coming to Dreanor. Thus, he had used what forces he had to gain control and further his own plans.

But while Grom Hellscream, the young chieftain of the Warsong Clan, had been easily swayed to his side, Kargath Bladefist had refused, even when the minor Bonechewer and Thunderlord clans had added their strength to Ner'Zul's own. The dissent soon erupted into violence, and the two Clans had been waging war ever since.

The shaman had no time to waste with Kargath's conceited views. He needed the entire Dreanor Horde under him before complete chaos happened. Already the few remaining Dreanai survivors were growing bolder in their raids. The Laughing Skull was plotting as always. And the social fabric of the Horde was threatening to unravel.

No, Shadowmoon had to take control - HE had to take control - so that the Horde wouldn't vanish. So that his power wouldn't.

Fortunately, he had something that even his most trusted advisors didn't know about yet.

"Gorefiend." He called. And out of the shadows stepped a creature long dead. It had been, from what Ner'Zul had learned, a human elite warrior called a 'knight'. The human had been killed during the last battles of the initial invasion, but the decaying body had been used to instil Theron Gorefiend's spirit inside it through dark magics. Now, the terrifying apparition held power over those 'Death Knights' who had ridden to Dreanor through the Portal before the Alliance closed in. It was Gorefiend who had explained that the war had been lost on the other world.

It had also been Gorefiend who had told Ner'Zul of the powerful magic that inhabited that very same world. It had filled the shaman with yearning.

"You called me?" The ethereal voice asked. Politely, and a hint condescendingly, if not enough for Ner'Zul to take action. Both beings knew who was the most powerful, and that was all that mattered within the Horde.

"I did. I finally have need of you and your brethren's power. My warlocks are going to cast a life-draining spells over these pawns..."

"But we cannot be affected by such a spell." Gorefiend surmised, the decayed form nodding.

"And that it why I want you all to ride in, and kill all those who aren't dying fast enough. Let the Shattered Hand Clan learn never to challenge Shadowmoon again." he mused.

"A simple task. But what could we have for the effort?" The eerie voice replied. Glowing eyes met black ones in a contest of wills, and quickly the Death Knight bowed again. He did not move, however. The message was clear: Gorefiend acknowledged Ner'Zul as his leader, but not quite his master. The old shaman sighed.

"Keep whatever survivors you wish for your experiments. I don't care about them. But I want you to decimate these troops, to make them FEAR me!" He growled, his hands clenching.

"So you command, so we obey." came the smooth reply. With a bow, the Death Knight once again faded into the darkness.

That day, the Shattered Hand Clan found itself beset by dark magic, which began choking the life out of many of its warriors. As good as some of their warlocks were, they were no match for Shadowmoon's sheer power. Even as the army reeled from the attack, visions of nightmares came riding in, striking down grunts and ogres alike with feats of powerful necromancy. Before the sun had set, the Shattered Hand had been broken, and Ner'Zul forced Bladefist's surrender that very evening.

Even as the old chieftain grudgingly gave his support, Ner'Zul felt a chill, as if eyes were watching him. He shivered as fear clutched his heart. Kil'Jaeden. The Burning Legion. They were watching. They had been for some time now. But he wouldn't allow himself to incur its displeasure. He would escape them, after uniting Dreanor and fulfilling the needed steps towards fruition of his plans.

The first step was unity. The second to build up Dreanor's Horde as much as possible.

And the third...would be to start a new invasion of the human world.


Late Spring 600, Somewhere in the Violet Citadel, Dalaran

The Magical City of Dalaran had been founded by human spellcasters hundreds of years previously. Over this time, as human wizard followed human wizard, it had become the unequalled centre of magical learning in the known world, outstripping even the magical academies of Silvermoon. It had become a city built mostly of magic, with graceful towers rising at impossible heights into the sky, great monolithic magical quartz stones orbiting around the greatest of them.

In Dalaran, spells were commonplace, and the feel of magic an everyday occurrence. Yet the room in which the six met would have been impressive indeed. Layers upon layers of protection and misdirection spells shielded the circular room, which occupied the tower's entire top floor. It was well furnished, betraying the wealth its owner possessed.

It only made perfect sense to the one who led the proceedings. In Dalaran, status often came with magical might, and few in the city - even among the aging elders of the Kirin Tor - would have been a match for any of them. Each of them had woven a complex spell around the body. It was a sound precaution. After all, what they were discussing would cost them more than death if discovered.

In Dalaran, those who participated in conspiracies were often subjected to things far worse than imagination allowed. Yet, the people gathered there showed no concern. They had, after all, successfully prepared themselves, and were preparing still, carefully plotting.

"So, would it be safe to assume that the Alliance is nowhere near as unified as it was so recently?" The one who headed the strange meeting asked noncommittally. The question was directed to what appeared to be a middle-aged man to the right. It was a fake, magical image that the leader had long ago broken through, withholding the information he gleaned for further use.

"That much is a certainty. Already the elves have started coming only as a token gesture. They blame humans for the damages their realm incurred, and no amount of sweet-talking Terenas tells can sway them from that opinion."

"Perfectly as expected. The elves were always reluctant allies at the very best. Yet will this cause a rupture?"

"Not yet." The fake image shook its head. "The elves are chaffing, but the damage they suffered is still extensive. And the Horde hasn't been defeated enough for their taste. No, they won't secede. But I wouldn't see them taking much action if they ever found out about our plans."

"Most excellent." The leader was feeling rather satisfied, almost gleeful. The plan was proceeding along nicely. Yet some elements remained. Elements always remained. On his left, the image of a cloaked woman stirred.

"This is all well and good, but what of the human nations? I agree that the High Elves could be problematic, but it is humanity's destiny we wish to guide, do we not?" she asked. The man who had talked of the elves shrugged indulgently.

"Lordaeron is powerful enough to keep the human nations together, but it was clear that some nations were disappointed, even angry. Trollbane was furious that the majority of the prison camps would be constructed near his country, and he is more than aggravated that Terenas refused Stromgarde any land grab."

"And what of the other nations?" The question came from the image of a dark-skinned man.

"King Greymane is quite vocal about his dislike of the Alliance. He has never been a friend to unity. But one must remember that the first Gilneans were exactly like he was - distrustful and distrusted. Even in Arathor's last days. Proudmoore, Wrynn, the Kirin Tor and King Bronzebeard of Khaz Modan are very steadfast, however. This does give the Alliance enough weight to say and do whatever it wants." The leader said pensively. With a gesture and a spoken word of magic, a glass of wine appeared in his hand, and he sipped it absently.

"Of the Alliance leaders, we need only concern ourselves with Terenas and Proudmoore. Wrynn is too new, Trollbane too gullible, and Greymane will most probably never be trusted to any extent." The dark-skinned man said. "But with our plans for the Kirin Tor, we can't afford the other nations to interfere. That is why I think we should reform the Compact."

That had a reaction. For a moment all stood still, until finally the image of a broad-shouldered man gave a displeased shrug with a belying grace.

"The Compact? Madness to even entertain the idea. Duraz was a fool to even think he'd ever have the power to topple Lordaeron."

"And yet he nearly DID topple it. But foolish or not, we all used his delusions to further our own ploys." The dark-skinned man said. "We funded him, we gave him magical aid. All to further our goals. And now we may use the army he built for ourselves. Some units remain. We can merge them so that they keep Terenas and Proudmoore busy." There was a moment of tense silence. "After all, our enemy remains the Kirin Tor."

None could offer a defence against that. The six had made certain to influence as many of the Kirin Tor as they could, corrupting or blackmailing them. But many, including Antonidas, Kel'Thuzad and Khadgar, had proven opposed to their plans by their very nature. And killing either Antonidas or Khadgar would raise too many questions.

All of this because knowledge had once been the first human wizards' goal. When Arathor was expanding in every direction, the spellcasters could have seized control. The High Elves, the only stronger magical force, were in far too desperate distress to care who controlled the human lands, and magic could have alleviated many problems. But the wizards had left to found Dalaran, retreating to their towers to research spells both great and simplistic.

What narrow-minded fools. No vision for the future. For all of Dalaran's greatness, the nation remained small and removed from non-magical matters. All the while mankind remained set back in its destiny. The six fully intended to set things right, and had toiled for it.

"They would be a problem. The elders of the Kirin Tor can perhaps be dealt with, but Khadgar and Antonidas have more than substantial powers. And they have much influence. If they ever learned of our ploy-" A freckled young woman said, but her tone sounded abnormal for her youthful form.

"Khadgar will never be a problem." The dark-skinned man mused. This raised some eyebrows.

"And how can you be so certain of that?" The broad-shouldered man asked stiffly. The dark-skinned man only grinned in a ghastly fashion.

"Because I am. Trust me on this: Khadgar will not be a problem."


AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, this is it! Whoohoo! Warcraft: Tides of Darkness, a full recreation of the Second War, is over after three and a half years. Many of you might have noticed that some elements differ from the mainstream Warcraft Universe. Well, the reason for that is that I tried to keep it consistent, as a real world would be, and so I sometimes ignored new facts when the contradicted previous ones. I intend to have the future stories link a bit more to Warcraft 3 and World of Warcraft, but I will always ignore things that just don't seem to make sense.

Yes, that means I will write new Warcraft stories. I intend to write one story dealing with the darkness gathering in Dalaran, as well as writing a new, if shorter -since that war was shorter- epic about Beyond the Dark Portal. For now, however, I am going on a short writing vacation. But I will be back. And for the new story, which will happen between the Second War and the War of Dreanor, here's a written trailer. See ya soon!

Jeremy


Dalaran: Arcane Strife

Three years have passed since the Second War between the Alliance of Lordaeron and the Orcish Horde officially ended. Left crippled and without strong leaders, the orcs and their remaining allies have retreated to a few remote territories, leaving the Alliance Nations to rebuild in peace.

But not all is well within the Alliance. The years of warfare have severely drained the lands of resources, of manpower and of faith. Many regions have been scarred, horrors roam in the countryside, and the roads have become havens of bandits and cutthroats.

Even as the human leaders struggle to hold unto unity, the archmage Khadgar must fight a new war, a war every bit as insidious as the First and Second Wars. For the shadows of the Compact have surfaced. Some manipulate events to bring about the end of the Kirin Tor, resolving to build a magical empire of dreadful power over the former lands of Arathor.

As friends become foes and mages turn to demonic worship, Khadgar and a few others must strive to keep Dalaran from falling into darkness, lest it destroys all they fought to preserve.