Chapter 2 – The Green Hills Below

Tumbling down through the water, dragged by the currents and tossed around like a doll, Kalrak finally emerged and found himself on a riverbank amidst verdant hills and plains. Dizzy and nauseous, he stumbled further inland, trailing and spitting out water as he caught his breath. The sun was beginning to set as he wandered aimlessly, barely aware of his surroundings, until hunger and exhaustion caught up with him and he stumbled down, falling asleep in the soft earth. In his state he did not notice the wooden fences, the fields laden with golden crops or the animals wandering about, in particular the mare with a straw colored mane, which at the sight of his prone form ran off towards the nearby farmhouse.

Hearing the horse's panicked noises and the stomping of its hooves on the wooden floor of the front porch, someone hastily unlocked the thick door and a man stepped outside, wearing a simple farmer's clothing but with a stance and focus that spoke of experience in a different trade.

"What is it Blanchie?" he asked as he reached for an oil lamp resting on a bench hear the door. As he lit it, his weathered face came into view, revealing piercing eyes, a short dark beard and an earnest frown of concern.

As if understanding his words, or merely realizing it was receiving the attention she desired, the mare spun in place and, after looking behind to make sure he was following, trotted in the direction of the fields. As Blanchie stopped near the unmoving form, he hesitantly approached, pointing the lantern at it.

"By the Light..." he muttered.

Kal'rak awakened the next morning, finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings. He realized he was lying on something soft, covered by strange blankets instead of the pelts he was accustomed to. His clothing was also gone, replaced with a tunic of the same material. Surprised, and somewhat alarmed, he bolted to his feet and looked around. He saw his axes leaning against a wall by the door and his pelts hanging on a rack in front of the window, still considerably soaked and dripping on the wooden floor. Before his mind could process everything that was happening, he once again felt the pangs of hunger and realized he had not eaten for nearly a day.

He jumped back with a start as the door opened, and two strange creatures stepped inside. His eyes widened in shock as he realized that, unlike the orcs he was familiar with, these beings had pink skin, just like him, as well as body frames in general that looked much smaller and more fragile than those of the orcs. They were wearing simple clothing, spunk from the same strange fabric he had found himself dressed in, though one of them, clearly a male, with brown eyes, a short dark beard and short but slightly unkempt hair, seemed to be wearing a loose white shirt, blue trousers and leather boots.

The other, female, was wearing something completely different, a long blue dress, simple and functional, that none of the Frostwolf females would be caught dead wearing, but which somehow seemed to fit the dark-haired pinksin. Though she seemed a little nervous, she stared right at him with deep blue eyes that made him feel something strange and heavy in his chest.

The two exchanged glances, and said something in a language he could not understand before turning to him. Surprised by his confused reaction, they tried saying some more, but he still could not understand a word. Realizing that they were trying to communicate with him, he replied in the only language he knew.

"Throm'ka?" he mouthed hesitantly. The two exchanged glances, for some reason looking absolutely horrified. He did not understand their reaction.

"Light have mercy..." the man muttered, though the boy could not understand. "What have they done to you?"

Kal'rak could not understand why, but both of them looked like they were on the verge of tears.

"Those monsters..." the woman lamented. "Now they're stealing children? Murdering them for their rituals was not enough?"

The man sighed.

"They're not hurting this one!"

The man then cleared his throat and tried his best approximation of the Orcish tongue. Kal'rak could tell a few things right away despite his state of confusion. The male pinksin was not particularly fluent in it, but was trying his best, and the female seemed distinctly uncomfortable to hear it spoken in her dwelling, though he could not fathom why. Drek'Thar had been out of touch with the rest of the clans for a long time, and while the spirits had shared some rather chilling information with him, he had not wanted to scar the boy's young mind with it, nor had he gone into too much detail about the circumstances in Draenor before that.

"Who... are... you?" the man asked, slowly pronouncing the words in Orcish. "Are you lost?"

"Kal'rak." the boy replied, banging his closed fist on his chest. "Lost... Hungry."

The man let out a sigh of relief and turned to the woman, speaking again in the strange language the boy did not recognize.

"A lost, hungry boy, Martha..." the man said, looking shaken. "And raised by... them, no less..."

"Look at him..." she replied, still visibly disturbed. "He's so young..."

Kal'rak did not understand what was happening, but the two seemed incredibly sad as they looked at him. The female ran out of the room and came back a moment later, carrying a wooden tray laden with strange food he had never seen before. The smell, however, was quite inviting, especially given how long it had been since his last meal. The female motioned at him to sit down at the bed, and as he did so she placed the tray on his lap. He proceeded to devour everything in mere moments, the new tastes further encouraging his appetite. Bread, fruit jam, cheese, grapes, all things the Frostwolf Clan had no access to in their exile, as well as a large clay jug full of milk. For the boy, it was a feast.

The two watched him eat, seemingly calming down though still in an emotional state. They started whispering something to each other, but were interrupted by a very loud noise outside that made them stiffen.

"Not again..." the man growled. Surprised by the sudden display of anger, Kal'rak followed his gaze. The man looked out the window, and then ran out of the room, yelling something at the woman. Wondering what was going on, Kal'rak temporarily forgot his feast and followed him just in time to see him grab a strange object that was leaning against the wall next to the doorway, a long metal tube with some kind of wooden attachments. He then stepped outside, holding the object vertically.

Jonathan Kent had been a veteran of the Second War, a son of Hillsbrad and a dedicated husband who had never had the chance to become an actual father by some quirk of fate. His farm was the legacy of his father and grandfather, and he was not going to let either brigands or wildlife threaten it.

It just so happened that he was dealing with a combination of both. Since the First War, ogres had spread across the Eastern Kingdoms like a plague, both squatting in abandoned areas left empty by the First and Second Wars and sometimes aggressively seizing isolated homesteads. They had been a menace to his farm in particular since his return from the Second War, and he hated them with a passion. He had been lucky enough to befriend a dwarven artisan during the war, who had crafted rifles for his regiment, and even luckier to be allowed to keep it and a lifetime supply of ammunition as a parting gift once his service to the Alliance was concluded.

He stepped outside just in time to see one of the brutes, of the single headed cyclopean variety, grab Blanchie, likely planning to eat the poor mare. He was having none of it. Kal'rak watched as he aimed the strange tube and, with a crack of thunder, the ogre's eye erupted in a shower of blood. The creature screamed, dropping the terrified mare, and slumped to the floor, dead.

However, three more soon came into view, shouting obscenities in their language. Even Kal'rak, who had been raised by orcs, held the creatures in contempt, knowing from Drek'thar's stories exactly what kind of vicious thugs they usually were.

He watched as Blanchie got back on her feet and scurried away, and as the pinksin did something with his weapon.

Jonathan bit down a curse as the rifle jammed and struggled to get it working again. In a fury, one of the ogres quickly crossed the distance and backhanded him across the face, knocking him limply to the ground.

What happened next would be the subject of conversations in countless inns, taverns and local festivals for years to come. As Kal'rak watched in horror as the first of his kind he had ever met was struck down, his heart started pounding like a war drum and a rage unlike anything he had ever felt in his life took hold, dwarfing even the one that had driven him to his reckless charge into the blizzard. As he clenched his fists, the farmer's wife felt a tremendous heat radiate from his small body. As her legs gave way from the shock of watching her husband's state, Kal'rak darted out the door, crossing the distance to the ogres instantly.

Martha Kent had seen her share of strange things, in no small part due to the orcish invasion, but she was utterly dumbfounded at what was going on in front of her eyes. Leaning against the wall for support, she managed to peek outside just in time to see the boy's right fist collide with the offending ogre's head, sending him flying with a loud, sickening crunch. But the boy was not done, not by any means.

An inhuman roar erupted from his chest, and Martha watched as he, with his eyes glowing red and screaming orcish warcries interspersed with expletives, proceeded to utterly devastate the rest of the band with his bare hands and feet, moving too fast for her eyes to follow. With each punch and kick, they would be sent flying with a sickening crunch, never to rise again, and with each ogre he felled, his rage only seemed to reach new heights. In a few brutal instants, it was all over, and in total eight ogres were lying dead in the Kent farmstead grounds. As the last of them fell, Kal'rak, still in the throes of his rage, kept punching his face until it was reduced to a bloody pulp. Bloodied, exhausted by his outburst, and now with his meal churning in his stomach from the paroxysm of fury, he eventually stopped and turned to Jonathan's limp form. He could not put it into words or even explain in coherent thoughts what he was feeling, as he had finally found another of his own kind only to watch him struck down, but instead he let out a tearful wail.

Watching the bloodied wild child's wordless grief as he shook her husband's limp body, Martha felt her heart about to shatter... and then skip a beat as the boy suddenly stopped and went silent, eyes wide in surprise. As she ran closer, she realized Jonathan was breathing again, weakly, but very much alive, although probably somewhat worse for the wear. For his part, as Jonathan slowly opened his eyes, he was utterly confused by the entire scene. He coughed and reached for his face, feeling a sharp pain that indicated his nose was broken, but everything else seemed to still be one piece.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" he muttered, looking at the boy.

Years later...

The monastery of the Order of Tirisfal stood solemn and silent as the clergy inside went about their daily duties. As a tall figure clad in simple white robes and with its head covered in a hood walked by the courtyard, some of the acolytes stopped their physical training activities and started murmuring to each other, staring at the it.

The newcomer ignored them, proceeding further inside at a brisk pace, not running, but still with clearly urgent steps. The veteran clergy stood out of the way, that the figure was on an important assignment and should not be delayed.

Reaching the inner sanctum, the figure pushed aside the massive wooden door and came face to face with an older man, clad in white robes with golden embroidery, far more elaborate than those of anyone outside, while still retaining a mostly functional and humble appearance.

The man looked tired, and somewhat emaciated, covering his mouth with his right hand to muffle a bout of coughing before addressing the newcomer.

"Thank you for making it on such short notice." he said, as he attempted to rise from his chair for a proper greeting.

Seeing his state, the newcomer instead approached, gesturing at him to stay as he was. Even taking a knee, the newcomer still towered over the older man, placing one of his large hands on the cleric's shoulder with surprising care for someone his size.

"Are you ill?" the newcomer asked with concern.

"So it seems." the older man answered, suppressing another fit of coughing. "It would be better for you not to get too close. But that is not why I called you here. Please, stand."

The newcomer did as instructed and waited in silence. Alonsus Faol knew more than he let on for the most part. His awareness of matters that eluded the immediate attention of those around him was both a blessing and a curse. This case in particular seemed to be leaning further towards the latter, given his frown and evident fatigue.

"There are dark events in motion, my boy." he finally said. "I have not been able to put all the pieces together yet, but I already feel that we are running out of time. I trained you as best as I could, but I fear it may not be enough. Regardless, it will have to do for now. I have a new task for you."

"What would you ask of me?" the newcomer asked without hesitation.

"You have always shown tremendous potential, but I have kept you sequestered from much of the outside world out of fear that your incomplete training would end up undoing your good work, or that you would get overeager and endanger yourself. But now it is time for direct intervention."

The Archbishop produced a scroll of parchment from a pocket in his robes, bound with his personal wax seal. From another pocket, he produced a golden insignia in the shape of a roaring lion's head, attached to a long leather strap.

"You must seek out my former pupil. The Silver Hand will need your strength in the dark times ahead. This letter of introduction will expedite your induction, and given the circumstances and your talents, you will not be simply one of the rank and file. I know you have long wished to join them, and given your talents and the quality of your character, it would be a waste to have you start as a squire."

The hooded figure struggled to maintain its composure, clearly caught off guard by the Archbishop's words.

"Your Eminence..." the figure began to say, at a loss for words.

"My boy, I know that you and I did not always see eye to eye, especially on the matter of your training and upbringing. I know that if it were up to you, you would be out in the world at large, being a force for the greater good as you have always longed for. Perhaps some of my caution was not that of a teacher but that of an old man fearing for the safety of a child. Perhaps all of this was unnecessary, or its value will not be readily apparent to you, but for my part, I am glad to have had this opportunity. Now is your time to grow, to stand with your own strength."

The Archbishop seemed conflicted, harboring both brimming pride and deep sorrow. The figure pondered this for a moment, and, feeling its scrutiny, Alonsus composed himself and placed the insignia around the figure's neck before handing it the sealed scroll.

"You must make haste for Andorhal. Try not to draw too much attention until you arrive, but do not tarry. I sense the hand of a terrible enemy at work here, and your presence may well be the tipping point."

The figure nodded and turned to leave. As it did so, Alonsus watched.

"Go with the Light, child." he muttered to himself.

Little did the figure know, this was the last time it would see the Archbishop alive again.

Andorhal, the regional distribution center for grain in eastern Lordaeron, was going through dark days. After the horrors of the Second War had seemed gone and forgotten, the population was now confronted by whispered rumors of a vile cult lurking in the shadows and of a plague that had already devastated remote villages... and more recently, the very palpable threat of undead hordes roaming the countryside.

"What madness is this?" a footman lamented, struggling to maintain his composure as he finished wiping the foul ichor from a ghoul off the blade of his sword as he surveyed the field ahead through the slit of his helmet with tired eyes. The elegant suit of plate armor was marred and stained with mud, blood and other substances he did not care to think about.

Ahead, a lone figure stood, brandishing a massive hammer against a pack of ghouls, each swing reducing the rotting flesh and desiccated bone to mangled remains on the muddy ground.

Arthas Menethil was having a very bad day. After being confronted with remnants of the Horde and their filthy demon worshiping ways, and discovering the handiwork of the Cult of the Damned, he had made all haste to Andorhal in hopes of intercepting the grain shipments that were spreading the Cult's plague. Instead he had found empty warehouses and undead roaming the fields. As the dread gripping his heart started turning into sheer horror, he redoubled his efforts, still believing he could counter the Cult's plans if he pushed himself far enough.

His regal armor was stained with ghoul ichor and orc blood. His face was pale and his eyes were rimmed by black circles, telltale signs of his lack of sleep. His long blond hair was disheveled from long rides exposed to the elements and vicious battles, and he was seriously pondering cutting it short so it would not get in the way. His gloved hands gripped the handle of his massive hammer and swung it with reckless abandon as the mind commanding them was beginning to show the signs of obsession.

His command of the Light had been growing unstable as of late, likely a result of his growing dread. He had little time to ponder this, however, as a larger pack of ghouls rushed forth to replace the ones he had just felled. Imbuing the head of the hammer with a golden radiance, he charged to meet them and struck again. The forces under his command were struggling to keep up with his pace.

Behind the hideous mockeries of human life, he saw more of the grotesque spiders, flanked by the increasingly familiar robed figures of the necromancers. Fatigue and dread started giving way to sheer, unadulterated hatred.

So focused was Arthas on the enemies in front of him that he failed to notice several things. The first was the distant sound of galloping steeds, though he could be excused for that given the sounds of the battlefield drowning out almost everything else. The second was the smaller pack of ghouls that took advantage of his bout of tunnel vision to circle around him and attempt to strike from behind. The third was more difficult to describe. A booming sound, echoing through the air as something moved through the skies in a streak of white.

Arthas sensed the movement behind him and turned around just in time to see a ghoul's fetid claws aiming straight for his face. Biting back a swear word, he tried to swing his hammer, knowing that he would likely still get hit. His choice of not wearing a helmet on the field so his troops would recognize him on the spot was beginning not to seem as wise as he had thought.

All this, actions, reactions and thoughts, were cut short as a blinding golden light engulfed his surroundings, forcing him to close his eyes. The undead let out wailing screams the likes of which he had not heard before and his nose was assaulted by the stench of burning flesh. Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes.

The entire battle stopped momentarily as the soldiers, finally catching up with their prince, saw a towering figure, even taller than Arthas, strand in front of him.

Surprised, but trying to maintain what little of his composure was left after the ordeals of the last several days, Arthas gazed upon the figure as it removed its hood, revealing a young man, barely an adult, with ruffled black hair and piercing blue eyes, clad in a white cloak that barely concealed a suit of plate bearing the familiar design of the Silver Hand's armory.

"Are you all right?" the young man asked, baffling everyone present by the contrast between the imposing figure and the surprisingly soft voice.

"Who...?" Arthas managed to ask.

The young man simply stood at attention and saluted.

"Apologies for my lateness. I am Brother Kent... of the Silver Hand."

He had waited most of his life to say those words, and now he was finally in the front lines. Little did Kal'rak – or Clark – know just how far his journey would take him, and how he would change the world around him.