Through the Portal into Hell Itself

"Light save us," Joanne breathed in shock. The sensations of being pulled in several different directions at once had been shocking enough, but once they emerged on the other side of the Dark Portal, the alien landscape before her was nothing like what Fentulk described.

It was a wasteland, somehow more devastatingly ruined than what they called the Blasted Lands. Every scrap of life had been sucked away from this place, leaving nothing but red sand as far as the eye could see. In the distance to her right, Joanne spied what looked like a huge inverted mountain top, hanging in the air. And the sky...

She had no words to describe it. Currents of greenish yellow energy flowed like rivers where clouds should have been. She could see what looked like moons, enlarged to mammoth size and close enough to touch. Heat and sand billowed across this arid land, carried by a merciless wind that cut through their meager clothing and left grit in their eyes and mouths.

This land was dead. Utterly and completely. Even someone like Joanne, with no training to detect the pulse of life in the world around them, could sense its agonized end of years before.

"Fentulk...," she whispered, lips trembling, "please tell me... this is not..."

Shaking himself, Fentulk sighed. "No, it ain't. This is Hellfire Peninsula. My... some of my folk..." He paused and looked away in shame. "We did this. Orcs. Maybe we was under the demons' taint at the time, but... most of m-my people..." Mustering as much pride as he could manage, he said, "Thrall's clan didn't do this. They never turned their backs on the elements. 'S'why he's killin' hisself to save Azeroth. Don't wanna see this happen there."

Looking around to orient himself, he saw the Horde soldiers mustering on the landing at the foot of the stone steps below them. His eyes immediately went further, to the very bottom of the long descent from the Portal. There, engaged in fierce battle, was a gigantic four-legged pit commander and his many demonic minions. A quick scan revealed not just Horde but Alliance soldiers, fighting side-by-side against the common threat.

The Portal could no longer be closed. This garrison, along with its mate on the Azeroth side, was the last bulwark against another full-scale incursion of the Burning Legion into Azeroth.

Joanne followed his gaze and gasped, then clung to his side. He immediately wrapped an arm protectively around her. She'd never seen anything like those creatures in her life. There were many things on Draenor that would frighten her, he knew.

Turning, he gently took her chin between his thick fingers and urged her to look at him instead of the carnage below them. "Listen to me, Joanne," he said, his voice a soft rumble. "This ain't all of Draenor. We'll get to my home, I promise. It don't look like this. There ain't..." He'd wanted to say there weren't demons there, but the Legion still maintained a foothold in every region. Nagrand was no exception. "Them demons down there... there ain't that many of'em there, and they ain't nowhere near Garadar."

Eyes swimming with terrified tears, Joanne barely kept her voice under control. "I... want to... trust you, but... I am so..."

"Trust ain't given, it's earned," he said firmly. "Shoulda told yuh 'bout this. Guess I... well, I didn't forget exactly." Looking back at the horribly blighted land and its eternal reminder of his people's arrogance, he winced. "Wish I could."

"I want to leave this place," she said. "How do we..."

"Been givin' it a bit of thought," he said. "There's a neutral city we could go to, called Shattrath. But I gotta take a Horde flight, and you gotta take an Alliance..."

"No," Joanne interrupted. "No, do not leave me. Not even... No, please. Is there any way we can travel together?"

Grimacing with even more embarrassment, he said, "Don't matter anyway. We got no money. We'll have to go on foot."

Joanne blanched, but said nothing. Fentulk wasn't happy about the prospect either. Only one small spark of hope shone in this bleak situation.

"Probably a day or so from here's a Mag'har settlement, up in the mountains that way," he said, pointing. "We get there, maybe... maybe they'll help us." Even he wasn't particularly encouraged by his faltering tone. "We gotta try, anyway. Thrallmar's on the way, but... I just don't wanna take a chance on somethin' like Hammerfall happenin' again. They mighta taken you away. Ain't gonna let that happen here," he assured her firmly.

Taking her hand, he gave her an encouraging smile, then led her down the steps.

The frequent skirmishes at the Dark Portal were routine enough that a means of transporting civilians past the front lines had been concocted by both the Horde and the Alliance. A wyvern flew them through the hot, dry air over the battle and the demonic hordes, then deposited them on the road just beyond. Fentulk winced; this road was called the Path of Glory, and was paved with the bones of the Draenei killed a generation ago as the first act of murderous bloodshed the Orcs' demonic masters demanded. He didn't want to have to explain to Joanne why it was done, or why the road stretched for miles and miles...

Fentulk felt no real joy at being 'home' just yet; he was looking at this shameful region again with Joanne's eyes, a woman who knew nothing of the history. Telling her about it would open old wounds he thought he didn't have. He was too young to remember Guldan selling the souls of their people to the Burning Legion for his own personal gain, the lust for blood that drove them through the Dark Portal, the wars fought on both worlds, the destruction of their own world in the attempt to reach other worlds to conquer. He'd always known Draenor as it was now; his parents remembered it from before the sundering.

Perhaps when they reached the green grasslands of Nagrand, he would feel relief that his journey had ended and he was home at long last. But pain lanced through him, remembering that the woman he wished to share such happiness with no longer trusted him. She no longer believed he was a man of honor.

Furrowing his brow and standing straight, Fentulk vowed to prove himself to her. He would win her heart if it took him the rest of his life.

His thoughts were broken by a seismic tremor that shook the ground beneath their feet. Darting his eyes around, Fentulk found the cause of it... bearing down on them.

"Run!" he cried, grabbing her hand and taking off. She barely managed to keep up with him. Glancing back, she saw the gigantic... thing... she had no idea what she was looking at.

"What is it?" she panted.

"Fel reaver!" he barked, his eyes scanning for a hiding place. Before them were a line of broken down siege engines and collapsed catapaults from a long ago battle. If they could get under one, they might escape detection from the mechanical monstrosity. "In there, go!" He all but flung her tumbling and rolling across the dusty ground ahead of him, then dove under the rubble behind her.

"Quiet," he hissed, covering her mouth with his large hand and holding her close. She trembled so much in his arms, he could barely tell the difference between her shaking and the vibrations from the giant metalshod feet. He shielded her the best he could, straining his ears above the fel creation's engine noise for the tell-tale metallic roar that meant its prey was spotted.

To his relief, it continued on its patrol, oblivious to their presence. Relaxing somewhat, he looked at Joanne. She was mussed and covered from head to toe in red dust, but otherwise all right. Reaching up, he gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, and chuckled. His own dirty hand left a red streak across her forehead.

"Fentulk," she whispered fearfully, clinging to the front of his shirt and showing no sign of letting go, "how do your people live here with such... monsters?"

"They don't climb mountains so well," he replied. "'S'why the Mag'har here live so high up. If we can get to them, maybe they'll get us the rest of the way out. Maybe all the way to Zangarmarsh."

Her lip trembled. "What is that land like?"

"Swamplands," he said. "Giant mushrooms that grow as tall and thick as trees. More water than it can hold, but none to spare for this cursed pit." He spat over his shoulder. The dry earth soaked up the moisture almost instantly. "Better get goin' 'fore that fuckin' thing comes back around."

Slowly, he edged out, looking around for any sign of the fel reaver. Thankfully, it was already nearly a mile away, stomping on its endless circuit. The Burning Legion brought its fleshlike demonic hordes to slay anything and everything, but it also brought its thinkers and copiers. Inventions of the gnomes and goblins were perverted into mammoth size and deadliness, then set loose upon the inventors. Creations such as the fel reavers needed no commands or organization; they were simply machines given one single task, which they carried out with cold and ruthless precision.

If it lives, kill it.

Taking Joanne's hand, he led her off the bone-paved road onto a dirt track he knew would pass alarmingly close to Thrallmar, but would at least get them heading in the right direction. It would be a couple of days' travel to get across the wasteland. As they walked, he realized their precarious position was even worse than he'd imagined. The pack of rations he'd gotten from the human at Refuge Point was seriously depleted. Only two water skins were in it as well, one empty now. It would take a day at least to get to Thrallmar on foot, which he now saw as no longer optional. Steeling himself, Fentulk summoned Moke and reluctantly set the bird on patrol in the skies above. One more mouth in need of water they didn't have...

"I think we'll have to stop in Thrallmar," he said quietly, and Joanne looked at him uncertainly.

"I thought you did not want to go there," she reminded him.

"Got no choice," he growled. "We ain't got water. I flew here when I last came through. Takes a lot less time. You and me... we'll be movin' slower cause we're on foot."

"I see," she whimpered. Squeezing her eyes shut against the red glare that seemed to radiate not just from the unobstructed sun overhead but the very ground at her feet, she tried not to let her grip slip. This was a nightmare. Far worse than anything she'd imagined. That such a place could still be considered 'home' to anyone...

She clung to his words, to his promise that this wasn't his home. His home was still green and growing, still full of light, still alive. Even the promise of this Zangarmarsh place was something to hold onto in the face of such devastation.

But he would get her there. He'd promised. For all her resistance to him since Hammerfall, regardless that she stiffened at his touch and returned his gazes with anger and hurt... When she walked out of the tower, everything she knew was left behind. She put herself completely in Fentulk's hands, leaving nothing in her own.

Her mind wandered as they trudged along in the sweltering heat. What she'd possessed was meager at best, now that she thought about it. As a servant chained by law and debt, had she really held any measure of control in her life? Isolated as they were, anything could be done to her, as was done to her mother, and there would be no one to defend her, none to protect her. She was no better than a slave to the whims of others.

Then came Fentulk, a man whose suffering moved her like no other prisoner's had before. Many protested their innocence; few clearly were. None showed any concern for her or the other servants, nor did they demand more abuse be heaped upon their broken bodies to spare it being done to another, a servant least of all.

How could she help but be drawn to him? How could she deny his entreaty to escape with him to a land so far away that none of her 'employers' could hope to reclaim her? A place where she could have a life, a future, not endless toil for no personal gain.

Her faith in him was shaken by the supposition that he had merely 'collected' her as a trophy, yet another human woman to boast of among his fellows. She felt a fool, thinking he was as innocent and inexperienced as she. Believing every word from his lips of how he cared for none but her, only to hear of another with whom he'd shared more than she was quite prepared to give. He'd led her to believe he would honor and respect her, yet he lay with some woman he never expected to...

She'd thought and thought about the words he'd said, the expressions on his face, when he spoke of Karie. He never degraded her for what they shared, she realized. Joanne now recalled idle words spoken within her hearing at the tower, men who visited Stormwind and the shady women they enjoyed while there. She recalled the words they used – whore, tramp, harlot – many others she somehow knew were descriptive of parts of the women's bodies the men favored, as if that were the only thing of use such women provided. Vile things were said, and much laughter shared at the women's expense.

No such terms passed Fentulk's lips when speaking of Karie. He called her a 'good woman,' and Joanne had no reason to believe he meant it in jest. Fentulk defended her, insisting that none describe her with foul names.

As she walked at his side, sometimes glancing at his grim countenance, she wondered what made him so different from those men. Why he would show nothing but respect to a woman with whom he supposedly only had a brief encounter, one with a clear and limited purpose.

Were there still feelings for this woman plaguing him? Did he declare his love for her, only to be rebuked? Joanne didn't know, and was afraid to ask lest the answer tear the fragile affection for him that held on so tenuously in her own heart. Yet how much longer could she endure not knowing?

There was also the matter of his vow to her in Hammerfall. He went down on one knee and implored her with his eyes, begging her to trust in his word as he swore not to lay claim to her. It only occurred to her now what he was giving her.

He swore not to touch her, not to push himself on her, if she didn't want him. No matter how he felt about her, no matter how much he wanted her, no matter what power he had over her in this world or any other, he would not use it against her. She was free to make her own choices, guide her own fate. Fentulk put her life into her own hands by committing himself to such an oath.

How could she not love him for that?

The ripple of longing that passed through her at the realization nearly sent her to her knees. Fentulk was right there with a reassuring hand to steady her, and she clung to him gratefully. How could it have happened, that a brutish, vulgar-tongued Orc could so capture her heart?

The sun had descended, casting the red landscape into blackness where green fire periodically spouted to light up the night, when they reached the gates of Thrallmar. Separation was out of the question; Fentulk felt no confidence that leaving Joanne outside, even well-hid, would ensure her safety. They were met by a pair of grunts, as the guards were often called in Horde cities. One stayed with them, eying them beadily with a hand on his axe haft, while the other trotted toward the stronghold.

"Gotta ask," the grunt said finally. "What's she with you for?"

Fentulk puffed himself up a bit, trying to look more intimidating than he felt at the moment. "Ain't your concern. I ain't sayin' nothin' till the commander gets here."

Shrugging, the grunt fell silent. A few minutes later, the dark forms of two broad-shouldered Orcs appeared in the gloom beyond the torchlight at the gates.

"This better be good," growled the newcomer the other grunt brought back. The Orc wore a wolfskin drape over his dark green shoulders, and the animal's head had been fashioned to serve as a helm. "I'm Nazgrel. Whattayou want?"

"Sir," Fentulk said respectfully, dipping his chin in a nod. He wasn't a soldier; a salute felt uncomfortable to him. "Lookin' for a place to sleep is all. On our way to Nagrand. Got no money, no mount, no food, no water..." Suddenly his throat slammed shut and he found himself nearly losing his grip as he told this stern-faced Orc their plight. "Please, sir," he said brokenly. "Just for the night. We won't be no trouble. Just for the night."

He felt Joanne's gentle hand on his arm, and covered it with his own. Nazgrel narrowed his eyes.

"Human, eh?" he growled.

Fentulk raised his chin defiantly, but said nothing. He and the commander glared at one another for several tense moments before Nazgrel snarled, "Don't want human scum littering up my hold. If I didn't owe it to Thrall to be civil to the Mag'har, I'd send you on your way and good riddance to you. Take your bit of baggage to the inn, but I want you two out of here by first light. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Fentulk said gratefully. "Thank you, sir."

Nazgrel spat at the brown-skinned Orc's feet, gave him one last disgusted look, then stomped away into the darkness.

"Come on, it's this way," the first grunt offered, and he led the pair to the inn. On the way, he said quietly, "Don't take it hard. He's a right bastard where the Alliance is concerned. Lucky you got brown skin or he wouldn't give you the time of day." Glancing past Fentulk at the frightened woman's face, he added sympathetically, "I'll get you some supplies in the morning. You ain't gonna get far in the wastes without water."

"Thank you," Fentulk replied with relief.

"Ain't my business, but... uh... she your mate or somethin'?"

Badly as he wanted to say she was, Fentulk shook his head. He didn't need to look at her for confirmation, either.

"We are... friends," Joanne offered in a timid voice. "Close... friends."

The grunt shrugged. "Happens, I suppose. Here you go," he said, stopping at the entrance to the inn. "Tell Floyd your room's on me. Name's Trukk. He'll take care of you."

"Thank you," Joanne said feelingly. "You've been more than kind."

The Orc's cheeks darkened to a richer green and he wasn't able to hide his smile very well as he shrugged again. "Got a girl back home my folks don't like. Know how it is." Glancing about to make sure none heard, he whispered, "Blood Elf. Her folks ain't too fond of me, neither."