Chapter 7: Traveled Roads
"Four years ago I stood atop Icecrown Citadel at the roof of the world. With the power of the Waters of Eternity harvested from the base of the World Tree I fought the Lich King for the defense of Azeroth. On the icy fields and slopes of Northrend our armies raged and clashed, and the sky itself was rent with thunder and malice. I stabbed the beast in the heart but it was not enough...not near enough. I should have died that day, but I did not." Alaric's gaze pierced the thin, yellow-striped flaps of the tent.
Osra Leone had heard the tales of Alaric'Quel's great expedition to Northrend. By uniting the leaders of the Alliance, he'd gathered an army, re-conquered Quel'thalas, and invaded the home of the Lich King himself. The tales all ended in heroic defeat though. The arms of Azeroth fought tooth and nail to prove that the instinct to live trumped all, almost dying to a man. Then, as quickly as he appeared on the scene, Alaric'Quel had disappeared. Some said he had been slain, others that he'd fled, and darker yet, that he had gone to the Lich King for power.
"But you know all this. My forces were scattered to the wind and our hope broken. Using what power the Waters had left, I left this world to find allies and weapons in Outland." The elf saw Osra's confusion "Draenor, as it used to be called; the ruinous home of the orcs. If the powers of the Well of Eternity could not defeat the Lich King, I would have to search elsewhere."
Osra knew not of any Well of Eternity or magical Waters, but she did not question. She simply sat and listened. The elf was finally beginning to open up, and she wouldn't ruin his tale with excessive questions.
"Now I can see it was all foolishness. I should stayed in Azeroth and helped sheppard my people. My own stubborn will to prove some lost cause cost me more than I can ever regain. And it has cost lives, many lives." Alaric spoke, his eyes never blinking, holding no emotion.
Osra frowned, remembering the huge, barely healed wound on his left pectoral. The old wound had taken a chunk out of his chest, leaving it discolored and indented. She'd seen even more when helping undress him for his operation. Dozens of smaller ones crisscrossed around his back, and thin, white scars traced his underarms. They were the scars from battle...and torture.
"What happened on Drae-Outland?"
Alaric's lip turned up in a crooked smile.
"Outland was the beginning of the end. Everything changed and I opened my eyes."
Northrend, 3 1/2 Years Ago
"Milord…I do not understand" Dethal, so dear a friend and loyal aid, said in confusion.
"Nor do you have to. It has not been in vain Dethal, my friends. This fight, this war, has greatly damaged the Scourge. I myself wounded Arthas. Now they know how ferocious an animal can be when cornered. We can still win, but to do so we must have more allies. The Alliance will not fully back us, and we are scattered and hurt." he explained.
Alaric pulled out one of the three remaining vials of the water he'd collected at Mount Hyjal and poured it onto the ground, waved a hand, and immediately a ripple tore in the air before them. A huge portal now stood in their midst, its chaotic magic twisting and writhing as it was tamed by Alaric's spell. The waters were more powerful than anything else in the world. It was by their power that the army had penetrated so deeply into the Scourge's territory, and that Alaric had been able to harm Arthas.
"I travel to Outland, Dethal…I leave you in control of our army. Keep ready, my brethren. I shall return with our wayward brothers in Outland. I will find Kael'thas, and we will be reunited."
I will return.
Dethal, Duran Talonfist, and the rest of the blood elves stood, confusion and disbelief etched across their faces. Their gold, green, and crimson armor was stained and broken by battle, but those who remained still carried their pride like proper elves. So many of their kind had already fallen, but again and again those few who could rose up and challenged the most powerful evils in the world. With such wills, the world could be made right again. It had to be. There was no other way in the fight for survival.
In the distance, great pillars of smoke rose from the wreckage of the battlefield and littered Icecrown Glacier. Even further away a thin pillar of crystal ice shone like a blue spear piercing the wispy purple and orange clouds. Arthas.
I will show that bastard. I'll show them all. Alaric's thoughts echoed back to him. The same burning desire had been the flame that had lit this war. At the end of this road though, he just wasn't powerful enough. The Lich King had beat him and won, but the war was not without its victories. Time, the most precious resource, had been bought. It was the exact thing he needed now. He turned his attention to Dethal.
"I give you this blade, Quel'Barrar,the High Sword, given to me by my father and his father to him. I leave you as the commander of this force, the responsibility Regent Lord of Quel'Thalas and any Blood Elves that still follow the Great Pine Banner. I shall see you win time. We cannot repeat the mistakes of the past again, Dethal. May the Light forever be with you my friend…" Alaric spoke solemnly. He handed Dethal the shattered hilt of his family's sword. The heirloom belonged in Quel'thalas. It was a symbol of power, and would lend itself to Dethal's hegemony over the elves until his return.
Forgive me for leaving, friend. It is the only hope of one day defeating the Lich King. We need new allies and we need new weapons. These Waters of Eternity are so little, and our people so few. I will return, and then we will end it.
The elf repeated the thought to himself as he turned to face each of his people. These few, only fifteen, were all that remained of the blood elves whom he'd taken with him on the expedition here to Northrend. The grinding campaign had taken its toll on them and his once illustrious army, which had marched from Southshore to Quel'thalas, and from the shores of Northrend to Icecrown itself. Pride and love swelled within him as he saw the banners of the Alliance held high, even in defeat.
I will return.
Looking around one more time, Alaric soaked in what he could. With a determined look in his piercing eyes, he breathed deeply his last air from Azeroth, and boldly stepped through the rippling portal, and out of view.
Stars exploded around Alaric, and he fell weightlessly through a tunnel of twisting green. The most distant cosmos felt but a reach away, and the skies of a thousand worlds wheeled overhead. Time stretched out and contracted to meaninglessness. Eons swept past, and fractions of a second groaned by slowly, each the lifetime of a star.
With a thud he fell onto cold, red, cracked clay. With eyes wide open, he stared as the cosmos unfolded above him. The elf slowly stood, legs feeling like jelly. Suddenly he lurched sideways and vomited. His body shook violently, and for a long while he lay on the ground shivering watching the sky. A comet was passing overhead, seemingly static in the far off reaches of space.
When at last the elf felt strength creep back into his bones, he stood, looking around.
"I have brought myself to hell itself." He muttered as he took his first uneasy steps toward destiny. The wastes of Outland stretched to the horizon to meet vicious red mountains, behind which the rising sun plastered shadows to the earth. The wind brought the alkaline smell of a cold desert.
Alaric saw a far off spire in the distance, black as the night sky above. Or was it night? The sun was rising. Suddenly the elf felt disoriented. The laws of Azeroth did not apply to this forsaken place.
Might as well start there. Suddenly the realization hit Alaric. He had no plan, no clue where Prince Kael'thas and his blood elves might be. There were no maps, no directions. He could not even tell north from south. Even the stars were alien and unfamiliar.
"And I am not a good tracker, either." Alaric talked to himself. The silence of this place was eerie. He felt as if the ghosts of the past would haunt him if no noise were made.
Battles beyond count and reckoning likely drenched every crevice of his land in blood at some point or another. After all, it was the homeland of the orcs, whom even now infested Azeroth after their invasion.
Alaric continued his trek through the rugged land, the terrain changing to more hills punctuated by deep, winding canyons. Little green rivers ran through the canyons. After descending to test the water, Alaric drank deeply. Even though the liquid had the same alkaline taste as the air, it was one of the sweetest things he'd ever drank.
There was no sign of life anywhere though. No fish, and no animals. Not even plants, save for the scraggly thorn bushes that seemed to erupt anywhere where they could cling to sturdy walls. Alaric avoided them. Even without the wind, the long vines of the thorns seemed to writhe ever so slowly, and piles of bones seemed to surround the bushes.
For a brief moment he allowed himself rest. Since the battle at Northrend he'd had none. His whole body ached, from hair to bone. Silent reflection passed through his mind and he felt his eyes grow heavy. Dreams of Quel'thalas, golden trees swaying in gentle wind, with rolling hills peaking above the temperate forests, came and went. Shining Silvermoon and quiet Tranquillen and even the mighty Sun Forts flittered before his eyes as he dozed.
Suddenly noise echoed through the canyon. Footsteps. In his exhaustion he'd been taken unawares. Alaric could only look to the left where the rock walls split off in different directions before blood curdling screams and axes were upon him. What was it? His mind did not have time to register.
Blocking an attack by grabbing his assailer's wrist, the elf twisted the axe out of a sweaty, scarlet palm. Alaric ducked below a second attack, then dodged a third, and parried once more with the chipped stone axe. The axe splintered against iron.
Orcs? They're bloody orcs! Though the red-fleshed bore some of the twisted visages of demon-spawn, they were undeniably orc; the black manes of hair, hunched backs, and bulging muscles, as well as the unmistakable eyes of bloodlust. Many of his attackers had horns sprouting painfully from their skulls, while still others had more black, bony material erupting from below their skin on various parts of their body.
The demonic corruption. It has bled into this land and the orcs, dying them its color.
With no weapons, Alaric felt himself fall into the familiar state of peace and chaos that was magic. Power exploded within him like a blinding light that had to be released. The elf unleashed a torrent of magic which cascaded through the crags, turning the water to steam and melting rock into magma. At least three orcs were caught in the sudden flood of red hot rock. Exultation and exhilaration flooded through him. Whips of flame and smoke lashed at the orcs that rushed onward, too fooled by their lust for elfblood to know the situation.
Power. So much power. He felt even more powerful than before, as if the magic were coursing through his veins like blood. Alaric felt greater here than ever before on Azeroth. No wonder Prince Kael'thas had traveled to this land. It was soaked - no, saturated with magic.
Arrows began to fall about him, all deflected by a barrier he erected by twisting threads of energy around himself like a tight net. He gathered the magic into himself, feeling more alive than ever. Every shadowy feature on the orcs amplified, the smell of old bones from the thorn bushes rushed into his nostrils, and even the sounds of the windy green river exploded into his ears.
"Andu -" Alaric held his hands up, tendrils of magic slithering around his body. "FALAS!"
Swirling green fire erupted from beneath his flesh. The conflagration spread, engulfing the demon orcs that surrounded him. Abrupt screams were cut short by the heat as Alaric poured more energy into the flames, which tinged white hot.
Then the world darkened again. Alaric felt the magic leaving him. Stunned, he looked around at what he'd wrought. The canyon floor had turned to black glass, leaving not even the ashes of his enemies. The exhaustion hit him once more.
"Making friends on Draenor is easy." Alaric laughed to himself as he saw one orc, legs taken by the fire. This archer had stood far enough away to escape death. Mostly.
Perfect.
Approaching, Alaric saw a black tower tattooed onto the orc's left breast. The orc howled in pain and fear, attempting to escape by crawling on his arms. His bulging biceps were strained and pumped full of the same purple blood that drenched his body. The orc continued to scuttle away, screaming in its bestial language.
"So, there are more of you in that tower, eh? Telling me that much, you at least deserve a clean death." Alaric knelt down beside the orc, placing a hand on its temple. The orc whimpered.
Later that day
The vicious land of Draenor's Hellfire Peninsula was no place for fools. Windswept plains of dry, red desert suddenly gave way to deep gorges, hostile wildlife, tar pits, and far worse. The weak and the fools had long ago died off, leaving only hardened old people in its place.
Meric Bastonn shifted his dusty cloak around him. The winds were cold at night, cutting down to the bone when they howled in from the Blade's Edge Mountains. A scraggly hellthorn bramble rustled around the soldier and his fellows. The damnable thorns were the size of a fist and dangerous as a dagger. They made for good ambush spots though.
Stars shone overhead. Meric glanced at them for a moment, wondering if Azeroth was somewhere amongst the plethora of dots. He quickly quenched the thought when he heard the padding of footsteps. Their quarry was nearing, as the scouts reported. The soldier waved to his companions also lying in wait. They move up to his side quietly. None wore mail or plate or anything that would give away their position.
Meric's keen eyes watched the road keenly. It was an old road paved by the orcs long ago, or so he'd been told. In fact, it wasn't a difficult idea to believe; the road was paved with the skeletons of the conquered. Thousands of skulls and bones had been placed in the ground supposedly those whom the Horde had conquered. It lead from the Hellfire Citadel to the Dark Portal itself. Near the Portal some of the bones were human, brought back from Azeroth when the orcs poured into their world.
Orcish voices rose from the road. Slowly he peaked out of the bush. Eight orcs from the Citadel, their flesh flushed scarlet, marched up the road, readying their axes as they spotted the elf. They quickly surrounded him, shouting in their guttural language. In their midst, stepping gingerly upon the bones of the Skulled Road, a silhouetted elf seemed to float. His hair appeared white under the starlight.
Whatever it was, it was no orc. It looked more like an elf than anything. Had their runner been wrong? The figure's head shot in his direction. Meric ducked.
"Are they meeting up with those blood elves? Those damn demon-whores!" One of Meric's men spat. The leader hushed his man with a slap on the head. Meric understood a few phrases of orcish. He'd studied from one of Honor Hold's prisoners for quite some time. He'd figured that if they were to spend the rest of their lives fighting these monsters, it would come in handy to know at least some of their foul tongue. What he heard was not recognition or greeting. These orcs weren't expecting to meet someone. They weren't sure if they would rather take him back to their filthy fortress or gut and eat him on the spot.
The elf chuckled quietly as the orcs slowly argued all about him. Suddenly his hands flew to the air and bars of flame erupted from them, lancing two orcs in bloody halves. The others charged, screaming their war cries.
"While they're distracted, slay the beasts!" Meric bellowed. His unit flew from the hellthorn bramble, swords flashing with starlight. Arrows flew above their head, pin cushioning two more orcs. A howl filled the air, but its caller crumpled to the ground as human steel cut through throat-flesh. The monsters were taken unawares, three falling to swift bladework in mere moments.
"Lordaeron!" Meric shouted out as he tossed a knife at one of the two fleeing orcs. The weapon found its mark at the base of the orc's skull. An arrow took the last one down. As quickly as the brawl had begun, it was over. What remained were nine corpses, ten men, and an elf. Meric turned his attention to the elf who was already staring at him with icy blue eyes.
"You are a fool to travel in armor, stranger. Fool's don't last long here." Meric rasped, staring the elf up and down. For a moment, the only response was silence. Then the elf bowed his head politely.
"You are fighters of Turalyon's army." Surprise flittered across his face. Meric could feel confusion ripple through his men.
"Aye, but Turalyon be long gone now." Someone said. For a moment the elf paused to realize the situation.
"You from Allerian Stronghold? What news from the forest?" Someone else asked. Meric shushed his men with a foul look.
"I am honored by your presence. Allow me to thank you on behalf of all Azeroth for you sacrifices. I am Alaric Faltron'Quel, of Quel'thalas." A voice smooth and sharp as steel announced.
"He's not one of ours." A silky voice spoke up. Lotus tel Tallon emerged from the brambles, not a one of the needles marring her perfect skin. Two long ears were visible just above her copper mane. With narrow eyes she aimed her orcbone bow.
"Take him alive." Meric grunted.
"Wait, I—" The elf, confused, threw his hands up to avoid conflict. A ape of a man appeared behind him, striking with a quick blow to the elf's head. Meric's sergeant, Burdock Trafford, chuckled as the blood elf collapsed in a heap.
Nonchalantly, Meric strode toward the fallen orcs, jabbing a spear at the base of each of their skulls for good measure. These red-skinned orcs were wont to playing dead, abruptly waking up, and slaying fighters as they walked away from the battlefield.
"What do we do with this one?" Thickly muscled Trafford asked. The dark skinned man knelt beside the unconscious form of the elf.
"Strip, gag, and bind him. I don't want him sneaking any weapons into the dungeon. Danath will be pleased to squeeze the information out of this one." Meric sneered at the elf. After what had happened the last time he'd seen elves, he knew better than to trust their kind again, even those who called themselves allies. He glanced at Lotus and felt his mood sour.
"Let's go boys! Back to Honor Hold!"
-Author's Note-
Hey guys, next chapter as we learn more about the factions on Outland I will include lists that sum up their numbers. I know PacificUser wanted one for those forces back in Lordaeron, but that will have to wait until we return there. Trust me, it's for the best!
My aim is to get the next chapter out before Christmas as I'm in the middle of finals and studying about 10 hours a day, which leaves little room for writing. Happy holidays!