The call for battle finally came.
A final nutritious meal was had by all, as everyone prepared for a long day of fighting.
Jaina Proudmoore walked out of her tent and began making her way to the defensive wall where the first hammer blow would hit.
Tyrande Whisperwind and several thousands of hes archers joined her, along with every gunner, cannoneer, and mage they had, while the melee troops readied themselves to be in reserves to plug up gaps.
From his hut, Thrall Son of Durotan emerged to the triumphant roars from his men, who all knew in their hearts of hearts that their young Warchief would lead them to victory.
Cairne Bloodhoof readied himself with his braves as Magatha Grimtotem prepared herself to relay messages and info across the battlefield, their respective braves also readying themselves for battle.
The Saurfang brothers gave each other a final fistbump as they both went their own way, Varok to lead the Horde part of Jaina proudmoore's camp, and Broxigar to join Fremde and her forces to hold the passes.
The Various Trolls began their final preparations before Battle, either making their appeals to the Loa. The Darkspear felt a surge of energy and awareness as Bwomsandi gave all his approval for their cause. The Shatterspear began to hear the rhythm of war, as the old familiar tempo began to beat in their ears, while harmful sounds became dampened.
The rest of the Dark Trolls made their final farewells with their families and parted with them as the warriors prepared for battle and their families began to retreat to the innermost valley where the armies were eventually planning to retreat to.
In that final Valley, Malfurion Stormrage laid the groundwork for the hinge of the entire operation, while at the Plateau overlooking the first, large valley into Hyjal, old Fremde overlooked the march of demons and undead.
It was going to be a long day of bloodshed and slaughter.
I
Fremde stared down into the valley below, with a chill in her heart.
Thousands of meters down and several times that away from them, the Undead and Demonic Burning legion marched into the valley.
Already in the sky, the aerial part of this battle was beginning to unfold, as demons and Gargoyles were duking it out for supremacy with Hippogriffs, Chimeras, Wyverns, Bats, and Gryphons.
It was already shaping up to be a massive battle, as both sides knew that whoever managed to secure Aerial supremacy would have a massive advantage in the conflict.
She couldn't do anything about that though.
They needed to focus on their part of the battle.
The land battle part.
The horribly outnumbered land battle.
"Hmmm… How many would you say young Hakazi?"
"...One or two million? Dey're not done moving into de valley yet."
One or two million.
Outnumbered somewhere between ten and twenty to one.
Fremde had always known the battle for Hyjal was a desperate affair on the coalition's part. A victory pulled by the skin of their teeth, and a gambit to gamble it all on their trump card at the world tree.
The army in the valley far beneath her, however… It was not just another big army. It was the end of the world in armed form.
Thousands upon thousands of Felhunters, undead Humans and Elves, Balrog-like demons, Infernals, Succubi, Imps, and countless lesser demons she did not recognize.
An army of teeth, claws, and Hellfire had come to extinguish this world.
And opposing them was a gathering of the most unlikely of allies. Elves, Humans, Orcs, Trolls, Tauren, wild animals, Elementals, and other Vagabonds of the Earth.
Enemies who in many cases had tried their damnedest to exterminate each other root and stem at various points in history.
All of which had come to defend this land with their lives. Steel, fang, stone, guns, and magic.
If the Burning Legion wanted to take this land, they would damned well feel their bite.
Now all they had to do was win it. Against impossible odds.
It was… Kinda weird. She KNEW they would win this battle. They were far, far stronger here than originally, and yet… She could not help but feel nervous and worried.
She turned her head to look back at her gathered troops, ready to move out to their various passes to make their individual stands against the attackers.
This would be her last chance to inspire some form of confidence in her men before the battle. Their last time as a truly coherent unit before they were thrown into the meat grinder.
It was time to make the speech of her life. The speech that history would remember her for forever.
Luckily, she had a lot of material to "Borrow" from.
I
Hekazi did not want to die.
Maybe that was a selfish feeling as he was preparing to do his part during the coming battle, where thousands and thousands of people were preparing to willingly throw themselves to their possible deaths, but it was the honest truth.
He wanted to live, to go home to his hut at the Echo Isles, and retire from soldiering at the ripe old age of 17.
That would not happen though. His skills as a Shaman and real, actual battle, and scouting experience made him far too useful for the Horde for Vol'jin to ever consider just letting him retire this early in his life.
Shamans did not transition to become wise, retired elders at 30, much less 17.
And yet, despite his age, he already felt like an old Veteran with half a hundred battles of varying sizes under his belt.
He wondered if this was how all capable scouts felt. Weary after countless skirmishes and big battles against foes.
"Ya worry too much, young Hekazi."
He froze… Then scratched his head sheepishly.
"Dat obvious ya?"
Dhambeela, an older Troll Shaman who was the one in charge of communication between them and the other camps, gave him a grandmotherly smile.
The woman was from Sen'jin's generation, which by all accounts made her his senior by any and all metrics, having been old enough to have partaken in the conquest of Zul'gurub.
"A bit. But ah ain't wrong. De battle still be hours away yet, an still… Ya, be walking in circles like de dog dat didn't know where to go."
He promptly stopped shuffling his feet.
Then he went over and sat down beside the older woman.
"Lady Dhambeela… Wat ye planning to do when we win? After de war ah mean."
The older woman looked intrigued by that.
"An interesting question to ask… But ah don't see reason to deny ya. Ah, plan to roam Kalimdor. Dis continent… Ah can feel da wonders here... Ripe fer discovery by Bold folks… Is that what ya wish?"
"No."
There was no reason to lie.
"Ah see. Den… What do ya want?"
He considered, trying to think how to explain it without sounding like a fool.
"Ah guess… Ah, wanna… Settle down?"
Dhambeela nodded.
"Yer tired of wandering around ya? Of hopping from place te place?"
"Ya… Ah, suppose…"
"Ah can't say ah understand that feeling… But ah know many do. Not dat yer gonna get te settle down. Yer far too useful to Vol'jin for him to let ye spend yer life in de capital."
Confirming what he already knew.
"Ya… Ah know. Ah-"
At that, he was interrupted by a quick series of horn blasts. The kind that called everyone to gather.
"It would seem Fremde wants to rally de troops before de battle."
I
Ja'karr walked tall despite the ache in his body.
A chieftain had to stand tall despite how he felt.
Not that the men around him treated him as such. Ever since Grom's death, the Clan's warriors had begun to gravitate towards certain members within it. Younger, more capable warriors than he.
New claimants to the Throne for leadership.
Not that he feared usurpation.
He was not in a position like Blackhand had been, where there was someone else with their own claim just waiting in the wings for their chance to usurp the throne.
The Hellscreams' grip over the Warsong Clan was absolute and had been for as long back as their history went.
Oh, there were those amongst the youth that was gathering a following who had claimed the name Warsong, but that was posturing. If there had ever been such an original family, it was long gone now.
No, he did not fear usurpation. He was the last Hellscream, and so long as his wits remained, he would remain Chieftain.
Once he was gone though… There would be a power vacuum, and one of these youngsters would rise up to fill the hole that his extinct dynasty would leave.
Even here, at the possible end of the world, people still were planning their political rise.
He did not care.
All he cared about was that they would fight.
They would save this world from the flame. And the Warsong would do their duty for Thrall, Grom, and Orgrim. For the Horde.
They would buy back their Honor, and that of their Clan with Blood.
At the horn blasts that called them all to gather, everyone began making their way towards the Command center of this battle, a smaller hill, on which the Warlord Thrall had appointed to lead this front of the battle had made her current home.
A strange one that Fremde was. Lots of rumors and talks about her amongst the Horde soldiers.
He did not care.
So long as she led them competently through a glorious final battle, that was all that mattered.
As they gathered beneath that Hill, he, Fremde awaited them, alongside several other lesser leaders, and high-ranking Shamans.
That he was not a part of that inner circle spoke for itself.
After they had all gathered, Fremde took a draught of some glowing, blue potion, before hefting that strange second Gorehowl over her shoulder, and stepping forth to address the troops.
She was dressed strangely. In a style of plate armor far more in line with human equipment than that of Orcs. But above that armor was a Tabard with the red, black, and white of Orgrim Doomhammer's old sigil.
Blackrock then.
As she stepped up and began speaking, he once more heard the voice beside him of someone magically addressing a large group of people.
It wasn't near as sharp as it was after the battle of the Vale, presumably because she wasn't the one actually casting the spell, but it was there. Strong enough to reach 20 000 souls.
"I am Warlord Fremde. Some of you gathered here know me to once have been Orgrim Doomhammer's spymaster. I… I am a murderer. I spent the first, and the second wars in a stupor of bloodlust, putting everyone and everything that stood in my way to the sword without Mercy, with Hesitation, and without Honor. Many of you will have similar stories. Shattrath… Stormwind… Khaz Modan… Lordaeron… Two continents seeped in the blood of innocents. Our crimes are many… But those very actions… Our sins, and more importantly… Our wish for Redemption for those sins is why we are Here, on this fateful battlefield today! To once more take control over our own fates!"
Lots of agreeing murmuring at that.
Yes, she was taking cues from Thrall. He also noticed she did not go into depth about her own part in the atrocities of the first and second wars. Why not?
If she wanted to use it as a point to connect with the troops, why not make a stronger connection?
"Our Taurens and our Trolls… Our brother in arms under the Horde… They came here with no such aspirations… They came to save the world… To protect their little ones, their old ones, their loved ones from the flame. But us Orcs… We came here to do not just that, but give our BLOOD for this world! The Only Thing we have to give!"
That was true enough. Blood was the ultimate currency.
It was the currency of every pact, every battle, every oath.
"An Orc… A true Orc warrior, whether they be young or old, whether they be a veteran of a hundred battles or it is their first taste of war, wishes for one thing, and one thing only! To die in the glorious battle against a hated enemy, for the sake of their loved ones, their home, their Clan! That has not changed now, despite our shameful past. We have come here to Fight, to Bleed, to Die! Not just for our loved ones, nor for our Clans whoever they might be, or even for the Horde… Today we have all come to give ALL we have to Give for this World!"
He began to hear the clanking of steel, sword, and axes on shields, spear butt thumping against the ground.
He felt it too. The blood beginning to boil, the smile on his face, the knowledge… No, not knowledge, the CERTAINTY that win or lose, today, he would become an ORC again.
He knew, with some deeper instinct than seeing and listening, that he was surrounded by countless souls who felt the exact same thing.
"And what a foe to face! The same foe that led us and our old, beloved Draenor to complete ruin! The Burning Legion, who were the ones that through that ever accursed one-balled Eunuch Gul'dan, poisoned our world, and led our leaders unto the path of Hell! Who engineered the rise of the Lich King and the Scourge and obliterated Lordaeron! Who throughout the Universe and cosmos has poisoned and destroyed countless worlds for no other reason than that they can! For fun! And today, they have come to do the same to this world! WILL YOU LET THEM!?"
The roar of thousands and thousands of soldiers cried out, as the gathered army of the Horde of Kalimdor let out a Shared "NAY" in 3 different languages.
"The Battle of Hyjal is about to begin! Upon this battle depends the survival of the Earth and all it's civilizations! Upon it, depends the continuation of History itself! Soon, the entire might and fury of the Burning Crusade will be turned upon US, as the first Hammerblow falls here through the passes below us!"
The approving roar of Orcs carried no words… But the meaning was clear.
"And I for one, welcome it! Can there be a more fitting place to seek an end? A more grand field to seek our redemption? To die today is to die for the world! For our little ones. Our old ones. Our loved ones. Would any of you deny yourselves such a death? Such an Honor?"
No. No there could not be. Draenor was gone. The Earth was their home now. Kalimdor would be the cradle of their civilization. It was time to DIE for it, as was the Orcish way.
"Blood and Honor, is the way of us Orcs! It is how it has always been, and it is how it shall always be! We lost our Honor long ago, but… The time has come to reclaim it! With our Blood and Steel! Know this oh soldiers of the Horde! Our children and their children's children will say that today, a new age began on this Earth! An age of Freedom! An age of Honor! The Age of the Horde! And ALL WILL KNOW… That 20 000 Warriors gave their LAST BREATH TO DEFEND IT!"
I
The army that marched down the passes was one in the highest of spirits. It was filled with morale, a lust for the upcoming battle that frankly shook Hekazi to his core.
There was no fear in this army. None whatsoever. They did not merely laugh in the face of death, but they sought it out. They wanted it.
The Orcs at least.
He didn't know how Tauren felt about the Warlord's speech, but the Trolls were far, far more somber as they positioned themselves alongside him on the top of the cliffs, while below, the Orcs readied themselves to take the blow of the incoming army.
Countless caltrops littered the ground, here and there, the pathway up was littered with pits with spikes.
And overseeing it all eagerly awaiting the coming of their foe were cannons, spears, swords, axes, pikes, hammers, spellcasters, bows, guns, and cannons.
Whoever tried to force their way up this pathway would feel the bite of steel.
And yet… He had never felt so small. So… Insignificant.
He could not dwell on that though.
It was time to fight.
The signal that battle had begun, came as the Hellscream Cannon was first time put into use, and the scream from Hell itself echoed far and wide across the vale as an enormous explosive shell hammered into the enemy camp so far away.
I
"Two thousand men out from Warsong Hold, and unto eternal Glory! Death, black blood, and a final song, that's the eternal story! Axes high against heathen spawn, demons fall like thunder! Grain against scythe-like guns against skin, the cannons sing old Hellscream's king!"
As the demons clambered their way up the slopes, eager for battle they were met by an avalanche of death!
Bullets, Death Coils, the roar of cannons, and above everything else, the methodical roar of the Hellscream Cannon, as the massive artillery piece let forth shot after shot into the distance, hit the ground with such explosive force, that the very impact killed everyone around the craters, even those not hit directly, by liquidating their brains from the shock!
Dra'mark grinned a skeletal grin as he lifted his bony hand and clenched.
A glowing circle burst into existence beneath an attacking group of Demons.
The cluster of filth began screaming as flesh, blood and bone immediately began to rot.
Death Knight.
It was a fitting name.
Their capacity for destruction was without peer.
A Felhound finally managed to break through the barrage of said Destruction, and with a toothy jaw unleashed, it launched itself on Dra'mark, set on his destruction!
With the but end on his axe, he brought the creature to the Earth with a crunch.
Then, letting go of his axe, he hefted the creature up over his head, and tore it in half! The creature gave a pathetic cry of pain as blood and gore dropped down on Dra'mark's skeletal body, coating it in scarlet!
Yes… YES! Though he had no blood flowing through his veins no more, the old feelings began to set in as he felt himself come ALIGHT with the burning in his soul!
With a cackle, he threw the dying beast back from whence it came, hitting a Doomguard that had also managed to reach their ranks, in the face!
With a smooth motion, his axe was back in his hands, he brought it up and down in a smooth, dance-like motion, down upon his foe's head!
It didn't quite manage to bite all the way into the brain… But that was okay.
By his side, one of his brothers leveled a small handheld cannon and shot, the ball punching through the demon's groin, and going on beyond, probably killing hundreds of the horde of monsters behind it.
They had surely killed thousands by now, and yet they kept coming in a flow of flesh, ready to be ripped apart, as they threw themselves at their lines.
The foolish demons had long since filled up the ditches they had made to hinder them with their own dead and were now making their assault over the broken and mangled bodies of their own kin.
Not that it mattered.
The plateau they were fighting on was the only one with two entrances that had to be held. The only spot where the defending army could be flanked, and so had to divide their forces.
It was as such, one of the spots the Demons were hitting hardest.
Unfortunately for them, it was also the single most deadly part of the Horde's war machine. The Knights of Grom did not tire. They did not falter. They loved the battle, the slaughter, the Death!
Grom had perished a glorious demise, and of all the Horde's warriors, these former Shock troops of the Warsong Clan were eager to follow him beyond the grave.
And so they slaughtered and butchered and died, as they sang to their heart's content.
All the while the great cannon sang as it rained down death.
I
Hekazi was starting to breathe hard, as below him, the Demonic horde threw themselves upon his fellow troops.
The Demons had quickly overcome their dug trenches and such simply by throwing enough bodies at them to fill them up with broken corpses, that they were now trampling under as they charged over their own mangled dead, seemingly uncaring of how they were about to face their own death, as Hekazi and his fellows rained down death from above, while up above, in between the pikes and halberds, cannoneers let down a rain of lead.
They charged heedless of all of it, running over the corpse-filled trenches, and the broken, dismembered body parts of their kin, driven forth by the will of their overlord, willingly and gleefully impaling themselves on pikes and halberds, just to get the chance to kill as little as a single Horde soldier.
And they DID kill horde soldiers. They must have killed tens of thousands of demons by now, and yet they were losing men by the minute.
The mad rush of the demons meant there was no chance for their front troops to rest, for reserves to take the frontlines' place after a skirmish.
They had to hold or die.
And the Demons knew it, running forth in suicide charges, noncaring about their own lives, as their gore and limbs coated the field, the entire pathway having become one, trampled mass of bone, flesh, brains, and blood!
One demon that had charged forth beyond the line grabbed a pike just beyond the metal head and dragged it, clearly intent on ripping the tired Orc soldier holding it out of formation to kill him.
Hekazi did not think.
Instead, he sent forth a bolt of lightning that fried the damn demon!
A cleave from one of the other pikes finished the job, as, besides them, a cannoneer finished reloading before firing a cannonball down the pathway.
It killed hundreds all on it's own.
Yes… They were winning. The cannons made all the difference in the world.
Despite the ludicrous difference in numbers, they were winning. Thanks to the choke spot they held they could negate the demons' enormous numbers, and along with the high ground on both sides, and air superiority, they were able to take out any spellcasters or siege engines long, long before they came close to being in the position to dislodge them. And that was ignoring the fact their gunpowder cannons out-ranged the Demons' siege cannons.
A new form of warfare had arrived.
One which heavily favored the defender.
Still, it was a battle.
It was bloody, gory, and stank like nothing else, as they killed demons by the thousands and thousands.
I
"It would appear the force you sent forward is getting butchered quite severely…" the Dreadlord mused.
"BAH! They are only a distraction. It won't matter if the entire force is wiped out to a man. So long as they prevent the Orcs from surging out from the passes, they have served their role. We must focus on the REAL push! The one along the road."
Azgalor the pit lord, former second in command of Mannoroth, was not quite as confident in his assessment as he pretended.
The Orcs were biting back far, far stronger than he'd expected. At this rate, they might just annihilate the entire force in an hour or two.
Lord Archimonde however, nodded.
The enormous Eredar didn't even so much as glance over in the direction of the far away battle, despite the artillery shots that now and again smashed into their camp.
"The undead under Arthas are almost done setting up their base further up. Once it is fully done, we'll move out in force, and hit the bases along the path with our full might. There are no natural, narrow choke spots up the road. Let the Orcs feel like they're accomplishing something in the passes, while we devote our full strength where it actually matters."
And with that, he seemed to find the matter settled… Right up until an enormous, exploding shot slammed into his head and engulfed it in magical fire!
Such was the impact of the shot, that all the demons standing around them fell over dead, their brains shaken to a fine paste leaking out their ears!
"Lord Archimonde!"
The Eredar lord coughed as he stepped out of the fiery smoke cloud, revealing that the Orcs' artillery shot had ripped asunder half of his face, the explosion having taken one of his eyes, leaving but a bloody hole left.
He turned his hateful, now one eyed gaze towards the passes, from where the enormously powerful shot had come from, and with spite and bile on a level that only the Eredar could produce, he growled.
"Change of plans… Azgalor, you take our entire force, and begin our march up along the path, NOW."
He raised both to the sky, and the Pit Lord felt it as Archimonde began calling upon his Full, Terrible, All Engulfing Power.
The sky began to rain huge, enormous balls of glowing, fiery green rocks.
Thousands of them.
So many he could feel the Eredar Lord's mana storage actually begin to wane. So massive was the display of conjuring.
"Time to Die Orcs. It is high time Mannoroth's little experiment is wiped clean from the cosmos."
I
Guns rang. Lightning Bolts rained down from the heights.
Blood, death, and gore littered the ground, as the blood of demons joined the blood of Orcs, Tauren, and Trolls that flowed down the hills.
And still, the battles continued.
Nothing suggested that anything was about to fundamentally change.
The earth was already shaking from the death march of thousands upon thousands, so the way the steps of stone began to rumble the ground itself was not as noticeable as it could have been.
It was the screams of their enemies that tipped everyone off that something was about to change.
It was for all intents a flanking maneuver, as suddenly what still remained of the demons' armies were hit in the back, and trampled underfoot as another force literally stepped over them on it's way to fight.
As they stepped up the passageways up the mountain, the Infernals began to roar.
Huge monsters of fel and stone, immune to magical attacks, and radiating the fires of hell.
Thousands of them.
Things were about to change for the worse.
I
Archimonde looked the distant battlefield over, then nodded to himself feeling an immense level of satisfaction.
Then, being satisfied that the army of Infernals he'd conjured would do the trick, he turned and began to walk along the main bulk of his army on their march to the first camp.
He'd been planning on taking this slow.
Methodically.
The immense, throbbing pain in his head was probably clouding his judgment quite a bit… But he did not care.
He would take enormous pleasure in making sure every one of his enemies died here before summoning his master to this world.
When the first camp would break, they would find themselves with their back to the wall, as behind them, blocking their path was not the defenders of the passes, but instead a host of infernals that had cut them off from any retreat.
Oh yes… He would enjoy their screams as he ripped them inside out, one by one.
I
The situation was deteriorating quickly.
As he and his fellow shamans up on the hills had shifted from firing down lightning to raining down stones, the Troll remembered his previous encounter with these demonic stone men.
Infernals might lack the sheer bulk and strength of the mighty doomguards, but they made up for that in the fact they were literarily made of stone.
And against stone, regular steel meant nothing.
The Orcs were equipped with Truesilver weaponry, which in huge displays of sparks would cleave into the stone… But would not deliver an immediate death blow.
More dangerous, however, was that they could and did charge the spear walls with ease, and no fear.
It was something the demons of flesh could not…
"BOOOOM!"
A huge volley of cannon fire let loose and punched into the first couple of stone men, the lead cracking stone and sending the burning shrapnel pieces flying all around.
It did halt the advance… But it was not enough.
The infernals kept pushing and forced the Tauren to use the huge hand cannons as makeshift clubs to defend themselves, while those who could pulled back to reload.
Those who didn't would die in front to ensure those behind would get one more volley.
The two sides came together in a push of metal against burning stone.
To their credit, the Horde troops did not break. They stood their ground.
They died… But stood their ground.
The infernals kept pushing, kept forcing them back up, up the slope as the Orc troops died with every meter.
Stones from above burst infernal heads, but it was a sea. A massive tide of burning green.
Worst of all, however, was that they had been under this assault for half an hour now.
The battle refused to end. They had already been fighting for half a day now, and there was no sign of anything slowing down.
With a horrible sensation, he felt it as he once again bottomed out of mana.
He staggered back from the edge and went over to where a woman was handing out mana potions.
He was far from the only one who needed one.
Several of the other Trolls had already hit their limits and were on the ground hurling up their lunch.
If this kept up, he would join them soon enough.
He was already starting to feel the horrible clenching in his guts that you got from overdrinking mana potions.
It wasn't like he had any chance to avoid it though.
With a grimace, he bottomed up the drink and felt the horrible, electrical taste of pure mana dance across his tongue.
He let it stew for a moment, the absolute cacophony of sounds of war right by him, echoing in his ears all the while.
Even as he was taking the only breaks he'd get during this battle, he could not escape the battle noises.
"You still fine?" The woman handing out potions asked him, as she handed out another bottle to someone else.
"This is your 13th rotation."
Bwonsamdi… Had It really been that many? But then… Then this battle would have had to last for at least three hours by this point.
Was he starting to lose his grasp of time that badly?
"Yeah, I… I think I have a few more rotations before I-" "THEN GET BACK TO YOUR POST SOLDIER!"
He jumped at the sheer, surprising volume of the voice that was right by him, and to his shock, it was Warlord Fremde herself!
The woman did not spare him any further glance as she hurried over to the edge of the slope.
In her hand, she carried the great axe that had once belonged to Grom Hellscream.
She surveyed the field below.
Then she jumped.
Hekazi felt a moment of complete shock at the insane actions, before he ran back to his post, to see what had befallen their battle commander.
What had befallen the commander was splitting an Infernal in twain with the mighty axe, and then bisection another, before the axe danced into a third, taking the legs out from under it.
The momentum did not shift backwards down the path, but the arrival of the bearer of Gorehowl immediately halted the backwards push up the mountain pass.
Whatever expression Fremde had was hidden by her great helmet, but as she roared all men there heard her voice loud and clear.
"COME ON YOU BLOODY YOUNGSTERS! DO YOU WANT TO LIVE FOREVER!? WE WERE BORN IN ORDER TO DIE!"
It was the kind of wording that was tailor-made to appeal to Orcs, but truthfully, it was the arrival of Gorehowl that reinvigorated the Horde soldiers enough to bring the stony advance to a halt.
It was such an inspiring site, that for a moment Hekazi actually forgot he had a job to do, before suddenly recalling that his job was to rain down stones to aid in their defence.
I
Demons told few legends of mortals.
They cared little for the last stands of those who stood against them, and those few they did, they only retold to mock them.
But… There were some few who awoke nothing but fear in the hearts of Demons.
And once, long, long ago, there had been one man, who had done what no other ever had. He had brought Sargeras to a halt, and inflicted upon him a wound, from which he went halting ever since.
And as the demons once more came to claim this world, he stood there again. An immovable, undefeated wall, wielding the same axe that long ago had given the Mad Titan his greatest wound.
The greatest warrior of the Orcish Horde, now that Grom was gone.
He was the only man left in his pass, for the demons had thrown themselves at it with more ferocity than any other, wider than any other as it was.
But it was here that the wave broke first, as Broxigar the red cleaved the final attacking Demon into tiny little pieces, the fires sputtering out of the now cloven rock.
The pass… was covered in gore.
Small mountains of dead littered the entire thing, showcasing where the defenders had met the attackers, and where said attackers had been slain.
And unique amongst all the passes, the final line was far, far further down than where it had hit first, because, unlike all the rest, here the attacker had become the defender, as Broxigar the Red, had pushed the armies of demons back, and cleaved his way through rank and lines.
Not a foe remained alive in the pass.
The great wooden axe of the Demigod Cenarius dripped with the same blood that covered it's wielder from head to toe, not an inch of him untouched.
He would soon be given the order to come to the aid of the other passes, for he alone was in a position to outflank the attackers, and hit them from behind.
And greater slaughter awaited him there, still.
But for that short moment, he was allowed to catch his breath.
I
Arthas leaned back in the saddle, looking the demon over with a raised eyebrow.
"I shall of course join the assault as lord Archimonde demands, but… Surely the man understands I need to finish setting up my base before I can join him fully?"
The Dreadlord rolled his eyes.
"I don't care about the details. Get it done. Lord Archimonde demands a more aggressive attack plan."
Arthas nodded, then without any further comment turned his horse around and trotted away, considering his next move.
On his face was a grin of pure satisfaction and Evil.
If Archimonde had decided to use his own Demons as the main shock troops instead of his undead… That would mean he would be left standing with a substantially larger host when this was all over than he'd planned.
Ner'zhul had warned him of the pitiful mortal last gambit… And he had no intention of sticking around for it.
But he'd been planning on sacrificing a large part of his troops to make it seem like he was committed while keeping back his more important troops.
He had plenty of fodder he could sacrifice for victory.
But if the main army was actually committing themselves to an assault, it meant he'd be able to simply let them pass by his camp, then once he'd gotten all the preparations in order and he moved out from said camp, rather than join them in their assault, he'd be able to march his entire army out behind Archimonde's backlines, leaving the Eredar Lord to face the Mortals on his own, while he began the march back to his navy, and be able to return to Lordaeron with almost all his forces intact.
It was a brilliant chance. Simple, but brilliant.
What in the world had made Archimonde commit such a critical error in judgement?
He should know better than to leave any room for betrayal on the Scourge's part.
…Well whatever it was that had led to this moment, it did not matter.
He had been handed this opportunity on a golden platter, and he'd take it.
I
The first Camp, the target of the first hammer blow, held out for 9 hours, before the walls finally crumbled, and bit by bit, the gathered army was forced back until they had begun a full-on retreat, falling back along the road towards the second camp. The larger one.
At the end of the camp, as men fled, one remained.
As demons poured forth to try and disrupt the retreat, the figure raised her staff, and with glowing, blue eyes women of water exploded into being, surged forward, and submerged the attacks in liquid before forcing their beings down their throats.
As demonic shots began to shoot forward, the same water women changed form and became massive, watery shields in the air, the momentum of the thrown rocks immediately halted as they were submerged in the liquid, as surely as if they were bullets shot into the sea.
Time and again the demons attempted to disrupt the flight, and time and again the figure stood strong, until finally, one figure stepped forward from the demonic ranks.
He was tall. Thrice the height of a Tauren, twice as wide.
The Eredar lord, flanked by a Dreadlord, and a Pitlord stepped forward, and despite his face making several, involuntary twitches, he smiled.
Out from sharpened canines, and accompanied by squiggly tentacles, rang Death's laughter.
The figure who had remained did not move.
Tall as far as women went, she was yet utterly dwarfed by those who stepped forward at the path out of the now smouldering base.
And yet she stood calmly, with no trace of fear or worry, the only motion she made was that she lifted her slender neck, to look the Demon Lords in the eye.
She did not say anything, instead waiting until her foe was finished laughing.
"You are very brave to stand against me, little human. If only your countrymen had been as bold, I would have had more fun scouring your wretched nations from the world!"
At that Jaina smiled a rueful grin.
"Is talking all you demons do? You've lost most of your army already. A stronger force awaits you ahead, and at your back, Arthas quit the field and took most of your army with him. And with him… All your hopes of victory.
Then, as Archimonde's expressions turned to seething, blinding rage, Jaina lifted her staff, and with a flash of blueish white, she was gone.
I
Fremde lay sprawled out on a crate.
It was about as unprofessional a pose as any commander could possibly have made, she could not have cared less.
Every. Single. Muscles she had, BURNED.
She had pulled so many things fighting with Gorehowl's blessing egging her on.
She didn't care about that either.
They had done it.
The reports from the other front were coming in hard and fast as the news that the first base had begun falling, with the following reports painting a more dire picture for each and every new messenger or fleeing soldier.
The final one had declared that the base had now fallen, and they were ordered to pull back.
Not that they needed the order.
She'd made the preparations to begin the withdrawal when the first messenger had arrived.
The passes were littered with dead.
6000 of the 20000 men she'd been given were dead, or maimed to such a degree they were not in any condition to be moved without death being the outcome.
Which was just another death sentence.
Some of those had already killed themselves or asked their comrades to do it. Others yet had gotten help propping themselves up so that they would be ready to at least take one demon with them as they poured forth through the remains of the first base, as if they were Cú Chulainn.
The Demon Lords would wish to avenge themselves on any remainders of the stalwart shields that had, for nearly 10 hours straight, refused to break.
Those who could be moved had been loaded up on wolves, or Kodos. Being the Warlord, she got the luxury of a cart, alongside a personal healer to fix up her destroyed body.
It had been a horrific battle. Probably up there with the battle of Verdun in terms of just bloody and gory it had been.
She wasn't sure how many demons they had killed during the battle… But it had been ALL of them.
They had held the line until every single demon sent to take the passes had perished.
Not a one remained.
They had done it. They had won the battle and thus secured Victory for the overall battle.
No Demons had passed through those passes, and judging by the sky, Malfurion would be done soon. The first base had held much longer than in the original timeline.
The glory of cannons.
The victory was at hand.
And all around her… Despite the carnage… Despite the death… Despite the fact, they were all tired beyond belief, and having to make a forced march on top of it to reach the second base…
The mood was sky-high.
"6000 men have fallen down, here in the Fremde passes! Hades call us all to passing! Lok'thar Ogar, Thrall showed the way! Gorehowl gave it's final say!"
"...I can't believe you guys love this..?"
The Troll healer who was currently applying green, magical energy over her body looked out over the marching army as if it had completely lost it's marbles.
She chuckled.
It hurt to do so. And so did speaking the words she said next.
"This… Is our way lass… It's how we Orcs are… So long as we think… The cause is Good… We go to our deaths with a smile…"
That… Wasn't entirely true. Orcs could break… They had broken at Blackrock Spire after all… But… That was rare. Far rarer than other sentient races. Unlike Humans… Or anyone sane really… Orcs did not mind dying to a man… So long as they believed in the cause they were dying for.
The Warsong were probably the ones most happy. Ironically, despite probably being the most eager to throw themselves to an early death, the fact was that their superior skill at arms and combat experience had led them, and their Death Knight Brethren to suffer the least amounts of casualties of the entire army here.
Still, they were in a frankly jolly mood, despite every single one of them being coated in gore and blood.
It was surreal.
If she didn't have the knowledge and experience of the original Fremde, she would have assumed, just like the Troll did, that were all completely, utterly mad.
They weren't the only ones singing though.
A lot of them were actually. But there was one that stood out to her. In large part because she'd taught them the song.
The actual Artillery Core that she'd spent most of the March drilling was another, singing a classic marching song. Or… As classic as a song that had only existed in this world for less than a year.
"Now there's a standstill in the war, repeating what's been done before!
It will come to an end, a few will transcend! They were under twenty-five, and under fire, they would thrive!
The Black and Gold is born, their enemies scorn!
A glimpse of the future, new tactics in war!
New doctrines in combat explored!
As fast as lightning, there's no time to mourn!
A glimpse of the future and Lightning War is born!
Strike at zero hour!
With overwhelming firepower!
Fueled by the fear in their enemies' eyes!
It's a shock troop infiltration!
A fast and violent escalation!
Out of the old world, the Kor'kron shall rise!
Hunters led the way, the pioneer shall join the fray!
Initiatives gained, advancements sustained!
Lead through direct command, as they advance all through the land!
Encircling their flanks, and ravage their ranks!
Expose the reinforcements, destroying their lines!
New doctrine in combat aligns!
Infantry attacks, exposing the cracks!
New combat ideals, on the Warchief's, warfields!
Strike at zero hour!
With overwhelming firepower!
Fueled by the fear in their enemies' eyes!
It's a shock troop infiltration!
A fast and violent escalation!
Out of the old world, the Kor'kron shall rise!
A glimpse of the future, new tactics in war!
New doctrines in combat explored!
As fast as lightning, there's no time to mourn!
A glimpse of the future and Lightning War is born!
Strike at zero hour!
With overwhelming firepower!
Fueled by the fear in their enemies' eyes!
It's a shock troop infiltration!
A fast and violent escalation!
Out of the old world, the Kor'kron shall rise!
Strike at zero hour!
With overwhelming firepower!
Fueled by the fear in their enemies' eyes!
It's a shock troop infiltration!
A fast and violent escalation!"
The Troll, not being familiar with her men's marching songs at all, tilted her head in that continuous shell-shocked expression of hers.
"What does that even mean? What is a Kor'kron? What is this madness?"
Yes… Definitely, shell-shocked.
"A new form of warrior… The future conflicts… Will all be determined by fortifications… Mobility… and above all else… Firepower… I have told my men about it many a time…. But they never understood… Not before today… Warfare has changed."
She wondered what Sabaton would have thought of her "Borrowing" their songs, to inspire morale.
Hopefully, they would be honored… Or they would hated her for stealing and editing their masterpieces… But regardless… There were a lot of lessons to learn from their songs and stories… Lessons of war.
The Age of Modern war had come to this world. It would be a while before it truly took off… But it Would do so.
Blitzkrieg… Tanks… Mass submarine warfare… Mechanized Aerial combat in the sky… All of them would come in time.
It was inevitable. It was the unstoppable, imperial march of destiny and progress. And she would be the one who ushered it all in.
She supposed she should feel sorry for that. Guilty. But she did not. For as she was carried alongside her army, the only feeling she felt was pride and glorious satisfaction in her men. They had held the line. They had done their duty and won their honor back.
They had used her cannons to blow their way to victory, as she had diligently trained them. They had refused to break, regardless of the demonic tide thrown at them. And even now, they still planned to fight. To keep up the battle, until the fight was won, regardless of how tired and battered they were.
The human part of her would have been horrified by it all… But she was not. It had taken a while to truly accept it… But she was an Orc now. She had left her human part long ago.
Blood and Honor… She hadn't quite understood the way those two words defined Orckind. Not before now.
I
Fremde had started to feel somewhat able to sit again.
The wonders of magic.
Which was good, because it allowed her to at least sit on the edge of the cart as Varok Saurfang came up to her.
The man had been in charge of the Orc part of the defence of the first great base.
"Did Tyrande and Jaina make it out unharmed?"
It was a silly question.
She knew the answer, though no harm in playing her role and pretending otherwise.
"So they did. Jaina remained behind to the last before teleporting out."
"Gutsy woman. How many demons did you guys kill before retreating."
"Half a million at least. We fired cannon volley, after cannon volley into their tightly packed ranks."
"Yeah… The age of tight formations is at an end… This is a new age… And just imagine… We achieved all of that even without proper handguns. Just with Artillery, pike, and shot. The next great war will be fought with handguns."
Ironic that. She had put so many hopes on her handguns… And yet she hadn't fired them off once during this battle.
Saurfang nodded.
"A new age is upon us. Now we just need to finish this."
He hesitated for a moment before asking.
"Warlord… Do you know how my brother fares?"
She gave a still-sore chuckle.
"Oh yes, Broxigar. He covered himself in glory unlike any other of my soldiers... He butchered his way through the pass, slaying all who stood before him like grain before the scythe… Then he fell upon the other passes, flanking the enemy from behind and securing the kill… It's a shame the Warchief isn't dealing out medals for this battle… That man's insane deeds should get some unique distinction."
Varok just nodded, some tension going out of him at hearing his brother was alive.
I
Legends had been born today… And more would still follow. It was an important day, in far more ways than one.
Pretty much all of the Orcs' emerging middle and lower leadership roles would rise to prominence thanks to this battle. Men and Women who would, for better or worse, lead Thrall's armies all the way into the frozen north so many years later.
And they were not the only ones.
Many of the future Theramorian military leadership had also fought today as cadets and foot soldiers… and in the years to come, these youths would take their place as leaders.
The Trolls of various Tribes and Kinds would be hammered together into a much more closely-knit group, under the banner of the Horde.
The Night Elves, despite their far lesser amounts of casualties compared to the original timeline, would still come out of this battle with far fewer commanders and men.
Only the Tauren would not have any drastic leadership changes due to the battle.
And of course, there were personal tragedies. Brothers, sons, daughters, mothers, sisters, grandmothers, grandfathers, and all other familial ties would serve as a source of grief…
One, in particular, had been singled out by the Bronze Dragons to make certain it happened, as a seemingly inconsequential druid by the name of Broll Bearmantle lost his family in a tragic surprise, out of nowhere Dragon attack when the demons that were supposed to cause the destruction of his family was instead slaughtered in front of Jaina's base.
Many years later, he would become a gladiator alongside a stranger from across the sea, and together they would win glorious victories in the ring.
But that was for another time.
For now, the final stage of the battle would begin.
Archimonde's run.
I
As the sun began to set, the demonic armies had pushed the Coalition's forces back toward the main walls of the Horde's base.
To get there they'd had to conquer several, lesser walls the coalition had set up.
They were nothing compared to the main walls, but they had cost a LOT of demon lives.
Enough that simply by sheer math there was not enough of them left to both break the Horde wall, and push on through to the gate at the summit, and the path into the final vale.
In the skies above, the Elves and Gryphons had secured dominance, adding to the Burning Legion's problems.
Defeat seemed all but certain… But their leader was the great Archimonde.
The Eredar Lord who had scoured countless worlds clean scowled at the walls he saw in the distance.
And with every pulsating burst of that damned cannon, he flinched.
That only added to his rage. Rage unlike any he had ever felt.
Foolish mortals… Did they think victory lay in toys? Did they think this strange weaponry would stop the Burning Legion's march to destroy this land?
It would NOT!
For he was the great Archimonde! And he knew more spells and incantations than any this world had seen.
And he knew exactly which one he would use to break through these walls and force his way to the top.
True… It would make him a very enticing target… But so what?
The moment he took the world tree… This battle was all over.
Frankly speaking, in hindsight, he really should have done this from the start. He'd been too cautious when BOLDNESS was what was required.
"When I push forward… Surge with EVERYTHING we have. Forget about destroying them. Just keep them occupied. Force them to divert all their forces to deal with you."
He then slammed his hands together as he began to speak words of Power, and channeled all his Mana into a single spell.
All around him, his demonic legions began to ready themselves for the final push, all keeping well clear of him.
For they all knew from experience exactly what was about to happen now.
Thrall, who was readying his troops felt it as it happened. As did the entire army feel it. The gathering of mana and power just a Kilometer away.
All heard words of a cursed language, and the rumbling of the earth.
He turned his head to watch, as there, over the walls, far off… A figure began to RISE.
Archimonde, Eredar Lord of the Burning Legion was using his trump card.
The ability to make himself a true giant! Near enough a thousand feet tall he rose up from the Earth… A monster of Titanic proportions, the likes of which this world had not seen since the titan of Sargeras had clashed with the Guardian of Tirisfall in frozen Northrend.
Then, with titanic steps, he began to simply walk towards them, a thunder with every plant of his hoofed feet!
It took him no time at all to reach the wall, and despite the fact that every single cannon, gun, spell, and arrow was now trained directly at him, he continued forward, despite the countless smaller prick wounds that they left in their wake.
Then, as he stepped in front of the wall, he reared his hoofed foot back… And KICKED.
Some of the stones that flew, continued for well over a kilometer, before crashing into the mountainside.
Far more simply crashed into the gathered defenders, turning them into
Blood and gore splattered the ground alongside the broken bodies.
Few things had ever brought Thrall's jaw gaping, but the complete turnaround of this battle, at the hands of the biggest creature he had ever seen was one of them.
He snapped out of it as screams began to sound.
Once more he called upon the elements, and the image of a savage, white wolf once more responded to him, filling the Doomhammer with might!
In a savage swing, he once more sent the hammer flying in a circular motion as it swirled in the air, straight upwards, heading for his target.
Thrall had learned from Mannoroth.
This time he did not simply throw the weapon out at random!
No, he had a target in mind.
For as much as turning oneself into a giant might have increased the Eredar's offensive physical might, it also made him, and any obvious weak spot he might possess a far bigger target.
The Doomhammer hit with an explosion equal to the one that had hit Mannoroth's wing, knocking over several soldiers who were standing close to Thrall and hadn't expected the explosion.
The Demon's skin, boosted in durability as it was, held together. The insides beneath the skin were Liquified.
Archimonde immediately stumbled, crashing down to one knee and screaming, with such an impact the entire battlefield Shook, as he felt the pain only a man whose family jewels were just crushed by a giant, magical hammer could have.
For a moment, as Thrall ran towards the fallen Doomhammer to reclaim, and do another, brutal blow to the downed Eredar, it looked like it was all over.
Then Archimonde slammed, his palm down on the earth, crushing several Horde warriors beneath, as he Forced himself back to his feet, and resumed his march, much, much quicker this time!
Though he now halted, the enormous size of his carried him with a speed only winged creatures could match!
As he ran Chimera's and Gryphon riders rained down an awesome display of lighting and Hammers!
At first, it was indiscriminate, but quickly they became aimed, as Hammers and lightning strikes found their mark on his ripped open face, and the metal codpiece covering his groin.
It was uncertain which brought him more pain, but all through the march, he roared in pain.
But he kept moving.
Now and again as he managed to focus on one of his attackers, a hand was raised, and a bolt of red shot from his fingers, turning any unfortunate soul it hit inside out!
However, despite the obvious danger, the gryphon riders and Chimera's did not flee. They instead kept following him, even as, one after one, their friends died around them.
As behind him, an army of demons poured in, forcing the entire gathered force he left behind to focus on them instead, he kept on moving, kept on towards his final goal. So long as he reached that goal, none of this mattered! Victory would be his!
These fleas would be obliterated in Hellfire!
He eventually reached the pathway out from the big camp, and up through the mountain. The final stretch of his goal!
He could feel it! A sense of nearing completion that dwarfed any, and all pain in his body!
The final Gryphon rider fell with a nonchalant pointing of his finger.
As he stepped up the mountain, something hit his chest with an explosive force enough to make him stagger backwards.
He blinked. What the…
He looked up the passageway, and there, in the distance… A giant, skeletal creature stood at the great turning point in the road up.
And on it's back, glittering in the twilight… An enormous cannon was strapped.
It was the cannon that had taken his eye.
He Roared a vicious, Demonic curse so foul, the grass beneath his feet withered and died, and raised his hand.
A massive, enormous cloud of pulsating green energy formed, and a BEAM of hellfire surged forth to incinerate the faraway sack of bones!
In response, suddenly, out of nowhere, starting in the center of where the beast was, a clear bubble formed from out of nowhere, before engulfing the beast.
The beam hit the bubble with a cacophony of cracking sounds… But the bubble held… Only after the beam ceased, did the magical shield crack further before disintegrating into a small sea of shards.
An anti-magic shield!
He narrowed his eyes, then sidestepped on the narrow path as another, massive shell sailed past him, accurately hitting the spot where his head had been.
He'd underestimated these guns. They weren't just numerous… They were damn accurate too, for pieces that fired physical projectiles.
And that anti-magic shield… That was a piece of sorcery that the Orcs should not possess. How had they obtained this skill?
In the back of his mind, the more inquisitive part of him wondered what the secrets and origins of both of these were.
It was drowned out by the overwhelming, burning desire to rip the creature apart.
He surged forward.
With the massive distance between them, even with his ridiculously long legs, it took a while before he reached it, his body raging with pain the entire way.
Periodically, another shot was fired, and he was forced to dodge.
Then it was right there. The skeletal dragon with a platform beneath it's gun, controlled by another, skeletal Elf in Orc armor.
He focused on the Man, not the Dragon. This was the whelp who had hurt him so! The dragon was but a mindless tool.
"Hello, bastard! How did you find your short stay at Hyjal? I hope my shots were a feast for Eyes!"
He summoned an infernal from the sky.
The meteorite, smashed down where the Dragon had just stood, but unfortunately, rather than try to block it with the shield, the Dragon instead danced backward, before, as the Infernal climbed up from its crater, it had leveled it's gun head straight at it.
The shot pulverized the rocks it hit to fine dust snuffing out the creature's life as quickly as it had begun.
As he did so, however, Archimonde had raised his hand, and fired out another magical blast… But not at the Dragon, that even big though it may be, did not reach up to his knees.
Instead, he'd noticed a rather massive pile of ammunition lying further up the path.
The explosion from all those shells going off at once would have blown out the eardrums and probably killed anyone normal standing close by. As it was the blast echoed down into the valley where Orcs, Humans, Trolls, Tauren, Elves, and a few number of Dwarves and Gnomes were doing battle with a vast, demonic horde.
"That was… Your… Last shot."
Storms… He was panting. Out of breath.
That hadn't happened in… Millennia.
The Death Knight didn't seem too concerned. Instead, he glanced at a clock mounted at the side of the platform. Miraculously, the glass had not cracked despite the explosion. Instead, It ticked, ticked, ticked away.
"So it seems. I don't suppose you could wait, oh… About a couple of minutes more before we duke it out? It would be way more thematic for us to start the final bout at 18.00 precisely."
Archimonde just stared at him, the sheer absurdity of the request managing to stun him despite the Ludicrous amounts of pain surging through his body.
"I had forgotten… How… Stupid you Orcs are…"
The skeleton laughed.
"Says the simpleton that didn't even take cover while being shelled! Most commanders would have taken a single look at that and had the intelligence to hide behind a wall or something, but not you!"
Archimonde, despite the rage the little Skeleton managed to bring out in him, suddenly had a bout of clarity of thought and looked back from where he'd come, but no rushing attacker came from that end.
He turned back to the lone Orc on the undead dragon.
"You're trying to stall me… Why?"
It was… Bizarre how he'd suddenly had this bout of clarity in the midst of it all.
The Orc laughed.
"Why indeed!? I mean, it couldn't possibly be the obvious right? Like… I'm not even good at this magic stuff, and even I can feel how bloody drained you are! Soon enough, you'll just topple over, and that will be that! I doubt you'll even reach the final Vale at this rate!"
He… He was right! With a shock, Archimonde suddenly realized the obvious.
He felt his mana resources almost at an end, the gigantification spell draining him dry. That was why he suddenly could think clearly despite the pain. The adrenaline rush was starting to fade along with his mana.
He had to finish this. NOW.
With a lunge, he Slammed down where the Dragon was, but the beast, with the kind of maneuver, flexibility, and dexterity no creature of flesh and muscles would have been able to pull off, jumped away, twisted in the air, and landed on the rocky stone mountain side.
Powerful claws dug into the stone as it quickly climbed up, and up, out of his reach, all the while it twisted it's head around and fired off blasts of cold, blue fire from it's bony maw.
Archimonde simply tanked them. They did hurt, but compared to the blow from the cannon, they were nothing.
The skeleton was clearly just baiting him into casting further spells.
Unfortunately for it, he had used form before, and knew how to use it to it's fullest.
With two enormous punches, Archimonde dug both his hands deep, deep into the mountain the dragon was climbing on.
Then, he wrenched it upwards, the entire section of bedrock breaking apart from the bigger whole, before simply throwing the entire thing, dragon and all, over his shoulder and down the mountainside.
He did not stop to see if the display did more or lesser damage to his or the Mortals' sides.
Instead, he resumed his walk up the mountain, feeling fatigue hit him harder and harder with every step.
And yet he walked up that way of stone, now unhindered, and with no opposition
He could see it there… Just a few Kilometers… There was a gate. The pathway into the final valley.
Hoofs on stone… His hearing was starting to go now.
He… He had to finish this… Get it over with NOW, before…
He began sprinting. Damn the pain. Damn the numbness! You are so close to victory!
Inside of him, he felt a sudden, mad dash of power surge forth! Like a prizefighter who had lasted for 15 rounds, dead tired, bruised, and beaten, with energy left to stand… And when the gong went for the round, suddenly a surge of power from nowhere!
Arhcimonde slammed through the gate, crashing into the Vale that had been the center of Night Elven culture for 10 000 years.
And there before him… The tree. The last embers of the Well of Eternity.
Nordrassil.
The spot he entered the valley was far above the tree, and kilometers away still…
Ahead of him was a massive drop-down.
To get to the World Tree by road, you had to follow south along the Vale's edge in a circular motion, before turning around at the opposite end of the enormous vale and then head straight on to the world tree.
He did not have the time.
Archimonde, still in full sprint, ran headfirst along toward the cliff… And then, with his enormous speed, strength, and body, he JUMPED!
The titanic Eredar sailed through the air like some sort of parody of a swan.
His enormous speed and momentum though, carried him far.
He crashed into the ground barely a kilometer away from the tree.
For a moment, he just lay there… Insensitive to the world around him, and the tens of thousands of trees he'd crushed beneath him in his fall.
His eye opened up… And there it was. On the hill above him.
The prize he had come so far to claim.
Once more he felt a surge of power… But this time he did not manage to get to his feet.
Instead, he began crawling towards the tree, crushing countless lesser ones with each motion.
And then, as he slowly, but steadily made his way towards his goal…
A horn sounded.
It echoed across the vale, as it was the horns of thousands of warriors.
The great horn of Cenarius.
And as of in answer… Lights.
"No…"
Thousands of lights began to dance in the twilight of Gods. Swooping and soaring through the air across the ancient land.
All of them heading towards the tree… Towards him.
He understood what was about to happen as the lights… Now Millions of them began to dance through the sky and began to dance around him as he lay there, hand reaching out toward the tree that was so close, and yet so far away.
The souls of countless Night Elves rose up and danced around his being… He felt his soul begin, not to come apart, but instead to connect with the Tree… But not in any way he'd ever wanted, or hoped.
Then, in one cataclysmic moment, Archimonde, the great Defiler came undone… And detonated along with the power of Nordrassil.
The ensuing explosion of fire, swept across the innermost vale of Hyjal, instantly searing everything in the center to ashes, trees becoming charred trunks in seconds as the wave hit them, only stopping once it hit the massive stone wall that stood between the tree and the valley where huddled civilians of the Coalition were.
The energy, however, could not be stopped by something as simple as stone.
I
The battle raged on, as Archimonde had left the field behind.
Thrall and Tyrande had marshaled their combined armies for battle, and what a battle it was.
Mortal forces clashed in one gigantic, set-piece battle with almost all that remained of the main forces of the Demons in Kalimdor.
All except for the stragglers left behind in other regions the Legion had passed on the march were now here and gathered.
And they would fight.
Doomguards and Daemons, Pit Lords and Dreadlords! Eredar, Imps, and all manner of demonic creatures surged forth for battle!
Broxigar the Red had thrown himself into the fight with reckless abandon, a Bladestorm of death, joined by his Brother's lesser storm.
Fremde, still unable to stand, had stationed herself up on a hill alongside other ranged warriors, where she was now unloading shots one after shot, after shot of her revolvers into the hordes of Demons below.
Tyrande had placed herself and her tiger in the middle of her own warriors who were letting forth a barrage of arrows as she cast a mighty Starfall spell, barraging her enemies with a shower of meteoric stars.
From the heavens, Hippogriff riders also unleashed a hail of death, alongside wyvern riders of the Orcs.
Vol'jin and the other Troll leaders were here and there with their men, supporting the other, more numerically stronger parts of the army.
Cairne and Magatha Grimtotem fought along with their braves, along with the other Tauren leaders present.
The most fierce warriors, however, were to be found in the center of the battle, where Orcs and Humans had rallied around their leaders as they faced the two greatest demons left on the field. A Pitlord and a Dreadlord.
Both of them, with their mighty magic, had killed thousands and thousands of Demons.
It was in answer to that, that these two last of Archimonde's leaders had come.
A final showdown on a mountain of corpses.
Right as the four were about to clash… A wave of invisible energy surged through the entire valley.
The mortal armies felt a surge of power… like they had been hit by a restoration spell.
The Demons, however…
They ceased to be.
It was not a quick process either, as the enormous wave of magic ripped their souls and bodies inside out, fittingly enough, in the same manner as Archimonde's famous Finger of Death that he'd used frequently in this campaign.
Only slower, and more excruciatingly painful.
They screamed, and howled, and cried out as they were ripped apart… Their atoms falling to pieces… Then disintegrating into nothing.
For a moment afterwards, the entire battlefield was eerily silent. Even those dying did not give out a cry, as the last of the Demon's cries of pain faded, leaving only an empty room in the settling Twilight.
Then the cheers started. Thousands and thousands of voices were raised in jubilee.
Smiles even on those who in the last moments of the war passed away, now painlessly, to meet their fate beyond.
Many simply fell to their knees and began crying tears of joy.
Someone somewhere began singing.
Malfurion's clever trap had succeeded. And they had their glorious victory.
Never had anything so bitter tasted so sweet.
I
Medivh, the last Guardian, looked out over the burned remains of the World Tree.
"The roots will heal in time… As will the entire world."
He didn't know who it was that was listening, but someone was. Someone who cared about this world of his, as much as the people still alive in the vales of Hyjal.
"The sacrifices have been made. Just as the orcs, humans, and night elves discarded their old hatreds and stood united against a common foe, so did nature herself rise up to banish the shadow forever."
The mighty bond between the World Tree and the Night Elves was over… The power would remain for a while longer… The Night Elves' loss would not be as drastic and potentially lethal as the High Elves after their font of power was destroyed.
"As for me… I came back to ensure that there would be a future… To teach the world that it no longer needed guardians."
And that was true enough. His predecessors had done a lot of good for the world… But nothing that could not have been achieved by the hands of the many, rather than the one.
The mortals who had stood together against the flame would do so again against future threats.
It would not be perfect… There would be conflict. War. Suffering. But there would be camaraderie. Peace. Prosperity.
It was time for a new age to begin… It would be like a musical piece, he could see.
A… Symphony… Of Peace and War.
"The hope for future generations has always resided in mortal hands. And now that my task is done, I will take my place… Amongst the legends of the past."
Mayhaps he had not done it as best as he could have… But he HAD given it his best. He had given all he had to give, despite his new shortcomings.
Just like Uther, Terenas, Anduin, Sylvanas, Grom, Orgrim, Sen'jin, and all the other heroes who had given their lives as they marched down this road, that was life in this world of warcraft.
