Aha! Posting early to avoid the "when is the next chapter" reviews from hounding me! I have to say, the outpouring to spare Teg'Ramm comes as a very touching display. I always worry about my OC characters and whether they will be well received or not, but once again, much like Zhar, Gor-lak, and even Alatar from my other major stories, I have been proven to create endearing, or at least memorable characters from my own head, with only minimal reliance upon outside parameters in order to fashion them. This gives me a massive confidence boon for my original works and whether they will prove successful in their own time and course, and for that I thank all those who've reviewed deeply! With that said, on with the next chapter, and the beginning of Wrath of the Lich King! ~F
Chapter 147
Heralds of Northrend
Sylvanas Windrunner frowned as the zeppelin landed at the tower outside the city of Orgrimmar. Flying on the irritating goblin machines was something that she took great care to avoid, normally, but with the news that had come to her from the Warchief, demanding a large force of Forsaken to come and represent their faction at Orgrimmar, as they set their final preparations in order for what she hoped would become a true invasion of Northrend.
The debates had come and gone, and the formation of arms and ships had gone swiftly for the Horde, goblin shipwrights working night and day for weeks to construct as many ships as they could for the forces of Kalimdor.
The Banshee Queen knew that her people were ready, and they would sail northward as soon as the order was given. She and Varimathras had been planning their invasion path for months, truly since Naxxramus had been sent into retreat from their lands.
The only thing that forced her to give pause was the lack of forces that the Forsaken could quickly muster. Between the Dark Horde, pushing into eastern Lordaeron, and their assistance of the Blood Elves, they were stretched thin. It was her hope that she could convince the Warchief to sent additional forces with their fleet, to take an east front on the icy continent, while the main force from Orgrimmar went to the western part of Northrend. From there she would argue that they could converge on Icecrown, pincering it between two forces of the Horde, and whatever else was sent northward to end the Lich King and his Scourge.
She could already guess that the Alliance would send their own forces, as well as the Dark Horde, but when and where they would go, there would be little telling. Hopefully some clues may be given at this final meeting of their leaders, but Sylvanas wondered if something else might occur altogether.
She had been paying attention to the byplay between Thrall and his advisors. The youngest of these, a Mag'har named Garrosh, was impudent and brutish in his thoughts, straightforward and brash, and he had been clashing with Thrall multiple times over strategy and policy, primarily in those places where the Shaman urged for patience and peace over action.
It delighted Sylvanas to know that her greatest threat was so bogged down by his own incompetent underlings, and that her move toward securing all of Lordaeron had gone completely unnoticed. While the Forsaken had not crossed the river into the worst of the Plaguelands, they had made great strides in ridding the southern coasts of the lake of the Alliance, and constructing defenses to prevent any living from returning that way.
Shunting the thoughts of their recent victories aside, the Banshee focused on the here and now, even as her entourage entered Orgrimmar proper. High Apothecary Putriss was with here, as Varimathras would not be welcome outside of the Undercity, as well as half a dozen members of her dark rangers and royal deathguard.
Not exactly the same show of force that the other races, barring the Blood Elves, had brought, but suitable to prove that the Forsaken valued quality of their elite forces over quantity of brute strength.
The inside of the city was crammed to the brim with orc, tuaren, and troll warriors. Clearly the leaders of the Kalimdor races had already assembled, along with their bravest and strongest in mind for the counterassault and invasion northward. Entering Grommash Hold, Sylvanas nodded at the other leaders, specifically catching the eye of Lor'themar. The Elf was looking far healthier than before, clearly the restored Sunwell was working its power on his race.
"Thrall…" Garrosh started, barely catching himself about not showing the proper respect in front of all the other leaders of the Horde, "Warchief… your armies await your command. Let me lead them to Northrend to remove this undead menace!"
Sylvanas was not thrilled to hear that this young pup wanted to be the supreme leader of their assault, but she would not draw attention to herself for confronting the brash fool directly, "Yes, Thrall," she said instead, adding her voice to the assenting vote, "The time has come to kill Arthas. You may take by grand apothecary with you. His knowledge will be invaluable against whatever the Scourge will throw at you."
Putriss smirked at the praise from his Queen, but she ignored him, watching the Warchief as he scanned their faces for any sign of deception. There was none to find, as Sylvanas was already fully prepared to sacrifice the high Apothecary if need be. They were others just as gifted as he, and they would be guiding the Forsaken fleet northward, with the same knowledge and skill as Putriss.
"What say you, Saurfang?" Thrall said, turning to the elder orc for guidance.
The High Overlord sighed in resignation. "Warchief, it is clear that Northrend represents the gravest threat to our people, and that we must act against it."
Thrall closed his eyes, "My soul burns for revenge," he said, but still hesitant, "but the elements tell me to think clearly. The Lich King is a ruthless opponent… one who must be handled carefully."
He paused for a moment, thinking, and Sylvanas could already see the gears turning in the orcish mind, searching for a means to delay the inevitable. "We will send scouts to assess the situation. I will also convene with the Lady Proudmoore and see what plans the Alliance has."
The Dark Lady had to suppress the smile as those words finally triggered the young Mag'har's rage.
"Gragh!" he bellowed, leveling his frustration at the Warchief once more, "I cannot take this! While you talk and deliberate, our enemies grow stronger! Were it my choice, I would have put all our available forces onto that frozen rock and conquered it for the Horde!"
Thrall closed his eyes, the weariness of dealing with the young pups mewling showing clear as day, "If this is a trap, it is one I will not blindly walk into!" he snapped at last, "Do not make the same mistakes as your father, Garrosh!"
Naturally, the angry young orc bristled at the rebuke and insult, however deserved it was. "After all that he did for YOU and YOUR people?" he bellowed, throwing his arms wide in challenge. "MAK'GORA!"
This was something that seemed expected by most around the room, but being separated from the rest of the Horde by the great sea, it came to Sylvanas as something a bit unexpected, and wholly interesting to observe. The sheer thought of this upstart actually succeeding and taking command of the Horde was delightful, as his ignorance would be easily manipulated, allowing the Banshee Queen unlimited leeway to do as she pleased with regards to the Dark Horde, and the management of the northern Eastern Kingdoms.
Thrall's eyes blazed for a moment with elemental magic as he turned, "You challenge me boy?" he accused, shaking his head in dismissal, "I don't have time for this…"
"So you refuse?" Garrosh shot back, unwilling to know that he was thoroughly outvoted and quite likely outmatched. "Is the son of Durotan a coward?"
It seemed for a moment that Thrall would ignore the jab, but then the shaman whirled, enraged for a flashing moment as he struck Garrosh across the face with a powerful backhand. "Bring this pup his weapons, and take him to the arena." Thrall seethed, but his rage was already cooling once more.
The Dark Lady watched all of this with the leisurely chill of the grave, pondering the possibilities. This could do nothing but benefit her. If Thrall won, Garrosh would be humiliated, at best, or dead at worst. Either way, the Warchief's attention would be drawn away, and she would have more time to arrange things with the Northrend Campaign to her liking.
However, if Garrosh emerged victorious, and took the mantle of Warchief, she would have effectively a blank slate, free reign to lead the assault in whatsoever manner she deemed fit. Not that there was anything she disliked about Thrall's stratagem, but she knew that for her vengeance to be unleashed at the right moment, her elite Forsaken had to be kept in reserve as long as possible, as well as other tools and secrets that had been preparing for years for this exact opportunity. Anything to shield them until the time was right would be a definite advantage for them all.
So without delay, she moved with the rest of the entourage toward Orgrimmar Arena, to see the outcome of this foolish move by the young Hellscream. "To think that on the eve of an invasion, he would challenge the supreme leader of the Horde," Lor'themar commented quietly, leaning in so only Sylvanas could hear, "are you sure that our alliance with the Horde is the best policy?"
"If you could arrange for better, you would have not agreed to our aid so readily…" she retorted, smirking at the notion. She knew full well that the Blood Elves had been refused readmittance to the Alliance of Stormwind. Tyrande Whisperwind had seen to that personally, the Night Elf High Priestess' grudges running quite deep for the High Elves of old.
Thrall and Garrosh were already in the area pit by the time the rest of them arrived and were settled to watch. Sylvanas lingered in the shadows, not wanting to be observed as she witnessed this utterly useless act between the two orcs.
"Let's finish this quickly…" Thrall said, clearly annoyed and distracted by all that was going on in preparation for their invasion.
"Your duties as Warchief can wait." Garrosh spat back hotly, already having his axes drawn and shifting his weight in the soft sands of the Arena floor, "For now… we fight!"
The brash young orc lunged, already swinging his pair of axes at the Warchief, who skirted out of the way by the barest of margins. Sylvanas would have thought that the battle could have been over in mere moments, but she remembered suddenly that the orcish tradition barred the use of magic of any kind, aside from shamanistic blessings upon the weapons of the combatants.
That pivoted the entire likelihood of the outcome in her mind, and as she watched the two orcs dance back and forth, testing each other for weaknesses, she had her mind altered on the probability. For all his cunning and power as a Shaman, Thrall was no heavy melee fighter. He had skill, yes, and the brawn of his birthright to call upon, but Garrosh was younger, heartier, and more battle hardened than the older Warchief.
Becoming leader of the Horde, and a shaman as well, had taken a lot out of the marshal prowess of the green skinned leader, and while his movements were the motions of a wise warrior with much experience, Sylvanas suspected that Garrosh's youthful energy might actually nudge the scales in his favor.
The possibility that she had jokingly teased to think about was actually a striking likelihood to come about, if not now, than eventually if the two survived this day and continued to bicker.
Indeed, down in the sands, Garrosh was gaining the upper hand. Thrall's movements were just slow enough that the pair of small axes was starting to out maneuver the massive black Doomhammer, and without his mastery of the elements to support his strength, Thrall did not have the same power behind his attacks.
Indeed, while Thrall drew first blood, a gouge on the arm of Garrosh that spurted blood, but little else, it was Garrosh that eventually succeeded in disarming Thrall completely. The Doomhammer slammed into the ground, spraying sand in a small crater at the site of impact. Garrosh brandished his weapons as Thrall attempted to grapple him, and the Mag'har carved a light cut across the warchief's torso, skirting under the repaired breastplate of the old Warchief of old, Ogrim.
"GYAH!" Thrall cried, even as he was forced to his knees by the wound and his own exhaustion. Hellscream stood over him, practically fawning at his victory.
"Hah!" he gloated, "So, son of Durotan, what…"
But whatever the young orc was to say was interrupted, as several Troll shadow hunters burst inside, and a voice boomed over the city, high and cold. "PUPS OF ORGRIMMAR! HEAR ME, BRASH UPSTARTS OF THE HORDE! TREMBLE, AND KNOW YOUR DOOM, FOR THE LICH KING'S GAZE IS FIXED UPON YOU!"
The shadow hunters had come to the side of the High Overlord, and while Sylvanas had not heard what they reported, Saurfang yelled down to the two fighters in the pit, "Warchief! Scourge forces are attacking Orgrimmar!"
"It is as we expected," Thrall said, pulling himself forcefully to his feet, "We will finish this later, son of Grom," he said with a dark look at Garrosh, before calling upon the elements to mend his wounds and return the Doomhammer to his waiting hand.
Sylvanas had had enough. She turned, already retrieving her bow from around her back, and stringing it as she departed the arena. There were Scourge to slay, and that was far more useful than standing here waiting for the orcs to be done with their little cool down after battling for their pretended 'honor.'
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Fog rolled into Stormwind Harbor, early in the morning when the day ought to have been bright and clear. And within the dense cloud another object came floating toward the city with a far more sinister motive.
Lucius had sensed it coming long before it was visible. The same necrotic energy that had heralded the undead before had given away their plan a while ago, and word had been spread to all those who would fight for their city, and their world.
Varian had assembled his greatest knights and paladins, clerics from the Church of the Holy Light, and every able-bodied warrior that could stand against the dead to choke the streets leading to the harbor from all corners of the city.
Luicus stood upon the wall separating the park district from the harbor, watching the undead as they made landfall, along with many of his fellows from Earth. "Send the signal, and begin," he ordered, and Mrs. Parkinson, clad in a black battledress of earth design, raised her wand.
The woman had all but demanded to be present, to give battle to the horrors that had taken her daughter from their midst. Many of their wizards were guarding the graveyard, knowing that it would be a likely target for the undead to pillage for more warriors.
They would not allow any of those resting there to be defiled.
Sparks exploded into the air, and as one the assembled forces of the Alliance roared in righteous fury. Whatever voice came to hurl insults at them from above was drowned out by their resistant cries, and the rattling of their weapons as many forces slammed weapons on shields and stamped their feet, daring the undead to charge their lines and face them openly, rather than as assassins from the shadows.
Speaking of rogues and their kind, Lucius turned to nod at the members of SI:7 that were guarding their position. They had been heavily admonished by Varian, and were charged with escorting and guarding every member of Lucius' family and their people, because of the powerful advantage that their magic provided against the dead.
Even as necromancers started to make an appearance behind their ranks of skeletons, preparing for a charge through what they had initially thought would be clear streets, Lucius took aim with his wand. Thoughts of his wife and daughter's safety brought the desired rage and hatred for these creatures, and he spoke loud and clearly for all around to hear, "AVADA KEDAVERA!" he cried, sending down the green jet of death at his target.
A flash of power, and a necromancer fell dead, even as the skeletal minions all turned to see that they were expected, and wordless bellowed cried of outrage, before shambling forward with cruel intention.
"For the Light!" the paladins cried at the forefront, their glowing eyes and weapons making them visible beacons for the others to rally around, "For Azeroth! Attack!"
Unwilling to take the charge on their defenses, the front lines leapt forward, countering the skeletons with a wave of their own. Mounted knights plowed through the melee, trampling the undead under hoof and cutting right to block their advance from circling the foot soldiers.
"Volleys! Fire!" a SI:7 Agent yelled, and the explosions of gunpowder weapons rang out, sending the tiny projectiles arcing over their warriors into a fresh wave of undead. Arrows followed quickly from the Night Elves, who had come days previous and had waited for the moment to help protect their mortal allies.
"For Pansy!" Lucius cried, and the wizards of Earth shouted their spells, powering their magic with their fury. Spells tore downward, shattering countless foes, banishing the fog over the harbor with fire, or else raining stone and shrapnel over the dead warriors.
It seemed that they were holding the line across the entire battlefield, but Lucius knew better than to relax his watchful eye. They hadn't yet seen the worst of their enemies' soldiers, and once the lumbering golems of flesh and metal appeared, he knew that they were going to be stretched thin.
A flash of magic appeared at their side, and Lady Proudmoore was among them, already calling down a torrent of ice and snow, all her concentration bent on slowing the advance of those abominations.
Another wave of bombardment spells shot downward from the ramparts, and while the damage to the street might have been considered severe, Lucius knew that every moment spared from those creatures slamming their lines was a life potentially saved.
With the Lady of Theramore helping hedge the way here, Lucius was able to respond when green sparks were shot into the air at the other entrance of the harbor that was closer to the Dwarven District.
Multiple cracks of apparation followed him as he shifted to support their forces there. This entrance was far closer to the graveyard, and thus the fighting was far harder. The guards stationed there were doing their best to keep the necromancers at bay, but steadily the dead were gaining ground.
An apparation sounded in the graveyard like the crack of thunder, and Lucius' eye widened as he saw Lady Parkinson rising to her full, albeit small, height in the face of the oncoming necromancers. "Not my daughter, you wretches!" she screamed, wand crackling green with power as she snapped it forward, unleashing a barrage mingled with grief and rage.
Bone-shattering curses flew in every direction as the wizards of earth rallied behind a mother's fury, demolishing skeletons and ghouls with impunity, and forcing the black robed necromancers to fall back in a state of panic.
Horns blared from the gate, and Lucius turned to see his son, riding with a host of knights and the King's vanguard, Varian leading the assault with his Elven blade aloft, "For the Alliance!" he roared, countering the follow-up attack as greater Scourge forces rallied to keep what ground they had taken.
Their advance was halted, even as the blue-skinned Draenei Vindicators took to the field. The sheer radiance in the Light was blinding, the hatred in their eyes for these undead burning bright. "For the Naaru!" one cried, and they charged the enemy lines, wings of golden light manifesting on their backs in their wrath.
As one, the forces of the Alliance surged together, and Lucius, along with his people, were swept along in the tide of bodies that exploded from the small gates leading into Stormwind proper.
But it seemed, as the sky blackened, that the Scourge were not to give up as easily as they had before. Gargoyles, hundreds of them, were spewing out of the floating citadel, winging down to the harbor to rend flesh and assault them from above.
Gryphon and Hippogriff riders soared up in answer, but they were sorely outnumbered. Lucius started to prepare a retreat, when a pulse of arcane magic greater than anything he had felt before rippled through the air, and something massive pushed its way into existence over the rooftops of Stormwind.
A massive city of shimmering purple and blue, floating on a wedge of ground, manifested over them. From its many towers hundreds of bolts of magic started to surge like the cannons of a mighty warship.
The blazoned symbol of a golden eye on a violet field was known to any who had studied the history of the humans of Azeroth, and Lucius looked in amazement as the reportedly destroyed city of Dalaran came to their rescue.
The thrum of more magic sounded on the ground, even as a new force appeared on the far side of the harbor, flanking the abominations and charged forward, "Sons of Lothar! To battle!" the elderly wizard leading the force shouted, even as a host of dwarven Gryphon riders shot into the air, sparking hammers bringing lightning from the sky on the host of attacking statues.
"Drive them to the harbor!" Varian cried, which another, older man, echoed from the forces of these 'Sons of Lothar', "Make safe this city!"
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Med'an's eyes widened as the spell launched from the black-cloaked orc, aiming right for the exposed back of Nobu'tan.
He had frozen at the sheer shock of it, but then the barreling ogre had snapped him from his stupor as the massive creature surged past, forcing a magical and physical shield over the pair of them with its own body. But the weakened state from their ritual had clearly cost too much energy, and in slow-motion, Med'an saw everything fall into place.
His mother was already charging the necrolyte, daggers drawing in slow motion, while the shield of Fel magic cracked under the barrage of the fresh caster.
In a flash, Med'an knew what he had to do. Magic welled up inside him, and he moved as his Grandmother, and the shaman of both Hordes had taught him. Splitting through space, he appeared in front of the ogre as the necrolyte prepared a second spell to try and finish off the large creature, arcane flaring in both hands.
The next spell was absorbed by a radiating shield of purple energy, and was the last that that foe would ever send, as a dagger manifested in his neck from a well placed throw from Garona.
"Teg'Ramm!" a voice cried, and Med'an turned to see Lord Nobu'tan holding the massive shoulders of the fallen creature. The heads were slumped together, as though asleep, blood pouring from a new wounds that added to the marred chest.
But Med'an could still sense the trickle of life in the massive creature, who'd willing tried to sacrifice itself for his lord and Med'an, and the young part-orc could sense the will to live on in the intelligent spellcaster.
"Spirits of Water, Light above, hear my cry!" Med'an said, only partially understanding what was driving him.
Magic poured from his hands, mending the exterior wound, purifying the disease it had carried, meant for Nobu'tan, and pure radiance revived the weary soul before him. With a gasp of air, both heads snapped to full alertness, but Med'an was already turning away, even as another small group of undead approached.
The ground quaked as the Spirit of Earth came unbidden, and Med'an was already raising a wall of stone to deflect the bolts of magic and arrows thrown at him from the Scourge forces. Something leapt from behind him, and Med'an instinctively reached out a hand, feeling polished wood slap his palm as though it belonged there.
The wooden staff appeared unremarkable, but the magic is carried sang in joy as he raised the raven-crowned head, as thought the object had been waiting for this very day. Wind gusted around him, but his mind was already moving far faster than the world around him. He could sense the countless threats in this valley, the plague of undeath that was waiting the order to release and slaughter countless innocent of the Dark Horde, along with their warriors.
He would not allow it.
"Storm, Earth, and Fire, heed my call!" Med'an shouted, feeling the power of the Light above radiate down, and the thrum of Arcane at his back. He took off like a shot, the wind itself buffeting him in the air, and raw magical power rained down at the slightest notion.
Fire pierced through the line that waited for him at the end of the valley, the dried bones consumed instantly in the Fire Spirit's wrath.
Bolts of violet magic flew in every direction, catching those foes who had yet to reveal themselves before they could deliver fatal strikes to unwary victims, even as Med'an tore through the Burning Steppes like a flash of lightning. He seemed to sense everyone, everywhere in a single instant, and the judgment of who was a servant of the Lich King came hard and swift.
Holy Light mingled with fire, and formed a ring of safety around the camp of the Dawn's Hammer, keeping the order of priests and paladins safe from the march of the dead, while a great hailstorm of ice and snow flowed down the great ramp from the mountain, freezing everything that moved against the rulers of this land.
Med'an swerved to the left, dodging a blast of magic from below. There was a force trying to make a stand against him, and hold their footing in the Dark Horde's lands. A Lich towered over his necromancer minions, even as the orc, troll, and ogre warriors of this realm tried to break the lines of their ghoulish minions.
The robed undead had eyes only for Med'an however, as the young part-orc slammed into the ground, his magic cushioning him and sending large chunks of the ashy ground flying, much of it crashing into the ranks of the dead.
"What have we here?" the Lich asked, cool and uncaring, "A young orcish pup thinks to stand up where those older and far wiser have already fallen?"
Blinding white light filled Med'an's vision, and all he could hear was the drumming of life-giving blood in his ears. The Light cried out to him for justice, and the Elements boomed for battle and honor. The Arcane held its peace, uncaring whomever its power was to go to, but willing nonetheless to fight as he commanded it.
Swinging the Greatstaff of his father, Med'an let magic flow through him, guiding him in conjuring an arsenal of holy weapons. Spears and javelins flew outward, skewering undead and necromancers alike, and forcing the Lich to protect itself with a shield of magic.
Drawing the Elements to him, Med'an unleashed flame and wind in tandem, hurling the magma blasts high and letting the force of wing carry lightning through to his target. The Lich may have been masterful in its realm of death and frost, but against the power that Med'an threw at it, there was little it could do to keep up, and the undead horror was forced to rely on its protective barrier, and only occasionally retaliate with a bolt of frost or shadow.
These Med'an consumed in a shield of flame and lightning that enveloped him, prevent the ghouls from approaching, and heartening the warriors around him, who charged against their enemies and cut down the undead minions in droves.
The Lich tried to conjure a freezing orb of frost magic, but Med'an was already a step again, raining down a pillar of holy fire, which evaporated the spell and shattered the undead's shield in one fell swoop, scorching the magical bones and causing it to draw back in true terror.
"Even if you defeat me, my spirit will return to my master. I cannot be destroyed!" the Lich railed against him, but Med'an heard none of its ranting, already seeing the tactic for the distraction it was. Icy chains flew from the ground, conjured by the lich, and wrapped around Med'an, pinning arms at his sides.
But before the Lich could celebrate its small victory, the spirits of air buoyed up Med'an once more upon the currents of a localized tornado, ripping the chains from their icy stakes in the ground and whipping them around in a frenzy as Med'an was lifted higher and higher.
"You and your kind will not threaten this place, a land once dead and now beginning to thrive once more, every again!" Med'an shouted, feeling the force of his words pound against his own throat. The magic chains melted away as he lifted his arms, sending metal fragments shooting in all directions as fire and water flew upward to meet him.
The Lich tried in vain to fight him, but the overwhelming magic that Med'an was projecting in an aura around him suppressed the creature's magic, and the ice that was meant to impale him melted away long before it reached Med'an's flesh.
Thrusting a hand downward, the torrents of Elemental magic spiraled outward, drilling through the air in a tight corkscrew toward the Lich's physical form.
Try as the towering undead might, there was no escape, and the blackened crystal forming its frozen heart was pierced, causing the skeletal body to simply disintegrate, leaving not even ashes in its passing to flow back to the cold north where the Lich had threatened his King awaited.
The major threat to this land destroyed, Med'an slowly sank back to the ground, his vision fading back to normal as all magic left his command. Unfortunately, with its passing so too fled his strength. He would have collapsed, if not for the strong arms of several Dark Horde warriors, who caught him and the staff of Aetish, supporting Med'an back toward the mountain, even as cries of joy and celebration erupted from the mountain's dwellers as the assault of the dead was abruptly shattered.
Med'an barely heard his mother crying his name before his eyes darkened further, and he passed into blissful unconsciousness.
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Garrosh was still infuriated with Thrall, and the rest of the leaders of the Horde for their laziness and incompetence in protecting even their great city.
The undead had already pushed into the Valley of Strength, abominable creations lumbering ahead of the rest of their forces, barreling through spike barricades and trampling warriors with wanton abandon.
His twin axes rang as he cleaved through a few ghouls that pierced through a gap in their line, and Garrosh leapt in to fill the gap himself, fighting as a true orc leader ought to, shoulder to shoulder with his people.
At the rear, Thrall was hurling magic of the Elements with the other shaman, while the Banshee fired arrows like the rest of her living Elven kin, keeping a steady ranged assault on the greatest of threats that kept trying to swoop over them.
Hosts of gargoyles and even skeletal frostwyrms were trying to rain havoc from the skies, but for the time being they were protected by the narrowness of the valley and the skill of their ranged warriors and spellcasters.
Looming higher still, the massive necropolis seemed to want to block out the sun itself, as more undead were called from its horrific innards to fight for their Lich King. But they were already planning to deal with that flying fortress in due time. The battle here was a diversion, pulling their enemy away as catapults and demolishers mounted the ridges on either side of the narrow Drag, taking aim at their precious necropolis.
"Ragh! Beat them back!" Garrosh bellowed, rallying those warriors nearest to him, "Remind these vermin what it means to assault the Horde! Lok'tar ogar!"
Still the tide of the undead seemed endless, and his arms were burning with the effort to keep fighting. But he had a duty to these people, as son of the savior of the orcish race, and Garrosh would uphold the glory and honor that came with the name Hellscream.
Releasing a roar of rage, he charged, tearing through a thin line in the undead and heading for the largest creature he could see. The mashed and ugly face turned as he waded in, twin weapons singing as they swung through the air, seeking flesh to bite into.
The massive hook snapped at him, whipping as nimbly as though it was made of cloth, and Garrosh ducked under the rusty chain, sliding forward on his knees several paces and slashing heavily at one of the stumpy legs.
The axe dug in deeply, but did not cleanly go through. Apparently there was a plate of metal helping keep the oversized leg steady, and it had snagged his weapon, wrenching it from his hand as Garrosh tried to pull it free.
The abomination laughed, high and guttural as it swing the massive clearer in its hulking arm, and Garrosh dodged to one side, letting it bury itself in the ground, before attacking the wrist joint of his foe, hoping to remove the hand completely.
A pair of shadowy arrows sank into the beast's flesh, and from their raven feathers the Mag'har knew that Sylvanas Windrunner had lent him aid. He did not like or trust the undead Banshee, but he would not throw away the advantage the momentary stunning effect had brought from the sudden attack so close to the creature's head.
Pulling his axes parallel, he freed it from the arm of the abomination, and dove, yanking for all he was worth at the other axe. It pried loose, hobbling the creature for now, but already the dark necromancers were feeding unlife back into the thing, repairing the damage slowly.
Fully enraged at how difficult this one foe had before, Garrosh unleashed a powerful flurry of blows, raining attacks down at the marginally protected head, occasionally parrying the tiny outgrowth of a third arm that had a rusty dagger in hand.
One mighty hack, and that limb, at least, flew away, exposing the head to more punishment from the orc's weapons. Garrosh leaped high, dodging the chain once more at it snapped to the side, and brought both axes down hard into the undead's skull. The creature moaned pitifully, even as it wobbled and fell backward, the whole rotting mess now stinking to the skies above.
The abomination now slain, the way toward the rear lines of the Scourge forces was now opened, necromancers and their skeletal mages now vulnerable, and Garrosh gladly took advantage of that fact in order to butcher every one of the monstrosities.
Even as Garrosh finished the last necromancer, the sky was filled with boulders and fiery ordinance as the demolishers did their work, bombarding the necropolis and sending shards of the blackened stone raining down well outside of the city.
Garrosh cheered with the rest of Horde as the massive structure started to lumber away, trying to escape their siege weapons. Victory was theirs, and with the Scourge attack routed, they could return to planning their invasion of Northrend.
"This small victory will avail you nothing!" the herald called from far above, even as he fled alongside his wounded forces, "Come! Come to Northrend. My minions are waiting, and they are hungry!"
Snarling in response to the direct challenge, Garrosh abandoned the mop up, even as other warriors charged in to take his place, driving the last of the Scourge ground forces from their city. He had more words for Thrall, and in light of recent events, he suspected that now was the perfect time he could, at last, convince the Warchief to see his point of view.
Thrall had withdrawn to the entrance of the Drag, alongside Saurfang and the Banshee. Garrosh would have thought it a coward's move to depart the front, but the scores of dead skeletons and ghouls betrayed that there had been a serious breakage of their line elsewhere in the city.
"Well, Warchief," Garrosh said, knocking away some of the corpses blocking his path to join the others, "What say you now? Will you send me to Northrend?"
The older orc was grim, and for a moment Garrosh thought that their argument might resume, but instead Thrall turned to the High Overlord, "Saurfang…"
"Yes Warchief?" the aged veteran replied.
"Marshal our forces." Thrall said heavily, as those the words pained him, "Contact our goblin shipwrights. The Horde sets sail for war!"
"As you command, Warchief!" Saurfang replied, saluting sharply and turning to march away.
Garrosh was pleased. At last he would be able to prove that the Horde was indeed full of the pride and dignity that he had learned of over the previous year since first meeting Thrall.
"Excellent…" Sylvanas Windrunner said, her red eyes gleaming with some measure of greed and excitement. "Most excellent," she repeated, before departing herself.
Garrosh was not sure what to make of the delight he had witnessed from the Forsaken undead. Granted, he did not trust her as far as he could ram his axe through her corpse, but he understood that the allies of the Horde had to be abided for the time being. If she stepped out of line however, he would not hold back any measure of punishment that was in his power to confer.
"I will have Saurfang accompany you as an advisor for this campaign," Thrall explained, "but you are in command Garrosh. Lead the Horde to an honorable victory."
"I will show you the true strength of our people," Garrosh replied, and he meant it.